Divine Hammer

CHAPTER 16

The Black Robe collapsed. Wrenching Ebonbane from Cathan’s hand, the sorcerer fell onto his side and lay still. The pool of blood beneath him seeped in runnels through the cracks in the stone. It eddied against Cathan’s boots, but still he didn’t move. He could only stare at the body in shock. Down below in the courtyard, the knights were also silent, save for a few whispered prayers. There were few sins worse, in the eyes of the holy church, than taking one’s own life.

“Damn!” Leciane cried, rushing forward. She knelt beside Cathan, heedless of the blood soaking into her robes. “We were supposed to capture him alive!”

Cathan shook his head. “He just … jumped onto my sword.” He furrowed his brow.

“I’ve been hunting evil for twenty years, and I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

Leaning over the Black Robe, Leciane studied his burned face. “Everyone knows what the church does to those they capture. Sweet Lunitari!” Gasping, she drew back from the body.

“What?” Cathan reached to his scabbard, then realized Ebonbane was still lodged in the sorcerer’s body. He drew his dagger instead.

She held up a hand, silencing him. For a moment, all was quiet, except for the moan of the wind, then she looked up, her eyes wide.

“He’s still alive,” she murmured.

Staring at the Black Robe, Cathan signed the triangle, then bent down beside her.

Yanking off his glove, he pressed his fingertips against the man’s throat. The lifebeat was weak, but it was there. The bubbles of blood on the Black Robe’s lips trembled as he drew a faltering breath.

Cathan probed the sorcerer’s flesh, then sighed. “It makes no difference. He’s as good as dead, anyway-it’s only a matter of time.”

“Not if someone heals him.”

Cathan shook his head. “No healer could do anything about this. Only the Lightbringer could-and it’s a three-day ride back to Lattakay.” He raised his dagger, setting it against the man’s breast. He would strike true and deep this time.

Leciane’s hand clamped around his wrist. “I know a spell,” she said.

Cathan groaned. “Of course you do.”

“A teleporting spell. He’d be back in Lattakay before you can blink,” she insisted, her grip on his arm tightening. “Cathan, trust me.”

This is wrong, he told himself. He knew if he asked any of the other knights, they would tell him the same. The man was evil. Lord Tavarre and hundreds of others were dead because of him. But the Kingpriest’s instructions had been clear: Bring the sorcerer back alive, if possible. It was possible, but only with sorcery.

The tip of his dagger dimpled the wizard’s blood-drenched robes. It would only take one quick shove.

“Cathan, he chose to die this way,” Leciane murmured. “If you kill him, you help him steal your victory.”

He stopped, looking at her for a long moment. Her lips were close to his, showing a sliver of teeth between them. The look in her eyes-a little afraid, a little hopeful-made his blood burn. The urge to kiss her again nearly overwhelmed him.

Blinking, he returned to his senses. Slowly he lifted the dagger from the Black Robe’s breast and slid it back into its sheath. “All right,” he said. “We’ll try it your way. But you’re taking me with you.”

The others were opposed-most of all Sir Marto, which was no surprise. “This relying on witchcraft has to stop,” the big knight rumbled.

“Without magic, we never would have found this place,” Cathan argued.

“That’s no excuse,” Marto insisted. “No good will come of this.”

In the end, though, the knights bade Cathan farewell. They would camp in the red-stone monastery tonight, burn their slain brothers on the morrow, then begin the ride south again. By the week’s end, they would rejoin their fellows in Lattakay.

Leciane sat on a stone near the Black Robe, studying her spellbook. The teleportation spell was hard enough with two. To move three would take more power than she had left after the fight. Every now and then she looked up from the page to study the sorcerer, who still lay where he’d fallen, Ebonbane lodged in his breast. Stubbornly, the sorcerer refused to die, and finally Leciane rose and nodded to Cathan.

When she spoke the words and the silver light flared around them, Cathan’s stomach didn’t lurch as he’d feared, and there was no dream-falling dizziness. The world just simply vanished, then reformed as the courtyard before the cathedral in Lattakay. Six very shocked-looking knights stared at them.

“Hold!” Cathan shouted, raising a hand as the men went for their swords. They recognized him and glanced at one another in confusion. “It’s all right,” he said.

Slowly, the knights lowered their blades. Their wide eyes took in the Black Robe, curled on the ground, his blood staining the paving stones. “Is-is that-?” began one of the men.

“We must see the Kingpriest at once,” Cathan replied brusquely.

The knights glanced at one another again, then two broke away, hurrying into the temple. They returned with Quarath, the elf scowling as he made his way down the steps.

His lip curled when he saw the dying sorcerer.

“His Holiness is asleep,” he declared. “Why do you trouble him with this wretch?”

Cathan gestured to silence Leciane before she could speak. “Because we need his help, Emissary,” he replied. “This man will die without it.”

“Let him die, then,” the elf returned, drawing himself up. He gave the Black Robe a haughty glare.

Leciane took a step toward Quarath. “Listen to me,” she snapped. “Your precious Lightbringer asked for him alive. When he wakes, do you want to be the one to tell him the Black Robe who killed his men died out here while he was sleeping?”

Quarath looked at her coldly, but she didn’t back down. Finally, he seemed to reconsider. He turned, hurried back up the steps and into the church. A short time later he returned with the Kingpriest at his side. Beldinas looked bleary, but the moment he saw the Black Robe, the fatigue vanished from his face. The aura around him brightened, and his eyes turned hard as blue diamonds.

“So,” he said. “This is he.”

Cathan nodded, bowing low. Quickly, he described the battle with the quasitas and his confrontation with the sorcerer atop the abbey wall. Beldinas listened, nodding. When Cathan told how the sorcerer had tried to kill himself, the Kingpriest and Quarath both signed the triangle.

“You were right to bring him here,” Beldinas said. “His life belongs to Paladine-he will die as the god chooses.” He bent down, checking the wizard’s lifebeat, then turned to Quarath. “Go ready a cell and the necessary restraints. Have the acolytes bring a litter, so we can bear him inside. He will last a while longer before the wound kills him.”

The elf inclined his head obediently. With a final glare at Leciane, he hurried away.

Beldinas hunched over the Black Robe, probing the wound with a finger that came away dripping red. He turned to Leciane. “Do you know his name?”

“Andras,” she said. “Of Tarsis, I think. I recognize him by his burns-I helped adminster his Test in Daltigoth about eight years ago. He and his master vanished soon after and haven’t been seen since. The Conclave thought they were dead.”

Cathan looked at her in surprise. “You never told me any of that.”

“Mages vanish all the time,” she replied. “These days, it’s usually because your lot get to them. I never thought of him in connection with these events.”

A pair of gray-robed acolytes emerged from the temple carrying a blanket stretched between two poles. At the Kingpriest’s direction, the knights lifted Andras onto the litter, then bore him into the temple, through the vestibule and on down a carved white hallway to the cloisters.

Quarath awaited them there, before the open door of a monk’s room. In his hands he held two pairs of iron shackles, etched with warding glyphs and inlaid with silver. There was also a mask, made to clamp over a man’s jaw. Cathan recognized the Coi Tasabo, the Heathen’s Jaw. It kept a man from speaking heresies-or the incantations of spells. He had used it a few times himself on high priests and wizards he took captive.

The knights set Andras on the cot within the cell, and Cathan buckled the Jaw onto the wizard’s face himself, while the other men shackled him. Leciane frowned, but said nothing. Finally, with Andras properly bound, the priests and knights backed away and the Lightbringer came forward.

“Holiness,” whispered Quarath. “You ought not-”

Beldinas silenced the elf with a look, then turned to Cathan. “Take your sword by the hilt. When I say so, pull it from his body.”

Nodding, Cathan did as the Kingpriest commanded. Once the blade was out, the sorcerer would swiftly bleed to death. Wrapping his fingers around the Ebonbane’s hilt, he braced his foot against the wall and watched as Beldinas knelt. Clutching his holy medallion, the Kingpriest signed the triangle in the air and murmured to himself. Quarath chased the acolytes and the other knights from the room. When he tried to shoo away Leciane, however, she stopped him with a look.

“Now, Cathan,” said Beldinas.

With an awful scrape, Ebonbane came free. Bright blood sprayed from the wound, soaking the pallet and the Kingpriest’s robes. Beldinas didn’t flinch. Instead, he pressed his free hand against the dying wizard’s chest and spoke the prayer of healing.

“Palado, ucdas pafiro …”

When the holy light shone, it blazed so bright that it filled the room. Everyone-save Beldinas-turned away, shielding their eyes. The cell’s cool air grew warm, as if from a spring breeze, and invisible chimes rang, bringing with them the scent of wildflowers. The blazing light seemed eternal, though it surely lasted no more than half a minute. When it finally faded, Cathan rubbed his eyes, then turned to look at the Black Robe.

The wound was gone, and with it the blood he had shed-but not just that. Andras’s left hand, which had been missing a finger, was whole once more. And, also-

“Merciful Lunitari,” Leciane breathed. “His face.”

It had been a ruin, half-covered in pink, shiny scars where fire had seared it. Now all that was gone, replaced by the visage of handsome young man. Blond locks spilled over both ears, and the lines around his mouth were smooth.

The nimbus surrounding Beldinas flared brighter. He slumped into Quarath’s arms. As he did, the Black Robe stirred where he lay, his eyelids fluttering open.

For a moment, Andras blinked in confusion. Then understanding and despair dawned.

He saw Leciane, then Cathan … and finally, the Lightbringer.

“Nnnng,” he groaned, straining against the Tasabo. His hands came up, clutching toward Beldinas-and stopped in front of his eyes. His groan became a wail as he beheld the finger that had grown back, then rose into a keening shriek as he touched his own face and found it fresh and unscarred.

Cathan stared, amazed. He had often seen people weep with joy after the Lightbringer healed them, but he had never seen them cry in anguish. Andras sobbed uncontrollably-then, weakening, he slumped and fell into sleep.

It was Beldinas who broke the uncomfortable silence, grunting as Quarath helped him to his feet.

“How terrible it must be, to be a slave to darkness for so long, only to behold the god’s light at the end,” he said. “We will wait until your men return, Cathan. Then this Andras shall pay the price for the evil he has wrought-and in the place where it happened.”

Cathan started, looking at the Kingpriest. “You mean-”

“Yes,” Beldinas declared, looking gravely down at Andras’s slumbering form. “Let the stake be raised within the Bilstibo.”