Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

No, Leciane’s eyes were wide, too. She looked sideways at her fellow wizards. Cathan followed her eyes, his hand moving slowly to his sword. Something’s about to happen, he thought. One of the wizards is going to try something terrible. Which one? Palado Calib, which one?

A blur of movement gave him his answer. With a shout, Revered Son Suvin whirled, reaching beneath his robes. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, its blade long and curved.

Cathan turned in the same direction … who had the Revered Son spotted as the traitor? Then, as he watched-as everyone watched in horror-the Patriarch of Seldjuk lunged and shoved the dagger into Beldinas’s chest.

The world stopped. Even the growling storm grew quiet as Suvin jerked the blade free.

Blood came with it-so much blood, reddening the Kingpriest’s snowy robes. Everyone stared, transfixed.

Leciane’s hands rose, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.

“No!” she cried.

The Kingpriest fell to his knees. The holy light that shrouded Beldinas flickered, began to fade.

The cry that came from Lord Cathan’s lips was a howl and a curse all at once, so ragged in its grief that tears flooded Leciane’s eyes. Above the lake thunder bellowed, lightning forking the sky.

“Now!” Suvin cried, flinging the dagger down with a crash. He turned toward Vincil.

“Finish them! Leave no one st-”

Five crossbow bolts hit him at once, spinning him like a child’s toy. At the same moment

Cathan brought his sword around, slamming its blade into the back of the Patriarch’s head. Suvin staggered, drenched in Beldinas’s blood and his own, then slammed down onto the marble-paved ground.

In the deafening silence that followed, all eyes turned to the Kingpriest. His aura dimmed to silvery wisps as his life’s blood ebbed away. He stared with wide eyes at the spreading stain around his wound. The blade had gone through his golden breastplate-an ornament only, its many-colored jewels all turned to red-and deep into him. Pain pinching his face, he began to topple sideways.

Cathan ran to his side, catching him as he fell. Quarath was there too, and the First Son and First Daughter. Cathan eased Beldinas down-then, one by one, turned to glare at Vincil and the other wizards, who huddled together, whispering.

All around, crossbows rose. Swords rasped from their scabbards.

Leciane looked to Vincil, a hollow in her gut. She couldn’t explain what had just happened, but knew the peace was lost.

“Wait,” the highmage pleaded, holding up a hand. “We had nothing to do with this!”

Across the courtyard, crossbow strings thrummed. Death rained down upon the sorcerers.

Cathan felt the shimmer of magic grow suddenly fierce. He heard the ring of steel, the roar of flame and thunder, the shouts of the wizards and his men. He smelled the tang of ozone, the stink of smoke, but he saw none of it. There was only the Lightbringer.

Beldinas was pale, his eyes shut, his face tight with pain. The dagger-wound leaked warm blood. The Miceram had fallen from his head and lay on the ground nearby. The holy light, which had wreathed Beldinas constantly since he took the throne, had dwindled to almost nothing.

As Cathan stared at him, a hand touched his arm: Quarath, bending down beside him.

“Let me help,” the elf began.

Snarling, Cathan shrugged him off. “Get away.”

“I will not!” Quarath snapped back. “You have your duty, Grand Marshal. Your men need you. I can watch over His Holiness.”

Quarath was right. The sounds of the battle woke him from his stupor. He heard his men crying the Lightbringer’s name, their groans and shrieks as magic lashed into their ranks. He looked over his shoulder just in time for a flash of a lightning bolt to stab at his eyes, half-blinding him. Through the glare, he saw armored figures flying through the air, their armor sparking and smoldering.

He nodded to Quarath. “Take him.”

As the elf gathered the Kingpriest in his arms, Cathan rose and grabbed up Ebonbane from beside Revered Son Suvin’s corpse. Raising the blade, he rushed toward the fight, leaping over the bodies of his men.

Lord Yarns and Duke Serl were there, mace and saber in hand, shouting orders to their warriors. Half the Ergothmen were down, and several Solamnic Knights as well. On the other side, a White Robe and a Red lay dead, their bodies riddled with quarrels. The rest of the wizards, Leciane among them, had fallen back into a tight knot, their hands in constant motion as they chanted spells. Half of these were defensive. The air around them gleamed with enchantment as shields rose to ward off attacks from the crossbowmen. The highmage shouted in the sorcerous tongue, pointing fiercely at anyone who came near. Cathan saw one blast of magical frost shoot from his hands, hitting a knight head-on. The man cried out, then went stiff and toppled, his armor rimed with ice.

“Bastards!” Sir Marto bellowed, shaking his axe. He stood near Tithian, who was clutching his bloodied arm. The big knight’s helm had come off, and spittle flecked his beard. “Murdering, treacherous bastards!”

Cathan ran toward the hulking Karthayan and felt a hiss pass by his neck as a bolt of magic narrowly missed him. He spun, nearly falling, then ran on.

Marto saw him, fire in his eyes. “They’re all dead!” he snapped. “The Kingpriest, the First Son, the First Daughter-these bloody moon-worshippers killed them all!”

Cathan started, his gaze following Marto’s gesturing hand. Adsem and Farenne indeed lay sprawled and unmoving among his knights. Looking at their bodies, Cathan had no doubt that magic had killed them. The First Son’s vestments were still smoldering. The Church of Istar had lost its leaders.

“Merciful gods,” he breathed.

Marto laughed bitterly. “Not today.”

A shout drew Cathan’s attention. Spears lowered, Serl’s soldiers were trying to charge the wizards’ flank. One by one, the sorcerers cut them down, lashing out with darts of green flame. One of Serl’s Ergothmen broke through, however, and a wizard-an elderly Red Robe, already bleeding from a cut across his cheek-jerked wildly as the soldier ran him through. The Ergothman collapsed too, a whip of crimson lightning lashing out from the Red Robe’s body, one last spell that tore him in two as the wizard died.

Cathan stared at the carnage all around, the bodies strewn like dolls and the trees burning in the courtyard. The paving stones were torn into furrows and craters, and even the Eusymmeas had cracked, the statue crumbled and the pool split open. Water spread out across the plaza.

“Tithian!” he called. “With me.”

Slapping his former squire’s shoulder, Cathan ran to where Lord Yarns was marshaling his knights.

“We have to pull back,” he advised.

The High Clerist looked at him with disdain. “Retreat? And sully our honor? I don’t know how things are in Istar, but the men of Solamnia do not flee from battle.”

Serl proved no easier. Ergoth didn’t abide by the Solamnic Measure, but the duke had lost two sons in the fighting already. He nearly struck Cathan when asked to give ground.

“Never!” he raged, though his forces were down to a handful. “Not before I send every last one of those caitiffs howling to the Abyss!”

Just then Vincil summoned a dozen spectral warriors to do his bidding. The phantasms fought well, killing five more knights-four of the Hammer and one of Yarus’s men. Calling on Paladine and Kiri-Jolith and Beldinas alike, the remaining warriors rallied and cut the specters down. The knights tried to penetrate the wizards’ shields and blocking spells, but the ensorcelments threw them back, howling in agony. Helpless, Cathan saw his men perish one by one.