Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Cathan watched his men fight and die. He was glad for his helm, for it hid his tears. He wept for the Divine Hammer but also for the sorcerers who perished defending their homes.

He wept for Istar, for the empire he had upheld for so long. How could a land of such glory and light breed so much suffering and death?

There might be others who thought as he did, but most were like Marto, who fought on with fervent glee. The big knight killed every sorcerer he could-man, woman … human, elf, dwarf… Red, Black, White … it didn’t matter. He cut them down whether they fought or tried to run. As he slew, he shouted the god’s name, the Lightbringer’s, Sir Pellidas’s, and their other lost friends’. Other knights also shouted the names of fallen comrades as they massacred the hated foe. In the Divine Hammer’s wake, all Robes were red.

The crossbowmen turned the tide. Were the knights armed with sword and cudgel alone, the wizards on the upper floors might have prevailed, pouring death down on the Hammer from above. When the thrums of strings and the buzz of flying quarrels filled the air, however, sorcerers screamed, clutching at the shafts buried in their legs, throats, and stomachs. After three volleys of steady death, the wizards’ morale shattered. A few tried to stand their ground, but most of those who still lived turned to flee up toward the Tower’s highest levels.

Cathan stared past the fleeing wizards, toward the apex of the Tower. The magic burned brightest up there, like the beacon atop a lighthouse. It stung his mind, blazing like the sun. What were the mages doing, that would require such-

He understood. He knew, suddenly, why Leciane had come to him in the night-what she’d tried to warn him about, before Tithian drove her away. In his mind, he saw the Tower of Daltigoth, the image she had conjured. He saw it distort, bulging, ready to burst.

“Palado Calib” he gasped, stopping on the stairs. He grabbed Tithian’s arm. “They’re going to destroy it!”

The younger knight stared at him. “What?”

“The Tower!” Cathan cried, yanking up his visor. “The mages are going to destroy it and themselves and all of us! Gods, how could I be so blind?”

“But they can’t-!” Tithian protested feebly. He raised his visor as well. The face beneath was pale, the eyes wide.

Cathan looked up at Sir Marto leading the charge. The big knight was too far away to hear him-and even if he weren’t, what good would it do? He wouldn’t listen, anyway. None of the knights would. Other men were shoving past, trying to rush to the top. They clogged the stairs behind him, blocking the way down.

“We have to get out of here!” Tithian shouted, echoing the thought screaming in Cathan’s head. Where do we go?

Cathan felt his own panic rising. Staring up the steps once more, he saw a half-open door, hacked by swords and axes so that it hung by only one hinge. There were doors all along the stair, both ahead and behind, but this was the closest.

“Come on,” he said to Tithian, more confident than he felt. “There has to be another way down.”

Faithfully, Tithian followed him through the door. It led to a long corridor of obsidian, lined with glowing crystal lamps. They dimmed and flickered as the magic above surged ever stronger. Ignoring the shouts of his men behind him, Cathan charged down the hall.

Tithian jogged after.

In no time at all, they were both thoroughly lost. The Tower was huge, its hallways labyrinthine. In the growing darkness, they lost track of the twists and turns, the intersections and alcoves. Most of the doors were magically locked. Those that weren’t led to rooms that were either empty or in ruins. There were no back stairs, no trapdoors, no windows. Finally, they arrived at a dead end, where a vase of Tucuri porcelain sat on a small table. It held a bundle of bloodblossoms, their deep red blooms redolent of their sleep-inducing oil. Snarling, Cathan lashed out with Ebonbane, smashing the vase to shards. Water and petals flew everywhere.

Cathan could feel the power of the sorcerers’ spell, the strain of the man casting it, holding it back with nothing but sheer willpower. He felt the man’s agony as he gathered the last bits of magic. The crystal lamps gave one last flash, then went dark, drenching the corridor in shadow.

Trapped, Cathan and Tithian sat down on the floor. The head of the Divine Hammer bowed his head in misery, waiting for the end to come.

“Leciane,” he murmured. “Leciane, I’m sorry …”

Leciane sat cross-legged in the room full of crystal sculptures, her eyes closed and her lips moving. The sounds of battle, the cries of the wounded and the dying, echoed through the Tower’s depths. Above, she could sense Khadar, ready to burst from the magic welling up inside him-more magic than anyone could possibly contain. Still he gathered it in, drop by precious drop. Elsewhere, the other wizards gave up their power freely, letting the master suck away their essence. She concentrated on her own spell, making one last try.

She had been searching for Cathan for what seemed like hours. He was in the Tower, somewhere, and her mind was questing, reaching out to find him. Again and again, though, she came up empty. She felt the terror of the fleeing wizards and the unwavering zeal of the Divine Hammer. She saw horrible butchery and heroism on both sides … but of him, nothing. Her cheeks were wet with tears of frustration. She had lived much of her life with the power to do the impossible, but now, faced with this terrible experience, her helplessness was almost more than she could bear.

Blast it, she thought. Where in the Abyss are you?

Leciane …

A voice she recognized. Cathan’s voice.

Where are you? she asked. Tell me!

If he could hear her, he gave no reply. His voice sounded despairing. She caught her breath. He must know what was about to happen, even if his men did not. Frantic, she thrust her own mind toward his … searching, seeking …

There!

When the floor began to tremble beneath her, a spike of fear sliced into his mind, echoing in her own. There wasn’t much time left. She felt the magic swelling, Khadar preparing for the final release.

Don’t move, she told Cathan silently. I’ll be right there.

Concentrating, she started another spell, fingertips fluttering, words tumbling from her lips. The floor shook again, harder this time. Her whole body tense, she let the teleport spell flow through her her.

She didn’t notice that the door behind her had burst open, didn’t see the knights raise their crossbows, didn’t hear their shouts, but she did, feel something, a hot lance of pain, digging into her side.

Then she was gone, the magic whisking her away, a second quarrel flashing through where she’d been to smash the crystal sculptures to pieces.

I’ve gone mad, Cathan thought when the air beside him shimmered and Leciane appeared with a bolt lodged in her chest. What’s happening has been too much for me, and I’ve lost my mind. One look at Tithian’s eyes, however, told him that his former squire beheld the sorceress too, and was every bit as astonished.

Blood bubbled around the quarrel’s steel shaft-she wasn’t dead, not yet. She slumped against the wall, her face pale and her lips wet. Her glassy eyes fought to focus as she stared at him, then down at the shaft sticking out of her.

“Oh, Abyss,” she said thickly.

“Who did this?” Cathan muttered, half-rising. He looked at Tithian, who shook his head.

The Tower shook, stones grinding and groaning. Leciane winced as black dust sifted down from the ceiling. “Listen,” she said. “None will survive … Don’t have … much time. .” She shut her eyes.