The reign of Istar t2-1

by Margaret Weis

  Dreadful moonlight shone upon the knight's face and bandaged, bloodied body. The unholy radiance washed out all color, turned red blood black, reduced waxen flesh to bone, glistened in the eyes like unshed tears. The light blinded Nicholas with its vast and terrible darkness. He cried out, clutched at nothing with groping hands.

  "Know despair!" breathed Akar, drawing the dagger from his belt. "Know defeat. Know that your god has forsaken you and the world — !"

  "Halt, foul servant of evil! Stay your hand or I swear, by Paladine, I will cut it from your arm!"

  Akar stopped, peered out into the darkness. He was not arrested in his movement by the living voice, though it was stem and commanding, as he was halted by frantic, whispered warnings coming from the shadow voices on the other side of the bridge. What threat did they see?

  The wizard's gaze flickered over the figure of a knight in armor, sword in hand, who ran forward to challenge battle. Strong enchantment surrounded the Lost Citadel. Akar doubted if the knight could break through it. As he expected, the armored figure came up against a barrier that was like an explosion of stars, was thrown suddenly and heavily backward.

  "Nikol!" cried the knight, straining to reach her, but he only managed to fall forward on his bloodied breast.

  The woman hurled herself once again into the barrier, cried out in pain and frustration when she could not get through, and she began to hack at it with her sword. A cleric in nondescript blue robes appeared to be trying to remonstrate with her. Akar paid them scant attention. He saw, by Nuitari's dark light, something far more disquieting.

  A mage clad in black robes stood leaning heavily on a staff that had at its top a crystal clasped in the claw of a dragon. Akar recognized the staff, the Staff of Magius, a powerful magical artifact that was, the last he had heard, in safekeeping in the Tower of Wayreth. Akar recognized the staff, but not the mage who held it, and that disturbed him, for he knew all who wore the black robes.

  "So you would try to usurp me, would you, Akar?" said the mage. Raistlin strode closer.

  Who was this stranger wizard? His voice sounded familiar, yet Akar could swear he had never before seen him. The words of a killing spell were on Akar's lips. He shifted the dagger to his left hand; the fingers of his right slid into his pouch, gathering components. The voices from the darkness shouted cries and warnings, urged him to destroy the silent onlooker, but Akar dared not kill the stranger without first ascertaining who he was, what his purpose. To do so would be against all the laws of the Conclave. In a world in which magic is mistrusted and reviled, all magi are loyal to one another for the sake of the magic.

  "You have the advantage of me, Brother Black Robe," shouted Akar, trying in vain to see more clearly beneath the shadows of the hood that covered the mage's face. "I do not recognize you, as you seem to recognize me. I would be glad to renew old acquaintance but, as you see, I am somewhat busy at the moment. Allow me to dispatch this knight and complete the spell and then I will be happy to discuss whatever grievance you think you have against me."

  "You don't recognize me, Akar?" came the soft, whispering voice. "Are you sure?"

  "How can I if you do not remove your hood and let me see your face?" demanded Akar impatiently. "Be swift. My time. is short."

  "My face is not known to you. But this, I believe, is."

  The strange mage lifted an object in his hand and held it forth to be illuminated by Nuitari's dark light. Akar saw it, recognized it, felt the chill hand of fear close around his heart.

  In a thin and wasted hand — a hand that seemed, to Akar, to gleam with a golden light, as if the skin had a strange gold cast to it — the mage held a silver pendant, a bloodstone.

  Akar knew that pendant. Often he'd seen it hanging around the neck of his teacher, one of the greatest, most powerful wizards who had ever lived — and one of the most evil. Akar had heard the whispered rumors about that bloodstone, how the ancient wizard used it to suck life out of an apprentice, infuse his own powerful life into a new, younger body. Akar had never believed the rumors, never believed them until now.

  "Fistandantilus!" he cried in recognition, and fumbled for the spell components with fingers gone numb while his brain fumbled for words that eluded his grasp.

  A jagged bolt of lightning streaked through the night, struck Akar's left hand. The jolt knocked the dagger from the wizard's grasp, flung him backward, momentarily dazed.

  Nicholas made a feeble effort to try to escape. Crawling on his hands and knees, he dragged his suffering, tortured body out of the ghastly light. He reached the edge of the stairs, tried to crawl down, slipped in a pool of his own blood, and plummeted down the steps. His death-shadowed eyes sought and found his sister. He stretched his hand out to her.

  She dropped her sword, tried to clasp him, but the magical barrier kept them apart.

  From behind them, out of the darkness, came the urgent command, "Pick up the dagger!"

  Part IX

  Michael heard Raistlin's command, remembered the mage's instructions.

  WHEN THE DAGGER FALLS, PICK IT UP!

  "But how can I?" Michael cried. "How can I cross the barrier?"

  The cleric had been attempting to keep Nikol from injuring herself, flinging herself again and again into the magical wall that kept her from her brother. Her hands were burned and blistered, yet, even now, she ignored the pain, trying her best to reach Nicholas, though every time she did so, a cascade of sparks burst around her.

  Michael looked past her, looked past the tortured Nicholas, and saw the dagger that lay gleaming on the citadel steps, near the bridge. The black-robed wizard who had wielded it, who sought to bring into the world the dark clerics that shouted and gibbered from the other side, was recovering from his shock, was starting to look around and take stock of his situation. He was much closer to the dagger than Michael.

  "You can enter, fool cleric!" Raistlin cried. The words were his last, however, tearing the breath from his body. The spell he had cast had weakened him. A violent fit of coughing brought him to his knees, near where Nikol stood.

  Akar saw his enemy falter. His eyes glinted. He lurched to his feet.

  Michael grasped his holy medallion, the medallion that was dark and lifeless, and plunged forward, gritting his teeth against what he knew must be a surge of magic that would most likely kill him.

  To his amazement, nothing happened. The barrier parted. He ran up the stairs and plunged forward to snatch the dagger from beneath Akar's clutching fingertips. The mage's chill touch brushed the cleric's skin. Michael shrank from the horrible feel and the sight of the burning enmity in the black eyes, but he had the dagger.

  Clasping the weapon in his hand, hardly knowing what he was doing, only wanting to escape the wizard, Michael stumbled back down the stairs.

  At the bottom lay Nicholas. Michael looked down at the pain-twisted face, lost his fear in his compassion for the young man's suffering, his admiration for his courage. He knelt, lifted Nicholas's hand in his, held it fast. The dying knight managed a pain-filled, weary smile.

  "Paladine, help me!" Nicholas said, gasping for breath.

  A blue light bathed Michael, bathed the knight, washed the dreadful lines of pain from the gaunt face, as if he had been immersed in a lake of placid water. Time ceased its flow. Every person was arrested in motion, from Nikol, striving desperately to reach her brother, to the evil wizard, trying still to achieve his heinous goal. Michael, his heart filled with thankfulness, raised his eyes to the radiant blue goddess who stood at the entrance to the shining bridge.

  "Mishakal," Michael prayed, "grant me the power to heal this man, Paladine's faithful servant."

  The blue light dimmed. The goddess's face was sorrowful.

  "I have no power here. The knight's life is bound by the magician's cursed wish to the dagger you hold. Only the dagger and the one who wields it, for good or evil, will bring this young man ease."

  Michael stared at the dagger in his hand with horror and the sudd
en, sickening realization of what he was being asked to do.

  "You can't mean this, Lady! What dread task is this you give me? I am a healer, not a killer!"

  "I give you no task. I tell you how the knight's pain may be forever ended. The choice is up to you. You can see the bridge, can you not?"

  "Yes," said Michael, looking with longing at the radiant, shining span and the peaceful, serene features of those ethereal figures who walked it. "I see it clearly."

  "Then you may cross it. Throw aside the dagger. The concerns of this world are no longer yours."

  Michael looked down at Nicholas, who lay still, eyes closed, in peaceful sleep… as long as the light of the goddess shone on him. When it was withdrawn, the terrible spell that bound him to his cruel suffering would be empowered once more. Nikol had ceased her bitter struggle and was on her knees, as near her brother as was possible for the magical barrier that barred her way.

  "You can heal him, Michael," she was saying.

  Near her, the strange, black-robed mage, Raistlin, who had fought one of his own kind, watched Michael with glittering eyes that reflected back the goddess's light, seemed to see and know all that was passing.

  Who was this Raistlin? What was his purpose? Michael didn't know, didn't understand. He didn't fathom any of this, knew himself suddenly to be nothing more than a frayed thread in a tangled skein.

  Anger stirred in him again. What was his life or any of their lives worth to the gods, who live forever? How could he be expected to know what was right and what was wrong if he stumbled through life as blind as he'd been in that enchanted forest?

  "While I am in the world, its concerns are mine," cried Michael. "When I took your vows, Lady, I accepted responsibility for the world and its people. Those will be mine, as long as I live. How can you ask me to break them?"

  "But by killing this man, Michael, you do break my vows."

  "So be it," said the cleric harshly. He gripped the dagger with hands that trembled. "Must… must I stab him?"

  "No," said the goddess gently. "Draw blood only. That will break the spell."

  "And my vows?" Michael looked up at her again, calmly, not pleading, but in deep sadness. "Will I lose your favor?"

  The goddess did not reply.

  Michael bowed his head. The blue light faded. Time began its ticking, like the beating of a heart. He heard, behind him, Akar's trampling footfalls, the rasping of his breath. He saw, before him, Nikol regarding him hopefully, expectantly. He felt the knight's hand, still clasped in his own, stiffen in agony, saw the young man's face twist.

  "Strike now!" ordered Raistlin, so weak with coughing that he could not stand. "Or else all is lost!"

  "Strike? What do you mean?" Nikol sprang to her feet. She saw the dagger in Michael's hand, suddenly understood his intent. "What are you doing? False cleric! You have betrayed me!" She turned to Raistlin. "Help me! You understand what I feel! Don't let him kill my brother!"

  She wasn't watching. Michael must strike now, while she wasn't watching. Barely able to see for the tears in his eyes, Michael rested the dagger's tip on the knight's sweatcovered brow and pressed the point into the flesh. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the scratch.

  Akar cursed bitterly.

  Nicholas opened his eyes, turned his head. The light of the bridge shone on his face.

  "Paladine is merciful," he said. "He gave me strength."

  At the sound of his voice, Nikol turned swiftly. "Nicholas!"

  His eyes had closed. His breath left him in a sigh. The lines of pain and suffering were smoothed away, as if by some immortal, soothing hand.

  She saw Michael lay the dagger reverently on the knight's bare breast.

  "Nicholas!"

  Nikol's voice, ragged with grief, pierced michael more deeply than the dagger had pierced her brother's flesh. The barrier was lifted. She fell upon the lifeless body. The hair that she had shorn for his sake mingled with the hair that was so like it that it was impossible to tell them apart.

  Suddenly, she raised her head, stared at Michael and Akar.

  "The cleric killed your brother!" Akar cried. "It was my spell that kept him alive. The cleric broke it!"

  Michael could say nothing, couldn't explain, if she didn't understand.

  She stared at him, eyes empty of all feeling.

  Rough hands grabbed hold of Michael from behind, jerked him to his feet. A black-robed arm wrapped around his neck.

  "Here, cleric!" Akar said. "Come up here to the temple. Away from that evil wizard, Fistandantilus. You don't know him. He's dangerous!"

  Michael started to cry out a warning. Akar's hand covered the cleric's mouth.

  "Yes, I've captured you. The good and virtuous!" Akar laughed beneath his breath. "I saw the goddess speak to you! You are in her favor. Your blood will do as well as the knight's!"

  Michael tensed, prepared for a struggle.

  "I wouldn't try it," breathed the wizard, "unless you want to see the young woman die in flames! There, that's better. Come quietly. And you, Fistandantilus!" Akar sneered, all the while dragging Michael backward, up the stairs. "You are too weak to stop me!"

  Raistlin was on his knees, clutching the staff to keep from falling. Blood flecked his lips. He could not speak, yet he smiled and pointed.

  Michael, clasped close against the mage, heard Akar draw in a sucking breath.

  The dagger. The dagger lay shining on the knight's lifeless breast.

  STEEL MUST DRAW THE BLOOD.

  Akar halted, ground his teeth in frustration. Michael saw the bridge beneath his feet. And now that he was this near to the other side, he could hear cold voices calling for his death, see shadowed shapes writhing in eager ness to be free.

  Michael had, at first, thought it was his fevered imagination, but now he was sure of it — the light of the bridge was growing gradually dimmer, the clamoring shouts of the dead growing louder, more frantic. The Night of Doom was ending.

  "Girl!" Akar's voice was suddenly soft, sweet and thick and warm. "Girl, bring me the dagger."

  Nikol shifted her gaze to him, blinked. Slowly, she lowered her eyes to the dagger that rested on her brother's body.

  "The false cleric killed him, this knight that was dear to you. Bring me the dagger, girl, and you will have your revenge."

  Nikol reached out with her hand, lifted the dagger in fingers that trembled. She stared at it, looked from it to the wizard, from the wizard to Michael. Her eyes were dark. Slowly, she rose to her feet and began to climb the stairs of the Lost Citadel, coming toward them, the dagger in her hand.

  Was she ensorcelled? The wizard had spoken no words of magic, had cast no spell that Michael had heard.

  "Come, girl, swiftly!" Akar hissed.

  Nikol did as he bade. She walked forward steadily, her eyes as empty as her brother's. Something within her had died with him.

  Akar's grip around Michaels throat tightened. "I know what you're thinking! But if you break free, cleric, it will be her blood I spill on the bridge. Make your choice. You or her. It matters little to me."

  Nikol was level with them, the dagger held loosely in her limp, outstretched hand. Her left hand. Her sword hand, her right, was free.

  The light of the bridge was fading fast. A pale glow in the far distant sky presaged morning, a gray morning, a dawning of unhappiness and fear for those left in a world where man had forsaken the gods.

  Akar had seconds only. He made a grab.

  Nikol's grasp tightened on the dagger. She stabbed. The blade tore through the wizard's palm, tore through bone and tendon and muscle, thrust out, blood-blackened, on the other side of the hand.

  Akar howled in pain and rage. Michael broke free of the mage's weakening grasp, flung himself to the ground. The only help he could offer Nikol was to keep clear of her sword arm.

  Nikol's blade, which had been her brother's and his father's before him and his father's before that, swept past Michael in a shining silver arc. The wizard screamed. The blade
drove deep into his vitals.

  Michael rolled over, was on his feet. Akar stood spitted on Nikol's sword, his hands grasping at it, his face distorted with fury and pain.

  Nikol jerked the sword free. Blood burst from Akar's mouth. He pitched forward on his face and lay dead on the steps of the Lost Citadel.

  Her face pale and set, as rigid as the stones, gray in the morning light, Nikol nudged Akar's body with the toe of her boot.

  "I'm sorry if I frightened you," she said to Michael. "I had to play along with him. I feared he'd cast a spell on me before I could slay him."

  "Then you do understand!" was all Michael could think to say.

  "No," Nikol answered bitterly. "I don't understand any of it. All I know is that this Akar was the one responsible for my brother's death and, by the Oath and the Measure, that death is avenged. As for you" — her lifeless gaze turned,to Michael — "you did what you could."

  Nikol turned and walked back down the temple steps.

  Sickened by the terrible death he had just witnessed, shaken by his ordeal, the cleric tried to follow, but his legs gave way. Sweat chilled on his body. He leaned weakly against a crumbling pillar, his wistful gaze going back to the shining bridge, that line of peace-filled, serene figures leaving this world of pain and sorrow and suffering.

  The bridge was gone. The door amid the stars was closed.

  Part X

  The morning was deathly quiet.

  Quiet.

  Michael raised his head. The dread voices of the dark clerics were silenced. Their threat to take over the world, now that all the true clerics of the gods were gone, was ended.

  All true clerics gone. Michael sighed. His hand went to the symbol of Mishakal that hung dark and cold about his neck. He had questioned when he should have believed. He had been angry, defiant, when he should have been humble, submissive. He had taken life when he should have acted to save it.

  Michael drew a deep breath to dispel the mists that blurred his vision. One more task was left for him to perform, the only task for which he was seemingly worthy now — composing the body of the dead for its final rest. Then he could leave, leave Nikol alone with her bitter grief, remove himself and the knowledge of his failure from her sight. It was poor comfort, but all he could offer. He pushed himself away from the pillar, slowly descended the stairs.