Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

When the last of the undead were destroyed, the eyes of the people turned to the Tower.

Many called for war against the wizards, but the emperor and the First Son both knew that weakened as it was by the undead, Istar could not pay the cost of such a campaign. Instead, Eldan went to the Tower and piled the remains of Salius Ruven’s soldiers before the grove.

“Workers of magic!” he proclaimed, “you have betrayed us-you who should have fought to protect this city. If sorcery will not befriends with Istar, then Istar will not befriends with sorcery. Remain within your Tower, but know this: If you act against us again, the next bones piled here will be your own.”

Quarath stepped back, looking at Beldinas. “So that’s why the wizards are so hated,” he said.

“It is one reason,” the Lightbringer replied. “There are others. It was a wizard, Galan Dracos, who led the Queen of Darkness’s forces in the Dragonwar a thousand years ago. Kurnos the Deceiver used magic against me when he sought to usurp the throne. And magic was certainly behind what happened at the Bilstibo. Evil and sorcery are seldom far apart, Emissary-and if the wizards have turned against Istar again, we may need to make good on First Son Eldan’s promise.”

He shut the book, his strange blue eyes fixed on Quarath. The elf met his gaze squarely.

“You realize, Holiness, that you are talking of holy war.”

The Kingpriest nodded, his voice turning to iron. “If it comes to it, yes. This bloodbath might only be the first part of a greater plan. If the wizards want war, they shall have it.”

Leciane had never felt so conspicuous in her life. It wasn’t only that she looked different-amid all the mourners in their deep blue garments, her red robes stood out like a bloodstain-but rather it was the way people looked at her. It had been one thing to bear the Istarans’ looks of distrust and disdain, but now in the courtyard before Lattakay’s alabaster temple, as the Divine Hammer held its funeral for the slain, the curled lips had turned into glares of outright hatred.

That rankled her, deeper than she cared to admit. She-not the Lightbringer-had cast the spell that drove the quasitas away. She had saved the knighthood and perhaps the city as well, but the stories folk were telling had it that she had thrown herself upon the Kingpriest, then Quarath had loyally come to the rescue, allowing Beldinas to wield his holy might and strike down the winged monsters. The people of Lattakay-even many in the imperial court-were more willing to accept that version as truth. Even though the Kingpriest issued proclamations thanking her for her aid, people had torn down those parchments almost as soon as they went up. Better to believe the infallible Lightbringer had prevailed on that dark day, than some outlander sorceress. It was a minor wonder the good folk of Lattakay hadn’t stormed her chambers at Lady Wentha’s manor and dragged her out to be stoned. Only the fact they were on holy ground seemed to stop them from doing it here.

The courtyard was filled with mourners, all of them reverently silent as one priest after another stood upon the temple’s broad, marble steps, invoking the gods’ blessing upon the pyre in the plaza’s midst. The pile of wood where the dead knights lay was huge-it had to be, to accommodate so many bodies-and it reeked of pitch. The Divine Hammer had placed all its dead upon that heap, except for one. Lord Tavarre was not to be burned with his fellow knights, as was the tradition of his order.

There had been some dispute about that among the knights, with the hide-bound senior officers demanding Tavarre-the only Grand Marshal the Hammer had ever known-meet the same fate as the men he’d commanded. In the end, though, the Kingpriest had mandated otherwise, seconded by Sir Cathan, who acted in the dead knight’s stead as master of the order. Tavarre’s body would instead go west, back to the highlands where he came from, so he could lie beside the wife and son he’d lost before Beldinas’s rise to power.

Now Urvas, the Grand Master of the clerics of Kiri-Jolith, was speaking. He was a bear of a man with a long beard the color of iron. The gilded armor beneath his surcoat caught the light of the westering sun. He had cut his hand, spilling his own blood as a sacrament in the Jolithian way, and was praying in the church tongue as he squeezed red droplets between clenched fingers.

“Tos bomas robam sellud, Muno Carnid,” Urvas intoned. “Oc du sifam oranuras tritam sellud, tus bibint on balfam utir…”

Give these men rest, Horned One. But give their sword-arms strength also, that they may fight on in the next world…

Leciane sighed, letting her mind wander. Quite naturally, it drifted to Vincil and the conversation they’d had the day after the slaughter, after she regained enough power to contact him. The forces she’d unleashed to defeat the quasitas had drained her. It had taken all her will simply to make the trip back from the arena that night without passing out. When she’d finally dared to call on the highmage, the scrying spell was weak, Vincil’s image faint and wavering.

When he heard what had happened, his dusky face had turned the color of sandstone.

“Merciful Lunitari,” he’d said, his voice faltering. “Please don’t tell me it was wizardry, Leciane. It had to be something else.”

“Like what?” she’d returned. “Swarms of quasitas don’t just roam the wilds-not these days, and certainly not in Istar. No, master … there is no explanation but magic, and the Istarans know it.”

Vincil’s eyes glinted. “It couldn’t have been one of the Order. Not even the Black Robes would be so brazen.”

“I didn’t think there were renegades with this kind of power,” she said.

“Neither did I,” he admitted. “I must discuss this with the Conclave.”

The next day, when she called on him, his face had been even more grim. The archmages of the Black Robes denied involvement, and no one knew of any rogue sorcerers who could wield such a spell. “Except Fistandantilus, of course,” Vincil had noted, “and this isn’t his way. It lacks subtlety.”

“So what, then?” Leciane had urged.

“I don’t know,” he’d replied. He’d hesitated, as if warring with himself, before plunging on. “Listen, Leciane. Use the Istarans. Lead them to whoever did this, but let them try to capture him.”

“All right,” she’d said. “And after?”

“After comes after.”

That didn’t please her-but it was nothing new. Vincil had long believed in crossing one chasm at a time. Two days had passed since then. She had been waiting for the Istarans to approach her for her help, waiting in vain.

At last, Urvas reached the end of his liturgy. As he spoke the final Sifat, he flicked his fist toward the pyre, peppering it with his own blood, Then he stepped aside, letting Lady Stefara, the elderly High Hand of Mishakal, come forward to heal his wound. A hush fell over the crowd, and within it a tension, the kind felt when a storm is about to break.

“Pilofiro,” some whispered. “Harken to the god’s chosen.”

And, sure enough, there he was: Beldinas, resplendent even in dark robes, the Miceram aglitter on his brow. He stepped forward with head bowed, the piercing eyes hooded in shadow. Across the courtyard, mourners and knights alike fell to their knees. Leciane did not, and drew even more glares. The Kingpriest looked up, forming Paladine’s sacred triangle, and began to speak-not in the church tongue but in common Istaran, so all could understand him.

“I have known dark days,” he said, his gentle voice echoing across the plaza. “I have watched those dear to me fall, horribly slain by evil. I have seen plague and suffering. I have looked into the eyes of demons and madmen. All of that, though, seems pale beside what happened here, on the year’s first day.