Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“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.

“I do not know what dark and evil place you spring from, but you desecrate the armor of a knight—”

Michael shook free of his fear, ran forward, caught hold of her arm. “Put your weapon away. He means us no harm.” Pray Mishakal that was true! “Look at him, Nikol,” Michael added, barely able to draw breath enough to speak. “Don’t you recognize him?”

“Lord Soth!” Nikol whispered. She lowered her sword. “What dread fate is this? What have you become?”

Soth regarded her long moments without speaking. The chill that flowed from him came near to freezing their blood, the terror freezing their minds. And yet Michael guessed that the knight’s evil powers were being held in check, even as he held the reins of his restive steed.

“I hear pity in your voice,” said the knight. “Your pity and compassion touch some part of me—the part that will not die, the part that burns and throbs in endless pain! For I am one of the undead—doomed to bitter agony, eternal torment, no rest, no sleep …”

His fist clenched in anger. The horse shied, screamed suddenly. Its hooves clattered on the frozen ground.

Nikol fell back a step, raised her sword.

“The rumors we heard about you, then, are true,” she said, trying to control her shaking voice. “You failed us, the knights, the gods. You are cursed—”

“Unjustly!” Soth’s voice hissed. “Cursed unjustly! I was tricked! Deceived! My wife was warned of the calamity. I rode forth, prepared to give my life to save the world, but the gods had no intention of being merciful. They wanted humankind punished. The gods prevented my coming to Istar and, in an attempt to cleanse their hands of the blood of innocents, they laid this curse on me! And now they have abandoned the world they destroyed.”

Michael, frightened and sick at heart, clasped his hand around the symbol of Mishakal. The death knight was swift to notice.

“You do not believe me, Cleric?”

The flame eyes seared Michael’s skin; the dreadful cold chilled his heart. “No, my lord,” said Michael, wondering where he found the courage. “No, I do not believe you. The gods would not be so unjust.”

“Oh, wouldn’t they?” Nikol retorted bitterly. “I’ve kept silent, Michael, for I did not want to hurt you or add to your burden, but what if you’re wrong? What if you’ve been deceived? What if the gods have abandoned us, left us alone at the mercy of scoundrels like those in Palanthas?”

Michael looked at her sadly. “You saw Nicholas. You saw him blessed, at peace. You heard the promise of the goddess, that someday we would find such peace. How can you doubt?”

“But where is the goddess now, Michael?” Nikol demanded. “Where is she when you pray to her? She docs not answer.”

Michael looked again at the medallion in the palm of his hand. It was dark and cold to the touch, colder than the chill of the death knight. But Michael had seen it glow blue—or had he? Was it wishful thinking? Was his faith nothing but wishful thinking?

Nikol’s hand closed over his. “There, you see, Michael? You don’t believe …”

“The Disks of Mishakal,” he said desperately. “If we could only find those, I could prove to you—” Prove to myself, he said silently, and in that moment admitted for the first time that he, too, was beginning to lose his faith.

“Disks of Mishakal? What are these?” Lord Soth asked.

Michael was reluctant to answer.

“They are holy tablets of the gods,” the cleric said finally. “I … hoped to find the answers on them.”

“Where are these disks?”