Divine Hammer

by Chris Pierson

  Meanwhile, Cathan moved into his sister’s manor, a sprawling estate on the edge of the cliff, not far from the plaza. The manor, a sprawling mass whose elegant style was more Istar than Lattakay, had thirty rooms—bedchambers and parlors and sunlit atria that sometimes caught a glint of crimson or azure fire from the direction of the harbor. Its outbuildings alone housed more than twenty servants and guardsmen. Wentha’s gardens were terraced, five levels cut into the chalky cliff face. The trees and bushes were a riot of color—winter cherries in rosy bloom, violet dusk-blossoms heavy with golden pollen, and more kinds of roses than Cathan could count. He spent many hours there and in the manor’s solarium and baths, talking with Wentha. At first they were like strangers, so much time had passed, but after a few days they were brother and sister again. They were both adults now, and things between them would never be as they once were, but Cathan swore he would never again be away from her for so long.

  To his joy, he met her children for the first time. Tancred, now twelve, was the most like her, fair of hair and skin, with the same gentleness in his face. At seven, raven-haired Rath had the dark complexion and laughing voice of a Seldjuki—the very image of his dead father, Wentha vowed sadly. When he first saw Cathan’s eyes, he yelped in terror, and the nursemaid had to take him away.

  For most in Lattakay the days passed quickly as the tournament drew near. For one, however, time grew leaden, the hours stretching until they never seemed to end. Leciane do Cirica attended the Kingpriest’s court and slept in a room at Wentha’s manor, but there was little in either place to interest her. She passed some of the time in study and spoke daily with Vincil using her enchanted mirror. His face grew grim when she described the statue in the harbor.

  “They call it Udenso,” she told him. “It means ‘gigantic.’ ”

  “I know the church tongue,” Vincil replied, and shook his head. “These people never would have built a statue that large to Paladine.”

  Leciane thought about that, rubbing her temples.

  “The threat we have discussed … the signs grow stronger now,” he told her in a low tone, “but we still can’t discover its source. I fear that you are in danger.” Vincil ran a hand over his scalp. “I’m sorry, Leciane.”

  “If it’s here in Lattakay, maybe I can find something out.”

  He raised his eyebrows but didn’t answer.

  “I’ll be careful. I promise.”

  “Very well,” he said after a moment of deliberation. “Just don’t do anything foolish, Leciane. I mean it.”

  She smiled. “Now, Vincil. You know me.”

  “Yes,” he said with a sigh. “I suppose I do.”

  *****

  At last, the eve of the new year arrived. Wentha’s manor was like a freshly kicked anthill. Suddenly there were three times as many servants bustling about, hanging garlands of roses and cleaning everything in sight. There was food everywhere—almond sweets, fragrant bread, sharp cheese, olives, and every kind of fruit imaginable. Wine appeared—great jugs of it, and huge, golden bowls for mixing it with water. Out in the gardens jugglers practiced their acts, and musicians tuned their instruments. There was even a Karthayan alchemist, busily setting up fireworks. The servants shouted at the entertainers. The children shouted at each other. Wentha shouted at everyone. Out in the harbor beyond the garden wall, the Udenso’ s piercing blue eyes looked out over everything.

  Leciane ignored it all, as near as she could manage, poring over her spellbooks in the shelter of her room. Everyone gladly left her alone. She made one foray out of her chamber while the sun was up to steal several blue candles from the larder. The rest of the time she read, practiced, and prepared. Finally, as the sky outside turned purple with dusk, she felt the satisfying feeling of everything fitting together in her mind, as a broken vase might do if it could leap from the floor back up to the table and be whole again. The spell was ready.

  The list of guests at the banquet that night was long and prestigious. The Kingpriest of course, and his court; Lord Tavarre and the other leaders of the knights; Revered Son Suvin and Lattakay’s most important priests and nobles. No one spoke to Leciane. Few dared look at her. Even Sir Cathan, who was supposed to be her protector, shunned her in favor of his sister and her children.

  That was all right. She had more important things to think about.

  The feast was impressive, with courses beyond counting. Shrimp and pepper stew. Tarts of duck and mushroom. Giant boar hunted and slain by Lord Tavarre himself in the hills north of the city and cooked slowly with garlic and sea salt. The liver of a wyvern, marinated in moragnac brandy. Wine, wine, wine. Leciane nibbled, too distracted to concentrate on food. She imagined—or was it imagination?—danger was near.

  Finally the meal broke up, and the minstrels played while folk moved out into the terraced gardens. Leciane slipped away. Watching to make sure no one followed, she climbed the villa’s steps to her room, where the blue candles stood ready. Shutting the door, she shoved the furniture aside to clear a spot on the tiled floor. She set the candles alight—then stopped, catching her breath as she heard the sound of laughter outside.

  She paced to the window, looking down into the garden. Lord Tavarre was dueling a harlequin with long loaves of bread in place of swords, and—to the delight of the children—was letting himself get thrashed mightily. She smiled, watching the foolery, then closed the shutters. The less likely those below were to see or hear what she was doing, the greater chance she had of succeeding. Back among the candles, she eased down again.

  The incantation was tricky, the gestures that accompanied it even more so. Leciane took a breath, held it, closed her eyes, and began.

  “Kair tsavandai ja bulondik, hi yugann oidil shalatiya …”

  Her lips formed the words, her hands the motions, without flaw. She had learned this spell in her youth, and though she hadn’t cast it in years, the day’s study had awoken her memories. Magic flowed hard into her, arching her back, making her fingers clench like claws. She held it pent, breathing slowly while she continued to chant. Then, with a shudder, she let the power flow out of her again.

  If anyone had been in the room, they would have seen her turn rigid, her hands frozen in a cupping gesture, and a brief, icy shimmer in the air about her, but nothing more. The spell’s energy became a coursing river, flowing up out of her and higher still, through the roof and beyond. Her spirit went with it, into the night sky. She saw all of Lattakay beneath her, its buildings laid out like bloody bones beneath the silver and crimson moons, and the statue, gleaming above the harbor. The stars glimmered on black satin above.

  Show me, she thought, focusing her will upon the spell. There is danger here. Let me see!

  The magic swept down, carrying her with it as it glided across rooftops and down boulevards. It pooled in squares and cascaded over the cliff face to the Lower City. Those it passed neither saw nor heard anything—except a breath of cold wind upon them. On it went … on, on … searching for what she needed to find. The danger was out there. She could feel it now, a spike of cold iron in her.

  Where is it? she demanded. Show me!

  She was dropping again, riding the spell’s power back down … to an alley near the wharf, garbage and fish guts strewn and stinking, and something there deep within the mist: a shape hunched over the carcass of a rat, gnawing and gnashing, tearing off strips of flesh and wolfing them down. Tiny bones crunched as the small shape fed.

  She frowned—or at least her body did, back in the manor. What was the creature? Some kind of feral cat? A wild monkey or a young goblin? Perhaps …

  It stopped and looked at her, and her soul turned to ice.

  The quasito glared, the gleam in its eyes changing from yellow to blood red. Dropping the dead rat, it opened its mouth to hiss, clouding the air with red mist. Without warning it sprang, the stinger on its tail raising to strike …

  “No!”

  Her eyes flew open. She was back in Wentha’s manor. Outside, peo
ple were cheering and laughing as flares of green and silver light shone between the shutters: the Karthayan setting off his fireworks. The new year had come.

  The magic’s strength left her, and she slumped over. The world slipped into inky darkness and dreams of red eyes and twitching tails.

  CHAPTER 10

  Firstmonth, 943 I.A.

  The morning fog swirled as the golden, dragon-headed barge glided across the water.

  Chained minotaurs worked the oars, speeding the boat along faster than humans ever could, while on the deck above the Kingpriest and his court stood, watching as the mighty walls of the Bilstibo drew nearer. The great arena, its massive white walls covered with relief carvings of battle scenes, was a truly awe-inspiring sight. Its highest banners, however—bearing the Divine Hammer’s blazon for the tournament—did not even reach to the waist of the great robed statue towering behind it.

  Cathan looked up at the Udenso as the barge drew near to the jetties on the island’s east side. The mist, still lifting from the city as the morning came of age, hid its head, eddying about its shoulders in gliding wisps. His gaze dropped to Beldinas, standing ruby-crowned at the barge’s prow, and he shivered. The likeness was shocking, almost as if the Kingpriest and the statue were twins.

  A groan roused him from his reverie, and he looked to his left and chuckled. Leciane sat with her head in her hands, her face pinching in rhythm with the oars. She had been that way since he’d gone to fetch her from her room, shortly after sunrise. She wasn’t alone, either—the new year’s festivities had left many the worse for wear. Sir Marto, for one, had consumed so much wine that the other knights had first thought him dead when they tried to wake him.

  “I thought your people were used to boats,” he said.

  She glared at him, her dusky face the color of old parchment. “Not every Ergothian is born on the deck of a galleon,” she croaked. “I just wish I could remember how I put myself into this state.”

  Cathan laughed. Leciane could recall nothing at all after the first courses of the banquet. Again, she was far from the only one.

  “MarSevrin!” barked a voice behind him. “I hope you’re ready to be stomped into the dust today!”

  Cathan glanced over his shoulder. Lord Tavarre stood near the stern, his armor flashing as the sun struggled to break through the overhanging mist. A nasty grin split his scarred face. Cathan responded in kind.

  “Enjoy your dreams, old man,” he taunted back. “We’ll see who’s still standing when the morrow comes.”

  Tavarre’s eyes widened, filling with mock outrage. Then the roar of his laughter rang across the harbor, bouncing off the walls of the Bilstibo as the barge bumped to a stop at the jetty.

  “Aye, lad,” he said. “We’ll see.”

  The arena seemed even larger up close, its battlements ringed around with smaller statues. Once, minotaur heroes had looked down from atop its walls. Now men and gods had taken their place. Standing between them, trumpeters blared a fanfare on silver horns as Beldinas stepped off the barge. Cathan followed, placing a hand on Leciane’s arm to steady her. She made a sound that might have been a mumbled thanks.

  The Patriarch’s private entrance was huge and vaulted, a massive platinum triangle shining above it. As they passed through, Cathan heard the crowds: a rumble of cheers and stamping feet, with the jangle of women’s silver bracelets rising above the din. He looked back at Tavarre. The Grand Marshal was grinning like a fool, and Cathan realized he was, too. The noise was for them as much as for the Lightbringer.

  They emerged into open air once again, striding out onto the wide, dusty expanse of the arena’s floor. According to the tales, the minotaurs had fought dragons for sport in this very place, long ago. Cathan could believe it. He’d seen real battles fought on smaller fields.

  The cheering grew from a rumble into a storm as they crossed the sands. The Lattakayans were stoic about religion, but when it came to their games they were deafening. Most of the knights were already there, resplendent in their mail and snowy tabards, arrayed in orderly ranks. The other warriors who had come for the tourney were not so disciplined. They stood in clusters, glancing nervously at the combined might of the Divine Hammer. Cathan and Tavarre strode over to join their fellows, smiling all the way.

  Beldinas stepped forward, silver light shining around him, and raised his hands. The crowd grew still, muttering to one another and glancing skyward, where the Udenso loomed. The statue’s presence should have made him seem small, but somehow it did not.

  Instead, if anything, he seemed the larger of the two.

  “Twenty years,” he began, his voice filling the Bilstibo.

  “For twenty years, I have ruled this realm. For twenty years, I have healed its people. For twenty years, I have striven to drive darkness from its cities and provinces.” He raised his head, looking up at the seas of faces. “The last has proven the hardest. Evil knows no honor, no shame. It hides—in caves, in the wilderness, in men’s hearts. It will not let go its grip on our empire easily.

  “Because of this, twenty years ago I forged a new order of knighthood, to crush the forces of darkness wherever they are found. The knighthood has grown strong since that day, battling the evil among us and prevailing against it again and again. Through its labors, its sacrifices, one day we will know what it is like to live in a realm of light everlasting.

  “Today we gather not only to celebrate my reign but to honor those who fight and die so that we may live in peace. People of Lattakay, usas farnas, we pay tribute to the Divine Hammer!”

  His voice reaching a crescendo, the Kingpriest swept his arm around to point at the ranks of knights. The rubies on his crown flared, and the Lattakayans surged to their feet with a roar so loud that it seemed to shake the Bilstibo’ s walls. His chest swelling with pride, Cathan reached for Ebonbane and yanked it from its scabbard, raising it in salute as his fellows did the same. The blades flashed in the sunlight. As one, the knights turned and marched from the arena. Cathan went with them, his heart rising with joy as the crowd’s cries filled his ears.

  *****

  Andras woke to the stink of carrion and brimstone. This was nothing new: the stench of the quasitas had been his constant companion for weeks. This morning, though, there was a difference, a sharper tang in the air that set his nostrils burning. He smiled. The day of vengeance had come, and the little fiends knew it too.

  He let his eyes open, taking in his surroundings. He lay amid a heap of blankets in an old, wind-worn ruin—a few crumbling, sandstone buildings surrounded by the stub of a wall, all of it mantled in red dust. Once, it had been a monastery. To which god Andras wasn’t sure, though the fact that the Abyss-spawned quasitas could dwell here gave him confidence it wasn’t any of the gods of light. His “children” could not bear hallowed ground.

  They were everywhere here, perched like gargoyles on the rocks, occasionally leaping up to flap to some other spot. A few slept, their misshapen heads tucked beneath their wings, but most were awake, looking about with their feline eyes, or feeding on the bodies of wild dogs they had caught in the hills. There were two dead quasitas beside the other corpses too, their bellies ripped open, the ground beneath them soaked with black blood. Andras scowled at the sight, but let it be. The beasts sometimes killed their own, and there was nothing he could do to deter them. He had lost more than thirty since the summoning, but that still left him with more than a hundred. It would be enough.

  He rubbed his maimed hand. The flesh was still crusted with scabs where his finger had been. Fistandantilus had given him a poultice to speed the healing but nothing for the pain. Even now, phantom twinges troubled him as his body tried to remember the piece it had lost. The aches only added fuel to his rage. Were it not for the Divine Hammer, his hand would still be whole. Another reason to hate. Another reason to rejoice.

  He rose, and a hundred pairs of eyes turned to stare at him, a hundred tiny bodies tensed. The quasitas purred as he walked among them, knowi
ng what was to come. After weeks of slaking their bloodlust on rats and dogs, the time had come for the true feast. He wished he could be there to see it, but the Dark One had been adamant when he gave Andras his instructions.

  “They will burn you if they catch you,” Fistandantilus had warned—his last words before he teleported Andras and the quasitas here, to the wilds of Seldjuk. “Do you want that?”

  Andras did not. What joy could he take in revenge if he were dead?

  A flight of stairs, worn to humps by the ages, led up the wall. He climbed them carefully, aware of the malicious, hungry stares fixed on his back. The bricks of the wall were loose, shifting under his feet as he stepped onto what had once been ramparts. He couldn’t see Lattakay from here—it was dozens of miles away, in country where the terrain hid anything more than a few hundred yards away from view—but he could sense its nearness, sense the knights. They were out there, enjoying the new year and their grand tourney, unaware that soon their revels would turn to tears and terror. Andras smiled, his eyes like stones.

  “Go,” he murmured.

  *****

  The crowd roared when Sir Marto went down, curses ringing from within his helm as Tithian swept his legs out from under him. The big knight hit the ground hard, then rolled, somehow getting his shield up to block the finishing blow. Tithian fell back a pace, then came on again as Marto rose to one knee, his beaked axe lashing out in a vicious arc. The blow would have disemboweled Tithian, had the weapon not been blunted for the tournament. As it was, it sent him staggering long enough for Marto to regain his feet. The crowd cheered again, and the big knight came on hard.