Divine Hammer

flames that danced across its surface, sending up threads of heady, black smoke. The sorceress whispered spidery words.

“Medang sulatar, as prawut jenai. Tantamolo yi arkas … ”

It began as a tingle in his fingers, as if he had slept with his arms bent beneath him and blood was now returning to them. Swiftly it became something more, spreading down his arms and into his breast, making the hair on the back of his neck stand erect. It built with terrible swiftness: the swelling of the ocean, the gathering of a storm, the trembling of an earthquake deep within him. There was no mistaking the sensation, though he’d never felt it before-the magic, surging as Leciane channeled it, gathered it, gave it form.

Gods, he wondered. Does it always feel like this? He sucked in a shuddering breath, tears blurring his view of the bowl.

What he saw was like his dream of the burning hammer, and yet it was not the same.

He did not see himself rising from his own body, didn’t watch the world fall away from him.

Everything suddenly shifted, and he was hanging in the air above Lattakay, looking down as twilight sparkled over the waters of its harbor, played on the facets of the glass statue.

Directly below him, gleaming in the sun’s last rays, the Bilstibo stood upon its rocky isle.

And above it… above …

He moaned. Above it were scores of tiny, winged shapes. He was watching the slaughter all over again.

Be easy, said a voice in his mind: Leciane. Though he couldn’t see her, she was with him. Watch and you will see.

Suddenly, everything reversed. The waves beyond the breakwater flowed back out to sea. The tiny specks of people who had been fleeing the arena hurried back into it. Dead knights rose from where they lay, their swords springing back into their hands, and the quasitas, swarming above it all, began to fly away Wildly, Cathan reached out toward the winged horrors-or thought he did, for he could not see his fingers. He felt himself grasp one, and then he was flying with it, soaring off to the north over the hills. There was a stirring of surprise nearby, and he knew it was Leciane. She hadn’t expected him to do this. Rather than being annoyed, though, she was pleased. Her grip on him tightened as he clutched the flying quasito.

Mile after mile, league after league, the hills sped past beneath him. The sun rose in the west. His soul exhilarated. This was magic. No wonder men hungered to wield this power. It was more intoxicating than the burning blood-blossom, or the wine that sang in his veins.

Even the surge of battle paled.

Look, Leciane said. There.

It was a ruin of red stone, perched on a rocky outcropping-a monastery. The quasitas were winging their way towards the place. It was morning now, the sun setting over the eastern hills. The demon he rode began to descend, and he studied the land well, memorizing it. Though he had never been here before, he knew that he could find it again, even without a map to guide him. There, on the wall, was the one he was seeking. A figure in black robes-no, Black Robes, a tall, lean wizard with golden hair, and a face covered with glistening scars. A cold light shone in his eyes as he gestured to the quasitas, sending them forth to kill….

The spell ended, the image blasting apart as though whipped by a gale, leaving only a ghostly light before his eyes. He stared into the burning bowl a moment longer, then looked up at Leciane. She was pale, sweat glistening on her forehead, her lips parted with the effort. He looked into her green eyes, wonderstruck, still awash in the rapture of the magic.

Then, somehow, he was pulling her to him, her breath catching as he leaned into her, her lips hard at first against his own, then softening, opening. Her tongue, like honeyed wine, working against his …

Stop!

Heart thundering, he pulled back. A cold feeling spread through him as he stared at her.

She stared back, smiling, then reached out. “Cathan … ” she murmured.

He jerked away, then lurched to his feet and ran, scattering the stubs of blue candles in his wake.

CHAPTER 15

Andras paced the length of the monastery, his hands twisting together. He glanced at the starry sky in annoyance: it was still hours until the black moon rose. Until then, he was trapped, with nothing to do but wait. He had spent seven years waiting to take his revenge, but now that the time had come-now that he had his victory over the Divine Hammer-he found a new impatience smoldered within him. Only a few dozen of the hundreds of demons he had sent winging to Lattakay had returned, and most of them were hurt. He needed more.

He toyed with the stump where his little finger had been, fascinated by the feel of the gnarled flesh. He had another little finger, on the other hand. He could live without that one too, if sacrificing it would give him a new host to set against the Kingpriest. All it would take was another swift attack, and he would break the knighthood utterly. The Dark One had told him so.

“For now, though, you must wait,” Fistandantilus had said, when they’d spoken the night after the slaughter. “Let them tend their wounds and mourn their dead. In a week, their guard will begin to slip. They will begin to think they are safe, that another attack will not happen. That is when you must strike again.”

The surviving quasitas didn’t make it any easier. Having tasted blood, they craved more.

It took effort to keep them from scattering all over the countryside in search of fresh victims-he’d even had to kill a few who disobeyed, as an example to the others. Now they slouched on the abbey’s fallen stones like sullen children, glaring at him with burning eyes.

The past week had felt like the longest of his life, and this felt like the longest day. The hours to come would feel longer still, but when Nuitari appeared, things would start in motion again. Fistandantilus would teleport him back to the Pit. Then … he shuddered, a leer twisting his burn-blasted lips. Vengeance was more addictive than the dream-pipes of Karthay.

A hiss snapped him out of his reverie, drawing his attention to the monastery’s crumbled wall. Atop the ruddy stone, the quasitas shoved and snapped at each other as two winged shapes glided in low from the south. A handful of the creatures Andras trusted to leave his sight without causing trouble. He sent them out as scouts. On their first few forays, they had reported back with word of knights ranging the hills, many leagues away.

In recent days, however, there had been no word at all. These two would land among their fellows, and another pair would take flight, soaring away to the south.

The returning quasitas didn’t alight on the wall, though. Instead, they swept right past, skimming low above their fellows into the courtyard. Eyes narrowed, Andras watched them glide toward him. The twisted creatures’ eyes gleamed as they landed on a smashed fountain.

“Master,” one of them said in a voice like a jackal’s growl. Its jagged fangs made the word mushy, almost unintelligible. “We see. We see on road!”

“Road! On road!” croaked the other, grinning maniacally. Its tail jerked this way and that.

Andras stiffened. He took two steps toward the quasitas. “Who?” he demanded. “Who did you see?”

The fiends glanced at each other, exchanging hisses. The second of the pair seemed upset, but the first made a barking sound to silence it and turned back to Andras. “Metal men. We see,” it snarled. “Metal men and blood-woman. They come.”

“Metal men!” the other beast shrieked. “Blood-woman!”

It took a moment for Andras to understand. “Metal men” was what the quasitas called knights. As for “blood-woman” … a Red Robe? That didn’t make sense. What were the clergy and the Hammer doing with a disciple of Lunitari?