Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“Nonsense!” The Revered Son snorted. “Here’s the story you tell them. Soth was furious because the Kingpriest was about to make public the knight’s dalliances with that elven trollop of his. Make that clear. Oh, and throw in that bit about him murdering his first wife. That always goes over—”

“Shush, someone’s wanting a blessing.”

A young woman, carrying a baby, was hovering timidly on the outskirts of the group. The Revered Son glanced about, saw the woman, and smiled at her benignly.

“Come closer. What may I do for you, Daughter?”

“Pardon me for disturbing you, Revered Son,” the woman said, with a blush, “but I heard you speak at the temple yesterday, and I’m confused.”

“I’ll do my best to help you understand, Daughter,” said the Revered Son humbly. “What do you find confusing?”

“I have always prayed to Paladine, but you say we’re not to pray to him or any of the other gods. We’re to pray to the Kingpriest?”

“Yes, Daughter. When the wicked Queen of Evil attacked the world, the other gods fled in terror. The Kingpriest alone had the courage to stand and fight her, just as did Huma, long ago. The Kingpriest fights her today, on the heavenly plane. He needs your prayers, Daughter, to aid him in his struggles.”

“And that’s why we must drive out the kender and the elves—”

“And all those whose disbelief come to the aid of the Powers of Darkness.”

“I understand now. Thank you, Revered Son.” The young woman curtseyed.

The Revered Son laid his hand upon her head, and upon her child’s. “In the name of the Kingpriest,” he said solemnly.

The young woman left. The Revered Son watched after her, a pleased smile upon his lips. He cast a glance at his cohorts, who grinned and nodded. Their heads bent together in continued plotting, the Revered Son and his minions walked off in the opposite direction.

Neither Nikol nor Michael could speak for long moments. The shock of what they’d heard and seen took their breath, made them dizzy and sick, as if they’d been physically assaulted.

“Oh, Michael,” murmured Nikol, “this can’t be happening! I don’t believe it. Lord Soth was so valiant, so brave. No knight would do such terrible things—”

“Lies!” said Michael. His face was pale. He literally shook with anger and outrage. “That false cleric has twisted the truth—”

“But what is the truth, Michael?” Nikol cried. “We don’t know!”

“Hush, we’re attracting attention,” he cautioned, noting that several men were casting suspicious glances in their direction. “The truth about that friend of ours,” Michael continued loudly. “We’ll find out, I’m certain, now that we’re here in this fair city. A city obviously blessed.”

Several men, burly and unwashed and smelling strongly of dwarf spirits, lurched over to stare at them.

“Strangers, are you?” one said, scowling.

“From Whitsund, Sire,” said Michael, bowing.

“At least you’re human. Refugees? Thinkin’ of movin’ in?” He glowered at them. ” ’Cause if you are, you got another think comin’. We got beggars enough as it is.” Those with him muttered their assent. “Why don’t you two just head on back to wherever it is you came from?”

Nikol shifted restlessly; her armor jingled, her sword clanked. The man turned, looked at her with drunken interest.

“That steel I hear?” The man took a step nearer Nikol. Reaching out a filthy hand, he caught hold of her by the chin, wrenched her face to the light. “You look as if you’ve noble blood in you, boy. Don’t he, fellas? Not some noble’s son, by any chance? With a fat purse?”

“Let go of me,” said Nikol through clenched teeth. “Or you’re a dead man.”

“Please,” said Michael, trying to come between them, “we don’t want any trouble—”

But he only made matters worse. His staff caught on Nikol’s cloak, dragged the fabric aside. The shining breastplate she wore glittered in the sun.

“A knight hisself!” The man howled in glee. “Look, fellas. Look what I’ve caught! I’m gonna have a little fun!” He drew a long dagger from his belt. “Let’s see if your blood does run yellow—”

Nikol thrust her sword into the man, yanked it out before he or his drunken companions knew what had happened. The man stared at her in blank astonishment, then groaned and toppled to the ground. A pool of blood spread beneath him. The sight sobered up his friends, who growled in anger. Some drew knives; one wielded a blackthorn cudgel. Michael whirled his staff. Nikol set her back to his, her sword, red with blood, swinging in a slow arc.

The men made a half-hearted show of attacking. Michael’s staff lashed out, caught one on the side of one man’s head, sent him into the dust. Nikol gave another a slash on his cheek that he would carry to his grave. The men, eyeing the knight and the cleric, decided they’d had enough. They broke and ran.

“Cowards!” jeered Nikol, cleaning her sword with the tail of the dead man’s shirt. “Thieves and knaves.”

“Yes, but they’ll be back,” said Michael grimly. “And they’ll bring help. We can’t stay in the city. We’ll have to leave.” He cast a longing, disappointed glance at the great library.

“We’ll return,” said Nikol confidently. “I have an idea. Hurry up. One of those thugs is talking to that so-called Revered Son.”

Sure enough, the Revered Son was turning, staring hard in their direction. The man was pointing at them excitedly.

The two ran, blended in with the rest of the flotsam and dregs of humanity that had washed ashore in Palanthas. Reaching the gates, they were walking out just as one of the Revered Son’s henchmen came pounding up, breathless, to deliver a message to the guard.

Michael and Nikol ducked behind a wagon that had become mired in the crowd.

“Knight of Solamnia!” the man shouted. “A huge fellow with a sword six feet long! He’s got a friend, some fellow wearing the blue robes of the false goddess.”

“Yeah, sure, we’ll watch for them,” said the guard, and the henchman dashed off, to spread the alarm at other gates. “Get that wagon moving! What’s the matter with you?”

Nikol drew her cloak close around her, pressed her sword against her thigh. Michael made certain his holy medallion was well hidden. The guard didn’t even bother to spare them a glance. Once outside the gate, they fended off the beggars, traveled some distance up the road, finally stopping in a grove of stunted trees.

“What’s your plan?” Michael asked.

“We’ll travel to the High Clerist’s Tower,” Nikol replied. “The knights must be told about what is going on in Palanthas, how this false cleric is plotting to take control. They’ll soon put a stop to it, then we can go into the library and find the Disks of Mishakal. We’ll use them to prove to people that this Revered Son is a crook and a charlatan.”

Michael looked doubtful. “But surely the knights must know—”

“No, they don’t. They can’t or they would have stopped him before now,” Nikol argued. Serene, confident, she looked up into the mountains that loomed over Palanthas, to the road that led to the knights’ stronghold. “And we’ll find out the truth about Lord Soth, too,” she added softly, her cheeks flushing. “I don’t believe what they said, not a word of it. I want to know the truth.”

Michael sighed, shook his head.

“What?” Nikol demanded sharply. “What’s the matter?”

“I was thinking that perhaps there are some truths we are better off not knowing,” he replied.

A chill wind, which blew from the plane of dark and evil magic, tore aside the cloak of the knight who stood upon that plane, allowed the icy blast to penetrate to the center of his empty being. He drew the cloak closer around him—a human gesture made from force of habit, for this ephemeral fabric, spun of memory, would never be sufficient to protect him from death’s eternal cold. The knight had not been dead long. and he clung to the small and comforting habits of blessed life—once taken for granted, now, with their loss, bitterly regretted.