Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

The incantation was tricky, the gestures that accompanied it even more so. Leciane took a breath, held it, closed her eyes, and began.

“Kair tsavandai ja bulondik, hi yugann oidil shalatiya …”

Her lips formed the words, her hands the motions, without flaw. She had learned this spell in her youth, and though she hadn’t cast it in years, the day’s study had awoken her memories. Magic flowed hard into her, arching her back, making her fingers clench like claws. She held it pent, breathing slowly while she continued to chant. Then, with a shudder, she let the power flow out of her again.

If anyone had been in the room, they would have seen her turn rigid, her hands frozen in a cupping gesture, and a brief, icy shimmer in the air about her, but nothing more. The spell’s energy became a coursing river, flowing up out of her and higher still, through the roof and beyond. Her spirit went with it, into the night sky. She saw all of Lattakay beneath her, its buildings laid out like bloody bones beneath the silver and crimson moons, and the statue, gleaming above the harbor. The stars glimmered on black satin above.

Show me, she thought, focusing her will upon the spell. There is danger here. Let me see!

The magic swept down, carrying her with it as it glided across rooftops and down boulevards. It pooled in squares and cascaded over the cliff face to the Lower City. Those it passed neither saw nor heard anything-except a breath of cold wind upon them. On it went … on, on … searching for what she needed to find. The danger was out there. She could feel it now, a spike of cold iron in her.

Where is it? she demanded. Show me!

She was dropping again, riding the spell’s power back down … to an alley near the wharf, garbage and fish guts strewn and stinking, and something there deep within the mist: a shape hunched over the carcass of a rat, gnawing and gnashing, tearing off strips of flesh and wolfing them down. Tiny bones crunched as the small shape fed.

She frowned-or at least her body did, back in the manor. What was the creature? Some kind of feral cat? A wild monkey or a young goblin? Perhaps …

It stopped and looked at her, and her soul turned to ice.

The quasito glared, the gleam in its eyes changing from yellow to blood red. Dropping the dead rat, it opened its mouth to hiss, clouding the air with red mist. Without warning it sprang, the stinger on its tail raising to strike …

“No!”

Her eyes flew open. She was back in Wentha’s manor. Outside, people were cheering and laughing as flares of green and silver light shone between the shutters: the Karthayan setting off his fireworks. The new year had come.

The magic’s strength left her, and she slumped over. The world slipped into inky darkness and dreams of red eyes and twitching tails.

Firstmonth, 943 I.A.

The morning fog swirled as the golden, dragon-headed barge glided across the water.

Chained minotaurs worked the oars, speeding the boat along faster than humans ever could, while on the deck above the Kingpriest and his court stood, watching as the mighty walls of the Bilstibo drew nearer. The great arena, its massive white walls covered with relief carvings of battle scenes, was a truly awe-inspiring sight. Its highest banners, however-bearing the Divine Hammer’s blazon for the tournament-did not even reach to the waist of the great robed statue towering behind it.

Cathan looked up at the Udenso as the barge drew near to the jetties on the island’s east side. The mist, still lifting from the city as the morning came of age, hid its head, eddying about its shoulders in gliding wisps. His gaze dropped to Beldinas, standing ruby-crowned at the barge’s prow, and he shivered. The likeness was shocking, almost as if the Kingpriest and the statue were twins.

A groan roused him from his reverie, and he looked to his left and chuckled. Leciane sat with her head in her hands, her face pinching in rhythm with the oars. She had been that way since he’d gone to fetch her from her room, shortly after sunrise. She wasn’t alone, either-the new year’s festivities had left many the worse for wear. Sir Marto, for one, had consumed so much wine that the other knights had first thought him dead when they tried to wake him.

“I thought your people were used to boats,” he said.

She glared at him, her dusky face the color of old parchment. “Not every Ergothian is born on the deck of a galleon,” she croaked. “I just wish I could remember how I put myself into this state.”

Cathan laughed. Leciane could recall nothing at all after the first courses of the banquet. Again, she was far from the only one.

“MarSevrin!” barked a voice behind him. “I hope you’re ready to be stomped into the dust today!”

Cathan glanced over his shoulder. Lord Tavarre stood near the stern, his armor flashing as the sun struggled to break through the overhanging mist. A nasty grin split his scarred face. Cathan responded in kind.

“Enjoy your dreams, old man,” he taunted back. “We’ll see who’s still standing when the morrow comes.”

Tavarre’s eyes widened, filling with mock outrage. Then the roar of his laughter rang across the harbor, bouncing off the walls of the Bilstibo as the barge bumped to a stop at the jetty.

“Aye, lad,” he said. “We’ll see.”

The arena seemed even larger up close, its battlements ringed around with smaller statues. Once, minotaur heroes had looked down from atop its walls. Now men and gods had taken their place. Standing between them, trumpeters blared a fanfare on silver horns as Beldinas stepped off the barge. Cathan followed, placing a hand on Leciane’s arm to steady her. She made a sound that might have been a mumbled thanks.

The Patriarch’s private entrance was huge and vaulted, a massive platinum triangle shining above it. As they passed through, Cathan heard the crowds: a rumble of cheers and stamping feet, with the jangle of women’s silver bracelets rising above the din. He looked back at Tavarre. The Grand Marshal was grinning like a fool, and Cathan realized he was, too. The noise was for them as much as for the Lightbringer.

They emerged into open air once again, striding out onto the wide, dusty expanse of the arena’s floor. According to the tales, the minotaurs had fought dragons for sport in this very place, long ago. Cathan could believe it. He’d seen real battles fought on smaller fields.

The cheering grew from a rumble into a storm as they crossed the sands. The Lattakayans were stoic about religion, but when it came to their games they were deafening. Most of the knights were already there, resplendent in their mail and snowy tabards, arrayed in orderly ranks. The other warriors who had come for the tourney were not so disciplined. They stood in clusters, glancing nervously at the combined might of the Divine Hammer. Cathan and Tavarre strode over to join their fellows, smiling all the way.

Beldinas stepped forward, silver light shining around him, and raised his hands. The crowd grew still, muttering to one another and glancing skyward, where the Udenso loomed. The statue’s presence should have made him seem small, but somehow it did not.

Instead, if anything, he seemed the larger of the two.

“Twenty years,” he began, his voice filling the Bilstibo.

“For twenty years, I have ruled this realm. For twenty years, I have healed its people. For twenty years, I have striven to drive darkness from its cities and provinces.” He raised his head, looking up at the seas of faces. “The last has proven the hardest. Evil knows no honor, no shame. It hides-in caves, in the wilderness, in men’s hearts. It will not let go its grip on our empire easily.