Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“Hello, Cathan.”

He started, the wine bowl falling from his hands, and whirled toward the familiar voice.

She stood by his bed, her red robes looking black in the shadows. She had her hood pulled back to reveal her face. She didn’t smile, which convinced him he wasn’t simply imagining her. Instead, her eyes had a haunted look.

I am skyclad, he thought suddenly. He could feel his face redden as he covered himself.

“Leciane!” he exclaimed. “How long-”

“Long enough,” she replied with a sly look. “I’ve seen all there is to see.”

He went to where he had hung his tabard. Hurriedly he shrugged it on.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded, his lip curling. “Shouldn’t you be with your brothers and sisters?”

Leciane heard the disdain in his voice but let it go. “My brothers and sisters are the ones who sent me, Lord Cathan. I come with a warning.”

“I won’t abide your threats,” Cathan snapped. “You are the ones who should be afraid. Your kind are in hiding, pariahs in every human land. The power of magic weakens. I know. I can feel it wane.”

He expected an outburst, denial, vituperation. Instead she surprised him, merely nodding. “I know,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Lunitari love me, I know.”

That surprised him-so much so that he took a step toward her before he realized what he was doing. “What is it?” he asked. “Tell me, Leciane.”

“No,” she said. “It is better that I show you. You would not believe it otherwise.”

She was going to cast a spell. Here. The frown that spread across his face must have been easy to read, because her eyes flashed impatiently.

“If I wanted to harm you, I wouldn’t have waited,” she said.

That made sense, but it did little to ease his nerves. He met her eyes, saw the anxiousness in them. “All right.” He inclined his head. “But if you’re trying to trick me, I warn you that my men can be here at a shout.”

“Now you’re threatening me,” she replied with a smile. Rolling up her sleeves, she raised her hands and began to cast. “Arvayas gro weshann, culpit to-sati harbandith … ”

The red moon’s power swelled as she spoke, as intoxicating as any wine. Cathan tried to focus on his training, on his mission here, on Paladine’s grace.

Something appeared, glimmering in the darkness: a ruddy mist, rising from the floor. It crept and crawled, coalescing, slowly resolving into the blurred image of a city. Cathan squinted, but the spell was not yet done. Leciane continued to sculpt a street, a mansion, a sprawling marketplace … and, there, looming above the rest, a square red tower, ringed with trees.

Cathan caught his breath, knowing what he beheld. This was Daltigoth then, where Duke Serl and his men stood ready to launch the second attack, two days hence.

“I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you showing me this?”

Leciane only kept chanting, her fingers plucking the air like harpstrings. The images were so fine now he could make out the pine trees that surrounded the Tower. Wait: one tree was different, larger and darker than the rest. He furrowed his brow. What was happening to the Tower? It seemed to be bulging and swelling, growing more distorted as he watched.

Cathan stared, entranced.

Suddenly, a loud noise broke through the stillness, making Cathan jump. He looked up, his heart pounding. Someone was knocking at the door.

“Sir?” called a voice. It was Tithian.

Leciane started as well. The image wavered, smearing. She threw herself back into the spell, furiously trying to retrieve it-

The door opened.

“Milord, are you all right?” Tithian stepped through, bare-chested and sword in hand.

Two other young knights stood behind him, similarly arrayed. “We heard voices- Palado Calib!”

The knights stared at the sorceress, who stared back at them. Cathan looked from one to the other, too stunned to react. On the floor, the phantasm Leciane had been conjuring dissolved back into mist, the magic leaking away.

“Wait,” Cathan said, but no one listened.

Leciane and Tithian acted simultaneously. Even as she spoke the word that made her vanish from the room, the young knight threw his sword.

It struck as she was fading from sight under the power of the teleport spell. Instead of burying itself in her stomach, it pierced her ghostly image-as she disappeared-and crashed into a frescoed wall.

The Master stepped forward to steady Leciane as she appeared in his chambers, but she held out a hand, staying him. Wanting to scream with frustration, she staggered to a velvet-cushioned bench and sat down, burying her face in her hands.

“Gods and demons,” she growled. She recounted what had happened.

“You should have told him first,” Khadar reproached her. “He would have believed you, with the charm you have laid on him.”

Leciane laughed shrilly. “I never laid a charm on him.”

Khadar stared with his mouth open. She bowed her head.

Her thoughts drifted back, to that night in the hills. If only she had done what she was told, perhaps none of this would have happened. She shook her head, moaning.

“Vincil said you told him-”

“I lied!” she shouted, pushing to her feet. “All right?” Furious with herself as much as him, she stormed out of the room. Khadar called after her, but did not follow.

By the time she calmed down again, it was nearly morning. Glancing out one of the few windows that looked out of the spire, she saw the eastern sky was the color of ripe blood-melons above the mesas. Still seething-mostly at herself, for being such a fool-she stood silently, staring at the coming dawn.

That was when the first tremor struck.

The vibration felt slight, but it made the hairs on the back of her neck prickle nonetheless. Dravinaar was not prone to earthquakes and never had been. That meant something else was happening, some force beyond nature. Who was doing it, the order or the knights? The mages wouldn’t have acted first, but surely without the Lightbringer, the Divine Hammer didn’t have the power …

The second temblor was stronger than the first, enough to buckle her knees. She leaned against the wall to steady herself, listening to the cries of her fellow wizards sounding alarm all throughout the Tower.

Splinters and shards, she thought. It isn’t us.

The stone wall shimmered, her reflection in the obsidian warping. She drew back, then saw the shape it was becoming, the lips parting to reveal glassy black teeth and tongue.

She stared at the magical mouth, childlike in form like Khadar’s, and was unsurprised when its voice was the Tower Master’s.

“Milady,” the stone mouth said, “come to the Heartchamber at once.”

One of the first things a mage learned, one of the first lessons of spellcrafting, was how to clear one’s mind. Sorcery took concentration. It was hard to call upon the magic and give it form without emotions interfering. Even so, it seemed half the wizards in the Tower of Losarcum were panicking. One quake after another shook the spire. Men and women of all three robes shouted and shoved against one another. Books and sorcerous implements littered the halls and the great circular stair. Wizards clogged the entrance to the Chamber of Traveling. Some screamed curses at those in their way.

Leciane forced past the rabble, sprinting up the stairs. Another tremor nearly swept her off her feet. Beyond the entrance to Khadar’s chambers, she reached a tall, iron-wood door.

The runes inscribed on its surface glowed at her approach-all three hues of magic, united in protecting the Heartchamber. She spoke a word, and one by one they faded, the door swinging open to let her through.