Divine Hammer

CHAPTER 31

It was bedlam, hundreds of knights surging from one room to the next, chasing down what sorcerers they could find. Most of the mages had fled the lower levels, but a few remained, either too frightened or too defiant to leave. They fought with every spell they knew, and killed more than a few of Cathan’s men, but the Divine Hammer were relentless and put every wizard they found to the sword. Behind the knights came the priests, chanting prayers of purification and aspersing the wreckage with holy water. Before long, the base of the Tower belonged to the Hammer.

“Cerro!” became the rallying cry, ringing behind the visors of a hundred and fifty helmets. Upward! Up they went, killing, destroying and blessing the carnage.

The moment they set foot on the Tower’s central stair, the magical portal within the Chamber of Traveling closed, stranding those mages who had been trying to escape the Tower. With flight no longer an option, the sorcerers regrouped to fight the invaders. Balls of fire rained down on the knights, bursting in great blossoms that blew men to pieces, hurling shreds of clattering armor down the Tower’s central shaft. Tendrils of green mist crept down, finding their way through the eyeslits of helmets. Men collapsed, retching and clutching at their throats. One spell turned a length of the staircase to dark, sucking mud.

Three knights disappeared, screaming, as the muck dragged them down. Venomous wasps found their way into chinks in armor and left men sobbing and twitching on the ground.

Cathan watched his men fight and die. He was glad for his helm, for it hid his tears. He wept for the Divine Hammer but also for the sorcerers who perished defending their homes.

He wept for Istar, for the empire he had upheld for so long. How could a land of such glory and light breed so much suffering and death?

There might be others who thought as he did, but most were like Marto, who fought on with fervent glee. The big knight killed every sorcerer he could-man, woman … human, elf, dwarf… Red, Black, White … it didn’t matter. He cut them down whether they fought or tried to run. As he slew, he shouted the god’s name, the Lightbringer’s, Sir Pellidas’s, and their other lost friends’. Other knights also shouted the names of fallen comrades as they massacred the hated foe. In the Divine Hammer’s wake, all Robes were red.

The crossbowmen turned the tide. Were the knights armed with sword and cudgel alone, the wizards on the upper floors might have prevailed, pouring death down on the Hammer from above. When the thrums of strings and the buzz of flying quarrels filled the air, however, sorcerers screamed, clutching at the shafts buried in their legs, throats, and stomachs. After three volleys of steady death, the wizards’ morale shattered. A few tried to stand their ground, but most of those who still lived turned to flee up toward the Tower’s highest levels.

Cathan stared past the fleeing wizards, toward the apex of the Tower. The magic burned brightest up there, like the beacon atop a lighthouse. It stung his mind, blazing like the sun. What were the mages doing, that would require such-

He understood. He knew, suddenly, why Leciane had come to him in the night-what she’d tried to warn him about, before Tithian drove her away. In his mind, he saw the Tower of Daltigoth, the image she had conjured. He saw it distort, bulging, ready to burst.

“Palado Calib” he gasped, stopping on the stairs. He grabbed Tithian’s arm. “They’re going to destroy it!”

The younger knight stared at him. “What?”

“The Tower!” Cathan cried, yanking up his visor. “The mages are going to destroy it and themselves and all of us! Gods, how could I be so blind?”

“But they can’t-!” Tithian protested feebly. He raised his visor as well. The face beneath was pale, the eyes wide.

Cathan looked up at Sir Marto leading the charge. The big knight was too far away to hear him-and even if he weren’t, what good would it do? He wouldn’t listen, anyway. None of the knights would. Other men were shoving past, trying to rush to the top. They clogged the stairs behind him, blocking the way down.

“We have to get out of here!” Tithian shouted, echoing the thought screaming in Cathan’s head. Where do we go?

Cathan felt his own panic rising. Staring up the steps once more, he saw a half-open door, hacked by swords and axes so that it hung by only one hinge. There were doors all along the stair, both ahead and behind, but this was the closest.

“Come on,” he said to Tithian, more confident than he felt. “There has to be another way down.”

Faithfully, Tithian followed him through the door. It led to a long corridor of obsidian, lined with glowing crystal lamps. They dimmed and flickered as the magic above surged ever stronger. Ignoring the shouts of his men behind him, Cathan charged down the hall.

Tithian jogged after.

In no time at all, they were both thoroughly lost. The Tower was huge, its hallways labyrinthine. In the growing darkness, they lost track of the twists and turns, the intersections and alcoves. Most of the doors were magically locked. Those that weren’t led to rooms that were either empty or in ruins. There were no back stairs, no trapdoors, no windows. Finally, they arrived at a dead end, where a vase of Tucuri porcelain sat on a small table. It held a bundle of bloodblossoms, their deep red blooms redolent of their sleep-inducing oil. Snarling, Cathan lashed out with Ebonbane, smashing the vase to shards. Water and petals flew everywhere.

Cathan could feel the power of the sorcerers’ spell, the strain of the man casting it, holding it back with nothing but sheer willpower. He felt the man’s agony as he gathered the last bits of magic. The crystal lamps gave one last flash, then went dark, drenching the corridor in shadow.

Trapped, Cathan and Tithian sat down on the floor. The head of the Divine Hammer bowed his head in misery, waiting for the end to come.

“Leciane,” he murmured. “Leciane, I’m sorry …”

Leciane sat cross-legged in the room full of crystal sculptures, her eyes closed and her lips moving. The sounds of battle, the cries of the wounded and the dying, echoed through the Tower’s depths. Above, she could sense Khadar, ready to burst from the magic welling up inside him-more magic than anyone could possibly contain. Still he gathered it in, drop by precious drop. Elsewhere, the other wizards gave up their power freely, letting the master suck away their essence. She concentrated on her own spell, making one last try.

She had been searching for Cathan for what seemed like hours. He was in the Tower, somewhere, and her mind was questing, reaching out to find him. Again and again, though, she came up empty. She felt the terror of the fleeing wizards and the unwavering zeal of the Divine Hammer. She saw horrible butchery and heroism on both sides … but of him, nothing. Her cheeks were wet with tears of frustration. She had lived much of her life with the power to do the impossible, but now, faced with this terrible experience, her helplessness was almost more than she could bear.

Blast it, she thought. Where in the Abyss are you?

Leciane …

A voice she recognized. Cathan’s voice.

Where are you? she asked. Tell me!

If he could hear her, he gave no reply. His voice sounded despairing. She caught her breath. He must know what was about to happen, even if his men did not. Frantic, she thrust her own mind toward his … searching, seeking …

There!

When the floor began to tremble beneath her, a spike of fear sliced into his mind, echoing in her own. There wasn’t much time left. She felt the magic swelling, Khadar preparing for the final release.

Don’t move, she told Cathan silently. I’ll be right there.

Concentrating, she started another spell, fingertips fluttering, words tumbling from her lips. The floor shook again, harder this time. Her whole body tense, she let the teleport spell flow through her her.

She didn’t notice that the door behind her had burst open, didn’t see the knights raise their crossbows, didn’t hear their shouts, but she did, feel something, a hot lance of pain, digging into her side.

Then she was gone, the magic whisking her away, a second quarrel flashing through where she’d been to smash the crystal sculptures to pieces.

I’ve gone mad, Cathan thought when the air beside him shimmered and Leciane appeared with a bolt lodged in her chest. What’s happening has been too much for me, and I’ve lost my mind. One look at Tithian’s eyes, however, told him that his former squire beheld the sorceress too, and was every bit as astonished.

Blood bubbled around the quarrel’s steel shaft-she wasn’t dead, not yet. She slumped against the wall, her face pale and her lips wet. Her glassy eyes fought to focus as she stared at him, then down at the shaft sticking out of her.

“Oh, Abyss,” she said thickly.

“Who did this?” Cathan muttered, half-rising. He looked at Tithian, who shook his head.

The Tower shook, stones grinding and groaning. Leciane winced as black dust sifted down from the ceiling. “Listen,” she said. “None will survive … Don’t have … much time. .” She shut her eyes.

“Leciane!” he said, grabbing her and lifting her up to him.

“I’m … saving your … life,” she said, opening her eyes. “And … the boy’s.” A dusky hand rose, gesturing toward Tithian. “Now don’t … interrupt me … again.”

He stared at her. She moved her hands, whispering spidery words as the Tower trembled. Great cracks split the walls, and eldritch light poured out. The knights’ distant battle cries became shrieks of terror. A deep roar signaled the collapse of a ceiling.

Cathan stared at Leciane, scarlet frothing on her lips as she spoke the spell one last time. The air around them wavered, silver motes beginning to whirl. He felt the familiar sensation, the rushing as of a great wind. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the cracks around them widened, as the floor split, a glowing fissure cutting the hallway in two, opening ever wider, ready to swallow everything. Silver light flashed, blinding-bright.

And…

Shouting the god’s name, Sir Marto brought his axe down on the Heartchamber’s doors.

He hit them again and again, trying to loosen the bolt. Rosy light spilled out from the cracks. A beautiful, terrible sound also issued forth, agonized screaming and silver horns all mixed together. Swearing, he chopped harder, his arms burning from the effort.

At last, with a splintering crash, the axe bit all the way through. Laughing, he wrenched the weapon free, brought up one massive foot, and kicked with all his might. The doors gave way, flying open-and Marto stopped, staring in awe and dread at what awaited him.

Inside the Heartchamber were dozens of mages, standing in a circle, facing outward with hands outstretched-Black Robes, White Robes, Red Robes. Their eyes glowed with the same rosy light, which flickered between their fingertips as well. The mellifluous, hideous clamor came from their mouths, opened wide, their lips skinned back from their teeth.

What stood in the ring’s midst might have been human, once, but now any resemblance had melted away. Its hair was gone, and its flesh dripped in gobbets onto the floor, revealing bone beneath. Magical energy whirled around it, a vortex of red, black, and white.

It trembled in agony at the power that surged through its body.

Khadar, Master of the Tower, looked at Marto-or seemed to, for his eyes had long since boiled away-and smiled. The vortex flared like a million suns.

Marto raised his axe and leaped into the room. “For the Light-” he began to shout and did not finish.

Some fled when the strange lights first began to appear, streaming away from the Tower through Losarcum’s twisting streets. Others stood transfixed, watching from courtyards and rooftops as the black needle began to twist and swell. The prudent sought shelter, hiding in cellars and under wagons, seeking to protect themselves from whatever happened next.

It didn’t matter. They all died, just the same.

The Tower of Losarcum burst into a storm of shards-obsidian shards, sharper than any sword. They cut through flesh and bone, smashed buildings to dust. It rained black glass all over the city, tearing the central garden to shreds, shattering the statue of Ardosean the Uniter, turning markets and amphitheater and palace alike into rubble. Thousands of people cried out in terror and agony, their voices lost within the thundering roar.

Then the magic exploded outward in waves, and the City of Stone fell in upon itself.

Mighty buildings toppled, choking the streets with the rubble, or melted into misshapen lumps of glass. The tunnels that served as the city’s barbican caved in, killing hundreds who had been trying to escape. The caverns beneath the city gave way, and great chunks of it vanished into the fissures and craters. Huge plumes of dust rose into the air, darkening the sky and choking those who breathed it. For days afterward, the sunsets in Dravinaar glowed brilliant scarlet, as if dripping with blood.

Thus Losarcum, Qim Sudri, the City of Stone, died.

The hammer fell …

Cathan awoke with a start, his ears ringing, his nose and mouth clogged with dust. Pain shot through his body, and his beard was sticky with half-dried blood. He had never been so thirsty in all his life. Groaning, he forced open his gummy eyes.

He was in a cave-from the looks of the golden sandstone, somewhere in the Tears of Mishakal. Ruddy twilight spilled into its mouth-but it had a strange, brownish cast to it that troubled him. Brow furrowed, he tried to sit up-then slumped back down as the world spun away beneath him.

It could be worse, he thought. At least you’re alive.

It came back to him then, in a rush so sudden, he nearly blacked out again. The Tower.

Leciane. The teleport spell. The crossbow bolt. Oh, gods …

Something pressed against his lips: the neck of a water flask. He took a deep drink, and immediately regretted it as his head tried its best to split in half. Granting, he let the rest dribble down his chin, then looked up at the one who held the bottle. Tithian looked back at him, his eyes hollow and haunted. He had taken off most of his armor, and his tabard was missing as well.

“Sir,” the young man said, his face tightening.

Cathan sighed. “The Tower?”

“Yes,” Tithian said, “and the city with it.”

Cathan lay stunned, his mind roiling. He couldn’t conceive of such a thing. Losarcum had been one of the empire’s wonders, home to Kingpriests in ages past. All of that … gone, and his men too, just him and Tithian left now. Had the same thing happened to Daltigoth? Palanthas? What about the Lordcity?

He tried to sit up, staving off the chasm of nausea that yawned within him. Too stunned to speak, he looked around.

Leciane lay in the back of the cave. The crossbow bolt was beside her, the blood that covered it faded to rust. Tithian had laid his tabard over her, covering her from view.

Cathan scrabbled to his feet and, went over to her, pulling the makeshift shroud away.

Her face was still and pale, blood drying on her lips and teeth, her eyes closed. Lines of pain had frozen around her mouth and along her brow.

“She held on for a long time,” Tithian said. “She wanted to wait for you …” He trailed off, spreading his hands, tears standing in his eyes.

Cathan looked down at Leciane, every part of him feeling raw and hurt. She had saved his life and so doing had lost her own. Gently, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers.

Then, covering her up again, he looked at Tithian, his blank eyes empty. Neither man could think of a word to say.

He sat by her body all night long.