Divine Hammer

to lift. To an outsider, they might have looked more than a match for an old man, but the creatures shrank back at his approach, setting down the block and backing away. Their wicked horns dipped as they bowed their heads in submission.

“Look at this!” the First Marshal thundered, pointing his club. “You’re not supposed to be carrying stones this big without a harness, you know that! Marble isn’t cheap, you damnable cow-headed dolts. If you drop it and it breaks, it’ll cost more gold than-

Minotaurs are hot-blooded creatures, seldom able to control their own tempers. Now one of them, a red- furred brute with gleaming yellow eyes, let out an angry snort and grabbed for Tavarre with a fist the size of a ham.

Moving with speed belying his years, the old knight spun away from the minotaur’s reach. In the same motion, he whipped the cudgel around in a vicious backhand, snapping his wrist at the last moment to drive it hard against the side of the bull-man’s leg. The club splintered, but so did bone. The minotaur went down with a roar, clutching at his shattered knee-cap. Tavarre drove an armored boot into the side of the creature’s head. Its howl of pain choked off, and it fell in a senseless heap.

The other minotaur looked from his fallen fellow to the old knight. Red-faced but not even breathing hard, Tavarre reached for his sword and drew it an inch from its scabbard.

The bull-man flinched and hurried away.

The courtyard was silent. Everyone-knights, squires, servants, and other minotaur workers-had stopped whatever they were doing to stare at the confrontation. The Grand Marshal in a fury was as good a show as any mummer’s play at the Arena … as long as one wasn’t the target of his wrath. Now, slamming his blade home once more, Tavare swept the bailey with a glare that could have melted gold. Everyone looked away, thinking of something better to do. With a satisfied grunt, Tavarre turned his back on the unconscious minotaur and started back toward his nervously waiting students.

“No one likes a bully, you know,” called a voice across the yard.

Tavarre stopped in mid-stride, his face darkening as he whirled. Seeing who had spoken, his rage disappeared, and a broad, toothy grin split his face. “Branchala bite me!” he swore. “MarSevrin?”

Cathan stood in the shadow of a colonnade, arms folded across his chest. Across the courtyard the squires gawked with open mouths, elbowing and whispering to one another.

They knew who he was. He let them stare. He’d long since gotten used to folk looking at him with that kind of fearful awe. His attention remained on Tavarre as the old knight lumbered forward.

“You should really try picking on someone your own size,” Cathan said when he drew near.

Tavarre growled out a laugh. “What, like you?” he asked, rapping a finger against Cathan’s breastplate. “Don’t forget, lad-everything you know about fighting, you learned from me. You can’t even guess what I held back.”

Cathan chuckled. He’d known Tavarre longer than anyone else in the Lordcity. Once, the old knight had been his liege-lord, baron of the highland village of Luciel. After hard times fell on the border provinces-famine and plague that cost Cathan his parents and brother and Tavarre his wife and son-they had become bandits for a time. Then the Lightbringer had come, and they had both followed. Cathan had been the first Knight of the Divine Hammer, and Tavarre the second. He’d been the order’s Grand Marshal ever since.

The old knight regarded Cathan with a stern eye. “You’re balder than I remember,” he said. “How long has it been?”

“Six months,” Cathan replied. “And you’re fatter.”

Tavarre guffawed, slapping his stomach, and gestured for Cathan to walk with him.

They started down the colonnade together, the training squires forgotten.

“Try living on what they serve at the Temple, and see how fat you get,” the old knight shot back. “I swear, I don’t know how His Holiness can stay skinny. What brings you back here?”

“His Holiness,” Cathan said. Reaching to his belt, he produced the missive from the mechanical hawk. Tavarre read it, then handed it back, nodding.

“I should have known he’d call you back,” he said. “You brought your men with you?”

“The ones who are still alive,” Cathan replied.

Tavarre gave him a sharp look. “Ah, no. Not Damid?”

Cathan sighed, nodding.

“Blood in the Abyss,” Tavarre muttered, and signed the triangle. “He was a good man. We’ll hoist a jug of Seldjuki wine to him later.”

Cathan clapped Tavarre on the shoulder. “There’s another one I want knighted too, as soon as possible.” He related how Tithian had killed the Deathmaster.

The gloomy expression that had settled on Tavarre’s face broke back into a grin.

“Swordflinger, eh? Well, the boy better not make a habit of it-usually, throwing your sword’s just a creative way to disarm yourself. I’ll dub him though. Any man who saves your life is good by me, lad.”

They kept on, across the grounds of the Hammerhall until they came to the keep’s looming gatehouse. There they stopped, and Tavarre threw back his head and roared with laughter as he saw what lay on the cobbles there.

“Great gods!” the First Marshal exclaimed when he could breathe again. “You killed the bird.”

Cathan couldn’t help but laugh too. The clockwork hawk rested on the ground in a metal heap, alongside Cathan’s shield and helm.

“Think he’ll mind?” he asked.

Tavarre snorted, glancing at the sky. The sun had passed its zenith and begun to wester. The sound of bells rang out from the city. “Come on,” he said. “The court reconvenes in half an hour. You can tell His Holiness about it yourself.”

CHAPTER 5

They could hear the chanting drifting through the city long before they reached the Temple grounds. The low drone, sounding not unlike the bellows-pipes the shepherds of Gather sometimes played, repeated the same two words over and over. The words were in the church tongue, but even the most unschooled Istaran knew them.

“Cilenfo,” the voices sang. “Pilofiro.”

The Healer. The Lightbringer.

Cathan raised his eyebrows at Tavarre, who shrugged. “More of them all the time,” the old knight said.

The Barigon was a broad plaza, large enough to hold half of Istar’s population: a vast, open space designed to make the Temple seem even bigger than it was. Cathan had seen it filled before, on the day the Kingpriest made him knight and perhaps a dozen times after. It wasn’t full today, but the crowd gathered before the Temple’s broad marble steps was by no accounting small. Two thousand, maybe more-all of them kneeling, hands extended to form the triangle as they chanted.

Cathan shook his head in silent awe. It wasn’t even a holy day. No other Kingpriest was Beldinas. People came from all over the empire to see him, many of them sick. All knew how the Lightbringer could cure the greatest ills with a word and a touch. Countless folk had felt that touch, heard his voice, over the past twenty years. Disease hadn’t yet fled the empire, but it was in steady retreat.

What better reason to revere him? Cathan thought. He had felt the same way the first time they’d met, when the man upon the throne had been just a boy in a monk’s habit.

He’d stood and watched the Lightbringer lay hands upon Wentha, his younger sister. She’d been nearly dead, past any hope-and Beldinas had come and lifted her suffering. Cathan had sworn himself to the Lightbringer that night. Others in Luciel had done the same, then the folk of the nearby city of Govinna, and even the Scatas Kurnos had sent to fight them.

These particular worshipers, however, were blocking his way. They were thick as Sadrahkan mud flies, and even Tavarre’s booming voice couldn’t get them to clear a path to the Temple’s golden doors.

“For the love of Jolith,” Tavarre swore, giving up at trying to shove through the crowd.

“Fine, then. We’ll go in another way.”