Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Serl Kar-thon, one of the foremost of those counselors, was by contrast a strong man.

Tall and built like an ox, he could hold his own against the finest warriors in the land, despite his fifty-some years. His hoary beard covered a grisly scar where an assassin had tried to cut his throat. He had broken the man’s neck with his bare hands. Few men in Ergoth could match the duke in fierceness … and he was very angry just now.

“That whelp, need I remind you, is the one who discovered the way through the grove,” said a white-cassocked, gray-bearded figure across from Serl. Grand Celebrant Kyad, high priest of the Ergothian church-the only other man in the room-raised a bushy eyebrow.

“It may be he knows what he is doing.”

The duke shot him a glance that could bore through stone, but didn’t deign to reply.

Instead he turned to Gwynned, peering into his bloodshot eyes. Emperors past had beheaded good men for such presumption, but Serl got away with it.

“Excellency,” the Duke declared, “this is an outrage. We are Ergothmen-we ruled here when the Istarans were barbarians in skin huts! The fame of taking the first Tower should belong to us, but it’s the knights in Losarcum who get to strike the first blow, while we wait another day to follow their lead.”

Gwynned pursed his lips, as if he thought to say something, then made a sound like a small explosion as he stifled a belch. Serl fought back the urge to grab the emperor and hurl him into a fire-bowl. One day, he hoped, a Kar-thon dynasty might replace the degenerate Gwynned and his line, but not today.

“Take heart, Lord Duke,” said Kyad. “At least we move before Yarns in Palanthas.”

“Pah,” declared Serl, spitting on the stone floor. “Some glory. We should be first. We have the seed to do it.” He held up a fist, clasped about the pine nut that had come with the message, strapped to one of the Lightbringer’s mechanical raptors. “Give the order, Excellency, and I shall assail the Tower tonight. Then the world will celebrate Ergoth’s might!”

Gwynned followed hardly any of this. His face showed only stupor, his head lolling first to one side, then the other. That gave the Grand Celebrant time enough to speak up again, the cleric leaning so far forward that it seemed his tall miter might topple from his head.

“My lord,” Kyad declared, “we must cleave to the plan. I think the good duke’s thirst for vengeance blinds his judgment.”

“And I think,” Serl shot back, his voice dripping with venom, “that the good celebrant is far to eager to climb into the Lightbringer’s bed.”

That shut Kyad up. The cleric’s swarthy face flushed, but he looked away and said no more. Serl stood there, seething-not the least because Kyad was right. He had lost two sons to the sorcerers in the Lordcity, which was more than Beldinas or Yarns could claim.

Why should he not deserve to strike first blood against the wizards for that offense? Why should-

“Tomorrow.”

Serl’s eyebrows climbed up toward his receding hairline. He turned away from Kyad, back to the throne, whence the voice had originated. “Excellency?”

“We … attack early,” Emperor Gwynned declared, his voice soft and halting. “Not tonight … though. Tomorrow.”

Laughter formed on Serl’s lips, but he held back the urge. Instead, he bowed. “As you will it, my liege,” he declared. “May I have your leave to make ready?”

Gwynned took a deep drink from his tankard. His moustache came away soaked in creamy foam. With his other hand, he waved the duke away.

Bowing, Serl turned to go. As he did, he noticed the Grand Celebrant. Kyad looked as if he had just been punched in the stomach, which filled Serl with a great satisfaction. As he strode out of the throne room, however, the duke did not openly gloat over his victory. It was unseemly in front of Gwynned. Besides, there would be plenty of time for that later, after he took the Tower.

The next day was rainy, as often was the case in Daltigoth in the spring. The sky hung heavy with what folk called widow clouds, for they wore dark veils and never stopped weeping. Water flowed down the streets and overflowed the banks of the Nath and the Ord, the twin rivers that met in the city’s midst. The colors of the city-never bright to begin with, the folk of Ergoth being more fond of granite and bronze than marble and gold-grew more muted still. Even the emperor’s palace, an ancient sprawl of buttresses and towers normally hung with green and scarlet banners, seemed wan, half-lost in the drizzle.

Then there was the Tower.

It stood atop a hill that gave it a commanding view of Daltigoth itself, and the fields and mountains all around it. Unlike the white hand of Istar and Losarcum’s black needle, this Tower was a rich shade of crimson. Square and stout, with crenellated battlements and glowering gargoyles, it sported five parapets-four white ones at each corner, and a larger fifth in the midst, as black as a raven’s eye. The widow-clouds swirled about, hiding them from view and revealing them again. All around it, dark and swaying, stood a sward of tall pines, whose whispering boughs put any man who set foot within to sleep.

Serl glared at the Tower, just beyond the edge of the grove. He was in full armor, steel covered with gildwork and black enamel, a greatsword strapped to his back. His antlered helm he held tucked under one arm, and a flame-colored cloak hung damply from his shoulders. Behind him were a thousand men arrayed in bronze mail and armed with axes and broad blades. Clerics of Draco Paladin and Corij-as they called Paladine and Kiri-Jolith in the west-walked among them, droning in Old Ergothian. The people of Daltigoth mingled nearby, the curious and the morbid gathering to watch the battle.

The duke was not happy. Having lost Reik and Parsal, his two eldest sons, in the disastrous incident in Istar, he had hoped to bring his youngest, Arn, with him today, to share in his revenge. The boy had been more than willing to come, too, until his mother found out. While Serl could fight a hill giant without fear, Duchess Sheran Kar-thon was another matter. Arn remained behind at the family’s manor while the duke marched to battle, rattled and upset.

Rainwater running down his face as he gazed up at the red monolith, Serl reached into his pouch and pulled out the pine nut that had come from Istar. If this didn’t work, if he planted the seed and nothing happened, he would look a fool. If it did what the Kingpriest claimed …

He smiled, stepping forward. Serl, conqueror of mages had a ring to it.

Rust-colored needles blanketed the earth among the pines. They gave off a rich smell as he brushed them aside. At once his eyelids drooped, and his thoughts grew muzzy as the grove’s magic began to wash over him. He blinked, sucking in a jaw-cracking yawn-then shook his head. No. He focused his will, fighting off the enchantment. After a moment, it abated. He was only on the fringes of the pines, where the power was weakest. Snarling a wordless curse aimed at all wizards, he drew a dagger from his belt and began to dig.

After a while, he judged the hole deep enough. He glanced back at his men-standing patiently, waiting for whatever was about to happen-and sheathed his dirk. Another man might have prayed at that moment, but Serl had seldom bothered with the gods. Instead, he simply placed the seed in the ground, covered it with soil, and stepped back to wait.

He waited for several minutes. Nothing happened … then nothing happened some more. Serl’s mood grew darker. Was this a trick? Some ruse concocted by the Kingpriest to make Ergoth-and him-look foolish? If so, he would set sail for Istar again before nightfall, find the thrice-damned Lightbringer, and shove his sword-