Divine Hammer

Silently, he turned. Their eyes met, and Leciane’s insides tightened at what she saw.

She tried to remember a time when she’d seen Vincil frightened before. She couldn’t.

Shuddering, she bowed her head.

“All right,” she said. There was steel in her gaze when she looked up again. “Tell me what I must do.”

CHAPTER 4

The Lordcity of Istar went by many names. Istar the Mighty, Istar the Beautiful, Istar the Holy. It was all of these and more: the greatest city in all of Krynn, outshining such grand metropolises as Palanthas and Xak Tsaroth. A quarter of a million souls dwelt within its soaring, gold-chased walls, spread out over seven hilltops along the northern shore of the shining waters of Lake Istar. It was a city of delicate towers and mighty arches, broad plazas and lush gardens, alabaster domes and gleaming mosaics, fountains and statues of lapis, serpentine, and bloodstone. Its streets, markets, and wine shops teemed with folk from all over the empire-towering natives from the Sadrahka Jungle, stout highlanders from the hills of Taol, slender, graceful Dravinish ladies, all dressed in a riot of colors and making an incessant din of shouting, song, and laughter. Exotic smells-spices and citrus, camphor and jasmine-filled the air, mingling with the music of dulcimers. The sight of Istar from afar had been known to bring even the grimmest warriors to tears.

To Cathan MarSevrin, it was home.

He sat his horse on a hilltop a mile west of the city, his men arrayed behind him. Huge Sir Marto wept at its beauty, as did several others. At Cathan’s side, Tithian gripped his horse’s reins, his eyes wide. Some of the other squires, who had never seen it before, gasped aloud when they crested the hill, but the city’s beauty smote Tithian almost like a physical blow.

Cathan smiled, remembering the first time he had seen the city. It had been twenty years ago and he had come at the head of a conquering army. He had been one of Beldinas’s first followers-before that, the Lightbringer had been Brother Beldyn, a poor monk from the mountains of Kharolis far to the west. He had seen the healing miracles worked by Beldinas and had helped him recover the fabled Miceram, the long-lost Crown of Power that solidified his claim to Istar’s throne. They had come at the head of an army of thousands, and the hierarchs of the church had opened the gates to them, to overthrow the false Kingpriest, Kurnos the Deceiver.

Thoughts of Kurnos made Cathan’s lips thin. Once the First Son of Paladine, he had seized control of the throne through trickery and dark magic when the previous Kingpriest, Symeon IV, died. Some folk even whispered that Kurnos had killed Symeon. Cathan was inclined to believe such rumors, for he had seen firsthand the demon Kurnos had summoned to slay the Lightbringer. With Cathan’s help, Beldinas had thwarted the demon, but not before it had murdered many good people-including First Daughter Ilista, who had discovered Beldinas in the first place. Even cornered, with no one left to support him, Kurnos had tried one last time to murder the Lightbringer with sorcery.

Instead, he had killed Cathan.

At that memory, Cathan’s hand went unbidden to his chest. He still bore the scar, a puckered spot where magical lightning had ripped into him. People asked him even now what death had been like, what he had seen after the mortal world lifted from his eyes. The clergy, in particular, had been understandably curious. He could remember nothing, though-before Beldinas brought him back.

There were many legends of the clerics of old, and what their powers allowed them to do.

They had conjured enough bread to feed nations, made blighted deserts lush and green, summoned storms of wind, water, and flame to destroy their enemies. In the thousand years since Huma Dragonbane drove the Queen of Darkness and her minions from the world, however, such miracles had disappeared. With darkness broken and scattered, there was little need for them any more. These days, most clerics could not even perform the simplest of wonders.

Despite their power, however, even the mightiest clerics of yore had not been able to restore a soul after it departed the flesh. Such things, philosophers claimed, were simply not possible. The Lightbringer had proven them wrong. Focusing his will amid his grief, Beldinas had beseeched-demanded, to hear some tell it-that Paladine work his will.

Paladine had listened and obeyed-and so Cathan drew breath once more, though forever marked with his strange, unsettling eyes…

“Master?” A hand touched his shoulder.

Cathan started. He glanced toward the voice. Tithian was looking at him, his brow wrinkled with worry. So were most of the other knights. Self-conscious, he lowered his hand from his scarred breast.

“Sir,” Tithian murmured, “are you all right? You look pale.”

Swallowing, Cathan shook his head. All those memones were old now: Kurnos was long dead, and though he had tried several times, the Kingpriest had been unable to perform any more resurrections since that day.

“I’m fine, lad,” he murmured. “Come on. Let’s waste no more time here.”

Clucking his tongue, he nudged his horse down the hill. He didn’t ride straight to the city, though-not yet. He had somewhere he wanted to go first.

Even in a city of marvels, some places stood out. In Istar, the foremost of these was unquestionably the Great Temple at its heart, With its vibrant gardens and silver-roofed cloisters, its seven golden spires and vast dome of frosted crystal, it was the most splendid church the world had ever known, the sight to which every Istaran’s gaze gravitated-not just when its bells called the faithful to prayer, but constantly-affirming that the Lordcity was indeed the favorite of the gods.

There were other wonders in Istar, though. At the mouth of its harbor, where sails of a hundred hues billowed in the balmy breeze, the two beacons called the God’s Eyes blazed silver in the sunlight. Across town, on the slopes of the northern quarter, the palatial homes of the city’s nobility gleamed, all marble columns and shining rooftops. In the west stood the School of the Games, a sprawling arena that could house half the city’s populace in its seats. Gladiators had fought there once, though now the games were all play: epic tragedies and mock melees that drew cheers that could shake the city’s foundations. In the east, drawing wary glances; was the Tower of High Sorcery, a slender minaret of sparkling white stone, topped with crimson turrets. An ivory hand with fingers bloody, the poetess Trella of Yandol had once called it. It had stood longer than any of the Lordcity’s other landmarks, old even when the first Kingpriest donned his crown.

If the Tower was Istar’s eldest marvel, the Hammerhall was the youngest, but no less grand for it. It did not stand within the city’s walls but rather on a hill just to the north, overlooking the land for leagues around. It was a massive fortress, hewn of granite the color of sunrise, with high, crenellated walls that surrounded more than a dozen great manor houses. Atop the largest of these stood a sculpture of a hammer, thirty feet high and washed in gold, its head covered with braziers that made it appear a mass of flames. This was the home of the Order of the Divine Hammer, an inescapable reminder of the holy war the Kingpriest had declared against the forces of evil.

So vast was the Hammerhall that even now, twenty years after the order took over from the Solamnic Knights as the empire’s chief protectors, it was still unfinished. It had grown constantly over the years, as more and more young men joined the Hammer. Even now the clamor of mallet and chisel rivaled the clash of knights training at swordplay in the bailey.

Another sound rose louder still, above all else-a sound every knight knew and dreaded.

It was the sound of Tavarre, Grand Marshal of the Order, roaring in full-throated anger.

“You great, hulking idiots! What in the name of Huma’s silver arm do you think you’re doing?”

Though nearing sixty, Tavarre was still a fearsome man, short and stocky, a scar running from beneath his left eye to the corner of his mouth. His white hair and beard waved in the wind, matching the wildness in his eyes. He was dressed in full armor, topped with a crimson tabard that denoted his rank, and held a cudgel in his hand, with which he’d been schooling several young squires in combat. Now his students stood gaping behind him as he stormed across the courtyard.

The targets of his wrath were two minotaurs, brawny, bull-headed creatures that overtopped Tavarre by head, shoulders, and half their chests. Between them, they carried a block of marble that would have taken ten men