Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought…
Before he could finish the prayer, however, the wall suddenly lurched beneath his feet, leaping so violently that he stumbled against the merlons, nearly tumbling over. Elsewhere on the wall, bandits and soldiers alike staggered, some falling to their knees as the ground leaped beneath them. Others weren’t so lucky, and pitched over the side.
At first, Tavarre thought it was the battering ram, finally bashing down the gates. Looking down, however, he saw that wasn’t so. The ram was away from the wall, its pushers staring in shock toward the city. He frowned. If the Scatas hadn’t shaken the wall, what had?
Then a borderman beside him cried out, jabbing his finger back toward the Pantheon. “Look! The tower!”
A Scata came at him just then, but Tavarre stopped him, hammering him in the face with the pommel of his sword. As the man crumpled, senseless, the baron glanced back, to where the bordennan had pointed. He sucked in a cold breath, a weight settling inside him. There, atop the Pantheon’s tallest spire, stood Beldyn.
Tavarre shuddered, understanding even as the Iightbringer turned his hand palm-up, shouting a second time. “Pridud!”
The gates shivered, deep cracks rippling through them. The wall bucked again, bordermen and Scatas alike crying out as they stumbled against one another. A few continued to pursue the fight, but now most of them halted, all eyes turning to stare up at Beldyn. Those nearest the gates began to edge back. Below, the attackers did the same, some shying away warily while others-including most of the ram-pushers-simply wheeled and fled.
Tavarre gaped at the white-gleaming figure on the tower’s top. High above, Beldyn’s fingers curled into a fist. “No!” the baron cried. “You’re going to-”
“PRIDUD!”
For the third time, the wall shuddered even harder. The gates twisted, bulging outward for a sickening instant. A cyclone of white light swirled around them. Then, with a blinding glare and a roar, they exploded. They were gates no longer, a mass of torn wood and metal, splinters raining down on either side of the wall. Bits of wreckage flew outward, pelting the road and smashing the cobbles. A piece of rubble slammed into the mighty, fist-headed ram, cracking it in half and sending it tumbling end over end. The debris kept falling, for minutes.
Tavarre stared numbly. Around him, a few of the Scatas moved in, their blades leveled at his chest and throat. He hardly noticed, even when they grabbed his own sword by the quillons and yanked it from his grasp. Below, other Scatas shouted victory cries as they poured through the hole where Govinna’s mighty gates had been.
“Gods’ blood,” Tavarre murmured, staring up at the Patriarch’s Tower, where Beldyn still shone like a silvery beacon. Tears sheeted his eyes, turning the Lightbringer into a blur as the Scatas knocked him to his knees. “Pilofiro, what have you done?”
Within the Pantheon’s dim halls, Sathira shrieked with pain as the wave of holy power struck her. It tore at her shadowy form, and for a moment she feared it would rip her apart, send her howling back to the shelter of the emerald, as had happened when the First Daughter had defeated her. It didn’t, though: the pain was excruciating, but it passed. The spell’s focus was elsewhere, far from the temple, so the torment abated, leaving her reeling and shivering in its wake.
Hissing hatefully, the demon shut her eyes, seeking the source of the godly force. It took her a while-the echoes of the agonizing blast still lingered-but after a moment she found what she was looking for. The pain still burned, like a smoldering cinder in her mind. She growled, focusing. Where was it? Where?
Her eyes slitted open, looking up. A cackling laugh erupted from her, a sound that had nothing to do with mirth. The Lightbringer was above her.
With an eager snarl, she swept on through the church, bound for the tower.
Cathan watched everything, appalled, as the last of Govinna’s defenders either fell or surrendered. Most gave up their swords as the Kingpriest’s army enveloped them. A few held out, however, fighting on, despite the fact that they had already lost. One by one, their flashing blades fell still, swallowed by the press of soldiers on all sides. Sickened, Cathan wondered how many of those last brave few were men he knew. Were any of them from Luciel? Was Lord Tavarre one of them?
The Scatas were pouring into the city now, surging through its winding, narrow streets, the light of their torches spilling down the lanes. More and more they came, no end to them, thousands strong. He could hear their shouts of triumph, the conquering hymns of the priests who walked among them. Closer and closer they came, bearing down on the Pantheon. They would tear the place apart if they had to, he knew. Before much longer had passed-and before they could flee to a safe place-the soldiers would be surging up the tower. He eyed the stairs. They were tight, and their curve might make it easy for him to fight, but even so, he couldn’t hold out forever. They’d kill him, take Beldyn, and that would be it. Everything they’d fought for would end.
He turned to the monk, stricken. Beldyn leaned on the balustrade, shoulders bowed, gazing down at the advancing soldiers. White light sparkled around him, but within the aura he was clearly exhausted. He looked haggard, many times his years, and he slumped further, nearly toppling over the rail. The inexplicable magic he’d worked had spent him, as it had at the bridge. He had no strength left.
“What have you done?” Cathan breathed.
Beldyn turned, shuddering with fatigue. His eyes were blue suns, terrible to behold. “What I had to,” he said, his voice breaking. “I saw my fate, while I lay in that trance. The enemy must come to me. It is what the god intends.”
Cathan stared, aghast. “What are you talking about?” he demanded. “You mean Paladine meant for us to lose?”
“No, my friend.” Beldyn said with his smile returning, “but the battle cannot be won with swords. The answer is in your hands.”
Frowning, Cathan looked down. He still held the Miceram in his grasp.
“Site ceram biriat, abat,” Beldyn said. “It’s time for you to crown me.”
Cathan swallowed, turning the crown in his hands. Its rubies shimmered from within. A giddy laugh burst from his lips.
“I’ve never done a coronation before,” he said. “I don’t know how.”
“There’s nothing to know,” Beldyn replied, easing himself onto one knee. “Put it on my head and name me Kingpriest. The rest is just ritual claptrap, anyway.”
Again, Cathan hesitated. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped forward and raised the Miceram. He held it above Beldyn’s head, heavy in his hands, and shivered. The wind had turned frigid, all of a sudden.
“Beldyn,” he spoke, then stopped, shaking his head. “Beldinas. In Paladine’s name, and with this crown, I hereby-”
Then, suddenly, his voice died in his throat. Two green eyes had appeared, burning slits just behind Beldyn’s back. He stared, horror swelling in his breast as his gaze locked with Sathira’s. The demon laughed, a low, growling sound that cut through Cathan’s spine.
“Too late,” she snarled, and lunged.
Cathan was quicker, though. Dropping the crown with a clatter, he shoved Beldyn aside. The monk grunted as he sprawled across the tower’s roof, but he was out of the way. Raising his sword, Cathan stepped in front of the demon.
She slowed, glaring, then laughed again and lashed out, swiping at the blade with her talons. With a horrible rending sound the weapon burst apart, scattering tangled fragments everywhere. As Cathan stared at the useless hilt in his hand, she brought her sinuous, shadowy arm down on him.