Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Fistandantilus’s beard-the only part of his face Andras had ever seen-moved in a way the younger mage had come to recognize as a smile.

“Yes,” he said, then raised his head as if to sniff the air. He dropped his gore-streaked instruments on the table. “Yes. How did you know?”

“I’m not sure, Master. I just woke up and knew today was the day,” Andras said. His voice trembled with excitement.

“Excellent,” Fistandantilus replied. “Come, then. We’ll begin.”

In the five years that he’d studied under the Dark One, Andras had never gone past the laboratory. The glyphs upon the doors at its far end barred even him from passing through.

Now Fistandantilus strode up to those doors and, raising a withered hand, willed them to open. They swung outward without a sound, and the archmage stepped through. Quivering with anticipation, Andras followed.

Another passage stretched out into the gloom, lined with still more rune-encrusted doors, before giving way to a winding stairway that snaked even deeper into the earth. At the bottom, one more door opened to Fistandantilus, giving onto a little round room with rough-hewn walls and a ceiling where fat, pallid slugs left pearly trails of slime. Beneath, in the middle of the floor, was a circular pool filled with water that glowed red from something far beneath the surface. Andras peered into it but could not see the source of the light. The pool looked to be bottomless.

“The Pit of Summoning,” Fistandantilus said. “Your revenge begins here. You remember the spell?”

Andras nodded. He remembered every spell the archmage had taught him. He had practiced them, day after day, for years. He muttered the incantations in his sleep.

“Begin,” the Dark One said and stepped back.

Andras licked his lips, stepping close to the pool. Its surface was still, like a sheet of Micahi glass. His heart raced as he stared into its fathomless depths. He shut his eyes, concentrating, calling the spell to his mind. As he did, his right hand dropped to his belt, drawing out a long, wavy-bladed knife. Clenching it in his fist, he began to weave the fingers of his left hand through the air.

“ Suvet kajanto asofik yabengis zo ,” he chanted. “ Daku faban harga, ben odu lamorai! ”

As he recited the incantation, the red glow beneath the water grew brighter, like metal pulled from a forge. The surface began to move as well, churning as some great heat welled up below. The water hissed where it splashed upon the rocky floor, evaporating into steam.

Andras smiled-the spell had begun to work. The rush of it through his body intoxicated him, but there was one thing he still had to do, to make it complete. With ritual slowness, he lifted the wavy-bladed knife, then placed its blade between the third and fourth fingers of his left hand. Clenching his teeth, he tightened his grip on the hilt, then drew it sharply down, toward the heel of his palm.

Blood sprayed. His little finger dropped into the pool with a splash.

The pain was so intense that he nearly vomited, spoiling the spell. At the last instant, however, he fought back his gorge and jammed his maimed hand into the crook of his other arm. The dagger dropped, clattering on the ground. Gnashing his teeth, he bent down over the water, watching, waiting …

The first body bobbed to the surface soon after. It was small, the size of a human baby, with long, spindly limbs tipped with hooked claws. Its skin was the pallid color of a serpent’s belly, shot through with writhing blue veins. Tiny, batlike wings drooped from its shoulder blades, and a bony tail snaked out from its backside, tipped with a stinger the size of a spearhead. A caul covered its oversized head, stretched tight over sunken eyes, upturned nose, and a mouth full of jagged fangs. The body floated on the surface of the pool, arms and legs flopping as the roiling water rolled it over and over.

Quasito, the bestiaries called it: an imp from the pits of the Abyss. Andras had brought it here.

Andras stared in horror. He had not known what would come out of the pit, only that something would. Now that he knew, part of him wanted to send the hideous thing back to whatever depths it had risen from.

He didn’t. Stooping down, he reached out over the pool and caught hold of one of its legs. The imp was clammy and rubbery and hung limp as he dragged it from the water.

Cringing, he reached out and pulled away the caul. It came off the quasito’s face with an awful sucking sound, and he flung it away.

As soon as it was off, the creature began to choke. Water sprayed from between its teeth, then it took a raspy breath, its arms and legs moving listlessly. Its eyes opened-cat’s eyes, glowing yellow in the gloom. They were eyes that hated and knew nothing else.

It will kill me, Andras thought, watching venom drip from the stinger as the tail twitched. It will kill me if I don’t do something.

He knew what that was. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he lowered his maimed hand to the quasito’ s mouth. It sniffed at the bleeding wound for a moment, then made an awful cooing sound, wrapped horny lips about it, and began to suckle.

Fistandantilus chuckled. “Well done. How does it feel to be a mother?”

Andras could make no reply. The sensation of the thing drinking his blood made it impossible to form a thought. All he managed was a low groan.

“I will leave you now,” said the Dark One. “I have my own work to do. You can see to the rest, when they come.”

When the archmage had gone, Andras pulled his hand away from the quasito’ s lips. It leered up at him, its face smeared with blood. Its eyes had changed-they still hated, but there was something else in them now. A connection-an ungodly bond had formed between him and the tiny monster.

A bubbling sound caught his attention. Another body had risen to the pool’s surface. As he watched, a third came up to join it. Looking down, he saw more pale shapes beneath the surface.

Andras picked up the first quasito and moved it away from the pit. Wearily, he turned back to the pool and began to fish out the others. The rest of his children.

Leciane was in the Lordcity for less than a week before she departed again, accompanying the Kingpriest and the rest of his court. That suited her fine-she was glad to leave. Not that Istar wasn’t every bit the wonder she’d heard it was. Its citadels and gardens made mighty Daltigoth seem squalid by comparison. She could have gladly lived the rest of her life within its walls without tiring of it.

The problem was, if it were up to the good folk of Istar, the rest of her life would be decidedly short.

When she first realized the knight His Holiness had sent to her was to be her personal escort, she’d nearly laughed aloud at his paranoia. To think the Lightbringer was so worried she might be a danger that he had assigned a watcher to her … now, she knew different. Sir Cathan kept near her side not for others’ protection but for her own. Even with him present, folk glared at her and made warding signs wherever she went. Witch, they called her, and godless whore. Some even spat, and once, in a crowded marketplace, someone had hurled a rotten persimmon in her face. That worse hadn’t followed was more Sir Cathan’s doing than her own. The knight had been able to talk the people into backing down-just barely. That was good, because she could not defend herself. Using magic against the mob would turn Istarans against all sorcerers, no matter what color robes they wore. With persimmon juice stinging her eyes and dripping from her chin, however, it had taken an effort of will to hold her temper.

After that incident, she’d kept more to the Temple, but while no one there threw fruit, it was no more hospitable. The clerics, from the lowest acolyte to First Son Adsem, all looked nervous or suspicious whenever she was around. Quarath glowered at her practically every moment they were within eyesight of each other. The Divine Hammer were no better. In fact, only three in the Temple ever spoke to her directly: Sir Cathan, Grand Marshal Tavarre, and the Lightbringer himself. The rest tried to avoid her as much as possible.