Of fifty, only three of the knights had perished. These they laid on the ground, covering them with cloak and tabard, then returned to their steeds, looking to Cathan for orders. He looked back at them, raising his visor and wiping sweat from his face. He did not sheathe his sword, nor did any of the other knights. They would not put their weapons away again until he told them to. His chest swelled as he regarded his men through the smoke.
Leciane rode up alongside him, her face grave. “Well done,” she told him.
Sir Marto spat, his face red above his forked beard.
“Be still,” Cathan told the big Karthayan, holding up a hand. He turned back to Leciane, looking over her shoulder rather than in her eyes. “The fight is not over.”
She nodded. “The Black Robe.”
The knights muttered. The air crackled with anticipation.
Cathan sat erect, thrusting Ebonbane toward the sky. “On, then!” he shouted, “and let no man rest until the fighting is done!”
The knights bellowed in reply, a forest of weapons punching the air. “For the Lightbringer!” they cried. In a thunder of hooves, they charged.
I should have learned to teleport, Andras thought as he watched the Divine Hammer approaching from atop the abbey wall. The monks who built this place had cared little for defenses, even before the monastery fell to ruin. The road was the only way in or out. In all other directions were cliffs dropping down to the river below. The same seclusion that had made it an excellent religious sanctuary made it a death trap now.
Maybe the Dark One will see me, he thought, and summon me away from here. He saved me from the Hammer once before. The memory didn’t give him much comfort as the knights thundered up the road toward him.
“My children!” he shouted. “To me!”
The quasitas came-the last of them, not quite fifty, many wounded. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the knights, but it would slow them down, give him time to cast some magic. He pointed toward the rusty tangle that had been the monastery’s gate, trying not to notice how badly his hand shook.
“Kill them!” he shouted. “Kill them all!”
The quasitas were stupid, not brainless. They knew they would die if they fought, but Andras had given birth to them, and he had the power to command. Hissing, snarling, they swarmed out the gates.
Andras watched them go, then clambered up on a hunk of rock that stood higher than anything else on the wall. Taking a deep breath, he focused, weaving his hands and pointing down at the mass of armored figures. He couldn’t stop them all with one spell, but he could kill enough to even the odds. He concentrated on the largest of them-a giant of a man who held a beaked axe high-and began to make arcane gestures.
“Sylar cu monaviok, sho jebus loinonn! ” he shouted.
A bolt of blue lightning shot from his fingers, raining sparks as it sizzled through the air.
He watched with satisfaction as it shot straight at the big knight. It would kill him when it struck, then it would fork, spraying death upon the men next to him. Then it would fork again, and again, continuing until it spent itself. A vicious smile curled his lips.
Suddenly a voice, a woman’s voice, shouted spidery words of its own. He frowned, listening, then gasped as he recognized the spell. An instant later, a dome of golden energy appeared around the knights. The lightning bolt stopped as though it had hit something solid, and exploded into a million glittering sparks. The air shimered as Andras’s magic evaporated.
He saw her now, riding near the rear of the party: the blood-woman, her crimson robes standing out amongst the knights’ snowy tabards. He could feel her, too, and that feeling told him he was doomed. Her power was too great. Whatever spell he used, she would repel it.
He tried anyway, hurling fire and lightning, frost and poison. He cast enchantments to change the stones beneath their horses’ hooves to mud, fill the air with whirling blades, turn their bones to jelly. Nothing worked. Every time, the Red Robe’s voice rose in answer to his own, countering his spells. Not a single knight fell, and soon his strength began to flag. Strangely, the sorceress didn’t fight back. She only worked to hinder him, and all at once he knew why.
They’re not going to kill me, he thought. They want me alive, so they can burn me.
Memories of Master Nusendran, curling and blackening at the stake, filled his mind. His head growing light, Andras stumbled and nearly fell from the wall.
“Dark One, save me!” he cried, but Fistandantilus did not answer.
The quasitas attacked. Sword and mace danced, and the air filled with smoke. Two more men fell, but the rest rode on. Without the element of surprise, the demons were no match for the Kingpriest’s warriors.
Through the sundered gates the knights came, the man-mountain first, axe at the ready. Spying Andras, he shouted a vile curse in Old Karthayan, and started to charge up the stairs. Andras flung a lance of pure energy at him, but the sorceress spoke, and the bolt exploded before it was even halfway to him. Furious, the huge knight kept coming-until a voice called out from behind.
“Marto! Wait. He’s mine.”
The huge knight didn’t look happy about it, but he stopped. Behind him, from among the knights rapidly filling the courtyard, came a man with the badge of an officer on his tabard. Sword in hand, he strode past the one named Marto. The Red Robe followed at a distance. Andras didn’t recognize her face.
“Traitorous bitch,” he snarled. “They will destroy all magic before they are done!”
The Red Robe said nothing, only watched him with narrow eyes, waiting for his next spell. She needn’t have bothered. Andras no longer had the strength to warm a cup of water.
The knight strode forward, raising the visor of his helm. Andras started when he saw the man’s empty eyes-so empty he had to look away. He knew those eyes, knew the stories.
This was the Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s favorite. Unsmiling, he leveled his blade at Andras.
“In the name of Beldinas, Kingpriest of Istar and Paladine’s Voice upon Krynn,” the knight declared, “I arrest you for the slaughter of my order in the Bilstibo of Lattakay. Surrender, and your life will be spared.”
Andras nearly laughed aloud. He saw the lie. Surrender would only delay his death. He stepped back, again pleading silently for Fistandantilus to come to his aid, but the archmage was not listening, or did not care. The Twice-Born stepped toward him. Andras sighed, beaten.
Then, sneering, he leaped forward.
“No!” the Red Robe cried.
The Twice-Born made a hasty attempt to pull back. Too late. His sword slid through Andras’s flesh, scraped against bone, and burst out his back. Andras smiled, staring into the knight’s shocked, empty eyes.
“To the Abyss with you, and all your kind,” he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. His knees buckled and darkness came crashing down.
CHAPTER 16
The Black Robe collapsed. Wrenching Ebonbane from Cathan’s hand, the sorcerer fell onto his side and lay still. The pool of blood beneath him seeped in runnels through the cracks in the stone. It eddied against Cathan’s boots, but still he didn’t move. He could only stare at the body in shock. Down below in the courtyard, the knights were also silent, save for a few whispered prayers. There were few sins worse, in the eyes of the holy church, than taking one’s own life.
“Damn!” Leciane cried, rushing forward. She knelt beside Cathan, heedless of the blood soaking into her robes. “We were supposed to capture him alive!”