The Cataclysm

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The monk was thinner than the heavy, antique, twohanded broadsword he was trying his best to hold. His face was chalk-colored, sweat ran down his bald head, and he shook so that his teeth clicked together. But, though obviously frightened out of his wits, he was grimly standing his ground. Nikol had been about to laugh. She remembered the brutal mob, their hands already stained with blood, and her laughter changed to a sigh.

  "Here," she said, stepping forward, accosting the terrified monk, who stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're holding that sword all wrong." Wrenching the poor man's hands loose from the weapon, she repositioned them. "This hand here, and this hand here. There. Now you have a chance of hurting someone besides yourself."

  "Th-thank you," murmured the monk, gazing at the weapon and Nikol in perplexity. Suddenly, he brought the sword, point-first, to her throat. "Now… I s-s-suggest you.. you leave."

  "For the love of Paladine! We're on YOUR side," said Nikol in exasperation, shoving the wavering blade away from her. Outside they could hear the mob raise its voice in response to the Revered Son's harangues.

  "We want to help you," Michael said, coming forward. "We don't have much time. We're looking for the disks — "

  "What is going on in here, Malachai?" questioned a stern voice. "I heard glass breaking."

  A robed man who seemed old, but whose face was unlined, smooth, and devoid of expression, entered the library room. Calm and unruffled, he walked down the aisle between the bookcases.

  "They… broke in, M-master," the monk gasped.

  The man's stern gaze shifted to the couple. "You are responsible for this?" he said, indicating the broken window.

  "Well, yes, Master," answered Michael, astonished to feel his skin burning in shame. "Only because we couldn't get in the front."

  "We don't mean any harm," said Nikol. "You must believe us. We'd like to help, in fact. Master — "

  "Astinus," said the man coolly. "I am Astinus. Did I hear you say you were searching for the Disks of Mishakal?" His gaze went to Michael's breast.

  The cleric had been careful to hide the medallion beneath his robes, but this man's ageless eyes seemed able to penetrate the cloth.

  "The true clerics have all departed Krynn," observed Astinus, frowning.

  "I was given the chance," said Michael, defensively. "I chose to stay. I could not leave — "

  "Yes, yes. It is all recorded. You've come for the disks. This — "

  A howl rose from the mob outside. Shouts of anger and rage surged up against the library walls like the pounding of a monstrous sea. The monk, hearing that terrible sound, seemed likely to faint. He was sucking in breath in great gulps. His eyes were white-rimmed and huge.

  "Sit down, Malachai. Put your head between your knees," advised Astinus. "And for the gods' sake drop that sword before you slice off your toe. When you feel better, fetch a broom and sweep up this glass. Someone could get cut. Now, if you two will come with me — "

  Nikol stared at the man. "You daft old fool! Listen to that! They're out for blood! YOUR blood! You should be preparing for your defense! Look, we can barricade these windows. We'cll overturn these bookcases, then shove them up against — "

  "Overturn the bookcases!" Astinus thundered, his placid calm finally disturbed. "Are you mad, young woman? These hold thousands of volumes, catalogued according to date and place. Do you realize how long it would take us to put every volume back in its proper position? Not to mention the damage you might do to some of the older texts. The binding is fragile. And the method of making paper was not as advanced — "

  "They're about to burn you to ground, old man!" Nikol shouted back. "You're not going to have anything LEFT to catalogue!"

  Astinus pointedly ignored Nikol, shifted his gaze to Michael. "You, Cleric of Mishakal, are, I take it, not here to overturn bookcases?"

  "No, Master," said Michael hurriedly.

  "Very well. You may come with me." Astinus turned, started to leave.

  "Pardon, Master," Michael said meekly, "if my wife could accompany us…"

  "Will she behave herself?" Astinus demanded, regarding Nikol dubiously.

  "She will," said Michael. "Put your sword away, dear."

  "You're all mad!" muttered Nikol, staring from one to the other.

  Michael lifted his eyebrows. "Humor the old man," he said silently.

  Nikol sighed, slid her sword in its sheath. The monk, Malachai, was sitting on the floor, his hand still clasped over the hilt of the sword.

  Astinus led them out of the room, into the main portion of the library. He walked at a leisurely, unhurried pace, pointing out this section and that as they passed. Outside they could hear the mob gathering its courage. Smoke, drifting in through the broken window, hung ominously in the still air.

  Michael moved as if in a dream. Nothing seemed real. Inside the library, all was as quiet, calm, and unperturbed as Astinus himself. Occasionally, they caught sight of some monk running down a hallway, a scared look on his face, some precious volume clutched in his arms. At the sight of the master, however, the monk would skid to a halt. Eyes lowered before Astinus's frown, the monk would proceed at a decorous walk.

  They passed from what Astinus said were the public reading rooms, through a small hallway, up two flights of stairs, into the private section of the library. Here, at high desks, perched on tall stools, some of the Aesthetics sat at their work, pens scratching, a ghastly counterpoint to the roaring outside. But a few had left their work, were clustered in a frightened knot at one of the windows, staring down at the mob below.

  "What is the meaning of this?" Astinus barked.

  Caught, the monks cast swift, apologetic glances at the master and hastened back to their seats. Pens scratched diligently. Work resumed.

  Astinus walked among them, eyes darting this way and that. Pausing beside one pale-faced older man, the master of the library stared down at the manuscript, pointed.

  "That is a blot, Johann."

  "Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

  "What is the meaning of that blot, Johann?"

  "I–I'm afraid, Master. Afraid we're all going to die!"

  "If we do, I trust it will be neatly. Start the page over."

  "Yes, Master."

  The Aesthetic removed the offending sheet, slid a clean one in its place. He bent to his task, but, Michael noticed, the monk's fear had eased. He was actually smiling. If Astinus could be concerned over blots at a time like this, surely there was no danger — that's what he was telling himself.

  Michael would have liked to believe that as well, but more and more he was becoming convinced that the master of the library was either drunk or insane or perhaps both.

  They left the main library, entered what Astinus termed the living area. He guided them through long hallways, past the small, comfortless cells where the monks resided.

  "My study," said Astinus, ushering them into a small, book-lined room that contained a desk, a chair, a rug, a lamp, and nothing else. "I rarely permit visitors, but today I will make an exception, since you seem unduly disturbed by the noise in the streets. You" — he indicated Michael — "may sit in the chair. You" — he glowered at Nikol — "stand by the door and touch nothing. Do you understand? Touch nothing! I will be back shortly."

  "Where are you going?" Nikol demanded.

  He stared at her, face frozen.

  "Master," she added in a more respectful tone.

  "You asked for the Disks of Mishakal," said Astinus, and left.

  "At last!" Michael said, sitting in the chair, glad to rest. "Soon we'll have the disks and the answers — "

  "If we live long enough to read them," Nikol stated angrily. She left her place by the door, began pacing the small room, waving her hands. "That old man is a fool! He'll let himself and these poor, wretched monks be butchered, his precious library torn down around his ears. When we get the disks, Michael, we'll take them and leave. And if that old man tries to stop us, I'll — "

  "Nikol," said Michael
, awed. "Look… look at this."

  "What?" She stopped her pacing, startled by the odd tone of his voice. "What is it?"

  "A book," said Michael, "left open, here, on the desk."

  "Michael, this is no time to be reading!"

  "Nikol," he said softly, "it's about Lord Soth."

  "What does it say?" she cried, leaning over him. "Tell me!"

  Michael read the text silently to himself.

  "Well?" Nikol demanded, impatient.

  He looked up at her. "He's a murderer, Nikol, and worse. It's all here. How he fell in love with a young elven maid, a virgin priestess. He carried her off to Dargaard Keep, then murdered his first wife, to have her out of his way."

  "Lies!" Nikol cried, white-lipped. "I don't believe it! No true knight would break his vows like that! No true knight would do such a monstrous thing!"

  "Yet, one did," came a deep voice.

  Lord Soth stood in the room.

  Part VIII

  Michael, trembling, rose to his feet. Nikol turned to face the knight. Her hand went to her sword, but fell, nerveless, at her side. The accursed knight's chill pervaded the small room. His flame-eyes were fixed, not on the two who stood before him, but upon the book.

  "That tells my story?" Soth asked, gesturing with his gloved hand to the book on the table.

  "Yes," Michael answered faintly. Nikol fell back, to stand by his side.

  "Turn the book toward me, that I may read it," Soth ordered.

  Hands shaking, Michael did as ordered, shifting the heavy, enormous volume around for the death knight to view. An awful darkness filled the room, doused the lamplight, grew deeper and darker as time passed. The only light was the burning of the flame-eyes, which did not read, so much as devour, each page. Michael and Nikol drew near each other, clasped each other tightly by the hand.

  "You did these terrible deeds?" Nikol asked, her voice as small and unhappy as a child's, whose dream has been shattered. "You murdered…"

  The blazing eyes lifted; their gaze pierced her heart.

  "For love. I did it for love."

  "Not love," Michael said, the warmth of Nikol's touch giving him strength. "Lust, dark desire, but not love. She — the elven maid — she hated you for it, when she found out, didn't she?"

  "She loved me!" Soth's fist clenched in anger. He glanced down at the page. His hand slowly relaxed. "She hated what I had done. She prayed for me. And her prayer was answered. I was to be given the power of stopping the Cataclysm. I was on my way to do so, when I stopped at your castle, Lady."

  The deep voice was sad, filled with regret, a bitter sorrow that wrung the heart. The darkness deepened until they could see nothing except the flaming eyes, the reflection of their fire in the charred and blackened armor. The noise of the mob faded away, became nothing more than the keening of the wind.

  "And I turned aside, as it says here." Soth gestured at the flame-lighted page. "But it was Paladine who tempted me to do so. Elven priestesses, enamored of the Kingpriest, told me that the woman I loved was unfaithful. The child she had born was not mine. Wounded pride, soul-searing jealousy, overwhelmed me, drove me to abandon my quest. I rode back, accused my love, falsely accused her… The Cataclysm struck. My castle fell. She died in the fire… and so did I.

  "But not to stay dead!" Soth's mailed fist clenched again. His anger flared. "I awoke to endless torment, eternal pain! Free me. Cleric. You can. You must. You are a true cleric."

  He stretched out his ghostly hand to the medallion. "The goddess has blessed you."

  "Yet she does not bless you," said Michael, the words falling from fear-numbed lips. "You lied to us, my lord. The gods did not curse you unjustly, as you would have had us believe. All the evil passions that led you to disgrace and downfall are still alive within you."

  "You dare speak so to me? You dare defy me? Wretched mortal! I could slay you with a word!" Soth's finger hovered near Michael's heart. One touch of that death-chilled hand, and the heart would burst.

  "You could," Michael answered, "but you won't. You won't kill me for speaking the truth. I hear your regret, my lord. I hear your sorrow. Better feelings within you war with the dark passions. If you were wholly given over to evil, my lord, you would not care. You would not suffer." "Bitter comfort you offer me. Cleric." Soth sneered. "It could be your redemption," Michael said softly.

  Soth stood long moments in silence. Slowly, his hand lowered. It went to the book, lying on the table. The fingers followed the words, as though the death knight were reading them again. Michael clasped the medallion in one hand, Nikol's hand in the other. Neither spoke. Not that it would have mattered. The death knight seemed unaware of their presence. When he spoke, it was not to them.

  "No!" he cried suddenly, lifting his head, his voice to the heavens. "You tempted me, then treated me unjustly when I fell! I will NOT ask your forgiveness. It is you who should ask mine!"

  Flames sprang up, engulfing the page, the book, seemed likely to set fire to the room. Michael fell back with a cry, shielding Nikol with his body, his hand raised to ward off the searing heat.

  "WHAT is the meaning of this?"

  Astinus's voice fell over them like cool water, doused the flames in an instant. Michael lowered his hand, blinked, staring through an afterimage of fiery red that momentarily blinded him.

  Lord Soth was gone; in his place stood the library's master.

  "I cannot let you two out of my sight a moment, it seems," stated Astinus coldly.

  "But, Master. Didn't you see him?" Michael gasped, pointed. "Lord — "

  Nikol dug her nails into his arm. "Tell this old fool nothing!" she whispered urgently. "Forgive us, Master," she said aloud. "Have you brought the Disks of Mishakal?"

  "No," said Astinus. "They are not here. They have never been here. They will never be here."

  "But…" Michael glared at the man. "You said you went to get them…"

  "I said you wanted them. I did not say I would get them," Astinus replied with calm. "I went to open the doors."

  "The great doors! The doors to the library!" Nikol gasped. "You… opened them! You're mad! Now there's nothing to stop the mob from entering!"

  "At least," said Astinus, "they will not harm the woodwork."

  The rising clamor of the mob was much louder than before. They were chanting, "Burn the books, burn the books, burn the books!"

  Michael looked at the book on the desk. It was whole, unharmed. The fire had not touched it. He stared at Astinus and thought he saw the tiniest hint of a smile flicker on the stern lips.

  "You two can escape out the back," said the master.

  "We should," said Nikol, regarding him with scorn. Shoving past Michael, she drew her sword, started for the door. "We should leave you to the mob, old man, but there are others here besides you and, by the Oath and the Measure, I'm bound to protect the innocent, the defenseless."

  "You are not bound. You are not a knight, young woman," said Astinus testily.

  Nikol, however, had already gone. They could hear her booted footsteps racing down the hall. And they could hear, as well, the rising tumult of thousands. Michael took hold of his staff, set out after Nikol. As he passed Astinus, who continued to regard him with that faint smile, Michael paused.