Green-veined scimitars whistled through the air. Slapping one aside with Ebonbane, Cathan twisted away. He slipped and nearly fell. The floor was slick with blood. To his left, a wounded knight had been laid open from throat to breastbone by a blow that split his plate mail like parchment. He offered a heartbeat’s prayer for the poor fellow, then brought up his sword to block another blow-then another, and another, as an ape-headed Guardian bore down on him, stony teeth bared.
A third of his men were dead, and nearly that many were wounded, but the number of living statues was fast dwindling. There were eight left-no, seven, he corrected himself, seeing Sir Marto lay low yet another one. Victory would soon be theirs-and soon they would be free to continue their assault on the Tower.
The ape-headed Guardian kept coming, pausing only to swat away a knight who tried to flank it. The man shrieked, falling back and grasping at a sword arm now attached to his body only by a strip of flesh. Then the statue was on Cathan again, pounding away, first with one curved sword, then the other, raining down blow after blow. Cathan kept backing away, sometimes parrying or trying to block with the shredded remains of his shield, but mostly keeping a safe distance between himself and his foe. Finally, he backed into the smashed remnants of a fallen Guardian, one of the many scattered about the hall. His arms weary, he raised sword and shield and made his last stand, each blow shaking him to the marrow. He cast about, looking for someone … anyone-
“Milord!” cried a voice to his right.
Starting, Cathan saw Tithian charging in, holding a flanged mace high. The Guardian also saw the young knight coming and turned, one scimitar spinning toward Tithian’s knees while the other stabbed at Cathan’s throat.
Tithian leaped over the first blade and Cathan batted the second aside with his shield.
Both men struck back at the same time, Cathan hacking off the statue’s arm just above the elbow while his former squire dealt it a blow to the knee that succeeded in knocking it down. Growling, Cathan finished it with a thrust, then spun to look for another of the bestial foes-
There were none. The last of the Guardians had been destroyed.
A few of the knights let out victory cries, or laughed over the defeat of their enemies.
Most, however, remained silent except for wheezes or grunts of pain. A few went from one fallen man to the next, looking for those who still lived. Many were beyond help, short of the Lightbringer’s healing touch. They put these men to merciful ends. By the time they were done, some eighty of the Divine Hammer lay dead amid the broken malachite. The survivors offered prayers to Paladine to guide their souls on to the gods’ realm beyond the stars.
“More for the Garden of Martyrs,” Sir Marto said, speaking the words bitterly. “And how many wizards have we slain, in return? None so far!”
“Be still,” Cathan told him, though he could see the same frustration in the other knights’ eyes. Once they were loose in the Tower, not even the White Robes would be safe.
He could only hope the mages had had the sense to get as many as they could out of the Tower.
His men looked at him now, waiting for his orders. Sighing, he shrugged off his ruined shield and picked up a fresh one from one of the dead.
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s go on. The Tower is ours.”
CHAPTER 31
It was bedlam, hundreds of knights surging from one room to the next, chasing down what sorcerers they could find. Most of the mages had fled the lower levels, but a few remained, either too frightened or too defiant to leave. They fought with every spell they knew, and killed more than a few of Cathan’s men, but the Divine Hammer were relentless and put every wizard they found to the sword. Behind the knights came the priests, chanting prayers of purification and aspersing the wreckage with holy water. Before long, the base of the Tower belonged to the Hammer.
“Cerro!” became the rallying cry, ringing behind the visors of a hundred and fifty helmets. Upward! Up they went, killing, destroying and blessing the carnage.
The moment they set foot on the Tower’s central stair, the magical portal within the Chamber of Traveling closed, stranding those mages who had been trying to escape the Tower. With flight no longer an option, the sorcerers regrouped to fight the invaders. Balls of fire rained down on the knights, bursting in great blossoms that blew men to pieces, hurling shreds of clattering armor down the Tower’s central shaft. Tendrils of green mist crept down, finding their way through the eyeslits of helmets. Men collapsed, retching and clutching at their throats. One spell turned a length of the staircase to dark, sucking mud.
Three knights disappeared, screaming, as the muck dragged them down. Venomous wasps found their way into chinks in armor and left men sobbing and twitching on the ground.
Cathan watched his men fight and die. He was glad for his helm, for it hid his tears. He wept for the Divine Hammer but also for the sorcerers who perished defending their homes.
He wept for Istar, for the empire he had upheld for so long. How could a land of such glory and light breed so much suffering and death?
There might be others who thought as he did, but most were like Marto, who fought on with fervent glee. The big knight killed every sorcerer he could-man, woman … human, elf, dwarf… Red, Black, White … it didn’t matter. He cut them down whether they fought or tried to run. As he slew, he shouted the god’s name, the Lightbringer’s, Sir Pellidas’s, and their other lost friends’. Other knights also shouted the names of fallen comrades as they massacred the hated foe. In the Divine Hammer’s wake, all Robes were red.
The crossbowmen turned the tide. Were the knights armed with sword and cudgel alone, the wizards on the upper floors might have prevailed, pouring death down on the Hammer from above. When the thrums of strings and the buzz of flying quarrels filled the air, however, sorcerers screamed, clutching at the shafts buried in their legs, throats, and stomachs. After three volleys of steady death, the wizards’ morale shattered. A few tried to stand their ground, but most of those who still lived turned to flee up toward the Tower’s highest levels.
Cathan stared past the fleeing wizards, toward the apex of the Tower. The magic burned brightest up there, like the beacon atop a lighthouse. It stung his mind, blazing like the sun. What were the mages doing, that would require such-
He understood. He knew, suddenly, why Leciane had come to him in the night-what she’d tried to warn him about, before Tithian drove her away. In his mind, he saw the Tower of Daltigoth, the image she had conjured. He saw it distort, bulging, ready to burst.
“Palado Calib” he gasped, stopping on the stairs. He grabbed Tithian’s arm. “They’re going to destroy it!”
The younger knight stared at him. “What?”
“The Tower!” Cathan cried, yanking up his visor. “The mages are going to destroy it and themselves and all of us! Gods, how could I be so blind?”
“But they can’t-!” Tithian protested feebly. He raised his visor as well. The face beneath was pale, the eyes wide.
Cathan looked up at Sir Marto leading the charge. The big knight was too far away to hear him-and even if he weren’t, what good would it do? He wouldn’t listen, anyway. None of the knights would. Other men were shoving past, trying to rush to the top. They clogged the stairs behind him, blocking the way down.
“We have to get out of here!” Tithian shouted, echoing the thought screaming in Cathan’s head. Where do we go?
Cathan felt his own panic rising. Staring up the steps once more, he saw a half-open door, hacked by swords and axes so that it hung by only one hinge. There were doors all along the stair, both ahead and behind, but this was the closest.