Kassandry was a delightful dining companion. She has not kissed me again, and I confess to a certain disappoint ment there — though, of course, her restraint does make my position of impartiality easier to maintain.
Until my next missive, Excellency, I remain loyal to the service of our cause! Your devoted servant of history:
Foryth Teel
Your Grace,
I inscribe this from the dizzying ledge that serves as portal to the temple, halfway up a mountain that is much steeper than it appeared from the valley. I steal a moment to inscribe some quick observations, prior to entering the stonewalled temple compound. I will endeavor to complete this later and send it to you by means of the magical device you provided to me.
Erasmoth himself led the procession to the gates of his temple. We stand beneath the alabaster arch, which looms high above, and wait for the priest to perform his incantations and gestures, all of which are rendered in a tongue indecipherable to myself. His apprentices, masked and silent, remain immobile while he performs his rites, with Kassandry at his side. Today the high priestess has been surprisingly aloof, and I wonder at the change in her attitude. She does not seem unfriendly, merely preoccupied.
I will spare you the details of the perilous ascent to the temple. Suffice to say that I survived by dint of concentration on the objective, with oft-repeated reminders to myself about the significance of the historian's role and the importance of diligence and integrity in research. I made it this far… and when we pass within the temple walls, at least the threat of a fatal fall will be removed!
The temple, which has been dedicated to the worship of Erasmoth's gods, looms above me. The walls are solid, smooth, and much higher than they appeared from below. Each is topped with an array of spikes resembling the bristling spears of a rank of soldiers. The towers that flank the gate are tall, and I sense the presence of watchful eyes observing me and my escort. When I asked him about this, however, Erasmoth assured me that the place is empty.
The gates themselves are impressive doors made of pure silver. Even to my untrained eye, the aura of power protecting them is visible; a hazy and ominous film sparkles from the metal, bidding the unwary or uninitiated to remain at bay.
"We may now enter," Erasmoth announced.
The great gates swung soundlessly open, revealing a courtyard of dazzling white stone, with a beautiful fountain splashing just beyond the gate. The wondrous sight infused me with joy of discovery. We shall enter at once.
I hasten to close, Your Grace, with the hope that you will hear from me soon with the proof that our poor people have so long been seeking!
I resume:
I begin with the presumption that the enchanted globe performs its task and carries this information to you. Without that, all my labors shall have been spent in vain.
I return to the moment when the portals of silver spread wide, and I followed my host beneath the tall archway. The high priestess Kassandry walked at my side, her step light, eyes shining. She did not speak, and her attitude toward me remained distant.
The courtyard was filled with flowers, blazing with color. Walkways of white gravel meandered through the garden, as if to acknowledge that any course plotted straight through these wonders meant too hasty a passage. There are no buildings within, though the face of the mountaintop Ehas been scored with several apertures.
We approached the inner doors of the temple, set in the mountain itself. These gleamed with a pure surface of burnished gold and, like the outer gates, seemed to forbid intrusion. Erasmoth approached them and barked a sharp word of command — required, apparently, to loosen the hold of magic and cause the doors to swing wide.
A dark tunnel led into the mountain. I hesitated for a moment, surprised by the sudden darkness, but Erasmoth entered and gestured to me with the imperious order, "Come."
Wondering at my sudden unease, I passed the gilded portal. Darkness washed over me. The gates closed with a resounding clang.
The heat was intense. I realized that the corridor must lead directly into the heart of the mountain itself! Great columns of basalt lined the walls to either side, with dusty alcoves lost in the shadows between them. Torches sputtered infrequently, cast inadequate light. It seemed a lifeless place, undisturbed for a long time, and I wondered how it could be the center of worship for the priest's faith.
"Why did you build the temple to your god — here — in this dark place?" I asked.
"I didn't build it. I discovered it." Erasmoth's voice rang with triumph. "It was placed here for me! I was a simple stone mason before I discovered my true calling. I was exploring, seeking materials for my trade, when I came across what was then only ruins. Now they are the magnificent gardens you have seen outside. I followed it to its heart… and learned of the glories of the gods!" Light flamed in his eyes, and his tone vibrated with intensity.
Sudden movement in the shadowy corridor seized my attention. Ghostlike shapes advanced all around me, and I gasped in terror.
Then a torch flared, and the forms were revealed as Erasmoth's acolytes, in their robes and flat masks. I heaved a sigh of relief and began to follow the priest and priestess down the long corridor, accompanied by the silent apprentices.
"How much farther do we have to go?" I asked the priestess. I found the darkness and the heat oppressive.
"Be patient, Historian!" said Kassandry softly. "We must display no unworthiness before we participate in the glories of the gods!"
"The role of the historian is not to participate — merely to observe and to report," I corrected mildly.
She regarded me strangely, her eyes flashing. Her oncepallid cheeks grew quite flushed, and her lips parted. She licked them, invitingly, I thought, but said nothing further.
I grew more uncomfortable. "Why did the gods choose you?" I asked the priest.
But Erasmoth did not seem to hear. "Await me here while I complete the preparations," he said abruptly, stopping and pointing to one side of the trail.
I noticed, for the first time, that what I took for an alcove between the arches of the tunnel wall was, in actuality, the entrance to a doorway. The priest chanted a word and waved his hand. This portal swung silently open to reveal a chamber of surprisingly comfortable appointments. A snap of his fingers brought a clear yellow flame to the wick of a glass lamp.
"I will return for you when all is ready," he announced, refusing my entreaties to watch his preparations.
I entered the room. The door closed behind Erasmoth. I was alone. The priestess Kassandry had already gone on ahead, striding toward the heart of the mountain.
Now I sit writing at a table of darkened wood, its surface polished and smooth. Lush carpets of fur and wool line the floor; soft chairs offer me comfort. The oil lantern burns without smoke, its light steady and bright.
But, now, Excellency, I bid farewell. I hear footsteps approaching down the hall, and hasten to complete the enchantment that will send this missive over magical pathways to your desk.
I pray that my next missive will contain the proof we both desire! Your ever-devoted servant:
Foryth Teel
Most Learned Master:
You probably are wondering at the delay. It has taken me time to regain my composure, so dramatic and terrible have been the experiences of the last few hours. Indeed, the palpitations of my heart bring tremors to my hand — I beg Your Excellency's pardon for my awkward script.
Immediately after I sent my last report, Erasmoth entered my chamber. He was a man transformed. The flush of rapture tinged his cheeks, and a supernatural glow burned in his eyes. His appearance alone was almost enough to convince me that some divine force was at work here.
The priest gestured to me, and I fell into step behind him. I noticed as I emerged from the room that two ranks of acolytes stood, waiting silently, their expressions concealed behind those featureless masks.
We followed the black-walled, torch-lit passage for a distance I estimated as more than a mile. Finall
y, the narrow passage led us into a much larger chamber. The yellow glow of torches was lost in the vastness of the space. For a moment, I thought all was blackness, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized that a sullen crimson glow emanated from all around me — pools of molten rock, bubbling and flaming.
"My temple!" proclaimed Erasmoth.
The first thing that struck me was the size of this cavelike expanse. Judging from the distant echoes of our footsteps and the dim glow of the pits of lava and deep wells of burning coals, I could guess that we stood in a vast room.
The floor was smooth beneath my feet — as if hundreds of hours of labor had been expended to polish the natural rock to an unnatural perfection.
My next observation, as we stepped away from the tunnel that had led us here, was an unpleasant — almost nauseating — odor. I was reminded of the thick, close air of a charnel house. I gagged convulsively. For a moment, Excellency, I was quite overcome, and would have fallen, if not for the supportive grip of the priest upon my arm. Remembering the dignity of my station, I recovered my composure. Politely declining Erasmoth's assistance, I once again walked forward under my own power.
I could see by the irregular shape that the shrine was a natural cavern, not an eccentric excavation. Nevertheless, it showed signs of centuries of use — such as the smoothness of the floor. Great, fluted columns, obviously wrought by hand, extended from floor to ceiling around the periphery.
I became aware of someone approaching out of the darkness. It was the priestess Kassandry. Her arrival sent a wave of relief through my body. I had become uneasy, due to the heavy stench and the unusual surroundings, no doubt.
A holy fire glowed within her, shining as a flaming light in her eyes. Her lips were moist; her tongue flicked back and forth across them. She wore no mask, and I feel certain she had not painted her skin in any way, yet the excessive pallor of her complexion was as white as if she had coated herself with chalk.
Her eyes passed over me, and I saw none of the warmth, the friendship, or affection that she had displayed in the vale beyond this temple. In fact, the priestess appeared to take little note of me. She drew near Erasmoth and seemed to meld her body to his. Her voice was a throaty whisper.
"All is readied," she told the priest.
My heart pounded with excitement. The ceremony, which would provide the most valuable find of my career, was, I believed, about to start.
"What do you do now?" I inquired, prepared to make mental notes.
"First, my acolytes take their proper stations." The priest gestured to his dark-robed, masked assistants, who had gathered in an arc around us. I noted that there were more than two dozen of them in all.
Erasmoth gestured imperiously to one of his masked apprentices, who shambled forward, stopping before Erasmoth. The acolyte waited for another command.
"Remove your mask!"
The acolyte did so. Forgive me once again, Excellency. The memory of what I saw causes a weakness in the very fiber of my being — a sensation like a stream of icy water infusing my limbs and paralyzing my heart.
The face was recognizable, barely, as having once been human, but now! Horrible! One cheek had rotted away, displaying a patchwork of grisly muscle and dank, decaying gum. Yellow teeth jutted like tusks from the slack-jawed mouth. The nose was a useless lump of cartilage and gore. Withered eyes rolled sightlessly in sockets.
The creature before me was unquestionably one of the walking dead — a zombie. It stood, pathetic and unknowing, awaiting the command of its master.
"Bear witness!" cried Erasmoth. "See the miracle of the gods!"
Kassandry watched him with rapture gleaming in her eyes. Her slender hands clasped before her, she paid no heed to myself, nor to the ghastly acolyte.
"You killed your own apprentice?" I gasped.
Your Excellency can imagine my shock.
"All of them!" he cried. "They know bliss now! Joy! An eternal freedom from want and desire!"
The other masked acolytes gathered close, removed their masks to reveal a gallery of horror. Each face was marred by decay, with peeling flaps of flesh and loosely hanging skin. Hair sprouted from the scalps of many; the pates of others gleamed as pure white bone.
"Who were they?" I cried. "Where did you find them?"
"They came to me!" Shrill triumph rang in the priest's voice. His words were addressed to the heavens, and it seemed that I overheard him as a mere eavesdropper.
"You tricked them, then killed them," I challenged him.
"They understood!" Erasmoth's voice hissed. "They offered their souls to the god! The god claimed them, and then gave them to me as slaves."
I noticed suddenly one of the zombies wore a black eye-patch covering one of its dead orbs. It all seemed some hideous joke, but I recognized, by that sign only, for his face was ravaged by decay, Tyrol Deet!
"This is your miracle?" I gasped, appalled. "The secret of undeath!"
"Approach the altar!" commanded Erasmoth. He reached to push me, but I avoided his shoving hand.
Kassandry took my arm, surprising me with the gentleness of her touch. I looked at her face, now so close to mine, and saw nothing but the rapture of one who believes she has found a greater truth. She paid no attention to me, save for the slight pressure of her grip upon my arm. Her bright eyes remained focused on the far side of the cave.
As if on command, fires surged upward from several of the great basins in the cavern, and for the first time I received a more accurate picture of this dreadful temple. It was monstrous, Excellency. Five pits belched columns of hissing flame into the air. The central flame was highest and flared as a bright red. Fires of blue and green surged to its left; a small fire of purest white flickered to the right.
The fifth flame I did not see immediately, and then I noticed it only as a shifting shade before the backdrop of several red pools of lava. Upon closer inspection, I saw that this was a fire of black! It absorbed the light around it, rather than casting illumination of its own, and thus was visible only by the outline of its greater darkness. Five fires, of black, white, red, green, and blue — the holy altar of this deity worshiped by Erasmoth Luker.
"Witness the power of my god," announced Erasmoth. The arrogance of his tone was now palpable. Clearly, he regarded me as little more than a tablet for the purpose of recording his mighty deeds.
Excellency, at this point in the course of events, I am afraid that my mind ceased to function with its usual acuity for detail and observation. Instead, I recall only a series of impressions — each, it seemed, more garish and terrifying than the one preceding.
I recall those five columns of flame. We were quite close to them, now, and I could feel the heat radiate from every direction. The spouts of fire sputtered and hissed and crackled, yet I could see no fuel of any sort. The pits were smooth bowls of black stone, deeper than a man's height, but rounded into the shape of a great cauldron.
The red flame — the centermost and tallest of the pillars — stood in front of the others. The black flame was farther removed from the group.
A circular depression, with four or five concentric rings of steps, allowed easy descent into the circle. Within the circle rested a block of stone, square and solid.
"Behold the altar of godhood!" Erasmoth cried. "Behold and tremble!"
A deeper pit opened in the floor before the altar. It was from this ghastly hole that the unspeakable odor flowed, as if all the foulness and perversion across the face of Krynn had been gathered into one place. The priest led me around this pit to stand before the altar.
Next in my recollection come images of my two companions — the woman, so slender and wanton in her god-inspired desire, and the man, his face distorted by shadow and by the intensity of his passion, as he focused upon the approaching ceremony. Kassandry, who had ignored me during the approach to this central altar, now turned her luminous eyes to my face.
She dropped her robe to the floor. She was naked, except for a belt of leather and stee
l gauntlets on her wrists. Two slender stilettos hung from the belt. Seizing one in each hand, she raised them toward the roof of the cavern.
Erasmoth, too, lifted his hands. Together the priest and priestess wailed a chant, repeating the beastlike sounds over and over, their voices rising to a pitch of ecstasy. I had no doubt but that the culmination of this ceremony would be the plunging of those razor-edged blades into my breast.
I confess, Excellency, that the thought of my duties, of the sacred trust of the historian, vanished from my mind. Fear consumed me. All I could think of was escape. The wailing of the clerics rose to a hysterical crescendo. Only a few feet away from me I saw steps that would lead me out of this unholy circle. Beyond — a desperate sprint away — the tunnel would take me to the surface. So convoluted was my own reasoning that I completely forgot about the gates of gold and silver that must eventually block my exit.
I sprang away from the priest and priestess, made a dash for the stairs. The two made no reaction; their chant continued without interruption. I reached the bottom step and leapt upward, passing in two bounds out of that hateful arena. Still Erasmoth and Kassandry chanted.
My breath came in ragged gasps. My heart pounded. I turned to look for the tunnel by which we had entered this accursed cavern.
But where was it? My surroundings looked different, as if this was not the place I had passed mere minutes before. Dark shadows stood in places where I remembered glowing patches of light. The five columns of flame still burned, however, and they gave me my bearings. I started in the direction I believed would offer escape. My feet skimmed across the smooth floor, and still the two clerics stood, locked in the grip of their unholy ritual.
I sensed the movement of the darkness against the fiery background. My heart chilled at the sound of approaching footsteps. Hands reached for me. The cloying scent of death was all around me. An arm, like a sodden piece of old meat, struck my chest, knocking me backward.
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