I collapsed into another animated corpse, and retched as I felt my hand sink into the rotted satchel of its belly. The zombies were all around me, reaching with horrible hands.
With a cry of horror, I broke free, lunging in the only direction that would take me away from the ghastly figures — back toward the pit and the Altar of Erasmoth.
"Come to us now, Historian!" cried the priest, ceasing his chant. Kassandry licked her gleaming lips. She held the two daggers high, crossing the blades over her head.
The ranks of the undead pressed forward, and in the surging light of the fires I could see scores of them. They emerged from the shadows around the periphery of the great cavern, shambling slowly out of the darkness to gather in an attentive circle around their master and mistress.
The close-packed ranks of the zombies pressed in on me, forcing me onto the top step leading into the circular altar pit, toward the doom that awaited me below. In desperation, I looked for some avenue of escape through the steadily closing circle. There were none!
"Make haste, Historian!" The priest's tone contained an element of irritation.
I could delay no longer. The zombies had driven me to the bottom step of the circle, and thence into the pit itself.
Kassandry's gaze locked on to mine. It was the priestess, in the end, who compelled me to step slowly across the floor of the circle, until I stood before her. Behind her was the black pit, which exuded that terrible odor.
"Now!" cried Erasmoth, raising his hands, his fists clenched in triumph. "In the name of the gods!"
Kassandry raised the knives, still staring at my face. I was transfixed, unable to break that hypnotizing gaze. I waited for the stabbing of that keen steel into my flesh.
Kassandry struck, slicing each blade through the neck, severing the two arteries that carry blood to the brain. But, as I live to write this, Excellency, it was not my flesh. Nay, and I swear by the sanctity of my Historian's Oath, Your Grace, she slashed her own neck as she stood before me! The priestess took her own life!
Blood spurted from the two wounds, drenching me. Kassandry remained standing, that same expression of rapture etched into her features. Then she started to topple forward and I — out of instinct — reached to catch her.
But Erasmoth knocked me out of the way. Kassandry's blood sprayed, slicking the smooth floor.
"I must make haste!" shouted the priest.
With surprising strength, he lifted her into his arms, turned toward the dark pit in the center of the circle, and threw the still-bleeding corpse into that blackened hole.
The five pillars of fire surged upward, their light illuminating the great cavern, washing across the senseless, unknowing faces of the zombies and the smiling visage of the triumphant priest.
0 wise Astinus, here, it seemed, my historian's instincts took over, rescued me as I teetered at the brink of madness. Shock welled within me and my legs grew weak, too feeble to support me. I remained senseless of the blood — Kassandry's blood — that stained my robe, or even of the fact that, for the time being, I had been spared.
I watched the proceedings with a sort of detachment — no longer was I a participant, as indeed I never should have been in the first place. I stared into that black pit. The zombies around us were still, and even Erasmoth's breathing had become slow and labored.
Then, from out of that obscene darkness, a hand reached forth — a slender, female hand, wet with blood. Another hand appeared, followed by a pair of arms. Then the face, now deathly pale, was visible — and then the mortal flesh that once had been the priestess called Kassandry.
The creature that emerged from the pit was dead, as insensate as the rank of rotting corpses that stood around us. The female zombie, her nearly naked flesh smeared with the gruesome refuse of the dark pit, climbed laboriously from the hole in the floor. The thing's — I cannot think of it, anymore, as female, or even human — movements were jerky and uncoordinated, as if it must learn to walk anew.
But the aspect that shocked me the most was the vacant stare of those once-bright eyes. Kassandry's gaze had been so intense, so vital, that it had fascinated me even as it made me quiver with uncertainty. Now the dull, deadened eyes of a corpse roamed sightlessly in that awful, pallid face.
"Before we proceed further," Erasmoth declared to me, "I want to show you something."
Numbly, still anticipating my imminent death, I nonetheless followed him. I believe I was in shock and would have jumped into the pit itself, then, if he had ordered it. My captor led me to the pillar of black flame.
"The black fire, as you can feel, radiates no heat," he said, as we approached the shadowy column.
Indeed, the flickering fire actually seemed to absorb warmth from the air. I felt as if I faced the open night, with my back to the comfort of a house or inn. A limitless well of cold seemed to emanate from the fire, sucking all that was living and warm into its black and soulless depths.
"A curious phenomenon, don't you agree?" he said. "Now, study the white one."
We moved to this pale phantasm. This column of fire was translucent and pearly as smoke, but possessed a definition of form and purpose that belied a vaporous nature. The chill of the blaze was like a forceful attack, like a blast of subfreezing wind across a field of ice. I recoiled, to the amusement of the priest.
"She saps your life, does this fire," Erasmoth said, "but gives you the eternal life of my goddess in return!"
"Life?" I cried, quite losing the impartiality of a historian, for which Your Eminence will no doubt chastise me severely. "How dare you call this evil abomination life!"
"Ah — but it is truly the greatest life!" responded the priest. "For it is life without end!"
"A life without awareness!" I retorted. "No life at all!"
"I did not expect you to understand," he announced, his tone filled with supreme arrogance, "but I have shown you the proof of a miracle. You, Historian, must take this message to the world."
"You have shown me proof of the presence of an evil god," I continued, still choosing my words with caution. "And that, in itself, is a remarkable discovery in this era when all gods were thought to have abandoned Krynn! But will you not tell me the name of this god?"
"Goddess," he corrected. "You already know her."
I looked again, realizing that I gazed at the five pillars of fire, the five colors… of evil dragonhood! "She is the Nameless One," I said quietly, "driven from the world more than two thousand years ago! She whose dark power once brought Krynn almost to the point of subjugation."
"The Queen of Darkness!" he shouted in ecstasy. "Mistress of the evil dragons, the five-headed wyrm!"
"Takhisis!" All of the horrors I had witnessed paled when compared with the menace raised by this dark priest. "Do you mean to tell me that she returns to the world?"
"Not yet, Historian, not yet, but her presence can be felt, by myself and others. She grows in power, and she is patient. She is not defeated. Never make that mistake, Historian. She will not be vanquished!"
Abruptly, he raised his voice, pointed. "Go, now! Take your notes and report to your master what you have learned! Let the great Astinus know and tremble! Let everyone know! The Queen of Darkness will return, and glory is the destiny of those who worship her name!"
His triumph ringing in my ears, I departed — precipitously, if the truth be told (as, of course, it must). The zombies parted, let me pass. The gold gates, and the silver as well, stood open for me. I ran through the sundappled courtyard, raced all the way down the winding trail to Halcyon. And even here, I do not feel safe.
Not because I fear the priest. If Erasmoth had wanted me, he could have taken me at his altar. My fear is deeper. It touches on the very survival of our world.
For I swear, Master Astinus — it is all true! The Queen of Darkness lives, and she longs to project her power into the world! She has found a cleric in Erasmoth. Will she find (or has she found) others?
What, then, can be the fate of the world?<
br />
Foryth Teel, In the cause of Astinus and the Great Histories of Krynn.
TRUE KNIGHT
Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman
Part I
Nikol and Brother Michael left the Lost Citadel and traveled the forest, now bereft of its enchantment, with the dazed and bewildered expressions of those who have undergone some awful, wondrous experience and who do not, on reflection, believe in it.
They had evidence the events had occurred — the blood of Nikol's twin brother and the blood of the evil wizard who had been responsible for Nicholas's death stained Nikol's hands. The holy medallion of Mishakal, which once had glowed with the blue light of the goddess's favor, hung dark around Brother Michael's neck. All the true clerics had departed, gathered by the gods to serve on other planes. The dark clerics, worshipers of the Queen of the Abyss, had not succeeded in their scheme to fill the void left by the departure of the other gods' faithful. The words of the strange mage, who called himself Raistlin, echoed in their hearts.
In thirteen days' time, the Gods in their
Wrath at the folly of men will hurl a fiery
Mountain down upon Ansalon. The land will
Be sundered, seas will rise, and mountains
Topple. Countless numbers will die.
Countless more, who will live in the dark
And terrible days to follow, will come to
Wish they had died.
Michael and Nikol reached the edge of the forest, came to the clearing where Akar had received his prize — the dying knight, Nicholas — from the goblins who had captured him. The knight's blood still stained the crushed grass. Both paused, without a word spoken. Neither had said a word to each other, following their departure from the Lost Citadel.
Thirteen days. Thirteen days until the destruction of the world.
"Where do you want to go, my lady?" Michael asked.
Nikol glanced around the clearing, slowly darkening with the coming of night. The dazzled bewilderment was fading, a numbness and lethargy that was not so much a weariness of body as it was a weariness of spirit that made her feet seem too heavy to lift, her heart too heavy to bear.
She had only one thought. "Home," she said.
Michael looked grave, opened his mouth, probably to protest. Nikol knew what he was going to say, stopped the words on his lips with a glance. Her manor castle, which had been in her family for generations and had housed the three of them in far happier days, had probably been attacked and sacked and looted by goblins. She would return to find the castle charred and gutted, a ghastly skeleton. She didn't care. The castle was her home.
"It's where I want to die," she said to Michael.
She started walking.
Brother Michael was astonished to discover the castle had been left in relatively good repair, perhaps because the goblins had decided to make it their base while they despoiled the countryside. Noting from a distance that the castle was still standing and was not a burned-out hulk, Michael was more than half convinced that the goblins were still around. A day's watching persuaded him that the goblins had moved on, perhaps in search of richer pickings. The castle was empty.
Inside, he and Nikol found a horrible mess; both gagged from the stench, fled back outside to fresher air. Filth and remnants of dread feasting choked the halls. The heavy oaken furniture had been axed, used for firewood. Curtains had been torn down. The ceremonial armor was gone, probably being worn now by some goblin king. Yule decorations and the tapestries had been desecrated, burned. Vermin roamed the halls now extremely loathe to leave.
The villagers and manor tenants all had fled and had not come back, either out of fear of the goblins or because they had nothing to which to come back. Not a house remained standing. Stock had been slaughtered, granaries raided and burned, wells poisoned. At least most had escaped with their lives, if little else.
Michael gazed at the destruction and said firmly, "My lady, Sir Thomas's manor is a fortnight's journey. Let me take you there. We can travel by night…"
Nikol didn't hear him, walked away from him in midspeech. Stripping off her armor, she stacked it neatly in a comer of a blackened wall. Beneath the armor she wore the cast-off clothes of her brother that she had worn when the two of them practiced their sword work together. Binding a strip of torn linen, found hanging from a tree limb, around her nose and mouth, she entered the castle and began the thankless task of cleaning.
She was vaguely aware, after a time, that Michael was at her side, attempting, when he could, to take the more onerous tasks upon himself. She straightened from her work, brushed a lock of her ragged-cut hair from her face, and stared at him. "You don't have to stay here. I can manage. Sir Thomas would be glad to have you."
Michael regarded her with an air of exasperation and concern. "Nikol, don't you understand by now? I could no more leave you than I could fly off into the sky. I want to stay. I love you."
He might have been speaking the Elvish tongue, for all she understood him. His words made no sense to her. She was too numb, couldn't fed them.
"I'm so tired," she said. "I can't sleep. It's all hopeless, isn't it? But, at least we'll have a place to die."
He reached for her, tried to take her in his arms. His face was anxious, his expression worried.
"There is always hope…"
Nikol turned away from him, forgot about him, began again to work.
They made preparations in order to survive the coming Day of Destruction. That is, Michael made preparations. Nikol, once the castle was clean, sat, talking and laughing, in the room where she and her brother used to sit during the long evening hours. She sat, doing nothing, staring at the empty chair across from hers. She was biddable, tractable. If Michael found some slight task for her to do, she did it without comment, without complaint, but then she would return to her chair. She ate and drank only if Michael put the food into her hand.
He was gentle with her at first. Patiently, he tried to coax her back to the life she was fast leaving. When this failed, his fear for her grew. He argued, shouted at her. At one point, he even shook her. Nikol paid no attention to him. When it seemed she thought of him at all, he was a stranger to her. At length, he grew too busy to take time to do more than see to it that she ate something.
Michael was forced to spend his days roaming the countryside, foraging for whatever the goblins had left behind, which wasn't much. He found a stream that had not been fouled and, though he had never been taught the art of fishing, managed to catch enough to serve their needs. He knew nothing about setting traps, nor could he bring himself to snare small animals. He had not eaten animal flesh since he had come to serve the goddess of healing. He was knowledgeable about berries and herbs, wild vegetables and fruits, and these kept them alive. Although the strange, hot wind that blew incessantly day and night was rapidly drying up the land, he set in a store of food that could feed them for a long time, if they ate sparingly.
And he firmly put aside the chilling thought that, unless something happened to shake Nikol out of her dark melancholia, he would have only himself to worry about.
He prayed to Mishakal to help Nikol, to heal the wound that had not touched the flesh but had torn apart the woman's soul. He prayed to Paladine as well, asking the god of the Solamnic Knights to look with favor upon the daughter who had fought evil as valiantly as any son.
And it was, or so it seemed at first, Paladine who answered.
They had no visitors; the countryside around them was deserted. Michael watched for travelers closely, for he desperately wanted to send a message to Sir Thomas, to warn him of the coming destruction and to ask for whatever aid the knight could give them. No one came. The thirteen days dwindled to nine, and Michael had given up looking for help. At twilight, the stillness was broken by the sound of hooves, clattering on the paved courtyard.
"Hail the castle!" shouted a strong, deep voice, speaking Solamnic.
The sound roused Nikol from her dread lethargy. She glanced up wit
h unusual interest. "A guest," she said.
Michael went hurriedly to look out the window. "A knight," he reported. "A Knight of the Rose, by his armor."
"We must make him welcome," said Nikol.
The Measure dictated the treatment of a guest, who was said to be a "jewel upon the pillow of hospitality." The honor of the knighthood bound Nikol to offer shelter, food, whatever comfort her home could provide to the stranger.
She stirred, rose from her chair. Glancing down at her shabby men's clothes, she seemed perplexed.
"I'm not dressed to receive visitors. My father was very strict about that. We always put on our finest clothes to honor the guest. My father wore his ceremonial sword…"
Looking around, as if she thought a dress might materialize from out of the air, she caught sight of her brother's sword, standing in its place upon the weapons' rack. She buckled the sword about her waist, and went to make the guest welcome — her first voluntary actions in days.
Michael followed her, silently thanking this knight, whoever he was, whatever his reason for being here. The man obviously had traveled far; his black horse was coated with dust and sweat.
Nikol entered the courtyard. If the strange knight was shocked at her shabby appearance, he politely gave no indication. In this day and age, perhaps he was used to the sight of impoverished members of the knighthood. He drew his sword, held it to his helm, blade upward, in gesture of salute and peace.
"My lord," he said. "I regret that I have no squire to ride forward and give notice of my coming. Forgive my intrusion at this unseemly time of night."
"Welcome to Whitsund Manor, Sir Knight. I am not lord of the manor, but its lady. I am Nikol, daughter to Sir David Whitsund. Dismount your noble steed and give yourself rest and ease this night. I regret I have no groom to lead your horse to stable, but that task I will take upon myself and count it an honor."
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