The cataclysm t2-2

by Margaret Weis

  The two started on their way up the winding road to the High Clerist's Tower. Summoning his steed, a creature of flame and evil magic as dark as his own, Lord Soth accompanied them — an unseen companion.

  The Tower of the High Clerist had been built by the founder of the knights, Vinas Solamnus. Located high in the Vingaard Mountains, it guarded Westgate Pass, the only pass through the mountains.

  The road to the High Clerist's Tower was long and steep, but, because it was so well traveled, the knights and the citizens of Palanthas had always worked together to keep it in good repair. The road had become legendary, in fact. A quick route to anything was termed "as smooth as the road to Palanthas."

  But that had changed, as had so much else, since the Cataclysm.

  Expecting a swift and easy journey, Michael and Nikol were dismayed and disheartened to discover the once smooth road now in ruins; at points, almost impassable. Huge boulders blocked the way in some places. Wide chasms, where the rock had split apart, prevented passage in others. Mountain wall on one side of them, sheer drop on the other, Michael and Nikol were forced to climb over these barriers or — heart in mouth — make a perilous leap from one side of a cut to another.

  After only a few miles journeying, both were exhausted. They reached a relatively level place, a clearing of fir trees that once might have been a resting area for travelers. A mountain stream ran clear and cold, bounding down the cliff's side to disappear into the woodlands far beneath them. A circle of blackened rocks indicated that people had built campfires on this spot.

  The two stopped, by unspoken consent, to rest. Although the way had been hard, both were far wearier than they should have been. A pall had come over them shortly after starting out and lay heavily on them, drained them of energy. They had the feeling they were being watched, followed. Nikol kept her hand on her sword; Michael stopped continually, looked behind. They saw nothing, heard nothing, but the feeling did not leave them.

  "At least," said Nikol, "we have a clear view of the road from here." She stared long and hard down the mountain, down the way they'd come. Nothing stirred along the broken path.

  "It's our imagination," said Michael. "We're jumpy, after what happened in Palanthas, that's all."

  They sat down on the ground that was smooth with a covering of dead pine needles and ate sparingly of their meager supplies.

  The sky was gray, laden with heavy clouds that hung so low, wisps seemed to cling to the tall firs. Both were oppressed, spirits subdued by a feeling of dread and awe. When they finally spoke, they did so in low voices, reluctant to shatter the stillness.

  "It seems strange," said Michael, "that the knights do not clean up this road. The Cataclysm was almost a year ago, time enough to build bridges, remove these boulders, fill in the cracks. Do you know," he continued, talking for the sake of talking, not realizing what he was saying, "it looks to me as if they've left the road in disrepair on purpose. I think they're afraid of being attacked — "

  "Nonsense!" said Nikol, bristling. "What do the knights have to fear? That drunken scum in Palanthas? They're nothing more than paid henchmen for that false cleric. The citizens of Palanthas respect the knights, and well they should. The knights have defended Palanthas for generations. You'll see. When the knights come riding down in force, those cowards will take one look and beg for mercy."

  "Then why haven't they ridden forth before now?"

  "They don't know the danger," she snapped. "No one's brought them word."

  Rubbing her shoulders beneath her heavy cloak, Nikol abruptly changed the subject. "How hard the wind blows up here, and how bitter it is. The cold goes through flesh and bone, strikes at the heart."

  "So it does," said Michael, growing more and more uneasy. "A strange chill, not of winter. I've never known the like."

  "I suppose it's just the high altitude." Nikol tried to shrug it off. Rising to her feet, she paced the clearing, peering nervously into the woods. "Nothing out there."

  Coming back, she nudged Michael gently with the toe of her boot. "You didn't hear a word I said. You're smiling. Tell me. I'd be glad of something to smile about," she added with a shiver.

  "What?" Michael jumped, glanced up, startled. "Oh, it's nothing, really. Funny, what memories come to you for no good reason. For a moment, I was a child, back in Xak Tsaroth. An uncle of mine, one of the nomads, came into town one day. I don't suppose you ever saw the Plainsmen. They dress all in leather and bright-colored feathers and beads. I loved it when they came to visit our family, bringing their trade goods. This uncle told the most wonderful stories. I'll never forget them, tales of the dark gods, who were never supposed to be mentioned then, in the time of the Kingpriest. Stories of ghosts and ghouls, the undead who roam the land in torment. I was terrified for days after."

  "What happened?" asked Nikol, sitting beside him, crowding near for warmth and comfort. "Why do you sigh?"

  "I told my teacher one of the stories. He was a young man, a new cleric sent from Istar. He was furious. He called the Plainsman a wicked liar, a dangerous blasphemer, a corrupting influence on impressionable youth. He told me my uncle's tales were ridiculous fabrications or, worse, downright heresy. There were no such things as ghosts and ghouls. All such evil had been eradicated by the almighty good of the Kingpriest. I can still feel the knock on the head the priest gave me — in the name of Mishakal, of course."

  "What made you think of all this?"

  "Those ghost stories." Michael tried to laugh, but it ended in a nervous cough. "When one of the undead comes near, my uncle says you feel a terrible chill that seems to come from the grave. It freezes your heart — "

  "Stop it, Michael!" Nikol bounded to her feet. "You'll end up scaring us both silly. There's snow in the air. We should go on, whether we're rested or not. That way, we'll reach the tower before nightfall. Hand me the waterskin. I'll fill it, then we can be on our way."

  Silently, Michael handed over the waterskin. Nikol walked over, rilled the skin at the bubbling brook. Michael pulled the symbol of Mishakal out from beneath his robes, held it in his hand, stared at it. He could have sworn it glowed faintly, a shimmer of blue that lit the gray gloom surrounding them, deepening around them, deepening to black…

  And in the black, eyes of flame.

  The eyes were in front of Nikol, staring at her from across the stream. She had risen to her feet, the waterskin in her hand, water dripping from it.

  "This is how I know you," came a deep and terrible voice.

  Michael tried to call to her, but his own voice was a strangled scream. He tried to move, to run to her side, but his legs were useless, as if they'd been cut off at the knees. Nikol did not retreat, did not flee. She stood unmoving, staring with set, pale face at the apparition emerging from the shadows.

  He was — or once had been — a Knight of Solamnia. He was mounted on a steed that, like himself, seemed to spring from a terrible dream. A strange and eerie light, perhaps that cast by the black moon, Nuitari, shone on armor that bore the symbol of the rose, but the armor did not gleam. It was charred, scorched, as if the man had passed through a ravaging fire. He wore a helm, its visor lowered. No face was visible within, however. Only a terrible darkness lighted by the hideous flame of those burning eyes.

  He came to a halt near Nikol, reached down a gloved hand, as if for the waterskin. In that motion, Michael knew him.

  "You gave me water," said the knight, and his voice seemed to come from below the ground, from the grave. "You eased my burning thirst. I wish you could do so again."

  The knight's voice was sad, burdened with a sorrow that brought tears to Michael's eyes, though they froze there.

  The knight's words jolted Nikol, drove her to action. She drew her sword from its sheath.

  "I do not know what dark and evil place you spring from, but you desecrate the armor of a knight — "

  Michael shook free of his fear, ran forward, caught hold of her arm. "Put your weapon away. He means us no harm." Pray Misha
kal that was true! "Look at him, Nikol," Michael added, barely able to draw breath enough to speak. "Don't you recognize him?"

  "Lord Soth!" Nikol whispered. She lowered her sword. "What dread fate is this? What have you become?"

  Soth regarded her long moments without speaking. The chill that flowed from him came near to freezing their blood, the terror freezing their minds. And yet Michael guessed that the knight's evil powers were being held in check, even as he held the reins of his restive steed.

  "I hear pity in your voice," said the knight. "Your pity and compassion touch some part of me — the part that will not die, the part that burns and throbs in endless pain! For I am one of the undead — doomed to bitter agony, eternal torment, no rest, no sleep…"

  His fist clenched in anger. The horse shied, screamed suddenly. Its hooves clattered on the frozen ground.

  Nikol fell back a step, raised her sword.

  "The rumors we heard about you, then, are true," she said, trying to control her shaking voice. "You failed us, the knights, the gods. You are cursed — "

  "Unjustly!" Soth's voice hissed. "Cursed unjustly! I was tricked! Deceived! My wife was warned of the calamity. I rode forth, prepared to give my life to save the world, but the gods had no intention of being merciful. They wanted humankind punished. The gods prevented my coming to Istar and, in an attempt to cleanse their hands of the blood of innocents, they laid this curse on me! And now they have abandoned the world they destroyed."

  Michael, frightened and sick at heart, clasped his hand around the symbol of Mishakal. The death knight was swift to notice.

  "You do not believe me, Cleric?"

  The flame eyes seared Michael's skin; the dreadful cold chilled his heart. "No, my lord," said Michael, wondering where he found the courage. "No, I do not believe you. The gods would not be so unjust."

  "Oh, wouldn't they?" Nikol retorted bitterly. "I've kept silent, Michael, for I did not want to hurt you or add to your burden, but what if you're wrong? What if you've been deceived? What if the gods HAVE abandoned us, left us alone at the mercy of scoundrels like those in Palanthas?"

  Michael looked at her sadly. "You saw Nicholas. You saw him blessed, at peace. You heard the promise of the goddess, that someday we would find such peace. How can you doubt?"

  "But where is the goddess now, Michael?" Nikol demanded. "Where is she when you pray to her? She docs not answer."

  Michael looked again at the medallion in the palm of his hand. It was dark and cold to the touch, colder than the chill of the death knight. But Michael had seen it glow blue — or had he? Was it wishful thinking? Was his faith nothing but wishful thinking?

  Nikol's hand closed over his. "There, you see, Michael? You don't believe…"

  "The Disks of Mishakal," he said desperately. "If we could only find those, I could prove to you — " Prove to myself, he said silently, and in that moment admitted for the first time that he, too, was beginning to lose his faith.

  "Disks of Mishakal? What are these?" Lord Soth asked.

  Michael was reluctant to answer.

  "They are holy tablets of the gods," the cleric said finally. "I… hoped to find the answers on them."

  "Where are these disks?"

  "Why do you want to know?" Michael asked, greatly daring.

  The shadows deepened around him. He felt Soth's anger, the anger of pride and arrogance at being questioned, his will thwarted. The knight controlled his anger, however, though Michael sensed it took great effort.

  "These holy disks could be my salvation," Soth stated.

  "But how? If you don't believe — "

  "Let the gods prove themselves to me!" said the knight proudly. "Let them do so by lifting this curse and granting me freedom from my eternal torment!"

  This is all wrong, Michael thought, confused and unhappy. Yet, in his words, I hear an echo of my own.

  "The disks are in the great library," said Nikol, seeing that Michael would not reply. "We would have gone to look for them, but the library is in peril from the mobs. We travel to the High Clerist's Tower to warn the knights, that they may ride to Palanthas, quell this uprising, and restore peace and justice."

  To their horror and astonishment, Lord Soth began to laugh — terrible laughter that seemed to come from places of unfathomable darkness. "You have traveled far and seen many dreadful sights," said the knight, "but you have yet to see the worst. I wish you luck!"

  Turning the head of his wraithlike steed, he vanished into the shadows.

  "My lord! What do you mean?" cried Nikol.

  "He's gone," said Michael.

  The darkness lifted from his heart; the icy chill of death retreated; the warmth of life flowed through his body.

  "Let's leave this place swiftly," he said.

  "Yes, I agree," Nikol murmured.

  She went to lift the waterskin, hesitated, loathe to touch it, fearful, perhaps, of the death's knight return. Then, resolute, face pale, lips set, she picked it up. "He has been cruelly wronged," she said, flashing Michael a glance, daring him to disagree.

  He said nothing. The silence became a wall between them, separated them the rest of the way up the mountain.

  Part VI

  The Tower of the High Clerist was an imposing structure, its central tower rising some one thousand feet into the air. Tall battlements, connected by a curtain wall, surrounded it. Michael had never seen any building this strong, this impregnable. He could now well believe the claim made by Nikol that the "tower had never fallen to an enemy while knights defended it with honor."

  Both stopped, stared at it, overcome with awe. "I have never been here," said Nikol. The lingering horror of the meeting with the undead knight had faded; her lingering anger at Michael was all but forgotten. She gazed on the legendary stronghold with shining eyes. "My father described it to Nicholas and me often. I think I could walk it blindfolded. There is the High Lookout, there the Nest of the Kingfisher — the knight's symbol. We planned to come here, Nicholas and I. He said a man was never truly a knight until he had knelt to pray in the chapel of the High Clerist's Tower — "

  She lowered her head, blinked back her tears. "You will kneel there for him," said Michael. "Why?" she demanded, regarding him coldly. "Who will be there to listen?"

  She walked up the broad, wide road that led to one of several entrances into the fortress. Michael followed after, troubled, uneasy. The tower was strangely quiet. No guards walked the battlements, as he might have expected. No lights shone from the windows, though the sun had long since sunk behind the mountains, bringing premature night to the tower and its environs.

  Nikol, too, appeared to find this silence, this lack of activity odd, for she slowed her walk. Tilting back her head to try to see through the gloom, she started to hail the tower. Her call was cut off.

  Cloaked and hooded figures surged out of the night. Skilled hands laid hold of Michael, swiftly relieved him of his staff, pinned his arms behind his back. He struggled in his captors' grasp, not so much to free himself, since he knew that was impossible, but to try to keep sight of Nikol. She had disappeared behind a wall of bodies. He heard the ring of steel against steel.

  "You are a prisoner of the Knights of Solamnia. Yield yourself," said a harsh voice, speaking in the crude trade tongue.

  "You lie!" Nikol cried, answering in Solamnic. "Since when do true knights move in the shadows and ambush people in the darkness?"

  "We move in the dark because these are days of darkness" Another man approached, emerging from the gate leading into the High Clerist's Tower. More men followed after him.

  Torchlight flared, half blinding Michael. Its light shone on polished armor, steel helms, and, beneath the helms, the long, flowing moustaches that were the knights' hallmark. One man, the one who'd answered Nikol, wore on his shoulder a ribbon. Once bright, it was now somewhat frayed and discolored. Michael had lived among knights long enough to recognize by this insignia a lord knight, one who commands in time of war.

  "
What have we here?"

  "Spies, I believe, my lord," answered one of Michael's captors.

  "Bring the torches closer. Let me take a look."

  Michael's guard escorted him to the front. The knights were efficient, but not rough, according him a measure of respect even as they let him know who was in charge.

  Nikol looked somewhat daunted at the sight of the lord knight, but she flushed angrily at the charge.

  "We are not spies!" she said through clenched teeth. Remaining on guard, she used the flat of her blade to strike out at any who came near her.

  The knights outnumbered her, could have taken her, but that would have meant unnecessary bloodshed. They glanced at the lord knight for orders.

  He walked over to her, held the light to shine upon her. "Why, it is but a beardless youth, yet one who wields a sword with a man's skill, it seems," he added, looking at a companion who was wiping blood from a cut cheek. Frowning, he studied the sword in Nikol's hand. The lord knight's face hardened. "How did you come by such a weapon and this armor that belongs to a Knight of the Crown? Stolen from the body of a gallant knight, no doubt. If you thought to sell it to us for your own gain, you have made a mistake that will prove costly. You will end up paying — with your life!"

  "I did not steal it! I carry it by — " Nikol paused. She had started to say she carried it by right, but the thought occurred to her that she did not have the right to bear the arms of a true knight. Flushing, she amended her words. "My father is Sir David of Whitsund, now deceased. My twin brother, Nicholas, who is also dead, was a Knight of the Crown. This sword is his, as is the armor. I took them from his body — "

  "And she put them on and cut her hair and bravely defended the castle and those of us within it," struck in Michael.

  "And who are you?" The lord knight glowered at Michael.

  "Perhaps that false cleric from Palanthas, my lord," said a knight. "See, he wears the holy symbol of Mishakal."

  The lord knight barely spared Michael a glance, turned to stare at Nikol.