Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“It passes to us now, my brothers and sisters,” said the Master, his voice heavy with sorrow. “I wish there were some other way. For the sake of the magic, we must act quickly, before they reach this chamber. Who will help me do what must be done?”

The mages stood silent, their eyes downcast. All knew what Khadar was asking.

Whoever stayed here would surely die, and the damage they did would be devastating. They had all seen what happened to Daltigoth.

Lunitari, Leciane prayed. Do not let this happen …

Hazael spoke first. An elderly Black Robe who had lived most of his years within the Tower, he shuffled over to the miniature obelisk, leaning on a staff tipped with dragon talons. His bloodshot eyes turned toward Khadar.

“I will help, Master,” he croaked. “Nothing would please me more than sending the Kingpriest’s dogs howling to the Abyss.”

Two more Black Robes followed suit before the first Red Robe replied. After a few more volunteered, the White Robes began to join in-not to mete out punishment upon the knights, but to protect the Tower’s secrets. Soon every wizard in the room had responded.

All save one.

“Leciane?” the Tower Master asked. The other sorcerers looked, the weight of their gaze heavy upon her. “Will you not help us, for the Order’s sake?”

Part of her wanted to. Better to die here, fighting for the Art. Why would she care to live through this infamous day? To see the Towers at Palanthas and the Lordcity fall, as well?

Her kind would be driven into hiding at Wayreth, reviled by people everywhere. Wouldn’t death be preferable?

Still, she stayed silent. Her eyes flitted to the scrying prism. Amid the steel and broken stone, she spotted Cathan fighting a Guardian with a stag’s head, his sword whirling, ducking and dodging. As she watched he spun away from its attack and lunged, driving Ebonbane through the Guardian’s eye. Panting, Cathan wrenched his blade free and turned to face a new foe.

Leciane sighed, looking at the floor. “I’m sorry, Master. I will not be a part of this.”

A shocked murmur ran through the Heartchamber. The other wizards gave her betrayed looks. Khadar’s expression did not change. He shrugged, sighing.

“Go, then,” he said curtly. “If you will not aid us, leave.”

Leciane nodded, feeling the other mages’ angry gaze as she turned and hurried out of the Heartchamber. The sound of chanting rose behind her as she shut the door. The magic began to rise as the other mages summoned the power of the moons for the last spell of their lives. So seductive was the sensation that she nearly turned to go back into the Heartchamber-then she stopped herself, shaking her head. Weeping for what would soon be lost, she hurried down the steps, in search of Cathan.

Green-veined scimitars whistled through the air. Slapping one aside with Ebonbane, Cathan twisted away. He slipped and nearly fell. The floor was slick with blood. To his left, a wounded knight had been laid open from throat to breastbone by a blow that split his plate mail like parchment. He offered a heartbeat’s prayer for the poor fellow, then brought up his sword to block another blow-then another, and another, as an ape-headed Guardian bore down on him, stony teeth bared.

A third of his men were dead, and nearly that many were wounded, but the number of living statues was fast dwindling. There were eight left-no, seven, he corrected himself, seeing Sir Marto lay low yet another one. Victory would soon be theirs-and soon they would be free to continue their assault on the Tower.

The ape-headed Guardian kept coming, pausing only to swat away a knight who tried to flank it. The man shrieked, falling back and grasping at a sword arm now attached to his body only by a strip of flesh. Then the statue was on Cathan again, pounding away, first with one curved sword, then the other, raining down blow after blow. Cathan kept backing away, sometimes parrying or trying to block with the shredded remains of his shield, but mostly keeping a safe distance between himself and his foe. Finally, he backed into the smashed remnants of a fallen Guardian, one of the many scattered about the hall. His arms weary, he raised sword and shield and made his last stand, each blow shaking him to the marrow. He cast about, looking for someone … anyone-

“Milord!” cried a voice to his right.

Starting, Cathan saw Tithian charging in, holding a flanged mace high. The Guardian also saw the young knight coming and turned, one scimitar spinning toward Tithian’s knees while the other stabbed at Cathan’s throat.

Tithian leaped over the first blade and Cathan batted the second aside with his shield.

Both men struck back at the same time, Cathan hacking off the statue’s arm just above the elbow while his former squire dealt it a blow to the knee that succeeded in knocking it down. Growling, Cathan finished it with a thrust, then spun to look for another of the bestial foes-

There were none. The last of the Guardians had been destroyed.

A few of the knights let out victory cries, or laughed over the defeat of their enemies.

Most, however, remained silent except for wheezes or grunts of pain. A few went from one fallen man to the next, looking for those who still lived. Many were beyond help, short of the Lightbringer’s healing touch. They put these men to merciful ends. By the time they were done, some eighty of the Divine Hammer lay dead amid the broken malachite. The survivors offered prayers to Paladine to guide their souls on to the gods’ realm beyond the stars.

“More for the Garden of Martyrs,” Sir Marto said, speaking the words bitterly. “And how many wizards have we slain, in return? None so far!”

“Be still,” Cathan told him, though he could see the same frustration in the other knights’ eyes. Once they were loose in the Tower, not even the White Robes would be safe.

He could only hope the mages had had the sense to get as many as they could out of the Tower.

His men looked at him now, waiting for his orders. Sighing, he shrugged off his ruined shield and picked up a fresh one from one of the dead.

“Very well,” he said. “Let’s go on. The Tower is ours.”

It was bedlam, hundreds of knights surging from one room to the next, chasing down what sorcerers they could find. Most of the mages had fled the lower levels, but a few remained, either too frightened or too defiant to leave. They fought with every spell they knew, and killed more than a few of Cathan’s men, but the Divine Hammer were relentless and put every wizard they found to the sword. Behind the knights came the priests, chanting prayers of purification and aspersing the wreckage with holy water. Before long, the base of the Tower belonged to the Hammer.

“Cerro!” became the rallying cry, ringing behind the visors of a hundred and fifty helmets. Upward! Up they went, killing, destroying and blessing the carnage.

The moment they set foot on the Tower’s central stair, the magical portal within the Chamber of Traveling closed, stranding those mages who had been trying to escape the Tower. With flight no longer an option, the sorcerers regrouped to fight the invaders. Balls of fire rained down on the knights, bursting in great blossoms that blew men to pieces, hurling shreds of clattering armor down the Tower’s central shaft. Tendrils of green mist crept down, finding their way through the eyeslits of helmets. Men collapsed, retching and clutching at their throats. One spell turned a length of the staircase to dark, sucking mud.

Three knights disappeared, screaming, as the muck dragged them down. Venomous wasps found their way into chinks in armor and left men sobbing and twitching on the ground.