Chris Pierson - Divine Hammer

Tenthmonth, 935 I.A.

The folk of Krynn thought it was a moonless night. Silver Solinari, a slender crescent at this time of the month, set soon after sunset, and Lunitari, the red moon, would not rise until dawn. In their absence, the sky-clear this cool autumn eve, unmarred by clouds-seemed empty of all but stars.

It was not.

Most folk could not see the third moon. Unlike its bright sisters, Nuitari was black as a dragon’s heart, blending with the night. Only a few-astronomers and madmen, mostly-marked it as a hole in the sky, tracing it by the stars it blocked as it passed. Others, however, could see every crater and scar, even-though it reflected none of the sun’s light-its phase, and thus gauge its power.

A thousand years ago, dragons, monsters, and dark-hearted men had all but ruled the world, and Nuitari had shimmered with their power. That was the past, though. The dragons were gone, banished from the world, and the followers of the gods of light had hunted down those who served the shadows, beast and man alike. In all the world’s realms-crumbling Ergoth, proud Solamnia, wild Kharolis, the kingdoms of elves, dwarves, and kender-the disciples of evil were few, scattered, forced to hide if they wanted to survive.

The place of faintest shadows was the Holy Empire of Istar. The Kingpriest who ruled the empire, a man folk called Lightbringer, had commanded his people to destroy all evil in the name of the god Paladine. For more than a decade, pyres had burned beneath stakes, gibbets had groaned and creaked, and blood had caked thick on headsmen’s blocks and warriors’ swords.

Still, despite the purges, vestiges of darkness survived.

Monsters still skulked in the wildlands, and cults of evil gods worshiped in secret haunts. There were those who could not only see the black moon but could draw down its power to spin into sorcery. The Kingpriest detested these dark wizards, and so the mages who wore the Black Robes seldom ventured out into the open.

The black moon was strong tonight, not just full but close, large in the sky. Its power crackled in the crisp air, so charged that children the world over squirmed as they slept, in the throes of formless nightmares. In this night, dark sorcerers walked out in the open.

Andras crouched in the darkness, his breath coming short and quick. He was a tall man, slender and golden-haired, the sort who might have made maidens swoon had he wielded a blade or played the lute. No maidens pined for those whose tools were the staff and the scroll, though-or for those whose faces were half burnt away. The strange tightness of Andras’s ravaged flesh was a constant reminder of the sacrifices he had made to become a mage. The Test, which every wizard had to undergo in order to join the Order of High Sorcery, often left its mark. Barely a year ago, it had left the left side of his face ridged and glistening with scars as a warning against vanity. The warning had worked: not even the enchantresses who served Nuitari could look at him without wincing, so he had devoted himself all the more to the magic and his dark god.

“Boy,” rasped a voice in the gloom, “Get your head about you.”

Andras started out of his reverie, glancing to his left. Stooped beside him, small and bony beneath his ebon robes, was his master. Nusendran the Voiceless-the Test had ravaged his throat so badly he could only speak in a dry growl-was a powerful Black Robe and would one day serve on the Conclave that governed the High Sorcerers. His gray-bearded face was pinched with annoyance.

“It’s time,” Nusendran said. “Cast the spell as I taught you.”

A smile crept across Andras’s disfigured face. He had been waiting for this moment for half his twenty-four years, ever since his first lesson in magecraft. Until today; he had cast only minor spells, under his master’s supervision. Tonight, though, he would finally wield true magic. He felt the black moon’s power bathing him, hot and strong.

Eye of Night, he prayed, watch over me.

As his master watched, he delved into a small pouch at his belt and produced a wad of Yerasan gum. Rolling it into a ball, he reached up with his other hand and plucked out one of his eyelashes. He stuck this into the gum, tears running down his cheek, then squeezed it in his left hand. With his right he wove a complicated gesture through the air, fingers dancing as he chanted soft, spidery words.

“Ristak pur koivannon, sha pangit felori.”

The feel of magic recalled the bliss of loveplay, lost to him since the Test. His body went rigid, his nostrils flaring as the magic surged through him. A quiet groan slipped from his lips. The air around him shuddered, as it might on a summer’s day-then stilled again-and Andras vanished.

Nusendran hardly ever smiled, but now a proud grin split his wispy beard. “Well done, lad,” he said. “Keep it up, and one day you’ll make your mark on the world.”

He cast the invisibility spell as well, barely blinking as he plucked his eyelash, and spoke the incantation in half the time it had taken Andras. Then he was gone as well.

“Now,” Nusendran rasped, “let’s go.”

Together, they crept out of the shadows, beneath the black moon’s gaze.

The farm was like any in Ismin, the breadbasket of Istar. The family who owned it were wealthy landholders, overseeing several hundred workers who tended fields of barley and wheat, herds of cattle, and scattered orchards, olive groves, and vineyards. The villa, a sprawling, whitewashed building with a red-tiled root, perched on a ridge overlooking the farmers’ thatched cottages. A simple shrine of Paladine, surmounted by the god’s silver triangle, stood watch on the village’s other side. It was wearing on midnight, and the farmers were asleep, the rich folk above finishing their evening meal and perhaps listening to a wandering poet’s latest epic or playing at khas in their parlor.

Two guards stood watch at the hamlet’s edge, rough men who held their spears awkwardly, more accustomed to the feel of a flail or scythe. They muttered together in hushed voices, and one laughed, lifting a jug of wine. He drank deeply, then passed it to the other.

The two wizards stood ten paces from them, cloaked by magic. Andras had worried there might be dogs to pick up their scent, but the only one around was an old bitch asleep beneath a wagon. He looked a question at his master, whose eyes glittered.

“I’ll take the one on the right,” whispered Nusendran. “The other is yours. Be swift.”

Andras nodded, a dark, sweet thrill running through him. He hadn’t expected he would have the chance to kill with sorcery tonight. Swallowing, he looked back to the guards, and began to gesture, pointing. “ Obrut ku movani, yatho viskos daldannu. ”

The man on the left was still drinking when the spell took hold, and so, when the wine sprayed from his mouth and the jug crashed to the ground, his fellow started to pound him on his back, sure he was choking. Andras smiled, reaching out with magic to squeeze out the man’s breath. He clenched his fist, and the guard collapsed, eyes bulging, clutching at his collar. The other man gaped as, with a last, twitching kick, the guard fell limp.

Nusendran grunted approvingly, then spoke, and all at once the darkness around the second guard began to writhe. In a heartbeat it coalesced into a black serpent, with eyes of jet and a mouth of obsidian fangs. The guard stared, his mouth opening to scream. In a flash, the shadow-snake struck, ripping out the guard’s throat. A fan of blood shot through the air as he collapsed.

Nusendran sent the serpent to kill the sleeping bitch as well, just in case. Then the shadowy monster shivered and dissolved back into the night. The two mages held still a moment longer, watching and listening. All was silent.