Cathan shook his head, watching him go. Then his gaze drifted along the bluff, taking in the two pyres, and his smile faltered. He signed the triangle. Tucking the talisman back into his belt, he turned and stared out to sea once more.
The sky was filled with jewels. Diamond and ruby stars sparkled on black velvet. The two moons, disks of chalcedony and sard, glided over constellations Cathan knew welclass="underline" the Valiant Warrior, horned Kiri-Jolith, the five-headed Queen of Darkness, and still others, each the sign of a god of light or darkness. There, amid it all, was the greatest gem of alclass="underline" a globe of turquoise, fringed with wisps of cloud. The world. Krynn.
Cathan winced in his sleep, groaning. He knew this dream. It had plagued his sleep since the night before his dubbing. Not a month went by when he didn’t find himself floating here, among the stars. Every time, it was the same.
Small wonder it’s happening tonight, he thought. Once the pyres guttered out, the cultists’ ashes scattered and the knights’ gathered into a golden urn to be brought back to the Lordcity, his company had ridden inland, away from the Hullbreaker and the fierce sea winds. When they camped at nightfall, in a copse of swaying birches, the men of the Divine Hammer had all but fallen from their saddles. Cathan had forced himself to stay awake until the fires were lit and the watch set, then had climbed into his bedroll and fallen asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.
Now in his dreams he looked upon Krynn from high above, marking the continent of Ansalon amid the ocean’s blue. He saw each of its realms: Ergoth, Solamnia, Kharolis…the woods of the elves and the mountain fastnesses of the dwarves…the meadows where the kender dwelt, and the frozen barrens of Icereach…and there, larger than any, Istar the Holy, the Kingpriest’s glorious Lordcity shining at its heart.
Now something else. Something behind him, coming closer.
He turned, knowing already what he would see. The burning hammer was as much a part of the dream as the stars and moons, a great flaming mass streaking across the night.
It had been there the first time the dream came, the eve of his dubbing. The Divine Hammer took its name from the vision. As Cathan watched, it grew larger and larger against the night. Closer, closer…then streaking past him in a silent rush, close enough that its heat seared him, its light made his eyes sting.
Still he watched it go, fire trailing in its wake, diving now toward the turquoise orb.
Toward Istar. It was the god’s justice, come down to crush evil from the world. He ground his teeth, tensing as he waited for it to strike, the terrible roar of noise as it fell upon the empire….
“Sir? Sir, wake-”
Cathan’s eyes snapped open at once. A dark shadow loomed over him, a hand touched his arm. He sat up, reached for Ebonbane beside him, and had the sword halfway out of its scabbard before the shape resolved into Tithian. The boy straightened up, taking a step back, unafraid. This wasn’t the first time he’d woken his master from the throes of the dream.
It was dim out, and cool-it never got truly cold this far north. Fine rain, almost mist, dripped down through the boughs. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but it was trying, the sky and everything beneath it gray. The campfires had burned down to cinders, and most of the other knights were still asleep in their bedrolls. Off in the shadows, the horses whickered.
In the other direction, Ovinus’s low voice chanted. The Revered Son prepared to greet the dawn, such as it was.
Ebonbane hissed back into its sheath.
“Early,” Cathan muttered. ”What’s the matter?”
Tithian tugged at the collar of his tunic. “The lookouts spotted something.”
“Something?” Cathan raised an eyebrow.
“In the sky, sir.”
That was interesting. Throwing off his bedroll, Cathan rose to his feet. He ached worse than when he’d gone to sleep; but he put it from his mind. His squire handed him a horn of wine, warm from mulling over the fire, and he gulped it down as he slung his baldric over his shoulder. Ebonbane bumped against his thigh, reassuring. Tithian offered his helm next, but Cathan waved him off.
“Which way?” he asked.
The boy led him south from the camp, to where the wood gave way to hilly grasslands draped in cords of mist. Two of Cathan’s sharper-eyed knights stood just inside the tree line, staring at the clouds. One, an amiable hulk named Sir Marto, glanced back, then raised his hand in salute. He put a finger to his lips as Cathan and Tithian crunched through fallen leaves toward them. His partner, a lean, flame-haired fellow called Pellidas, continued to stare skyward.
“Strange thing, sir,” Marto whispered, his voice thick with the accent of the jungle province of Falthana. He tugged at his beard, forked in the style of his homeland. “Pell saw it not long ago. It’s been circling ever since. I think it’s looking for something.”
Pellidas nodded, saying nothing. He had been born mute.
Cathan frowned, looking up. His eyes were not as good as they’d once been. He couldn’t make anything out against the slate-colored pall. He muttered a curse. “Tithian, get my farglass,” he hissed.
The boy cleared his throat, Cathan glanced at him, and saw the boy already had the contraption he’d asked for-a brass tube with lenses of Micahi glass at both ends. He’d been thinking ahead, evidently. With a sheepish smile, Tithian held out the farglass.
Cathan took it, and held one end up to his eye, peering through it at whatever it was Marto and Pell had seen.
There weren’t many flying beasts left in Istar. The dragons were long gone, and such-wicked creatures as manticores and wyverns were few, all but unknown in the northern provinces. Perhaps it was a griffin, like the tame ones the elves in the Kingpriest’s court kept. Maybe even a winged horse. Legend said such creatures had once run wild on the empire’s grasslands and in the skies above. He’d never seen one, and the thought that one of the beasts might be above him now made him shiver. He tracked the farglass back and forth, searching, searching…
Then his lips tightened with irritation. ”Jolith’s horns, Marto,” he said, lowering the farglass. “That’s a bird.”
“That’s what I told Pell,” the big knight said, “but he made me look again.”
Cathan glanced at Tithian, who shrugged, then looked at Pellidas. The redheaded knight was still watching the circling shadow, the one that had looked to Cathan’s eye like some kind of common raptor. Falcons were widespread in Istar, which was why the first Kingpriests had chosen one for the imperial emblem. Frowning, Cathan raised the farglass back to his eye.
He found the bird again and studied it more carefully this time. There was something unusual about it, something not quite right about the way it moved. Its wings moved jerkily, and its tail feathers didn’t ruffle on the wind. There was something else, too-an odd glint in the gray morning light. It was almost as if…
“What in…” he began, then stopped, frowning. “Is that thing made of metal?”
Pellidas nodded. Marto tugged his beard. “Looks like it, doesn’t it, sir? That’s why I thought you might want to see. I’d reckon the thing’s magical.”
“Good guess,” Cathan muttered. Metal birds were something new, although Cathan had heard tales of animals and even men that wizards made of bronze or iron. He shuddered at the thought. He’d never had much use for sorcery. Marto had even less and was biting the heel of his hand to ward against magic.
He gestured to Tithian, not taking his eye off the hawk, and the boy dashed off, back toward the camp. The bird was searching-he could see its head swiveling this way as it wheeled above. He wondered what the mage who’d sent it was up to. Nothing good, he was sure.
Tithian was back before long, holding a crossbow and a quiver of quarrels. He strained to cock the weapon, loading it before handing it to his master. Cathan shook his head, though. “I can barely see the blasted thing from here,” he said, and looked to the other two knights. “Which one of you is the better shot?”