Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“As much as ever,” she said quickly-as true as it was a lie. She hadn’t ensorcelled Cathan, as she’d promised, and she hadn’t told Vincil about the kiss they’d shared. “I will do what I can, but I make no promises. Not with this Kingpriest.”

Vincil’s image nodded. “I’m not expecting anything-unless it’s the worst. Which reminds me …”

He disappeared for a moment, moving away from the table where his scrying bowl sat.

When he came back, he was dangling an amulet from his fingers on a chain. The medallion in its midst was a flame-orange gem, carved into facets that threw candlelight in every direction. As she watched, Vincil spoke several words of magic, swinging the charm above the surface of the scrying bowl, then dropped it. With a splash it fell through the mirror, practically into Leciane’s lap. It was still wet as she grabbed it and held it up to admire.

“What is it?” she asked.

“A signal for you to use if you cannot stop this thing from happening,” the highmage replied. “Grasp it tightly and say my name. Only if all hope is lost.”

Leciane frowned, turning the amulet in her hand, watching it sparkle and trying not to shiver. Her eyes flicked to the mirror and locked with his.

“I should never have helped them save him,” she muttered. If she’d just let Andras kill himself, things might have ended there.

“Yes, it was foolish,” Vincil agreed softly. “But you can’t turn iron back to ore, as they say in Thorbardin. Do what you can, Leciane. Lunitari light thy path.”

He was already fading from the glass as he signed the red moon’s disc with his thumb and forefinger. By the time Leciane returned the gesture, he was gone. She sat silently for a long time, swaying the amulet on its chain.

He was in a boat.

Andras could tell that much from the way the ground rocked and shifted beneath him, the salt on the wind that kissed his face. He couldn’t tell much else, though. The knights had blindfolded him when they dragged him out of his cell-one more indignity, after the chains and the ridiculous metal mask they’d strapped over his mouth. They’d escorted him down hallway, stair, and street for what had seemed like hours. Now they were stopped, and grunting sounds told him that men-or minotaurs, from the stink-were rowing away from the city’s jetties.

He grimaced, musing on the prospect of jumping overboard. Lattakay had a deep harbor, and his shackles were heavy. He would sink fast. Unfortunately, the knights had thought of that, too. Testing his chains, Andras found they had bolted him in place.

Nothing to do, then, but wait and count the oarstrokes.

“How fast do you think he’ll go up?” one of the nearby knights asked another. “I’ve got twenty falcons the bastard’ll be dead before a hundred-count, with those bloody robes he’s wearing.”

“You’re on, Marto,” said someone else. “Maybe, if the flames aren’t controlled. They’ll be low enough at the start, though, that he’ll have some time to beg for mercy first-or would, if it weren’t for the Tasabo … ”

They hadn’t taken the mask off in three days, giving him water to drink and broth to eat through a slit in the metal. It made his jaw ache and robbed him of the ability to do anything more than grunt. He knew they wouldn’t ever remove it while he was alive. That was smart of them.

It was just as well, though. The mask kept him from touching his face. The feel of smooth skin, where cracks and blisters once had ravaged it, made him physically ill. So did every itch, every twinge that came from the finger that had sprouted, fully formed, from his stump. Every sacrifice he had made for the magic seemed gone-healed, by the Lightbringer’s loathsome miracle touch. His burned face had been his mark of passage, the price he’d paid to work the Art. Now, save for his torn, dirty robes, he looked just like a common man.

Or a knight, he thought, choking back a chuckle.

A bump jarred him, and they stopped moving. The boat had come to a halt. He could hear mail jingling around him as the knights got up from their seats. He started to rise too, but someone yanked on his chains, making him stumble. The knights laughed as he banged his shins against the gunwale. Cursing, he climbed out, onto a dock.

The time had come. He could hear the clamor of the crowds, sense the tension. He’d impaled himself on another man’s sword to avoid this, but-by Paladine’s mercy, he thought wryly-it was going to happen anyway. All these years, after witnessing Nusendran’s fate, he’d lived in terror of the stake. Now that it was inevitable, he found his fear was no longer so overpowering.

Hands grabbed him, shoved him. He nearly fell again, righted himself, and began to stumble forward. As he went, still blindfolded, to meet his doom, only one thought circled in his mind.

Fistandantilus, where are you?

“Sweet Lunitari,” Leciane breathed, staring across the Bilstibo. “There are more of them out there than there were for the tourney.”

Cathan raised his eyebrows, following her gaze. The benches of the stands were packed with people, shoulder to shoulder, all jostling and craning for a better view of the sands below. They stood in the aisles and perched on the walls, where black banners had replaced the usual, colorful flags. Where they had cheered and stamped their feet for the Divine Hammer-had it really been almost a fortnight since that awful day? — now they jeered and hissed, forking their fingers against evil. Some had daubed their faces with paste made from ashes, drawing the sacred triangle or the burning hammer.

“Fupolo!” they shouted. “Bulmud, malscrono!”

Devil! Death to the sorcerer!

The stake stood in the center of the arena. It was tall and stout, cut from a great ironwood tree and capped by the imperial falcon and triangle in silver. More wood, soaked in holy oil, lay in a heap about its base. Armored knights, the survivors of the slaughter, ringed it around. In their hands they held blazing torches, the flames making their armor gleam like red gold. Priests of Paladine walked among them, swinging thuribles of incense and chanting purification prayers.

It was a sight Cathan had seen before, more times than he could count. He’d cut down a forest’s worth of stakes, it seemed. Today, though, everything about it was grander. Leciane was right: More people had come to watch Andras die than to watch the Hammer fight. He frowned, unsure whether that thought should trouble him.

“You can see why His Holiness couldn’t grant mercy,” he noted. “The people need to see evil punished, particularly today.”

Leciane scowled. For three days now she had pleaded with the Kingpriest, begging him to spare the Black Robe’s life. She might as well have been talking to the Udenso, glittering above the harbor in the glow of dawn. Now she looked to Beldinas, her eyes beseeching.

“Your Majesty,” she spoke, “this cannot happen. The Order of High Sorcery forbids it.”

Beldinas silenced her with a wave of his hand. “The Order of High Sorcery will learn not to let its initiates wreak mayhem,” he replied, the light around him flaring. “No matter what you wizards think, evil is not something to welcome among us.”

“But the magic-” Leciane insisted.

“Your magic is nothing, before the god’s wrath,” Beldinas returned.

The sorceress’s face colored, and she opened her mouth to reply. Before she could speak, however, Cathan nudged her.

“Listen,” he said. “Do you hear that?”

The jeering grew silent, the crowd’s anger fading to a rumble as another sound rose: the ominous boom of drums. Everyone turned, looking toward the arena’s entrance. The whole city of Lattakay seemed to draw a breath and hold it, waiting-then, in the stillness, he appeared.