Divine Hammer

by Chris Pierson

  When he heard what had happened, his dusky face had turned the color of sandstone.

  “Merciful Lunitari,” he’d said, his voice faltering. “Please don’t tell me it was wizardry, Leciane. It had to be something else.”

  “Like what?” she’d returned. “Swarms of quasitas don’t just roam the wilds—not these days, and certainly not in Istar. No, master … there is no explanation but magic, and the Istarans know it.”

  Vincil’s eyes glinted. “It couldn’t have been one of the Order. Not even the Black Robes would be so brazen.”

  “I didn’t think there were renegades with this kind of power,” she said.

  “Neither did I,” he admitted. “I must discuss this with the Conclave.”

  The next day, when she called on him, his face had been even more grim. The archmages of the Black Robes denied involvement, and no one knew of any rogue sorcerers who could wield such a spell. “Except Fistandantilus, of course,” Vincil had noted, “and this isn’t his way. It lacks subtlety.”

  “So what, then?” Leciane had urged.

  “I don’t know,” he’d replied. He’d hesitated, as if warring with himself, before plunging on. “Listen, Leciane. Use the Istarans. Lead them to whoever did this, but let them try to capture him.”

  “All right,” she’d said. “And after?”

  “After comes after.”

  That didn’t please her—but it was nothing new. Vincil had long believed in crossing one chasm at a time. Two days had passed since then. She had been waiting for the Istarans to approach her for her help, waiting in vain.

  At last, Urvas reached the end of his liturgy. As he spoke the final Sifat, he flicked his fist toward the pyre, peppering it with his own blood, Then he stepped aside, letting Lady Stefara, the elderly High Hand of Mishakal, come forward to heal his wound. A hush fell over the crowd, and within it a tension, the kind felt when a storm is about to break.

  “Pilofiro,” some whispered. “Harken to the god’s chosen.”

  And, sure enough, there he was: Beldinas, resplendent even in dark robes, the Miceram aglitter on his brow. He stepped forward with head bowed, the piercing eyes hooded in shadow. Across the courtyard, mourners and knights alike fell to their knees. Leciane did not, and drew even more glares. The Kingpriest looked up, forming Paladine’s sacred triangle, and began to speak—not in the church tongue but in common Istaran, so all could understand him.

  “I have known dark days,” he said, his gentle voice echoing across the plaza. “I have watched those dear to me fall, horribly slain by evil. I have seen plague and suffering. I have looked into the eyes of demons and madmen. All of that, though, seems pale beside what happened here, on the year’s first day.

  “In times past, men of the god might have claimed that what happened to these brave men was Paladine’s will, a part of some greater plan that we cannot hope to understand. They might have told you not to mourn but to find meaning in their deaths. I will not speak such lies, for there is no meaning in murder. There is only evil, and it must be destroyed.”

  Leciane shivered, feeling the power of the Lightbringer’s words. His shroud of light brightened as he spoke, and his eyes and voice grew steely. This is why they adore him, she thought, in grudging admiration.

  He did not stop, his voice resounding off the city’s arches and walls. “People of Lattakay, people of Istar, children of the god,” he declared. “The cowards who committed this atrocity have dealt us a terrible blow, but they have not beaten us. The Divine Hammer remains, and so do I. Now it is our turn. I swear to you, by Paladine and upon the souls of the fallen, justice shall be done. The god’s light shall prevail. Darkness and demon-worship shall be scorched from the face of Krynn!”

  He shouted those last words, his voice so loud and clear that it might have reached to the empty arena across the water and the great statue still looming above it. He raised his hands, the holy light flaring about him—then, with a loud ripping sound, his palms split open and flames poured out.

  The crowd gasped at the sight, falling back. Unable to help herself, so did Leciane. Fire billowed out of Beldinas’s flesh in great gold and red waves. He shut his eyes, smiling as the blaze raged above him, then brought his hands down in a slow arc until the flames touched the pyre. With a thundering whoosh, the heap of wood and bodies became a burning pillar, hurling smoke and cinders into the air. Higher and higher the fire climbed.

  His whole body shaking, the Kingpriest continued to feed the blaze. People backed away as heat swept across the plaza. Out across the harbor, the Udenso gleamed, reflecting the glow.

  Finally, when the flames reached as high as the spires of the temple, the Kingpriest gave a mighty shout, and the light that wreathed him flared as bright as the sun. The fire pouring from him changed from gold to silver, flashing out into the pyre. The larger flames caught it, and changed as well, becoming a ribbon of glittering white that rose high into the darkling sky.

  Wide with awe, thousands of eyes stared at the holy fire as it shone down on Lattakay.

  All across the courtyard, they began to chant. “Pilofiro … Pilofiro … ”

  Leciane, however, did not look at the sky. Her gaze remained fixed on the Lightbringer, slumping now where he stood. Quarath and Sir Cathan both rushed forward to catch him before he fell. Some part of her, deep down, cried out to renounce her sorcerous ways, to tear off her red robes, fall to her knees, and beg the Lightbringer’s forgiveness.

  Dear gods, she thought. This is what Marwort saw. This is why he turned away from the Conclave …

  A shudder ran through her, and with an effort of will, she shook her head. Her eyes shining with tears, she turned her back on the Lightbringer’s fire.

  *****

  Lunitari hung heavy over Lattakay that night, bloodying the arches and turning the blue mourning-cloths black. Solinari would not rise until well after Midwatch, so now red was the only hue that showed where torchlight did not reach. Caitas Caso, the people called it—the Witches’ Dark. The custom was to hang bundles of dried white roses from doorways to ward off the foul forces that awoke on such nights. Not many Istarans still observed that old superstition, and indeed the church frowned upon it. Tonight, though, after what had happened, there was scarcely a lintel in Lattakay where old blooms didn’t guard against the Dark.

  Cathan made his way down the main thoroughfare of the Upper City, breathing in the blooms’ musty scent. He did not walk a straight line. He’d spent the early part of the evening in a wine shop with his fellow knights—Tithian and Marto and others from his band who had survived the fight. There were goblets to raise in memory of those who had died. He’d lost count of how many cups of watered wine he’d hoisted.

  The streets were empty tonight, save for a few men on patrol and the occasional stray dog. Between the Caitas Caso and the curfew enforced by the Divine Hammer, few cared to venture out of their homes. Cathan saluted the other knights he passed, trying not to look as drunk as he felt, and kept on past one manor after another until he reached his sister’s.

  Nodding to the guards outside the gates, he made his way into the house, pushing aside the desiccated roses that dangled before the door.

  He was bowing to the shrine in the corner of the entry hall when Wentha ran in with one of her servant girls. She was chasing Tancred and Rath, who ran naked and dripping across the tiled floor, shrieking with laughter as they fled their mother. The children left glistening footprints on the tiled floor as they ran out of the room again. Carrying a towel and wearing a look of despair, Wentha made to follow them, then saw Cathan and stopped.

  She gestured for the servant to continue the pursuit, then turned to Cathan with a sheepish smile.

  “I swear,” she said, “if we’d had hot baths in Luciel, I would never have run from them.”

  Cathan returned her grin. “It’s good to hear them laugh.”

  Wentha shrugged as if she wanted to argue the point, then her eyes narrowed. “You’ve been behi
nd a cup,” she noted. “That’s why you weren’t home for supper.”

  His cheeks, already red from drink, flushed deeper still as he tried to stammer a reply.

  She shook her head, laughing.

  “You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” she said. “You’re my brother, not my husband.” She touched the widow’s mark on her forehead. “I don’t know how she’ll like it, though.”

  Cathan started. “Who?”

  “Your sorceress friend,” Wentha replied, trying very little to keep the scorn from her voice. She jerked her head toward the steps to the house’s upper floors. “She’s been asking for you.”

  “What for?”

  Wentha spread her hands. “I’m no Majerean—I can’t read minds. She just said you should see her when you got back.”

  “Well,” he said, “I’m back now.”

  “Then go.”

  Up the wide, swooping curve of the stair he went. His stomach tightened as he climbed.

  As he made his way to the wing where Leciane’s chambers were, he hoped she had given up waiting and gone to bed. When he saw the glimmer of lamplight beneath her door, his heart sank. He couldn’t delay any longer—the Kingpriest himself had asked him to meet with Leciane. Swallowing, he walked across the carpeted hall toward the glow.

  The door opened before he could knock. Within, candles of blue beeswax flickered everywhere: tables, shelves, the seats of chairs, all over the floor. The furniture was against the walls, leaving an open space. The candles clustered about the room’s midst, describing a wide ring there. In its center of the circle, cross-legged with her palms out before her, sat Leciane. From the depths of her hood she gazed at him. It was hard to tell in the shimmering light, but he thought he saw a smile in her green eyes.

  “It took you long enough,” she said. “I’ve been waiting half the night.”

  She met his gaze squarely. It still unnerved him that she could do that. Clearing his throat, Cathan spoke.

  “Yes, I know. I want—that is, His Holiness—I mean … we need—”

  “My help?” She raised an eyebrow. “Searching for the one who sent the quasitas?”

  His stammering stopped. He looked at her, bewildered. “Uh … yes. How did you … ?”

  “Your master wants answers as much as mine do,” she replied, “but he can’t come to me himself. It would upset people if the Kingpriest of Istar asked a wizard for aid—particularly a Red Robe. It would damage his pride. So he sent you, instead.” She flashed a smile. “Of course, I’m sure he didn’t want you half-full of wine when we did this, but we’ll have to make do.”

  Cathan blinked. He was drunk—not terribly so but enough to make his mind fuzzy. The candlelight wasn’t helping, and the scent of bloodblossom oil, burning in a small dish within the circle, made it even harder to focus. He fought back the instinct to rub his eyes.

  “Come, Sir Knight—if you’ll join me, you can share what I see when I cast the spell.” She beckoned with a dusky hand. “Try not to knock over too many candles.”

  For a moment he balked, unsure. Beldinas hadn’t said anything about involving himself in her spell. It went against his training and his beliefs. On the other hand, if it helped to root out greater evil …

  With a shake of his head he eased the door shut, crossed the room, and stepped into the circle. He eased himself down to sit across from her. The scent of bloodblossom was almost overpowering as the sorceress nodded to him.

  “Good. Now, give me your hands. I’m not going to hurt you,” she insisted when he shied away from her reaching fingertips. “There.”

  He looked at his hands, which had moved of their own accord to grasp hers. Traitors, he thought. Her skin was warm, but rough instead of soft and smooth. Years of handling strange substances and stranger powers had toughened them. His palms began to sweat as her eyes bored into his own.

  “How long will this take?” he muttered.

  She could have laughed, mocked his nervousness. Instead she nodded gravely. “That depends on you. Don’t pull away, whatever happens,” she told him, “else you’ll break the spell. Look into the bowl.”

  He did as she bade, his blood thundering in his ears. His mouth was dry as he stared at the burning oil, the flames that danced across its surface, sending up threads of heady, black smoke. The sorceress whispered spidery words.

  “Medang sulatar, as prawut jenai. Tantamolo yi arkas … ”

  It began as a tingle in his fingers, as if he had slept with his arms bent beneath him and blood was now returning to them. Swiftly it became something more, spreading down his arms and into his breast, making the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. It built with terrible swiftness: the swelling of the ocean, the gathering of a storm, the trembling of an earthquake deep within him. There was no mistaking the sensation, though he’d never felt it before—the magic, surging as Leciane channeled it, gathered it, gave it form.

  Gods, he wondered. Does it always feel like this? He sucked in a shuddering breath, tears blurring his view of the bowl.

  What he saw was like his dream of the burning hammer, and yet it was not the same.

  He did not see himself rising from his own body, didn’t watch the world fall away from him.

  Everything suddenly shifted, and he was hanging in the air above Lattakay, looking down as twilight sparkled over the waters of its harbor, played on the facets of the glass statue.

  Directly below him, gleaming in the sun’s last rays, the Bilstibo stood upon its rocky isle.

  And above it… above …

  He moaned. Above it were scores of tiny, winged shapes. He was watching the slaughter all over again.

  Be easy, said a voice in his mind: Leciane. Though he couldn’t see her, she was with him. Watch and you will see.

  Suddenly, everything reversed. The waves beyond the breakwater flowed back out to sea. The tiny specks of people who had been fleeing the arena hurried back into it. Dead knights rose from where they lay, their swords springing back into their hands, and the quasitas, swarming above it all, began to fly away Wildly, Cathan reached out toward the winged horrors—or thought he did, for he could not see his fingers. He felt himself grasp one, and then he was flying with it, soaring off to the north over the hills. There was a stirring of surprise nearby, and he knew it was Leciane. She hadn’t expected him to do this. Rather than being annoyed, though, she was pleased. Her grip on him tightened as he clutched the flying quasito.

  Mile after mile, league after league, the hills sped past beneath him. The sun rose in the west. His soul exhilarated. This was magic. No wonder men hungered to wield this power. It was more intoxicating than the burning blood-blossom, or the wine that sang in his veins.

  Even the surge of battle paled.

  Look, Leciane said. There.

  It was a ruin of red stone, perched on a rocky outcropping—a monastery. The quasitas were winging their way towards the place. It was morning now, the sun setting over the eastern hills. The demon he rode began to descend, and he studied the land well, memorizing it. Though he had never been here before, he knew that he could find it again, even without a map to guide him. There, on the wall, was the one he was seeking. A figure in black robes—no, Black Robes, a tall, lean wizard with golden hair, and a face covered with glistening scars. A cold light shone in his eyes as he gestured to the quasitas, sending them forth to kill… .

  The spell ended, the image blasting apart as though whipped by a gale, leaving only a ghostly light before his eyes. He stared into the burning bowl a moment longer, then looked up at Leciane. She was pale, sweat glistening on her forehead, her lips parted with the effort. He looked into her green eyes, wonderstruck, still awash in the rapture of the magic.

  Then, somehow, he was pulling her to him, her breath catching as he leaned into her, her lips hard at first against his own, then softening, opening. Her tongue, like honeyed wine, working against his …

  Stop!

  Heart thundering, he pulled back.
A cold feeling spread through him as he stared at her.

  She stared back, smiling, then reached out. “Cathan … ” she murmured.

  He jerked away, then lurched to his feet and ran, scattering the stubs of blue candles in his wake.

  CHAPTER 15

  Andras paced the length of the monastery, his hands twisting together. He glanced at the starry sky in annoyance: it was still hours until the black moon rose. Until then, he was trapped, with nothing to do but wait. He had spent seven years waiting to take his revenge, but now that the time had come—now that he had his victory over the Divine Hammer—he found a new impatience smoldered within him. Only a few dozen of the hundreds of demons he had sent winging to Lattakay had returned, and most of them were hurt. He needed more.

  He toyed with the stump where his little finger had been, fascinated by the feel of the gnarled flesh. He had another little finger, on the other hand. He could live without that one too, if sacrificing it would give him a new host to set against the Kingpriest. All it would take was another swift attack, and he would break the knighthood utterly. The Dark One had told him so.

  “For now, though, you must wait,” Fistandantilus had said, when they’d spoken the night after the slaughter. “Let them tend their wounds and mourn their dead. In a week, their guard will begin to slip. They will begin to think they are safe, that another attack will not happen. That is when you must strike again.”

  The surviving quasitas didn’t make it any easier. Having tasted blood, they craved more.

  It took effort to keep them from scattering all over the countryside in search of fresh victims—he’d even had to kill a few who disobeyed, as an example to the others. Now they slouched on the abbey’s fallen stones like sullen children, glaring at him with burning eyes.