Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

She would almost surely have to go through that again-perhaps many times. The Tower, like all its brethren, was huge, with hundreds of rooms and thousands of wonders.

The Conclave had decreed that they all must be emptied by the end of the month. That day was still two weeks away, but Leciane already knew they would not finish in time-and what if the attack came before then?

She knew the answer, just as well as every other wizard. Atop the tower was the Heartchamber, an obsidian chamber where the magic was strongest, where a spike of black stone-a perfect reproduction of the Tower itself-loomed over a carved replica of Losarcum. There were similar places in the other four Towers as well, though she had only seen the one in Daltigoth. Each Master knew a spell that could shatter the miniature.

When it did, the Tower would destroy itself as well.

It was a terrible thing, and no one wished for it. All they could do was hope the attack did not come too soon.

Once they had their loads of books and trinkets, the mages all moved toward the same place: the Chamber of Traveling. Located halfway between the Tower’s base and its apex, the chamber was a tall, circular room ringed with statues of legendary wizards sculpted in onyx and alabaster and scarlet jade. Blue light filled it, playing in ripples and rings upon its walls. It came from a swirling disc in the room’s midst, twice as tall as a man. Within was the image of a vast vault, filled with the Tower’s treasures. The vault stood hundreds of leagues away, in Wayreth-the one Tower the Lightbringer and his allies could not touch.

Similar rooms held the riches of Istar, Palanthas, and Daltigoth. One by one, wizards brought their burdens to the portal, then stepped through it, crossing half the world in an eye-blink. Moments later, they came out again empty-handed.

Leciane was just leaving the Chamber of Traveling, her back aching from having carried too many books on her last trip, when Khadar hailed her. The Master was a small man, slender and childlike though he was fifty summers old. The Test had done that to him. He wore faded Red Robes with ragged cuffs, and his thinning silver hair was perpetually unkempt, wisps of it sticking out of his hood at odd angles. His face was ashen, his eyes sunken and shadowed. He had not slept for days, and probably wouldn’t for days to come.

“Milady!” he called, hobbling down the long stair that wound around and around the Tower’s midst, from its crown to its base. He leaned on a plain oaken staff as he approached her. “I have been searching for you.”

“What is it this time, Master?” she sighed. “I do not know if I can take another disenchantment.”

The Master shrugged, drawing near. “You would manage if needed, I think,” he said, “but it isn’t a disenchantment I have in mind. Come-we need a Red Robe of your ability. It is time to awaken the Guardians.”

There were five other sorcerers in the room when they arrived-two Black Robes, three White. They nodded to Leciane as she followed Khadar through the door. She returned the gesture, then turned, gazing across the House of the Guardians.

The House was a dimly lit cavern deep beneath the Tower, its walls hewn out of golden sandstone. The mages stood on a narrow ledge. Beyond, the floor dropped away into a bowl thirty paces across. Standing in the hollow, arrayed in neat rows and columns, were the Guardians: half a hundred statues of malachite, their green surfaces glistening in the glow of the magical lamps that hovered in the air. The statues were of warriors, nine-foot men in suits of scale mail of a style that had been archaic centuries ago. In their hands they held curved swords, a pair each, crossed across their chests. Their heads were those of animals-dogs and hawks, serpents and lions, all drawn into fearsome snarls. Their eyes were shut.

Leciane stared at them. When the mages built the Tower, they had crafted the statues to serve as its protectors. Not once in the millennia since had the wizards used them. There had been no need. Now, though, the Guardians must be awakened.

“Come, my kin in the Art,” said Khadar, beckoning the others near. “Give your power to me, that I may do this thing.”

The other wizards exchanged meaningful glances, then walked toward the master, forming a circle around him. Another time, Leciane might have chuckled to see those in the White Robes mingling with their dark-souled cousins, but not now.

She went to work, her hands dancing in the air, fingers weaving and twitching to form the gestures of power. The other five mages surrounding Khadar did the same. They moved in unison, like Karthayan dancers, every movement graceful and precise. As one, their voices rose to chant.

“Mapothi sek bunaru, jandoth lo shakar. Fas uganti yasham, tsarlas gangatiad … ”

All at once, sparks leaped from the wizards’ fingertips, matching the sorcerers’ robes-blazing white, oddly radiant black, and, from Leciane, blood red. This was pure magic, the essence of the three moons. With the rest of her brothers and sisters, Leciane extended her arms, pointing at the Master, her voice rising into a shout.

“Kusat kelas bandonai!”

The magic flowed from her in a rash-great, writhing ropes of it, the color of rubies, clothed in scarlet mist. Inky streams and milky ones joined it, striking Khadar all at once.

He jerked, his back arching as the magic struck him, pouring together the strength of Solinari, Nuitari, and Luntari. Leciane found herself envying the Master. What he was feeling now, few wizards had felt in a thousand years. The gods of magic had different voices, but when they joined together, the harmony was beautiful. That was something the Lightbringer and his minions would never understand.

Khadar was glowing, throwing off energy in white, black, and red waves. No mortal could withstand that much power for long. If he didn’t release it soon, it would tear him apart.

Shivering with a pain that was also pleasure, Khadar stepped out of the circle and stood at the edge of the ledge, looking down at the Guardians. He began to gesture, shouting the words of his spell.

“Obai deafas, jolifi mur latanniath!”

With a roar, the three colors of magic became one, a roseate hue that leaped from his body, streaming out across the cavern in a rippling sheet. Leciane watched it, her chest swelling with pride. The united magic kept going, until its edges fountained against the walls. Then, with a jarring gong, it shattered into a million pieces. The shards rained down upon the statues below.

One by one, the Guardians opened their eyes. They glowed with the same rosy light, the light of the three moons mixed together. Their faces remained immobile, frozen in furious glares, but their limbs began to move, grinding and scraping as they turned to stare up at Khadar.

He did not speak to them; he didn’t have to. They communicated without words. Though weakened by the magic’s flow-as were all the wizards in the room-Khadar looked down on them with a commanding air. For a moment, all was silent-then, grinding and scraping, the Guardians turned and marched from the cave, leaving only dust and shards of green stone behind them.

“They won’t be enough,” Leciane said when they were gone. “Will they?”

Khadar shook his head. “If we had twice as many, perhaps, but the mages who built this place never dreamed of needing them in greater numbers. Still, they will hold back the knights, for a time.”

Leciane nodded. It would have to do.

Please, Lunitari, she prayed. Let the attack not be soon.

“More wine!” cried Sir Marto, holding up his empty drinking-bowl.

His broad face, already reddened by drink, broke into a grin as a servant-a shaven-headed girl in a revealing garment of golden silk-brought a pitcher. The straw-colored liquid that poured from it was thick and redolent of spices. The folk of Losarcum did not mix their wine with water, as they did elsewhere in the empire. Marto took a long swallow-and an even longer look at the servant girl as she saucily sauntered away-then glanced at Cathan and beamed.