Ellen Severson - Hederick the Theocrat

The materbill broke the spell. It bounded across the courtyard in three leaps, pouncing on the men. Two escaped, screaming. The other three lay pinned under the beast's massive front paws. One of the three appeared to have died instantly, but the remaining two writhed in pain and fear. Then the materbill slowly extended its front claws. They were as long as a man's arm and came to wicked points, as Kleven had said. The creature pierced the men's bodies, and their blood flowed freely onto the ground. Crealora heard a wail from between the inner and outer walls-a new widow, no doubt.

The materbill picked up one man's body and shook it in its teeth. Another carcass the creature nuzzled almost lovingly, licking it from breastbone to head. The third corpse it ignored.

Then the materbill looked around again, focusing on Crealora this time. Her mouth went dry; sweat drenched her skin and clothes. She almost fainted from the pounding in her heart and the fear in her mind. But she met the materbill's unblinking gaze steadily as she intoned a silent prayer:

Dear Paladine, I am willing to die for you and the Old Gods, but I beg that if you have any power left on Krynn, any mercy remaining for your few devout followers, you will make my passing as swift and painless as possible. Don't let me show my fear to the heretic and humiliate myself and the others who still pray to you.

Abandoning the three dead bodies and ignoring the pair of survivors cowering behind the stump, the materbill padded purposefully across the bricks and cobblestones toward Crealora. Its eyes were sea green, the huge vertical pupils obsidian black. The creature halted, long tail twitching, bloodied tips of its foreclaws etching lines in the stones of the courtyard. It stank of blood and death.

Crealora closed her eyes, then reopened them. This would be her last glimpse of life in this world. Frightened people were crammed between inner and outer walls, but only a few curious heads could be seen, their expressions alternately horrified and fascinated.

All except one man and a woman.

The couple stood in plain sight near the main gate. The woman was nearly as tall as the man and, like him, wore the plain cloak of a traveler. Refugees, perhaps. Both were apparently of great age. The woman, whose curly gray hair extended unbound past her waist, held a fringed silver scarf, which concealed her hands and part of her body. Her eyes were closed, her lips moving. Under the plain cloak flowed a long white garment.

The man's gaze caught Crealora's eyes.

He was ordinary-looking, with a salt-and-pepper beard and nearly bald head. He carried an unexceptional wooden staff. The man wore a plain traveling shift of rough green cotton over patched leggings, and his boots were scuffed. He and his elderly companion must have arrived just as the gates were barricaded; Crealora had not seen them in the Great Chamber. The man's arms were folded across his chest, his stance sturdy, although Crealora could tell even from this distance that he was not young-and perhaps was even older than Hederick.

Do not fear, the old man's eyes seemed to say. You are not alone.

"Crealora Senternal, you stand condemned of witchcraft and heresy," intoned Hederick. Crealora started at the sound, so riveting had been the other man's stare. Even now she felt herself unwilling to look away from the two people at the gate.

Hederick droned on. "Let the death of this evil woman, O goddess Omalthea, show you that our hearts and our

souls are only with you. Let the death of this sorry soul, Omalthea, steel the resolve of those wavering against sin. Let the death of this unrepentant heathen, O Motherlord, serve as a warning to all who risk the ire of the New Gods by disregarding the Praxis.

"The Old Gods are gone, and you, Omalthea, have come with your blessings in their stead," Hederick finished. "So be it."

Crealora glanced back toward the couple by the gate. The old woman had doffed the worn cloak and dropped the scarf. Her white robe drew all eyes. "A mage!" one of the novitiates shouted.

The woman stretched her arms above her. Wind swirled around her slender figure. She displayed the strength of a much younger person-a woman a third her age. "Hederick!" the old woman shouted. "Cease this charade!"

The High Theocraf s head shot around. Hederick gazed at the woman. His lips moved, but no sound issued forth. The Seeker priest caught the edge of the lectern, his blue eyes staring from his face like the orbs of a heathen stone idol. "Ancilla," he said softly. "Ancilla. In the flesh, at last."

"Cease this sin, Hederick."

"I should have known you'd not give up, Ancilla," Hederick whispered. "All these years you've hounded me, ever since I defeated you at Garlund. You've sent countless magical creatures to harry me, but never have you appeared yourself." The High Theocrat actually bowed, a mocking smile on his lips. "I always knew it was you behind the harassment, Ancilla. I suppose I should be honored that you come in person to pay court to me at last, witch." His tone was thick with derision.

"I will stop you this time, Hederick," Ancilla said. "I have the power now."

Hederick laughed, then he struck a commanding pose and pointed at the old woman. "Fellow Seekers!" he cried, his voice thundering across the intervening space as though he could strike the old woman down with words alone, "you see before you another witch! Let her die here with the witch of Zaygoth. Sauvay demands her death. Guards!"

At Hederick's words, Ancilla turned slightly toward Tarscenian. The High Theocrat seemed to realize for the first time that Ancilla was not alone. He gazed for a moment in puzzlement at the tall, bearded man. "Tarscenian?" he said wonderingly. Then his voice rose above the noise of the crowd once again. "False priest! Guards! Arrest them!"

The materbill growled. Tarscenian looked away from the woman whom Hederick had called Ancilla. His gaze locked into Crealora's eyes, far across the courtyard. The materbill roared rage and fire, and Crealora smelled her own hair burning. Flames flickered at the fringe of her shawl; the hem of her skirt caught fire. Crealora sensed all this as though it were happening to someone else, at a great distance. She pointed her face skyward, where a curl of smoke rose into the sky. Soon her essence would rise within that spiral toward the plane of the Old Gods.

The materbill roared again. The fire doubled, but Crealora felt little pain. She peered through the smoke with watering eyes and spied Tarscenian and Ancilla.

The old woman was chanting and gesticulating. Lightning had erupted from her fingers and was roaring around the courtyard. A ring of temple guards had circled the spellcasting pair but appeared frozen in the act of trying to capture them. What was going on?

The materbill snarled. Dimly, Crealora heard screams from the two men still seeking to secret themselves behind the allenwood trunk. Then the man called Tarscenian caught Crealora's gaze again, and continued to hold it. He was chanting, too. He hurled a handful of powder to the ground.

New calm spread through Crealora. This was the end, then.

The materbill roared once more.

The witch of Zaygoth closed her eyes and died.

"Your Worship!" Dahos called. "The woman has turned the guards to stone!"

"I see that, you idiot!" Hederick raged. A dozen novitiates huddled underneath the platform, but Hederick refused to show any panic. "Send more guards against her, fool!"

The high priest didn't move right away. Instead he stared in awe at the elderly mage. "What power!" he murmured. Then Dahos raised his voice to a level that could be heard by Hederick. "Your Worship, the woman has stopped two dozen guards. She hurls bolts of lightning around the courtyard like so many twigs. Yet she has harmed no one. Why should this be?"