Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Most of Khadar’s inner circle were already there, gathered about the needle that was the Tower’s facsimile. They murmured to one another in strained voices. The Master waved her close, his eyes fear-widened.

“The Guardians stand ready,” he said. “We must be prepared as well. Once they’re through, we will not have long.”

A shuddering groan escaped her lips when she saw the events rendered in miniature before her. A strange black cypress had materialized, standing taller than the other trees, just like the pine in Daltigoth. Its branches drooped with weight, brushing the ground. The rest of the grove was moving away from the strange tree now, clearing a gap that led straight to the Tower-and there, behind the cypress, the knights of the Divine Hammer stood in gleaming armor.

One more day, she thought, despairing. Cathan, why couldn’t you wait one more day?

Tonight I would have tried again to tell you …

Too late now. The chance had passed. The attack on the Tower of Losarcum had begun.

Cathan stared at the black cypress, looming over him and his knights, above the other trees in the haunted grove. Had Beldinas truly sanctioned the creation of this strange tree?

If he hadn’t, who had? A voice deep within him shouted that this was wrong-and, yet, the path to the Tower lay open as the missive had promised. The priests had blessed his men in Paladine’s and Kiri-Jolith’s names. The knights awaited his command. If he didn’t give the order, they would surely revolt and take the Tower anyway. His disgrace would be sealed.

He drew Ebonbane and gave the cypress one last dubious glance. Reverently, he pressed his sword’s hilt to his lips, then shut the visor of his helm. A chorus of metallic clangs sounded behind him. He shifted his shield onto his arm, then looked back at the men of the Divine Hammer. They stood ready, some gripping crossbows, others with blades and maces. He thought of Tavarre, and Pellidas, and the others who had fallen over the past few months. The surviving knights had waited a long time to avenge their deaths. Now that time was at hand.

He raised his sword. “For Paladine!” he shouted. “For Kiri-Jolith! For the Lightbringer!”

“The Lightbringer!” his men roared, and charged.

The grove’s magic had diminished along the hewn path, but it hadn’t disappeared. As he ran, Cathan felt its enchantment, luring him toward the trees as it had in Istar. Shouts behind told him some of his men had succumbed. They are lost, he told himself. When the battle was done, gods willing, he would look for them. Right now, he had to keep moving toward the Tower.

Finally they emerged from the trees into open ground. A quick glance behind told Cathan he had lost maybe a dozen men out of twenty times that number. He was glad to spot Tithian and Marto. The huge doors of the Tower, slabs of red stone carved with images of the moons, loomed before him. Legend said the doors were never locked. Only those who were welcome could pass through the groves.

A pair of overeager knights leaped up the steps, and fell as they triggered the warding spells the mages had placed upon the entrance. Sheets of violet flame blazed into life, and they died screaming, beating at the fires that immolated them. Cathan winced at the stench, but part of him thanked the gods that he had only lost two to the spell, which had done its work and was now fading.

“Forward!” cried Sir Marto, before Cathan could say anything. “Let no man rest until every one of the demon worshipers has felt the god’s justice!”

As Cathan had begun to suspect, the knights followed the big Karthayan’s orders more enthusiastically than his own. I’ve lost them, he thought, as the men of the Divine Hammer pounded up the steps, past the charred remains of their comrades.

They slammed into the doors with all their might, Marto leading with his shoulder.

Sparks flew as his armor scraped against the stone, and the doors groaned, grinding inward a few inches. The knights gave a roar, then hit the doors again, a third time, and a fourth. Each time, the doors budged a little more. Finally, the gap between them was wide enough to let the men peer inside. One knight near the front-Cathan wasn’t sure who-shoved his way halfway into the dim interior-

A moment later, he screamed in agony, his body jerking, and pulled back out. Half his helmet was gone, sheared off as though by sharp teeth. He howled, clutching at the bloody ruin of his face. Finally, after several excruciating moments, he went limp, his fellows catching him as he fell. He wasn’t yet dead, but he couldn’t possibly survive the grievous wound he’d taken, and he would suffer from lingering. Knowing this, one of his fellows drew a dagger and slipped it between his ribs. He stiffened, then relaxed, beyond all pain.

While he was dying, more knights shoved at the doors, pushing them farther open.

Cathan gritted his teeth as the gap widened.

The first of the Guardians came striding out-a nine-foot colossus with the head of a jackal, its eyes ablaze with golden light. The sight of its two giant scimitars-one of them dripping red-filled Cathan with dread. He brandished Ebonbane as his men fell back in a wide circle. One didn’t move fast enough, and a flick of a blade cut him in two beneath the shoulders.

“Mother of Paladine,” someone cursed. Cathan nodded, agreeing.

Reckless, heedless, Sir Marto surged at the jackal-headed thing, his new axe sweeping back. Damned fool, Cathan thought, admiring the big knight’s courage as the Guardian’s scimitars arced in, a scissoring blow aimed at Marto’s neck.

Marto laughed, ducking with a grace that belied his size. The blades whistled above his head, close enough to slice off the tips of the horns on his helm. An eye-blink later he was up, his axe flashing in to hack the creature’s thigh.

Stone fractured, green shards flying. Marto’s axe glanced away, leaving a deep crack in the Guardian’s leg. It gave no sign of noticing, though. Such a creature didn’t feel pain, and now its swords came up again, poised to bury themselves in Marto’s skull. He backed away, drawing it after him-closer, closer …

The Guardian’s eyes couldn’t actually widen with surprise, but the sorcerous glow within them brightened when it tried to put its bulk on its damaged leg. With a snap, the limb gave way, splintering beneath its weight. It fell with a crash, both swords shattering as they hit the ground. It lay there a moment, in pieces, struggling to rise-until Marto brought his axe down in a mighty, double-handed chop, smashing its face. The light in its eyes went out.

Cathan and the rest of the knights stared at Marto and the broken statue, too stunned to speak. A grinding sound caught their attention, and they looked toward the doorway.

Through the gap, Cathan saw another Guardian shambling forward, this one with a lion’s head on its massive shoulders. There were more behind-ten, twenty, and more, their eyes blazing with unnatural life.

It was going to be a slaughter. Cathan knew it-they all did. There was nothing they could do about it, though. They’d come too far to turn back. With a chorus of shouts and cheers, the knights charged.

One of the other mages had brought her scrying vessel, a prism that bent light into flickering images. Now Khadar and his inner circle stared at these. As they watched, the Divine Hammer poured into the Tower, slamming into the Guardians. Many men fell, cut to shreds by the statues’ whirling blades, but the statues also faltered, crushed by blows from maces and hammers and cracked by swords and axes. The knights were taking heavy losses, but there were too many to hold back. The Guardians would fail at their task.

Leciane bowed her head, tears burning her eyes. The Tower would fall, as she’d known it would. There was only one thing left to do.