Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

The open square that surrounded the Tower was nearly as large as the Barigon , but unlike that holy plaza, it was empty. No one wanted to build their homes or shops near the sorcerers’ haven, and certainly no one came here to pay homage, as the faithful did on the Great Temple’s steps. Here and there, weeds peeped between the paving stones. Even those who cared for Istar’s roads kept away.

Cathan paused for a time at the square’s edge, staring up. There had been a barrow in the hills near Luciel that children swore was haunted. He’d gone to it once, on a dare, and touched its stone door. He’d fought the dead since then-the ghouls at the Hullbreaker had hardly been the first-but memories of the barrow still made him shiver in his sleep, sometimes. Staring at the Tower, Cathan felt as he had then. His scalp prickled, the hair on his arms stood up. A sour taste flooded his mouth.

It was an odd building, to be sure, unlike the rest of the Lordcity’s columns and domes: a solid slab of milky crystal, all sharp angles, faceted so that it threw off shards of rainbow light when the sun’s light struck it just right. It bore no carvings or ornaments, and its windows were all but invisible. Its five red turrets were like the bloody fingers in the poems, bent slightly so that they looked like a grasping claw. They were crystal, too: solid garnet, their value inestimable. Sometimes eldritch light shone from their tips while shadow moved within the Tower’s translucent walls, but not today. Today it stood quiet, bright but ominous, a thing of beauty that made Cathan shudder to be so close.

His shivering grew worse when he saw the grove. All the city Towers had groves, though the trees in each were different: oaks in Palanthas, pines in Daltigoth, swaying cypresses in Losarcum. Istar’s was of olive trees, perennially heavy with black and green fruit that never seemed to fall. Song-birds twittered from branch to branch, and the bushes rustled as unseen animals shambled about. Though wilder than the Temple’s gardens, it still should have been a beautiful place-but like the Tower itself, there was something wrong about it, as insidious as a scorpion in a basket of roses. Magic dwelt within the wood.

Just as the trees differed, so did the enchantments the mages placed to keep men from passing through their groves. In Palanthas, one couldn’t take three steps without becoming overwhelmed by mindless terror. Even doughty Solamnic Knights fled, screaming of claws in the earth and faces in the trees. In Daltigoth, the whispering of the wind through the branches lulled folk’s wits, plunging them into deep slumber. When they woke, they found themselves lying just outside the forest’s edge. In Losarcum, the exotic scents that hung within the grove drove men mad with passion, muddying their wits with illusions of their hearts’ greatest desires, then leading them away from Tower, back out of the grove again.

The grove in Istar clouded the mind, too, but in a different way. Those who entered disappeared without a trace-sometimes for hours, sometimes days. They always emerged again, but when they did they had no idea what had happened to them or even why they had entered in the first place … only a deep certainty that they did not want to return.

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.