Divine Hammer k-2

by Chris Pierson

  Cathan regarded the grove with narrowed eyes as he approached, the clack of his armored boots against the cobbles unnaturally loud in his ears. His hand kept straying to Ebonbane’s hilt. That, he knew, was pointless. Whatever lurked within the sorcerers’ wood, no mere sword would help against it.

  He’d been hoping the wizards’ envoy would be waiting for him outside the grove, but there was no sign of her. By the time he reached the trees, his whole body was tingling with apprehension. He stopped, close enough that had the idea not horrified him so, he could have reached up and plucked the fruit from the olives’ boughs. He tried peering through the grove, but it was too dense.

  “H-hello?” he asked. “Is any-”

  It happened so swiftly, he had no time to react. At the sound of his voice, the trees before him drew apart, creaking like a hundred drawn bows. The ones behind them did the same an eye blink later, and so on, deeper and deeper, the grove splitting like cloth tearing in two. The rip revealed a path of dark, moist earth, leading all the way through to the sparkling stone of the Tower.

  Cathan shuddered, remembering what the magical lips had said. Do not stray from the path.

  “Bloody right, I won’t,” he muttered.

  He was nearly a third of the way through when he felt the first urge. It wasn’t very strong, but it still unsettled him, for he knew it didn’t come from his own mind. It only dwelt there, a tiny breath of a voice, whispering in his ear.

  Turn, the voice said.

  He bit his tongue, trying to ignore the strange voice. His task was simple. All he had to do was walk from one end of the path to the other, find the sorceress, then go back. Leave the path? He chuckled. Why? What possible reason-

  Turn.

  For an instant, his body tried to disobey him, twisting sharply to the left. His feet took two steps off the path, into the trees. With a gasp, Cathan caught a trunk at the trail’s edge to steady himself, then stood still, breathing hard. He was halfway there now. Surely he could make it the rest of the way. Carefully, he pushed himself back onto the path, then began to edge forward again.

  “TURN!”

  “No!” he shouted, pushing back against the voice. “Damn you-”

  “Turn turn TURN turrrrrn …”

  Snarling, he threw himself into a run, hurling himself toward the Tower. He squeezed his eyes shut, beating his knuckles against the sides of his head. He would not listen. He would not give in. The voice was some kind of test.

  “Tuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrnnnnnnnnnn-”

  “Shut up!” he shouted. “Stop it! Shut up shut up shut-”

  A branch cracked under his foot.

  He stopped, his heart lurching. There were no branches on the path. His mouth tasting like it was full of copper coins, he cracked his eyes open and groaned. He was surrounded by olive trees.

  Whipping around, he saw where he had stepped off the path, arrowing through the wood, maybe a dozen steps behind him. Spitting an oath, he started back.

  Even as he moved, he knew he wasn’t going to make it. Something had invaded his mind, a presence like the edge of some great shadow, darkening his thoughts. Each step was harder than the last, as if someone had tied weights to his feet … weights that grew steadily heavier as he went. Tears made trails of frustration on his cheeks.

  “No,” he groaned.

  He tried to lunge forward, but the magic had caught hold of him. His knees buckled, and then he was falling … falling …

  “Blast,” Leciane muttered, watching the knight go down.

  She’d been watching him, marking his progress along the path, and had realized he was in trouble the first time he hesitated. The magic had fought him harder than she’d expected. It could be like that-often, the grove seemed to have a mind of its own. It particularly went after folk who had little love for sorcery. Which, she thought with a smirk, was just about everyone these days.

  She glanced around. There were no other mages outside the Tower. The others who dwelt there had remained within, in case their presence made the Kingpriest’s man even more nervous. They would be watching, though, through windows and scrying glasses.

  Some would be amused at the knight’s fate. She scowled, wondering if the Black Robes might have added power to its enchantment. They would rejoice in having bested one of the Kingpriest’s men.

  Leciane wasn’t going to give them the satisfaction. Rolling up her sleeves, she hurried down the path, to where the knight had blundered off into the brush. Taking a deep breath, she wove her fingers in the air, tracing a complicated pattern that ended with a sharp forward shove, aimed at the trees.

  “Ka movani delarang,” she chanted, “ejaran su fuwato.”

  The olives resisted, like a child refusing to give up a plaything. Delving deeper, she tightened her grip on the magic that coursed through her and shoved a second time. This time, motes of silver-blue light swept out from her palms in waves. When the pulse of power reached the trees, they shuddered aside. She could feel the grove’s resentment as it pulled back from the knight.

  “You shouldn’t have taken him in the first place,” she snapped, hurrying down the new path.

  He lay on his side, curled in a ball, eyes clenched shut. His whole body was shivering.

  Dropping to one knee, Leciane leaned over him. “Enough. Wake up.”

  “Gng,” he replied, curling up tighter.

  “I said wake up,” she insisted, grabbing his shoulder to shake him.

  At her touch, he sucked in a deep breath, and his eyes flew open. Leciane stumbled back, nearly falling. They were empty, pupilless. Confusion creased his face. The grove had done its work. He had forgotten why he was here.

  “Well, well,” she said. “Cathan Twice-Born.”

  “What… what in the Abyss-” he sputtered.

  Smiling, she offered him her hand. “Come on, get up. Let’s get you out of here, and I’ll explain everything.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Cathan followed the strange woman out of the wood, questions roiling in his mind. Who was she? What was he doing here, at the Tower of High Sorcery?

  “I’m Leciane do Cirica,” she explained once they were beyond the olives, back in the square that surrounded the Tower. “The order’s new envoy. Unless I’m mistaken, you came here on behalf of your Kingpriest.”

  That sounded right, more or less. He could recall parts, dimly. Magical lips in the floor.

  He put a hand to his head, wishing his thoughts would stop darting around like blood-flies. “And I don’t remember any of this because …”

  “The grove,” the woman said. “It stole your memories.”

  “Ah.” Cathan frowned, still not sure what to believe. “I don’t suppose you-”

  “Can bring them back? No. The magic doesn’t work that way.” She gave him a sympathetic shrug. “You’re lucky I was there. Once, they say, the grove stole fifteen years of a man’s life before it was done-and he was only twenty at the time.”

  Cathan shuddered. Everything before today he remembered; it was only his time in the grove that was lost. He glanced back at the olives, rustling in the wind, and winced.

  He looked at the strange woman … Leciane. She was from Ergoth, judging by her dusky skin, and a bit older than him, with silver in her long black hair. She was smiling, her teeth very white. Her eyes were green. It wasn’t any of those colors, though, that made him start. It was the hue of her silken robes.

  “You’re the envoy?”

  Leciane nodded.

  “But your robes-you-they’re red!”

  “Are they?” The sorceress looked at herself, her eyebrows rising.

  Reflexively, Cathan took a step back, but stopped his hand before it touched Ebonbane.

  The Conclave had sent a Red Robe to live among them … how would the court react to that? For that matter, how would Beldinas?

  “Sir Cathan?” Leciane asked. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “What? Oh,” Cathan blurted, snapping back to himsel
f. He stared at Leciane. “How do you know my name?”

  She laughed-not the polite giggle of a high-born lady, but a hearty chuckle that made him think of Sir Marto. “Your eyes,” she said. “We wizards hear the same tales as everyone else, Twice-Born.”

  At once, Cathan realized the other thing that had been troubling him about the Red Robe. She was looking him in the eyes, without turning away. Even Wentha hadn’t been able to do that, back when the two of them were still speaking to each other. Until now, he’d been sure the only person who could was the Kingpriest himself. Cathan flushed and looked away. The sorceress’s unremitting gaze made him uncomfortable.

  “We should … we should go,” he mumbled. “His Holiness will be expecting you.”

  “Yes,” Leciane agreed, gesturing west, where the Temple’s golden spires rose above the rooftops. “Lead on, then. Take me to your Lightbringer, Sir Knight.”

  The courtiers reacted to Leciane as he’d expected. Some stared in shock, and one or two shrank away in fear. Many signed the triangle, horns, or twin teardrops of the gods. A few, First Son Adsem among them, looked as if they would have spat on the ground, were it accepted at court. A good number of the people in Istar’s streets had done just that as Cathan and Leciane made their way back to the Temple. Cathan hadn’t even tried to get her through the adoring throng in the Barigon, but had brought her in through a side entrance. Now, standing amidst the Hall of Audience, he could feel the hierarchs’ eyes on him-or rather, on his charge. It wasn’t the hateful glare they would give a Black Robe, but neither was it in any way friendly.

  Either the Red Robe didn’t notice or she didn’t care. Her attention was on the man who sat upon the throne, and him alone. Cathan followed her gaze, peering through the Kingpriest’s radiance, trying to read his mood.

  It wasn’t easy. He could have been one of the statues that peopled the Temple’s gardens for all the reaction he showed when he beheld the color of Leciane’s robes. He sat still, fingers steepled before him, and said nothing for a long time. Silence-a rare thing, when court was in full session-stole across the hall as the courtiers turned to await his judgment. Finally, he shifted slightly, inclining his head.

  “My thanks, Lady, for rescuing Sir Cathan from the spell that ensnared him,” he declared, the dome ringing to echo his musical voice. “I can already see the wisdom in your Conclave’s choice. Many among your order would have left him there.”

  The courtiers murmured at that. Beldinas ignored them, as did Leciane, who bowed.

  “Your Holiness is kind. I only hope that should the need present itself one day, he would return the favor.”

  She flicked a glance at Cathan, who reddened. The idea that he owed anything to a Red Robe bothered him.

  Quarath stepped forward, favoring Leciane with an icy stare. The Silvanesti had many mages, but all were White Robes. Donning the Black, or even the Red, was a quick and certain path to shame and exile.

  “Majesty,” he said, looking to the throne. “If this woman is the choice the sorcerers have made, she should be inducted into the court at once, before anything else is said here.”

  Beldinas nodded. “Thank you, Emissary. Your counsel is fair, as ever. Very well, Lady do Cirica,” he went on, rising from his throne, “if you will kneel …”

  “No.”

  Everything stopped. A few people gasped, and a few scowled, but mostly they stared, stunned, as Leciane’s voice echoed through the hall. Cathan gaped at Leciane with open-mouthed shock.

  “No?” Beldinas repeated, hesitating halfway down the steps from the dais.

  “No,” Leciane replied. “I do not wish your blessing, Lightbringer.”

  Quarath had just resumed his place with the other high priests of Paladine. Now he stepped forward again, brows knitting in outrage.

  “Lady,” he said, “His Holiness did not ask you to kneel. It is his command.”

  Leciane met the elf’s glare with a steely look, drawing herself erect before him. “I am not His Holiness’s to command,” she said. “My only masters are the Art I wield, and the Conclave who sent me here. I will kneel before no other-and neither should anyone who serves another sovereign.”

  The elf’s face turned pale, his eyes flaring indignantly. The barb had struck deep.

  “How dare you-” he began.

  “Emissary, this is no time for hot words,” Beldinas said quietly. Abashed, Quarath stepped back, but the glower didn’t vanish from his face. The Kingpriest turned back toward Leciane, his brow furrowed.

  “Marwort knelt, milady.”

  “Yes, he did,” she replied. “Now he is dead. I shall not repeat his mistakes.”

  Cathan looked from Leciane to Beldinas and back again, not sure what to do or what might happen next. The hall felt like the air before a lightning strike. A few more courtiers quietly edged away.

  The Kingpriest stroked his chin for a long moment, considering, then, to Cathan’s astonishment, he nodded slowly. “Very well,” he said. “You are right-you do not need to swear to me, although no one who has should be ashamed of that. Will you at least give me your oath that you will be faithful to those you do serve?”

  “You have it, Holiness,” Leciane said, clasping her hands before her. “By the Art and the crimson moon, I shall.”

  More murmurs greeted that, from priests uncomfortable with mention of Lunitari in a house of the gods of light. Beldinas ignored their consternation, walking down the last few steps to stand before the sorceress. Cathan tensed.

  Leciane smiled, however, and offered the Kingpriest her hand. Beldinas looked at it for a moment, eyebrows raised, then clasped it in his. As he did, he leaned forward, so that his mouth was near her ear, and whispered something to her.

  Her smile broadening, Leciane nodded and stepped back.

  “This court is in recess,” Beldinas declared. “I must meditate on this. We will resume after noontide.”

  With that, he departed the hall, through a door to his private apartments. His advisors followed, Quarath shooting one last wintry glance at Leciane before he left. When they were gone, the courtiers all turned to stare at the Red Robe, making little effort to conceal their contempt. She looked back at them mildly, then turned and walked toward one of the room’s many antechambers. Cathan accompanied her, feeling every pair of eyes that followed them.

  “What did he tell you?” he ventured to ask.

  Leciane laughed, shaking her head. “Do you think he’d have whispered it if he wanted everyone to know?”

  Cathan had no answer for that. “You should have sworn,” he said instead. “No one says no to the Kingpriest.”

  “Maybe not,” Leciane replied, pushing aside the curtain to the antechamber and striding through. “Would it be a bad thing if sometimes, people did?”

  Cathan stopped, frowning, as the curtain closed in front of him.

  Andras awoke with a cry, his heart thundering against his ribs as he sat up in his bed.

  It was dark in the room-a little, windowless cell of gray stone, hidden far beneath the earth. The floor was cold against his bare feet as he swung his legs out. The smell of mildew hung in the air, and something the size of a rat, but with far too many clacking legs, skittered away from the sound of his breathing. Normally, he would have killed the thing, sending it shrieking to its doom with a spell, but today he let it escape. Nor did he speak the incantation that would summon ghostly light for his room. He needed to save his magical energy for what he must do today.

  Seven years. He had lived in this same room for seven years-or rather, slept there, for the rest of his time he was elsewhere in the cavernous dungeon that served as one of Fistandantilus’s many homes. Not once in that time had he breathed fresh air or seen the sun. His lungs had been steeped in a miasma of arcane scents: the sweetness of crushed rose petals, the rancid reek of rotten flesh, the acrid tang of alchemical tinctures. The heat that warmed him came from the burning ache for revenge. One day, the Dark One had promised, he could assuag
e that ache at last. Until that day, Andras had gladly immersed himself in lessons, learning the spells he would need to unleash his wrath.

  Now, as he hurriedly pulled on his midnight robes, he knew the day had come.

  Torchlight stung his eyes when he threw open the door, and he flung up his arm, squinting as he strode down the passage outside. The walls glistened with moisture, and his breath plumed. He wondered if it was day or night, then decided he didn’t care. After seven years in the cold and dark, time had grown meaningless to him.

  He heard the banging and howling as he neared the hall’s end. When he’d first come here, the noises-shrieks of agony, mindless snarls, the scrape of bony claws against stone-had driven him half-mad with terror, but since then Andras had learned to ignore the din. Today he paid it no mind even as he entered the place where it was loudest: a long room with a vaulted ceiling, lined with steel-barred cages. Within those cages lurked strange, misshapen forms, mercifully hidden by shadow. A pool of blood was spreading beneath one. A long, sucker-tipped tentacle reached through the bars of another, writhing like a dying snake.

  These were the Accursed, Fistandantilus’s greatest failures. They had been born centuries ago, the Dark One said, in an ill-fated attempt to create living beings. Only a few had survived, half-alive and in constant pain: misshapen, gibbering things that begged for death in languages no sane man could speak. When he’d actually seen one for the first time-shone a light into the cage where the archmage kept his failures-he hadn’t slept for a week. The memory of that fleshy mass of viscera, twisted bones, and rheumy eyes still haunted his dreams.

  One of the cages was open and empty. He grimaced. Fistandantilus was experimenting again.

  The door at the far end of the Chamber of the Accursed was tall and strong, made of layers of lead, silver, and cold iron, engraved with hundreds of spidery sigils that pulsed with sickly green light. Anyone-human or otherwise-trying to enter through the door without the Dark One’s leave would be torn apart like so many red rags. Andras walked up to the door, lifted the latch, and pulled it open without fear, letting himself into the Dark One’s inner sanctum.