“Come on,” he said to Tithian, more confident than he felt. “There has to be another way down.”
Faithfully, Tithian followed him through the door. It led to a long corridor of obsidian, lined with glowing crystal lamps. They dimmed and flickered as the magic above surged ever stronger. Ignoring the shouts of his men behind him, Cathan charged down the hall.
Tithian jogged after.
In no time at all, they were both thoroughly lost. The Tower was huge, its hallways labyrinthine. In the growing darkness, they lost track of the twists and turns, the intersections and alcoves. Most of the doors were magically locked. Those that weren’t led to rooms that were either empty or in ruins. There were no back stairs, no trapdoors, no windows. Finally, they arrived at a dead end, where a vase of Tucuri porcelain sat on a small table. It held a bundle of bloodblossoms, their deep red blooms redolent of their sleep-inducing oil. Snarling, Cathan lashed out with Ebonbane, smashing the vase to shards. Water and petals flew everywhere.
Cathan could feel the power of the sorcerers’ spell, the strain of the man casting it, holding it back with nothing but sheer willpower. He felt the man’s agony as he gathered the last bits of magic. The crystal lamps gave one last flash, then went dark, drenching the corridor in shadow.
Trapped, Cathan and Tithian sat down on the floor. The head of the Divine Hammer bowed his head in misery, waiting for the end to come.
“Leciane,” he murmured. “Leciane, I’m sorry …”
Leciane sat cross-legged in the room full of crystal sculptures, her eyes closed and her lips moving. The sounds of battle, the cries of the wounded and the dying, echoed through the Tower’s depths. Above, she could sense Khadar, ready to burst from the magic welling up inside him-more magic than anyone could possibly contain. Still he gathered it in, drop by precious drop. Elsewhere, the other wizards gave up their power freely, letting the master suck away their essence. She concentrated on her own spell, making one last try.
She had been searching for Cathan for what seemed like hours. He was in the Tower, somewhere, and her mind was questing, reaching out to find him. Again and again, though, she came up empty. She felt the terror of the fleeing wizards and the unwavering zeal of the Divine Hammer. She saw horrible butchery and heroism on both sides … but of him, nothing. Her cheeks were wet with tears of frustration. She had lived much of her life with the power to do the impossible, but now, faced with this terrible experience, her helplessness was almost more than she could bear.
Blast it, she thought. Where in the Abyss are you?
Leciane …
A voice she recognized. Cathan’s voice.
Where are you? she asked. Tell me!
If he could hear her, he gave no reply. His voice sounded despairing. She caught her breath. He must know what was about to happen, even if his men did not. Frantic, she thrust her own mind toward his … searching, seeking …
There!
When the floor began to tremble beneath her, a spike of fear sliced into his mind, echoing in her own. There wasn’t much time left. She felt the magic swelling, Khadar preparing for the final release.
Don’t move, she told Cathan silently. I’ll be right there.
Concentrating, she started another spell, fingertips fluttering, words tumbling from her lips. The floor shook again, harder this time. Her whole body tense, she let the teleport spell flow through her her.
She didn’t notice that the door behind her had burst open, didn’t see the knights raise their crossbows, didn’t hear their shouts, but she did, feel something, a hot lance of pain, digging into her side.
Then she was gone, the magic whisking her away, a second quarrel flashing through where she’d been to smash the crystal sculptures to pieces.
I’ve gone mad, Cathan thought when the air beside him shimmered and Leciane appeared with a bolt lodged in her chest. What’s happening has been too much for me, and I’ve lost my mind. One look at Tithian’s eyes, however, told him that his former squire beheld the sorceress too, and was every bit as astonished.
Blood bubbled around the quarrel’s steel shaft-she wasn’t dead, not yet. She slumped against the wall, her face pale and her lips wet. Her glassy eyes fought to focus as she stared at him, then down at the shaft sticking out of her.
“Oh, Abyss,” she said thickly.
“Who did this?” Cathan muttered, half-rising. He looked at Tithian, who shook his head.
The Tower shook, stones grinding and groaning. Leciane winced as black dust sifted down from the ceiling. “Listen,” she said. “None will survive … Don’t have … much time. .” She shut her eyes.
“Leciane!” he said, grabbing her and lifting her up to him.
“I’m … saving your … life,” she said, opening her eyes. “And … the boy’s.” A dusky hand rose, gesturing toward Tithian. “Now don’t … interrupt me … again.”
He stared at her. She moved her hands, whispering spidery words as the Tower trembled. Great cracks split the walls, and eldritch light poured out. The knights’ distant battle cries became shrieks of terror. A deep roar signaled the collapse of a ceiling.
Cathan stared at Leciane, scarlet frothing on her lips as she spoke the spell one last time. The air around them wavered, silver motes beginning to whirl. He felt the familiar sensation, the rushing as of a great wind. Gritting his teeth, he watched as the cracks around them widened, as the floor split, a glowing fissure cutting the hallway in two, opening ever wider, ready to swallow everything. Silver light flashed, blinding-bright.
And…
Shouting the god’s name, Sir Marto brought his axe down on the Heartchamber’s doors.
He hit them again and again, trying to loosen the bolt. Rosy light spilled out from the cracks. A beautiful, terrible sound also issued forth, agonized screaming and silver horns all mixed together. Swearing, he chopped harder, his arms burning from the effort.
At last, with a splintering crash, the axe bit all the way through. Laughing, he wrenched the weapon free, brought up one massive foot, and kicked with all his might. The doors gave way, flying open-and Marto stopped, staring in awe and dread at what awaited him.
Inside the Heartchamber were dozens of mages, standing in a circle, facing outward with hands outstretched-Black Robes, White Robes, Red Robes. Their eyes glowed with the same rosy light, which flickered between their fingertips as well. The mellifluous, hideous clamor came from their mouths, opened wide, their lips skinned back from their teeth.
What stood in the ring’s midst might have been human, once, but now any resemblance had melted away. Its hair was gone, and its flesh dripped in gobbets onto the floor, revealing bone beneath. Magical energy whirled around it, a vortex of red, black, and white.
It trembled in agony at the power that surged through its body.
Khadar, Master of the Tower, looked at Marto-or seemed to, for his eyes had long since boiled away-and smiled. The vortex flared like a million suns.
Marto raised his axe and leaped into the room. “For the Light-” he began to shout and did not finish.
Some fled when the strange lights first began to appear, streaming away from the Tower through Losarcum’s twisting streets. Others stood transfixed, watching from courtyards and rooftops as the black needle began to twist and swell. The prudent sought shelter, hiding in cellars and under wagons, seeking to protect themselves from whatever happened next.
It didn’t matter. They all died, just the same.
The Tower of Losarcum burst into a storm of shards-obsidian shards, sharper than any sword. They cut through flesh and bone, smashed buildings to dust. It rained black glass all over the city, tearing the central garden to shreds, shattering the statue of Ardosean the Uniter, turning markets and amphitheater and palace alike into rubble. Thousands of people cried out in terror and agony, their voices lost within the thundering roar.