Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

The colossal statue—seared by fire, melted and misshapen—lay across the foredeck. “Where’s the Revered Son?” Dunvane demanded. He ran forward and found Imkhian crumpled against the capstan. Blood was running from a gash on his forehead.

“Revered Son! Are you all right?”

The priest blinked and looked up at the face of the statue. “Kingpriest!” he cried hoarsely. “You stood upon the arch of Paladine’s Gate!” He covered his face with his hands and uttered a long, tearing wail. “What has the world come to, that the most righteous nation on Krynn can be dealt such a blow? The Great Temple—the Kingpriest—the Revered Sons and Daughters—all thrown down! Istar is destroyed! Istar is destroyed!”

Imkhian bolted to the starboard rail. He stared straight into the whirling maelstrom and threw a leg over the rail.

“Stop, Imkhian!” Dunvane yelled.

The sound of his own name made the priest pause. He looked over his shoulder at the captain. His face was twisted with fury. “The gods have abandoned us! The world is at an end.” Turning back to face the boiling sea, he raised his other leg over the rail.

“You don’t have to die!” Dunvane shouted.

Imkhian’s reply was a snarl. “Fools! You are already dead!” He let go and fell from the ship.

Dunvane and Norry ran to the rail. To his horror, Dunvane saw Imkhian break the surface of the bubbling ocean, hands reaching up to the ruined image of the Kingpriest. Without a sound, he sank below the surface.

Hatch covers all over the ship burst off as the flooding seawater filled the hold. Norry pulled Dunvane away from the rail. The Sunchaser was going down.

“Go aft!” Dunvane yelled. There was a small dinghy lashed to the transom stern. It was the only escape craft they had. Norry and the other sailor worked their way up the port side. Jermina and the captain crawled up the starboard. Blood-red saltwater lapped at Dunvane’s heels.

“Don’t let the dinghy fall!” Dunvane ordered. “It’ll break.” The sinking ship had lifted the stern so high he didn’t dare release the lifeboat’s moorings for fear of it plunging into the water and breaking apart. Norry and the sailor tried to free the dinghy, planning to drag it amidships and launch it there. They were so intent on cutting the knots that they didn’t see the mizzen yard teeter above them.

“Look out!” the captain shouted.

Norry looked up in time to see the yard falling. He threw himself back. The railing he landed against gave way and, with a shocked outcry, he plunged overboard. The sailor, crouched by the dinghy, had no time to escape. The heavy yard crushed him and the dinghy in one devastating blow.

The ship’s bow slipped under the waves. The bronze statue broke loose and was sucked away into the maelstrom by the racing current.

Water advanced slowly up the deck. Jermina clutched the captain’s arm. “There must be something we can do,” she pleaded.

“No one can live in that current,” Dunvane said grimly. “The priest was right. The gods have abandoned us. We are as good as dead.”

“Not” Jermina cried. “I don’t believe it. The gods help those who help themselves.”

Seawater bubbled around the serpentine bowl. It remained lashed to the deck, though the mainmast yard had fallen across it. Steam billowed up as the hot water touched the cool stone.

“Will that float?” Jermina asked, pointing to the sacramental bowl.

“Float? Maybe. It’s light for its size, but why—?” “Come on!” She seized his arm and dragged him along. They had to wade in ankle-deep blood-red water to reach the bowl. Dunvane was almost numb with shock. “Hopeless,” he muttered, but he let Jermina carry him along.

They managed to climb into the gigantic serpentine bowl. Jermina snatched the captain’s knife from his belt and tried to hack through the lashings. They were too thick, and she made little progress. At last, Dunvane took the knife from her and set to work. Jermina reached out and snagged a boat hook floating nearby.

When the last line parted, the bowl was free of the ship. Jermina pushed them away with the boat hook. The bowl slid off the canted deck and into the water. The rushing current caught them.

They huddled in the bottom of the sacramental bowl, clinging to each other. The stone’s fireproof properties protected them from the heat of the water, but the low sides let gouts of hot spray wash over them. The maelstrom spun them in tighter and tighter spirals toward the huge column of smoke and flame in its heart. Other wreckage crashed into them. The roaring of the rushing water filled their ears. They coughed and gasped in the fiery, choking air.

The serpentine bowl struck hard against something—the statue of the Kingpriest. Dunvane, certain this was the end, shut his eyes. The heat overcame them. They both lost consciousness.

Jermina awoke, sat up slowly. She looked around, dazed. Behind them, the column of fire that marked the grave of the city of Istar burned and flashed. The serpentine bowl she and Dunvane were in, along with other wreckage and rubbish, had been propelled out of the maelstrom. They floated quietly in a backwater.

“Dunvane!” she said, shaking him. He sat up, staring in wonder.

A cool drop hit his face. Another followed, then another, and soon rain was pattering on the ocean. The shower strengthened. Dunvane lifted his head and let the water wash over him. The sound of hysterical laughter grated on his nerves. Jermina was laughing and sobbing at the same time.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“The Revered Son was wrong,” she said. “We’re alive.”

Most Esteemed Historian:

It is with reverence approaching awe that I again pursue the lost histories of Krynn. It seems to me that now, more than ever before, the search for truth must be pursued with unrelenting courage and diligence. By all reckonings during this bleak era, the gods have abandoned us. Godly powers have been unknown for generations. The scars of the Cataclysm ravage the land. Thus, it falls to us—the historians—to follow the flickers of light that will lead us to a brighter future!

Those flickers, as Your Excellency well knows, have grown faint. During the bleak century since the gods rained their ruin upon Istar, the tragedy of the Dwarfgate War hangs over the south. The violent Newsea, tortured since its very creation by typhoon and cyclone, divides the peoples of central Ansalon, fragmenting the countryside into tiny partitions of its former greatness.

And everywhere, the people seek their gods. They call to Paladine, plead for Gilean or Reorx to answer their prayers. Yet the gods of good and neutrality and evil do not reply. These sad worshipers find not even the hint of the once-manifest presence of immortal beings. That, my lord, must certainly be deemed the most dire of the many effects attributable to the Cataclysm, for without gods, the people see no hope in the future.

On a brighter note, I am pleased to report that my health has been restored. As I have indicated previously, Your Grace’s generosity in providing me with comfortable convalescence cannot be overthanked. With remarkable good luck—I dare not say the grace of the gods—I have regained full use of my limbs and the disfigurement left by the frostbite is only faintly visible.

In sum, my recovery is complete. Now, too, I have heard news that again compels me to walk the pathways of history! The information comes to me by a most reliable source (more about him in a moment).

I have received word of one who claims to have touched a higher power—and whose claims can be supported by creditable witnesses. A messenger arrived here, after many days of riding, from a land to the east. He tells me of a priest who has performed actual miracles. Having heard of we scribes who quest for the truth, the priest sends me testimonials by this messenger and extends an invitation to witness proof that the gods have not abandoned Krynn.