Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“May the gods forgive them,” murmured Michael.

“I trust your disks can explain this,” Nikol said bitterly.

They continued on, passing other sites of senseless destruction, other wanton acts of violence. Palanthas itself may have escaped the ravages of the Cataclysm, but the souls of its people had been cracked and shattered.

It was at the Old City wall that they first heard the sound of the mob, the sound of a thousand people gone mad, a thousand people finding anonymity in their numbers, driven to commit crimes one alone would have been ashamed to consider. The noise was frightful, inhuman. It prickled the hair on Michael’s neck, sent a shiver down his spine.

Smoke boiled up from beyond the walls of Old City. Under its cover, Michael and Nikol slipped through the gates without attracting anyone’s attention. Reaching the other side, they came to a halt, stared in disbelief. Nothing, not the sight of the destruction, not the tumult that raged around them, prepared them for what they saw.

Several large and beautiful houses had been set ablaze and were burning furiously. Large crowds danced drunkenly in front of the fires, cheering and waving bottles and other, more gruesome, trophies. But the largest concentration of the mob was farther on, gathered around the great library.

Here the crowd was more or less hushed, heads craning to see and hear. A voice rose, exhorting them to further acts of terror. Nikol climbed a drainpipe that ran up the side of a house, and stood on the roof to gain a better view.

“The Revered Son is on the library stairs,” she reported on her return. “His men are there with him. They’re armed with clubs and axes and carrying torches. He’s—” Her words were drowned out by a roar that set the windows rattling.

“We must get inside the library!” Michael was forced to shout to be heard over the clamor. He was starting to feel panicked. The idea that the holy disks might fall victim to this unholy chaos appalled him.

“I have an idea!” Nikol shouted in return, then motioned him to follow her. They slipped past on the fringes of the crowd, ducked down an alleyway, ran its length. Reaching the end, they stopped, peered out cautiously. They stood directly opposite one of the library’s semidetached wings. The mob, intent upon hearing the speaker, blocked the front, but not the sides, of the building.

“We can climb in through the windows,” said Nikol.

They headed for the ornamental grove of trees, the same grove that had provided them shelter the last time they were here. Keeping to the shadows, they trampled on dead, unkempt flower beds and shoved through hedges, once clipped, now left to grow wild. A narrow strip of open lawn stood between them and the library. Breaking free of their cover, they ran across the well-kept grass, came to a window on the ground level. They flattened themselves against the building, trying to keep out of sight of the mob.

“The window’s probably guarded,” said Michael.

Nikol risked peeping over the ledge. “I don’t see anyone, not even the Book Readers,” she added, using a common slang term that referred to the Order of Aesthetics, followers of the god Gilean who devoted their lives to the gathering and preserving of knowledge.

Nevertheless, she drew her sword from its sheath. “Quickly!” whispered Nikol.

A blow from Michael’s staff broke the window, knocked down fragments of glass. Nikol clambered through, kept her sword raised. She stared about intently. Seeing no one, she reached back to help Michael.

He climbed inside, came to a halt. He had heard all his life about the great library, but he’d never seen it, and this was beyond anything he could have imagined. A vast room held row after row of bookshelves, each shelf filled with neatly arranged, lovingly dusted, leather-bound volumes. His heart yearned, suddenly, for the wisdom stored within these walls, ached to think that all this irreplaceable knowledge was in such dire danger.

“Michael!” Nikol called a warning.

A robed monk, wielding a sword, had crept out from the shadows of one of the bookcases, stood blocking their path.

“Hold … hold right th-there,” stammered the Aesthetic. “Don’t … don’t m-m-move.”

The monk was thinner than the heavy, antique, two-handed broadsword he was trying his best to hold. His face was chalk-colored, sweat ran down his bald head, and he shook so that his teeth clicked together. But, though obviously frightened out of his wits, he was grimly standing his ground. Nikol had been about to laugh. She remembered the brutal mob, their hands already stained with blood, and her laughter changed to a sigh.

“Here,” she said, stepping forward, accosting the terrified monk, who stared at her, wide-eyed. “You’re holding that sword all wrong.” Wrenching the poor man’s hands loose from the weapon, she repositioned them. “This hand here, and this hand here. There. Now you have a chance of hurting someone besides yourself.”

“Th-thank you,” murmured the monk, gazing at the weapon and Nikol in perplexity. Suddenly, he brought the sword, point-first, to her throat. “Now … I s-s-suggest you.. you leave.”

“For the love of Paladine! We’re on your side,” said Nikol in exasperation, shoving the wavering blade away from her. Outside they could hear the mob raise its voice in response to the Revered Son’s harangues.

“We want to help you,” Michael said, coming forward. “We don’t have much time. We’re looking for the disks—”

“What is going on in here, Malachai?” questioned a stern voice. “I heard glass breaking.”

A robed man who seemed old, but whose face was unlined, smooth, and devoid of expression, entered the library room. Calm and unruffled, he walked down the aisle between the bookcases.

“They … broke in, M-master,” the monk gasped.

The man’s stern gaze shifted to the couple. “You are responsible for this?” he said, indicating the broken window.

“Well, yes, Master,” answered Michael, astonished to feel his skin burning in shame. “Only because we couldn’t get in the front.”

“We don’t mean any harm,” said Nikol. “You must believe us. We’d like to help, in fact. Master—”

“Astinus,” said the man coolly. “I am Astinus. Did I hear you say you were searching for the Disks of Mishakal?” His gaze went to Michael’s breast.

The cleric had been careful to hide the medallion beneath his robes, but this man’s ageless eyes seemed able to penetrate the cloth.

“The true clerics have all departed Krynn,” observed Astinus, frowning.

“I was given the chance,” said Michael, defensively. “I chose to stay. I could not leave—”

“Yes, yes. It is all recorded. You’ve come for the disks. This—”

A howl rose from the mob outside. Shouts of anger and rage surged up against the library walls like the pounding of a monstrous sea. The monk, hearing that terrible sound, seemed likely to faint. He was sucking in breath in great gulps. His eyes were white-rimmed and huge.

“Sit down, Malachai. Put your head between your knees,” advised Astinus. “And for the gods’ sake drop that sword before you slice off your toe. When you feel better, fetch a broom and sweep up this glass. Someone could get cut. Now, if you two will come with me—”

Nikol stared at the man. “You daft old fool! Listen to that! They’re out for blood! Your blood! You should be preparing for your defense! Look, we can barricade these windows. We’ll overturn these bookcases, then shove them up against—”

“Overturn the bookcases!” Astinus thundered, his placid calm finally disturbed. “Are you mad, young woman? These hold thousands of volumes, catalogued according to date and place. Do you realize how long it would take us to put every volume back in its proper position? Not to mention the damage you might do to some of the older texts. The binding is fragile. And the method of making paper was not as advanced—”