Divine Hammer

forever. It was his hammer to wield now, as it had been Tavarre’s before him: the knighthood, diminished but determined to cleanse the world.

Let it strike the black moon, he prayed. Let it smash it to dust.

The hammer did not hit Nuitari, though. Instead it plunged past him, on the same course it had always taken. Fire pouring off it in sheets, it dived toward Istar. Cathan gritted his teeth as it swept by, throwing off heat stronger than a dwarven forge, then watched it fall, fall, fall-

With a start, he came back to his senses. He blinked up at the Kingpriest. Beldinas looked back, understanding in his strange eyes.

“You saw it again, my friend,” he murmured, quiet enough for only Cathan to hear. “The hammer.”

Cathan nodded, his throat too tight to let words pass.

“Praise to Paladine.” The Lightbringer’s smile was beautiful. “It is a good omen. Whatever comes, we shall prevail. Uso sam bollat.”

The god wills it.

Cathan wasn’t sure. Unbidden, his gaze shifted-over the Kingpriest’s shoulder, past the looming Temple, to the pale spire that strove skyward beyond it. The crimson turrets of l he Tower of High Sorcery glistened in the morning sun. Whatever comes, he thought with a shudder. Whatever comes.

The cries of the Accursed were the first sound Andras heard when he awoke. They echoed in the darkness, squealing and moaning, madness given voice. He let out a groan of his own, trying to bury his head beneath the blankets that covered him. He could still hear them, though, no matter how tightly he covered his ears. They were jealous of every drop of warm blood that coursed through his veins, of every moment he lived without being wracked by unspeakable agony, of the fact that, one day, he would be permitted to die.

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.