His men were wary. He could feel their tension. Attack or flee, they needed to do something. A smile curled his lips. Raising his greatsword, he gave a mighty bellow and led the charge.
Arn Kar-thon leaned forward, biting his lip as he watched his father disappear through the rift in the grove. Duke Serl’s warriors streamed after him, around the dark tree that had sprouted from the magic seed. Swords and spears punched the air as they ran, their battle cries muted by distance and rain.
“I should be down there,” muttered Arn. “I should be with them, damn it.”
No one answered. There was no one else left behind. His mother, after thirty years of it, no longer watched her husband ride off to battle. His sisters didn’t care, but Arn … Arn was fourteen, for the love of Habbakuk! Another year, and he would be a man by Ergothian law, free to marry and hold land and title. Another year and the Duchess Sheran would have had no power to stop him from donning his mail and following his father into the fray.
Reik and Parsal had been careless, that was their mistake. He would have heroically slain every damned wizard in the Lordcity, if he had been there … just as he wanted to now if he were permitted to be among those attacking the Tower. He swore, hammering his fist down on the railing of the balcony-the best vantage in his family’s great manor by Daltigoth’s north wall. It just wasn’t fair….
Once the warriors were through the grove, things grew even more frustrating. There was little for Arn to see, no pitched struggles, no flashing swords and sizzling spells. The grove and the black pine hid any fighting from view. The Tower’s red walls-and parapets fading in and out among the widow-clouds-told no tales. Every now and then, a flash of light, violet one moment, sickly green the next, and the occasional dull boom or ungodly screech cut through the gloom, echoing weirdly through the rain-dampened city. Once, Arn could have sworn he’d heard his father’s voice, shouting vicious curses upon the sorcerers, but that was probably wishful thinking. For the most part, the fighting within the Tower remained a mystery to all in Daltigoth who had braved the elements to watch it.
Arn waited impatiently to see his father emerge, carrying the head of the archmage who was Master of the Tower. By nightfall, he expected that head to be tarred and spitted on a pike above Daltigoth’s main gates.
He didn’t see the change at first, it was so subtle. It grew more pronounced with each heartbeat, though, and soon became obvious despite the weather and the miles. He rubbed his eyes. The Tower seemed different now, just slightly. The straight edges of its walls twisted, bowing outward in a way that made him think of overfilled wineskins. Farther and farther they seemed to bend, and a moment later the groan of stone reached his ears, grating loudly.
“Draco Paladin,” Arn murmured. He thought of his father, and his father’s men. What was happening?
Threads of blue and gold lightning began to play along the crimson walls, leaping from turret to turret, sometimes bouncing away to strike a pine tree, turning it into a pillar of flame. Above, the widow-clouds started swirling, moving around and around the Tower like one of the great maelstroms the sea lords told tales about. A faint glow surrounded the parapets, growing stronger with each moment-a roseate light, black and white and red all at once. Arn stared, plucking at the sparse beard he’d been trying to grow for months now.
Whatever was going on, the sorcerers were controlling it… doing something to their own Tower?
A queasy feeling settled in Arn’s gut. He heard a sound, low at first but soon louder even than the growl of the bulging walls. It was a musical noise, like a hundred reed pipes playing in unison-but not a melody, and the harmony was questionable. The shrillness got worse as he listened, the tones growing more and more discordant. Arn clapped his hands to his ears, wincing. Behind him, a window shattered, raining shards of glass. The same was surely happening all over Daltigoth, probably worse for the buildings nearer the Tower.
The glow around the parapets was bright now, turning into spires of light that shot up into the whirling clouds. Real lightning struck all five parapets, thunderclaps roaring after it. Cracks appeared in the overstressed walls, and ghostly flames poured out like blood from so many wounds. The chorus of noise grew more furious, like the cries of madmen, each vying to be the loudest. The noise bored into Arn’s skull. He thought his head would burst.
“Father,” he moaned, refusing to take his eyes off the Tower. “Get out. Please … get-”
With a roar Arn Kar-thon would hear for the rest of his days, the Tower of High Sorcery exploded.
The walls burst like a dam, shards of crimson stone flying outward. The shrapnel cut through the magical grove, turning the mighty pines to kindling in an instant. Even the enormous black tree came crashing down, skipping end over end across the open space nearest the Tower. The small crowd that had gathered to watch the attack screamed and tried to flee, but flying rock and wood changed their terror to agony, cutting them down like scythed wheat. The buildings nearest the Tower shattered, roofs blowing off and walls caving in. Statues toppled, fountains crumbled, the city’s south wall collapsed. Debris the size of houses rained down as far away as the River Nath. A hot blast of wind smashed Arn in the face, carrying grit that stung his eyes. A chip of crimson stone sliced open his cheek.
He staggered back from the rail, and a moment later the balcony cracked, and the section he had been leaning against toppled to the ground far below.
The Tower was gone now, nothing left but a pillar of fire that rose high, high into the sky. Arn knew he was looking at his father’s pyre-and that of his men, and maybe some sorcerers too. The flames licked at the roiling widow-clouds, lightning flashed wildly … then, with a noise like a thousand screams, the blaze shot up into the sky and out of sight.
In the quiet minutes that followed, the rain grew black, covering Daltigoth in soot. Arn stared, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Nothing remained of the Tower of High Sorcery, save for a deep hole in the ground, surrounded by the charred stubs of the grove that had once protected it. Crimson stone lay scattered throughout Daltigoth, mingling with the wreckage of homes and shops, temples and manors. Both bridges across the Nath were gone. Bodies lay strewn like his sisters’ dolls, crushed and torn by the force of the blast.
Fires burned all over. The hated Tower was gone, but it had taken a quarter of Ergoth’s greatest city with it.
Arn Kar-thon sat on the balcony, hugging himself and moaning. It would be days before he found the strength to cry.
CHAPTER 28
Quarath shouldered the knights of the Divine Hammer aside as he ran up the steps of the imperial manse. He strode past Brother Floran, the Kingpriest’s chamberlain, without a word. It was late at night, the bells atop the basilica having rung Midwatch nearly two hours ago. Another time, he wouldn’t have thought of disturbing the Lightbringer. Tonight, however, he cared nothing for propriety. The clockwork falcon had returned from Daltigoth.
Damn Serl Kar-thon, he thought, taking the stairs to the Kingpriest’s private apartments two at a time. Damn his impatience and his pride!
He found Beldinas in his study, alone, sitting at his desk with his head bowed. He didn’t move when the door thundered open, so Quarath pushed on into the room, the missive from Grand Celebrant Kyad of Ergoth clutched in his hand.
“Holiness!” he exclaimed. “Pilofiro, you must hear-”
He stopped, then, as Beldinas raised his face. It was ashen and streaked with tears, the blue eyes stark with terror. He looked up at the elf without seeming to see him. His hands lay in his lap like dead birds.