Divine Hammer

by Chris Pierson

  “No,” she breathed.

  Lowering her arm, she let the magic flow … harmlessly, down into the ground.

  Sir Cathan shifted his weight, his armor clanking. Catching her breath, she drew back into her tent. The flap closed.

  The spell was gone, failed, useless. She felt spent and knew she wouldn’t have the strength to cast it again for some time. Probably she would fail then, too. She couldn’t impose her will on the knight without his knowledge. It felt wrong.

  Wrong is for White Robes to worry over. Vincil had told her that once, as they lay together, spent in a different way. Perhaps he was right—the magic should be more important to her than anything, after all—but she just couldn’t do it. Maybe she should have worn the White, after all.

  Whatever. She had to lie to Vincil and the Conclave now, tell him she’d cast the spell, that the knight was under her control.

  Sucking on her bleeding finger, she turned from the flap and began to put out the incense.

  *****

  You know you have a spot of dried blood on your tabard?” asked Tavarre.

  Cathan craned over his shoulder, though he could not see where the Grand Marshal was pointing. “Yes,” he said. “It happened a week ago, I think—while we were crossing Gather. I don’t know how.”

  Shrugging, Tavarre turned to peer ahead. The wet season was on the empire, and while that meant snow in their home of Taol and rains in the heartland, here close to the Seldjuki coast it came as fog. Ripudo, the locals called it: the Mantle. It was pearl-gray and thick, dampening hair and cloth, swirling around their horses’ hooves, making it impossible to see more than a few yards in any direction. The Kingpriest’s entourage numbered thirty priests and a hundred knights, but Cathan could only see a few clearly: Marto and Pellidas riding to his left, Tavarre and Tithian to his right, Beldinas and Quarath behind him, and Leciane before. The rest were murky shapes at best, the jingle of their harnesses and the rattle of their mail muffled by the mist.

  “We’ll run ourselves up against the city gates before we see aught,” Marto grumbled. “Or else we’ll step off this blasted cliff and fall into the ocean. Right, Pell?”

  Beside him, Sir Pellidas gave a solemn nod.

  Cathan half-grinned at the big knight’s bluster. Marto had a point. They were close to Lattakay now—the last marker stone they’d passed had proclaimed it a league and a half away—and the road was treacherous here, running along the edge of the high chalk bluffs.

  He could hear the thunder of surf far below, but there was nothing to see but gray.

  Cathan glanced back at the Kingpriest. Standing astride his golden chariot, Quarath at his side, Beldinas, gazed into the fog as if he could see right through it. Perhaps, with his strange pale eyes, he could. His aura made the mist sparkle around him.

  “Holiness,” Cathan ventured, “is there anything you can do?”

  The Lightbringer’s gaze flicked to him, and he shook his head. “It will tax my strength, and I shall need it when I get to Lattakay.”

  “I can help,” offered Leciane. “There are spells—”

  “No,” Cathan said, his voice loud in the fog. “No magic.”

  He said it for her protection as much as for any other reason—with so many clerics and knights about, unsure what was around them, the sound of someone chanting spidery words could cause serious trouble—but the glare she shot him was no less annoyed. He flushed, feeling foolish and angry.

  “It’ll pass,” Tavarre said. “It’s still early.”

  Cathan nodded, feeling a sting as he remembered Damid. The little Seldjuki had often chattered fondly about the fogs around Lattakay. “Even in the middle of winter, the sun burns them off by midday,” he’d said.

  Indeed, the fog seemed lighter an hour later, when the entourage came to a halt, the outriders galloping back to report that the city gates lay ahead. Peering through the mist, Cathan could just make out a looming shadow, in the shape of a mighty arch. Poets wrote odes about the arches of Lattakay.

  Although he had never seen it, Cathan knew the city called the White Crescent was two-tiered, half standing on the top of the bluffs, and the other half on the beaches and long piers below, with long, sloping paths leading between the two. It hugged the edge of a round bay, a natural harbor with a narrow neck, its square buildings and thick walls hewn of the same pale stone. Decorative arches towered above it, carved with ancient images of men and minotaurs at war. Centuries ago, Lattakay had belonged to the bull-men—Nethosak, they called it then—and the Seldjuki warrior-kings had besieged it for more than a decade before driving them back across the sea. Istar had since conquered Seldjuk, and the only minotaurs who remained within the empire were slaves like the ones working to build up the Hammerhall.

  Because of its heritage, Lattakay dwarfed those who dwelt within it, its buildings massive and its avenues wide and spear-straight. Even the mightiest galleys looked like toys beside its looming stone quays. In the midst of the harbor stood an island, home to the grandest structure of all, one that dwarfed even the temple to Paladine the church had built on the edge of the cliffs: the Bilstibo, the city’s arena.

  For the minotaurs, gladiatorial games had been as much a religious rite as entertainment, and the Bilstibo gave proof to that. It could have held three of Istar’s arenas within it, vast enough to contain every man, woman in child in the city and still have seats to spare. This was where Wentha would hold the tourney in the Kingpriest’s honor, where the Divine Hammer and other warriors from across the empire would engage in three days of mock battle to determine the realm’s champion. A thrill ran through Cathan at the thought of it.

  For now, though, there was nothing to see but the arched gates. They were opening now, and several figures emerged, like gray ghosts in the fog.

  There were ten in all, seven men and three women. One of the men wore the silver robes of a cleric of Paladine, a plumed circlet on his head: Suvin, the provincial Patriarch. The other men dressed in traditional Seldjuki garb: bare chests crossed by wide sashes, flowing silken trousers, and beads that rattled in their hair and long moustaches. They were short and olive-skinned, the young ones lean and hard, the elders showing off broad bellies. The women, meanwhile, wore sleeveless gowns and dozens of silver bracelets, their foreheads painted to show their status: a green circle for unwed maids, a red cross for married women, a blue X for widows—Cathan sucked in a breath. There was one he recognized in this group … a widow a head taller than the rest, with golden hair.

  He hadn’t seen Wentha for half her life. She had changed—the softness of youth was gone, leaving hard edges behind. There were lines around her mouth, and she had cropped her glorious hair short, a sign that she did not mean to remarry, but in her eyes, still, Cathan saw his sister, the girl she had been.

  He wondered what she should see in his.

  “Sa, Pilofiro, ” said Revered Son Suvin, signing the triangle. Hail, Lightbringer. “We are honored to welcome thee to our city.”

  Heads turned to the Kingpriest as he descended from his chariot, a beacon in the fog.

  He strode forward, stopping before the Patriarch, and signed the triangle in return.

  “The honor is mine, Your Worship,” he said, and bent forward to touch his lips to Suvin’s.

  “There is one among you who ails,” Beldinas said. “Let her come forward and be made whole again.”

  This was a new ritual, one that had arisen since the Lightbringer’s ascent to the throne.

  Over the years, Beldinas had visited every city in the empire, to spread his healing touch among the people. After the first year, they had taken to greeting him at the gates with a single person touched by sickness or injury, who stood for all those who yearned to feel his gentle hands upon them. The woman who stepped forward—a girl, a green circle on her face—was clearly ill. Her skin was the color of whey, stretched taut over her bones. Her hands shook, and a young man had to hold her arm as she shuffled forward. She looked up at Beldin
as with pain-dulled eyes, but there was something else in them, a fragile hope that put an ache in Cathan’s breast.

  “H-Holiness,” she gasped. “I am n-not worthy of—of thy grace.”

  Beldinas smiled kindly. “All are worthy, child, if they are righteous in their hearts. Do you forsake the darkness that hides among us?”

  She nodded. “I d-do, blessed one.”

  “Then kneel, usas farno.”

  Cathan had seen the ritual many times, but he still held his breath as the girl let her escort ease her down onto the stony ground. Whatever wasting disease she had, it was nearly done with her. Another week, at most, and she would be dead. Still, she managed to smile as she bowed her head before the Kingpriest. Beldinas’s right hand reached out, touching the crown of her head. His left went to his throat, pulling out his sacred medallion, the platinum triangle of the god. The silence was even heavier than the fog as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

  “Palado, ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis mibam cailud, e tas orarn nomass lud bipum. Sifat. ”

  Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this girl, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

  The light began as a flicker, a wisp of silver flame where his hand touched her. It grew quickly, however, brighter with every heartbeat until in enveloped them both. With it came a sound, a sweet, pure tone like a dulcimer with crystal strings, and the scent of rose attar amid the damp. The men and women—both the Lattakayans and the Kingpriest’s entourage—first stared in wonder, then had to look away, unable to bear the brilliance of the glow. Cathan’s eyes met Wentha’s, and darted away. He remembered a night, twenty years ago, when that same light had enfolded her, changing his life forever.

  “Blossom,” he murmured, weeping.

  The light flickered, then, and grew dim. Wiping away his tears, Cathan turned to look, though he already knew what he would see: the same girl, still weak but whole again, color back in her cheeks, the pain smoothed from her face. Eyes closed, she sank back. Her companion caught her gently, easing her down. At the same time, Beldinas also staggered, his strength depleted by the miracle—strength he would regain in moments, but now his knees buckled.

  Cathan took a step toward him—in the old days, he had been the one to bear the Lightbringer up, more often than not—but Quarath was quicker. The elf put a slender arm about the Kingpriest’s shoulders, helping him walk back to his chariot.

  With the fog eddying around them, they rode into Lattakay.

  *****

  The tiny, winged form clung to the rocks, its talons sunk into the cracks. Its fanged face leered as it watched the columns of knights and priests pass through the arched, chalcedony gates. With its preternatural eyes, it saw through the fog easily, yet those it spied on could not see it. Its tail twitched back and forth, dripping venom.

  For a moment, the desire to bite, to kill, to feed, nearly overwhelmed the quasito. It saw itself falling upon those below, tearing flesh, gnawing through tendons, sucking the marrow from broken bones. This was what it wanted to do, the thirst that had burned within it since it first drew breath.

  It tensed, wings spreading, ready to spring …

  Then stopped. The master had promised it blood, but only at the right time. If it attacked before then, the master’s fury would be great. Even more than it wanted to feed, the quasito wanted to please the master. It was here to spy only, and to return when the men in metal skin arrived at the white city. Now they were here.

  Hissing as the last of them passed through the gates, the quasito leaped from the rock and soared away through the mist.

  CHAPTER 9

  “Come, Holiness,” said Revered Son Suvin as he led the Kingpriest and his entourage between the white slabs of the city’s buildings. There were secrets in his smile. “There is something you must see.”

  They walked through the city’s streets unhindered. Ordinarily, folk crowded and clamored when the Lightbringer appeared. Today, however, though the knights formed their accustomed protective ring about him and the hierarchs, the people stayed back.

  They turned out by the thousands to watch the processional pass up the broad avenues, but instead of thronging they simply lined the road, half-hidden in the mist, their faces solemn and their voices silent.

  The road ran on, passing beneath one looming arch after another until it widened into a courtyard where a broad reflecting pool lay. The plaza was a semicircle. Beyond, there was nothing but the fog, billowing as the morning sun fought to burn it away. They were at the edge of the Upper City, where the cliffs dropped down toward the wharf.

  The entourage stopped, knights and clerics spreading out around the pool. The mist was lifting. Cathan looked at Leciane. She stood alone, her brow furrowed as she stared into the mists. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, her lips forming soundless words … not praying, he realized, but running through her spells. His scalp prickling, he touched his sword—then jerked his hand away, irritated. His sister was one of those who had brought them here. This was no ambush.

  Keeping one eye on the sorceress—she was alone, the Lattakayans giving her a wide berth as well—he edged to his left, toward Wentha.

  “What is this place?” he whispered. “Why have you brought us here?”

  She laughed, the same musical sound he remembered. “You’ve waited long enough to come here, brother. The Kingpriest bides—you should too.”

  Cheeks reddening, Cathan flicked a glance toward Beldinas. He had come down from his chariot again, Quarath at his side, and stood with the Patriarch, gazing out past the cliffs edge. His eyes shone with such intensity, it seemed they might burn through the fog.

  Frowning, Cathan followed his gaze.

  Suddenly, there was something there, where there should be nothing at all: a huge shadow, looming through the murk.

  Cathan sucked in a breath, yanking Ebonbane from its sheath. Around the courtyard, the other knights did the same. Lord Tavarre looked fierce as he brought up his blade before him. The ring they’d formed around the Lightbringer tightened. Leciane raised her hands, ready to cast whatever spells she might need. Cathan took a step toward her. The Kingpriest had ordered him to protect her, after all.

  “It’s all right,” Wentha said, putting a hand on his arm. “Look at the others.”

  The Lattakayans were smiling broadly now, their eyes gleaming with pride. So was his sister. The tip of Cathan’s sword wavered uncertainly, then lowered.

  The mists swirled. Then, unable to withstand the sunlight, they parted.

  “Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.

  It was a statue, the largest he had ever seen. It was made of glass.

  It stood at the mouth of the harbor, straddling it with one foot on the northern limb of the land, and the other on the southern. It was hard to tell from this far away, but Cathan was sure it was at least two hundred feet tall—a man’s form, facing toward the city, hands clasped to form the sacred triangle. It had a skeleton of bronze, a latticework that gave support to pane after pane, tempered and stained in the Micahi style. The robes it wore were silver, the jewels on its breastplate many-hued, and the gems surmounting its mighty crown sparkled like the rabies they were meant to mimic. Amid the familiar face were two motes of blue, so pale as to seem otherworldly. The artists who crafted the statue had captured the look and majesty of Beldinas. It glittered in the sunlight, bathing Lattakay’s white walls with color.

  “A gift, from a grateful people,” proclaimed the Patriarch. “No Kingpriest ever had a monument so grand.”

  Beldinas strode forward as though sleepwalking, bathed in the statue’s light. For a moment, it seemed he might step right over the cliffs edge, and Quarath’s hand rose to stop him, but he halted at the last moment and stood still, staring at the statue. All eyes followed him, measuring him against his image across the harbor. At length the Lightbringer turned to face the dazzled assemblage.

  “Whose idea was this?”
he asked.

  “Mine, Holiness.”

  Cathan started, looking to his left as Wentha stepped forward. Her smile had always been the most beautiful thing about her, and as she walked across the plaza, Cathan thought it was lovelier than ever. Her face aglow, she knelt before the Kingpriest. He looked down at her, his own expression unreadable.

  “Lady Wentha,” said Beldinas softly. “This was not necessary.”

  “Pardon, Holiness,” she replied, “but neither was curing me of the plague—nor giving my brother back his life. Yet you did both. If I built a thousand statues, it would not be the tiniest grain of what I owe you.”

  He looked at her, long and hard, then, smiling, he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. “Your love,” he said, “is payment enough.”

  Extending a beringed hand, he helped Wentha rise.

  *****

  The knights in the Kingpriest’s entourage were not the only ones to attend the tournament. Others were already there, and dozens more arrived as the days passed. The Yule festival came and went, and still they poured into the city, riding through the gates or sailing into the harbor aboard ships whose sails bore the blazing crest of the Divine Hammer. As the new year drew near, their numbers swelled to the hundreds. There were those who did not belong to the knighthood, too: sturdy warriors from Taol, masked swordsmen from Dravinaar, fighters from every other province in the empire. For a week and more, Lattakay became a place of laughter, shouts and ringing steel as fighters sparred and trained beneath the gaze of the glittering statue.

  The court, meanwhile, moved into the cathedral, a broad-buttressed building of white stone and gold, draped with flowering ivy and looming at the highest point in the city.

  Revered Son Suvin gladly ceded his place, standing alongside Quarath, Adsem, and Farenne while the Lightbringer sat upon his throne, dispensing mercy upon the people of Lattakay. Day after day the sick, the wounded, and the crippled came. He welcomed each, his touch gentle as he beseeched Paladine’s help. His healing light flared, again and again, driving out disease, pain, and sorrow. The Lattakayans, normally so reserved, laughed and sang as they left the temple, their suffering forgotten. Soon a crowd of adorers filled the square before the temple, as they had in Istar.