Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“Leciane!” he said, grabbing her and lifting her up to him.

“I’m … saving your … life,” she said, opening her eyes. “And … the boy’s.” A dusky hand rose, gesturing toward Tithian. “Now don’t … interrupt me … again.”

He stared at her. She moved her hands, whispering spidery words as the Tower trembled. Great cracks split the walls, and eldritch light poured out. The knights’ distant battle cries became shrieks of terror. A deep roar signaled the collapse of a ceiling.

Cathan stared at Leciane, scarlet frothing on her lips as she spoke the spell one last time. The air around them wavered, silver motes beginning to whirl. He felt the familiar sensation, the rushing as of a great wind. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the cracks around them widened, as the floor split, a glowing fissure cutting the hallway in two, opening ever wider, ready to swallow everything. Silver light flashed, blinding-bright.

And…

Shouting the god’s name, Sir Marto brought his axe down on the Heartchamber’s doors.

He hit them again and again, trying to loosen the bolt. Rosy light spilled out from the cracks. A beautiful, terrible sound also issued forth, agonized screaming and silver horns all mixed together. Swearing, he chopped harder, his arms burning from the effort.

At last, with a splintering crash, the axe bit all the way through. Laughing, he wrenched the weapon free, brought up one massive foot, and kicked with all his might. The doors gave way, flying open-and Marto stopped, staring in awe and dread at what awaited him.

Inside the Heartchamber were dozens of mages, standing in a circle, facing outward with hands outstretched-Black Robes, White Robes, Red Robes. Their eyes glowed with the same rosy light, which flickered between their fingertips as well. The mellifluous, hideous clamor came from their mouths, opened wide, their lips skinned back from their teeth.

What stood in the ring’s midst might have been human, once, but now any resemblance had melted away. Its hair was gone, and its flesh dripped in gobbets onto the floor, revealing bone beneath. Magical energy whirled around it, a vortex of red, black, and white.

It trembled in agony at the power that surged through its body.

Khadar, Master of the Tower, looked at Marto-or seemed to, for his eyes had long since boiled away-and smiled. The vortex flared like a million suns.

Marto raised his axe and leaped into the room. “For the Light-” he began to shout and did not finish.

Some fled when the strange lights first began to appear, streaming away from the Tower through Losarcum’s twisting streets. Others stood transfixed, watching from courtyards and rooftops as the black needle began to twist and swell. The prudent sought shelter, hiding in cellars and under wagons, seeking to protect themselves from whatever happened next.

It didn’t matter. They all died, just the same.

The Tower of Losarcum burst into a storm of shards-obsidian shards, sharper than any sword. They cut through flesh and bone, smashed buildings to dust. It rained black glass all over the city, tearing the central garden to shreds, shattering the statue of Ardosean the Uniter, turning markets and amphitheater and palace alike into rubble. Thousands of people cried out in terror and agony, their voices lost within the thundering roar.

Then the magic exploded outward in waves, and the City of Stone fell in upon itself.

Mighty buildings toppled, choking the streets with the rubble, or melted into misshapen lumps of glass. The tunnels that served as the city’s barbican caved in, killing hundreds who had been trying to escape. The caverns beneath the city gave way, and great chunks of it vanished into the fissures and craters. Huge plumes of dust rose into the air, darkening the sky and choking those who breathed it. For days afterward, the sunsets in Dravinaar glowed brilliant scarlet, as if dripping with blood.

Thus Losarcum, Qim Sudri, the City of Stone, died.

The hammer fell …

Cathan awoke with a start, his ears ringing, his nose and mouth clogged with dust. Pain shot through his body, and his beard was sticky with half-dried blood. He had never been so thirsty in all his life. Groaning, he forced open his gummy eyes.

He was in a cave-from the looks of the golden sandstone, somewhere in the Tears of Mishakal. Ruddy twilight spilled into its mouth-but it had a strange, brownish cast to it that troubled him. Brow furrowed, he tried to sit up-then slumped back down as the world spun away beneath him.

It could be worse, he thought. At least you’re alive.

It came back to him then, in a rush so sudden, he nearly blacked out again. The Tower.

Leciane. The teleport spell. The crossbow bolt. Oh, gods …

Something pressed against his lips: the neck of a water flask. He took a deep drink, and immediately regretted it as his head tried its best to split in half. Granting, he let the rest dribble down his chin, then looked up at the one who held the bottle. Tithian looked back at him, his eyes hollow and haunted. He had taken off most of his armor, and his tabard was missing as well.

“Sir,” the young man said, his face tightening.

Cathan sighed. “The Tower?”

“Yes,” Tithian said, “and the city with it.”

Cathan lay stunned, his mind roiling. He couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Losarcum had been one of the empire’s wonders, home to Kingpriests in ages past. All of that … gone, and his men too, just him and Tithian left now. Had the same thing happened to Daltigoth? Palanthas? What about the Lordcity?

He tried to sit up, staving off the chasm of nausea that yawned within him. Too stunned to speak, he looked around.

Leciane lay in the back of the cave. The crossbow bolt was beside her, the blood that covered it faded to rust. Tithian had laid his tabard over her, covering her from view.

Cathan scrabbled to his feet and, went over to her, pulling the makeshift shroud away.

Her face was still and pale, blood drying on her lips and teeth, her eyes closed. Lines of pain had frozen around her mouth and along her brow.

“She held on for a long time,” Tithian said. “She wanted to wait for you …” He trailed off, spreading his hands, tears standing in his eyes.

Cathan looked down at Leciane, every part of him feeling raw and hurt. She had saved his life and so doing had lost her own. Gently, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

Then, covering her up again, he looked at Tithian, his blank eyes empty. Neither man could think of a word to say.

He sat by her body all night long.

Fourthmonth, 943 I.A.

The knights of the Divine Hammer approached the Tower of Istar as the sun touched the domes and rooftops, painting them with morning light. There were five hundred in all, a long line of gleaming mail and snowy tabards, mounted on proud Ismindi stallions. The rattle of armor was the only sound they made. Lord Olin rode at the fore, crimson-clad and tall in the saddle, his hand on his sword. His eyes glinted with determination. Here, in the Lordcity, the war with the mages would end today.

Quarath was already in the square surrounding the olive grove when the Hammer arrived. The Kingpriest and the rest of the imperial court also awaited the knights. Quarath nodded to Olin, who had been true Grand Marshal since the catastrophe in Losarcum. He led a knighthood in tatters, ruined by one slaughter after another: the men assembled with him were all that remained. The Hammer might never regain its numbers and pride, but Olin had sworn to try.

The Kingpriest looked grim as he greeted the knights, accepting their fealty from Olin, who swung down from his saddle and knelt before him. Beldinas had aged in the past month, in Quarath’s eyes. His face was haggard, his hair brittle and thin, frosted with gray.