The cataclysm t2-2

by Margaret Weis

  A wind sprang up before midnight. The breeze scoured the smoke and clouds away, and stars glittered overhead. Dunvane called for his quadrant. He shot the stars and called out their positions to Norry, who scratched figures on a wax tablet.

  "Something's not right.about these figures, Captain," Norry muttered. He chewed the blunt end of his wooden stylus. "We're nowhere near where we should be."

  Dunvane sent below for a chart of the Istar coast. By lantern light, he compared the figures he'd just taken to the ones given on the parchment scroll. His jaw dropped in astonishment. He shot the stars again, with the same result. The heavens did not lie. He stabbed his knife into the map at their position. "We're a hundred miles from the Istar coast," said Dunvane. "A hundred miles inland of the coastline!"

  "The woman's right," said Norry grimly. "The land's gone under the sea. What do we do now, sir?"

  Dunvane snatched up lantern, knife, and chart. "The Revered Son must see this." He burst into the priest's cabin without knocking. Imkhian stirred sleepily in his berth.

  "What's the meaning of this disturbance?" he asked sternly.

  "I have important news, Holy One," Dunvane replied.

  "We have reached Istar?" Imkhian sat up. "The Kingpriest will be very pleased! We're a day early — "

  "We're in Istar all right, Revered Son, but Istar is not here."

  "Did you wake me to ply me with riddles?"

  Dunvane spread the map on the table and set the lamp on it. "By the stars of heaven, which I shot not five minutes ago, I got this as our position." He pointed to the hole in the chart made by his knife point. Imkhian bent over to study the map.

  "You've simply made an error — "

  "I shot our position twice, Holy One," the captain interrupted. 'The woman was right. What we took for a tempest was some kind of great upheaval. There's no way of knowing how far the destruction spreads."

  Imkhian straightened. He ran his fingers through his mussed hair and tugged his wrinkled robe into a semblance of order. "I am certain the city of Istar is safe, Captain. The Kingpriest's power is proof against any catastrophe or evil magic."

  Imkhian's voice was strong, positive, calm. But this time, the captain's fears were not stilled. The two men stared at each other for a long minute.

  "I hope you're right, Revered Son," said Dunvane at last. He rolled up his chart. "I'd best take the wheel. We're in unknown waters now, and a captain's place is at the helm."

  He turned to go, but Imkhian caught his arm. "Leave the lantern," he said. "I wish to pray."

  Dunvane pulled the cabin door shut quietly. Norry came up behind him.

  "The trysail's been rigged, sir," he reported, "and we've spotted lightning. Looks to be a terrible storm, dead ahead."

  What else could happen? Dunvane sighed and followed his mate to the wheel. A red glow lit up the horizon, too early and too easterly to be the dawn. "What is that?" asked the captain, staring.

  "Dunno, sir. Could be a ship on fire."

  Dunvane squinted through the tangle of rigging, masts, and the billowing trysail. "If so, it's a big one," he muttered.

  "Aye."

  Lightning flickered around the scarlet glow. An uncommonly warm wind blew over them; patches of mist rose from the cooling sea. They could hear the sound of thunder. The previously calm sea was roughened by rising swells. The Sunchaser wallowed in the waves. The motion roused Jernina, who came aft to see what was going on.

  "What's that light?" she asked, clutching at the binnacle for support.

  Before anyone could reply, Imkhian, white robe flapping in the increasingly hot wind, appeared like a pale ghost at the captain's elbow.

  "Let the gods steer your ship, Captain," he commanded. "We are in their hands now."

  "Every sailor is in the hands of the gods," Dunvane said, "but my hands stay on this wheel, Holy One."

  A thunderclap was punctuated by a stinging hail of dust. The wind crackled the frail trysail. The ship glided along with the speeding current. The dust storm passed quickly, replaced by a steady blast of furnace-hot air. The sailors and Jermina coughed and covered their faces. Dunvane blinked through the grit lodged in his eyes and stared at the rapidly brightening red glow. It soon filled the sky from port to starboard. From its midst rose a column of smoke, reaching from the sea surface up to the sky, where it spread into a flat-topped cloud.

  "The whole world's on fire!" Norry gasped.

  "The water's starting to seethe like a soup kettle," cried the lookout.

  Dunvane stared over the bow. Steam rose from the sea. The water was the color of blood. "I'm putting about," Dunvane said and tried to put the helm over to starboard.

  Imkhian's long white fingers gripped the wheel. "Go forward, Captain. In my prayers I was given to know that we must seek out the fire, not hide from it. Fire purifies all it touches. The gods will protect us."

  The priest's voice was calm, his gaze fixed upon the crimson glow before them.

  Dunvane shook his head. "We must turn away, Revered Son. The ship would go up like a torch."

  The priest made his way past the sailors and stood by the rail. His gaze roved around the spectacle before them, the unknown red light, the pillar of smoke, the steaming, blood-red water. He turned abruptly, his eyes blazing. "Keep going!"

  Lightning flickered overhead as the hot, glowing column of smoke closed out the last bit of night. The red glow lit them like a bloody sunrise. Dunvane spun the wheel left and right, but the Sunchaser could not break out of the rushing stream that propelled it.

  "It doesn't look as if we've got much choice," Dunvane said bitterly. Norry and the other two crewmen began to fidget and cast anxious looks at the churning sea.

  Something boomed against the hull. A sailor bent over the side and sang out, "Timbers! There's timbers in the water! Heading straight for us!"

  Unable to steer, Dunvane could do nothing. Massive building timbers rammed into the SUNCHASER. Dunvane held grimly to the wheel. The ship rolled and pitched and they were still being drawn toward the great shaft of smoke, fire and lightning.

  "Have no fear!" called Imkhian above the thunder and booming waves. "We are being tested! We must not be afraid! Istar lies beyond the wall of fire; we must penetrate the wall!" The priest knelt by the great serpentine bowl, clinging to its smooth surface.

  Norry staggered across the canted deck. "Captain! What can we do?"

  A bolt of lightning struck the mainmast. The foot-thick oak mast splintered down its length, and the heavy crossyard crashed to the deck, knocking Dunvane back from the wheel. He hit the sterncastle and slid down, stunned. The useless wheel spun freely.

  The Sunchaser heeled sharply to port. Dunvane shook the mist from his brain and stood, grasping Norry's arm for support.

  The rudder had been carried away. The fallen crossyard had torn the puny trysail like a cobweb. SUNCHASER wallowed dead in the water. The racing current caught its blunt stern and swung the ship in a half circle. Scalding-hot spray, whipped up from the churning water, burst over the rail. Dunvane, his men, and Jermina sought vainly for cover.

  Imkhian stood alone on the foredeck, clutching the capstan and staring into the hellish tempest. His hair was slicked down by the hot sea spray. His lips moved, though no one could hear his words. He gazed up at the heavens, as though praying.

  Norry prodded Dunvane. The captain shielded his face from the droplets as his gaze followed the first mate's pointing arm.

  Great piles of wreckage whirled on the sea's surface — fragments of gilded roofs and plastered walls, furniture, corpses, uprooted trees. The wreckage spun about in the blood-tinged water, then vanished into a gigantic whirlpool in the ocean. Dunvane knew then they were doomed. Smoke rose from the funnel, and lightning flashed in the skies above. "This is the force that has drawn us on since yesterday morning," Dunvane said.

  One sailor shrieked a warning. A gigantic bronze statue was coming up fast on the starboard beam.

  Dunvane grabbed the person n
earest him — it happened to be Jermina — and held on. The hurtling statue smashed into the ship.

  The Sunchaser heeled halfway over, burying its port rail in the blood-red sea. A sailor somersaulted over the rail into the water and was swept away by the current. The ship shuddered like a wounded beast, its timbers groaning as it slowly righted itself partway. It was impaled on the wreckage, and sinking by the bow.

  The colossal statue — seared by fire, melted and misshapen — lay across the foredeck. "Where's the Revered Son?" Dunvane demanded. He ran forward and found Imkhian crumpled against the capstan. Blood was running from a gash on his forehead.

  "Revered Son! Are you all right?"

  The priest blinked and looked up at the face of the statue. "Kingpriest!" he cried hoarsely. "You stood upon the arch of Paladine's Gate!" He covered his face with his hands and uttered a long, tearing wail. "What has the world come to, that the most righteous nation on Krynn can be dealt such a blow? The Great Temple — the Kingpriest — the Revered Sons and Daughters — all thrown down! Istar is destroyed! Istar is destroyed!"

  Imkhian bolted to the starboard rail. He stared straight into the whirling maelstrom and threw a leg over the rail.

  "Stop, Imkhian!" Dunvane yelled.

  The sound of his own name made the priest pause. He looked over his shoulder at the captain. His face was twisted with fury. "The gods have abandoned us! The world is at an end." Turning back to face the boiling sea, he raised his other leg over the rail.

  "You don't have to die!" Dunvane shouted.

  Imkhian's reply was a snarl. "Fools! You are already dead!" He let go and fell from the ship.

  Dunvane and Norry ran to the rail. To his horror, Dunvane saw Imkhian break the surface of the bubbling ocean, hands reaching up to the ruined image of the Kingpriest. Without a sound, he sank below the surface.

  Hatch covers all over the ship burst off as the flooding seawater filled the hold. Norry pulled Dunvane away from the rail. The SUNCHASER was going down.

  "Go aft!" Dunvane yelled. There was a small dinghy lashed to the transom stern. It was the only escape craft they had. Norry and the other sailor worked their way up the port side. Jermina and the captain crawled up the starboard. Blood-red saltwater lapped at Dunvane's heels.

  "Don't let the dinghy fall!" Dunvane ordered. "It'll break." The sinking ship had lifted the stern so high he didn't dare release the lifeboat's moorings for fear of it plunging into the water and breaking apart. Norry and the sailor tried to free the dinghy, planning to drag it amidships and launch it there. They were so intent on cutting the knots that they didn't see the mizzen yard teeter above them.

  "Look out!" the captain shouted.

  Norry looked up in time to see the yard falling. He threw himself back. The railing he landed against gave way and, with a shocked outcry, he plunged overboard. The sailor, crouched by the dinghy, had no time to escape. The heavy yard crushed him and the dinghy in one devastating blow.

  The ship's bow slipped under the waves. The bronze statue broke loose and was sucked away into the maelstrom by the racing current.

  Water advanced slowly up the deck. Jermina clutched the captain's arm. "There must be something we can do," she pleaded.

  "No one can live in that current," Dunvane said grimly. "The priest was right. The gods have abandoned us. We are as good as dead."

  "Not" Jermina cried. "I don't believe it. The gods help those who help themselves."

  Seawater bubbled around the serpentine bowl. It remained lashed to the deck, though the mainmast yard had fallen across it. Steam billowed up as the hot water touched the cool stone.

  "Will that float?" Jermina asked, pointing to the sacramental bowl.

  "Float? Maybe. It's light for its size, but why — ?" "Come on!" She seized his arm and dragged him along. They had to wade in ankle-deep blood-red water to reach the bowl. Dunvane was almost numb with shock. "Hopeless," he muttered, but he let Jermina carry him along.

  They managed to climb into the gigantic serpentine bowl. Jermina snatched the captain's knife from his belt and tried to hack through the lashings. They were too thick, and she made little progress. At last, Dunvane took the knife from her and set to work. Jermina reached out and snagged a boat hook floating nearby.

  When the last line parted, the bowl was free of the ship. Jermina pushed them away with the boat hook. The bowl slid off the canted deck and into the water. The rushing current caught them.

  They huddled in the bottom of the sacramental bowl, clinging to each other. The stone's fireproof properties protected them from the heat of the water, but the low sides let gouts of hot spray wash over them. The maelstrom spun them in tighter and tighter spirals toward the huge column of smoke and flame in its heart. Other wreckage crashed into them. The roaring of the rushing water filled their ears. They coughed and gasped in the fiery, choking air.

  The serpentine bowl struck hard against something — the statue of the Kingpriest. Dunvane, certain this was the end, shut his eyes. The heat overcame them. They both lost consciousness.

  Jermina awoke, sat up slowly. She looked around, dazed. Behind them, the column of fire that marked the grave of the city of Istar burned and flashed. The serpentine bowl she and Dunvane were in, along with other wreckage and rubbish, had been propelled out of the maelstrom. They floated quietly in a backwater.

  "Dunvane!" she said, shaking him. He sat up, staring in wonder.

  A cool drop hit his face. Another followed, then another, and soon rain was pattering on the ocean. The shower strengthened. Dunvane lifted his head and let the water wash over him. The sound of hysterical laughter grated on his nerves. Jermina was laughing and sobbing at the same time.

  "What's funny?" he asked.

  "The Revered Son was wrong," she said. "We're alive."

  THE HIGH PRIEST OF HALCYON

  Douglas Niles

  From the Continuing Research of Foryth Teel, Chief Scribe Assisting Astinus, Eternal Lorekeeper of Krynn. Most Esteemed Historian:

  It is with reverence approaching awe that I again pursue the lost histories of Krynn. It seems to me that now, more than ever before, the search for truth must be pursued with unrelenting courage and diligence. By all reckonings during this bleak era, the gods have abandoned us. Godly powers have been unknown for generations. The scars of the Cataclysm ravage the land. Thus, it falls to us — the historians — to follow the flickers of light that will lead us to a brighter future!

  Those flickers, as Your Excellency well knows, have grown faint. During the bleak century since the gods rained their ruin upon Istar, the tragedy of the Dwarfgate War hangs over the south. The violent Newsea, tortured since its very creation by typhoon and cyclone, divides the peoples of central Ansalon, fragmenting the countryside into tiny partitions of its former greatness.

  And everywhere, the people seek their gods. They call to Paladine, plead for Gilean or Reorx to answer their prayers. Yet the gods of good and neutrality and evil do not reply. These sad worshipers find not even the hint of the oncemanifest presence of immortal beings. That, my lord, must certainly be deemed the most dire of the many effects attributable to the Cataclysm, for without gods, the people see no hope in the future.

  On a brighter note, I am pleased to report that my health has been restored. As I have indicated previously, Your Grace's generosity in providing me with comfortable convalescence cannot be overthanked. With remarkable good luck — I dare not say the grace of the gods — I have regained full use of my limbs and the disfigurement left by the frostbite is only faintly visible.

  In sum, my recovery is complete. Now, too, I have heard news that again compels me to walk the pathways of history! The information comes to me by a most reliable source (more about him in a moment).

  I have received word of one who claims to have touched a higher power — and whose claims can be supported by creditable witnesses. A messenger arrived here, after many days of riding, from a land to the east. He tells me of a priest who has perform
ed actual miracles. Having heard of we scribes who quest for the truth, the priest sends me testimonials by this messenger and extends an invitation to witness proof that the gods have not abandoned Krynn.

  I understand that, if your calculations are correct (as they must undoubtedly be, Your Eminence!) and the gods have not left man, but man has left the gods, then there will be evidence of godhood found somewhere in the world. In a place distant or near, anywhere from the war-ravaged depths of Thorbardin to the crimson flowage of the Bloodsea, there exists proof of godly powers, whether they be curative or corruptive, beneficial or deadly.

  The priest goes by the name of Erasmoth Luker. He dwells near a small town on the shore of the Newsea — a place called, oddly (symbolically?). Halcyon. Claiming that he can wield the powers of the gods, Erasmoth has established himself in a temple on a hilltop and preaches to all who will listen.

  The source of my information — the one who dispatched the messenger to me — is a man known to you, Excellency. He is Underscribe Tyrol Deet, a historian of unusual acuity and perception. (Do you remember him — the young fellow who wanted to be a soldier until he lost his eye in a hunting accident? Now he wears a black patch over the socket and swears that the focus of his other eye has improved tenfold!) He says he has not witnessed the miracles wrought by Erasmoth — those traditionally have been reserved for the initiates, and, naturally, no historian could become such an initiate and still maintain the objective viewpoint required for our craft. Nevertheless, young Tyrol is convinced that there is truth to the tale and has persuaded the priest to allow your representative to witness and record the proof.

  That one, needless to say, is me. The cleric has invited me, in my capacity as official scribe, to join his flock at the temple, there to witness the miracles of godhood and provide proof of their existence to you, Most Gracious Master Lorekeeper!