Divine Hammer

by Chris Pierson

  “No, Holiness. I cannot.”

  Beldinas smiled at that, just for a moment.

  “You should tell him the other reason he’s back here” Tavarre interjected, grinning like a carved gourd at Harvest Come.

  Cathan looked at the old knight, then at Beldinas. The Kingpriest spread his hands.

  “Very well,” he said. “This month marks the twentieth anniversary of my arrival in the Lordcity.”

  “I know,” Cathan replied.

  “Well I remember that day,” Quarath added.

  “Cathan has even better reasons to remember it, Emissary,” Beldinas murmured. “Don’t you agree?”

  The elf pursed his lips and looked out at the stars.

  “I have been offered an opportunity to celebrate that anniversary,” Beldinas added. “On the first day of the new year, there is to be a tournament in my honor.”

  “A tournament?” Cathan asked, still uncertain where this was all leading.

  “Oh, for the love of Paladine,” Tavarre grumbled, still smiling. “Stop tormenting the boy and tell him who’s throwing the bloody thing.”

  Quarath sucked in a sharp breath. People did not talk to the Kingpriest of Istar that way. Beldinas only chuckled, however. “Very well. The tournament is to be held in Lattakay,” he said, looking at Cathan, “at the courtesy of your sister.”

  CHAPTER 6

  The next week passed in a blur. Lord Tavarre knighted Tithian the day after Cathan’s arrival, in a quiet ceremony within the Hammerhall. The Divine Hammer had taken its dubbing rite from the more ancient Knights of Solamnia. Tithian spent a long night in silent vigil within the keep’s chapel, praying to Paladine and Kiri-Iolith and refusing food and wine, When dawn came, he emerged from the church, clad in long white robes, and walked the length of the bailey to the High Keep, where the heads of the knighthood waited.

  A guard of honor went with him—blustering Sir Marto, carrying a pair of silver spurs; silent Sir Pellidas, bearing a new white shield with the hammer ablaze; and last, Cathan himself, carrying a sword of Tarsian steel. Cathan handed the blade to Tavarre, who touched it to Tithian’s shoulders.

  “Fe Paladas cado,” the First Marshal intoned, “bid Istaras apalo.”

  In Paladine’s name, with Istar’s might.

  So Cathan lost his squire.

  Of course it was Marto’s idea to head to the mudubas. The Lordcity’s wine shops were famous throughout the empire and were completely unlike the dark, smoky taverns Cathan remembered from his youth. They were open to the air, white-walled courtyards where the tables and benches stood among flower beds and marble statuary. Tiled fountains bubbled in their midst, and covered colonnades provided shade for those who wished it. The servants—men and women who never spoke—brought jugs of wine and water from stone urns and mixed them with spices in bowls of sparkling crystal. Each wine shop had its own ambience. In one, turquoise silk draped from pole to pole across the yard; in the next, green-furred monkeys chattered among the branches of the lemon trees; in another, the courtyard floor was a mosaic of the empire itself, with miniature replicas of its mighty cities, carved from ivory and rosewood, standing on plinths throughout. There were hundreds of them, all different, and it seemed to Cathan that he visited them all that day.

  Cathan led the party at the start, but it wasn’t long before Sir Marto took over. When it came to carousing, the big Karthayan knew no match. He had a stomach for the grape that would have toppled a minotaur, and his great, booming voice drew attention whether he was shouting for more food, laughing at his own jokes, or singing bawdy songs. He knew a great many such songs, and while his ability to stay in tune was often lacking, he more than made up for it in gusto. The men sang along, echoing the choruses, while Sir Pellidas played on a short-necked lute. Every now and then, the crash of crockery rang across the taverns, sending the servants and other patrons scattering. Together the knights smashed enough cups and pitchers to keep the city’s clayworks busy for a week. The mudubas’ owners didn’t complain, though, nor did they ask for payment. The Divine Hammer protected the realm from evil, after all. What god-fearing tavernkeeper could object if their revelry ate up some of his profits?

  Somewhere in there, amid the wine and the noise, the sun decided to set. The shadows across the city deepened as the sky grew dark, and linkboys made their way about the city, setting light to countless lanterns that made the streets glitter.

  The Mirrorgarden, the mudubo where the Divine Hammer had ended up, was one of Istar’s grander ones. Its walls, tables, and pillars were covered with beaten silver. Cathan sat at the end of a long table, a flagon in his hand, his head spinning as his men cheered Sir Marto on. The big Karthayan was telling the tale of the Hullbreaker, gesturing often to Tithian. The young knight turned bright red whenever Marto called him Swordflinger … which he did with practically every other breath.

  Cathan sighed, shaking his head ruefully. It was maybe the sixth time Marto had told the story today, and every time his boasts grew more preposterous. The Chemoshans numbered two thousand now, to listen to him, and fought like a wild ogres, led by a dozen sorcerers of the Black Robes. They’d be riding dragons next, the way things were going.

  Chuckling at Marto’s bravado, Cathan pushed himself to his feet, waited for everything to stop swaying, and went outside to relieve himself into a sewer grate. Afterward, he made his way back into the mudubo, his eyes fixed on the huge, blustering figure of Marto, now bellowing a chorus of “My Horse, My Wife, and My Sword,” while standing on a table-top.

  The other knights carried the refrain, stamping their feet and thumping their cups on the tables. Cathan smiled, watching them—and so he didn’t see the drink coming until it hit him in the face.

  The wine struck him like a cold slap, soaking his tunic. Sputtering, he wiped at his burning eyes, trying to clear them. All sound in the tavern stopped, except for a few scattered gasps and the thud of chairs falling over as the knights rose from their seats, their hands fumbling for their swords. Cathan held up a dripping hand to stay them, looking down at his attacker.

  His eyes widened in surprise. It was a woman, stout and somewhere past sixty from her looks, dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and a red wimple that marked her as hailing from the city of Jaggana. Her face drawn into a contemptuous sneer, she spat on the floor at Cathan’s feet.

  “Bastard!” she snapped.

  Another gasp. Rumbling deep in his chest, Marto clambered down from the table and started forward until Cathan looked at him and shook his head. All eyes fixed on the old woman.

  “Mafura,” Cathan began, bobbing his head respectfully,“if I have done anything to offend you—”

  “Offend me?” the woman repeated, her eyes blazing. “Offend me? Your kind murdered both my sons, knight!”

  Cathan blinked at her, unsure what to say. He didn’t get the chance to do anything more. Marto was stomping forward again, his wine-flushed face darkening from red to purple.

  “The Divine Hammer does not murder,” he declared. “We smite darkness at the Lightbringer’s will!”

  “Marto,” Cathan said, “stay back.”

  Marto looked ready to grab up the woman and pitch her over the mudubo’s wall. More than a few of the other knights had the same spark in their eyes. If this went much more wrong, they’d tear the tavern down. Swallowing, he laid a hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  “My man speaks truly, I fear,” he explained, as patient as he could manage. “There is much evil in Jaggana, a great many dark cults. If the Hammer killed your sons, it must have been because they were involved in one.”

  “That’s what the priests told me,” the woman shot back. “I came here to plead to the Church, but they said Ettel and Meras would not have died if they had been free of sin. Arrogant filthmongers, the lot of them—and you too, for saying the same!”

  Glancing across the wine shop, Cathan saw that Tithian and Pellidas were both holding Marto back. No one who wasn’t looking to be arrested ca
lled a knight or a priest such a vulgar name.

  “Mafura,” he insisted, “you must listen—”

  “No,” she snapped, rapping at his chest with a bony finger. “You listen. My sons weren’t evil. They were devout Shinereans, nothing more. They never harmed anyone—until you knights stormed their chapel and put them all to the sword! Burned their bodies and scattered the ashes—and all for worshiping Shinare! Do you call that evil?”

  Shinare was one of the gray gods who served neither light nor darkness. Until recently, the empire had tolerated Shinareans, allowing them to worship in the open. The Lightbringer had put an end to that a year ago, declaring that anyone who didn’t serve the good gods opposed Paladine’s will. As a result, the knights had expanded their crusade. If the woman’s sons had been worshiping Shinare, they were breaking the law. He wanted to tell her that made them enemies of the church and that they deserved what had happened to them—but looking into her eyes, at the anger shimmering beneath the tears, he found he couldn’t do it.

  “I am sorry for your loss, Mafura,” he said. “I will speak to the Kingpriest, if you like. The church can make remuneration … whatever you ask.”

  She slapped him.

  “I don’t want your Kingpriest’s cursed gold!” she shouted as he recoiled, one hand touching the red mark on his cheek. “Give me back my sons!”

  “Enough!” Marto roared. Furious, he shook off both Tithian and Pellidas; a moment later his meaty hand locked around the woman’s arm, and he dragged her toward the mudubo’ s gates.

  “You’ve insulted our honor enough, you old hag,” Marto growled as they went. “Not to mention soiling the Lightbringer’s name with your serpent’s tongue. Your sons deserved what they got—and if you’re not on your way back to Jaggana in the morning, you’ll get the same!”

  Many of the other knights shouted their support. The tavern’s patrons joined as Marto flung the gates open and shoved the woman out. With a squawk she disappeared, and applause rang out around the courtyard. Marto—smiling now, having avenged the knighthood’s reputation—made his way back to the rest of the Divine Hammer. The other knights welcomed him, thrusting a fresh flagon into his hand and clapping him on the back. Obliging, he climbed back onto the table and resumed his song, bellowing at the top of his voice.

  Cathan didn’t join in. He stood quietly, his tunic stained and his eyes dark.

  He looked to the gates, waiting for the woman—the grieving mother—to reappear. When she didn’t, he pushed his way across the courtyard and stepped out into the street, but there was no one there.

  *****

  The rest of the week Cathan divided between training at arms at the Hammerhall and attending court at the Temple. In the evenings, he stayed at the imperial manse, helping Tavarre and Beldinas plan the journey ahead. They would set forth once the High Sorcerers’ new envoy arrived, sailing on the Kingpriest’s golden barge across Lake Istar, then take to chariot and horse, across the grasslands of Midrath to the hilly shores of Seldjuk, and the white-arched walls of Lattakay.

  Where Wentha dwelt.

  Fifteen years had passed since Cathan last saw his sister. Once, the two of them—all that remained of the MarSevrins of Luciel—had been close. She’d been thirteen when they followed the Lightbringer to Istar, and Cathan had looked after her, finding her a place where she could live among the Revered Daughters of Paladine. Like everyone else, he’d felt certain she would become a priestess. She’d learned all the rituals and could read and write in the church tongue. It was only fitting. Wentha had, after all, been one of the first to feel the Lightbringer’s healing touch. The Kingpriest favored her; one day, she would be a fine First Daughter.

  Wentha, however, had other plans. She had always been willful, even as a girl, and while she kept up the appearance of a dutiful acolyte, she stole out of the cloisters at night to meet suitors in the city’s moonlit gardens. Even had she been plain, men would have sought her hand, for the prestige of wedding one of the Kingpriest’s most favored, but Wentha had grown from a scuff-kneed tomboy into a lovely young woman. There was no shortage of young nobles willing to tryst beneath the silverwood trees.

  After years of hiding her rendezvous from Cathan, the day drew near when she was to take her vows as a priestess. Instead, on the eve of her eighteenth birthday, she announced her plans to marry.

  His name was Jarlath. A handsome, devout young man, he was the only son of Lattakay’s wealthiest merchant. Cathan couldn’t have found a better husband for his sister. Even so, it was still a betrayal, and Cathan and Wentha had quarreled bitterly. No matter what he said to her, however, she would not be swayed.

  “You have given yourself to the Kingpriest,” she’d said to him. “Your seed will never make an heir to bear the MarSevrin name. I won’t let our father’s blood die with me, too.”

  The words had stung Cathan like barbed darts. He had left her and ridden out of the Lord city with a company of knights the next day. He had not seen Wentha since—hadn’t attended her wedding to Jarlath or laid eyes on the two sons she’d had by him. The older boy, Tancred—named for the brother they had lost to the plague—would be eleven now. Or was it twelve? Cathan wasn’t sure. In fifteen years, he had avoided going to Lattakay.

  He had nearly gone to her once, for the funeral. Jarlath had died three years ago, lost at sea when his ship, the Treasure of Taol—named for Wentha—sailed into a brutal storm and didn’t return. A widow at thirty, Wentha had sent a message begging Cathan to come, and he had been saddling his horse to go, but at the last moment his heart had failed him. He hadn’t heard a word from her since, though he heard about her sometimes—from Tavarre in particular, who had gone to wedding and funeral both. Refusing to remarry, she had inherited her husband’s wealth, holding it until Tancred came of age. She had become a figure of power in Lattakay. It was enough to make a brother proud—but whenever Cathan thought of her, even today, his face grew dark and troubled.

  Now, at last, he was going to see her again. There was no avoiding it. The greatest warriors in the Divine Hammer would all be there, and Beldinas wanted him to go. For some reason the Lightbringer wanted him to reconcile with his sister. That, more than anything, was why he would be on the imperial barge when it sailed past the God’s Eyes onto the lake’s crystal waters.

  “It will be all right, Cathan,” Beldinas told him one night in the manse, after Tavarre and Quarath had both left. Within his mantle of silver light, his pale eyes were kind. “She wants to see you again, my friend. Once you’re there, I think you’ll find you want to see her too.”

  Cathan smiled at that, dutifully. He would not gainsay the Kingpriest in this or anything else. When he took his leave, however, the smile disappeared. Fifteen years, he thought as he stood among the night-blooming flowers of the Temple’s gardens. Will I even know her any more?

  Sighing, shaking his head, he walked away from the manse, back to the shelter of the Hammerhall.

  *****

  At last, on the seventh day after Cathan’s return, word arrived. It came suddenly, alarming half the court, for the messenger was a pair of disembodied lips that appeared amid the mosaic before the throne. Priests and nobles shrank back as the blue tiles magically parted, revealing a mouth full of pointed teeth. Cathan and Tavarre, who had been standing near the head of the room, started toward it with hands on their swords, but stopped at a gesture from the Kingpriest.

  “Let it speak,” Beldinas bade calmly.

  The lips smiled. “Hear me, lords of Istar,” they hissed. The basilica’s dome, which rang with even the faintest of whispers, could not echo these words. “The envoy awaits you in the Tower. Send the one you have chosen, and do not stray from the path.”

  That was all. Clicking softly, the mosaic slid back together, and the mouth vanished.

  The courtiers stayed in place, eyeing the floor as though it might try another trick at any moment. A few touched their foreheads to ward off evil. No one since Kurnos the Usurper—
not even Marwort—had dared to use sorcery in the Hall of Audience. Was it sacrilege? No one seemed sure.

  The Lightbringer, however, was unperturbed. Rising from his throne, he looked down at Cathan. “Go, then, child of the god,” he pronounced. “Paladas tas drifas bisat.”

  May Paladine guide thy steps.

  The Tower of High Sorcery loomed before Cathan as he made his way through Istar’s streets. Its white walls glittered in the sunlight, its turrets gleaming scarlet. It was beautiful to behold. All the Towers were, or at least all the ones Cathan had seen—he had been to Losarcum and Palanthas, but not to Daltigoth, and hoped he would never lay eyes on the cursed forest of Wayreth. Beautiful or not, the Towers were havens of magic, homes to Black Robes. For that reason alone, Cathan would have been happy if they vanished from the world forever. Better still, if the mages vanished with them.

  The open square that surrounded the Tower was nearly as large as the Barigon, but unlike that holy plaza, it was empty. No one wanted to build their homes or shops near the sorcerers’ haven, and certainly no one came here to pay homage, as the faithful did on the Great Temple’s steps. Here and there, weeds peeped between the paving stones. Even those who cared for Istar’s roads kept away.

  Cathan paused for a time at the square’s edge, staring up. There had been a barrow in the hills near Luciel that children swore was haunted. He’d gone to it once, on a dare, and touched its stone door. He’d fought the dead since then—the ghouls at the Hullbreaker had hardly been the first—but memories of the barrow still made him shiver in his sleep, sometimes. Staring at the Tower, Cathan felt as he had then. His scalp prickled, the hair on his arms stood up. A sour taste flooded his mouth.

  It was an odd building, to be sure, unlike the rest of the Lordcity’s columns and domes: a solid slab of milky crystal, all sharp angles, faceted so that it threw off shards of rainbow light when the sun’s light struck it just right. It bore no carvings or ornaments, and its windows were all but invisible. Its five red turrets were like the bloody fingers in the poems, bent slightly so that they looked like a grasping claw. They were crystal, too: solid garnet, their value inestimable. Sometimes eldritch light shone from their tips while shadow moved within the Tower’s translucent walls, but not today. Today it stood quiet, bright but ominous, a thing of beauty that made Cathan shudder to be so close.