Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

“You needn’t flee,” whispered Fistandantilus. He was so close that Denubis could have reached out and touched him. “If I meant to harm you, I wouldn’t have to come here. I have killed men by merely thinking their names.”

It was very hard not to gibber. “Wh-why have you come here, then, Dark One? C-can I help you f-f-find a b-b-b-”

“A book? No. I have read most of the books you keep here, at least the ones that aren’t rubbish-even the banned ones,” the sorcerer replied. “No, Brother. It isn’t the lore in this place that interests me. It’s you.”

“Me?” Denubis tried to ask. His voice failed him, however, so all that came out of his mouth was a squeak.

“Yes, you,” Fistandantilus said, chuckling. “All this time, I thought the Lightbringer was the one. But no, those who rule are never fully truly pure of heart. No, I had to come here to find the one I sought.”

“I’m sorry?” Denubis asked. Conversations often rode away without him. “I don’t understand-”

“You don’t need to, Brother,” Fistandantilus declared, “Not yet. But there will come a time of great despair, and the hearts of many will fail. Yours must not. You will know what to do when that time comes.”

With that, he was gone. The cold went with him, letting the heat pour back in. Denubis stood motionless, staring into the blackness, the candlestick still clutched in his hand. What in Paladine’s name had just happened? Had Fistandantilus the Dark actually come to the chancery and spoken to him? Him , a humble copyist?

No, that made no sense. He sighed, suddenly feeling quite sad. Imagining wizards in the middle of the night. If that sort of thing kept up, before long he’d be just like old Brother Forto, lying in his bed, and drooling and muttering all day and night. Wincing, he signed the triangle against such thoughts.

“Well,” he muttered aloud, turning back toward his desk, “best get back to work, then. Don’t want to go all funny in the head before-aaagh!”

There was someone standing there, no more than three paces away. It wasn’t the wizard, though-this was an elf, elderly, balding, with a long white beard. He was dressed in snowy robes, and the medallion of Paladine-no, of E’li, for it was shaped like a pine tree-hung about his neck. There was a look of such sadness on his face that, though he didn’t know why, Denubis felt his eyes burn with sudden tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said huskily. “I–I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said. His sorrowful expression did not change. “If you are Denubis.”

Denubis put a hand to his head. He’d spent entire decades working in the chancery without anyone looking for him. Now two visitors in one night: the Dark One, and then… who was this stranger? Wait, there was something familiar about him, but Denubis’s memory wasn’t what it had once been.

“I am Denubis,” he replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you-”

“My name is Loralon.”

Denubis gasped. He remembered now-he had known Loralon in his youth. The Emissary loved books and had come here sometimes, in the night. They had talked sometimes. But that had been, what? Forty years ago? Kurnos had cast the elf out, and Quarath had taken his place. What was he doing here now?

“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered.

“I’ll-”

“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Journey!” Denubis repeated. That was the end of it-he must be going mad. “That’s impossible. I’m still not finished with my work-”

“Your work doesn’t matter,” Loralon said gently. “Not any more. Come along, Brother.”

He reached out his hand. Denubis stared at it, bewildered. For a moment, the world seemed to split in two. He saw himself take that hand, saw himself burst into tears as light spilled around him. Loralon had invited him on a journey-and suddenly he wanted to go, desperately. He wanted it so much, it hurt.

But he didn’t take Loralon’s hand. He felt a stab of cold, heard a voice whispering in his ear. “You will know when the time comes…”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t go with you.”

Loralon shut his eyes, the sorrow on his face deepening. Slowly, he lowered his hand to his side. When he spoke, his voice was hollow as a cave. “Very well. I see now what holds you here. But you will make the journey one day, Denubis. I promise you.”

Then he, too, vanished.

Denubis stood alone, shivering, waiting for what would happen next. Another visitor-or vision? Nothing. After a while he started breathing again,

“Funny in the head,” he said, sitting down at his desk again. He reached for his pen, dipped it in the ink, and-

A single drop fell from its tip onto the paper, spattering it with black. Denubis stopped, stared, and sighed. Then he set the stylus down, picked up a brush, and daubed the page’s corner with red. He’d known something like that would happen.

He didn’t waste any tears over it, though. Setting the blemished page aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, picked up his pen, and started anew.

That night became known in later history as the Night of Doom, the night the last true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their ultimate fate may have been, never became known. Their passing went all but unnoticed at first, for few remained whose faith was pure, and those few were little missed-minor monks and clerics like Denubis, living in obscurity. The rest of the world continued on, certain the Kingpriest would deliver them from darkness.

Far off, deep in the night sky, something began to move.

Quarath awoke covered with sweat, his bedsheets soaked through and sticking to him. It was not yet dawn, but already it was hotter than yesterday-oppressive, muggy heat. His bedchamber felt like summer in the jungles of Falthana; the elven plants he kept, used to cooler climes, were wilting. He felt grimy. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and muttered a curse.

He would have to send word to the Arena, postponing the Games; Rockbreaker’s gladiators wouldn’t be able to put on a proper show tomorrow, in this torrid air. He’d been looking forward to watching the Barbarian fight again, too; the big brute had proven quite popular, second only to the great Pheragas. He’d been a good investment. As soon as the heat broke, he vowed, the Games would go on.

He glanced at the windows. He kept them shuttered these days, so the room could stay in shadow, but even so, light leaked through. Something about the light today wasn’t right; the foredawn glow seemed wan, weak, somehow unclean. And now that he paid attention, the sounds he heard were all wrong, too. The choirs should be practicing the Morningsong, but the delicate harmonies that greeted him when he awoke every morning were not there. In their place his were shouts and strangled cries, unpleasantly discordant to refined ear.

“What now?” he muttered, rising from his bed. He folded a robe about his body, went to the windows, cracked open the shutters-and stiffened, sucking in a horrified gasp.

Less than a minute later, he was standing outside with what seemed like the entire population of the Temple-priest and acolyte, knight and monk. Like them all-and the thousands who massed in the Lordcity’s streets beyond the great church-Quarath stared upward, and what he saw made him shiver.

The sky normally, at this time of day was a deep, brilliant blue, the color of sapphires. Now, however, it was a distinct green … a putrescent green, like the color of decaying flesh. Not a cloud marked the sky, from horizon to horizon. No breath of wind stirred the trees and banners. Everywhere there was the reek of ordure, raised by the heat from the city sewers.