All up and down the wharf, jaws opened wide. Cathan had reacted more readily, moved more quickly, than seemed possible. Now sunlight flashed off the Tarsian steel in his hand, dazzling all who looked upon it. Even the knights gaped, their weapons drooping in their hands-until the Tsarothans and Plainsmen around them reached in and grabbed them away. Others closed in around the rest, wresting their blades away and holding them steady. Bron jerked as though waking. “Let them go!” he snapped, brandishing his own sword. “Unhand them, or I’ll-”
“You’ll do what?” Cathan asked. “Arrest them? Attack them? The rule is the same here as it is in the Lordcity, Sir Bron. Triogo calfat: the mob rules.”
Bron’s face was the color of wine. His mouth worked, but no words came out. Finally, waving to the crowd, he managed to sputter, “This man… he stole the Peripas… the Peripas Mishakas, from the Kingpriest’s own … from the imperial manse! He killed Lord-the Grand Marshal of the Hammer! He is a criminal, and yet you protect him?”
Cathan saw many heads nodding, but many others shook their heads, and soon the loyalists won out-because they still hoped to watch a good fight. They pulled back from the younger knights, leaving Bron alone, halfway up the steps.
Bron looked afraid. Cathan had beaten Tithian, and Tithian had bested him many times on the sparring grounds. But he was a knight of the Divine Hammer, and he couldn’t deny the challenge. Hand shaking, he flipped shut his visor, then reached down and drew his blade-the same blade Tithian had wielded.
Just as in Cathan’s vision, Sir Bron came down the steps and raised his sword in salute-a grave gesture that the Twice-Born imitated. Old knight and young assumed almost identical stances. On the wharf, the crowd fell still. The sun climbed higher, toward its zenith. The world grew silent, the yearning for bloodshed as thick in the air as it ever was in the Arena. Then…
Bron made the first pass, a high backhand. Cathan’s blade was there to meet it, the clash of steel ringing out across Xak Tsaroth. He riposted, spinning Ebonbane at Bron’s left side, but the younger man twisted out of the way then backed up a pace to avoid a follow-through. He nodded, acknowledging his opponent’s skill.
Cathan gave ground, the wood groaning beneath him as he backed toward the end of the dock. Bron came after him, trying blow after blow, quick as scorpion stings-testing the Twice-Born’s defenses, searching for openings and finding none. They parted again, Bron breathing hard and sweating within his helm.
“Listen to me,” Cathan hissed, his voice just loud enough for the knight and no other to hear. “Everything you think you know is a lie. If I did surrender, you’d still never bring me back to the Lordcity. By the end of today, there won’t be a Lordcity.”
Bron pressed the attack, cutting low, low, high, then feinting left and coming in on the right. Cathan parried them all, though the last left him with a slash on his elbow-and his sleeve dark with blood. He lashed out in reply, Ebonbane’s tip glancing off Bron’s metal breastplate. Then they parted again.
“What are you talking about?” Bron demanded.
“Beldinas,” Cathan replied, shifting to his left to protect his injured arm. “He’s going to call on the gods, and they’ll destroy Istar. And not just the city-the whole empire. The burning hammer will be the Kingpriest’s punishment.”
Again Bron advanced, and Cathan fought him off, stepping in close this time to foil the younger man’s reach, then hammering him in the face with the hilt of his sword. The visor crumpled and came loose; Bron stumbled back, clutching until he got a good grip on the metal. He yanked the broken visor off. He flipped it into the water, and took the moment to shake his head at Cathan.
“I don’t believe you,” he said. “Beldinas can’t be wrong. He’s the Lightbringer.”
“No. I am.”
Bron had been preparing another onslaught. Now he stopped, his face going ashen, and backed up in shock.
“What?”
“I’m the Lightbringer.” Cathan murmured the words not as a boast, but as a simple, sorrowful fact. “The god told me so.” Bron hesitated, his sword wavering. Doubt flashed across his face. Part of him wanted to believe, and it warred with the part of him that insisted he must do his duty. Cathan watched, knowing already how it would turn out.
As in the vision, duty won.
Bron came on hard, no longer testing, his blade swiping vicious arcs. Aggressive as he was, though, each move was exact, and powerful enough that Cathan’s arm soon grew numb from parrying the blows. Soon there was no more dock behind Cathan, nowhere left to back up. He could defy the vision: all he had to do was jump into the water and try to swim away. If he did, though, the knights might get their crossbows back and finish him off. So he concentrated anew on his sword-work, stopping Bron’s hungry blade again, and again, and again…
But he wasn’t quick enough.
Knowing it was inevitable, he couldn’t block Bron’s sword from piercing his arm just below the elbow. It struck deep, numbing his wrist and sending a jolt up to his shoulder. Ebonbane fell from his fingers, teetering on the dock’s edge.
A moment later, Cathan found the knight’s blade poised just inches from his chest. One good shove, and Bron would end his life. He froze in place. Groans and cheers rose from the wharf. “Now do you yield?” Bron demanded.
Cathan shut his eyes, reaching deep into himself. He’d denied his faith in his youth, and misplaced it all these years. Now he channeled his trust in the god, focusing his thoughts. Power flowed into him, bright and cool, momentarily flushing away his despair. Paladine, he thought, thank you for your strength.
“Pridud,” he murmured.
Break.
Cathan’s eyes flashed like stormclouds, and Sir Bron’s steel blade shattered. A thousand pieces flew everywhere, biting the flesh of both Cathan and Bron, raining down onto the dock and the lake. On the waterfront, people cried out. The knights broke free of their captors and charged to their master’s aid. But Bron was frozen, staring at the hilt of his now useless weapon. Then he raised a shaking hand to lift off his helmet. Beneath, his face was pale with amazement and horror.
“Pilofiro?” he breathed.
Cathan nodded, once.
The other knights pounded up the dock, holding swords and maces at the ready. But as they neared, Bron held up a quivering hand.
“No,” he said. “This is over. We let him go.”
The knights halted, confused. Bron kept his attention on Cathan, riveted by the holy gleam in his eyes.
“I didn’t believe you,” he said.
“I don’t blame you,” said Cathan, resting a hand on his shoulder.
Armor rattling, Bron knelt before him. “Task me, my lord. I will do whatever you ask.”
Cathan glanced up. The sun was almost at its zenith. Scant minutes remained before noon. “I am no lord,” Cathan said, lowering his voice. “But I must tell you this: This city is as doomed as Istar. Within the hour, it will vanish from the face of Krynn. Leave it, Bron-get out now, while there’s still time.”
Fear burned in Bron’s eyes. He opened his mouth-to ask why Cathan was staying then-but thought of something else. “And the Disks?” he asked.
“They must remain with me, at the god’s behest,” Cathan said. He glanced down at Ebonbane, and nudged it with his foot. “Paladine says nothing about this, though. Take my sword with you-I would leave some legacy in this world.”
The young knight met his gaze-didn’t look away, but truly met the eyes of Cathan, the Twice-Born, the man who truly was the Lightbringer. Then, slowly, he bent down and lifted the sword off the planks. It glistened in the sunlight. Tears, unexpectedly, welled in Cathan’s eyes. He bowed his head in farewell. Bron did the same. Then, with an order to his men-an order he had to shout twice to get them to move-he strode back up the dock toward land.