Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

I collapsed into another animated corpse, and retched as I felt my hand sink into the rotted satchel of its belly. The zombies were all around me, reaching with horrible hands.

With a cry of horror, I broke free, lunging in the only direction that would take me away from the ghastly figures—back toward the pit and the Altar of Erasmoth.

“Come to us now, Historian!” cried the priest, ceasing his chant. Kassandry licked her gleaming lips. She held the two daggers high, crossing the blades over her head.

The ranks of the undead pressed forward, and in the surging light of the fires I could see scores of them. They emerged from the shadows around the periphery of the great cavern, shambling slowly out of the darkness to gather in an attentive circle around their master and mistress.

The close-packed ranks of the zombies pressed in on me, forcing me onto the top step leading into the circular altar pit, toward the doom that awaited me below. In desperation, I looked for some avenue of escape through the steadily closing circle. There were none!

“Make haste, Historian!” The priest’s tone contained an element of irritation.

I could delay no longer. The zombies had driven me to the bottom step of the circle, and thence into the pit itself.

Kassandry’s gaze locked on to mine. It was the priestess, in the end, who compelled me to step slowly across the floor of the circle, until I stood before her. Behind her was the black pit, which exuded that terrible odor.

“Now!” cried Erasmoth, raising his hands, his fists clenched in triumph. “In the name of the gods!”

Kassandry raised the knives, still staring at my face. I was transfixed, unable to break that hypnotizing gaze. I waited for the stabbing of that keen steel into my flesh.

Kassandry struck, slicing each blade through the neck, severing the two arteries that carry blood to the brain. But, as I live to write this, Excellency, it was not my flesh. Nay, and I swear by the sanctity of my Historian’s Oath, Your Grace, she slashed her own neck as she stood before me! The priestess took her own life!

Blood spurted from the two wounds, drenching me. Kassandry remained standing, that same expression of rapture etched into her features. Then she started to topple forward and I—out of instinct—reached to catch her.

But Erasmoth knocked me out of the way. Kassandry’s blood sprayed, slicking the smooth floor.

“I must make haste!” shouted the priest.

With surprising strength, he lifted her into his arms, turned toward the dark pit in the center of the circle, and threw the still-bleeding corpse into that blackened hole.

The five pillars of fire surged upward, their light illuminating the great cavern, washing across the senseless, unknowing faces of the zombies and the smiling visage of the triumphant priest.

O wise Astinus, here, it seemed, my historian’s instincts took over, rescued me as I teetered at the brink of madness. Shock welled within me and my legs grew weak, too feeble to support me. I remained senseless of the blood—Kassandry’s blood—that stained my robe, or even of the fact that, for the time being, I had been spared.

I watched the proceedings with a sort of detachment—no longer was I a participant, as indeed I never should have been in the first place. I stared into that black pit. The zombies around us were still, and even Erasmoth’s breathing had become slow and labored.

Then, from out of that obscene darkness, a hand reached forth—a slender, female hand, wet with blood. Another hand appeared, followed by a pair of arms. Then the face, now deathly pale, was visible—and then the mortal flesh that once had been the priestess called Kassandry.

The creature that emerged from the pit was dead, as insensate as the rank of rotting corpses that stood around us. The female zombie, her nearly naked flesh smeared with the gruesome refuse of the dark pit, climbed laboriously from the hole in the floor. The thing’s—I cannot think of it, anymore, as female, or even human—movements were jerky and uncoordinated, as if it must learn to walk anew.

But the aspect that shocked me the most was the vacant stare of those once-bright eyes. Kassandry’s gaze had been so intense, so vital, that it had fascinated me even as it made me quiver with uncertainty. Now the dull, deadened eyes of a corpse roamed sightlessly in that awful, pallid face.

“Before we proceed further,” Erasmoth declared to me, “I want to show you something.”

Numbly, still anticipating my imminent death, I nonetheless followed him. I believe I was in shock and would have jumped into the pit itself, then, if he had ordered it. My captor led me to the pillar of black flame.

“The black fire, as you can feel, radiates no heat,” he said, as we approached the shadowy column.

Indeed, the flickering fire actually seemed to absorb warmth from the air. I felt as if I faced the open night, with my back to the comfort of a house or inn. A limitless well of cold seemed to emanate from the fire, sucking all that was living and warm into its black and soulless depths.

“A curious phenomenon, don’t you agree?” he said. “Now, study the white one.”

We moved to this pale phantasm. This column of fire was translucent and pearly as smoke, but possessed a definition of form and purpose that belied a vaporous nature. The chill of the blaze was like a forceful attack, like a blast of subfreezing wind across a field of ice. I recoiled, to the amusement of the priest.

“She saps your life, does this fire,” Erasmoth said, “but gives you the eternal life of my goddess in return!”

“Life?” I cried, quite losing the impartiality of a historian, for which Your Eminence will no doubt chastise me severely. “How dare you call this evil abomination life!”

“Ah—but it is truly the greatest life!” responded the priest. “For it is life without end!”

“A life without awareness!” I retorted. “No life at all!”

“I did not expect you to understand,” he announced, his tone filled with supreme arrogance, “but I have shown you the proof of a miracle. You, Historian, must take this message to the world.”

“You have shown me proof of the presence of an evil god,” I continued, still choosing my words with caution. “And that, in itself, is a remarkable discovery in this era when all gods were thought to have abandoned Krynn! But will you not tell me the name of this god?”

“Goddess,” he corrected. “You already know her.”

I looked again, realizing that I gazed at the five pillars of fire, the five colors … of evil dragonhood! “She is the Nameless One,” I said quietly, “driven from the world more than two thousand years ago! She whose dark power once brought Krynn almost to the point of subjugation.”

“The Queen of Darkness!” he shouted in ecstasy. “Mistress of the evil dragons, the five-headed wyrm!”

“Takhisis!” All of the horrors I had witnessed paled when compared with the menace raised by this dark priest. “Do you mean to tell me that she returns to the world?”

“Not yet, Historian, not yet, but her presence can be felt, by myself and others. She grows in power, and she is patient. She is not defeated. Never make that mistake, Historian. She will not be vanquished!”

Abruptly, he raised his voice, pointed. “Go, now! Take your notes and report to your master what you have learned! Let the great Astinus know and tremble! Let everyone know! The Queen of Darkness will return, and glory is the destiny of those who worship her name!”

His triumph ringing in my ears, I departed—precipitously, if the truth be told (as, of course, it must). The zombies parted, let me pass. The gold gates, and the silver as well, stood open for me. I ran through the sun-dappled courtyard, raced all the way down the winding trail to Halcyon. And even here, I do not feel safe.