Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

If the people of Losarcum bore any resentment for that, however, Cathan saw no evidence. Ibsim bowed deeply, waving the knights on. Cathan raised a hand in thanks, then swung back into his saddle and clucked his tongue, urging his horse forward. His men followed into the City of Stone.

Losarcum was ancient, older even than the Lordcity and the other towns of Istar’s heartland. Its origins were lost to history, but it was said that a legion of dwarves had worked alongside men to build it. Whether this was so, even the sages couldn’t say, but the signs were there-for, of all the empire’s glorious cities, this was the only one not built upon the ground but carved out of it.

The mesa that sheltered it was huge, perhaps the largest in all the Anvil. Beneath it lay a vast, underground reservoir. The water from this flowed up to form a wide oasis where palms and fruit trees grew. Folk gathered about this central oasis in brightly colored tunics to trade and jest, argue and sing. All around this pleasant garden, the ancestors of the Losarcines had tunneled streets from the rock, and hollowed out the remaining stone to shape buildings. Nearly all of the City of Stone, from the simplest hovels to the grand, many-terraced Patriarch’s Palace, from the great amphitheater where the citizens flocked to watch mummer’s shows, to the nine-walled, star-shaped temple of Paladine, had been built not by raising stones but by sculpting them from the land.

Nearly all.

One loomed above the rest, on a promontory overlooking the city itself. This spire was not golden in hue, but gleaming black, a glassy spike accented with crimson and white on its parapets. It stood now, quiet and still, surrounded by its enchanted grove of swaying cypresses, like an obsidian dagger.

Cathan paused as he emerged into the plaza within Losarcum’s gates. There were wonders aplenty in the Stone City-the Market of Wings, where thousands of ruby and sapphire songbirds trilled in silver cages; the Honeycomb, a twisted complex of natural caves that housed the city’s powerful cloth-dyers’ guild; Ardosean’s Walk, where a fifty-foot statue of the Uniter stood, gazing north toward the Lordcity. All he could do now, though-all any of the knights could do-was stare at the offensive Tower of High Sorcery.

“They’re in there,” said Tithian, coming up alongside him. “They’re probably watching us now, with their magic. I wonder if they’re afraid?”

Cathan licked his lips, saying nothing. I hope so, he thought. I certainly am.

“Bah!” declared Marto, jumping down from his steed with a clangor of mail. “They’re traitors and infidels. Who cares what they think?”

A rumble of agreement rose from the rest of the knights. They were hungry for battle, for a chance to get back what they had lost at Lattakay: their honor. The enemy was trapped, the knights believed, with nowhere to run.

Ibsim approached them again, his hands pressed together. He had left the welcoming salt at the gate and donned an emerald cloak decorated with feathers from some great, flightless bird. He bowed again, his painted eyes closing.

“You are welcome to Qim Sudri,” he declared. “The Patriarch awaits you at his palace, and has made room for all your men. Follow me to his magnificence.”

Across Losarcum, horns sounded, announcing their arrival. They echoed off the mesa’s stone walls, and down the narrow streets as Ibsim led the way into the city. Cathan followed, with his men. As he rode, though, he found he couldn’t take his eyes from the Tower-nor could he shake the dread that chilled him.

Men will die there before this is done, he thought as he passed beneath its long, reaching shadow. Will I be one of them?

The Tower gave no answers but only glowered down at them, dark and brooding and silent.

The procession left the Great Temple at dawn, just after the daybreak prayer. Wherever it passed as it made its way through the Lordcity, every plaza or marketplace, more people joined it, trailing along and singing praise to the Lightbringer. A succession of acolytes in gray cassocks led the way, hooded and carrying white candles. Behind them came elder priests, swinging censers that trailed ruddy incense smoke, and priestesses in training, who flung rose petals in the air. After these came broad-shouldered servants hefting banners depicting the falcon and triangle in imperial blue and a huge platinum triangle mounted atop an ironwood pole, which gleamed crimson in the morning light.

Next, the body of the church: not just the Revered Sons and Daughters of Paladine, but the followers of Kiri-Jolith and Mishakal, Majere and Branchala and Habbakuk-all the deities of light, save Solinari alone. The god of the silver moon had no priests, and the mages who paid him homage were Foripon, cast out of the church’s sight as surely as those who wore the Black and Red.

The knights were with them, too. Though a good portion of the Divine Hammer had marched south to Losarcum with Lord Cathan, just as many remained at the Hammerhall.

Except for a handful of the oldest, who remained at the sprawling keep as castellans, all the knights walked with the clerics, horned helms gleaming, swords and maces rattling.

They carried crossbows, cocked and nestled in their arms.

Despite the knights’ presence, despite the commonfolk’s rejoicing, Quarath felt a certain unease. Glancing at the chariots, he could see discomfort plain in the eyes of the hierarchs and in the grizzled face of Sir Olin, who was the knights’ senior officer in the absence of the Twice-Born.

The processional had two purposes, but most who walked only knew of one: the formal denunciation of the Order of High Sorcery. Here, as in Palanthas and Daltigoth and Losarcum, where the armies under Lords Yarns, Serl, and Cathan gathered, the priests would condemn those within the Towers and call for their surrender. None but the foolish expected the wizards even to respond. It would come to Cutubo -holy war between the mages and those who followed the Lightbringer.

That was not what troubled Quarath. It was the other half of the day’s rite-for, unbeknownst to nearly everyone, the condemnation was meant as a cover for something else. The Lightbringer intended to penetrate the olive grove that surrounded the Tower.

Quarath glanced at Beldinas, his brow furrowing. To most, the Kingpriest looked as he always had: resplendent, serene, and mighty, all but invisible amid his shining aura. The Emissary had known him longer than most, however, and he saw something different beneath the glitter. The certainty that had armored him had fractured, and doubt and fear were leaking through the cracks.

A smile crept across Quarath’s face. He had longed for this opportunity for twenty years-a fair span of time, even to a long-lived elf. He had been very patient, awaiting the chance to fix his power within the empire. Now, with Beldinas frightened and his other close advisors dead or gone, that chance had come.

The joyous shouts died away as priest, knight, and commoner alike spilled into the courtyard surrounding the Tower of High Sorcery. The bloody-fingered spire was silent. No eldritch lights played about it, no thunder or screams came out its windows. Still, Quarath could sense the power within and in the black-fruited woods that creaked and rustled about it. Bit by bit, the procession stopped, moving aside to make room for its leaders.

“Holiness,” he whispered, leaning toward the Kingpriest. “Are you sure this will work?”

Beldinas’s blue eyes regarded him steadily, then flicked back to the Tower. “We have to try,” he said. “Everything depends on this. Uso dolit.”

Fighting the urge to shake his head, Quarath turned his attention to the crowd. The uneasiness he’d felt among the Kingpriest’s inner circle had spread. Now people were signing the triangle and chanting warding prayers, staring at the Tower as if expecting every demon from the Abyss to burst out of it. A few edged away, disappearing back into the city, but most stood their ground, even if they shivered.