There was another great, booming noise, like thunder but coming from far below ground. Quarath was hurled against a wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Above, the last surviving windows exploded, showering the hallway with razors of stained glass. A dreadful wailing chorus answered the quake—thousands of panicked people trying to flee. Quarath suddenly felt a hot pain above his left eye, then a red, stinging flood blinded him. Wincing, he pressed his snowy sleeve to the wound. The cloth grew warm and damp with alarming speed.
He pushed on, in spite of the pain, He could sense the griffins now, circling high above. Most had already fled, riderless; but a few now spiraled downward, answering the call of his brother-elves. Not all of the Silvanesti would escape the catastrophe—but some would, and by Eli, he would be among them. He could see the gardens, just ahead. He sent his mind questing, seeking one of the griffins—and found the loyal creature, already swooping down to save him. He nearly laughed aloud: the Kingpriest had destroyed everything, killed everyone, doomed his city, his empire, himself—but at least he would be safe.
He was nearly to the doors when the ground shook once more. Finally, it was more than the beleaguered Temple could bear. With a horrible, grinding groan, the great church began to fold in upon itself. A great roar, like an awakening dragon, sounded above Quarath’s head. He turned to look, and saw a pillar of silver-veined marble plummeting toward him. He flung up his arm with a scream.
Then… nothing.
Chapter 33
Denubis stood paralyzed, staring at the red mess that had been Quarath of Silvanesti. He had been barely ten feet away when the pillar crashed down on the elf. The Emissary’s blood had spattered all over Denubis’s cassock. The old scribe swayed on his feet, feeling suddenly lightheaded.
Denubis!
Starting at the icy lash of the voice, Denubis looked about in alarm. All around him was destruction. The walls were shattered, columns lay scattered like matchsticks, bodies and pieces of bodies lay in crimson clumps. Clouds of billowing dust fouled the air, glowing hellish orange where fires burned. Above, the vaulted ceiling groaned and shuddered. The Great Temple had stood for nearly three hundred years, but it would not last much longer. If Denubis stayed where he was, he would end up like Quarath, crushed and buried under the rubble.
Quickly. We are nearly out of time.
Denubis shook off his stupor. The power of the Dark One’s voice was undeniable. Choking on dust, he waded on through the bloodstained debris.
*****
Of all the places in Istar that terrible day, none was safer than Fistandantilus’s laboratory. Magic crackled from one end to the other as protective spells of extraordinary power, laid down many years ago, flared into existence. They performed their job, as the Dark One knew they would; while the quakes pounded both the Lordcity and the Temple to rubble, down here—deep below the basilica—they hadn’t even knocked over a single candle. This was good, because the spell the archmage had to cast required all his concentration. And he must cast it soon—his magical wards could resist the tremors, but something much worse was coming, something no sorcery could withstand.
For now, though, Fistandantilus stood patiently in the center of the great room, in an open area surrounded by workbenches and shelves covered with spellbooks and strange things in glass jars. Around him lay a perfect ring, traced on the gray stone floor with silver dust. He had finished making preparations for the spell, which would spirit him out of this place… not just through space, but through time. He would vanish from Istar, and appear in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas a hundred years hence. He had sealed the Tower—or rather, his one-time apprentice Andras had, with his dying breath. Only he could enter now without suffering a horrible death. There, in the Tower and in the future, he would be safe to continue his plans. There, he could still hope to open the Portal to the Abyss, and challenge the gods in their own home.
He couldn’t go yet, though; he wouldn’t be traveling alone. So he stood, arms folded, and waited.
The other wizards were far away, withdrawn from the world and weakened by attrition; they would not be able to hinder him. The dark gods were impaired too, their power damaged by the loss of nearly all their followers. Once Beldinas destroyed Istar, the gods of light would be left feeble as well; the Balance would be restored, but in the process no one would remain to oppose him. And even if someone did, if the gods somehow managed to foil him, his spirit would endure, bound to the world. One day, someone would find the spellbook he had sent with the Twice-Born—and through that unfortunate soul, he would enter the world again. He had spent decades devising this plan. Nothing could stop him—not even Paladine’s burning hammer, and what it would wreak upon the world today.
The laboratory had two doors, one on either end. Now they opened at the same time, revealing two figures caked in dust. One was tall and dark, well-muscled and still bearing the armor and sword he had wielded that morning in the Arena. The other was mousy and stooped, his spectacles smudged, his hands stained with ink. Fistandantilus nodded to both, beckoning with a wizened hand.
“Good,” he said. “You are both just in time.”
The doors swung shut. The gladiator and the scribe, the two men he had picked to aid him in the trials to come, glanced at each other, each sizing up the other, wondering why the other was here. Then, following the Dark One’s command, they strode forward, stopping just outside the ring of silver dust.
“Pheragas,” Fistandantilus said to the gladiator, the slave he had bought to be his protector in the times ahead. “Did you find victory on the sands today?”
The man glared, his eyes filled with grief. He had lost many friends today. The world he’d known, all the people who had cheered for him, fought beside him or against him, all were dead already, or soon would be. He had left them to their fates, at the Dark One’s behest. He hated Fistandantilus with every iota of his being.
The Dark One shrugged, untroubled, and looked to Denubis. “And you, Revered Son. It took some coaxing, but you came. That was wise of you.”
Denubis only blinked, stupefied. He put a shaking hand to his head.
A distant boom sounded as a large part of the Temple crumbled above. The crash should have rocked the room, but the magic wards held. The black iron chandelier hanging overhead didn’t even budge. Fistandantilus nodded his head.
“Time to go,” he said. “Step into the circle.”
They did as they were told, careful not to disturb the silver powder. Each reached out, jerkily, and laid a hand on one of the wizard’s shoulders. Fistandantilus began to weave his hands through the air, chanting spidery words as he drew the magic down from the black moon. The air rippled, and a wall of silver light sprang up from the circle, shimmering with power. Images began to form upon the glowing wall, like figures cast by Midrathi shadow-sculptors: forests and mountaintops, deserts and oceans, cities and caverns, each dissolving into the next. Dragons winged across a twilit sky; men fought ogres on a barren plain; copper-skinned lizard men stalked elves through a festering swamp. This was Krynn’s history, stretching over countless centuries before the first Kingpriest to thousands of years into the future. The stones beneath Fistandantilus’s feet sang as space and time opened to him.
The wizard looked to Denubis and Pheragas. Both stood rigid, transfixed by the mystery of what was happening. He smiled within the shadows of his hood.
“Farewell, Istar,” he murmured.
A whirling vortex opened above him. He looked up into it, focusing his thoughts. The shifting images resolved into a dark room, dust-mantled and cobwebbed with age. With a sigh, he released the magic. The silver ring blazed.
Half a second later, the wards flickered and faded and disappeared. With a horrible crash, the laboratory exploded and caved in. But the three were already gone, wizard and gladiator and scribe, flowing away on the river of time.
*****
Beldinas Pilofiro, Kingpriest of Istar, stood alone within the Sacred Chamber
, bathed in his own light. He did not feel the earth shake, nor did he hear the thunder of the collapsing Temple or the anguished screams of his followers. The world did not exist for him, not now: There was only the rite he was about to conduct. It would take all his strength to force the gods to listen, to make them obey. But his will was strong, his purpose pure. They would judge him thus.
The silvery glow around him grew sun-bright as he walked to the head of the chapel. A strange feeling passed over him. His gaze shifted to the satin curtains hanging behind the altar. Was there someone hiding behind them?
The feeling passed, and he shook his head. Another of the dark gods’ tricks, no doubt, meant to rob him of his faith. Too late—there was nothing they could do to stop him now.
He did not kneel, but stared down at the altar’s blank, gleaming surface. Delving deep, he summoned all the power from the well of his soul. The power ran up into him, coursing through his body like the waters of a spring-swollen river, ready to burst its banks. He braced himself, holding the power in check. The time would come to release it, but first he had to make his greatest decree. His chin rose, and he began to speak.
“Paladine,” he declared. His tone was not one of humility; that was for weak men. He spoke the god’s name almost as an equal… “Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one resolved to fight against it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will never work!”
He paused, then, feeling a presence in the room—a presence he knew well. He’d felt it many times before, when he drew on his powers … whether to heal the sick or destroy his enemies. The god’s presence was unmistakable. It hovered now above the altar, unseen but unmistakably there. He fought back a sudden flash of awe, the urge to prostrate himself. When he spoke again, his voice was soft as a flute—not pleading, but soothing, as one might address a child.
“I understand, of course. You had to espouse this doctrine in the old days, when you were beleaguered. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined strength, I can sweep evil from the world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves, kender, and gnomes, those races not of your creation. And even the elves will know the light that has eluded them, all these years. The last tower of the wizards will fall, as will the last churches of those who do not honor your grace. Dragons of silver and gold shall fill the skies once more… not to fight the minions of darkness, but to spread my will across Krynn!”
He raised his voice again, building to a crescendo. The force above the throne writhed, the platinum dragon coiling invisibly as he exerted his strength upon it. It would obey him. It had done so before. His power had made armies lay down their swords, burned demons to ashes, brought life back to the dead. Paladine resisted, but Beldinas could feel the god’s resolve falter before his blazing light.
“I will rule in glory,” he trumpeted, spreading his arms wide, “creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams! You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of low birth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!”
With that, he let loose his stored-up power, channeling it into the force hovering above the altar. He caught the sensation, grasping it tightly as it fought to free itself—but the power could not escape. A thrill surged through the Kingpriest, His fears, the dread and worries that had haunted him these long years, all lifted away. The plan was working. He only had to hold on, and the resistance would end. Paladine would kneel! They would all kneel before him!
“The gods come!” he shouted. “At my command!”
There was a tiny, musical sound.
Beldinas blinked. Something lay on the altar.
Looking closer, he saw a single glass tile, cracked in half by the fall from the mosaic above. It was the tessera he’d noticed earlier, the one that had disturbed the beauty of the whole piece. Involuntarily, he glanced up at the false sky above, at the bare spot where it had been… then he stopped, freezing with horror. He’d taken his attention off the force above the altar. Now it was gone!
Wildly, he reached out for the power, trying to catch hold again. But it was too late: the god’s presence was as fleeting, as insubstantial as smoke. It slipped from his grasp, rising up into beyond his grasp. The air shimmered like sunlight on water: platinum scales, the dragon taking form, full of beauty and majesty.
And rage.
Beldinas stood motionless, arms still outflung, staring at the god’s materializing serpentine form. It filled the room, every part of it in motion … except the face. That hung above him, staring with eyes of amber, burning with wrath. Paladine’s anger was hotter than any furnace, colder than the storms of Icereach, more fearsome than any storm. But there was something else in those eyes, too, deep beneath the fury… sorrow over what was about to ensue.
Too late, Beldinas understood. In his mind, he saw what he himself had wrought, in his blindness. What fate awaited him. What a fool he had been. “Why… ?” he cried again, his voice shrill.
The dragon hissed, and one by one the stars fell from the mosaic, white tiles separating from the black, tumbling over and over to shatter on the floor. They made a terrible music, each note lingering rather than fading, the discord full of menace. Beldinas hardly noticed; his attention remained on Paladine, hovering above him. The god’s gaze remained locked with his until the last tile fell. Then the regal head gave one last shake, opened its jaws wide, and shrieked its fury.
Beldinas dropped to his knees, cutting them on the broken glass. Paladine’s scream was as solid as any fist, smashing him down and pressing him lower and lower. At last, unable to bear the pressure any longer, he flung himself onto the floor, weeping. The Miceram fell from his head. His light faltered.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Palado Calib, forgive me…”
NO, said the dragon.
Flowing like quicksilver, the dragon turned and flew up through the ceiling, through the mosaic. As it did, the Temple burst apart, floor after floor opening almost gracefully like the petals of a rose. The Hall of Audience ripped apart, and the dome of the basilica exploded, raining shards of glowing crystal all over the Temple grounds. The central tower, with its dulcet bells and golden spire, groaned and then toppled with a crash, crushing the imperial manse beneath.
Beldinas saw it all in his head… the harbor in flames, the streets awash with blood, the Tower of High Sorcery split in half and pouring smoke, the Arena a mad jumble of stone and flesh. Istar was destroyed, and he was to blame. His arrogance, his pride, his fear had wiped out the greatest empire in the world.
And that was just the beginning.
He lay there, his eyes raw, his chest aching from gasping and weeping, and prayed for death… madness… anything to take him away from this reality. But nothing freed him. He would see it all. The gods’ wrath was inescapable. It was High Watch now, the middle of the day. Above him, the sky… the real sky, not an artful mosaic… was as black as a moonless night. No—blacker, there weren’t any stars. A void hung above Istar.
At last, Beldinas saw it coming: the hammer that had long haunted Cathan’s dreams. It appeared high above him, a mountain of burning stone, trailing flame, moving down with awful speed. Beldinas’s eyes gleamed.
It was so beautiful.
Chapter 34
CATACLYSM
The island was small, barely more than a finger of stone jutting out of the lake, fifty yards off the shore where Mishakal’s temple stood. A lone statue perched atop the island, hewn of white stone: the figure of a man, his arms spread wide. One hand was missing, broken off, and the head and face as well. Moss crept up its south side, clinging to the folds of its robes. Another time, Cathan would have been hard-pressed to tell: p
erhaps it was a lord, or a high cleric from ages past. But glancing at it now between strokes of his oars, a feeling of certainty came over him. This was Paladine, some old incarnation from the time before Istar’s church tore down the old temples and built the new. He thought he could even see something of Brother Jendle in the figure. It made him smile.
Then he looked up, past the statue, and the smile faded. The sky beyond the Eastwalls had turned weird and forbidding. It was dark, as if at dusk, though the sun still rode high above Xak Tsaroth. Turning to look back the way he’d come, he saw the crowd on the wharf pointing and staring at the strange sky. They were shouting too, but their voices were faint across the water, the meaning of their words lost.
They don’t realize what is happening, he thought sadly. If they did, they’d be running for the city gates.
He half expected someone to be waiting for him when he reached the rocky spur: Lady Ilista, maybe, or Jendle himself. There was no one there, though—just a pair of gulls that squawked irritably and took wing as his boat bumped up against the shore. Cathan climbed out, not bothering to tie the mooring lines, and pulled himself up the stone slope to the statue. He was very tired, and reached the foot of the statue, aching to his bones. The statue towered above him; it was twenty feet high even without any head, and it seemed to be beckoning—reaching toward the city with its serpentine walls and golden roofs. He set his back to it and looked the other way, up past the jade palace and temples, at the blackness that was gathering over Istar. A sickening excitement burned in his breast.
Then a thrill shot through him as he saw it—small, from this far away, a falling red star that left a trail of crimson and gold. He couldn’t make out the shape, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen the hammer enough in his dreams to imagine it vividly now. Tears flooded his eyes as he watched it streak down to vanish behind the mountains.
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