Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Things would get worse before they got better, he knew. But would they get better? He bowed his head. He didn’t know.

Andras laughed to himself as he strode toward Fistandantilus’s laboratory. He had done it. The church was shattered, the Kingpriest and highmage both slain. As for the Divine Hammer-well, if war with the Order of High Sorcery didn’t destroy the knighthood utterly, they could be finished off later.

The Accursed were quiet as he passed their cages. Beyond, the laboratory door stood ajar. That was odd. In all his time serving the Dark One, it had always been closed. His grin faltered, his forehead creasing as he reached for the handle. The creak of the hinges seemed unusually loud.

“Master?” he asked, peering inside. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. The laboratory was empty.

Everything was gone: the tables, the glasswork, the herbs and viscera, the thousands upon thousands of books-even the candleholders that had been bolted to the walls were missing. Nothing remained but bare rock, here stained black with soot, there rusty with dried blood. A chill settled over him as he stared about the chamber.

“M-master?” he repeated, his voice very small.

He was trapped. There was no way out of this place but magic, and he didn’t know how to teleport. Without the Dark One’s spellbooks, he could never hope to learn.

He waved his magical light deeper into the room. It hesitated, as if afraid-ridiculous-then glided slowly through the derelict laboratory, to the passage beyond. He couldn’t say how, but he sensed something there, deep in the Pit of Summoning. He passed through the door-also ajar, its warding glyphs inert-and down the twisting tunnel, the magical light quivering ahead of him. It was afraid. So was he, but still he went, compelled.

Then he saw the Pit’s ruddy glow, flickering along the last length of the passage. He could hear the water bubbling. When he reached the cave where the enchanted pool lay, he saw that it was boiling, Abyssal light bathing the walls. He stared, shocked by the sight of it. Someone had begun a summoning spell.

He knew it was foolish of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He entered the room.

Warmth radiated from the pool, perspiration beaded on his brow. Trembling, he looked inside, half-expecting to see the childlike quasitas swimming within. Yet there was nothing-only water and the horrible glow. The spell at work was incomplete.

He frowned, puzzled.

Without warning, the room grew wintry cold, freezing the drops of sweat on Andras’s skin. He stiffened, knowing that chill, then slowly turned. There, standing in the entrance of the cave, was Fistandantilus. The Dark One gave no greeting, and his black hood kept his face in shadow as always, but Andras could tell the Dark One was angry. The air around him seemed to glitter with rage.

“Master!” Andras exclaimed, trying not to let fear curdle his voice. He forced a smile. “I bring good news.”

Fistandantilus didn’t respond at first. He simply stared, his gaze heavy from within his cowl. Then he walked forward, his robes whispering with every step.

Andras blinked, backing up a moment before he remembered he was near the Pit. He stopped himself, swaying slightly and wishing there was somewhere he could go to escape the Dark One. Slowly, the archmage drew near.

“Wh-what is the matter?” Andras asked. His teeth chattered in the cold. “You d-don’t seem pl-pleased …”

“I am not pleased,” Fistandantilus replied, drawing up before him. The Pit’s crimson light made him look drenched in blood. “You nearly killed the Lightbringer.”

Andras blinked, surprised. “Nearly? He lives?”

“He does-and it is a good thing for you. If he had died, I would have torn the flesh from your bones.”

“I–I don’t understand.”

Fistandantilus nodded. “You would not. You have been concerned only with your petty revenge. My designs are greater, and for them to succeed I need Beldinas. The Divine Hammer I care nothing for, and I will not miss Vincil. But the Kingpriest must live.”

Andras shook his head. None of this made any sense. “Master, I don’t understand …”

“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus replied, “but as I said, he has survived. It took a miracle for that to happen, but then, miracles are what the Lightbringer is best at. Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to kill you.”

Relief washed over Andras. He smiled, spreading his hands before him. “Thank you, master,” he sighed. “I won’t-”

The Dark One moved so quickly, he seemed not to move at all. Steel flashed in his hand, sweeping up, leaving a trail of red droplets behind. Andras felt a tug at his left hand, then an explosion of pain. His little finger-the finger that had grown back when the Kingpriest healed him-arced through the air, then landed behind him with a splash.

A sob bubbled through his lips. Whirling, he watched as the finger bobbed in the roiling water, then sank out of sight. His knees buckling, he went down hard upon the rocky floor.

He jammed his ruined hand into his armpit, his mouth twisting with agony as blood soaked into his robes.

“I must leave this place now,” Fistandantilus said. “Perhaps one day, I will need you again-for now, though, your part in this is done. You shall remain here … but do not fear, Andras. I will not leave you alone.”

The cold lifted from the air and he was gone. High above, a door slammed shut. Andras knew it was the only way out, closed to him now. He let out a despairing moan. He was trapped down here-wherever here truly was. Lowering his eyes, he stared into the Pit’s blood-red depths. There were shapes down there now, rising toward the surface-misshapen, childlike shapes with horns and wings and stinging tails.

Andras laughed, a broken sound. His children were returning to him.

Cathan sat alone in his chambers within the Hammerhall, toying with a golden goblet.

The cup was empty. He had drained it again and again as the night wore on, and now the wine-unmixed with water-burned in his veins. His mood had not been so foul since his days as a bandit, before this all began.

They had buried Farenne and Adsem this morning. The Kingpriest would name a new First Son and First Daughter before the end of the week. Cathan wondered if he might not name a new Grand Marshal, as well.

Sir Marto had emerged as the hero of the battle beneath the Eusymmeas. The big Karthayan boasted to any and all of how he had slain the treacherous highmage in the final moments before the mages escaped. They sang of his bravery in the wine shops, and the Hammerhall rang with the sound of his name.

Cathan, meanwhile, was shut out. Beldinas had not spoken to him or invited him to the closed sessions of the imperial court. The official word was that his responsibilities obliged him to oversee order in the Lordcity’s streets, but the truth was there had been scant unrest. Rather than running wild, most folk went to the Barigon to give thanks for the Lightbringer’s wondrous return from the verge of death. Day after day, the crowds there continued to grow. When they weren’t singing the Kingpriest’s praises, they chanted imprecations against the sorcerers, baying for wizardly blood. Rumors spread that Cathan had fallen out of favor for his failure to keep Beldinas safe.

He stared around the room that had been Lord Tavarre’s. Tapestries of hunting scenes still hung on the walls, as well as weapons, and the heads of two stags, a giant boar, and a manticore. The last made him shiver every time he glanced at it, its half-human, half-lion features twisted into a ferocious snarl. The banner of Luciel hung over the hearth. He looked at it now, sighing. He could barely remember the town or anything of his life before the Lightbringer.