Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

Murmurs ran among the clerics. “The end is come,” whispered some. “The dark gods have awoken,” said others. Still others simply spoke one word, echoed across the Lordcity:

“Doom.”

The word resonated in Quarath’s heart, arousing animal fears. He tore his gaze from the firmament to look around for the other hierarchs. Before long he spotted Lady Elsa, who was out front of the Revered Daughters’ cloister, gaping upward with terror-filled eyes. He went over to her, grabbing her arm.

“Snap out of it, Efisa ,” he barked. “We are the high clergy of Istar. This sort of thing is what common folk do, not the Kingpriest’s trusted ones!”

Elsa blinked, her eyes meeting his blankly. He shook her, but she still didn’t seem to recognize him. Giving up in disgust, he shoved the First Daughter away and swept onward toward the imperial manse. There, on a balcony overlooking the gardens, stood Beldinas’s glowing figure. Pushing his way through the crowds-they grew thicker every moment, as more and more clerics came out to watch the dreadful sky-Quarath dashed up the front stairs, past the knights on guard, and before long he found himself out on the balcony beside the Lightbringer.

“Do you see, Emissary?” asked the Kingpriest, gesturing skyward. “Do you see what the enemy does, when its defeat is imminent? Behold-even the dawn is poisoned.”

He waved his arm toward the east. There, above the Temple’s silver rooftops, the sun had risen. Rather than a bright orange disc, however, it was a smudge of olive-green. Quarath felt sick to his stomach.

“I’ve never seen its like, Holiness,” he declared. “I can call for an astronomer, if you like. They may have some answers.”

“I have the answers,” Beldinas said feverishly. “Evil sees its doom, and fights back however it can-I do not need star-watchers to tell me what is obvious. And it does not do such things in parts. There is worse to come.”

“Worse?” Quarath echoed, staring at the dim sun in the green sky.

Beldinas nodded. “I saw it in my dreams last night. A terrible wind, cutting through stone like parchment. It will strike the Temple soon.”

Quarath’s eyebrows shot up. “The Temple?” he echoed. The Kingpriest nodded. “But then, shouldn’t we hasten to evacuate?”

“Not the whole thing,” Beldinas said, thinking. The Durro Jolithas only. See that it is cleared at once, Emissary. No one may set foot in there again until I say it is safe.”

The Temple of Istar boasted seven golden spires. The tallest, the Durro Paladas -the Tower of Paladine-rose from the top of the basilica, where the bells were sounding the call to morning prayer, even now. The other six ringed it round, and rose from the corners of its walls. At the tip of each spire was the symbol of a god of light: the twin teardrops of Mishakal, the harp of Branchala, the rose of Majere, the wings of Habbakuk, the disc of Solinari, and the horns of Kiri-Jolith. Quarath’s eyes fixed on this last, and a shudder ran through him. Ordinarily, he didn’t believe in premonitions, having never communed with the gods himself. But if Beldinas said the Durro Jolithas was in danger, then…

“Hurry, Emissary,” the Kingpriest murmured. “It will not be long now.”

Then Quarath felt a change in the humid air, a rising heaviness and tension. Below, fingers were rising, pointing up at the venomous firmament. Following the crowd’s eyes, Quarath felt his heart lurch in his chest.

A black cloud had appeared directly overhead, turning slowly, like some kind of living monster. No lightning played within it, and no rain dropped from it-but the wind had shifted now, and began to pluck furiously at Quarath’s robes. The almond and citrus trees of the gardens began to tremble, then sway.

Quarath left Beldinas at once, splinting down the steps of the manse and out into the courtyard again. He called several elder priests and knights to him. They hurried over, looking to him for answers even as the wind unsettled their hair and robes. Quarath felt their fear, like his own, rising up into his throat

“The Durro Jolithas, ” he declared, pointing. “It is in danger; the Lightbringer says so. It must be cleared at once.”

Without hesitating, the men of the Divine Hammer plunged into Jolith’s tower headlong, while the priests herded the crowds away. Quarath watched as monks and servants emerged from the Durro ; running across the gardens. Above, the black cloud filled the sky, dark as smoke and as large as the Temple itself. A low, howling drone filled the air, pierced by the shriller sounds of screams from all over the Lord city. Slowly, like a serpent rising from a Seldjuki charmer’s basket, a tendril began to extend downward from the cloud. Down… down…

The clerics from Falthana, Taol, and the deserts of Dravinaar had never seen a tornado before, so they stood rooted, fascinated with horror. The ones from the provinces where the plains ruled-Ismin, Gather, Midrath, and the heartlands-recognized the whirlwind, and scattered with their hands raised to protect their heads.

Quarath wasn’t from the plains, but he threw himself flat, hitting the ground hard. The world swam before his eyes for a moment; and when he looked up again, he saw the knights he’d sent into the Durro emerge from the temple, armor clattering and faces gray with terror. Then hell descended.

The whirlwind struck the northern edge of the gardens, barely fifty paces from where Quarath lay. Trees and bushes uprooted themselves, sucked up into its hungry maw. Statuary and fountains cracked, and stained-glass windows exploded into clouds of sparkling dust. And then there was something strange … it looked like someone had flung a handful of torn white rags into the air.

With a rush, Quarath understood. There were vestries just next to the Durro , where the Temple kept a large supply of clean robes. Then the howl of the wind drove all further thoughts from his mind. The noise of the tornado rose higher and higher, until Quarath thought his ears might soon begin to bleed.

The tornado cut a swath across the gardens, destroying everything in its path. Broken branches and masonry peppered the ground. The black cloud slithered toward the Durro , where first cracks appeared in the walls, and then the horned spire atop the temple began to twist and warp. With a tremendous roar, the entire building blew apart, ripped asunder by the battering wind. As soon as it was gone, the tornado lifted off the ground and howled away to the south, above the city. When it reached the harbor, it suddenly, inexplicably, collapsed, tearing itself to shreds and leaving not a trace of itself in the still green sky.

It rained marble over Lake Istar that day.

The strange windstorm terrified the folk of Istar. Some fled to their homes, huddling in cellars. Many more, however, made for the Barigon . They crowded around the Temple’s front steps, and also at the breach in its walls, where the Durro Jolithas had been destroyed. There was nothing there now but a hole, surrounded by shards of marble and shredded wood. The Divine Hammer had to move in, making a fence of their shields to hold the frightened citizens back, and keep the crowd from pouring in through the gap. All the while, the swelling mob-hundreds, then thousands, then tens of thousands, all shiny and sweat-stained in the sweltering heat-kept chanting, over and over, calling for the Kingpriest.

“ Cilenfo…Pilofiro…Babo Sod …”

At midday, the Temple’s golden doors swung open, and a hush fell over the throng as the hierarchs of the church emerged. The knights standing guard gripped their halberds warily. The Barigon was filled with tinder today, and one spark might provoke a riot. When Beldinas finally appeared, the sparks fell like rain.