Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Word of what had happened at Losarcum had struck him hard, and more than ever, the fear ran deep in his eyes. The unthinkable had happened: an entire city, destroyed. Tens of thousands dead-among them Lord Cathan and all his men, whom Beldinas had sent into battle. Losarcum was the Kingpriest’s first true defeat, and he was not bearing it well.

It had been a defeat for the wizards as well, however. That was why they were here, now, just beyond one of the three Towers left in the world. After much negotiation, the Church and the order had reached an accord. The Divine Hammer had pledged not to attack this Tower and provoke another disaster. In return, the wizards were to surrender it to the Kingpriest and withdraw to Wayreth unhindered …

The same was due to happen in Palanthas in a few weeks’ time-as long as nothing went wrong today. The Church and the Order had tried to make peace before, after all, and things had ended in betrayal and death. Now that both sides had a bitter taste of loss, peace should prevail. Quarath offered a silent prayer that it would be so.

Now the olive grove split down the middle, the trees creaking as they pulled back to reveal a path through their midst. All around Quarath men held their breaths, watching as the mages opened the way to the bloody-fingered hand of the Tower. If treachery was afoot, it would happen shortly. Quarath glanced at the Kingpriest. The aura of light that surrounded him barely hid the tension in his clenched jaw.

With a final groan the last of the olives shifted aside, revealing an elderly woman in the white robes of Solinari. This was Jorelia, the highmage, with whom Beldinas had brokered the truce. She was alone, and after a moment’s pause she strode forward, leaning on a staff of plain ashwood. She did not bow as she drew near, though she did incline her head, pulling off her hood as she did so.

“Majesty,” she said, “the Tower is empty. As we agreed, my people have left and will not return.”

“That is well, Most High,” replied Beldinas, signing the triangle. “I regret we did not take this step sooner, before so many lives were lost.”

Jorelia made a sour face. Saying nothing, she delved into a pouch by her side. The knights stirred, but the highmage produced a disc-shaped medallion from the bag, crafted of fine-wrought silver and set with a crimson gemstone, a black flaw at its heart. She held it out with both hands, dangling it by its chain.

“This is the All-Seeing Eye,” she declared. “It will guide the one who wears it safely through the grove, and protect him from its magic.”

Beldinas nodded, removing the Crown of Power and lowering his head. Quarath and Lord Olin tensed, but Jorelia made no untoward move, merely slipping the charm over the Lightbringer’s head. It clacked against his jeweled breastplate as he straightened and set the Miceram on his brow once more.

“I thank you, milady,” he said. “Now the troubles between us have ended. From this day forth, let the children of Paladine and the worshipers of the moons raise no hand against each other.”

As long as you stay in Wayreth.

All sensed the unspoken threat hanging heavy in the air, and none more than Jorelia.

Curling her fingers to form the circle of the silver moon, the highmage held out her hand.

She wore no rings, no bracelets, no magical charms to pose a threat.

“Lisso,” she said in the Church tongue. Peace.

Beldinas hesitated, as if afraid to touch her. Maybe he was. After a moment, however, he signed the triangle, then clasped her hand in his, a smile brightening his worn, troubled face.

“Lisso.”

Later, Beldinas and Quarath stood together within the Heartchamber of the Tower, staring at the model of the Lordcity with the bloody hand looming in its midst.

The magic here must have been strong indeed, if it was powerful enough to wreak the destruction of Daltigoth and Losarcum. It was gone now, though, along with every other charm and cantrip. Only the grove’s enchantment remained. The rest of the Tower of Istar was an empty shell, most of the rooms stripped bare, and what artifacts remained-like the miniature map before them-drained of their power. It was a dead place, and would remain so.

They didn’t know what to do with the abandoned Tower. Every hierarch in the Church had a different notion, from tearing it down to consecrating it in Paladine’s name and turning it into a hall of worship. Beldinas had listened to all of these but had made no decision yet. Quarath didn’t much care what the Kingpriest chose to do, so long as it didn’t involve moving the elven embassy here.

“I wonder how it must have felt to wield such power,” Beldinas mused, staring at the model. “Knowing it would cause the deaths of so many.”

“You should know, Holiness.”

At the sound of the frigid voice, both Beldinas and Quarath looked up in astonishment.

The room seemed to darken, and the air grew cold. Plumes of frost billowed from their mouths as they stared into the shadows at a Black Robe.

He stood there, a darker shade than the gloom around him. His arms were folded across his chest, his head angled to one side. All they could see of his face was the tip of his gray beard; the shadows of his hood hid the rest. Yet both could feel the man’s evil, and both feared his power.

Beldinas drew himself up imperiously. “Who are you? The agreement was that everyone would leave. You are forbidden here.”

“I am forbidden nowhere,” said the archmage. “I am Fistandantilus.”

Quarath’s eyes widened. He knew the tales of the Dark One. Feeling the terrible, chilling intensity that emanated from him, he stepped back.

Beldinas held his ground, signing the triangle. The aura around him flared as he called upon the god’s protection, but Fistandantilus only chuckled.

“Do not fear, Holiness,” the wizard said. “Although I am not party to any agreement, I mean you no harm.”

“No?” the Kingpriest replied. “Then why are you here?”

“To see you, obviously,” the Dark One answered. “I wish to ask a favor, after the one I did for you.”

“Favor? What favor?” Beldinas glared at the Dark One.

Quarath caught his breath as Fistandantilus reached into his sleeve and plucked something out. The archmage clenched it in his fist a moment, then tossed it into the air. It rose, then stopped, hanging aloft. Rotating slowly, it glided across the Heartchamber. The Kingpriest’s mouth opened when he saw what it was. Quarath recognized the olive stone, like the one still held by Lord Olin, mate to the other seeds that had arrived mysteriously that night scant weeks ago.

“Do you see now?” Fistandantilus asked. “I am the one who helped you thwart the groves. Now I ask for your help in return.”

Quarath shook his head, amazed. The Dark One, asking the Lightbringer for aid?

Beldinas seemed in shock.

“It was scarcely a favor, giving me those seeds,” he said bitterly, regarding the mage.

“Two cities have fallen because of them.”

“No, Holiness.” The hooded head shook back and forth. The blood of those who died is on your hands, Beldinas Pilofiro -particularly the people of Losarcum. You could have stopped that from happening, if you’d wanted to. That is something you can hide from your subjects, but not from me.”

Quarath exploded. “You dare insult the Kingpr-”

He never finished. Without glancing at him, the Dark One gestured and spoke a word, and Quarath’s voice died in mid-sentence. Paralysis overtook his body, freezing every muscle until he stood as still as a statue.

“Oh yes,” Fistandantilus said mildly. “I dare.”

Quarath watched, helpless, as Beldinas glared at the Dark One.