Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

Other than drawing his cloak closer around the body that no longer was there, he did not move. He had urgent business. He was spying on the city of Palanthas. And though he was quite near it, none of the living saw him or were aware of his presence. The shadows of his dark magic shrouded him, hid him from view. The sight of him would have terrorized these weak vessels of warm flesh, rendered them useless to him. He needed the living, needed them alive, and, knowing his own cursed power, he wasn’t certain how to approach them.

He watched them, hated them, envied them.

Palanthas. Once he’d owned that city. Once he’d been a power there. He could be a power still, a power for death and destruction. But that wasn’t what he wanted, not now, not yet. A city saved from the terror of the Cataclysm. There had to be a reason, something blessed within it, something he could use.

The Revered Son? The knight had assumed so, at first. A dark joy had filled what once had been his heart when he’d heard that a Revered Son had arrived from the east, claiming to be a survivor of shattered Istar, come to take over the spiritual well-being of the populace. Was it possible? Had he discovered a true cleric left in the land? But, after long days and longer nights (for what was time to him?) spent listening to the Revered Son, the knight came to the conclusion he’d been deceived.

In life, he’d known men and women like this charlatan, made use of them for his own ends. He recognized the man’s tricks and deceits. He toyed with the idea of destroying this Revered Son, found it amusing, for the knight hated the living with a hatred born of jealousy. And he would be doing these fool Palanthians a favor, ridding them of one who would end up tyrant, despot.

But what would he gain out of it, except the fleeting pleasure of watching warm flesh grow as cold as his own?

“Nothing,” he said to himself. “If they are stupid enough to fall for that man’s lies, let them. It serves them right.”

Yet something within Palanthas called to him, and so he stayed, watching, waiting with the patience of one who has eternity, the impatience of one who longs for rest.

He was there, invisible to living eyes, when two people—a beardless youth armed with a sword, and a man in shabby blue robes—emerged from the city gates with haste enough to draw the knight’s attention, piqued his interest by taking themselves away from the sight of the guards.

The knight gazed at the man in blue with interest that increased when he saw, with the clear sight of those who walk another plane of existence, the symbol of Mishakal hidden beneath the man’s robes. And the beardless youth; there seemed something familiar about him. The dark knight drew closer.

“We’ll travel to the High Clerist’s Tower,” the youth was saying to his friend. “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.”

High Clerist’s Tower!ow The knight gave a bitter, silent laugh.

The youth’s friend appeared to share the listener’s doubts. “But surely the knights must know—”

“No, they don’t,” the youth returned. “They can’t or they would have stopped him before now. And we’ll find out the truth about Lord Soth, too. I don’t believe what they said, not a word of it. I want to know the truth.”

The knight heard his name, heard it spoken in admiration. A thrill passed through him, a thrill that was achingly human and alive. Soth was so astounded, so lost in wonder and puzzlement, trying to think of where he’d known this young man, that he didn’t hear whatever reply the friend made in response.

The two started on their way up the winding road to the High Clerist’s Tower. Summoning his steed, a creature of flame and evil magic as dark as his own, Lord Soth accompanied them—an unseen companion.

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.”