The reign of Istar t2-1

by Margaret Weis

  "I was… at my prayers," Michael said lamely.

  Her eyes flashed. Daughter of a knight, she could not understand the soft cleric who fell to his knees and prayed to his goddess to save him, when other men were grabbing shield and sword. Catching hold of his hand, she began running down the hallway. He stumbled to keep up with her. She was clad in her nightclothes. Her long gown whipped around her ankles, nearly tripping her. Blood stained the white cloth. Michael had no need to ask whose it was.

  "They carried him inside," Nikol was talking feverishly, as they ran. "We stripped off the armor. His wound is deep, but not mortal. We have to hurry. He's lost so much blood. I left old Giles with him…"

  No, we don't need to hurry! Michael cried silently. Too late. We will be too late! But he found himself running all the faster, as if he could outrun destiny.

  They reached a room on the ground level, near the entrance. They had not carried the wounded man far.

  "Giles!" Nikol cried, pushing on the door. "I've brought the healer. I — Nicholas? Where are you? Giles! Oh, god, no! Paladine, no!"

  Her heartbroken cry went through Michael like iron. Nikol caught up the body of the elderly servant, lifted him gently from the floor.

  "Giles! What happened? Where's Nicholas?"

  Michael knelt beside the old man. A goblin arrow stuck out of his chest, the shaft buried deep.

  "Mishakal, heal…" Michael's voice cracked. The holy medallion of Mishakal he wore around his neck, the symbol of his faith that gleamed blue with the radiance of the goddess, was dark, its light gone. He stammered; his words halted.

  The old man gasped. "They… took him!"

  "Who took him? Giles, answer me!" Nikol cried.

  "Goblins…"

  The old man stared at her, but his eyes no longer saw her. His head lolled in her arms. She laid him on the floor, her face expressionless, shocked past hurt and sorrow.

  Michael stood, looked around the room. Broken glass littered the floor; the window swung crazily on its hinges. It had been smashed open with a heavy object, probably a club or mace. Blood smeared the windowsill.

  "They carried him out this way," he said.

  "But why?" Nikol stared at the empty bed, the bloodstained, rumpled sheets. Her face was whiter than the linen. "Why would they take him? Goblins butcher and kill. They never take prisoners… Oh, Nicholas!"

  A shudder swept over her. She buried her face in the still-warm bedclothes, twisted the cloth in her fingers. Michael ached to comfort her. He drew near, reaching out to her. His hand touched her shoulder.

  "My lady — "

  Nikol rounded on him with a savage cry. "You! This is your fault! If you had been here, instead of hiding behind the skirts of your goddess, my brother would be well! He would be alive! He could have fought them — "

  A bowman, bloodied and disheveled, appeared in the doorway.

  "Where's my lord?" he demanded harshly. "The enemy is assaulting in force. What are his orders?"

  Michael straightened, was about to give the man the terrible news that his lord was gone.

  Sharp nails dug into his skin. Nikol pushed past him.

  "My lord will be with you presently," she told him, her voice cold and level. "We are binding his wound."

  "Pray Paladine he comes swiftly," said the bowman, and dashed off.

  "Katherine!" Nikol cried. "Katherine — There you are."

  The woman who had been nursemaid and nanny to the girl, lady-in-waiting to the young woman, hastened into the room at her mistress's call.

  "Fetch me the men's clothing I use when I practice with Nicholas! Be quick about it! Hurry!"

  Katherine stared at her, confused and upset. "Oh, my lady, there is no time! We must flee — "

  "Go!" Nikol shouted at her. "Do as I command!"

  Katherine cast a frightened look at Michael, who shook his head, bewildered. The woman fled, her wooden clogs clattering over the stone floor.

  Nikol glanced about the room, found what she sought. Catching hold of her brother's leather belt, she drew a sharp knife from its sheath and held it out to Michael. He stared at it, then at her.

  "My vows forbid me to carry sharp weapons, my lady — "

  "You weakling! I'm not asking you to fight with it!"

  Nikol thrust the knife into his limp hand. Lifting the heavy braid of long, golden hair, she twitched it around, held it out to him.

  "Cut it. Cut it to match the length of my brothers hair."

  Michael understood suddenly what she intended. He stared at her, aghast. "Nikol, you can't be serious! You're not thinking — "

  "No, it's you who's not thinking!" She turned, faced him. "This is my only chance to save Nicholas. Don't you understand? They've taken him away. Now they're launching an assault to cover their escape. We must drive them back, then I can lead a party to go rescue my brother."

  "But you're a woman. The men won't follow you."

  "They won't know they're following me," Nikol said calmly, turning around again. "They'll think they're following my brother. We look enough alike that I can fool them, beneath the armor. And don't worry, Brother," she added bitterly. "You can stay here in safety and pray for me. Now, cut"

  Her sarcasm was sharper than the blade. He realized now how wide was the gulf that separated them. He had sometimes dared to hope that she was fond of him. He had sometimes fancied that she had responded warmly to his touch.

  If I were noble or if she were common, might we not love?

  But now he knew the truth, he saw it in her eyes. She despised him, despised his weakness.

  Michael grasped the knife awkwardly. Lifting the heavy braid of hair in his hand, he felt its silk beneath his fingers.

  How many times have I dreamed of this moment, he thought to himself bitterly. The grace, the privilege of touching her beautiful hair.

  He heard frantic shouting outside. A spent arrow whistled in through the window. Gritting his teeth, Michael hacked away at the shining, twisted strands.

  "My lord!" A grizzled sergeant caught hold of the knight's arm. Blood streamed from a cut on the sergeant's head. He limped from either a new wound or an old. "My lord I It's hopeless. There are far too many of the fiends! Sound the retreat!"

  "No!" The knight shook him off furiously. "They're falling back. Rally the men for another charge!"

  "My lord, they're regrouping, making ready for the killing blow, that's all," said the sergeant gently.

  Michael realized then that the sergeant knew the truth. He knew he wasn't following his lord, but his lady.

  The cleric edged closer, to listen to the conversation. The battle had been brief and brutal. He had done what he could to ease the pain of the dying, but that hadn't been much. The situation bad been too dire, too confused, for anyone to notice that their cleric had tucked his medallion of faith inside his robes, that no prayers passed his lips. Merciful death came to most swiftly. Michael's one panicstricken thought was that Nikol would fall, wounded. And then what could he do for her?

  "What are your orders, my lord?" the sergeant asked, respectfully.

  Nikol did not immediately answer. Exhaustion had taken its toll. The ragged blond hair that fell to the metalarmored shoulders was wet with sweat. Any other knight would have removed the heavy helm, wiped his face. This knight kept her helm on.

  Michael joined them, stared out over the battlements into the woods beyond. Day had dawned. The vast numbers of the enemy could be counted easily; they made no secret of their strength. The knight glanced around at the pitiful number of men who remained.

  "Release the men from duty," said Nikol, in a low, toneless voice. "If they leave now, they can make good their escape. The goblins will be too busy looting and burning to chase them."

  "Very good, my lord," said the sergeant, bowing.

  "Give them my thanks. They fought well."

  "Yes, my lord." The old sergeant's voice was choked. "My lord will be coming with us?"

  Nikol made no response. Mic
hael stepped forward, prepared to argue, prepared to tell everyone the truth, if necessary. Anything to save her. He caught the flash of blue eyes from behind the helm. Nikol's gaze held his a moment, warned him to keep silent.

  "No, not immediately," she replied. "And don't wait for me. I will try to save what little of value remains."

  "My lord — "

  "Go, Jeoffrey. Take my thanks and my blessing."

  The knight held out a gauntleted hand. The old man caught hold of it, pressed it to his lips.

  "Never did a noble knight fight with such courage as you have fought this day, my lord I May Paladine walk always at your side."

  The sergeant bowed his head. Tears streamed down the weathered cheeks. Then he was gone, running through the smoke, shouting orders.

  Michael stepped forward, out of the shadows. "You should go with them, my lady."

  Nikol did not even glance at him. She stood staring out into the woods, crawling with evil creatures. "Your prayers did little good, Brother."

  Michael's face burned with shame. Did she know the truth? Suspect? He turned away in unhappy silence.

  "Don't go, Michael," she said softly, remorsefully. "Forgive me… and ask the gods to forgive me. It's just… so hopeless!"

  She leaned against him, thankful for his support. He couldn't very well take an armored knight in his arms. He made do by squeezing her hand tightly. "We must get away, my lady."

  "Yes," Nikol murmured. She talked as if she were in a daze. "There is a cave, not far from the castle. Nicholas and I used to play there, when we were little. It is well hidden. We will be safe."

  "Is there anything you want to take with you?" Michael asked, feeling helpless. He looked at the castle walls. Even now, they appeared stalwart, impregnable. It was difficult to imagine that they could no longer offer the shelter they promised. "What about the servants?" he asked.

  "I sent them away long ago," said Nikol. They were alone now. The men had fled. She removed her helm. Her face was ashen, grimy with dirt and blood and sweat. "Most of them have family in these parts. They'll warn them, hopefully in time to get away safely. As for the jewels, we sold them years ago. I have with me what matters to me most."

  Her gaze went fondly, sadly to the sword in her hand — her brother's sword, which once had been her father's and his father's before him.

  "But we'll need food, water skins…"

  A hideous yell went up from the goblins in the woods. A black wave started to roll across the torn and trampled grasslands in front of the castle. The gate was shut. It would take them some time to storm the walls, even though they were no longer defended.

  Nikol's lips tightened. She replaced the helm over her head, gripped the sword. "Stay behind me and keep clear of my sword arm. I may need to fight our way out."

  "Yes, my lady."

  They hastened to stairs, leading downward. Nikol paused, turned to him, grasped his hand.

  "We'll find Nicholas, and you will heal him," she said.

  "Yes, my lady," Michael replied. What could he say?

  She nodded abruptly and disappeared into the darkness of the spiral staircase. Michael followed after her, his heart aching, heavy.

  "It's hopeless!" he wanted to shout. "Hopeless! Even if we did find him, I can't heal him! Don't you see? Don't you understand?"

  Grasping the blue holy symbol of Mishakal, he drew it forth from beneath his robes. Once it would have lit the darkness. Once it would have glowed brightly, radiantly. Now he could barely see it for the thick shadows surrounding him.

  He let the medallion fall heavily to his chest. "You will see, soon enough. Now you despise me. Then you will hate me."

  He stumbled after her through the darkness.

  Part IV

  Night crept over the land. Nikol stood at the entrance to the cave and watched the lurid red glow of flames lighting the dark sky, at first brilliantly, then gradually growing dim. The smoke of the burning stung the eyes, bit into the nostrils. Occasionally, raucous shouts and wild laughter could be heard, carried on the wind.

  "You should rest, my lady," said Michael gently.

  "You sleep, Brother," she told him. "I'll keep watch."

  Her spirit was strong, but it could not lend its strength to muscle and bone and sinew. Even as she spoke, her knees buckled beneath her. Michael caught her in his arms, eased her to the cavern floor. He pried her fingers from the sword she still held, fingers gummed black with goblin blood. He washed her hands, bathed her face with cool water.

  "Wake me before the dawn," she murmured. "We will follow them… find Nicholas." She slept.

  Michael sat back, closed his eyes. Tears of weariness and despair filled his eyes; a lump grew in his throat, choked him. He loved her so, and he must fail her. Even if they found Nicholas and saved him — and how could they do that, against a goblin army? — Michael could not heal him.

  TOMORROW NIGHT, THE NIGHT OF DOOM, THE BRIDGE AT THE LOST CITADEL WILL OPEN TO ALL TRUE CLERICS. ONLY THOSE WHO HAVE FAITH MAY PASS.

  Mishakal's voice came to him. The goddess had given him a chance to redeem himself.

  Tomorrow night. The cleric had until tomorrow night to find the bridge, the Lost Citadel, a place remembered only in legend, from the beginnings of the world. He would cross the bridge. The light of the goddess once more would shine on him, envelop him, end the pain of this hopeless love, this useless existence. Once he was there, he would rediscover his lost faith.

  "Good-bye, Nikol. Tomorrow, when you wake, I will be gone," he told her. Reaching out his hand, he touched the rough-cut hair. "Don't be angry with me. You don't need me. I would be a liability to you, a weak man who cannot even call upon the power of the goddess to aid you. You will travel faster alone."

  He propped himself up against the cavern wall, fully intending to stay awake, watch for the gray light of dawn, when he would sneak away. But easeful slumber stole over him. His head drooped; his body slumped to the ground. He did not see it, but in the darkness, the holy medallion he wore began to glow a soft blue, and no harm came to them during the night, though many evil creatures skulked about their hiding place.

  With the dawn, however, the medallion's soft light faded.

  The black-robed wizard squatted on a cleared patch of ground in the middle of the forest. It was midmorning. The sun shone through a haze of smoke that drifted among the treetops. Akar sneezed, glanced up at the smoke irritably, then turned his attention back to the divining rocks he had tossed on the ground. Leaning over them, he studied them carefully.

  "This is it, the Night of Doom. The true clerics will depart Ansalon. I have one night to find the Lost Citadel. Where are those blasted goblins anyway?" Akar looked once again, grimly, at the smoke. "Enjoying themselves, I fancy. We'll see how long they do if they fail me — "

  The rustling of tree branches interrupted him. Akar gathered up the stones in one swift movement of his hand, thrust them into a black leather pouch. The words of a deadly spell on his lips, he crept back swiftly into the protection of the trees and waited.

  A group of four goblins burst into the cleared space. They moved loudly, with the confidence of those engorged on victory. They bore between them a litter on which lay the body of a human male. The wizard, seeing the litter, cursed.

  The goblin chief shoved past his men, looked around the forest. "Wizard? Show yourself! Make haste! I want my money!"

  Akar stalked out of the woods. Ignoring the chief, he strode over to the litter, which the goblins had dropped on the ground. The young man on the litter groaned in pain. He was conscious, though he seemed to have little idea what was happening to him. He looked up at the wizard with dazed puzzlement.

  Akar regarded him coldly.

  ''What's this?" he demanded. "What have you brought me?"

  "A Knight of Solamnia. They stripped him of his armor." The goblin sounded bitter. He could have used that armor.

  "Bah! He's too young to be a knight. Even if I believed you, the man is wounded, ne
ar dying! What use is he to me in this state?"

  "Lucky you are to have him in any state!" hissed the goblin. "Did you expect us to take a Knight of Solamnia without a fight?"

  Akar bent over the young man. Roughly, he lifted the blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly around the abdomen, peered at the wound. The man cried out in agony, clenched his fists. A ring flashed in the light. Akar grasped it, stared at it, grunted in satisfaction.

  "Well, well. You are a knight."

  "What do you want of me?" the wounded man managed to gasp.

  Akar ignored him. He felt for the lifebeat in the neck, noted the fever burning the blood. The wizard sat back on his haunches.

  "He won't last another hour."

  "I suggest you do what you must do with him quickly, then," advised the chief.

  "Impossible. I need him alive all night."

  "Oh? I suppose now you'll want us to go out and capture you a cleric?" The goblin chief sneered.

  "It would do no good. No cleric you would find this night on Krynn could heal him."

  The goblin chief gestured. "Then you take care of him. You're a wizard, after all. I suppose your magic's good for something. Pay us what you owe us and let us be gone. We plan to make something out of this deal. The castle was picked clean before we got there. Not a woman to be had."

  The knight cried out, struggled to rise. His hand went for his sword, but it was no longer at his side.

  "Save your strength." Akar shoved the knight back down. The wizard stood up. He was in a better mood, almost smiling. "Here's your pay." He tossed a few gold coins at the goblin chief.

  The chief found this sudden change in the wizard suspicious, apparently, for he eyed the money dubiously. "You pick it up," he ordered one of his cohorts, who did as he was told.

  The goblins slunk back to their looting, their chief keeping a careful eye on his man who held the wizard's money.

  Akar turned to the knight, who lay still and silent, fighting against the pain, refusing to show weakness.

  "What do you want of me?" he repeated hoarsely.

  "This night, I must spill the blood of a good and true person on the bridge of the Lost Citadel. You have the misfortune to be, Sir Knight, a good and true person. At least that's what your people say of you. Something of a rarity these days, I must admit. Don't trouble yourself over the how and why, but, with your murder, the clerics of Her Dark Majesty will at last be able to return to this world."