Fistandantilus Reborn

by Douglas Niles

  “Er—” Foryth, who had winced and cringed at the sound of Nightmare’s escape, looked around awkwardly.

  “Our horse,” Danyal blurted quickly. “I’m the squire, so I take care of her. Her name is Nightmare,” he added, suppressing the urge to grin at the damage the mean-spirited animal had inflicted on these ruffians.

  “Apt,” replied Kelryn, his tone droll.

  “Enough o’ this!” snarled the one-eyed bandit, Zack. “Are we goin’ to stick ’em and be on our way?” His filthy thumb, still caressing the edge of the big knife, left no doubt as to what Zack’s desire was.

  “No, I think not.” Kelryn was firm, his expression pragmatic.

  “Not even the boy?” Danyal gagged on Zack’s fetid breath as the bandit leaned close, cackling in cruel mirth.

  “I must say, the reward from my temple will be limited—perhaps refused entirely—if such a promising young apprentice is stolen from the church by untimely violence.” Foryth’s tone suggested that he thought his superiors were a trifle unreasonable on a matter like this, but that he, personally, was powerless to effect a more practical solution.

  “No, Zack, not even the lad. At least not yet,” Kelryn ordered with a tolerant shake of his head. “We’ll find some other way for you to have some entertainment,” he promised the sulking knifeman before turning to the rest of his band.

  “Gnar, your leg is badly hurt. We’ll have to see how you fare. And, Kal”—he addressed the man who had been kicked in the head—”you’ll be able to walk, I have no doubt.

  “Nic, let me see that arm.” Kelryn gestured to the man whose elbow had been crushed by the rearing horse. The fellow came forward and knelt, while the bandit leader took the limb in both of his hands, ignoring the man’s gasp of pain when the arm was lifted.

  “Fistandantilus!” cried Kelryn Darewind, turning his face to the sky. “Hear my prayer and grant me the power to heal your unworthy servant’s arm!”

  A green light flared through the night, and Danyal gasped at a sudden, foul scent, like the odor released when someone turned over a rotten log. Kelryn Darewind stiffened, calling out strange words as he clutched the injured elbow.

  “Stop! No!” The wounded bandit cried out in pain and twisted away, falling to the ground and writhing. He groaned, kicked weakly, and drew ragged breaths as he lay motionless, panting like a dog. After a few moments, however, he pushed himself off the ground with both hands, forcing himself to sit up.

  “The—the pain is gone,” he declared, extending the arm. To Danyal, the limb seemed stiff, still cocked at an unnatural angle, but the bandit seemed content that his agony had been dispelled.

  “You called out the name of Fistandantilus, and then you healed him?” Foryth Teel, like Danyal, was clearly amazed. “What happened here?”

  “A priest called upon the power of his god … and he cast a spell.” The bandit leader spoke of himself in third person. He seemed dazed.

  “That was astonishing!” Foryth Teel declared. He picked up his book, flipping through several pages. “Healing magic is the clear province of faithful priests and gods. But you called upon Fistandantilus. Does that mean that you …?” The question trailed off. Then the historian blinked. “You are the Master of Loreloch?”

  “Indeed. As I was the Seeker in Haven, the ‘false’ priest of Fistandantilus.”

  “But—but that was real magic! You actually healed him!”

  “You are surprised?”

  “Astounded, more truthfully.” Foryth blinked again, scratching his chin. “And you claim the faith of a god named after the ancient archmage Fistandantilus? That is truly amazing.”

  “In fact, I worship the true faith of Fistandantilus, the sect of a god as genuine as Takhisis or Paladine!”

  “But he was mortal. He was a man, not a god!” Foryth Teel was adamant. “There must be some other explanation. An inconsistency in translation, perhaps!”

  “No, nothing like that, I assure you.”

  “But—but how could it happen? It’s impossible. It must have been a trick—”

  “In case you doubt the evidence of your own eyes, I dispute your preposterous suggestion about my actions. Are you as much a fool as the others?” The bandit sighed, with an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders. “It seems that I will have to prove it to you. Fistandantilus is a god, and I am his high priest! And you, of course, are my prisoners!” Once again Kelryn seemed to be in sudden good cheer, throwing back his head and laughing heartily. “Now, my unwilling guests, if you will be so kind as to gather your blankets, I wish to start out before the dawn.”

  “Where are you taking us?” Danyal dared to ask, keeping a wary eye on the menacing figure of the one-eyed bandit, Zack.

  “Why, to your destination, of course.” Kelryn spoke as if he was surprised by the question. “You will have a chance to become acquainted with the dungeon of Loreloch, but it is still some miles away.”

  “Splendid!” Foryth Teel declared. “Then we’ll have plenty of time to talk!”

  The amazing thing was, thought Danyal as his fellow captive excitedly gathered his quills, ink, and teapot, that the historian actually meant it.

  Chapter 24

  Another Detour on the Road to Faith

  First Majetog, Reapember

  374 AC

  It is with a mingled sense of purest excitement and deepest regret that I at last address my notes. On the one hand, I have made a startling discovery that twists an understanding of history on its ear: Fistandantilus, a god! With a priest who is not a charlatan. Of course, the story must be examined, the evidence studied by my critical eye, but here is great meat for the researcher’s diet.

  On the other hand, there is a matter that lays such a heavy cloak of guilt upon my shoulders that I doubt I shall show these writings to anyone. (Of course, that cannot exclude the all-seeing perceptions of my ever neutral god, yet it is that very neutrality, I fear, that lies at the root of my failure. I shall expound momentarily.)

  Who will believe me? Fistandantilus neither dead, nor undead; instead he has become immortal! It seems that the archmage has somehow vaulted himself into the pantheon of Krynn! Of course, it also seems unthinkable, but I saw the proof with my own eyes.

  A priest of a self-proclaimed religion has demonstrated the power to heal! It was a limited healing; Kelryn all but admitted that the crushed knee of the bandit called Gnar was too badly damaged for the magic of his god to prevail. Yet the spell he demonstrated was enough to humble my own priestly ambitions—I who have yet to heal so much as a hangnail through the use of the magic of my faith.

  Indeed, the proof was enough to whet my appetite, but I must learn more. Does Kelryn Darewind possess the bloodstone of Fistandantilus? And what does he know about the fates that cast the archmage into Krynn’s pantheon? Though he was recalcitrant in conversation, the priest of Fistandantilus did promise me that I would have some access to his notes. (He claimed that his library was located in a lofty tower top, perfectly suited for reflection and research.)

  But there weighs upon me that other matter, a fact that dulls the elation of my discovery, for I know that I have erred terribly.

  Gilean, I confess to my utmost failure, though you doubtless know of my trespass already. How quickly I have abandoned the dispassionate viewpoint of the historian, allowing myself to become involved in the affairs of insignificant persons, while in full awareness that such involvement cannot help but steer my studies away from the truly impartial voice of the aloof chronicler.

  Specifically, it is in the matter of the mistruth—oh, I must strip away obfuscation and call it by the proper name: the lie—I spoke on behalf of the young traveler who had made my acquaintance on that very night.

  Of course, he is no more a squire than I am a high priest, or even any priest at all. My own actions served to obscure the truth, to twist my captors’ perceptions of reality, all because of a realization that I would find the lad’s execution unsettling. Indeed, Lord of Neutrality, it
was this own selfish frailty that led to my weakness.

  My actions kept the boy alive, but at what terrible cost to my objectivity? I have searched The Book of Learning, seeking some sign indicating the severity of the affront, but the tome has been ominously silent on the matter.

  Even in self-recrimination I forget myself. It is my duty to put aside my distress and to continue with the task that brought me to this corner of Kharolis. The deception of which I speak has occurred some two days prior to my recording of these notes; I shall hasten to put down the events of the current day and to describe as best I can my situation and prospects.

  Following the escape of that rather frightening horse and Kelryn’s healing spell, the bandits tied my hands before me, prodding me through the darkness on the narrow trail (upon which I tripped several times, scuffing my hands and, once, bloodying my nose) until we again reached the Loreloch Road and the bridge of gray stone. It was not until then that I saw that the youth, Danyal Thwait, had been similarly bound and forced to follow behind me.

  Footsore and weary, we ascended the winding, rough road through the remainder of the night. We were slowed by the need of Gnar to be helped by two men, and in this I was fortunate. Indeed, should the band have proceeded at its normal pace, I have no doubts but that it would have been me who restricted the pace of the rest of the party, with all the awkward attentions—particularly from the one-eyed bandit, Zack—that would have entailed.

  By the time dawn began to color the sky, we had reached a small grove of pines in the protection of a low saddle. This was not a pass through the range—I could see higher and more rugged elevations rising on the north side of the ridge—but it provided a place for our captors to seek concealment and rest through the day.

  I gather that, though they are bold and lawless men, the bandits of Kelryn Darewind’s band do in fact fear the Knights of Solamnia. Else how can I explain the hidden clearing, deep in the woods, where we sheltered during the day? Also, consider the fact that one of the men trailed behind us after we departed the road; I looked back to see that he was sweeping a pine bough, heavy with needles, across our trail. Thus all sight of our passage was concealed.

  Hearing the desultory talk of the men during the long trek and through the daylight hours of inactivity, I gather that they were returning from a successful raid on a specific enemy. Kelryn had taken them to kill the Solamnic Knight, Sir Harold the White, and his family, eliminating that enforcer of the law from the territory the bandits wanted for themselves. (Although I learned that their success was not complete; Zack complained loudly about a girl, a daughter of the knight, who somehow escaped their murderous net.)

  The men’s spirits were still inflamed by their cruel sport, and the gruesome stories of the murder could only enhance their villainy. At times I found it nearly impossible to consider their acts with dispassion, yet I was able to muster my faith, to forcefully remind myself that theirs was a current in history’s river as worthy of telling as any other.

  Danyal and I were bound together at one side of the encampment. My request that we be released and that I be provided with my book and writing implements was rudely laughed away.

  Lacking the means to record events, I tried to talk to the lad, to explain my distress about the failure of my objectivity that had led me to lie about him. He was surprisingly appreciative, as I suppose is only natural. After all, as the old saying goes, even the meanest of lives is treasured by the one who lives it.

  The boy showed traces of brightness and perception in our conversations, yet he seemed remarkably unsympathetic to my own dilemma. Indeed, so clearly did he treasure his own survival that he seemed rather put off when I mentioned my regrets at the loss of my historical dispassion.

  Eventually I was released from my tether and taken to join Kelryn. I was able to gather much information from him, though he still denied me the chance to take notes as we talked. I can only hope that my memory has served me as accurately as does my pen.

  He told me that when the True Gods returned to Krynn, with them came Fistandantilus, risen to the exalted status of a deity. Kelryn Darewind had demanded power of that god. He told me he used it to keep the memory and the knowledge of the archmage alive. His followers had woven great tapestries depicting the wizard’s life, and he boasted of how those artistic fabrics still draped the halls of Loreloch.

  It must have been the destruction of Skullcap, I mused, that somehow converted the archmage into godhood. After all, he had opened the portal to chaos, a path to the Dark Queen herself. But when I voiced my speculations, I discerned that Kelryn Darewind had not the slightest interest in my suppositions.

  Instead, he made mention of something that he called “the skull of Fistandantilus.” I gathered that this was an object that he sought with a great deal of interest, though he would share little information about it when I pressed him for further explanation. I speculated upon an unconfirmed rumor I had heard in Palanthas, a report that Fistandantilus had existed as an undead lich after the destruction of Skullcap, at which Kelryn Darewind scornfully laughed in my face.

  When I sought response to my other questions, the bandit became suddenly reluctant to talk. I was again secured to my tree, and we two prisoners spent the rest of the day in boredom and slumber.

  With the coming of darkness, again we took to the road. The bandits prodded us with obvious urgency, and we followed the descending route down the north side of the ridge. At the base of the incline, we came to a rapid stream, here crossed by a sturdy bridge. After making the crossing, we proceeded upward again, and I sensed that we were drawing close to the lofty massif of the High Kharolis.

  The long night of climbing exhausted me and many of the others, though Kelryn Darewind displayed no sign of fatigue. Finally we made camp again, this time in the depths of a mountainside cave. My captors have at last consented to provide me with the tools of my trade, and thus I hasten to write my observations, to record the history of the last few days with as much dispassion and objectivity as possible.

  But as I look at the young lad who sleeps restively nearby and know that my interference was the act that kept him alive, I fear that I have already failed.

  Chapter 25

  Wyrmtales

  First Majetog, Reapember

  374 AC

  Danyal pulled on the pole, saw the trout break the surface in a ripple of droplets and gleaming silver scales. He tugged gently, but then it was a violent force, and he ripped the hook from the fish’s mouth. The pole felt stiff and heavy in his hands.

  Then he heard the fish scream, a sound so full of suffering that his heart nearly broke.

  And then he was the fish, and the water closed over his head, but he couldn’t swim! He was badly injured, torn and bleeding, and held by the unbreakable strands of a long, tethering line.

  He awakened, thrashing in panic, finally sitting upright and blinking through the smoky shadows of the cave. His garments were soaked with sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead by the clammy perspiration. Danyal had to draw several deep, gasping breaths, reassuring himself that it had been a nightmare. Even so, only slowly did the sensation of drowning recede.

  And he was still bound by the long tether—that part had not been a dream. The rope bit into his wrists, and the loss of circulation stung his hands, deadened his fingers. The other end of the twisted braid of tough leather was wrapped securely around a massive wooden stake that had been driven into the ground within the cave some time before their arrival.

  He saw Foryth Teel, blinking slowly, stirring from slumber, and Dan guessed that his own thrashing had awakened the historian, who had been busily writing when the youth had drifted off to sleep.

  But what was that scream? Danyal sensed that the sound had been a part of the real world. As he came to that conclusion, he heard an angry shout, then a man’s voice that broke into sobs, broken by desperate pleading. “No—leave me here! Just go on without me. I’ll stay out of sight till I can—”

&n
bsp; “Get it over with, Zack!”

  The last words, spoken in the voice of Kelryn Darewind, cut off the objections, though the sounds of soft sobbing still burbled through the cave.

  Danyal crept forward, to the limits of the rope, and looked toward the entryway. He saw Gnar, the bandit with the broken knee, crawling slowly backward across the ground, while Zack advanced on him with his face split into a menacing leer. In the one-eyed bandit’s hand was the gleaming knife.

  “Yer too slow, old Gnar,” cackled Zack. “Ya never were good for much, and now with that knee, yer just an anchor holding back the rest of us!”

  “By all the gods, leave me here!” begged the injured man.

  Abruptly Zack thrust. Gnar tried to roll away, but the blade snicked through his throat with a whiplike slice. Danyal was horrified to hear the rush of air, the gurgling noise of death as the crippled bandit, his wrapped knee holding his leg unnaturally stiff, thrashed across the ground. Back arching, Gnar’s hands scraped to either side for a long moment. Then, with a reflexive shudder, his struggles ceased and he lay still.

  Kelryn Darewind turned away, and his eyes met Danyal’s. The youth was frightened by the look he saw there—an expression of deep, unquenched hunger—but he found that he couldn’t tear his gaze away. Instead, he imagined the bandit leader attacking, consuming him.

  “His wound was infected,” declared Kelryn. “He was doomed, and he was slowing the rest of us down. I merely gave the order to hasten the inevitable.”

  Zack was busy cleaning his blade on the dead man’s cloak. His one eye gleamed as he cackled at Danyal. “And I am the inevitable!”

  Shrinking back against the wall, Danyal tried to vanish into the shadows. He was startled to realize that he was shaking, and his mind echoed relentlessly with the horrid gulping slurp that had been Gnar’s dying sound. Creeping as far back as he could, Dan tried to will himself to disappear. Memories of the bandits’ stories, of the murder of Sir Harold, of spitting his baby on a sword, of the awful things they had done to his wife, chilled the lad. He found himself remembering the girl he had heard about and hoped that she was safe.