Divine Hammer k-2

by Chris Pierson

  He shook his head. “How far?” he asked. “Where are the metal men?”

  The first question was pointless. The little demons understood nothing about distance.

  The second, however, made the pair tense. They jabbed taloned fingers out across the hills.

  “There!” they shrieked, “They come! Here!”

  “What!” Andras exclaimed, turning. There were no knights, of course-only the ruined wall, lined with quasitas-but the little fiends hooted and snapped as they stared, pointing, to the south.

  Andras leaped up the stairs, taking them three at a time. The cold feeling that had settled over him gave way to panic. Less than two leagues away, a plume of dust was rising from the road.

  He’d waited too long. The Divine Hammer had tracked him down.

  “We’re very close,” Leciane murmured, her eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. “I can feel his fear. He knows we’re coming.”

  Riding beside her, Cathan swallowed uneasily. He glanced back at his men-half a hundred knights and squires, all of them armed. Sir Marto was at the fore, his crossbow looking like a toy in his beefy hands, glowering at Leciane’s back. Tithian rode behind, a similar scowl darkening his youthful face. The others looked no happier. None wanted to be riding with a sorceress.

  Cathan didn’t blame them. When the Hammer set forth on its mission, he’d been the most vehement that Leciane should not accompany them. He insisted her presence would cause discord among the other knights, but he knew the real reason was because of what had happened between them in her chamber.

  It could have been the wine or the bloodblossom or the unfamiliar thrill of casting a spell-most likely, all three together. Whatever it was had robbed him of his faculties, brought on a moment of weakness. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Now it was hard to say which was stronger: his revulsion at having done it or the yearning to do it again.

  With a start, he realized he was staring at her. Her eyes were still closed, shifting as she used her magic to sense the Black Robe ahead. His face coloring, he looked away. It was wrong-the men of the Divine Hammer were sworn to celibacy. They did not dally with women any more than did anyone else sworn to the holy Church. They certainly never carried on with sorceresses.

  For him, women had never been much of a temptation. His god-touched eyes kept them from lusting after him. Now, though … he could still taste her mouth, see the inviting look in her eyes when they’d parted. The first night out of Lattakay, he had lain awake half the night, staring at her bedroll. In the morning he’d made himself do penance for that, praying to the god for strength. He’d done a great deal more praying these past few days.

  Tithian saw something, his young eyes the first to pick out the shapes ahead. Cathan squinted, trying to make out what his onetime squire had spotted. After a moment, he spied them too, winged shapes flitting across the waning silver moon. An angry rumble ran among the knights. They recognized the enemy as well.

  Cathan raised a hand, and his men reined in. Reaching out, he grabbed Leciane’s arm, and her eyes snapped open, looking a question at him. He nodded up at the fluttering quasitas.

  “We have company,” he said.

  Leciane saw them, and nodded. “We’ve found him, then,” she said. “I think I can take care of this.”

  “No.” Cathan held up a hand as she reached to the pouch where she kept the components for her spells. “Let us do our job. If we need your help, it will be against the Black Robe, not these accursed things.”

  Her brow furrowed, then her eyes met his, and her mouth became a firm line. She knew what he meant. The knights would not abide it if she robbed them of their revenge.

  “All right,” she relented. Pulling on her horse’s reins, she wheeled about and trotted away from the knights.

  Cathan watched her go a bit longer than he meant to, then turned to face his men. If the others noticed his odd behavior, they gave no sign. They were grim, flicking glances at the circling quasitas as they awaited his orders.

  “Paladine, give us strength,” he declared.

  “Sifat,” the other knights replied. They had brought no priests with them. This was all the blessing they would have.

  “Prepare to fire,” he bade, drawing Ebonbane. “At my command.”

  Twenty of his men carried crossbows. They obeyed at once, cocking strings and fitting quarrels. He could sense their eagerness. Not a one in this group hadn’t lost friends at the Bilstibo. He kept his sword up, watching the quasitas wheel nearer. With a cacophony of shrieks, they tucked in their wings and dived.

  Less disciplined men would have fired too soon. The knights only sighted down their weapons, waiting while the demons came closer, all claws and fangs and stingers. Off to one side, Cathan heard Leciane chanting softly. She was disobeying his orders, but she was not of the Hammer and there was little he could do about that. The quasitas were in range now. His men would have one shot only. There would be no time to reload. They could not waste that one shot.

  Hold, he thought, raising his sword. Hold …

  “Now!” he barked. Ebonbane came down.

  Twenty crossbows fired. Twenty quarrels flew. Twenty demons howled, unraveling into smoke.

  The knights of the Divine Hammer did not cheer. The only sound they made was the song of rasping steel as blades slid free of scabbards. Cathan brought up Ebonbane again, kissing its hilt as he shifted his shield from back to arm. His horse whinnied, its nostrils flaring at the brimstone stink of the monsters. Flipping shut the visor of his helm, he drew his sword back, holding it ready while the quasitas-at least forty of them still-dropped out of the sky.

  “Tavarre!” he cried.

  Other knights picked up the call, shouting the names of those who had burned upon the pyre three days before. Cathan heard Marto’s roar of “Pellidas!” just before the quasitas struck, then the screams of demons, men, and horses drowned out all else, echoing among the hills.

  Cathan killed a quasito with his first blow. Ebonbane bit into the creature’s side, slicing it in half across the belly. Black blood flew, steaming, then vanished into wisps along with the rest of the monster. Cathan immediately reversed the blow, cutting a vicious arc that made a second beast shy back.

  The knights’ numbers were fewer, but they were rested and ready, their blades sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone at a single stroke-even flesh and bone spawned in the Abyss. Now and then, a quasito got through their defenses, furrowing mail and skin with their talons, but most of the wounds they caused were minor. Too few to press the attack for long, the quasitas started to flee. Cathan skewered one more as it streaked past him, a wicked thrust that left it twisting on Ebonbane’s tip for a moment before it dissolved into foul vapors. Then the quasitas were gone, howling in despair as they flew north.

  Of fifty, only three of the knights had perished. These they laid on the ground, covering them with cloak and tabard, then returned to their steeds, looking to Cathan for orders. He looked back at them, raising his visor and wiping sweat from his face. He did not sheathe his sword, nor did any of the other knights. They would not put their weapons away again until he told them to. His chest swelled as he regarded his men through the smoke.

  Leciane rode up alongside him, her face grave. “Well done,” she told him.

  Sir Marto spat, his face red above his forked beard.

  “Be still,” Cathan told the big Karthayan, holding up a hand. He turned back to Leciane, looking over her shoulder rather than in her eyes. “The fight is not over.”

  She nodded. “The Black Robe.”

  The knights muttered. The air crackled with anticipation.

  Cathan sat erect, thrusting Ebonbane toward the sky. “On, then!” he shouted, “and let no man rest until the fighting is done!”

  The knights bellowed in reply, a forest of weapons punching the air. “For the Lightbringer!” they cried. In a thunder of hooves, they charged.

  I should have learned to teleport, Andras thought as he watched
the Divine Hammer approaching from atop the abbey wall. The monks who built this place had cared little for defenses, even before the monastery fell to ruin. The road was the only way in or out. In all other directions were cliffs dropping down to the river below. The same seclusion that had made it an excellent religious sanctuary made it a death trap now.

  Maybe the Dark One will see me, he thought, and summon me away from here. He saved me from the Hammer once before. The memory didn’t give him much comfort as the knights thundered up the road toward him.

  “My children!” he shouted. “To me!”

  The quasitas came-the last of them, not quite fifty, many wounded. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the knights, but it would slow them down, give him time to cast some magic. He pointed toward the rusty tangle that had been the monastery’s gate, trying not to notice how badly his hand shook.

  “Kill them!” he shouted. “Kill them all!”

  The quasitas were stupid, not brainless. They knew they would die if they fought, but Andras had given birth to them, and he had the power to command. Hissing, snarling, they swarmed out the gates.

  Andras watched them go, then clambered up on a hunk of rock that stood higher than anything else on the wall. Taking a deep breath, he focused, weaving his hands and pointing down at the mass of armored figures. He couldn’t stop them all with one spell, but he could kill enough to even the odds. He concentrated on the largest of them-a giant of a man who held a beaked axe high-and began to make arcane gestures.

  “Sylar cu monaviok, sho jebus loinonn! ” he shouted.

  A bolt of blue lightning shot from his fingers, raining sparks as it sizzled through the air.

  He watched with satisfaction as it shot straight at the big knight. It would kill him when it struck, then it would fork, spraying death upon the men next to him. Then it would fork again, and again, continuing until it spent itself. A vicious smile curled his lips.

  Suddenly a voice, a woman’s voice, shouted spidery words of its own. He frowned, listening, then gasped as he recognized the spell. An instant later, a dome of golden energy appeared around the knights. The lightning bolt stopped as though it had hit something solid, and exploded into a million glittering sparks. The air shimered as Andras’s magic evaporated.

  He saw her now, riding near the rear of the party: the blood-woman, her crimson robes standing out amongst the knights’ snowy tabards. He could feel her, too, and that feeling told him he was doomed. Her power was too great. Whatever spell he used, she would repel it.

  He tried anyway, hurling fire and lightning, frost and poison. He cast enchantments to change the stones beneath their horses’ hooves to mud, fill the air with whirling blades, turn their bones to jelly. Nothing worked. Every time, the Red Robe’s voice rose in answer to his own, countering his spells. Not a single knight fell, and soon his strength began to flag. Strangely, the sorceress didn’t fight back. She only worked to hinder him, and all at once he knew why.

  They’re not going to kill me, he thought. They want me alive, so they can burn me.

  Memories of Master Nusendran, curling and blackening at the stake, filled his mind. His head growing light, Andras stumbled and nearly fell from the wall.

  “Dark One, save me!” he cried, but Fistandantilus did not answer.

  The quasitas attacked. Sword and mace danced, and the air filled with smoke. Two more men fell, but the rest rode on. Without the element of surprise, the demons were no match for the Kingpriest’s warriors.

  Through the sundered gates the knights came, the man-mountain first, axe at the ready. Spying Andras, he shouted a vile curse in Old Karthayan, and started to charge up the stairs. Andras flung a lance of pure energy at him, but the sorceress spoke, and the bolt exploded before it was even halfway to him. Furious, the huge knight kept coming-until a voice called out from behind.

  “Marto! Wait. He’s mine.”

  The huge knight didn’t look happy about it, but he stopped. Behind him, from among the knights rapidly filling the courtyard, came a man with the badge of an officer on his tabard. Sword in hand, he strode past the one named Marto. The Red Robe followed at a distance. Andras didn’t recognize her face.

  “Traitorous bitch,” he snarled. “They will destroy all magic before they are done!”

  The Red Robe said nothing, only watched him with narrow eyes, waiting for his next spell. She needn’t have bothered. Andras no longer had the strength to warm a cup of water.

  The knight strode forward, raising the visor of his helm. Andras started when he saw the man’s empty eyes-so empty he had to look away. He knew those eyes, knew the stories.

  This was the Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s favorite. Unsmiling, he leveled his blade at Andras.

  “In the name of Beldinas, Kingpriest of Istar and Paladine’s Voice upon Krynn,” the knight declared, “I arrest you for the slaughter of my order in the Bilstibo of Lattakay. Surrender, and your life will be spared.”

  Andras nearly laughed aloud. He saw the lie. Surrender would only delay his death. He stepped back, again pleading silently for Fistandantilus to come to his aid, but the archmage was not listening, or did not care. The Twice-Born stepped toward him. Andras sighed, beaten.

  Then, sneering, he leaped forward.

  “No!” the Red Robe cried.

  The Twice-Born made a hasty attempt to pull back. Too late. His sword slid through Andras’s flesh, scraped against bone, and burst out his back. Andras smiled, staring into the knight’s shocked, empty eyes.

  “To the Abyss with you, and all your kind,” he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. His knees buckled and darkness came crashing down.

  CHAPTER 16

  The Black Robe collapsed. Wrenching Ebonbane from Cathan’s hand, the sorcerer fell onto his side and lay still. The pool of blood beneath him seeped in runnels through the cracks in the stone. It eddied against Cathan’s boots, but still he didn’t move. He could only stare at the body in shock. Down below in the courtyard, the knights were also silent, save for a few whispered prayers. There were few sins worse, in the eyes of the holy church, than taking one’s own life.

  “Damn!” Leciane cried, rushing forward. She knelt beside Cathan, heedless of the blood soaking into her robes. “We were supposed to capture him alive!”

  Cathan shook his head. “He just … jumped onto my sword.” He furrowed his brow.

  “I’ve been hunting evil for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

  Leaning over the Black Robe, Leciane studied his burned face. “Everyone knows what the church does to those they capture. Sweet Lunitari!” Gasping, she drew back from the body.

  “What?” Cathan reached to his scabbard, then realized Ebonbane was still lodged in the sorcerer’s body. He drew his dagger instead.

  She held up a hand, silencing him. For a moment, all was quiet, except for the moan of the wind, then she looked up, her eyes wide.

  “He’s still alive,” she murmured.

  Staring at the Black Robe, Cathan signed the triangle, then bent down beside her.

  Yanking off his glove, he pressed his fingertips against the man’s throat. The lifebeat was weak, but it was there. The bubbles of blood on the Black Robe’s lips trembled as he drew a faltering breath.

  Cathan probed the sorcerer’s flesh, then sighed. “It makes no difference. He’s as good as dead, anyway-it’s only a matter of time.”

  “Not if someone heals him.”

  Cathan shook his head. “No healer could do anything about this. Only the Lightbringer could-and it’s a three-day ride back to Lattakay.” He raised his dagger, setting it against the man’s breast. He would strike true and deep this time.

  Leciane’s hand clamped around his wrist. “I know a spell,” she said.

  Cathan groaned. “Of course you do.”

  “A teleporting spell. He’d be back in Lattakay before you can blink,” she insisted, her grip on his arm tightening. “Cathan, trust me.”

  This is wrong, he told
himself. He knew if he asked any of the other knights, they would tell him the same. The man was evil. Lord Tavarre and hundreds of others were dead because of him. But the Kingpriest’s instructions had been clear: Bring the sorcerer back alive, if possible. It was possible, but only with sorcery.

  The tip of his dagger dimpled the wizard’s blood-drenched robes. It would only take one quick shove.

  “Cathan, he chose to die this way,” Leciane murmured. “If you kill him, you help him steal your victory.”

  He stopped, looking at her for a long moment. Her lips were close to his, showing a sliver of teeth between them. The look in her eyes-a little afraid, a little hopeful-made his blood burn. The urge to kiss her again nearly overwhelmed him.

  Blinking, he returned to his senses. Slowly he lifted the dagger from the Black Robe’s breast and slid it back into its sheath. “All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. But you’re taking me with you.”

  The others were opposed-most of all Sir Marto, which was no surprise. “This relying on witchcraft has to stop,” the big knight rumbled.

  “Without magic, we never would have found this place,” Cathan argued.

  “That’s no excuse,” Marto insisted. “No good will come of this.”

  In the end, though, the knights bade Cathan farewell. They would camp in the red-stone monastery tonight, burn their slain brothers on the morrow, then begin the ride south again. By the week’s end, they would rejoin their fellows in Lattakay.

  Leciane sat on a stone near the Black Robe, studying her spellbook. The teleportation spell was hard enough with two. To move three would take more power than she had left after the fight. Every now and then she looked up from the page to study the sorcerer, who still lay where he’d fallen, Ebonbane lodged in his breast. Stubbornly, the sorcerer refused to die, and finally Leciane rose and nodded to Cathan.

  When she spoke the words and the silver light flared around them, Cathan’s stomach didn’t lurch as he’d feared, and there was no dream-falling dizziness. The world just simply vanished, then reformed as the courtyard before the cathedral in Lattakay. Six very shocked-looking knights stared at them.