Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“I’ll say it again,” he said, slurring the words, “these desert folk know how to live. If I’d known this place existed, I might never have joined the knighthood!”

Cathan nodded, forcing a smile. They had been in Losarcum a week now, staying as guests of the Patriarch, and Marto had said the same thing every night.

The big knight had a point. Losarcum was a city of pleasures, and while the coming of the Istaran Church had tempered that somewhat-its women no longer went bare-breasted in public, for one thing-it was still a place where wine and song ruled. Many of the other knights, including Sir Tithian, were in love with the exotic place, but to Marto in particular it was a wonder beyond wonders.

For Cathan, however, the pleasures were muted at best. The festhall where the knights drank wine and ate olives and sweets while lounging on satin cushions was huge and rich, sporting gold-threaded arrases and marble fountains. In one corner, a young man with henna-red hands played dulcet melodies on a cimbello, a plucked dulcimer that sounded far sweeter than the hammered instruments of the northern provinces. In another, men fed scraps of spiced pheasant to a furred serpent in a cage. Elsewhere, a troupe of dancers was enacting the account of a tragic romance-Losarcine lore was full of such tales-and not far away, a boy with a yellow-painted face juggled what appeared to be seven double-bladed daggers.

The delights of the city were more than enough to keep his men happy. No matter how wonderful the distractions, however, Cathan couldn’t keep his mind from roaming back to the Tower.

Absently, he popped a honeyed date into his mouth, then spat it out again. It tasted like ashes. With a sigh, he pushed himself up from his cushion and-ignoring Sir Marto’s booming protest-strode from the festhall, shoving aside a curtain of amber beads as he made his way out into the night. The silver and red moons were both high, making the City of Stone glow pink. Stained glass lamps lit in the chasms between the buildings, and the sounds of laughter and music echoed back and forth. The scents of saffron and blood-blossom hung in the air.

Above everything the Tower gleamed, its glassy black surface reflecting the light of moons and stars. It gave no sign of life and had not since their arrival, but the wizards hadn’t abandoned their home. He’d sent a handful of knights into the grove with ropes tied to them to see if the enchantments still worked. They did. By the time his men had taken five steps, the magic had taken hold. Unlike the spell of forgetfulness that had overwhelmed him at Istar’s Tower, the power of this grove was to inflame men’s passions. They had begun to laugh wildly or yell at each other in rage, alternating between the two from one moment to the next. It had taken a dozen knights hauling on the ropes to pull them out again.

A good part of him hoped Beldinas would not discover a way to foil the groves’ magic. He didn’t tell that to his men, though, nor to anyone else. They would have thought him a coward if he had. It wasn’t battle he feared, though-it was the question circling around and around in his mind: was this the god’s will?

The Lightbringer wished it, and he was Paladine’s voice. That ought to be enough-as it had been, for twenty years-but it wasn’t. The Kingpriest had changed, and Cathan had felt the magic. He could no longer easily revile it as others did.

He bowed his head, signing the triangle. “Father of Dawn,” he murmured. “What am I to do?”

“Sir? Are you well?”

Startled, Cathan looked up: Tithian. His former squire stood in the doorway, swaying a little from the wine. His brows knitted with concern.

“I’m fine, lad,” he said, unsure whether that was a lie. “I just grew tired of the noise.”

“Marto, you mean,” Tithian said with a grin.

Cathan laughed. “Him too.”

Tithian came forward to join him. He was silent a moment, looking at the moons. “I think about Damid sometimes,” he said. “I think he may have been luckier than any of us.”

Cathan looked at him in surprise.

“He dwells with the god now,” Tithian explained, his eyes glistening with tears. “He didn’t have to be at the Bilstiho, or the Eusymmeas.” He shook his head. “Or here.”

He’s afraid, Cathan thought. He doesn’t want to fight this battle, either. He rested a hand on Tithian’s shoulder.

“Damid was my right hand,” he said. “We protected each other. I’m honored that you have taken his place, lad.”

“But I’m not as good a fighter as the others. Most of them, anyway. I’m just-”

“You’re a knight of the Divine Hammer, lad,” Cathan said.

The tears were gone from Tithian’s eyes. Slowly, a broad grin took their place. He clasped Cathan’s hand and pressed it to his lips-then stopped, catching his breath.

Cathan blinked. Tithian’s gaze had shifted, looking over his shoulder. He turned and let out a soft oath of his own. There, soaring toward him, was a clockwork falcon.

It swooped in low, gears clattering, its brass wings beating the air. Cathan took a step back as it touched down, landing on a nearby stone bench with a clank. It looked at him with glinting yellow eyes, and its beak opened to let out a metallic squawk. Looking closer, Cathan saw a message tied to its leg.

Gingerly, he retrieved the note. It bore the imperial sigil in blue wax. He broke the seal and unfurled the scroll-and something fell out. Tithian reached out, catching it, and they looked at each other in confusion.

“A cypress cone?” asked the younger knight.

Shrugging, Cathan looked down at the scroll. His mouth became a hard line as he read.

Grand Marshal Cathan,

The time has come for us to act. The cone you hold is the way through the grove. Plant it, and it will part the trees for you.

If you do not receive another message before Spring Dawning, you must proceed at once with your attack upon the Tower of High Sorcery, For the glory of Istar, it will fall. When it belongs to you and the last of the mages are fled or in chains, you and your men shall return to the Lordcity. I look forward to that day.

May Kiri-Jolith guide thy sword, and Paladine thy steps,

Beldinas Pilofiro

Voice of Paladine and true Kingpriest of Istar

Cathan stared at the message. Spring Dawning was only five days away. His eyes shifted to the cone in Tithian’s hand. Lord Yarns and Duke Serl would, no doubt, be receiving similar tokens. He wondered how Beldinas had acquired them.

“Best not lose that,” he said, taking it from Tithian. Carefully, he tucked it into a pouch.

As he did, the falcon vaulted into the air, flapped its rattling wings, and wheeled away to the north. Cathan and Tithian watched it go. When it was out of sight, Cathan glanced back at the message and sighed.

“Well, then,” he said, steering Tithian back toward the palace. “Come on, lad. We have a battle to make ready for.”

“Six days!” roared Duke Serl, crumpling the missive in his hand. “I have half a legion of men awaiting my order, and that Istaran whelp wants me to wait another six bloody days!”

Emperor Gwynned of Ergoth grunted, leaning back in his bronze throne with drool on his chin. His audience hall, though one of the grandest ever built, was small when compared to the Kingpriest’s. It was a dim, smoky place, hung with the shields of the empire’s noble houses and the heads of dragons slain in ages past. Great fire-bowls flanked the throne, their golden glow bathing the sovereign of what once had been the greatest empire in the world.

Gwynned was a weak man, both in body and in spirit. He had been born sickly-centuries of dynastic inbreeding had seen to that-and had a fondness for drink that was killing him by inches. Barely thirty, he had the constitution of a man thrice his age, and half the time he was too deep in his cups to govern. Even now, a mug of ale rested on the arm of his throne, sweating in the fire’s warmth. His counselors had been ruling the empire in his stead from the day of his coronation.