Divine Hammer

CHAPTER 15

Andras paced the length of the monastery, his hands twisting together. He glanced at the starry sky in annoyance: it was still hours until the black moon rose. Until then, he was trapped, with nothing to do but wait. He had spent seven years waiting to take his revenge, but now that the time had come-now that he had his victory over the Divine Hammer-he found a new impatience smoldered within him. Only a few dozen of the hundreds of demons he had sent winging to Lattakay had returned, and most of them were hurt. He needed more.

He toyed with the stump where his little finger had been, fascinated by the feel of the gnarled flesh. He had another little finger, on the other hand. He could live without that one too, if sacrificing it would give him a new host to set against the Kingpriest. All it would take was another swift attack, and he would break the knighthood utterly. The Dark One had told him so.

“For now, though, you must wait,” Fistandantilus had said, when they’d spoken the night after the slaughter. “Let them tend their wounds and mourn their dead. In a week, their guard will begin to slip. They will begin to think they are safe, that another attack will not happen. That is when you must strike again.”

The surviving quasitas didn’t make it any easier. Having tasted blood, they craved more.

It took effort to keep them from scattering all over the countryside in search of fresh victims-he’d even had to kill a few who disobeyed, as an example to the others. Now they slouched on the abbey’s fallen stones like sullen children, glaring at him with burning eyes.

The past week had felt like the longest of his life, and this felt like the longest day. The hours to come would feel longer still, but when Nuitari appeared, things would start in motion again. Fistandantilus would teleport him back to the Pit. Then … he shuddered, a leer twisting his burn-blasted lips. Vengeance was more addictive than the dream-pipes of Karthay.

A hiss snapped him out of his reverie, drawing his attention to the monastery’s crumbled wall. Atop the ruddy stone, the quasitas shoved and snapped at each other as two winged shapes glided in low from the south. A handful of the creatures Andras trusted to leave his sight without causing trouble. He sent them out as scouts. On their first few forays, they had reported back with word of knights ranging the hills, many leagues away.

In recent days, however, there had been no word at all. These two would land among their fellows, and another pair would take flight, soaring away to the south.

The returning quasitas didn’t alight on the wall, though. Instead, they swept right past, skimming low above their fellows into the courtyard. Eyes narrowed, Andras watched them glide toward him. The twisted creatures’ eyes gleamed as they landed on a smashed fountain.

“Master,” one of them said in a voice like a jackal’s growl. Its jagged fangs made the word mushy, almost unintelligible. “We see. We see on road!”

“Road! On road!” croaked the other, grinning maniacally. Its tail jerked this way and that.

Andras stiffened. He took two steps toward the quasitas. “Who?” he demanded. “Who did you see?”

The fiends glanced at each other, exchanging hisses. The second of the pair seemed upset, but the first made a barking sound to silence it and turned back to Andras. “Metal men. We see,” it snarled. “Metal men and blood-woman. They come.”

“Metal men!” the other beast shrieked. “Blood-woman!”

It took a moment for Andras to understand. “Metal men” was what the quasitas called knights. As for “blood-woman” … a Red Robe? That didn’t make sense. What were the clergy and the Hammer doing with a disciple of Lunitari?

He shook his head. “How far?” he asked. “Where are the metal men?”

The first question was pointless. The little demons understood nothing about distance.

The second, however, made the pair tense. They jabbed taloned fingers out across the hills.

“There!” they shrieked, “They come! Here!”

“What!” Andras exclaimed, turning. There were no knights, of course-only the ruined wall, lined with quasitas-but the little fiends hooted and snapped as they stared, pointing, to the south.

Andras leaped up the stairs, taking them three at a time. The cold feeling that had settled over him gave way to panic. Less than two leagues away, a plume of dust was rising from the road.

He’d waited too long. The Divine Hammer had tracked him down.

“We’re very close,” Leciane murmured, her eyes fluttering beneath closed lids. “I can feel his fear. He knows we’re coming.”

Riding beside her, Cathan swallowed uneasily. He glanced back at his men-half a hundred knights and squires, all of them armed. Sir Marto was at the fore, his crossbow looking like a toy in his beefy hands, glowering at Leciane’s back. Tithian rode behind, a similar scowl darkening his youthful face. The others looked no happier. None wanted to be riding with a sorceress.

Cathan didn’t blame them. When the Hammer set forth on its mission, he’d been the most vehement that Leciane should not accompany them. He insisted her presence would cause discord among the other knights, but he knew the real reason was because of what had happened between them in her chamber.

It could have been the wine or the bloodblossom or the unfamiliar thrill of casting a spell-most likely, all three together. Whatever it was had robbed him of his faculties, brought on a moment of weakness. He hadn’t meant to kiss her. Now it was hard to say which was stronger: his revulsion at having done it or the yearning to do it again.

With a start, he realized he was staring at her. Her eyes were still closed, shifting as she used her magic to sense the Black Robe ahead. His face coloring, he looked away. It was wrong-the men of the Divine Hammer were sworn to celibacy. They did not dally with women any more than did anyone else sworn to the holy Church. They certainly never carried on with sorceresses.

For him, women had never been much of a temptation. His god-touched eyes kept them from lusting after him. Now, though … he could still taste her mouth, see the inviting look in her eyes when they’d parted. The first night out of Lattakay, he had lain awake half the night, staring at her bedroll. In the morning he’d made himself do penance for that, praying to the god for strength. He’d done a great deal more praying these past few days.

Tithian saw something, his young eyes the first to pick out the shapes ahead. Cathan squinted, trying to make out what his onetime squire had spotted. After a moment, he spied them too, winged shapes flitting across the waning silver moon. An angry rumble ran among the knights. They recognized the enemy as well.

Cathan raised a hand, and his men reined in. Reaching out, he grabbed Leciane’s arm, and her eyes snapped open, looking a question at him. He nodded up at the fluttering quasitas.

“We have company,” he said.

Leciane saw them, and nodded. “We’ve found him, then,” she said. “I think I can take care of this.”

“No.” Cathan held up a hand as she reached to the pouch where she kept the components for her spells. “Let us do our job. If we need your help, it will be against the Black Robe, not these accursed things.”

Her brow furrowed, then her eyes met his, and her mouth became a firm line. She knew what he meant. The knights would not abide it if she robbed them of their revenge.

“All right,” she relented. Pulling on her horse’s reins, she wheeled about and trotted away from the knights.

Cathan watched her go a bit longer than he meant to, then turned to face his men. If the others noticed his odd behavior, they gave no sign. They were grim, flicking glances at the circling quasitas as they awaited his orders.

“Paladine, give us strength,” he declared.

“Sifat,” the other knights replied. They had brought no priests with them. This was all the blessing they would have.

“Prepare to fire,” he bade, drawing Ebonbane. “At my command.”

Twenty of his men carried crossbows. They obeyed at once, cocking strings and fitting quarrels. He could sense their eagerness. Not a one in this group hadn’t lost friends at the Bilstibo. He kept his sword up, watching the quasitas wheel nearer. With a cacophony of shrieks, they tucked in their wings and dived.

Less disciplined men would have fired too soon. The knights only sighted down their weapons, waiting while the demons came closer, all claws and fangs and stingers. Off to one side, Cathan heard Leciane chanting softly. She was disobeying his orders, but she was not of the Hammer and there was little he could do about that. The quasitas were in range now. His men would have one shot only. There would be no time to reload. They could not waste that one shot.

Hold, he thought, raising his sword. Hold …

“Now!” he barked. Ebonbane came down.

Twenty crossbows fired. Twenty quarrels flew. Twenty demons howled, unraveling into smoke.

The knights of the Divine Hammer did not cheer. The only sound they made was the song of rasping steel as blades slid free of scabbards. Cathan brought up Ebonbane again, kissing its hilt as he shifted his shield from back to arm. His horse whinnied, its nostrils flaring at the brimstone stink of the monsters. Flipping shut the visor of his helm, he drew his sword back, holding it ready while the quasitas-at least forty of them still-dropped out of the sky.

“Tavarre!” he cried.

Other knights picked up the call, shouting the names of those who had burned upon the pyre three days before. Cathan heard Marto’s roar of “Pellidas!” just before the quasitas struck, then the screams of demons, men, and horses drowned out all else, echoing among the hills.

Cathan killed a quasito with his first blow. Ebonbane bit into the creature’s side, slicing it in half across the belly. Black blood flew, steaming, then vanished into wisps along with the rest of the monster. Cathan immediately reversed the blow, cutting a vicious arc that made a second beast shy back.

The knights’ numbers were fewer, but they were rested and ready, their blades sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone at a single stroke-even flesh and bone spawned in the Abyss. Now and then, a quasito got through their defenses, furrowing mail and skin with their talons, but most of the wounds they caused were minor. Too few to press the attack for long, the quasitas started to flee. Cathan skewered one more as it streaked past him, a wicked thrust that left it twisting on Ebonbane’s tip for a moment before it dissolved into foul vapors. Then the quasitas were gone, howling in despair as they flew north.

Of fifty, only three of the knights had perished. These they laid on the ground, covering them with cloak and tabard, then returned to their steeds, looking to Cathan for orders. He looked back at them, raising his visor and wiping sweat from his face. He did not sheathe his sword, nor did any of the other knights. They would not put their weapons away again until he told them to. His chest swelled as he regarded his men through the smoke.

Leciane rode up alongside him, her face grave. “Well done,” she told him.

Sir Marto spat, his face red above his forked beard.

“Be still,” Cathan told the big Karthayan, holding up a hand. He turned back to Leciane, looking over her shoulder rather than in her eyes. “The fight is not over.”

She nodded. “The Black Robe.”

The knights muttered. The air crackled with anticipation.

Cathan sat erect, thrusting Ebonbane toward the sky. “On, then!” he shouted, “and let no man rest until the fighting is done!”

The knights bellowed in reply, a forest of weapons punching the air. “For the Lightbringer!” they cried. In a thunder of hooves, they charged.

I should have learned to teleport, Andras thought as he watched the Divine Hammer approaching from atop the abbey wall. The monks who built this place had cared little for defenses, even before the monastery fell to ruin. The road was the only way in or out. In all other directions were cliffs dropping down to the river below. The same seclusion that had made it an excellent religious sanctuary made it a death trap now.

Maybe the Dark One will see me, he thought, and summon me away from here. He saved me from the Hammer once before. The memory didn’t give him much comfort as the knights thundered up the road toward him.

“My children!” he shouted. “To me!”

The quasitas came-the last of them, not quite fifty, many wounded. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the knights, but it would slow them down, give him time to cast some magic. He pointed toward the rusty tangle that had been the monastery’s gate, trying not to notice how badly his hand shook.

“Kill them!” he shouted. “Kill them all!”

The quasitas were stupid, not brainless. They knew they would die if they fought, but Andras had given birth to them, and he had the power to command. Hissing, snarling, they swarmed out the gates.

Andras watched them go, then clambered up on a hunk of rock that stood higher than anything else on the wall. Taking a deep breath, he focused, weaving his hands and pointing down at the mass of armored figures. He couldn’t stop them all with one spell, but he could kill enough to even the odds. He concentrated on the largest of them-a giant of a man who held a beaked axe high-and began to make arcane gestures.

“Sylar cu monaviok, sho jebus loinonn! ” he shouted.

A bolt of blue lightning shot from his fingers, raining sparks as it sizzled through the air.

He watched with satisfaction as it shot straight at the big knight. It would kill him when it struck, then it would fork, spraying death upon the men next to him. Then it would fork again, and again, continuing until it spent itself. A vicious smile curled his lips.

Suddenly a voice, a woman’s voice, shouted spidery words of its own. He frowned, listening, then gasped as he recognized the spell. An instant later, a dome of golden energy appeared around the knights. The lightning bolt stopped as though it had hit something solid, and exploded into a million glittering sparks. The air shimered as Andras’s magic evaporated.

He saw her now, riding near the rear of the party: the blood-woman, her crimson robes standing out amongst the knights’ snowy tabards. He could feel her, too, and that feeling told him he was doomed. Her power was too great. Whatever spell he used, she would repel it.

He tried anyway, hurling fire and lightning, frost and poison. He cast enchantments to change the stones beneath their horses’ hooves to mud, fill the air with whirling blades, turn their bones to jelly. Nothing worked. Every time, the Red Robe’s voice rose in answer to his own, countering his spells. Not a single knight fell, and soon his strength began to flag. Strangely, the sorceress didn’t fight back. She only worked to hinder him, and all at once he knew why.

They’re not going to kill me, he thought. They want me alive, so they can burn me.

Memories of Master Nusendran, curling and blackening at the stake, filled his mind. His head growing light, Andras stumbled and nearly fell from the wall.

“Dark One, save me!” he cried, but Fistandantilus did not answer.

The quasitas attacked. Sword and mace danced, and the air filled with smoke. Two more men fell, but the rest rode on. Without the element of surprise, the demons were no match for the Kingpriest’s warriors.

Through the sundered gates the knights came, the man-mountain first, axe at the ready. Spying Andras, he shouted a vile curse in Old Karthayan, and started to charge up the stairs. Andras flung a lance of pure energy at him, but the sorceress spoke, and the bolt exploded before it was even halfway to him. Furious, the huge knight kept coming-until a voice called out from behind.

“Marto! Wait. He’s mine.”

The huge knight didn’t look happy about it, but he stopped. Behind him, from among the knights rapidly filling the courtyard, came a man with the badge of an officer on his tabard. Sword in hand, he strode past the one named Marto. The Red Robe followed at a distance. Andras didn’t recognize her face.

“Traitorous bitch,” he snarled. “They will destroy all magic before they are done!”

The Red Robe said nothing, only watched him with narrow eyes, waiting for his next spell. She needn’t have bothered. Andras no longer had the strength to warm a cup of water.

The knight strode forward, raising the visor of his helm. Andras started when he saw the man’s empty eyes-so empty he had to look away. He knew those eyes, knew the stories.

This was the Twice-Born, the Lightbringer’s favorite. Unsmiling, he leveled his blade at Andras.

“In the name of Beldinas, Kingpriest of Istar and Paladine’s Voice upon Krynn,” the knight declared, “I arrest you for the slaughter of my order in the Bilstibo of Lattakay. Surrender, and your life will be spared.”

Andras nearly laughed aloud. He saw the lie. Surrender would only delay his death. He stepped back, again pleading silently for Fistandantilus to come to his aid, but the archmage was not listening, or did not care. The Twice-Born stepped toward him. Andras sighed, beaten.

Then, sneering, he leaped forward.

“No!” the Red Robe cried.

The Twice-Born made a hasty attempt to pull back. Too late. His sword slid through Andras’s flesh, scraped against bone, and burst out his back. Andras smiled, staring into the knight’s shocked, empty eyes.

“To the Abyss with you, and all your kind,” he gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. His knees buckled and darkness came crashing down.