Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

Within the basilica, Quarath fought his way through crashing mobs, trying to get outside. If he could just make his way to the gardens, he could send a call to the griffins. Istar might be dying, but that didn’t mean he was doomed. He shoved lesser clerics aside, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t make headway. “It is the end!” cried a Mishakite priestess as she staggered heavily into him. “The dark gods will destroy us all!”

Quarath said nothing. There was no reasoning with humans when they acted so foolishly. As an elf, he was not the sort to panic, but the hysteria of the mob was beginning to affect him, as well. Dread washed over him, trying to find a chink in his armor of self-control. If he surrendered to the fear, he would be no better than the others-weeping, threatening, begging for the horror to stop.

He nearly had to beat the Mishakite to get her to stop from clinging to his robes. When he finally yanked himself away, she collapsed to her knees and began to sob. Quarath ignored her pleas to him, striding away through the mob.

There was another great, booming noise, like thunder but coming from far below ground. Quarath was hurled against a wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. Above, the last surviving windows exploded, showering the hallway with razors of stained glass. A dreadful wailing chorus answered the quake-thousands of panicked people trying to flee. Quarath suddenly felt a hot pain above his left eye, then a red, stinging flood blinded him. Wincing, he pressed his snowy sleeve to the wound. The cloth grew warm and damp with alarming speed.

He pushed on, in spite of the pain, He could sense the griffins now, circling high above. Most had already fled, riderless; but a few now spiraled downward, answering the call of his brother-elves. Not all of the Silvanesti would escape the catastrophe-but some would, and by Eli, he would be among them. He could see the gardens, just ahead. He sent his mind questing, seeking one of the griffins-and found the loyal creature, already swooping down to save him. He nearly laughed aloud: the Kingpriest had destroyed everything, killed everyone, doomed his city, his empire, himself-but at least he would be safe.

He was nearly to the doors when the ground shook once more. Finally, it was more than the beleaguered Temple could bear. With a horrible, grinding groan, the great church began to fold in upon itself. A great roar, like an awakening dragon, sounded above Quarath’s head. He turned to look, and saw a pillar of silver-veined marble plummeting toward him. He flung up his arm with a scream.

Then… nothing.

Denubis stood paralyzed, staring at the red mess that had been Quarath of Silvanesti. He had been barely ten feet away when the pillar crashed down on the elf. The Emissary’s blood had spattered all over Denubis’s cassock. The old scribe swayed on his feet, feeling suddenly lightheaded.

Denubis!

Starting at the icy lash of the voice, Denubis looked about in alarm. All around him was destruction. The walls were shattered, columns lay scattered like matchsticks, bodies and pieces of bodies lay in crimson clumps. Clouds of billowing dust fouled the air, glowing hellish orange where fires burned. Above, the vaulted ceiling groaned and shuddered. The Great Temple had stood for nearly three hundred years, but it would not last much longer. If Denubis stayed where he was, he would end up like Quarath, crushed and buried under the rubble.

Quickly. We are nearly out of time.

Denubis shook off his stupor. The power of the Dark One’s voice was undeniable. Choking on dust, he waded on through the bloodstained debris.

*****

Of all the places in Istar that terrible day, none was safer than Fistandantilus’s laboratory. Magic crackled from one end to the other as protective spells of extraordinary power, laid down many years ago, flared into existence. They performed their job, as the Dark One knew they would; while the quakes pounded both the Lordcity and the Temple to rubble, down here-deep below the basilica-they hadn’t even knocked over a single candle. This was good, because the spell the archmage had to cast required all his concentration. And he must cast it soon-his magical wards could resist the tremors, but something much worse was coming, something no sorcery could withstand.

For now, though, Fistandantilus stood patiently in the center of the great room, in an open area surrounded by workbenches and shelves covered with spellbooks and strange things in glass jars. Around him lay a perfect ring, traced on the gray stone floor with silver dust. He had finished making preparations for the spell, which would spirit him out of this place… not just through space, but through time. He would vanish from Istar, and appear in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas a hundred years hence. He had sealed the Tower-or rather, his one-time apprentice Andras had, with his dying breath. Only he could enter now without suffering a horrible death. There, in the Tower and in the future, he would be safe to continue his plans. There, he could still hope to open the Portal to the Abyss, and challenge the gods in their own home.

He couldn’t go yet, though; he wouldn’t be traveling alone. So he stood, arms folded, and waited.

The other wizards were far away, withdrawn from the world and weakened by attrition; they would not be able to hinder him. The dark gods were impaired too, their power damaged by the loss of nearly all their followers. Once Beldinas destroyed Istar, the gods of light would be left feeble as well; the Balance would be restored, but in the process no one would remain to oppose him. And even if someone did, if the gods somehow managed to foil him, his spirit would endure, bound to the world. One day, someone would find the spellbook he had sent with the Twice-Born-and through that unfortunate soul, he would enter the world again. He had spent decades devising this plan. Nothing could stop him-not even Paladine’s burning hammer, and what it would wreak upon the world today.

The laboratory had two doors, one on either end. Now they opened at the same time, revealing two figures caked in dust. One was tall and dark, well-muscled and still bearing the armor and sword he had wielded that morning in the Arena. The other was mousy and stooped, his spectacles smudged, his hands stained with ink. Fistandantilus nodded to both, beckoning with a wizened hand.

“Good,” he said. “You are both just in time.”

The doors swung shut. The gladiator and the scribe, the two men he had picked to aid him in the trials to come, glanced at each other, each sizing up the other, wondering why the other was here. Then, following the Dark One’s command, they strode forward, stopping just outside the ring of silver dust.

“Pheragas,” Fistandantilus said to the gladiator, the slave he had bought to be his protector in the times ahead. “Did you find victory on the sands today?”

The man glared, his eyes filled with grief. He had lost many friends today. The world he’d known, all the people who had cheered for him, fought beside him or against him, all were dead already, or soon would be. He had left them to their fates, at the Dark One’s behest. He hated Fistandantilus with every iota of his being.

The Dark One shrugged, untroubled, and looked to Denubis. “And you, Revered Son. It took some coaxing, but you came. That was wise of you.”

Denubis only blinked, stupefied. He put a shaking hand to his head.

A distant boom sounded as a large part of the Temple crumbled above. The crash should have rocked the room, but the magic wards held. The black iron chandelier hanging overhead didn’t even budge. Fistandantilus nodded his head.

“Time to go,” he said. “Step into the circle.”