Of a divine hammer, Leciane thought.
When it struck, the light burst so bright that for a moment there was nothing to see but silver, nothing to hear but the unearthly ringing of the god’s power. It was a light that didn’t just drive darkness back. It consumed it, burning it away with holy fire.
Then, it somehow went wrong.
A discordant note grew into a terrible buzz. The light soured, its silvery hue tarnishing, its steady glow becoming a maddening flicker. With a gut-wrenching ripping sound, the glow shredded, then whirled apart like a spiderweb in a tempest. A blast of hot air slammed the gallery, knocking everyone flat-even the Kingpriest, who tumbled onto the reclining cushions. The light that shrouded him grew faint. He lay still, drained.
The Lightbringer had … failed.
Her ears ringing, Leciane struggled to rise. Wentha was shouting something, tears in her eyes, but the words were too dim to hear. The sorceress pulled herself up, using the gallery’s marble balustrade, and peered down into the arena.
Nothing had changed. The battle raged on, the knights falling beneath the quasitas’ assault.
“Lunitari have mercy,” she breathed, unable to hear her own voice. She closed her eyes, focusing, reaching out with her senses. There it was, hanging over the quasitas, suffusing them: a magic spell she didn’t recognize. It was a powerful enchantment, the evil work of a Black Robe.
As if this could be anything else, she thought.
She studied the magic a moment longer, trying to fathom it. It protected the quasitas, giving them strength to fight the knights and warding them against the god’s power. The mage who had summoned these creatures had done all he could to make sure no one drove them away. But there was a weakness in the spell as well. In keeping the quasitas safe from clerical magic, the spell became vulnerable to sorcery. She clenched her fists, drawing in all her power.
A hand caught her arm. “What in the Abyss are you doing?“ Opening her eyes, she saw Quarath, his eyes dark with anger. Leciane glared, shaking free of his grasp. She could sense others behind her.
“Your Kingpriest couldn’t do anything,” she snapped. “Now it’s my turn. Those knights are going to die otherwise-and the gods know who the quasitas will turn on next. I can help-but you have to trust me.”
“Trust a witch?” sneered Suvin. Quarath scowled, taking another step toward her.
“Wait.”
Everyone started, looking toward the weak, shaking voice. Beldinas stirred where he’d fallen, his face pinched as he propped himself on his elbows. His eyes-dimmed from blue suns to mere stars-met Leciane’s.
“Holiness?” Quarath ventured. “We cannot allow-”
“We can and will,” the Kingpriest replied. “Let her try, Emissary.”
The elf’s eyes narrowed to slits. Beside him, Revered Son Suvin glowered, but Wentha stepped forward, lowering her gaze.
“Help him,” she said. “Save my brother.”
Leciane nodded. Licking her lips, she turned back toward the arena, littered with the bodies of knights, hazy with the smoke of dead quasitas. The clamor of battle had returned, more desperate than before. It had to be now.
Again she delved deep into herself, finding the power within. Taking hold, she began to move her hands, opened her mouth to speak, felt the magic flow …
Cathan felt like he was slogging underwater. Every movement felt too slow, every reaction too sluggish. His muscles kept trying to seize, his knees to buckle. His heart stammered in his chest. Still he fought on, back to back with Tithian, surrounded by the bodies of his fellows. Half his company was dead, though he could still hear Marto yelling blasphemies nearby. He couldn’t see Lord Tavarre-but then, did it really matter? They were all going to die anyway.
He still couldn’t believe the Lightbringer’s power had faltered. When the light died, so did his hopes of living to see the dawn. Now he only wanted to kill as many winged demons as he could before they finished him, too.
Palado, he prayed, spearing a quasito on Ebonbane’s tip. The wretched thing fluttered wildly for a moment, then went limp and became a phantom of smoke. Mas pirhtas calsud.
Adolas brigim paripud-
Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought-
Just then, a shimmer ran through the Bilstibo, a ripple that washed through the air, throwing off azure sparks. At first, he thought the Kingpriest had somehow regenerated his strength, but something about that wasn’t right. Beldinas’s miracles did not have the strange sting to them that this one did. Looking up, he saw why. The figure at the balustrade wore crimson, not white.
Sorcery!
He broke a quasito’s back with a smash from his shield. The creature’s remains blew into his face, stinging his eyes and making him choke.
Then …
Leciane’s spell burst over the arena like a houseful of Karthayan fireworks, raining motes of blue fire. An eye-blink later, a loud bang shuddered the ground. Cathan cried out, throwing himself flat-but the magic did him no harm, the flames winking out when they touched him. The quasitas, however, were not so fortunate. The magic burned when it struck their flesh, making them squeal and writhe in agony. Some burned to ashes. Others tumbled to the ground, the membranes of their wings seared away. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air.
Cathan stared, amazed-but only for a moment. Then he was on his feet again, Ebonbane dancing in his hand. He hacked the head from a quasito’s shoulders and stabbed another through the throat. Both hardly struggled, making sounds that might have been sighs as they perished. His blood singing in his veins, Cathan pushed aside pain and weariness, and waded back into the fray.
“Hammer-brothers!” he cried. “Finish them! Kill them all!”
At once, the surviving knights were back in the fight, hewing at the injured monsters with sword and mace and axe. The smoke grew thick above the arena as the quasitas died.
Others who could still fly fast enough soared skyward, fleeing away over Lattakay’s arches and into the hills beyond.
Then it was over. All the creatures were either dead or gone, and the knights stood wearily among the bodies of the fallen. Of the five hundred men who had come to fight in the tourney, fewer than two hundred remained on their feet. The rest sprawled in the sand, their flesh torn open or blackened by the agonies of the demons’ poison. Among them, Cathan saw with a gasp, was one he knew too well.
Tavarre was still alive, shivering uncontrollably though the air was warm. Smoke smudged his scarred face, and blood seeped from his shoulder, dampening his crimson tabard. His eyes opened when Cathan knelt beside him. His pupils were huge, feverish, and dull.
“My lord,” Cathan said. He took Tavarre’s hand, already cold and limp. He thought to call for Beldinas, but knew there was no hope-no time.
Tavarre laughed weakly. “Lad,” he said. “I guess you w-won the t-tourney, after all.”
Cathan bowed his head.
“Look at m-me, you dolt,” Tavarre growled. “There’ll be time f-for grieving soon en-nough. I need you to promise m-me two things before-before … ”
“Yes, lord?” Cathan murmured, looking at him squarely.
“First, f-find the one who did th-this,” he said. His hand twitched as if trying to gesture, but no more. “A th-thousand stakes aren’t enough to p-pay for it.”
“Of course,” Cathan said. “You have my vow. What else?”
Tavarre tried to smile. He drew a deep breath, his eyes closing. “Don’t-don’t let him r-resurrect me.”
His shivering stopped.
Cathan bowed his head for a long time, still grasping the lifeless hand. Other knights gathered around, their faces solemn. A few, Sir Marto among them, wept openly. Cathan’s face, however, was dry and hard with determination. Bending forward, he kissed the Grand Marshal’s smoke-streaked forehead. Then, rising, he lifted the body of Tavarre of Luciel and carried it out of the Bilstibo.