Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Cathan had seen the ritual many times, but he still held his breath as the girl let her escort ease her down onto the stony ground. Whatever wasting disease she had, it was nearly done with her. Another week, at most, and she would be dead. Still, she managed to smile as she bowed her head before the Kingpriest. Beldinas’s right hand reached out, touching the crown of her head. His left went to his throat, pulling out his sacred medallion, the platinum triangle of the god. The silence was even heavier than the fog as he closed his eyes and began to pray.

“ Palado, ucdas pafiro, tas pelo laigam fat, mifiso soram flonat. Tis mibam cailud, e tas orarn nomass lud bipum. Sifat. ”

Paladine, father of dawn, thy touch is a balm, thy presence ends pain. Heal this girl, and let thy grace enfold us. So be it.

The light began as a flicker, a wisp of silver flame where his hand touched her. It grew quickly, however, brighter with every heartbeat until in enveloped them both. With it came a sound, a sweet, pure tone like a dulcimer with crystal strings, and the scent of rose attar amid the damp. The men and women-both the Lattakayans and the Kingpriest’s entourage-first stared in wonder, then had to look away, unable to bear the brilliance of the glow. Cathan’s eyes met Wentha’s, and darted away. He remembered a night, twenty years ago, when that same light had enfolded her, changing his life forever.

“Blossom,” he murmured, weeping.

The light flickered, then, and grew dim. Wiping away his tears, Cathan turned to look, though he already knew what he would see: the same girl, still weak but whole again, color back in her cheeks, the pain smoothed from her face. Eyes closed, she sank back. Her companion caught her gently, easing her down. At the same time, Beldinas also staggered, his strength depleted by the miracle-strength he would regain in moments, but now his knees buckled.

Cathan took a step toward him-in the old days, he had been the one to bear the Lightbringer up, more often than not-but Quarath was quicker. The elf put a slender arm about the Kingpriest’s shoulders, helping him walk back to his chariot.

With the fog eddying around them, they rode into Lattakay.

The tiny, winged form clung to the rocks, its talons sunk into the cracks. Its fanged face leered as it watched the columns of knights and priests pass through the arched, chalcedony gates. With its preternatural eyes, it saw through the fog easily, yet those it spied on could not see it. Its tail twitched back and forth, dripping venom.

For a moment, the desire to bite, to kill, to feed, nearly overwhelmed the quasito. It saw itself falling upon those below, tearing flesh, gnawing through tendons, sucking the marrow from broken bones. This was what it wanted to do, the thirst that had burned within it since it first drew breath.

It tensed, wings spreading, ready to spring …

Then stopped. The master had promised it blood, but only at the right time. If it attacked before then, the master’s fury would be great. Even more than it wanted to feed, the quasito wanted to please the master. It was here to spy only, and to return when the men in metal skin arrived at the white city. Now they were here.

Hissing as the last of them passed through the gates, the quasito leaped from the rock and soared away through the mist.

“Come, Holiness,” said Revered Son Suvin as he led the Kingpriest and his entourage between the white slabs of the city’s buildings. There were secrets in his smile. “There is something you must see.”

They walked through the city’s streets unhindered. Ordinarily, folk crowded and clamored when the Lightbringer appeared. Today, however, though the knights formed their accustomed protective ring about him and the hierarchs, the people stayed back.

They turned out by the thousands to watch the processional pass up the broad avenues, but instead of thronging they simply lined the road, half-hidden in the mist, their faces solemn and their voices silent.

The road ran on, passing beneath one looming arch after another until it widened into a courtyard where a broad reflecting pool lay. The plaza was a semicircle. Beyond, there was nothing but the fog, billowing as the morning sun fought to burn it away. They were at the edge of the Upper City, where the cliffs dropped down toward the wharf.

The entourage stopped, knights and clerics spreading out around the pool. The mist was lifting. Cathan looked at Leciane. She stood alone, her brow furrowed as she stared into the mists. Her fingers clenched and unclenched, her lips forming soundless words … not praying, he realized, but running through her spells. His scalp prickling, he touched his sword-then jerked his hand away, irritated. His sister was one of those who had brought them here. This was no ambush.

Keeping one eye on the sorceress-she was alone, the Lattakayans giving her a wide berth as well-he edged to his left, toward Wentha.

“What is this place?” he whispered. “Why have you brought us here?”

She laughed, the same musical sound he remembered. “You’ve waited long enough to come here, brother. The Kingpriest bides-you should too.”

Cheeks reddening, Cathan flicked a glance toward Beldinas. He had come down from his chariot again, Quarath at his side, and stood with the Patriarch, gazing out past the cliffs edge. His eyes shone with such intensity, it seemed they might burn through the fog.

Frowning, Cathan followed his gaze.

Suddenly, there was something there, where there should be nothing at all: a huge shadow, looming through the murk.

Cathan sucked in a breath, yanking Ebonbane from its sheath. Around the courtyard, the other knights did the same. Lord Tavarre looked fierce as he brought up his blade before him. The ring they’d formed around the Lightbringer tightened. Leciane raised her hands, ready to cast whatever spells she might need. Cathan took a step toward her. The Kingpriest had ordered him to protect her, after all.

“It’s all right,” Wentha said, putting a hand on his arm. “Look at the others.”

The Lattakayans were smiling broadly now, their eyes gleaming with pride. So was his sister. The tip of Cathan’s sword wavered uncertainly, then lowered.

The mists swirled. Then, unable to withstand the sunlight, they parted.

“Palado Calib,” Cathan breathed.

It was a statue, the largest he had ever seen. It was made of glass.

It stood at the mouth of the harbor, straddling it with one foot on the northern limb of the land, and the other on the southern. It was hard to tell from this far away, but Cathan was sure it was at least two hundred feet tall-a man’s form, facing toward the city, hands clasped to form the sacred triangle. It had a skeleton of bronze, a latticework that gave support to pane after pane, tempered and stained in the Micahi style. The robes it wore were silver, the jewels on its breastplate many-hued, and the gems surmounting its mighty crown sparkled like the rabies they were meant to mimic. Amid the familiar face were two motes of blue, so pale as to seem otherworldly. The artists who crafted the statue had captured the look and majesty of Beldinas. It glittered in the sunlight, bathing Lattakay’s white walls with color.

“A gift, from a grateful people,” proclaimed the Patriarch. “No Kingpriest ever had a monument so grand.”

Beldinas strode forward as though sleepwalking, bathed in the statue’s light. For a moment, it seemed he might step right over the cliffs edge, and Quarath’s hand rose to stop him, but he halted at the last moment and stood still, staring at the statue. All eyes followed him, measuring him against his image across the harbor. At length the Lightbringer turned to face the dazzled assemblage.