Divine Hammer

by Chris Pierson

  “You bloody whelp!” he thundered, laying in with a series of blows that knocked Tithian back. “It’ll take a better man than you to lay me out!”

  Frantically, Tithian twisted aside, trying to circle around the big knight’s flank. Marto only laughed, pivoting without missing a beat, and kept at it, driving the younger man across the arena. Finally, Tithian backed into the fence that surrounded the fighting ground. With nowhere left to go, he concentrated on his parrying, using sword and shield to wall out Marto’s hammering blows.

  No one ever won a battle with parrying alone, though. Tithian began to slow, then to falter. Marto came on even harder than before, driving the young knight to his knees, then striking him a blow to the elbow that made his sword hand go slack. The crowd groaned as the blade fell, and Marto kicked it away. In another instant, the big Karthayan had knocked aside Tithian’s shield and raised his axe high.

  “Wait!” Tithian cried, yanking his helm from his head. His eyes were wide in his sweat-soaked face. “Silonno!”

  I yield!

  For a moment, Marto didn’t seem to hear. Then, with a laugh, he let his axe fall and raised his visor. “Took you long enough,” he boomed, offering his hand.

  Tithian took it, flushing as he let the big knight drag him to his feet. Together they gathered their weapons, then made their way across the battleground. The sounds of cheering and clapping followed them as they left the arena.

  Cathan greeted them as they entered the barracks where the men from his company waited their turn. Out on the field, two other knights—one from the city of Odacera, the other from Dravinaar—moved out to begin the next round.

  “It’s all right,” he told Tithian, who looked grim. He clapped the young knight on the arm. “You lasted longer than I would have when I was your age, lad. None of us ever win our first tourney, anyway.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Marto grinned, going to a barrel of cold water and ducking his head. He came back up with a roar, his long beard dripping. “I won mine! Whipped your feeble arse doing it too, if I recall. Sir.”

  The knights all laughed. Even Sir Pellidas, who had lost his bout half an hour ago and had been glum ever since, allowed himself a silent smile. Cathan chuckled with the rest of them. Today they were all brothers, sworn to win the tourney for their honor.

  Half the entrants had gone down to defeat during the first round that morning, fighting in teams of two until everyone had a go. Cathan’s men had lost only one pair in that time, which even Tavarre allowed was a remarkable feat. Their luck had worsened since then—with so many men remaining, they often had to fight each other—but they still outnumbered any other company by the third round. Now they were deep into the fourth, the sun heavy in the west, and the field was down to the finest fighters in the knighthood.

  Every warrior who was not a part of the Divine Hammer was gone, and a field of sixteen remained, seven of them from Cathan’s company—six, now, with Tithian eliminated.

  The remainder of the round went poorly, however, and the next as well. Cathan had to fight Marto, and put an end to the big knight’s boasting in less than a minute, giving him such a blow to the head that he could barely get his helmet off after, and had to spit out three teeth before he could find voice enough to yield. The rest of Cathan’s knights lost as well, and the good cheer in the barracks disappeared. By the time the sun set, only Cathan himself remained for the final melee.

  “Bad luck,” said Lord Tavarre as he came off the field at the end of the round. He had faced a young knight from Calah and dispatched him with a hit to the chest that cracked two of the other man’s ribs. What was more, he’d barely broken a sweat doing it. He slapped Cathan’s back with a clank of armor on armor. “Down to just us now, and those two other fellows.”

  Cathan nodded, tossing the Grand Marshal a skin of raw wine. “Good showing for Luciel, at least,” he said as the old knight drank.

  “That it is!” Tavarre boomed. “Between you and your sister, you’ve done well for the memory of our little town, lad.” He lobbed the skin back.

  “And you,” Cathan noted.

  Tavarre spread his hands. “Of course.”

  Cathan chuckled and was drawing breath to say more when trumpets blared outside.

  The final was about to begin. Wincing, he grabbed up his helmet and shield. After seven battles today, they looked as battered as he felt.

  “Gods,” he groaned. “Just let me live through this.”

  Tavarre winked, putting an arm around his shoulders. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go win this thing, hey? For Luciel.”

  Cathan nodded. “For Luciel.”

  Lord and subject, arm in arm, they walked out into the twilight.

  CHAPTER 11

  Leciane bowed her head, pinching the bridge of her nose as the crowd erupted again. It seemed the only way to keep her skull from splitting open, and even then the stabbing pain behind her eyes made the world sway and green spots whirl against the insides of her eyelids. She desperately wanted something to wet her throat, but the weakest thing they served in the Patriarch’s private viewing gallery was watered wine. The folk of Lattakay found plain water distasteful. She was beginning to feel the same way about the folk of Lattakay.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d suffered so badly from drink. Certainly it hadn’t happened since her Test, and that had been more than a decade ago. In fact, she couldn’t remember drinking to excess last night, either—a goblet or two, yes, but nothing to cause her still to be so ill. It wasn’t right—and gradually, she’d become more and more certain that there was something amiss. There were spells that might help her figure it out, but even if she could keep her mind from whirling long enough to cast them, sitting near the Kingpriest amid tens of thousands of faithful Istarans was no place to be working the Art.

  Never mind, she told herself. The final bout of this interminable tournament was beginning. It would all be over soon, and she could go back to the safety of …

  Of her chambers at the manor.

  She frowned. She had woken on the floor, still in her robes, the furniture pushed aside.

  Had she used magic last night? What had gone wrong? She’d heard of wizards whose minds had been injured when spells went astray—some to the point of madness. Had that happened to her?

  Snatches of memory flashed through her mind. She grasped at them, trying to get a fix.

  The crowd’s shouting grew louder, and thought became impossible again. She looked about, at the lords, ladies and clerics that surrounded her, reclining on padded benches, sipping wine and eating the seeds of pomegranates while the masses shrieked their lungs out. They were all there—Revered Son Suvin, Lady Wentha, the hierarchs, Quarath, the First Son and Daughter. Among them sat the Lightbringer, his regal figure mirrored by that ghastly statue at the harbor mouth. The Istarans had even gotten that wrong—in Ergoth, men built statues at the mouths of harbors too, but those looked out to sea, to welcome sailors as they came to port. This one gazed in at the empire, with its back to the rest of the world.

  It was hard to see through the light that shone about him, but Leciane thought the Kingpriest was smiling. Following his gaze, she saw why. Four figures strode onto the sands, their armor blazing red in the day’s last light. These were the only four who had not yet lost a bout. Two were arm-in-arm: Lord Tavarre and Sir Cathan. She hadn’t paid more than passing attention to the day’s endless fighting, but evidently both had made it to the final melee.

  She settled back in her seat, rubbing her temples as the crowd roared on. Well, she should probably root for Sir Cathan, her protector. She would try at least to enjoy the game. There would be time to figure things out when it was done.

  *****

  Blood pounded in Cathan’s ears as the herald, a short man with a long gray beard, proclaimed the tourney’s final bout. Up in the stands, thousands of people were shouting his name—but thousands of others were shouting Tavarre’s, and the names of the other two
knights who would soon fight for the title of champion. He looked at that pair, two men he knew reputation only. Sir Erias Thale was a knight from Tucuri, built like a gatehouse, who wielded a two-handed sword as long as he was tall. Lord Barlan Graymantle was a former Knight of Solamnia who had converted to the Divine Hammer. Nearly fifty, he was still in fighting trim, his long white moustaches drooping over a somber mouth. He nodded to Cathan and Tavarre, then turned and bowed to the crowd. The Kingpriest was on his feet now, high up in the viewing gallery. Bright sunlight had kept Cathan from spotting him earlier in the day, but now that evening had come he was easy to see—a shimmering glow surrounded by his advisors. There, at his right hand, was Wentha. She would be calling his name, Cathan realized with a surge of pride. He wondered how many of the others were, too. All four knights had their supporters among the courtiers, particularly Tavarre.

  A hard smile found its way onto Cathan’s face as he lowered the visor of his helm and raised his sword in salute. It didn t matter how many were cheering him now as long as they all shouted his name after.

  The herald left, and the trumpets sounded again. The final bout began.

  “Together, lad, like I taught you,” Tavarre said just before the crowd’s thunder made it impossible to hear anything else. “We’ll take the two of them first, and then see to each other.”

  They charged so abruptly that the other two knights fell back a pace. Tavarre let out a whooping Taoli battle cry, and Cathan echoed it, clashing his sword against his shield.

  Erias and Barlan looked at each other, their horned helmets nodding, then came on together as well.

  “The big ox is mine,” shouted Tavarre. “You take the old man.”

  Lord Barlan swung his blunted blade, and metal rang against metal as Cathan’s shield leaped to meet it, catching the blow on its boss. The crowd’s noise fell away as Cathan focused on the knight in the engraved Solamnic armor. He shoved forward, sending Barlan stumbling back, then followed with a quick thrust that the man barely managed to turn aside. Barlan’s head inclined, acknowledging Cathan’s skill. Cathan did the same, then ducked as a second blow came whistling in. He straightened, snorting, and the two men touched swords—once, twice—then parted, backing away to size each other up.

  Beside him, Tavarre was having a hard time of it. For a big man with a big sword, Sir Erias was wickedly quick, grunting as he swept his blade in one vicious arc after another.

  He knew, as well as the Grand Marshal did, that the key to fighting with a two-hander was reach: if an opponent got too close, the sword lost its advantage, so he did all he could to keep Tavarre back while he searched for an opening. All it would take to win the duel was one good hit. Despite his stocky stature, though, Lord Tavarre was still a nimble man. He ducked and twisted, used his shield and the flat of his blade to bat aside vicious blows, leaped over a cut aimed at his shins. Amid it all, he jabbed at Erias with his sword’s rounded tip, trying again and again to turn the fight in his favor.

  Barlan lunged then, a daring move, and Cathan didn’t have time to get out of the way completely. The blunted sword hit him in the side—a grazing blow only, not a stopping one, but it still hurt like the Abyss. Cathan groaned. Tomorrow, the colors of his bruises would turn his body into a fresco painted by an idiot. He hammered at Barlan’s face with the hilt of his sword and dented the older man’s visor, knocking it askew. Cursing, Barlan fell back again. Cathan gave him a moment to straighten his helm.

  Tavarre was wheezing, his blade a hair slower than it had been when the battle began.

  Age and fatigue were catching up with him. Still, he refused to let Sir Erias get to him, rely relying on reflexes to keep the other away. Again and again, he tried to stab through, but again and again Erias turned his thrusts aside …

  Suddenly, it happened. It was a minor slip, the sort of thing that could happen to anyone—a patch of loose sand that made Sir Erian’s knee buckle for half a second. Against most opponents, it would have been nothing to worry about—but Tavarre of Luciel was a veteran of scores of battles, and he let no weakness pass. Even as Erias was straightening up, the Grand Marshal swung at his shoulder, lashing out at the same time with a steel-plated boot. Erias caught the blade with his own sword, but the kick got past his defenses, hooking around the back of his leg and sending him stumbling. With a victorious shout, Tavarre shoved him to the ground, and brought his sword around in a backhand blow.

  Erias tried to block the swing, but he was too slow. Tavarre’s blade stopped an inch from his neck, and he slumped, defeated.

  “Silonno,” he muttered, his voice thick with disgust.

  Knowing what would happen next, Lord Barlan redoubled his attack on Cathan in the hopes of defeating him before Tavarre could join the fight. Cathan, however, refused to give him the satisfaction of landing a telling blow and concentrated on holding him off, parrying and blocking, without even a riposte to break the pattern. Barlan cursed in Solamnic as, Tavarre reached him.

  Half a minute later he was on the ground, clutching his knee, his visor hanging from one hinge. Blood poured from his nose, turning his moustaches red. Tavarre and Cathan stood over him, their swords lowered side by side. Stubbornly, Barlan made one last try to stand, but his strength gave out and he collapsed, senseless.

  The whole crowd was on its feet now, hands clapping, bracelets jangling, voices raised in jubilation. Cathan looked up at them, at the courtiers in the gallery. He felt as tall as the Udenso, shining in the moonlight above the arena.

  “Well, then,” he said, turning to Tavarre. He tossed his shield away, kicked up a plume of sand from the ground, and shifted into a one-handed stance.

  The Grand Marshal nodded, shrugging off his own shield. “Well.”

  They began.

  It was different from the previous battles, more like a dance than a fight. It had been Tavarre who taught Cathan sword-play, long ago, and the two of them had fought beside each other often since then. Each knew the other’s moves, and they swiftly fell into a rhythm, starting out slow with a few test passes, then their tactics coming faster and more daring with every instant. The crowd fell still, watching in awe as sword met sword, the music of steel filling the air. Even when the minotaurs ruled, the arena had never seen a battle so fierce and beautiful.

  Half-blinded by sweat, his arms and lungs burning, Cathan pressed harder and harder.

  He had no idea where his strength was coming from. He had been on the verge of dropping when he faced Lord Barlan, but against Tavarre all his exhaustion faded away, leading only the need to fight on, to win, to prove that he, an orphaned peasant from the hills of Taol, was the finest warrior in all of Istar.

  Tavarre laughed as he fought, great bellowing roars of mirth. He dodged with the grace of a man one-third his age. His sword moved like a scorpion’s tail, nearly too swift to follow: parry, riposte, lunge, cut, feint, and cut again. He went for Cathan’s chest, his knees, his gut, his head. He shifted his grip from one hand to two, spun, kicked, came in close to bash with the hilt, then circled away, laughing all the while. Cathan found he was laughing too—howling with sheer exhilaration. He would sleep for a week when the battle was done, but it was worth it. He felt like a god.

  It was still a battle, though. There had to be a victor.

  The sword came in swiftly, starting high and arcing in, the air buzzing around it like a nest of angry wasps. Blade came up to meet blade, but did not stop it. So mighty was the blow, it sheared through the parrying weapon, sending two feet of steel spinning away in the moonlight. Barely slowed, the stroke struck hard. Had it been sharp, it would have sheared through armor, flesh and bone like soft cheese. As it was, it dented the armor, loosened the bone, and raised what would soon be a welt the color of bloodmelon.

  “For Luciel!” Tavarre cried.

  Groaning, Cathan sank to his knees. His strength gone, he let the hilt of his shattered sword drop to the ground, then stared up at the Grand Marshal, looming above him. His left arm was numb
from shoulder to wrist. With his right he pulled off his helm, relishing the feel of the cool wind. The crowd tensed, waiting in rapt silence.

  “Damn,” he wheezed.

  Tavarre wrenched off his own helm, his face glistening. He flourished his sword, leveling it at Cathan’s breast. “Sorry, lad,” he murmured, then raised his voice for all to hear. “Do you yield?”

  Cathan blew out a long breath. Maybe, if he grabbed Tavarre’s sword and pulled him down … but no. It was over, and he had lost. Sighing, he opened his mouth, his lips skinning back to speak the word that would end the tourney … and stopped, staring over Tavarre’s shoulder at the darkening sky.

  There was something there, a black cloud where there had been none a moment before.

  It was moving quickly, billowing as it came, coursing against the wind … no, not a cloud, but a mass. A mass of little, winged shapes, soaring over Lattakay’s harbor toward the arena. For a moment, Cathan thought they were a flock of bats. Then they got closer, and he saw they were something else. Cold horror sank into his bowels.

  “Palado Calib,” he breathed.

  *****

  Leciane watched Tavarre and Cathan fight in unexpected fascination, her hands twisting in her lap as the two knights danced. She groaned with disappointment when Cathan’s sword broke, cringed when the blow struck, and bowed her head as he fell. Now, though, something was truly wrong. She felt it settle into her stomach like a weight and saw it in Sir Cathan’s empty eyes, which had turned from the Grand Marshal to the sky. She looked, and in the distance she heard a fluttering whisper, as of countless leathery wings.

  It all came back to her in a rush—what she had seen the previous night. The alleyway at the wharf, the dead rat, the hideous, blood-smeared creature that looked like a twisted child with a stinging tail … and wings. She stiffened, then rose, twisting to look behind her as people across the arena began to point and scream.

  She did not cry out. She couldn’t draw breath. The sky was filled with monsters.