Margaret Weis - The cataclysm

The Tower of the High Clerist had been built by the founder of the knights, Vinas Solamnus. Located high in the Vingaard Mountains, it guarded Westgate Pass, the only pass through the mountains.

The road to the High Clerist's Tower was long and steep, but, because it was so well traveled, the knights and the citizens of Palanthas had always worked together to keep it in good repair. The road had become legendary, in fact. A quick route to anything was termed "as smooth as the road to Palanthas."

But that had changed, as had so much else, since the Cataclysm.

Expecting a swift and easy journey, Michael and Nikol were dismayed and disheartened to discover the once smooth road now in ruins; at points, almost impassable. Huge boulders blocked the way in some places. Wide chasms, where the rock had split apart, prevented passage in others. Mountain wall on one side of them, sheer drop on the other, Michael and Nikol were forced to climb over these barriers or — heart in mouth — make a perilous leap from one side of a cut to another.

After only a few miles journeying, both were exhausted. They reached a relatively level place, a clearing of fir trees that once might have been a resting area for travelers. A mountain stream ran clear and cold, bounding down the cliff's side to disappear into the woodlands far beneath them. A circle of blackened rocks indicated that people had built campfires on this spot.

The two stopped, by unspoken consent, to rest. Although the way had been hard, both were far wearier than they should have been. A pall had come over them shortly after starting out and lay heavily on them, drained them of energy. They had the feeling they were being watched, followed. Nikol kept her hand on her sword; Michael stopped continually, looked behind. They saw nothing, heard nothing, but the feeling did not leave them.

"At least," said Nikol, "we have a clear view of the road from here." She stared long and hard down the mountain, down the way they'd come. Nothing stirred along the broken path.

"It's our imagination," said Michael. "We're jumpy, after what happened in Palanthas, that's all."

They sat down on the ground that was smooth with a covering of dead pine needles and ate sparingly of their meager supplies.

The sky was gray, laden with heavy clouds that hung so low, wisps seemed to cling to the tall firs. Both were oppressed, spirits subdued by a feeling of dread and awe. When they finally spoke, they did so in low voices, reluctant to shatter the stillness.

"It seems strange," said Michael, "that the knights do not clean up this road. The Cataclysm was almost a year ago, time enough to build bridges, remove these boulders, fill in the cracks. Do you know," he continued, talking for the sake of talking, not realizing what he was saying, "it looks to me as if they've left the road in disrepair on purpose. I think they're afraid of being attacked — "

"Nonsense!" said Nikol, bristling. "What do the knights have to fear? That drunken scum in Palanthas? They're nothing more than paid henchmen for that false cleric. The citizens of Palanthas respect the knights, and well they should. The knights have defended Palanthas for generations. You'll see. When the knights come riding down in force, those cowards will take one look and beg for mercy."

"Then why haven't they ridden forth before now?"

"They don't know the danger," she snapped. "No one's brought them word."

Rubbing her shoulders beneath her heavy cloak, Nikol abruptly changed the subject. "How hard the wind blows up here, and how bitter it is. The cold goes through flesh and bone, strikes at the heart."

"So it does," said Michael, growing more and more uneasy. "A strange chill, not of winter. I've never known the like."

"I suppose it's just the high altitude." Nikol tried to shrug it off. Rising to her feet, she paced the clearing, peering nervously into the woods. "Nothing out there."

Coming back, she nudged Michael gently with the toe of her boot. "You didn't hear a word I said. You're smiling. Tell me. I'd be glad of something to smile about," she added with a shiver.

"What?" Michael jumped, glanced up, startled. "Oh, it's nothing, really. Funny, what memories come to you for no good reason. For a moment, I was a child, back in Xak Tsaroth. An uncle of mine, one of the nomads, came into town one day. I don't suppose you ever saw the Plainsmen. They dress all in leather and bright-colored feathers and beads. I loved it when they came to visit our family, bringing their trade goods. This uncle told the most wonderful stories. I'll never forget them, tales of the dark gods, who were never supposed to be mentioned then, in the time of the Kingpriest. Stories of ghosts and ghouls, the undead who roam the land in torment. I was terrified for days after."

"What happened?" asked Nikol, sitting beside him, crowding near for warmth and comfort. "Why do you sigh?"

"I told my teacher one of the stories. He was a young man, a new cleric sent from Istar. He was furious. He called the Plainsman a wicked liar, a dangerous blasphemer, a corrupting influence on impressionable youth. He told me my uncle's tales were ridiculous fabrications or, worse, downright heresy. There were no such things as ghosts and ghouls. All such evil had been eradicated by the almighty good of the Kingpriest. I can still feel the knock on the head the priest gave me — in the name of Mishakal, of course."

"What made you think of all this?"

"Those ghost stories." Michael tried to laugh, but it ended in a nervous cough. "When one of the undead comes near, my uncle says you feel a terrible chill that seems to come from the grave. It freezes your heart — "

"Stop it, Michael!" Nikol bounded to her feet. "You'll end up scaring us both silly. There's snow in the air. We should go on, whether we're rested or not. That way, we'll reach the tower before nightfall. Hand me the waterskin. I'll fill it, then we can be on our way."

Silently, Michael handed over the waterskin. Nikol walked over, rilled the skin at the bubbling brook. Michael pulled the symbol of Mishakal out from beneath his robes, held it in his hand, stared at it. He could have sworn it glowed faintly, a shimmer of blue that lit the gray gloom surrounding them, deepening around them, deepening to black…

And in the black, eyes of flame.

The eyes were in front of Nikol, staring at her from across the stream. She had risen to her feet, the waterskin in her hand, water dripping from it.

"This is how I know you," came a deep and terrible voice.

Michael tried to call to her, but his own voice was a strangled scream. He tried to move, to run to her side, but his legs were useless, as if they'd been cut off at the knees. Nikol did not retreat, did not flee. She stood unmoving, staring with set, pale face at the apparition emerging from the shadows.

He was — or once had been — a Knight of Solamnia. He was mounted on a steed that, like himself, seemed to spring from a terrible dream. A strange and eerie light, perhaps that cast by the black moon, Nuitari, shone on armor that bore the symbol of the rose, but the armor did not gleam. It was charred, scorched, as if the man had passed through a ravaging fire. He wore a helm, its visor lowered. No face was visible within, however. Only a terrible darkness lighted by the hideous flame of those burning eyes.

He came to a halt near Nikol, reached down a gloved hand, as if for the waterskin. In that motion, Michael knew him.

"You gave me water," said the knight, and his voice seemed to come from below the ground, from the grave. "You eased my burning thirst. I wish you could do so again."

The knight's voice was sad, burdened with a sorrow that brought tears to Michael's eyes, though they froze there.

The knight's words jolted Nikol, drove her to action. She drew her sword from its sheath.