Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

“The knighthood you despised is smashed, Andras,” Fistandantilus said. “The last of the Order of High Sorcery flees into hiding, even now. If either recover, it will not be for a very long time. You should rejoice, my pupil-you have succeeded.”

Andras knew the Dark One was right. This was what he had hoped for. Victory, however, felt hollow.

“I wish this had never happened,” he croaked, his voice like an ancient hinge. “I wish I could take it all back.”

Fistandantilus only chuckled. “There are few prayers men speak more than that one, boy. Not even the gods can undo what has already been done, though.” He stepped forward, his robes whispering in the dark. “Now … now that I have helped you achieve what you desired most, it is time for you to repay me.”

Andras cringed as the Dark One loomed above, but there was nothing he could do.

Whimpering, he could only twitch while Fistandantilus crouched down beside him.

Eye of Night, watch over me, Andras prayed silently, though he doubted even Nuitari could save him. “What are you going to do?”

“That is the wrong question,” Fistandantilus said, shaking his hooded head. “What you should be wondering is, what you’re going to do.”

Hands, gnarled with age, reached out at the ends of billowing black sleeves. Andras whimpered, his mind white with fear as the Dark One’s fingertips pressed against his skin.

Each was like a spike of ice. He imagined he could feel his skin withering beneath them. He shut his eyes, willing this nightmare to end, for it all to simply go away, but it did not.

Instead, a new image formed within him, brighter and more vivid than the ones of Daltigoth and Losarcum. Another city … another Tower … one more thing Fistandantilus wished him to do.

Andras fought very hard, for quite a long time.

The gates were slender and golden, decorated with a delicate latticework and topped with bejeweled points. On another building, they would have seemed laughably precious, doubly so the gem-encrusted lock into which Merroc slid the tiny silver key. This was no ordinary lock, however. Blue sparks sprang from it as it sealed itself shut, and a sound like a harp with strings of lightning filled the air. Nor were the gates ordinary, any more than the proud trees that grew about them were natural oaks. This was the Tower of Palanthas, the last bastion of High Sorcery outside the seclusion of Wayreth Forest-but only for the moment. For today the order was turning over control of it to mortal men.

Merroc had not expected to be highmage. It had been thrust upon him after the Tower of Istar fell into the church’s hands. Burdened by her grief over Losarcum and Daltigoth, Lady Jorelia had died in her sleep not two weeks since. That had left a fresh void at the head of the order, and Merroc, a White Robe who had served on the Conclave for more than twenty years, had been chosen to fill the post. A broad-bellied man with a long, snowy beard braided with beads of turquoise, he took no pride in his new position. He would lead the wizards into exile, and he would not live to see its end. As long as the Lightbringer lived, the order would remain hidden-perhaps longer, if his successors proved equally zealous.

“One day, though,” Merroc whispered, grasping the key in his hand. “One day … ”

He looked up at the building he had just locked. The Palanthian Tower was an equal mix of all three colors of magic, a tall cylinder of shimmering white tipped with red, onion-shaped domes and minarets of black basalt. It had been the greatest store of learning in all the order, which was why the sorcerers had chosen to abandon it last. It had taken considerably longer than the other Towers to empty it of its books and scrolls. In the end, the wizards had given much of that lore to the Library of Palanthas, where monks who worshiped Gilean, the Book of Knowledge, would keep it safe.

Now the Tower stood empty, its high windows dark, its halls silent. That wouldn’t last long. The Lord of Palanthas would take it over, as the Kingpriest had done in Istar. That thought saddened Merroc greatly. He had studied here as a boy, taken his Test here. At least this Tower was still standing, though. A shudder ran through him as he thought of what had happened elsewhere. As long as the Tower remained, so did, the chance that the mages might one day return.

Sighing, Merroc turned away from the gates. The oaks were in full leaf, summertime coming early this far north. The breeze that whispered among their boughs smelled of the sea. The Shoikan Grove was dark, the most fearsome of all the enchanted woods that surrounded-or once surrounded-the Towers. Its magic filled the minds of those who entered it with fear, terrifying them so that even the doughtiest Solamnic fled weeping before he came close to the other side.

At a gesture from the highmage, the oaks moved aside, forming a path. The sounds of the city grew louder, more distinct. Finally, the trail opened up onto the streets of Palanthas. A crowd had formed outside, thousands strong, the folk of the city clamoring to glimpse the mages’ surrender. When they saw Merroc, they let out a burst of raucous noise: jeering and hissing, mixed with the jubilant shouts of victory. Merroc shook his head sadly, then walked down the path toward them.

The lords of the city awaited him: Urian, the Lord of Palanthas, resplendent in his robes of office; Yarns, the High Clerist of the Solamnic Knights, looking grave beneath his winged helm; Torvald, the city’s high priest, practically ablaze with righteous satisfaction. Astinus the Undying, the master of the Great Library, who had accepted the sorcerers’ tomes, stood nearby. When this was done, he would write it all out in the Iconochronoi, the great chronicles he had been keeping for as long as anyone could remember. He nodded coolly to Merroc, his studious eyes taking in everything around him.

The highmage looked to Lord Urian, trying not to show his distaste. The man’s eyes all but glowed with eagerness as he stared at the Tower. The rumor was that he hoped to turn the place into his private treasury for his hoard of gold and jewels.

“Your Worship,” Merroc said, “the Tower is empty. My people have left it and will not return.”

Urian nodded, licking his lips greedily. The highmage shook his head, annoyance growing as he reached into a pouch and produced an amulet on a silver chain. It was a black gem, unlovely and seething with power. Whoever wore it could pass through the Shoikan Grove unharmed. Even when he held it forth, however, the Lord’s eyes remained fixed on the Tower.

“This is the Nightjewel,” Merroc said. “It will-”

“Who is that up there?” the Lord of Palanthas interrupted, pointing.

Merroc froze. Even Astinus was looking in the same direction, his brow furrowing. That, more than anything, put a cold lump in the highmage’s belly.

Slowly he turned, and saw it too.

It stood in one of the Tower’s windows, high up near the crimson dome: a lone figure, tall and gaunt, his face obscured by a deep, dark hood. His robes were ragged black, billowing in the wind. The people of Palanthas gasped at the sight, exclaiming in horror.

Merroc’s eyes went wide. The Tower had been empty when he left it. He had checked the rooms care fully, with spells and his own eyes. There had been no one left within.

But then, who was that?

The figure raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent, edging back. Merroc ran through some spells he knew, finding one that would conjure a shield to protect the mob from whatever the Black Robe meant to do. He murmured the incantation under his breath, his fingers twitching, then felt the magic course into him. He held it back, waiting.

The Black Robe raised his head and spoke, his voice carrying clearly down beyond the grove.