Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

He staggered back from the rail, and a moment later the balcony cracked, and the section he had been leaning against toppled to the ground far below.

The Tower was gone now, nothing left but a pillar of fire that rose high, high into the sky. Arn knew he was looking at his father’s pyre-and that of his men, and maybe some sorcerers too. The flames licked at the roiling widow-clouds, lightning flashed wildly … then, with a noise like a thousand screams, the blaze shot up into the sky and out of sight.

In the quiet minutes that followed, the rain grew black, covering Daltigoth in soot. Arn stared, his whole body shaking uncontrollably. Nothing remained of the Tower of High Sorcery, save for a deep hole in the ground, surrounded by the charred stubs of the grove that had once protected it. Crimson stone lay scattered throughout Daltigoth, mingling with the wreckage of homes and shops, temples and manors. Both bridges across the Nath were gone. Bodies lay strewn like his sisters’ dolls, crushed and torn by the force of the blast.

Fires burned all over. The hated Tower was gone, but it had taken a quarter of Ergoth’s greatest city with it.

Arn Kar-thon sat on the balcony, hugging himself and moaning. It would be days before he found the strength to cry.

Quarath shouldered the knights of the Divine Hammer aside as he ran up the steps of the imperial manse. He strode past Brother Floran, the Kingpriest’s chamberlain, without a word. It was late at night, the bells atop the basilica having rung Midwatch nearly two hours ago. Another time, he wouldn’t have thought of disturbing the Lightbringer. Tonight, however, he cared nothing for propriety. The clockwork falcon had returned from Daltigoth.

Damn Serl Kar-thon, he thought, taking the stairs to the Kingpriest’s private apartments two at a time. Damn his impatience and his pride!

He found Beldinas in his study, alone, sitting at his desk with his head bowed. He didn’t move when the door thundered open, so Quarath pushed on into the room, the missive from Grand Celebrant Kyad of Ergoth clutched in his hand.

“Holiness!” he exclaimed. “Pilofiro, you must hear-”

He stopped, then, as Beldinas raised his face. It was ashen and streaked with tears, the blue eyes stark with terror. He looked up at the elf without seeming to see him. His hands lay in his lap like dead birds.

He knows, Quarath thought, drawing himself up. “How … ” he began.

“A dream,” the Kingpriest replied. “I saw it, Emissary-oh, gods, I saw it all. The Tower-the bodies … ”

One of the world’s proudest cities, Quarath thought silently. Daltigoth had been built when even the elves were still young in the world. Now it lay in shambles, its glory all but snuffed out.

“This is a terrible thing, Holiness,” he said. “I knew the mages were capable of vile acts, but I never thought they would resort to his kind of barbarism.”

Beldinas nodded. “They are evil,” he said. “White, Black, or Red, they are evil. Never doubt that again, Quarath.”

“I will not, Holiness,” the elf replied. He looked at the missive from Daltigoth, then at the Kingpriest. “We must send word of this to Losarcum and Palanthas. They must know the danger.”

The Kingpriest stared into the shadows, his lower lip quivering. Then he shook his head.

“No, Emissary.”

“No?” Quarath blinked. “But Holiness-this changes everything! We cannot-”

“We can,” Beldinas replied. He rose from his seat, his face turning fierce. “Don’t you see, Quarath? The wizards are cornered, beaten. They know we can defeat the groves. So, in their cowardice, they committed this atrocity to terrorize us into relenting. If we back down now, we let them win. Two sunsets from now, Lord Cathan must attack the Tower at Losarcum as planned.”

Quarath stared at the Kingpriest, hardly recognizing him. The Lightbringer he had first met in the hills outside the Lordcity had never preached reckless action.

“Are you sure about this, sire?” he ventured.

Beldinas nodded, his eyes gleaming. They fell on the parchment in Quarath’s hand, and his brow furrowed.

“Who else has seen that?”

“No one,” Quarath replied. “Not in the Lordcity, anyway. Not even the First Son and First Daughter know what has happened.”

“Good,” the Kingpriest said. “No one must learn of Daltigoth’s fate until this is over. Not the other hierarchs, and not King Lorac in Silvanost. Destroy that message, Emissary.”

Quarath didn’t have to obey. Alone among the imperial court, he was not beholden to the Kingpriest’s orders. He reported only to his king. It was his duty to tell Lorac all he knew. Still, no matter his official loyalties, he had grown to revere Beldinas and wanted nothing more than to serve him. Besides, the elf thought, a shared secret might prove useful in strengthening his influence upon the throne.

But what if the same thing happens at Losarcam, as it did in Daltigoth? he wondered.

What if Lord Cathan meets the same fate as Serl?

He thought about it silence, staring at the missive. Lord Cathan was out of Beldinas’s favor anyway. As for the people of Losarcum … he shrugged, letting the thought drift away. They would have to fend for themselves. It wasn’t as if they were elves, anyway.

Bowing to the Kingpriest, he walked to a golden candelabrum and touched the missive to the flames. The dry parchment curled and burned, bits of ash breaking away. Quarath watched until nothing remained.

Leciane felt numb.

More than a day had passed. Most of the mages had continued with the business of evacuating the Tower, moving as if asleep. A few had given up hope entirely. Others had fallen into fits of uncontrollable sobbing or rage. Those were all gone away now, shepherded off to Wayreth where they would not be in the way. Their absence left a silence deeper than a dwarven tomb.

Daltigoth has fallen. The Tower is gone.

Leciane had watched it all happen. When Duke Serl’s men marched, the Master of the Tower there-a Black Robe sorceress named Iriale-had contacted Khadar, along with their compatriots in Istar and Palanthas and Lady Jorelia at Wayreth. Khadar had, in turn, summoned his inner circle to watch what unfolded. In his scrying vessel, a huge geode filled with blue crystals, they had witnessed a thousand men with swords as they advanced to the edge of the grove-then through it when the black tree sprouted. That had surprised them all-even Iriale, whose minions had gone to help with the Tower’s defense. No Guardians nor mages could withstand the force of Serl’s attack, however, and in the end Daltigoth’s mages had retreated to their Heartchamber, to speak the desperate spell.

The doors of the Heartchambers were made of ironwood, bound with steel and emblazoned with runes of protection. Duke Serl and his men had begun to smash it with axes when Male’s magic took hold. Then the image had vanished in a flare of light, and the geode had turned dark … and silent.

No one wanted to admit what they had just seen. For hours, the sorcerers-both in Losarcum and at the other three Towers-had shouted and argued with one another. They had tried to make contact … any contact … with Daltigoth, but to no avail. Attempts to divine what had happened there ended in failure. There was too much wild magic loose in Ergoth, interfering with any communication.

Finally, though, a mage had managed to scry the scene-a White Robe in Palanthas, as it happened-and transmitted the awful images to the order at large. The destruction was unimaginable. The hole where the Tower had been, the smoldering rubble of a large part of Ergoth’s capital. The corpses, blown onto rooftops-some to pieces-by the force of the blast.