Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“Talkarpas ang shirak,” he declared.

Magic flashed through him, too little and too quick to bring about the euphoria he usually felt. Light spells were parlor tricks, cantrips initiates learned early on. Andras’s took the form of a globe of cold blue flame, hanging in midair before him. Accustomed to the darkness, his eyes stung and saw nothing for a while. Then, slowly, vision returned.

Andras nodded, looking around. There was a puddle on the floor not too far from where he stood. He regarded it curiously, noting its brownish color even in the blue glow-then stopped, stiffening as a drop fell into it from above.

He looked up.

“Blood of Takhisis!” he cried, the sound coming out more like a child’s squeak than a man’s yell. He backed up until he hit the wall-only two steps, as it happened-then stood staring at the thing hanging from the ceiling.

It was four feet long, fat on one end and tapering on the other, glistening gray in the wizard-light. It might have been an egg, but it had rubbery skin instead of a shell, and long, ropy vines grew out of it, digging into the stone above. Dark vessels, like veins but not, crisscrossed its surface, pulsing softly. One had ruptured and was leaking watery, brown juice. As for the stink, it was powerful enough now that Andras raised his sleeve to cover his face. It didn’t help, any more than covering his ears blocked out the Accursed’s cries.

His back never leaving the wall, he edged toward the door.

The thing had no eyes, but he could sense it looking at him as he moved. There was something inside it. He could see movement, a shadow that stretched the membrane as it shifted. The shadow watched him, as sure as if it was a giant eye. He reached behind himself, fumbling for the door’s latch, then stopped as his hand touched something that wasn’t made of stone or wood at all.

“Be easy,” said Fistandantilus. “Nothing will harm you.”

Every part of Andras wanted to run at the sound of the Dark One’s voice, so close to him-every part except his legs, which refused to move. He stood perfectly still, staring at the thing as the ancient Black Robe loomed in the doorway behind him.

“Wh-what in the Abyss?” he breathed.

Fistandantilus considered this a moment, then answered with a dry chuckle. “Partly right,” he said. “It is from the Abyss, yes-just like your quasitas were. What grows within, though, is of this world.”

Andras swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was as dry as the sands of Dravinaar. “I don’t understand.”

“I thought not,” the Dark One replied. “Watch, then. Tsokath!”

At the archmage’s command, magic blazed through the room, so intense that Andras’s heart stopped beating for an instant. On the ceiling, the pod shuddered as it struck, its skin stretching thin, then ripped open, dumping a gush of fetid liquid onto the floor. The split in the membrane widened with a ghastly tearing sound, and the gush became a torrent, splashing Andras’s new robes. With the fluid, something else slipped out-something pale, flabby, and bald, nearly man-shaped but featureless. Where its face should have been, there were only empty holes. More vinelike things grew out of its body, attaching it to the ceiling pod. They caught the wretched thing as it fell, holding it up like some kind of horrendous puppet. It hung limp in midair, limbs twitching.

Somehow, Andras kept himself from vomiting.

“It is called a fetch,” Fistandantilus said, his cold voice unperturbed. “It is like a man, but without a soul to give it life. It can take the form of any living person, be they human, ogre, elf, or dwarf. All it needs to hear is that person’s name.”

The cleft that was the fetch’s mouth opened and closed with wet, sucking sounds. It was beginning to breathe. The sound of its wheezing soon filled the silence. Andras clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out with his magic and kill the monster.

“The Kingpriest and the highmage are meeting on the morrow, to make peace,” Fistandantilus went on in a mocking tone. “Once the fetch has taken form, I can cast a spell that will put your spirit in its body, for a time. You can control it then, as if it were your own.”

Andras frowned, staring at the hairless thing hanging before him. It shivered in the cold.

He knew what Fistandantilus was offering him. He could be anyone. He just had to kill the one he chose to impersonate, then he could take that person’s place at the moot. If he were caught, he needed only to relinquish control over the fetch, and return to his own body.

The fetch made a toneless, mewling sound. Andras stared at its face, so vague and indistinct.

“Won’t they discover who I am?” he asked. “Vincil and the other sorcerers will check everyone for sorcery-and the gods alone know what the Kingpriest will see.”

“My magic will protect you,” the Dark One replied. “Not even His Holiness will sense anything amiss.”

Andras sighed. He was beginning to feel a weariness that could never be eased, but he did owe the Church and the Conclave, for what both had tried to do to him.

“Well,” he said. “May I choose the form I’m to take?”

“Not the Kingpriest,” the Dark One warned. “His powers would resist.”

In spite of everything, Andras laughed. The fetch let out a bray of its own, mimicking him. He waited for it to be still again, then leaned forward, placing his mouth near the hole that would have been a person’s ear. He whispered the name he’d chosen.

All at once, the fetch’s whole body stiffened, like a corpse several hours dead. Its twitches became spasms. Struggling, it began to change. Flesh darkened; bones cracked as they rearranged themselves. Its formless face softened like warm beeswax, running and puddling to form the visage Andras desired. Seeing what it was becoming-or, rather, who -Fistandantilus let out a cold chuckle.

“Very good,” the archmage declared, resting a hand on Andras’s shoulder. “Oh, very good indeed.”

The wind whispered as it stirred the olive trees of the grove, making their fruit-heavy branches sway. The sky beyond was dark and muttered with thunder. A late-winter storm simmered over Lake Istar, turning its lapis waters to slate. Soon it would sweep into shore, lashing the Lordcity with rain and, perhaps, hail. All over the city, merchants took in their wares, and servants hurried in countless gardens to cover delicate flowers and bushes. At the wharf, men and minotaur slaves made ships fast, and the owners of wine shops took down the silken canopies in their courtyards.

Leciane smiled at the activity, gazing down from atop the Tower of High Sorcery. The common folk worked in vain. This storm would never make land, for this was no ordinary day. The wizards would use their magic to hold back the foul weather. The Kingpriest, she was sure, would be doing the same. Today was the moot. Today her people and the folk of Istar would make peace-or so she hoped. It was looking less likely all the time.

“I wish you’d told me before this morning that you’d lost him,” Leciane said, turning to frown at Vincil. He stood two paces behind her, carefully arranging his finest robes. They shimmered like rubies. “That is the first thing they will ask about.”

The highmage ran a hand over his shaven pate. “We’d hoped to find him again before today,” he said, shaking his head. “We thought it best not to tell anyone outside the Conclave. Whoever is protecting him is powerful, though. He’s resisted everything we’ve tried.”

“And now we go to the Kingpriest without Andras.” Leciane couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Do you expect him to believe our excuses?”