Divine Hammer

by Chris Pierson

  Amazingly, her first thought was for the Lightbringer. She had heard the stories of the shadow-demon Kurnos the Usurper had sent to kill him. Sir Cathan’s quick action and Paladine’s holy power had defeated the creature, but Cathan was far away, on the arena floor. He could not help Beldinas now.

  “The Kingpriest!” she cried, lunging. “Protect the Kingpriest!”

  His eyes wide, Quarath tried to throw himself in front of her. She shoved the elf aside, sending him staggering into several other hierarchs. Goblets of wine flew into the air, spraying red droplets. She hit Beldinas hard, knocking him back. All around her, priests and lords shouted in outrage. Hands grabbed her robes, hauling her back and holding her fast as Beldinas lay on the floor in a daze.

  “She attacked him!” people were shouting. “The witch tried to kill the Lightbringer!”

  “Not me, you idiots!” she shouted. “Let go of—” She never got the chance to finish. With a chorus of shrieks, the quasitas swarmed down upon the arena.

  CHAPTER 12

  “Get up!” Tavarre shouted.

  He was on one knee beside Sir Barlan, who still lay senseless after the melee. The old Solamnic didn’t move. Sir Erias was staggering, weary, hurt, but managed to bring up his blunted sword all the same. A few other knights, Tithian among them, had come to the edge of the sands, drawn by the sounds of the crowd. The cheers had turned to shrieks, the stomping of feet into panicked flight as everyone leaped up from the benches and tried to get away. Children were crying, their parents shouting and cursing. A few fights broke out where the shoving got out of control. Up in the gallery, people were trying to drag Leciane away while Wentha bent down, helping Beldinas rise.

  Just then the quasitas dove, wings tucked in close, clawed fingers flexed, jagged fangs jutting from their howling mouths. Cathan ran for his shield, scooping it out of the sand, then lifting it up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tavarre do likewise. One of the little beasts hit his shield hard, talons scrabbling, long tail flicking drops of venom everywhere.

  He shook the shield, beating at it with his tourney sword, and with a crunch the quasito fell away, one wing bent at a sickening angle, dripping yellowish blood. It sprawled on the sand, then got to its stubby feet and whirled, claws slashing the air as it rushed at him. He met its charge with steel, hammering it in the breastbone with the broken tip of his blade, then hacking into its skull as it doubled over. The quasito squealed—a helpless, childlike sound—and unraveled before Cathan’s eyes, its pallid flesh turning to black smoke and dissipating on the breeze.

  The beast’s death screech ringing in his ears, Cathan looked to the other knights.

  Tavarre was beset but holding his own, surrounded by quasitas. Sir Erias was laying about, fighting three of the beasts at once. Lord Barlan …

  They were all over Lord Barlan—clawing and biting, tearing pieces of armor away to get at flesh. Cathan winced at the spreading red stain beneath the old knight’s body.

  “Boy!” he shouted to Tithian, who stood gaping, his face pale. “Bring my sword! Get Ebonbane! Tell the others—”

  It nearly ended for him there, a stinger missing his face by inches as a quasito swooped overhead. He pulled back, then followed through with a looping swing that all but smashed the creature in two. It fell, limp, turning to smoke before it hit the ground. A second fiend followed right behind, but managed to bank away from Cathan’s stroke, its feline eyes blazing with madness.

  Sir Erias was not so lucky. Two more creatures had joined the three he was already fighting, and while he managed to turn one of them into a greasy black cloud, the numbers were too many and he was too spent. He went down with a bellow, the beasts piling on top of him. Cathan took two steps toward him, raising his sword, but before he could get there Erias’s voice rose to a high, thin cry, then choked off. He thrashed once, then lay still. The quasitas ripped at his body, cackling and baying.

  Sickened, Cathan looked up to the gallery, expecting to see nothing but blood and mayhem. But no—it was untouched. The quasitas weren’t even bothering with the Kingpriest, his sister, or the other dignitaries. The Lattakayans elsewhere in the stands were also safe for the time being. The focus of the attack was on the knights—who were pouring onto the sand from all sides now, limping and exhausted, most of them still armed with their tourney weapons.

  He understood, then, as he watched the men of the Divine Hammer take up the fight.

  Whoever had planned this attack had thought it out well, knowing that after the tourney the knights would be worn out, vulnerable, poorly armed. Even sturdy Sir Marto staggered to wield his heavy axe. He roared curses in Old Karthayan as he struck down one demon after another. Beside him, Sir Pellidas fought in silence.

  Another quasito flew at Cathan, chittering madly. He hit it with the rim of his shield, and it fell away, stunned. Still another grabbed at the shard of his tourney sword, its sharp teeth clamping down on what remained of the blade. He jerked the weapon hard, slicing through the monster’s head, but more of the blade shattered, leaving him with a jagged stump, barely longer than a dagger. He spat a curse, fighting on with the ruined blade.

  When Tithian tapped his shoulder, he nearly brained the youth where he stood.

  Whipping around, he swore as he saw what his former squire held: Ebonbane, the bits of white porcelain gleaming on its hilt. The lad carried his own sword, too. Cathan dropped his ruined weapon and grabbed Ebonbane from Tithian’s hand, baring its blade and flinging the scabbard away.

  No sooner had he done so than three more quasitas descended upon them. He and Tithian sent them howling back to the Abyss. The knight to his left, however, was not so lucky. Barbed stingers dug into the small of his back, and he crumpled without a sound.

  The quasitas stung him again and again, and he went stiff as their venom overwhelmed him. Only then did Cathan recognize Sir Pellidas “No!” he shouted. He kicked one of the quasitas in the face, feeling the satisfying crunch of his boot shattering the monster’s misshapen nose, before it dissolved into smoke. A roar of grief and rage told him Marto had seen his friend fall as well. The big knight went berserk, anguish replenishing his strength. Marto’s beaked axe became a whirlwind, striking around him so wildly that nearby knights backed away, afraid he might mistakenly kill them too. Smoke danced around him as the quasitas fell.

  It didn’t matter how many the Divine Hammer killed, however. For every demon that perished, another materialized. The sky overhead was filthy with them, wheeling to join their fellows. The knights, meanwhile, had no reinforcements, and more and more of them were dying. Dozens lay on the sand now, twitching or motionless. Blood darkened the ground. The screeching of the quasitas mingled with the Lattakayans’ cries of terror as they fled the arena.

  Cathan looked up at the gallery. It was nearly empty now, most of the courtiers having fled. A few recognizable figures remained: Wentha, Quarath, Suvin, Leciane in her red robes … and there, at the edge of the balcony, a figure cloaked in silver light, rubies sparkling on his brow.

  “Damn it, Beldyn,” Cathan swore under his breath. “Do something!”

  Gibbering, a winged form arrowed toward him from above. Cathan turned to face it, Ebonbane flashing in his hand.

  *****

  Leciane watched Beldinas, who seemed frozen. Quarath and Suvin still held her fast, gripping her arms, but they had stopped trying to drag her from the gallery. They all stared in horror into the pit of the arena, at the carnage the quasitas were making of the flower of Istar’s chivalry. Even Leciane, who had no training at arms, could tell that it was developing into a bloodbath.

  “Holiness, they’re dying!” Wentha shouted, tears flooding eyes that were wide with fear.

  “You have to stop this!”

  Beldinas nodded dully but still made no move. His strange, blue eyes stayed fixed on the arena, narrowed oddly, as if someone had just made an unexpected move against him in a game of khas. Wentha shook his shoulder.

  Slowly, he no
dded and looked down upon the scene. Screams filled the air as the quasitas swooped and dived and killed. His mouth a hard line, the Lightbringer signed the triangle and spread his hands over the slaughter. Closing his eyes, he began to pray.

  “Palado, tas cribo fanam adolas. Tis inibam spollud bid tas pilo…”

  Paladine, thy touch, is a bane to evil. Destroy this darkness with thy light…

  At first, nothing happened, and Leciane thought the god had ignored him. Then a strange new sound arose: a crystalline chiming that swelled with every heartbeat, drowning out the din of battle. It grew so loud that Wentha clapped her hands over her ears, and Leciane pulled away from the clerics and cringed. Light began to pour from Beldinas’s fingers, first in drops the size of silver coins, then in pulsing streams. The air about the gallery rippled, as it might on a summer’s day.

  Light gushing from him in torrents, Beldinas raised his hands high. “Scuyas oporudo!” he shouted.

  Demons, begone!

  The light flared upward, flashing high through the sky. Beldinas’s back arched, his lips skinning from his teeth as the radiance pooled above the arena. Sweat beading on his brow, he brought his hands down again—and the light followed, falling upon the quasitas with the force of—

  Of a divine hammer, Leciane thought.

  When it struck, the light burst so bright that for a moment there was nothing to see but silver, nothing to hear but the unearthly ringing of the god’s power. It was a light that didn’t just drive darkness back. It consumed it, burning it away with holy fire.

  Then, it somehow went wrong.

  A discordant note grew into a terrible buzz. The light soured, its silvery hue tarnishing, its steady glow becoming a maddening flicker. With a gut-wrenching ripping sound, the glow shredded, then whirled apart like a spiderweb in a tempest. A blast of hot air slammed the gallery, knocking everyone flat—even the Kingpriest, who tumbled onto the reclining cushions. The light that shrouded him grew faint. He lay still, drained.

  The Lightbringer had … failed.

  Her ears ringing, Leciane struggled to rise. Wentha was shouting something, tears in her eyes, but the words were too dim to hear. The sorceress pulled herself up, using the gallery’s marble balustrade, and peered down into the arena.

  Nothing had changed. The battle raged on, the knights falling beneath the quasitas’ assault.

  “Lunitari have mercy,” she breathed, unable to hear her own voice. She closed her eyes, focusing, reaching out with her senses. There it was, hanging over the quasitas, suffusing them: a magic spell she didn’t recognize. It was a powerful enchantment, the evil work of a Black Robe.

  As if this could be anything else, she thought.

  She studied the magic a moment longer, trying to fathom it. It protected the quasitas, giving them strength to fight the knights and warding them against the god’s power. The mage who had summoned these creatures had done all he could to make sure no one drove them away. But there was a weakness in the spell as well. In keeping the quasitas safe from clerical magic, the spell became vulnerable to sorcery. She clenched her fists, drawing in all her power.

  A hand caught her arm. “What in the Abyss are you doing?“Opening her eyes, she saw Quarath, his eyes dark with anger. Leciane glared, shaking free of his grasp. She could sense others behind her.

  “Your Kingpriest couldn’t do anything,” she snapped. “Now it’s my turn. Those knights are going to die otherwise—and the gods know who the quasitas will turn on next. I can help—but you have to trust me.”

  “Trust a witch?” sneered Suvin. Quarath scowled, taking another step toward her.

  “Wait.”

  Everyone started, looking toward the weak, shaking voice. Beldinas stirred where he’d fallen, his face pinched as he propped himself on his elbows. His eyes—dimmed from blue suns to mere stars—met Leciane’s.

  “Holiness?” Quarath ventured. “We cannot allow—”

  “We can and will,” the Kingpriest replied. “Let her try, Emissary.”

  The elf’s eyes narrowed to slits. Beside him, Revered Son Suvin glowered, but Wentha stepped forward, lowering her gaze.

  “Help him,” she said. “Save my brother.”

  Leciane nodded. Licking her lips, she turned back toward the arena, littered with the bodies of knights, hazy with the smoke of dead quasitas. The clamor of battle had returned, more desperate than before. It had to be now.

  Again she delved deep into herself, finding the power within. Taking hold, she began to move her hands, opened her mouth to speak, felt the magic flow …

  *****

  Cathan felt like he was slogging underwater. Every movement felt too slow, every reaction too sluggish. His muscles kept trying to seize, his knees to buckle. His heart stammered in his chest. Still he fought on, back to back with Tithian, surrounded by the bodies of his fellows. Half his company was dead, though he could still hear Marto yelling blasphemies nearby. He couldn’t see Lord Tavarre—but then, did it really matter? They were all going to die anyway.

  He still couldn’t believe the Lightbringer’s power had faltered. When the light died, so did his hopes of living to see the dawn. Now he only wanted to kill as many winged demons as he could before they finished him, too.

  Palado, he prayed, spearing a quasito on Ebonbane’s tip. The wretched thing fluttered wildly for a moment, then went limp and became a phantom of smoke. Mas pirhtas calsud.

  Adolas brigim paripud—

  Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought—

  Just then, a shimmer ran through the Bilstibo, a ripple that washed through the air, throwing off azure sparks. At first, he thought the Kingpriest had somehow regenerated his strength, but something about that wasn’t right. Beldinas’s miracles did not have the strange sting to them that this one did. Looking up, he saw why. The figure at the balustrade wore crimson, not white.

  Sorcery!

  He broke a quasito’s back with a smash from his shield. The creature’s remains blew into his face, stinging his eyes and making him choke.

  Then …

  Leciane’s spell burst over the arena like a houseful of Karthayan fireworks, raining motes of blue fire. An eye-blink later, a loud bang shuddered the ground. Cathan cried out, throwing himself flat—but the magic did him no harm, the flames winking out when they touched him. The quasitas, however, were not so fortunate. The magic burned when it struck their flesh, making them squeal and writhe in agony. Some burned to ashes. Others tumbled to the ground, the membranes of their wings seared away. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air.

  Cathan stared, amazed—but only for a moment. Then he was on his feet again, Ebonbane dancing in his hand. He hacked the head from a quasito’s shoulders and stabbed another through the throat. Both hardly struggled, making sounds that might have been sighs as they perished. His blood singing in his veins, Cathan pushed aside pain and weariness, and waded back into the fray.

  “Hammer-brothers!” he cried. “Finish them! Kill them all!”

  At once, the surviving knights were back in the fight, hewing at the injured monsters with sword and mace and axe. The smoke grew thick above the arena as the quasitas died.

  Others who could still fly fast enough soared skyward, fleeing away over Lattakay’s arches and into the hills beyond.

  Then it was over. All the creatures were either dead or gone, and the knights stood wearily among the bodies of the fallen. Of the five hundred men who had come to fight in the tourney, fewer than two hundred remained on their feet. The rest sprawled in the sand, their flesh torn open or blackened by the agonies of the demons’ poison. Among them, Cathan saw with a gasp, was one he knew too well.

  Tavarre was still alive, shivering uncontrollably though the air was warm. Smoke smudged his scarred face, and blood seeped from his shoulder, dampening his crimson tabard. His eyes opened when Cathan knelt beside him. His pupils were huge, feverish, and dull.

  “My lord,” Cathan said. He took Tavarre’s
hand, already cold and limp. He thought to call for Beldinas, but knew there was no hope—no time.

  Tavarre laughed weakly. “Lad,” he said. “I guess you w-won the t-tourney, after all.”

  Cathan bowed his head.

  “Look at m-me, you dolt,” Tavarre growled. “There’ll be time f-for grieving soon en-nough. I need you to promise m-me two things before—before … ”

  “Yes, lord?” Cathan murmured, looking at him squarely.

  “First, f-find the one who did th-this,” he said. His hand twitched as if trying to gesture, but no more. “A th-thousand stakes aren’t enough to p-pay for it.”

  “Of course,” Cathan said. “You have my vow. What else?”

  Tavarre tried to smile. He drew a deep breath, his eyes closing. “Don’t—don’t let him r-resurrect me.”

  His shivering stopped.

  Cathan bowed his head for a long time, still grasping the lifeless hand. Other knights gathered around, their faces solemn. A few, Sir Marto among them, wept openly. Cathan’s face, however, was dry and hard with determination. Bending forward, he kissed the Grand Marshal’s smoke-streaked forehead. Then, rising, he lifted the body of Tavarre of Luciel and carried it out of the Bilstibo.

  CHAPTER 13

  Lattakay glistened in the silver moonlight. Cathan stood at the edge of Wentha’s terraced garden, looking out over the cliff at the glass statue of the Lightbringer. His heart twisted as his eyes turned again and again to the Bilstibo, sitting dark amid the harbor. For years he had avoided this place, afraid of what might happen when he and his sister met again. A foolish fear, he’d reasoned when the Kingpriest’s party left the Lordcity for the tourney. Nothing bad would happen.

  Now Lord Tavarre lay dead, and so many others. The Knights of the Divine Hammer were in tatters. Beldinas … well, Beldinas’ failure was inexplicable.

  Three days had passed since the bloodbath—three days of frustration, fury, and grief.

  Cloths of mourning blue hung from Lattakay’s arches, fluttering in the sea breeze, honoring the fallen knights who lay in the city’s temple. Bands of wailing women roamed the streets, following Seldjuki custom as they stopped at crossroads and plazas to let out wild, warbling yells. Cathan had had little time to mourn, however. There were too many other things to be done. For the first day, he and his surviving men—for he was brevet commander of the order now, with the Grand Marshal and many other high-ranking knights slain—had worked tirelessly, keeping the fragile peace. The folk of Lattakay had come close to rioting that first night. Brawls had broken out as people tried to flee the arena’s island. The knights had all been tired and sore at heart, but they had done their duty, keeping folk from killing each other, then enforcing the curfew the Patriarch imposed to get people off the streets.