Then the magic exploded outward in waves, and the City of Stone fell in upon itself.
Mighty buildings toppled, choking the streets with the rubble, or melted into misshapen lumps of glass. The tunnels that served as the city’s barbican caved in, killing hundreds who had been trying to escape. The caverns beneath the city gave way, and great chunks of it vanished into the fissures and craters. Huge plumes of dust rose into the air, darkening the sky and choking those who breathed it. For days afterward, the sunsets in Dravinaar glowed brilliant scarlet, as if dripping with blood.
Thus Losarcum, Qim Sudri, the City of Stone, died.
The hammer fell …
Cathan awoke with a start, his ears ringing, his nose and mouth clogged with dust. Pain shot through his body, and his beard was sticky with half-dried blood. He had never been so thirsty in all his life. Groaning, he forced open his gummy eyes.
He was in a cave-from the looks of the golden sandstone, somewhere in the Tears of Mishakal. Ruddy twilight spilled into its mouth-but it had a strange, brownish cast to it that troubled him. Brow furrowed, he tried to sit up-then slumped back down as the world spun away beneath him.
It could be worse, he thought. At least you’re alive.
It came back to him then, in a rush so sudden, he nearly blacked out again. The Tower.
Leciane. The teleport spell. The crossbow bolt. Oh, gods …
Something pressed against his lips: the neck of a water flask. He took a deep drink, and immediately regretted it as his head tried its best to split in half. Granting, he let the rest dribble down his chin, then looked up at the one who held the bottle. Tithian looked back at him, his eyes hollow and haunted. He had taken off most of his armor, and his tabard was missing as well.
“Sir,” the young man said, his face tightening.
Cathan sighed. “The Tower?”
“Yes,” Tithian said, “and the city with it.”
Cathan lay stunned, his mind roiling. He couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Losarcum had been one of the empire’s wonders, home to Kingpriests in ages past. All of that … gone, and his men too, just him and Tithian left now. Had the same thing happened to Daltigoth? Palanthas? What about the Lordcity?
He tried to sit up, staving off the chasm of nausea that yawned within him. Too stunned to speak, he looked around.
Leciane lay in the back of the cave. The crossbow bolt was beside her, the blood that covered it faded to rust. Tithian had laid his tabard over her, covering her from view.
Cathan scrabbled to his feet and, went over to her, pulling the makeshift shroud away.
Her face was still and pale, blood drying on her lips and teeth, her eyes closed. Lines of pain had frozen around her mouth and along her brow.
“She held on for a long time,” Tithian said. “She wanted to wait for you …” He trailed off, spreading his hands, tears standing in his eyes.
Cathan looked down at Leciane, every part of him feeling raw and hurt. She had saved his life and so doing had lost her own. Gently, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.
Then, covering her up again, he looked at Tithian, his blank eyes empty. Neither man could think of a word to say.
He sat by her body all night long.
CHAPTER 32
Fourthmonth, 943 I.A.
The knights of the Divine Hammer approached the Tower of Istar as the sun touched the domes and rooftops, painting them with morning light. There were five hundred in all, a long line of gleaming mail and snowy tabards, mounted on proud Ismindi stallions. The rattle of armor was the only sound they made. Lord Olin rode at the fore, crimson-clad and tall in the saddle, his hand on his sword. His eyes glinted with determination. Here, in the Lordcity, the war with the mages would end today.
Quarath was already in the square surrounding the olive grove when the Hammer arrived. The Kingpriest and the rest of the imperial court also awaited the knights. Quarath nodded to Olin, who had been true Grand Marshal since the catastrophe in Losarcum. He led a knighthood in tatters, ruined by one slaughter after another: the men assembled with him were all that remained. The Hammer might never regain its numbers and pride, but Olin had sworn to try.
The Kingpriest looked grim as he greeted the knights, accepting their fealty from Olin, who swung down from his saddle and knelt before him. Beldinas had aged in the past month, in Quarath’s eyes. His face was haggard, his hair brittle and thin, frosted with gray.
Word of what had happened at Losarcum had struck him hard, and more than ever, the fear ran deep in his eyes. The unthinkable had happened: an entire city, destroyed. Tens of thousands dead-among them Lord Cathan and all his men, whom Beldinas had sent into battle. Losarcum was the Kingpriest’s first true defeat, and he was not bearing it well.
It had been a defeat for the wizards as well, however. That was why they were here, now, just beyond one of the three Towers left in the world. After much negotiation, the Church and the order had reached an accord. The Divine Hammer had pledged not to attack this Tower and provoke another disaster. In return, the wizards were to surrender it to the Kingpriest and withdraw to Wayreth unhindered …
The same was due to happen in Palanthas in a few weeks’ time-as long as nothing went wrong today. The Church and the Order had tried to make peace before, after all, and things had ended in betrayal and death. Now that both sides had a bitter taste of loss, peace should prevail. Quarath offered a silent prayer that it would be so.
Now the olive grove split down the middle, the trees creaking as they pulled back to reveal a path through their midst. All around Quarath men held their breaths, watching as the mages opened the way to the bloody-fingered hand of the Tower. If treachery was afoot, it would happen shortly. Quarath glanced at the Kingpriest. The aura of light that surrounded him barely hid the tension in his clenched jaw.
With a final groan the last of the olives shifted aside, revealing an elderly woman in the white robes of Solinari. This was Jorelia, the highmage, with whom Beldinas had brokered the truce. She was alone, and after a moment’s pause she strode forward, leaning on a staff of plain ashwood. She did not bow as she drew near, though she did incline her head, pulling off her hood as she did so.
“Majesty,” she said, “the Tower is empty. As we agreed, my people have left and will not return.”
“That is well, Most High,” replied Beldinas, signing the triangle. “I regret we did not take this step sooner, before so many lives were lost.”
Jorelia made a sour face. Saying nothing, she delved into a pouch by her side. The knights stirred, but the highmage produced a disc-shaped medallion from the bag, crafted of fine-wrought silver and set with a crimson gemstone, a black flaw at its heart. She held it out with both hands, dangling it by its chain.
“This is the All-Seeing Eye,” she declared. “It will guide the one who wears it safely through the grove, and protect him from its magic.”
Beldinas nodded, removing the Crown of Power and lowering his head. Quarath and Lord Olin tensed, but Jorelia made no untoward move, merely slipping the charm over the Lightbringer’s head. It clacked against his jeweled breastplate as he straightened and set the Miceram on his brow once more.
“I thank you, milady,” he said. “Now the troubles between us have ended. From this day forth, let the children of Paladine and the worshipers of the moons raise no hand against each other.”
As long as you stay in Wayreth.
All sensed the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air, and none more than Jorelia.