Finally they emerged from the trees into open ground. A quick glance behind told Cathan he had lost maybe a dozen men out of twenty times that number. He was glad to spot Tithian and Marto. The huge doors of the Tower, slabs of red stone carved with images of the moons, loomed before him. Legend said the doors were never locked. Only those who were welcome could pass through the groves.
A pair of overeager knights leaped up the steps, and fell as they triggered the warding spells the mages had placed upon the entrance. Sheets of violet flame blazed into life, and they died screaming, beating at the fires that immolated them. Cathan winced at the stench, but part of him thanked the gods that he had only lost two to the spell, which had done its work and was now fading.
“Forward!” cried Sir Marto, before Cathan could say anything. “Let no man rest until every one of the demon worshipers has felt the god’s justice!”
As Cathan had begun to suspect, the knights followed the big Karthayan’s orders more enthusiastically than his own. I’ve lost them, he thought, as the men of the Divine Hammer pounded up the steps, past the charred remains of their comrades.
They slammed into the doors with all their might, Marto leading with his shoulder.
Sparks flew as his armor scraped against the stone, and the doors groaned, grinding inward a few inches. The knights gave a roar, then hit the doors again, a third time, and a fourth. Each time, the doors budged a little more. Finally, the gap between them was wide enough to let the men peer inside. One knight near the front-Cathan wasn’t sure who-shoved his way halfway into the dim interior-
A moment later, he screamed in agony, his body jerking, and pulled back out. Half his helmet was gone, sheared off as though by sharp teeth. He howled, clutching at the bloody ruin of his face. Finally, after several excruciating moments, he went limp, his fellows catching him as he fell. He wasn’t yet dead, but he couldn’t possibly survive the grievous wound he’d taken, and he would suffer from lingering. Knowing this, one of his fellows drew a dagger and slipped it between his ribs. He stiffened, then relaxed, beyond all pain.
While he was dying, more knights shoved at the doors, pushing them farther open.
Cathan gritted his teeth as the gap widened.
The first of the Guardians came striding out-a nine-foot colossus with the head of a jackal, its eyes ablaze with golden light. The sight of its two giant scimitars-one of them dripping red-filled Cathan with dread. He brandished Ebonbane as his men fell back in a wide circle. One didn’t move fast enough, and a flick of a blade cut him in two beneath the shoulders.
“Mother of Paladine,” someone cursed. Cathan nodded, agreeing.
Reckless, heedless, Sir Marto surged at the jackal-headed thing, his new axe sweeping back. Damned fool, Cathan thought, admiring the big knight’s courage as the Guardian’s scimitars arced in, a scissoring blow aimed at Marto’s neck.
Marto laughed, ducking with a grace that belied his size. The blades whistled above his head, close enough to slice off the tips of the horns on his helm. An eye-blink later he was up, his axe flashing in to hack the creature’s thigh.
Stone fractured, green shards flying. Marto’s axe glanced away, leaving a deep crack in the Guardian’s leg. It gave no sign of noticing, though. Such a creature didn’t feel pain, and now its swords came up again, poised to bury themselves in Marto’s skull. He backed away, drawing it after him-closer, closer …
The Guardian’s eyes couldn’t actually widen with surprise, but the sorcerous glow within them brightened when it tried to put its bulk on its damaged leg. With a snap, the limb gave way, splintering beneath its weight. It fell with a crash, both swords shattering as they hit the ground. It lay there a moment, in pieces, struggling to rise-until Marto brought his axe down in a mighty, double-handed chop, smashing its face. The light in its eyes went out.
Cathan and the rest of the knights stared at Marto and the broken statue, too stunned to speak. A grinding sound caught their attention, and they looked toward the doorway.
Through the gap, Cathan saw another Guardian shambling forward, this one with a lion’s head on its massive shoulders. There were more behind-ten, twenty, and more, their eyes blazing with unnatural life.
It was going to be a slaughter. Cathan knew it-they all did. There was nothing they could do about it, though. They’d come too far to turn back. With a chorus of shouts and cheers, the knights charged.
One of the other mages had brought her scrying vessel, a prism that bent light into flickering images. Now Khadar and his inner circle stared at these. As they watched, the Divine Hammer poured into the Tower, slamming into the Guardians. Many men fell, cut to shreds by the statues’ whirling blades, but the statues also faltered, crushed by blows from maces and hammers and cracked by swords and axes. The knights were taking heavy losses, but there were too many to hold back. The Guardians would fail at their task.
Leciane bowed her head, tears burning her eyes. The Tower would fall, as she’d known it would. There was only one thing left to do.
“It passes to us now, my brothers and sisters,” said the Master, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I wish there were some other way. For the sake of the magic, we must act quickly, before they reach this chamber. Who will help me do what must be done?”
The mages stood silent, their eyes downcast. All knew what Khadar was asking.
Whoever stayed here would surely die, and the damage they did would be devastating. They had all seen what happened to Daltigoth.
Lunitari, Leciane prayed. Do not let this happen …
Hazael spoke first. An elderly Black Robe who had lived most of his years within the Tower, he shuffled over to the miniature obelisk, leaning on a staff tipped with dragon talons. His bloodshot eyes turned toward Khadar.
“I will help, Master,” he croaked. “Nothing would please me more than sending the Kingpriest’s dogs howling to the Abyss.”
Two more Black Robes followed suit before the first Red Robe replied. After a few more volunteered, the White Robes began to join in-not to mete out punishment upon the knights, but to protect the Tower’s secrets. Soon every wizard in the room had responded.
All save one.
“Leciane?” the Tower Master asked. The other sorcerers looked, the weight of their gaze heavy upon her. “Will you not help us, for the Order’s sake?”
Part of her wanted to. Better to die here, fighting for the Art. Why would she care to live through this infamous day? To see the Towers at Palanthas and the Lordcity fall, as well?
Her kind would be driven into hiding at Wayreth, reviled by people everywhere. Wouldn’t death be preferable?
Still, she stayed silent. Her eyes flitted to the scrying prism. Amid the steel and broken stone, she spotted Cathan fighting a Guardian with a stag’s head, his sword whirling, ducking and dodging. As she watched he spun away from its attack and lunged, driving Ebonbane through the Guardian’s eye. Panting, Cathan wrenched his blade free and turned to face a new foe.
Leciane sighed, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry, Master. I will not be a part of this.”
A shocked murmur ran through the Heartchamber. The other wizards gave her betrayed looks. Khadar’s expression did not change. He shrugged, sighing.
“Go, then,” he said curtly. “If you will not aid us, leave.”
Leciane nodded, feeling the other mages’ angry gaze as she turned and hurried out of the Heartchamber. The sound of chanting rose behind her as she shut the door. The magic began to rise as the other mages summoned the power of the moons for the last spell of their lives. So seductive was the sensation that she nearly turned to go back into the Heartchamber-then she stopped herself, shaking her head. Weeping for what would soon be lost, she hurried down the steps, in search of Cathan.