Instead, he had killed Cathan.
At that memory, Cathan’s hand went unbidden to his chest. He still bore the scar, a puckered spot where magical lightning had ripped into him. People asked him even now what death had been like, what he had seen after the mortal world lifted from his eyes. The clergy, in particular, had been understandably curious. He could remember nothing, though-before Beldinas brought him back.
There were many legends of the clerics of old, and what their powers allowed them to do.
They had conjured enough bread to feed nations, made blighted deserts lush and green, summoned storms of wind, water, and flame to destroy their enemies. In the thousand years since Huma Dragonbane drove the Queen of Darkness and her minions from the world, however, such miracles had disappeared. With darkness broken and scattered, there was little need for them any more. These days, most clerics could not even perform the simplest of wonders.
Despite their power, however, even the mightiest clerics of yore had not been able to restore a soul after it departed the flesh. Such things, philosophers claimed, were simply not possible. The Lightbringer had proven them wrong. Focusing his will amid his grief, Beldinas had beseeched-demanded, to hear some tell it-that Paladine work his will.
Paladine had listened and obeyed-and so Cathan drew breath once more, though forever marked with his strange, unsettling eyes…
“Master?” A hand touched his shoulder.
Cathan started. He glanced toward the voice. Tithian was looking at him, his brow wrinkled with worry. So were most of the other knights. Self-conscious, he lowered his hand from his scarred breast.
“Sir,” Tithian murmured, “are you all right? You look pale.”
Swallowing, Cathan shook his head. All those memones were old now: Kurnos was long dead, and though he had tried several times, the Kingpriest had been unable to perform any more resurrections since that day.
“I’m fine, lad,” he murmured. “Come on. Let’s waste no more time here.”
Clucking his tongue, he nudged his horse down the hill. He didn’t ride straight to the city, though-not yet. He had somewhere he wanted to go first.
Even in a city of marvels, some places stood out. In Istar, the foremost of these was unquestionably the Great Temple at its heart, With its vibrant gardens and silver-roofed cloisters, its seven golden spires and vast dome of frosted crystal, it was the most splendid church the world had ever known, the sight to which every Istaran’s gaze gravitated-not just when its bells called the faithful to prayer, but constantly-affirming that the Lordcity was indeed the favorite of the gods.
There were other wonders in Istar, though. At the mouth of its harbor, where sails of a hundred hues billowed in the balmy breeze, the two beacons called the God’s Eyes blazed silver in the sunlight. Across town, on the slopes of the northern quarter, the palatial homes of the city’s nobility gleamed, all marble columns and shining rooftops. In the west stood the School of the Games, a sprawling arena that could house half the city’s populace in its seats. Gladiators had fought there once, though now the games were all play: epic tragedies and mock melees that drew cheers that could shake the city’s foundations. In the east, drawing wary glances; was the Tower of High Sorcery, a slender minaret of sparkling white stone, topped with crimson turrets. An ivory hand with fingers bloody, the poetess Trella of Yandol had once called it. It had stood longer than any of the Lordcity’s other landmarks, old even when the first Kingpriest donned his crown.
If the Tower was Istar’s eldest marvel, the Hammerhall was the youngest, but no less grand for it. It did not stand within the city’s walls but rather on a hill just to the north, overlooking the land for leagues around. It was a massive fortress, hewn of granite the color of sunrise, with high, crenellated walls that surrounded more than a dozen great manor houses. Atop the largest of these stood a sculpture of a hammer, thirty feet high and washed in gold, its head covered with braziers that made it appear a mass of flames. This was the home of the Order of the Divine Hammer, an inescapable reminder of the holy war the Kingpriest had declared against the forces of evil.
So vast was the Hammerhall that even now, twenty years after the order took over from the Solamnic Knights as the empire’s chief protectors, it was still unfinished. It had grown constantly over the years, as more and more young men joined the Hammer. Even now the clamor of mallet and chisel rivaled the clash of knights training at swordplay in the bailey.
Another sound rose louder still, above all else-a sound every knight knew and dreaded.
It was the sound of Tavarre, Grand Marshal of the Order, roaring in full-throated anger.
“You great, hulking idiots! What in the name of Huma’s silver arm do you think you’re doing?”
Though nearing sixty, Tavarre was still a fearsome man, short and stocky, a scar running from beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His white hair and beard waved in the wind, matching the wildness in his eyes. He was dressed in full armor, topped with a crimson tabard that denoted his rank, and held a cudgel in his hand, with which he’d been schooling several young squires in combat. Now his students stood gaping behind him as he stormed across the courtyard.
The targets of his wrath were two minotaurs, brawny, bull-headed creatures that overtopped Tavarre by head, shoulders, and half their chests. Between them, they carried a block of marble that would have taken ten men to lift. To an outsider, they might have looked more than a match for an old man, but the creatures shrank back at his approach, setting down the block and backing away. Their wicked horns dipped as they bowed their heads in submission.
“Look at this!” the First Marshal thundered, pointing his club. “You’re not supposed to be carrying stones this big without a harness, you know that! Marble isn’t cheap, you damnable cow-headed dolts. If you drop it and it breaks, it’ll cost more gold than-
Minotaurs are hot-blooded creatures, seldom able to control their own tempers. Now one of them, a red-furred brute with gleaming yellow eyes, let out an angry snort and grabbed for Tavarre with a fist the size of a ham.
Moving with speed belying his years, the old knight spun away from the minotaur’s reach. In the same motion, he whipped the cudgel around in a vicious backhand, snapping his wrist at the last moment to drive it hard against the side of the bull-man’s leg. The club splintered, but so did bone. The minotaur went down with a roar, clutching at his shattered knee-cap. Tavarre drove an armored boot into the side of the creature’s head. Its howl of pain choked off, and it fell in a senseless heap.
The other minotaur looked from his fallen fellow to the old knight. Red-faced but not even breathing hard, Tavarre reached for his sword and drew it an inch from its scabbard.
The bull-man flinched and hurried away.
The courtyard was silent. Everyone-knights, squires, servants, and other minotaur workers-had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the confrontation. The Grand Marshal in a fury was as good a show as any mummer’s play at the Arena … as long as one wasn’t the target of his wrath. Now, slamming his blade home once more, Tavare swept the bailey with a glare that could have melted gold. Everyone looked away, thinking of something better to do. With a satisfied grunt, Tavarre turned his back on the unconscious minotaur and started back toward his nervously waiting students.