Chapter 32

Cathan stood with his gaze fast on the knights, his hand resting lightly on Ebonbane’s hilt. The waterfront buzzed with the promise of a fight and fresh blood.

“If you draw your sword, you will die,” said Sir Bron. “That is a promise, not a threat.”

Cathan shrugged. “What other option do I have?”

“Surrender. Give back what you’ve stolen.”

“And you think surrender would be honorable?”

“Your life will be spared.”

“I doubt it,” Cathan replied. “My life ends today, one way or another.”

Bron frowned, puzzled, then shook his head. “I am warning you, Twice-Born. I have only to give the order, and my men will shoot. I won’t make the same mistake Lord Tithian did, and underestimate you.”

“Tithian was a true knight,” Cathan replied, raising his voice. “He lived, and died, with honor—something your kind knows little about. We had an agreement, and you have violated it by following me here.”

A noise rippled along the wharf, a chorus of disapproval. Bron scowled, feeling the sentiments of the crowd begin to turn against him. They began to mutter words like coward and murderer. The other knights twitched nervously.

“Honeyed words, to mask the poison,” Bron shot back, undeterred. “You tricked Tithian into a duel, then you killed him and fled.”

“A good fight,” Cathan noted. “Won fairly, but not easily… and with no joy in it. Tithian was my friend—that’s why I tarried to bury him. Would a murderer build his victim’s cairn?”

Hundreds of eyes settled on Sir Bron, who shifted uneasily. He kept his vision focused on Cathan. “Your lies will burn you in the Abyss,” he said.

“I am a murderer and a thief,” Cathan shot back. “You said it yourself. How does lying make any difference in the Abyss?”

The crowd laughed at that, and Bron bristled. “You’ll find out, soon enough,” he said. “Now, if you haven’t taken your hands off your sword before I count to three, I will give the order to shoot.”

Cathan nodded, but didn’t move. The knights sighted down their crossbows, fingers on triggers.

“One,” said Bron, raising his hand.

The crowd edged closer, making the boards of the wharf-walk creak.

“Two.”

Cathan tightened his grip on Ebonbane’s hilt. His eyes were white, empty, unblinking. He had seen this in his vision, with Brother Jendle in the Shinarite temple. He felt no fear, no doubt He waited patiently as Sir Bron glared at him.

“Three!”

The crossbowmen fired, all four at once. At the snap of the strings, Cathan jerked his sword from its scabbard and swept it in two looping arcs before him. He heard the blade strike the quarrels, mid-flight… ping! ping! ping! ping!… and the missiles spun away to the left and right, splashing into the waters of the lake. Ebonbane vibrated, the sword humming softly as he brought it to rest before him.

All up and down the wharf, jaws opened wide. Cathan had reacted more readily, moved more quickly, than seemed possible. Now sunlight flashed off the Tarsian steel in his hand, dazzling all who looked upon it. Even the knights gaped, their weapons drooping in their hands—until the Tsarothans and Plainsmen around them reached in and grabbed them away. Others closed in around the rest, wresting their blades away and holding them steady. Bron jerked as though waking.

“Let them go!” he snapped, brandishing his own sword. “Unhand them, or I’ll—”

“You’ll do what?” Cathan asked. “Arrest them? Attack them? The rule is the same here as it is in the Lordcity, Sir Bron. Triogo calfat: the mob rules.”

Bron’s face was the color of wine. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Finally, waving to the crowd, he managed to sputter, “This man… he stole the Peripas… the Peripas Mishakas, from the Kingpriest’s own… from the imperial manse! He killed Lord—the Grand Marshal of the Hammer! He is a criminal, and yet you protect him?”

Cathan saw many heads nodding, but many others shook their heads, and soon the loyalists won out—because they still hoped to watch a good fight. They pulled back from the younger knights, leaving Bron alone, halfway up the steps.

Bron looked afraid. Cathan had beaten Tithian, and Tithian had bested him many times on the sparring grounds. But he was a knight of the Divine Hammer, and he couldn’t deny the challenge. Hand shaking, he flipped shut his visor, then reached down and drew his blade—the same blade Tithian had wielded.

Just as in Cathan’s vision, Sir Bron came down the steps and raised his sword in salute—a grave gesture that the Twice-Born imitated. Old knight and young assumed almost identical stances. On the wharf, the crowd fell still. The sun climbed higher, toward its zenith. The world grew silent, the yearning for bloodshed as thick in the air as it ever was in the Arena. Then…

Bron made the first pass, a high backhand. Cathan’s blade was there to meet it, the clash of steel ringing out across Xak Tsaroth. He riposted, spinning Ebonbane at Bron’s left side, but the younger man twisted out of the way then backed up a pace to avoid a follow-through. He nodded, acknowledging his opponent’s skill.

Cathan gave ground, the wood groaning beneath him as he backed toward the end of the dock. Bron came after him, trying blow after blow, quick as scorpion stings—testing the Twice-Born’s defenses, searching for openings and finding none. They parted again, Bron breathing hard and sweating within his helm.

“Listen to me,” Cathan hissed, his voice just loud enough for the knight and no other to hear. “Everything you think you know is a lie. If I did surrender, you’d still never bring me back to the Lordcity. By the end of today, there won’t be a Lordcity.”

Bron pressed the attack, cutting low, low, high, then feinting left and coming in on the right. Cathan parried them all, though the last left him with a slash on his elbow—and his sleeve dark with blood. He lashed out in reply, Ebonbane’s tip glancing off Bron’s metal breastplate. Then they parted again.

“What are you talking about?” Bron demanded.

“Beldinas,” Cathan replied, shifting to his left to protect his injured arm. “He’s going to call on the gods, and they’ll destroy Istar. And not just the city—the whole empire. The burning hammer will be the Kingpriest’s punishment.”

Again Bron advanced, and Cathan fought him off, stepping in close this time to foil the younger man’s reach, then hammering him in the face with the hilt of his sword. The visor crumpled and came loose; Bron stumbled back, clutching until he got a good grip on the metal. He yanked the broken visor off. He flipped it into the water, and took the moment to shake his head at Cathan.

“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Beldinas can’t be wrong. He’s the Lightbringer.”

“No. I am.”

Bron had been preparing another onslaught. Now he stopped, his face going ashen, and backed up in shock.

“What?”

“I’m the Lightbringer.” Cathan murmured the words not as a boast, but as a simple, sorrowful fact. “The god told me so.” Bron hesitated, his sword wavering. Doubt flashed across his face. Part of him wanted to believe, and it warred with the part of him that insisted he must do his duty. Cathan watched, knowing already how it would turn out.

As in the vision, duty won.

Bron came on hard, no longer testing, his blade swiping vicious arcs. Aggressive as he was, though, each move was exact, and powerful enough that Cathan’s arm soon grew numb from parrying the blows. Soon there was no more dock behind Cathan, nowhere left to back up. He could defy the vision: all he had to do was jump into the water and try to swim away. If he did, though, the knights might get their crossbows back and finish him off. So he concentrated anew on his sword-work, stopping Bron’s hungry blade again, and again, and again…

But he wasn’t quick enough.

Knowing it was inevitable, he couldn’t block Bron’s sword from piercing his arm just below the elbow. It struck deep, numbing his wrist and sending a jolt up to his shoulder. Ebonbane fell from his fingers, teetering on the dock’s edge.

A moment later, Cathan found the knight’s blade poised just inches from his chest. One good shove, and Bron would end his life. He froze in place. Groans and cheers rose from the wharf. “Now do you yield?” Bron demanded.

Cathan shut his eyes, reaching deep into himself. He’d denied his faith in his youth, and misplaced it all these years. Now he channeled his trust in the god, focusing his thoughts. Power flowed into him, bright and cool, momentarily flushing away his despair. Paladine, he thought, thank you for your strength.

“Pridud,” he murmured.

Break.

Cathan’s eyes flashed like stormclouds, and Sir Bron’s steel blade shattered. A thousand pieces flew everywhere, biting the flesh of both Cathan and Bron, raining down onto the dock and the lake. On the waterfront, people cried out. The knights broke free of their captors and charged to their master’s aid. But Bron was frozen, staring at the hilt of his now useless weapon. Then he raised a shaking hand to lift off his helmet. Beneath, his face was pale with amazement and horror.

“Pilofiro?” he breathed.

Cathan nodded, once.

The other knights pounded up the dock, holding swords and maces at the ready. But as they neared, Bron held up a quivering hand.

“No,” he said. “This is over. We let him go.”

The knights halted, confused. Bron kept his attention on Cathan, riveted by the holy gleam in his eyes.

“I didn’t believe you,” he said.

“I don’t blame you,” said Cathan, resting a hand on his shoulder.

Armor rattling, Bron knelt before him. “Task me, my lord. I will do whatever you ask.”

Cathan glanced up. The sun was almost at its zenith. Scant minutes remained before noon. “I am no lord,” Cathan said, lowering his voice. “But I must tell you this: This city is as doomed as Istar. Within the hour, it will vanish from the face of Krynn. Leave it, Bron—get out now, while there’s still time.”

Fear burned in Bron’s eyes. He opened his mouth—to ask why Cathan was staying then—but thought of something else. “And the Disks?” he asked.

“They must remain with me, at the god’s behest,” Cathan said. He glanced down at Ebonbane, and nudged it with his foot. “Paladine says nothing about this, though. Take my sword with you—I would leave some legacy in this world.”

The young knight met his gaze—didn’t look away, but truly met the eyes of Cathan, the Twice-Born, the man who truly was the Lightbringer. Then, slowly, he bent down and lifted the sword off the planks. It glistened in the sunlight. Tears, unexpectedly, welled in Cathan’s eyes. He bowed his head in farewell. Bron did the same. Then, with an order to his men—an order he had to shout twice to get them to move—he strode back up the dock toward land.

Cathan watched the knights depart, vanishing into the crowd. Then, smiling to himself, he walked to the nearest boat, climbed down, and took up its oars.

Istar the Beautiful was dying.

In a thousand years, as long as the Lordcity had stood, it had not suffered a single earthquake—not even any significant tremor. That morning a dozen struck, each worse than the last. Everywhere, the great metropolis was imploding and collapsing into ruins. Huge cracks split its mighty walls, and its eastern gates crumbled completely, burying the panicking masses who had tried to escape that way. Chasms tore through the hilly nobles’ district, swallowing palatial manors whole. The waterfront was ablaze, the docks as well as most of the ships in port; the rest clogged the harbor-mouth, each trying to be the first out onto open water.

The streets were sheer mayhem, surging with terrified people, none of whom had any idea where to go. Shoving led to fights, fights to brawls, and brawls to riots that raged out of control. Even the Scatas couldn’t stop the madness, for the crowds turned on them when they moved in, and beat the soldiers with cudgels and paving stones and finally their own bare hands. Merchant princes lay charred and mutilated in the remains of Istar’s marketplaces. Slaves turned on their masters, strangling them with their own chains. Screams of terror and howls of agony rang out in gardens where song-birds once sang.

In the Arena, the throngs—who had cheered Pheragas of Ergoth’s victory over the Red Minotaur only half an hour earlier—turned to their own bloodletting. The old, the weak, and the slow all perished first as the young, strong, and healthy knocked them down and trampled their bodies into the ground. The gladiators ran free, hewing their way through the crowds with weapons fake and real. Rockbreaker himself soon lay among the dead, impaled upon the Freedom Spire by one of his own fighters. As the dwarfs last breath left him, the entire north wall of the Arena gave way, crushing hundreds of screaming men and women. A great, billowing cloud of dust and smoke plumed skyward, then hung in the choking air.

At the Temple, the hierarchs and elder clerics fought a losing battle to maintain order as acolytes, servants, and commoners ran wild. The faithful poured in from the Barigon, overwhelming the Divine Hammer guardians in the entry hall. They smashed the fountains and statues, making a mad stampede toward the gardens, trampling delicate flowers and killing the Kingpriest’s prized dragon-lizards. The obelisks of the Garden of Martyrs toppled, and the flames already consuming the Sacred Chancery began to spread to the nearby cloisters. Three of the remaining six golden spires had fallen, and the rest leaned precariously. The manse’s ivy-swathed walls buckled. The crystal dome shone with jaundiced light.

Within the basilica, Quarath fought his way through crashing mobs, trying to get outside. If he could just make his way to the gardens, he could send a call to the griffins. Istar might be dying, but that didn’t mean he was doomed. He shoved lesser clerics aside, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make headway.

“It is the end!” cried a Mishakite priestess as she staggered heavily into him. “The dark gods will destroy us all!”

Quarath said nothing. There was no reasoning with humans when they acted so foolishly. As an elf, he was not the sort to panic, but the hysteria of the mob was beginning to affect him, as well. Dread washed over him, trying to find a chink in his armor of self-control. If he surrendered to the fear, he would be no better than the others—weeping, threatening, begging for the horror to stop.

He nearly had to beat the Mishakite to get her to stop from clinging to his robes. When he finally yanked himself away, she collapsed to her knees and began to sob. Quarath ignored her pleas to him, striding away through the mob.

There was another great, booming noise, like thunder but coming from far below ground. Quarath was hurled against a wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Above, the last surviving windows exploded, showering the hallway with razors of stained glass. A dreadful wailing chorus answered the quake—thousands of panicked people trying to flee. Quarath suddenly felt a hot pain above his left eye, then a red, stinging flood blinded him. Wincing, he pressed his snowy sleeve to the wound. The cloth grew warm and damp with alarming speed.

He pushed on, in spite of the pain, He could sense the griffins now, circling high above. Most had already fled, riderless; but a few now spiraled downward, answering the call of his brother-elves. Not all of the Silvanesti would escape the catastrophe—but some would, and by Eli, he would be among them. He could see the gardens, just ahead. He sent his mind questing, seeking one of the griffins—and found the loyal creature, already swooping down to save him. He nearly laughed aloud: the Kingpriest had destroyed everything, killed everyone, doomed his city, his empire, himself—but at least he would be safe.

He was nearly to the doors when the ground shook once more. Finally, it was more than the beleaguered Temple could bear. With a horrible, grinding groan, the great church began to fold in upon itself. A great roar, like an awakening dragon, sounded above Quarath’s head. He turned to look, and saw a pillar of silver-veined marble plummeting toward him. He flung up his arm with a scream.

Then… nothing.