Divine Hammer k-2

by Chris Pierson

  Consciousness returned, and memory. How many times, of late, had he woken like this-in a new place, the tingle of teleportation still pricking the edges of his mind? This time, though, he was not in danger. He knew where he was. He was with Fistandantilus.

  Sighing, Andras opened his eyes. The room was dark, the kind of utter lightlessness found only deep underground. Even so, he recognized it: his chamber, where he’d dwelt before going with the quasitas to Seldjuk. It was empty and cold, and there was a strange smell in the air, a little like must, a little like a midden heap. He shrugged off his blankets, then winced at the cold air. He was unchained but naked. The Dark One had taken his tattered, filthy robes.

  Whimpering, he rose and walked toward the door. It was unlocked and unbarred. Beside it, folded neatly on the floor, was a bundle of clothing. He bent down, lifting it up and shaking it out. It was a new robe of fine satin, embroidered with runes. Nicer than his old one-and warmer than the altogether. He pulled it over his head, cinching it at the waist.

  The strange, fetid smell was strong now, clinging in his nostrils. He scowled, trying to place it, but couldn’t. Whatever it was, its source was near-inside the room, maybe. He retched, the sour sting of bile filling his mouth.

  “Light,” he muttered. “I need light.”

  He tested his own power, expecting to find it depleted. To his surprise, however, the magic ran deep within him once more, like a cistern after a rainstorm. He had been asleep much longer than he’d thought, then-days? Weeks? It was impossible to tell. His hair and nails were no longer than before, and no stubble graced his cheeks. Fistandantilus had taken good care of him, whatever else was going on. Pleased at his strength’s return, Andras delved, drawing out what he needed. It wasn’t much, not for so simple a spell. He made a quick gesture, then pointed across the black room.

  “Talkarpas ang shirak,” he declared.

  Magic flashed through him, too little and too quick to bring about the euphoria he usually felt. Light spells were parlor tricks, cantrips initiates learned early on. Andras’s took the form of a globe of cold blue flame, hanging in midair before him. Accustomed to the darkness, his eyes stung and saw nothing for a while. Then, slowly, vision returned.

  Andras nodded, looking around. There was a puddle on the floor not too far from where he stood. He regarded it curiously, noting its brownish color even in the blue glow-then stopped, stiffening as a drop fell into it from above.

  He looked up.

  “Blood of Takhisis!” he cried, the sound coming out more like a child’s squeak than a man’s yell. He backed up until he hit the wall-only two steps, as it happened-then stood staring at the thing hanging from the ceiling.

  It was four feet long, fat on one end and tapering on the other, glistening gray in the wizard-light. It might have been an egg, but it had rubbery skin instead of a shell, and long, ropy vines grew out of it, digging into the stone above. Dark vessels, like veins but not, crisscrossed its surface, pulsing softly. One had ruptured and was leaking watery, brown juice. As for the stink, it was powerful enough now that Andras raised his sleeve to cover his face. It didn’t help, any more than covering his ears blocked out the Accursed’s cries.

  His back never leaving the wall, he edged toward the door.

  The thing had no eyes, but he could sense it looking at him as he moved. There was something inside it. He could see movement, a shadow that stretched the membrane as it shifted. The shadow watched him, as sure as if it was a giant eye. He reached behind himself, fumbling for the door’s latch, then stopped as his hand touched something that wasn’t made of stone or wood at all.

  “Be easy,” said Fistandantilus. “Nothing will harm you.”

  Every part of Andras wanted to run at the sound of the Dark One’s voice, so close to him-every part except his legs, which refused to move. He stood perfectly still, staring at the thing as the ancient Black Robe loomed in the doorway behind him.

  “Wh-what in the Abyss?” he breathed.

  Fistandantilus considered this a moment, then answered with a dry chuckle. “Partly right,” he said. “It is from the Abyss, yes-just like your quasitas were. What grows within, though, is of this world.”

  Andras swallowed, or tried to. His mouth was as dry as the sands of Dravinaar. “I don’t understand.”

  “I thought not,” the Dark One replied. “Watch, then. Tsokath!”

  At the archmage’s command, magic blazed through the room, so intense that Andras’s heart stopped beating for an instant. On the ceiling, the pod shuddered as it struck, its skin stretching thin, then ripped open, dumping a gush of fetid liquid onto the floor. The split in the membrane widened with a ghastly tearing sound, and the gush became a torrent, splashing Andras’s new robes. With the fluid, something else slipped out-something pale, flabby, and bald, nearly man-shaped but featureless. Where its face should have been, there were only empty holes. More vinelike things grew out of its body, attaching it to the ceiling pod. They caught the wretched thing as it fell, holding it up like some kind of horrendous puppet. It hung limp in midair, limbs twitching.

  Somehow, Andras kept himself from vomiting.

  “It is called a fetch,” Fistandantilus said, his cold voice unperturbed. “It is like a man, but without a soul to give it life. It can take the form of any living person, be they human, ogre, elf, or dwarf. All it needs to hear is that person’s name.”

  The cleft that was the fetch’s mouth opened and closed with wet, sucking sounds. It was beginning to breathe. The sound of its wheezing soon filled the silence. Andras clenched his fists, fighting the urge to lash out with his magic and kill the monster.

  “The Kingpriest and the highmage are meeting on the morrow, to make peace,” Fistandantilus went on in a mocking tone. “Once the fetch has taken form, I can cast a spell that will put your spirit in its body, for a time. You can control it then, as if it were your own.”

  Andras frowned, staring at the hairless thing hanging before him. It shivered in the cold.

  He knew what Fistandantilus was offering him. He could be anyone. He just had to kill the one he chose to impersonate, then he could take that person’s place at the moot. If he were caught, he needed only to relinquish control over the fetch, and return to his own body.

  The fetch made a toneless, mewling sound. Andras stared at its face, so vague and indistinct.

  “Won’t they discover who I am?” he asked. “Vincil and the other sorcerers will check everyone for sorcery-and the gods alone know what the Kingpriest will see.”

  “My magic will protect you,” the Dark One replied. “Not even His Holiness will sense anything amiss.”

  Andras sighed. He was beginning to feel a weariness that could never be eased, but he did owe the Church and the Conclave, for what both had tried to do to him.

  “Well,” he said. “May I choose the form I’m to take?”

  “Not the Kingpriest,” the Dark One warned. “His powers would resist.”

  In spite of everything, Andras laughed. The fetch let out a bray of its own, mimicking him. He waited for it to be still again, then leaned forward, placing his mouth near the hole that would have been a person’s ear. He whispered the name he’d chosen.

  All at once, the fetch’s whole body stiffened, like a corpse several hours dead. Its twitches became spasms. Struggling, it began to change. Flesh darkened; bones cracked as they rearranged themselves. Its formless face softened like warm beeswax, running and puddling to form the visage Andras desired. Seeing what it was becoming-or, rather, who-Fistandantilus let out a cold chuckle.

  “Very good,” the archmage declared, resting a hand on Andras’s shoulder. “Oh, very good indeed.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The wind whispered as it stirred the olive trees of the grove, making their fruit-heavy branches sway. The sky beyond was dark and muttered with thunder. A late-winter storm simmered over Lake Istar, turning its lapis waters to slate. Soon it would sweep into shore, lashing the Lordcity with rain
and, perhaps, hail. All over the city, merchants took in their wares, and servants hurried in countless gardens to cover delicate flowers and bushes. At the wharf, men and minotaur slaves made ships fast, and the owners of wine shops took down the silken canopies in their courtyards.

  Leciane smiled at the activity, gazing down from atop the Tower of High Sorcery. The common folk worked in vain. This storm would never make land, for this was no ordinary day. The wizards would use their magic to hold back the foul weather. The Kingpriest, she was sure, would be doing the same. Today was the moot. Today her people and the folk of Istar would make peace-or so she hoped. It was looking less likely all the time.

  “I wish you’d told me before this morning that you’d lost him,” Leciane said, turning to frown at Vincil. He stood two paces behind her, carefully arranging his finest robes. They shimmered like rubies. “That is the first thing they will ask about.”

  The highmage ran a hand over his shaven pate. “We’d hoped to find him again before today,” he said, shaking his head. “We thought it best not to tell anyone outside the Conclave. Whoever is protecting him is powerful, though. He’s resisted everything we’ve tried.”

  “And now we go to the Kingpriest without Andras.” Leciane couldn’t keep the bitterness from her voice. “Do you expect him to believe our excuses?”

  Vincil snorted. “Of course not. Even without Andras, though, I think we can appease him.”

  Leciane glanced back across the city. The crystal dome of the Great Temple glowed in the stormlight. Beyond, the Hammerhall loomed, its keeps and watchtowers aflutter with pennants. The burning hammer blazed on many of them, but others were blue. Even after a month and a half, the Divine Hammer still mourned its fallen.

  She wished she had charmed Cathan that night on the road to Lattakay. Now he was Grand Marshal…

  Vincil laid a hand on her shoulder. She absent-mindedly covered it with hers. It had been easier than she’d thought to return to his bed. That made her feelings for Cathan-Lord Cathan now-all the more confusing. When the highmage spoke, his lips almost brushing her ear, his words brought her back.

  “We should go,” he whispered. “The others will be ready.”

  “The Kingpriest as well,” she agreed, kissing his fingertips. She smiled at him. “It wouldn’t do to keep His Holiness waiting, would it?”

  The highmage chuckled, tousling her curly hair. Together, they disappeared back into the Tower.

  *****

  Standing in the Lordcity’s northern quarter, the Eusymmeas was neutral ground, one of the Lordcity’s oldest monuments: a huge reflecting pool of rose amber, its centerpiece a sculpture depicting the death of Vemior. The last of Istar’s warlord-tyrants, Vemior had perished centuries ago, when the clergy rose up against him and named one of their number, a cleric named Symeon, as the first Kingpriest. According to the histories, Vemior drank poisoned wine rather than give up his throne. In the Eusymmeas, he slumped in Symeon’s arms, the empty goblet dangling from his fingers. The histories said nothing about the look of sorrow carved into Symeon’s face, however; most scholars agreed the first Kingpriest shed no tears for his predecessor. Like any artist, the Eusymmeas’s sculptor had taken liberties.

  The Lightbringer’s party arrived first. Duke Serl was clad in emerald silks, and Lord Yarns in shining mail. They were accompanied by the First Son and First Daughter;

  Quarath and Suvin-and Beldinas, riding his golden chariot. His aura lit the courtyard that surrounded the Eusymmeas. Ringing the plaza were the Divine Hammer, standing guard alongside the warriors of Solamnia and Ergoth.

  “Ullas dilant, Holiness,” Cathan reported when his men were in position. All is well.

  It was a ritual phrase, which he could no longer bring himself to believe. He had more than a hundred men at his command, and half again that number in Yarus and Serf’s entourages. There had been more than that many men in Lattakay, though-and one wizard’s thralls had torn them to pieces. There were many wizards coming to this moot, some almost certainly more powerful than Andras. The gods alone knew what could happen if the wizards did not keep the peace.

  When he said that to Beldinas, however, the Kingpriest only smiled. “Do not fear, my friend,” he said. “These are not Black Robes, coming to treat with us.”

  Cathan nodded, shivering. The Black Robes’ absence had been another point of contention. The wizards had insisted that all three orders be represented, but Beldinas held out for a party comprising only those who wore the White. In the end, both sides agreed to a compromise. The sorcerers’ representatives would come with White Robes and Red Robes-including the highmage himself-but their dark-souled brethren would stay behind.

  A shimmering at the far end of the plaza drew everyone’s eye. All around the Eusymmeas, crossbows rose and gauntleted hands reached for swords. Cathan raised his hand, ordering his knights to hold. They obeyed, as did the Ergothmen and the Solamnics when Serl and Yarns called out to them. Beldinas signed the triangle, the other clerics following suit, as magical light flared and the sorcerers appeared.

  There were seven of them-three wizards in White and three in Red, their leader crimson-clad as well. Cathan felt no surprise, watching them walk across the courtyard, to see Leciane. She saw him too, and looked away. Cathan scowled, turning his attention to the leader, a dark-skinned man with a bald head and eyes that seemed to miss nothing. He raised his hand in greeting as they drew near to the Kingpriest’s entourage, his face betraying no emotion.

  “Sa, Pilofiro,” he declared. Hail, Lightbringer. “I am Vincil, Highmage of all Krynn. In the name of the three moons, I greet you.”

  “Sa, Most High,” Beldinas replied, signing the triangle. “May the god smile upon this meeting.”

  Introductions followed. Cathan took the opportunity to study the other mages, searching their faces. He could sense their power. The air nearly sparkled with all their protective spells. Even the youngest among them could kill with a word. If any of them tried anything, he would have to be quick to stop it. Cathan fought the urge to reach for Ebonbane. Jaw clenched, he kept his hands at his side and his gaze shifting from one sorcerer to the next.

  “Where is the one called Andras?” Beldinas asked in a stern voice. “I do not see him among you.”

  Leciane made a sour face, and the other mages glanced uneasily at one another. Vincil, however, bowed his head. “Holiness,” he said apologetically, “for that I must take responsibility. Andras is not among us.”

  An angry murmur arose among the knights and priests, brows lowering and faces darkening all around the courtyard. Anger boiled in Cathan’s breast as well.

  “Not among you?” Quarath demanded, his lip curling. “After you stole him from us, you have let him go?”

  “We did not let him go,” Vincil answered solemnly. If the elf’s tone angered him, he gave no sign. “He was stolen from us as well. We are doing all we can to find him, and will return him to you when we do.”

  “If you do,” Beldinas said.

  Vincil’s eyebrows jumped. In the distance, thunder rolled as he looked at the Kingpriest.

  “Holiness, this I pledge: We will find him.”

  Beldinas looked surprised at that. Revered Son Suvin stepped forward, glaring at the highmage. “What good are your assurances? How do we know you aren’t simply hiding him from us?”

  “Be easy, Reverence,” Beldinas interrupted, touching Suvin’s arm. “We are here to make peace, not to stir trouble. Andras is but a small part of what we must discuss. As long as any wizard in Istar can do what he did and threaten us all, the peace we desire cannot happen.”

  “Ergoth agrees,” growled Duke Serl, folding massive arms across his chest.

  “And Solamnia,” added Yarus.

  Vincil looked from the High Clerist to the others, then back to Beldinas. “What are you saying, Holiness?”

  The Kingpriest smiled. “Only one thing, Most High-that we have decided what is necessary: every sorcerer who wears the Black Ro
bes must leave the Towers of High Sorcery that stand within our realms.”

  Vincil couldn’t hide his dismay. The other wizards muttered. Cathan held his breath, watching them react.

  “That would be… difficult to arrange,” Vincil allowed. He looked as if he had just bitten a lemon. “Our absent brothers have trusted us to speak here on their behalf. If we cast them out of the Towers, that would leave them little sanctuary. Only Wayreth would be open to them.”

  “Yes,” said the Kingpriest.

  Vincil opened his mouth to say something, then thought better of it. A moment passed before he spoke again. “What you demand is not easy. …”

  Cathan felt-close, very close-something not right. He glanced around, but nobody else seemed to sense anything amiss …

  No, Leciane’s eyes were wide, too. She looked sideways at her fellow wizards. Cathan followed her eyes, his hand moving slowly to his sword. Something’s about to happen, he thought. One of the wizards is going to try something terrible. Which one? Palado Calib, which one?

  A blur of movement gave him his answer. With a shout, Revered Son Suvin whirled, reaching beneath his robes. Suddenly there was a knife in his hand, its blade long and curved.

  Cathan turned in the same direction … who had the Revered Son spotted as the traitor? Then, as he watched-as everyone watched in horror-the Patriarch of Seldjuk lunged and shoved the dagger into Beldinas’s chest.

  The world stopped. Even the growling storm grew quiet as Suvin jerked the blade free.

  Blood came with it-so much blood, reddening the Kingpriest’s snowy robes. Everyone stared, transfixed.

  Leciane’s hands rose, grabbing fistfuls of her hair.

  “No!” she cried.

  The Kingpriest fell to his knees. The holy light that shrouded Beldinas flickered, began to fade.