Divine Hammer

“Celebrating?” Cathan repeated. “Marto, the Kingpriest nearly died today. Adsem and Farenne did die … and others, too, your brothers in arms among them.”

“So did wizards,” Marto shot back, his chest puffing with pride. “We taught the treacherous bastards a lesson today, milord, and sent that highmage of their howling to the Abyss besides. Lost my favorite axe doing it, too.”

A few of the knights chuckled at that. Cathan’s scowl deepened. “It will be war now, Marto. Many will die.”

“Holy war,” Marto shot back. “Fighting evil in the Lightbringer’s name. It’s what we’re for, milord. We are the Hammer-about time we struck a proper blow.”

A murmer of agreement escaped the other knights. They were behind Marto, and not just because of the wine, either. The big knight had a point. Beldinas had formed the knighthood to smite darkness. Another time, Cathan would have rejoiced with his comrades. Today, though, he’d felt the god’s power and hadn’t been able to tell the difference from Leciane’s magic. Nothing seemed as clear now as it once had-or as it still did to Marto and his cronies.

They were all looking at him, waiting for him to speak. If he showed weakness in front of them, he would lose them. Perhaps he already had. Marto was the hero now, the one who had avenged the knights’ honor when he struck the highmage down.

“Go back to the Hammerhall,” he said. “All of you. You’ll get to strike your blow soon enough.”

You, not we. They all heard it. The knights exchanged glances, then set down their cups and rose, filing past him as they left. Marto went last of all, his eyes glinting. He slammed the mudubo’s silver gates behind him.

Cathan stood quietly in the courtyard, drinking the wine his men had left behind.

Things would get worse before they got better, he knew. But would they get better? He bowed his head. He didn’t know.

CHAPTER 23

Andras laughed to himself as he strode toward Fistandantilus’s laboratory. He had done it. The church was shattered, the Kingpriest and highmage both slain. As for the Divine Hammer-well, if war with the Order of High Sorcery didn’t destroy the knighthood utterly, they could be finished off later.

The Accursed were quiet as he passed their cages. Beyond, the laboratory door stood ajar. That was odd. In all his time serving the Dark One, it had always been closed. His grin faltered, his forehead creasing as he reached for the handle. The creak of the hinges seemed unusually loud.

“Master?” he asked, peering inside. Then he stopped, his eyes widening. The laboratory was empty.

Everything was gone: the tables, the glasswork, the herbs and viscera, the thousands upon thousands of books-even the candleholders that had been bolted to the walls were missing. Nothing remained but bare rock, here stained black with soot, there rusty with dried blood. A chill settled over him as he stared about the chamber.

“M-master?” he repeated, his voice very small.

He was trapped. There was no way out of this place but magic, and he didn’t know how to teleport. Without the Dark One’s spellbooks, he could never hope to learn.

He waved his magical light deeper into the room. It hesitated, as if afraid-ridiculous-then glided slowly through the derelict laboratory, to the passage beyond. He couldn’t say how, but he sensed something there, deep in the Pit of Summoning. He passed through the door-also ajar, its warding glyphs inert-and down the twisting tunnel, the magical light quivering ahead of him. It was afraid. So was he, but still he went, compelled.

Then he saw the Pit’s ruddy glow, flickering along the last length of the passage. He could hear the water bubbling. When he reached the cave where the enchanted pool lay, he saw that it was boiling, Abyssal light bathing the walls. He stared, shocked by the sight of it. Someone had begun a summoning spell.

He knew it was foolish of him, but he couldn’t stop himself. He entered the room.

Warmth radiated from the pool, perspiration beaded on his brow. Trembling, he looked inside, half-expecting to see the childlike quasitas swimming within. Yet there was nothing-only water and the horrible glow. The spell at work was incomplete.

He frowned, puzzled.

Without warning, the room grew wintry cold, freezing the drops of sweat on Andras’s skin. He stiffened, knowing that chill, then slowly turned. There, standing in the entrance of the cave, was Fistandantilus. The Dark One gave no greeting, and his black hood kept his face in shadow as always, but Andras could tell the Dark One was angry. The air around him seemed to glitter with rage.

“Master!” Andras exclaimed, trying not to let fear curdle his voice. He forced a smile. “I bring good news.”

Fistandantilus didn’t respond at first. He simply stared, his gaze heavy from within his cowl. Then he walked forward, his robes whispering with every step.

Andras blinked, backing up a moment before he remembered he was near the Pit. He stopped himself, swaying slightly and wishing there was somewhere he could go to escape the Dark One. Slowly, the archmage drew near.

“Wh-what is the matter?” Andras asked. His teeth chattered in the cold. “You d-don’t seem pl-pleased …”

“I am not pleased,” Fistandantilus replied, drawing up before him. The Pit’s crimson light made him look drenched in blood. “You nearly killed the Lightbringer.”

Andras blinked, surprised. “Nearly? He lives?”

“He does-and it is a good thing for you. If he had died, I would have torn the flesh from your bones.”

“I–I don’t understand.”

Fistandantilus nodded. “You would not. You have been concerned only with your petty revenge. My designs are greater, and for them to succeed I need Beldinas. The Divine Hammer I care nothing for, and I will not miss Vincil. But the Kingpriest must live.”

Andras shook his head. None of this made any sense. “Master, I don’t understand …”

“Of course you don’t,” Fistandantilus replied, “but as I said, he has survived. It took a miracle for that to happen, but then, miracles are what the Lightbringer is best at. Don’t worry, boy. I’m not going to kill you.”

Relief washed over Andras. He smiled, spreading his hands before him. “Thank you, master,” he sighed. “I won’t-”

The Dark One moved so quickly, he seemed not to move at all. Steel flashed in his hand, sweeping up, leaving a trail of red droplets behind. Andras felt a tug at his left hand, then an explosion of pain. His little finger-the finger that had grown back when the Kingpriest healed him-arced through the air, then landed behind him with a splash.

A sob bubbled through his lips. Whirling, he watched as the finger bobbed in the roiling water, then sank out of sight. His knees buckling, he went down hard upon the rocky floor.

He jammed his ruined hand into his armpit, his mouth twisting with agony as blood soaked into his robes.

“I must leave this place now,” Fistandantilus said. “Perhaps one day, I will need you again-for now, though, your part in this is done. You shall remain here … but do not fear, Andras. I will not leave you alone.”

The cold lifted from the air and he was gone. High above, a door slammed shut. Andras knew it was the only way out, closed to him now. He let out a despairing moan. He was trapped down here-wherever here truly was. Lowering his eyes, he stared into the Pit’s blood-red depths. There were shapes down there now, rising toward the surface-misshapen, childlike shapes with horns and wings and stinging tails.

Andras laughed, a broken sound. His children were returning to him.