Chris Pierson - Sacred Fire

They did as they were told, careful not to disturb the silver powder. Each reached out, jerkily, and laid a hand on one of the wizard’s shoulders. Fistandantilus began to weave his hands through the air, chanting spidery words as he drew the magic down from the black moon. The air rippled, and a wall of silver light sprang up from the circle, shimmering with power. Images began to form upon the glowing wall, like figures cast by Midrathi shadow-sculptors: forests and mountaintops, deserts and oceans, cities and caverns, each dissolving into the next. Dragons winged across a twilit sky; men fought ogres on a barren plain; copper-skinned lizard men stalked elves through a festering swamp. This was Krynn’s history, stretching over countless centuries before the first Kingpriest to thousands of years into the future. The stones beneath Fistandantilus’s feet sang as space and time opened to him.

The wizard looked to Denubis and Pheragas. Both stood rigid, transfixed by the mystery of what was happening. He smiled within the shadows of his hood.

“Farewell, Istar,” he murmured.

A whirling vortex opened above him. He looked up into it, focusing his thoughts. The shifting images resolved into a dark room, dust-mantled and cobwebbed with age. With a sigh, he released the magic. The silver ring blazed.

Half a second later, the wards flickered and faded and disappeared. With a horrible crash, the laboratory exploded and caved in. But the three were already gone, wizard and gladiator and scribe, flowing away on the river of time.

Beldinas Pilofiro , Kingpriest of Istar, stood alone within the Sacred Chamber, bathed in his own light. He did not feel the earth shake, nor did he hear the thunder of the collapsing Temple or the anguished screams of his followers. The world did not exist for him, not now: There was only the rite he was about to conduct. It would take all his strength to force the gods to listen, to make them obey. But his will was strong, his purpose pure. They would judge him thus.

The silvery glow around him grew sun-bright as he walked to the head of the chapel. A strange feeling passed over him. His gaze shifted to the satin curtains hanging behind the altar. Was there someone hiding behind them?

The feeling passed, and he shook his head. Another of the dark gods’ tricks, no doubt, meant to rob him of his faith. Too late-there was nothing they could do to stop him now.

He did not kneel, but stared down at the altar’s blank, gleaming surface. Delving deep, he summoned all the power from the well of his soul. The power ran up into him, coursing through his body like the waters of a spring-swollen river, ready to burst its banks. He braced himself, holding the power in check. The time would come to release it, but first he had to make his greatest decree. His chin rose, and he began to speak.

“Paladine,” he declared. His tone was not one of humility; that was for weak men. He spoke the god’s name almost as an equal… “Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one resolved to fight against it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will never work!”

He paused, then, feeling a presence in the room-a presence he knew well. He’d felt it many times before, when he drew on his powers … whether to heal the sick or destroy his enemies. The god’s presence was unmistakable. It hovered now above the altar, unseen but unmistakably there. He fought back a sudden flash of awe, the urge to prostrate himself. When he spoke again, his voice was soft as a flute-not pleading, but soothing, as one might address a child.

“I understand, of course. You had to espouse this doctrine in the old days, when you were beleaguered. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined strength, I can sweep evil from the world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves, kender, and gnomes, those races not of your creation. And even the elves will know the light that has eluded them, all these years. The last tower of the wizards will fall, as will the last churches of those who do not honor your grace. Dragons of silver and gold shall fill the skies once more… not to fight the minions of darkness, but to spread my will across Krynn!”

He raised his voice again, building to a crescendo. The force above the throne writhed, the platinum dragon coiling invisibly as he exerted his strength upon it. It would obey him. It had done so before. His power had made armies lay down their swords, burned demons to ashes, brought life back to the dead. Paladine resisted, but Beldinas could feel the god’s resolve falter before his blazing light.

“I will rule in glory,” he trumpeted, spreading his arms wide, “creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams! You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of low birth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!”

With that, he let loose his stored-up power, channeling it into the force hovering above the altar. He caught the sensation, grasping it tightly as it fought to free itself-but the power could not escape. A thrill surged through the Kingpriest, His fears, the dread and worries that had haunted him these long years, all lifted away. The plan was working . He only had to hold on, and the resistance would end. Paladine would kneel! They would all kneel before him!

“The gods come!” he shouted. “At my command!”

There was a tiny, musical sound.

Beldinas blinked. Something lay on the altar.

Looking closer, he saw a single glass tile, cracked in half by the fall from the mosaic above. It was the tessera he’d noticed earlier, the one that had disturbed the beauty of the whole piece. Involuntarily, he glanced up at the false sky above, at the bare spot where it had been… then he stopped, freezing with horror. He’d taken his attention off the force above the altar. Now it was gone!

Wildly, he reached out for the power, trying to catch hold again. But it was too late: the god’s presence was as fleeting, as insubstantial as smoke. It slipped from his grasp, rising up into beyond his grasp. The air shimmered like sunlight on water: platinum scales, the dragon taking form, full of beauty and majesty.

And rage.

Beldinas stood motionless, arms still outflung, staring at the god’s materializing serpentine form. It filled the room, every part of it in motion … except the face. That hung above him, staring with eyes of amber, burning with wrath. Paladine’s anger was hotter than any furnace, colder than the storms of Icereach, more fearsome than any storm. But there was something else in those eyes, too, deep beneath the fury… sorrow over what was about to ensue.

Too late, Beldinas understood. In his mind, he saw what he himself had wrought, in his blindness. What fate awaited him. What a fool he had been. “Why…?” he cried again, his voice shrill.

The dragon hissed, and one by one the stars fell from the mosaic, white tiles separating from the black, tumbling over and over to shatter on the floor. They made a terrible music, each note lingering rather than fading, the discord full of menace. Beldinas hardly noticed; his attention remained on Paladine, hovering above him. The god’s gaze remained locked with his until the last tile fell. Then the regal head gave one last shake, opened its jaws wide, and shrieked its fury.

Beldinas dropped to his knees, cutting them on the broken glass. Paladine’s scream was as solid as any fist, smashing him down and pressing him lower and lower. At last, unable to bear the pressure any longer, he flung himself onto the floor, weeping. The Miceram fell from his head. His light faltered.