Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Then, sneering, he leaped forward.

“No!” the Red Robe cried.

The Twice-Born made a hasty attempt to pull back. Too late. His sword slid through Andras’s flesh, scraped against bone, and burst out his back. Andras smiled, staring into the knight’s shocked, empty eyes.

“To the Abyss with you, and all your kind,” he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. His knees buckled and darkness came crashing down.

The Black Robe collapsed. Wrenching Ebonbane from Cathan’s hand, the sorcerer fell onto his side and lay still. The pool of blood beneath him seeped in runnels through the cracks in the stone. It eddied against Cathan’s boots, but still he didn’t move. He could only stare at the body in shock. Down below in the courtyard, the knights were also silent, save for a few whispered prayers. There were few sins worse, in the eyes of the holy church, than taking one’s own life.

“Damn!” Leciane cried, rushing forward. She knelt beside Cathan, heedless of the blood soaking into her robes. “We were supposed to capture him alive!”

Cathan shook his head. “He just … jumped onto my sword.” He furrowed his brow.

“I’ve been hunting evil for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

Leaning over the Black Robe, Leciane studied his burned face. “Everyone knows what the church does to those they capture. Sweet Lunitari!” Gasping, she drew back from the body.

“What?” Cathan reached to his scabbard, then realized Ebonbane was still lodged in the sorcerer’s body. He drew his dagger instead.

She held up a hand, silencing him. For a moment, all was quiet, except for the moan of the wind, then she looked up, her eyes wide.

“He’s still alive,” she murmured.

Staring at the Black Robe, Cathan signed the triangle, then bent down beside her.

Yanking off his glove, he pressed his fingertips against the man’s throat. The lifebeat was weak, but it was there. The bubbles of blood on the Black Robe’s lips trembled as he drew a faltering breath.

Cathan probed the sorcerer’s flesh, then sighed. “It makes no difference. He’s as good as dead, anyway-it’s only a matter of time.”

“Not if someone heals him.”

Cathan shook his head. “No healer could do anything about this. Only the Lightbringer could-and it’s a three-day ride back to Lattakay.” He raised his dagger, setting it against the man’s breast. He would strike true and deep this time.

Leciane’s hand clamped around his wrist. “I know a spell,” she said.

Cathan groaned. “Of course you do.”

“A teleporting spell. He’d be back in Lattakay before you can blink,” she insisted, her grip on his arm tightening. “Cathan, trust me.”

This is wrong, he told himself. He knew if he asked any of the other knights, they would tell him the same. The man was evil. Lord Tavarre and hundreds of others were dead because of him. But the Kingpriest’s instructions had been clear: Bring the sorcerer back alive, if possible. It was possible, but only with sorcery.

The tip of his dagger dimpled the wizard’s blood-drenched robes. It would only take one quick shove.

“Cathan, he chose to die this way,” Leciane murmured. “If you kill him, you help him steal your victory.”

He stopped, looking at her for a long moment. Her lips were close to his, showing a sliver of teeth between them. The look in her eyes-a little afraid, a little hopeful-made his blood burn. The urge to kiss her again nearly overwhelmed him.

Blinking, he returned to his senses. Slowly he lifted the dagger from the Black Robe’s breast and slid it back into its sheath. “All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. But you’re taking me with you.”

The others were opposed-most of all Sir Marto, which was no surprise. “This relying on witchcraft has to stop,” the big knight rumbled.

“Without magic, we never would have found this place,” Cathan argued.

“That’s no excuse,” Marto insisted. “No good will come of this.”

In the end, though, the knights bade Cathan farewell. They would camp in the red-stone monastery tonight, burn their slain brothers on the morrow, then begin the ride south again. By the week’s end, they would rejoin their fellows in Lattakay.

Leciane sat on a stone near the Black Robe, studying her spellbook. The teleportation spell was hard enough with two. To move three would take more power than she had left after the fight. Every now and then she looked up from the page to study the sorcerer, who still lay where he’d fallen, Ebonbane lodged in his breast. Stubbornly, the sorcerer refused to die, and finally Leciane rose and nodded to Cathan.

When she spoke the words and the silver light flared around them, Cathan’s stomach didn’t lurch as he’d feared, and there was no dream-falling dizziness. The world just simply vanished, then reformed as the courtyard before the cathedral in Lattakay. Six very shocked-looking knights stared at them.

“Hold!” Cathan shouted, raising a hand as the men went for their swords. They recognized him and glanced at one another in confusion. “It’s all right,” he said.

Slowly, the knights lowered their blades. Their wide eyes took in the Black Robe, curled on the ground, his blood staining the paving stones. “Is-is that-?” began one of the men.

“We must see the Kingpriest at once,” Cathan replied brusquely.

The knights glanced at one another again, then two broke away, hurrying into the temple. They returned with Quarath, the elf scowling as he made his way down the steps.

His lip curled when he saw the dying sorcerer.

“His Holiness is asleep,” he declared. “Why do you trouble him with this wretch?”

Cathan gestured to silence Leciane before she could speak. “Because we need his help, Emissary,” he replied. “This man will die without it.”

“Let him die, then,” the elf returned, drawing himself up. He gave the Black Robe a haughty glare.

Leciane took a step toward Quarath. “Listen to me,” she snapped. “Your precious Lightbringer asked for him alive. When he wakes, do you want to be the one to tell him the Black Robe who killed his men died out here while he was sleeping?”

Quarath looked at her coldly, but she didn’t back down. Finally, he seemed to reconsider. He turned, hurried back up the steps and into the church. A short time later he returned with the Kingpriest at his side. Beldinas looked bleary, but the moment he saw the Black Robe, the fatigue vanished from his face. The aura around him brightened, and his eyes turned hard as blue diamonds.

“So,” he said. “This is he.”

Cathan nodded, bowing low. Quickly, he described the battle with the quasitas and his confrontation with the sorcerer atop the abbey wall. Beldinas listened, nodding. When Cathan told how the sorcerer had tried to kill himself, the Kingpriest and Quarath both signed the triangle.

“You were right to bring him here,” Beldinas said. “His life belongs to Paladine-he will die as the god chooses.” He bent down, checking the wizard’s lifebeat, then turned to Quarath. “Go ready a cell and the necessary restraints. Have the acolytes bring a litter, so we can bear him inside. He will last a while longer before the wound kills him.”

The elf inclined his head obediently. With a final glare at Leciane, he hurried away.

Beldinas hunched over the Black Robe, probing the wound with a finger that came away dripping red. He turned to Leciane. “Do you know his name?”

“Andras,” she said. “Of Tarsis, I think. I recognize him by his burns-I helped adminster his Test in Daltigoth about eight years ago. He and his master vanished soon after and haven’t been seen since. The Conclave thought they were dead.”