Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“No, you didn’t,” Vincil pressed. “You never thought about what you were doing, did you? And now I must make peace, whatever the cost. First, though, there is something we must know. Who trained you, after Nusendran? Who taught you to summon the quasitas?”

Andras looked up at the highmage, his eyes wide. He thought of Fistandantilus, who had saved his life, given him the power he craved, offered him the chance for revenge. He thought of what the Dark One would do, if he betrayed him. It would make the burning that haunted his nightmares seem like a summer’s day. Terror caught him in its claws, and slowly squeezed.

“No,” he gasped. “I won’t tell you. Don’t ask me that.”

“Don’t be an idiot, boy,” Ysarl said. “We will learn the truth from you, one way or another-and the other will not be pleasant.”

Andras shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. Tears leaked down his cheeks. “No,” he wept. “No, no, no …”

“Very well,” said the highmage. He sighed, resigned. “Ysarl.”

The old Black Robe began to chant soft, spidery words. Andras opened his eyes, his brain screaming at him to somehow flee. His body hung limp, however, suspended by whatever force held him fast. Caught, he could only watch Ysarl make passes through the air, drawing down power from the black moon.

“Ea kelgabon murvani ngartud lo purvanonn … ”

The magic coursed through the hall, focused on the shard of jet on the tip of Ysarl’s staff. Black light shone around the jewel, writhing like a nest of serpents-whipping, thrashing, twining about one another, growing more solid with each moment. Andras watched them form, horror twisting his bowels. Vincil looked on with tight lips, as did the rest of the archmages-even those of the White Robes, who normally would have cried out against such a dire spell.

I am a renegade, Andras thought. They care nothing for me.

At last Ysarl reached the end of his incantation. A cold leer twisting his mouth, he extended his staff toward Andras’s pale face.

“No,” Andras moaned.

The tendrils struck, lashing out in a sudden motion to seize his head. They were cold and damp, like something pulled from a rock far beneath the sea. They reeked of decay.

Tighter and tighter they grasped, covering his eyes, working their way into his ears, his nostrils, his mouth … Some had barbs that dug into his flesh, others suckers that pulled at his skin.

He was nearly suffocating, the rancid taste of the tentacles thick in his mouth-and now, amid it all, a new sensation, not one in his body, but inside his head. The magic was forcing its way into his mind, tearing through his memories, his wishes, his fears, inspecting them one at a time and shoving them aside. Each was a silver needle, plunged deep into his brain. He gurgled, blood trickling from his nose. Please, he begged silently.

Sweet Nuitari, stop!

Deeper, the tentacles probed. All he was … all he’d ever been … they pushed through it. Deeper, deeper … heedless in their search for the one thing the Conclave wanted, the secret of his master. Deeper …

They found it, and everything went mad.

A shriek tore through Andras’s head, so loud and piercing he was sure his skull would crack. The tentacles went rigid, bulging as a fresh power coursed through them … then, with a horrid sound, they burst. Greasy gray ichor flew everywhere, spraying Vincil, Ysarl, and Andras alike. The highmage stumbled back, gagging. Andras retched as the tendrils in his mouth erupted.

Ysarl, however, simply stood where he was, frozen, his lips pulled back in a horrible rictus grin. His fingers clamped around his staff as the last tendrils ruptured-then, with a crack that shook the Hall of Mages, his staff exploded.

And so did he.

Around the chamber, the archmages cried out as Ysarl the Unkind died. His robes shredded, soaking with blood, and scraps of flesh and splinters of bone rained down in a wide circle around where he’d stood. Already weakened by the tentacles, Andras nearly passed out as bits of the lord of the Black splattered him. What little remained where Ysarl had been standing poured onto the floor.

Dripping red and grey, Vincil stared at the wet rags that had been one of the most powerful wizards on Krynn. Slowly, the highmage’s eyes rose-showing white all around-and fixed on Andras. His mouth hung open.

“Who-” he began.

He got no further. In that moment, a ringing sound filled the hall, and silver light blazed with it. Amid the glow, Andras blinked in amazement. Once again magic surged through him, and low, frigid laughter filled the air, but he knew this magic and welcomed it. Around him the blood-drenched Hall of Mages wavered, then faded away. The Dark One had found him at last.

Secondmonth, 943 I.A.

Ebonbane rose high, throwing off splinters of morning sunlight. It held perfectly still, in the silence-then, flashing, it came down, moving in an arc toward Cathan’s head. He shut his eyes, waiting for it to land … left shoulder, then right, then left again, the hand of the Lightbringer guiding it with ritual precision.

“Bogud, Cilmo Cathan, Freburmo op Comuro Ufib,” declared the Kingpriest, “e tas follam pannud, tis rigam aulium on adolo.”

Arise, Lord Cathan, Grand Marshal of the Divine Hammer, and claim thy sword to defend this realm from darkness.

Silver trumpets blew, filling the air with sweet song, then drowned in the cheers of the men, women, and children who filled the Barigon. Cathan felt an unexpected rush of emotion. Emotion-and memory, of a time more than half a lifetime ago. He had knelt here, on the steps of the Great Temple, once before. Then, as now, Beldinas had dubbed him before the jubilant masses: the first knight of his order, first to wear the burning sigil. Now he was commander of Istar’s armies and the most honored warrior in the land, clad in the crimson tabard of that rank. As he got to his feet, he took Ebonbane from the Kingpriest’s hands, and raised it high to face the throngs.

His heart sang with joy. Yet, amid the triumph, there was sorrow. Wentha, who had carried his spurs to his knighting, had brought them today as well-having made the long journey from Lattakay to the Lordcity with her children-but the one who had given him his shield was gone. Yesterday, Cathan had dispatched an honor guard to escort Lord Tavarre’s bones back to Luciel. When the spring thaw came, the slain lord would rest beside his wife and son.

In Tavarre’s place stood Sir Tithian, smiling through his new-grown beard. The boy-no, the man, Cathan reminded himself-looked even prouder than he had on his own dubbing day. There were other knights here, too-Marto, grinning like a fool, had carried Cathan’s sword to the ceremony-but there was no missing how many fewer in number they were. It would be years before the Divine Hammer returned to its old strength. Silently, Cathan vowed that the knighthood would shine again, even brighter than before.

He turned back toward Beldinas, who smiled beneath his light. Behind the Kingpriest, the members of the imperial court stood-First Daughter Farenne and First Son Adsem … the hierarchs of the other gods … and Quarath, who alone bore a stony expression. The elf regarded him, his eyes cool and thoughtful. Cathan swallowed, unable to meet that gaze, then looked past the clergy to the dignitaries who had come to the empire from the kingdoms to the west.

Before his entourage left Lattakay, Beldinas had sent two Karthayan messenger birds winging away, bearing word to the High Clerist of Solamnia and Emperor Gwynned of Ergoth of the coming moot between the Church and the Conclave. Since Towers of High Sorcery stood in both those realms, as well as in Istar, both had sent ambassadors in reply.