Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Andras shuffled into the Bilstibo, his shackled ankles hindering his gait. Masked and blindfolded, he needed two knights to guide him toward the stake. Cathan had hand-picked Sir Marto and Sir Tithian for the duty, and they bore it well, neither hurrying the wizard nor giving him any chance to escape. As the highest-ranking knight in Lattakay, Cathan’s own place was here at the Kingpriest’s side, but he found himself wishing he could be with his men below.

The crowd turned ferocious at the sight of the wizard, cursing him in Old Seldjuki and both Istaran tongues, Church and Common. Some flung garbage down from the stands-rotten vegetables and fish innards that splattered upon the sands.

Leciane muttered something under her breath. Cathan glanced at her. She shook her head, fingering something at her throat-then looked away, seeing his eyes on her.

The other knights parted as Tithian and Marto guided the sorcerer past them, into the inner circle. Now, finally, the wizard began to falter, slowing and struggling. The two knights had to all but carry him, hoisting him up onto the kindling. Laughter echoed down from the stands. Marto and Tithian chained him to the stake. He fought them, but his struggles weakened. The crowd’s shouts rose as he finally lost his will and slumped, beaten.

With a jerk, Sir Marto tore away the blindfold that had covered the upper half of the sorcerer’s face. Golden hair spilled free. Andras’s eyes were squeezed shut, his cheeks wet with tears. The crowd laughed harder still.

“This is disgusting,” Leciane muttered as Marto and Tithian climbed down from the stake. “How can you do it in the name of a god of good?”

Beldinas did not hear her; within his aura, his gaze was far away. But Quarath did and he answered, his chin rising.

“Because of what he did, in the name of your magic,” the elf sniffed. “Do not forget, the man is a murderer, a hundred times over. How would you punish such a man, Lady?”

Leciane met Quarath’s haughty gaze, then looked away, muttering a curse. Again, her hand strayed to her throat.

The pounding of the drums grew louder as the priests circled Andras, choking the air with incense smoke. One stepped forward, flicking oil with a golden aspergillum-once, twice, thrice. The sorcerer flinched as the droplets struck him, moaning through the Tasdbo. The crowd roared.

“Rubudo!”

Be silent!

The voice was like a thunderclap, cutting through the din, leaving silence in its wake.

Thousands of eyes turned, looking up toward the balcony and the glowing figure who stepped forward, hands upraised.

“This is not godly,” said the Lightbringer. “Paladine would never mock the pain of another. That is for the followers of the dark gods. This man committed a great atrocity against us, and for that we shall punish him-but we should not take joy in that, my children. Mourn him instead, for his soul is lost, given to evil and condemned to eternal suffering in the Abyss. Let his death show to those who would wish harm upon the church or the Divine Hammer-this is what awaits those who spit in the god’s eye.”

The crowd seemed to shrink back as he spoke, their shoulders hunching with shame. At the stake, the sorcerer began to sob, tears and sweat dripping from his face. His wrists twisted within the manacles until blood ran down his arms. Beldinas looked down upon him, the Miceram blazing on his head.

“Andras of Tarsis,” he declared, “the crime you have committed is an act of cowardice and cruelty unequalled in the empire’s history. It has hurt us, make no mistake, but the people of Istar are not so easily beaten. Now, standing guilty before them, you must pay for your sins. Let the flames burn the darkness from your soul as the flesh from your bones.”

Raising his hands, he signed the sacred triangle. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat.”

In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might. So be it.

It was the signal the knights had been waiting for. Turning, they stepped toward the stake, torches held high. The crowd held its breath. Even Andras was silent, collapsing as his senses finally failed him. The torches lowered …

“Vincil,” Leciane murmured.

Cathan was among the first to feel the magic, surging through the air like a gathering storm. Eyes wide, he turned to face the sorceress. She clenched something in her fist, on a broken chain-an amulet. Sorcery seethed about it, sparkling with orange light. With a gasp, he reached for her.

Too late. The spell had begun.

A great gout of smoke erupted around the stake, purple and sparking, rumbling with thunder as miniature lightning bolts played within. It spread quickly, pushing the knights back, smothering the flames where the torches had already touched. Andras vanished from sight, the vapors instantaneously devouring him. Cathan knew at once the sorcerer was gone.

He turned back toward Leciane, his eyes wide. She didn’t see him. Her eyes were trained on the sands below.

Before he could make another move, the magic burst free, streaking upward from the smoke-shrouded stake in a great fierce torrent. Up and up it poured, violet and scarlet and sapphire blue. It curved as it rose, like the plume of a geyser on a windy day-but the wind wasn’t what propelled it. It arched through the air, over the harbor, and straight into the Udenso.

The sky above Lattakay seemed to shudder as sorcery poured into the great, glass icon.

It went on for a long time, the magic coruscating as it flowed through the panes. A loud chiming filled the air, the groan of bronze beneath it. Down on the sand, the smoke cleared.

Sure enough, Andras had vanished, and the stake with him, but hardly anyone noticed.

They were all looking up.

The statue had opened its eyes.

That’s not possible, Cathan thought.

With a horrible, ear-splitting creak, the Udenso moved, swiveling its head to look down upon the arena. Its body twisted, panes of glass shattering as its joints bent. Glittering fragments fell away from it. Screams rang out from the crowds as its eyes- living eyes, as blue and strange as Beldinas’s-fixed upon the man who bore its likeness.

“The Black Robe is ours,” said its high and ringing voice. “We will show him justice, not you. The Order of High Sorcery bows to no man, not even the Lightbringer.”

All across the gallery-all across the Bilstibo -people scattered, screaming. Others stood still, staring with shocked eyes at the statue that had come to life.

Beldinas showed surprisingly little emotion. The Kingpriest looked back at his image, hands folded before him. He shut his eyes. The holy light around him swelled.

“Pridud ,” he spoke.

Break.

The statue stopped. For a moment, Cathan could have sworn he saw its brow furrow.

Then a blast of energy erupted from the Kingpriest, slamming into the great, glass face.

With a noise like the end of the world, the statue exploded.

Shards of glass flew in every direction, sparkling in the sunlight as they scattered into the harbor. The Udenso shattered into dust, filling the air with glinting motes. The latticework that had framed the glass remained, standing up briefly like some strange skeleton. Then, with the shriek of collapsing metal, it toppled backward, into the sea.

Looking out over the harbor from the temple’s highest balcony, Beldinas shook his head.

The ruins of the Udenso lay half-hidden beneath the water, the few shards of glass that still clung to it flashing in the afternoon sun. The ruins choked the channel, blocking the port so no ships could enter or leave. Lattakay’s merchant-barons were livid, knowing their business would slip away. The rest of the city shifted between rage and terror over what had happened at the execution. The Divine Hammer and the town guard had worked hard to keep the riots from happening. Now folk had calmed, and they lined the city’s stone wharf, staring through misty eyes at what had become of the their idol of the Lightbringer.