Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

The emperor sent Duke Serl, a swarthy, barrel-chested man with a black beard and a voice like a smith’s hammer, along with a score of warriors in bronze brigandine and antlered helms. The High Clerist had come himself, tall and angular, his drooping Solamnic moustache the same flame-red color as his curly red hair. Like his escort-only eight strong, but still more than a match for Serl’s twenty-Lord Yarus Donner wore a suit of antique plate, polished and engraved with the emblem of a Knight of the Sword. He inclined his head toward Cathan, but the gesture was grudging at best. Even after twenty years, the Solamnics-who had been Krynn’s principal knighthood for more than a thousand-still looked upon the Divine Hammer as upstarts.

Cathan looked on down the line of nobles and merchants who comprised the higher echelons of imperial society. He searched for another face, knowing he wouldn’t see it. Still, though it was no surprise, he couldn’t keep the heaviness of disappointment away. Leciane had not come.

They hadn’t spoken since that night in Wentha’s garden-had hardly even glanced at each other, though they rode almost side by side for much of the journey back from coast in heartland. When their eyes did meet, the coldness in hers stung Cathan.

He knew he deserved her scorn. A knight simply did not strike a woman. No matter how many prayers he spoke-and he spoke them daily-he couldn’t forgive himself. They had avoided each other for weeks. She had gone to the Tower of High Sorcery as soon as they were back in the Lordcity and hadn’t emerged since.

Cathan understood why-the wizards would be preparing for the summit-but he’d still hoped she would make an appearance at this ceremony. Now, seeing she hadn’t, he sighed and turned back to the Lightbringer.

Beldinas regarded him with a raised eyebrow. Seeing that, Cathan flushed. He leaned forward and kissed the Kingpriest’s proffered hand.

“Mas egam sod fas, Gasiras Gasiro,” he recited, his church tongue clumsy and halting.

“Bid tas sinobo, asclebu pritod niri.”

Thou art my true blade, Emperor of Emperors. With thy blessing, I shall never give battle unarmed.

Beldinas nodded, raising his hands to sign the triangle high in the air. His fingers touched Cathan’s brow. “Fe Paladas cado, bid Istaras apalo. Sifat.”

At his touch, Cathan went suddenly rigid. The world seemed to drop away beneath him-or rather, he felt himself rise up and away from the Kingpriest, the Temple, the Lordcity, and the empire, passing through the clouds and on toward the stars. The vision again, this time waking. As Paladine’s Voice pronounced his blessing on Cathan’s body, so the god himself swept up his soul, carrying it high to show him the vision that had long haunted his dreams.

The blue sky turned black around him, though the sun still shone in the east-gold now, not the crimson of dawn. The moons swung close, Lunitari half full and on the wane, Solinari fat and growing in the west-and a third, the color of a raven’s wing, splinter-thin at the other end of the firmament. Cathan stared. He had wondered where the Black Robes got their power, when their brethren worshiped the red and silver moons. Now he knew.

There was evil, even, in the skies. But why the revelation now? He’d had this dream hundreds of times, yet always before the moons had been two. Only now did he realize they were three….

The magic, he thought with a shiver. The dream hadn’t come to him since the day he’d shared the spell with Leciane. That was more than a month ago. Experiencing her magic had changed him, somehow. Even though her robes were Red, the sorceress must know about Nuitari-the name came to him without effort, though he had never heard it before.

He cringed, feeling unclean. He would burn an offering to Paladine tonight to purify himself. Drawing his attention away from all three moons, he saw a golden pinprick among the diamond stars, growing larger … brighter … closer: the burning hammer, the god’s wrath, blazing through the heavens. It came to put an end to the darkness forever. It was his hammer to wield now, as it had been Tavarre’s before him: the knighthood, diminished but determined to cleanse the world.

Let it strike the black moon, he prayed. Let it smash it to dust.

The hammer did not hit Nuitari, though. Instead it plunged past him, on the same course it had always taken. Fire pouring off it in sheets, it dived toward Istar. Cathan gritted his teeth as it swept by, throwing off heat stronger than a dwarven forge, then watched it fall, fall, fall-

With a start, he came back to his senses. He blinked up at the Kingpriest. Beldinas looked back, understanding in his strange eyes.

“You saw it again, my friend,” he murmured, quiet enough for only Cathan to hear. “The hammer.”

Cathan nodded, his throat too tight to let words pass.

“Praise to Paladine.” The Lightbringer’s smile was beautiful. “It is a good omen. Whatever comes, we shall prevail. Uso sam bollat.”

The god wills it.

Cathan wasn’t sure. Unbidden, his gaze shifted-over the Kingpriest’s shoulder, past the looming Temple, to the pale spire that strove skyward beyond it. The crimson turrets of l he Tower of High Sorcery glistened in the morning sun. Whatever comes, he thought with a shudder. Whatever comes.

The cries of the Accursed were the first sound Andras heard when he awoke. They echoed in the darkness, squealing and moaning, madness given voice. He let out a groan of his own, trying to bury his head beneath the blankets that covered him. He could still hear them, though, no matter how tightly he covered his ears. They were jealous of every drop of warm blood that coursed through his veins, of every moment he lived without being wracked by unspeakable agony, of the fact that, one day, he would be permitted to die.

Consciousness returned, and memory. How many times, of late, had he woken like this-in a new place, the tingle of teleportation still pricking the edges of his mind? This time, though, he was not in danger. He knew where he was. He was with Fistandantilus.

Sighing, Andras opened his eyes. The room was dark, the kind of utter lightlessness found only deep underground. Even so, he recognized it: his chamber, where he’d dwelt before going with the quasitas to Seldjuk. It was empty and cold, and there was a strange smell in the air, a little like must, a little like a midden heap. He shrugged off his blankets, then winced at the cold air. He was unchained but naked. The Dark One had taken his tattered, filthy robes.

Whimpering, he rose and walked toward the door. It was unlocked and unbarred. Beside it, folded neatly on the floor, was a bundle of clothing. He bent down, lifting it up and shaking it out. It was a new robe of fine satin, embroidered with runes. Nicer than his old one-and warmer than the altogether. He pulled it over his head, cinching it at the waist.

The strange, fetid smell was strong now, clinging in his nostrils. He scowled, trying to place it, but couldn’t. Whatever it was, its source was near-inside the room, maybe. He retched, the sour sting of bile filling his mouth.

“Light,” he muttered. “I need light.”

He tested his own power, expecting to find it depleted. To his surprise, however, the magic ran deep within him once more, like a cistern after a rainstorm. He had been asleep much longer than he’d thought, then-days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell. His hair and nails were no longer than before, and no stubble graced his cheeks. Fistandantilus had taken good care of him, whatever else was going on. Pleased at his strength’s return, Andras delved, drawing out what he needed. It wasn’t much, not for so simple a spell. He made a quick gesture, then pointed across the black room.