Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

“But not to stay dead!” Soth’s mailed fist clenched again. His anger flared. “I awoke to endless torment, eternal pain! Free me. Cleric. You can. You must. You are a true cleric.”

He stretched out his ghostly hand to the medallion. “The goddess has blessed you.”

“Yet she does not bless you,” said Michael, the words falling from fear-numbed lips. “You lied to us, my lord. The gods did not curse you unjustly, as you would have had us believe. All the evil passions that led you to disgrace and downfall are still alive within you.”

“You dare speak so to me? You dare defy me? Wretched mortal! I could slay you with a word!” Soth’s finger hovered near Michael’s heart. One touch of that death-chilled hand, and the heart would burst.

“You could,” Michael answered, “but you won’t. You won’t kill me for speaking the truth. I hear your regret, my lord. I hear your sorrow. Better feelings within you war with the dark passions. If you were wholly given over to evil, my lord, you would not care. You would not suffer.” “Bitter comfort you offer me. Cleric.” Soth sneered. “It could be your redemption,” Michael said softly.

Soth stood long moments in silence. Slowly, his hand lowered. It went to the book, lying on the table. The fingers followed the words, as though the death knight were reading them again. Michael clasped the medallion in one hand, Nikol’s hand in the other. Neither spoke. Not that it would have mattered. The death knight seemed unaware of their presence. When he spoke, it was not to them.

“No!” he cried suddenly, lifting his head, his voice to the heavens. “You tempted me, then treated me unjustly when I fell! I will not ask your forgiveness. It is you who should ask mine!”

Flames sprang up, engulfing the page, the book, seemed likely to set fire to the room. Michael fell back with a cry, shielding Nikol with his body, his hand raised to ward off the searing heat.

“ What is the meaning of this?”

Astinus’s voice fell over them like cool water, doused the flames in an instant. Michael lowered his hand, blinked, staring through an afterimage of fiery red that momentarily blinded him.

Lord Soth was gone; in his place stood the library’s master.

“I cannot let you two out of my sight a moment, it seems,” stated Astinus coldly.

“But, Master. Didn’t you see him?” Michael gasped, pointed. “Lord—”

Nikol dug her nails into his arm. “Tell this old fool nothing!” she whispered urgently. “Forgive us, Master,” she said aloud. “Have you brought the Disks of Mishakal?”

“No,” said Astinus. “They are not here. They have never been here. They will never be here.”

“But …” Michael glared at the man. “You said you went to get them …”

“I said you wanted them. I did not say I would get them,” Astinus replied with calm. “I went to open the doors.”

“The great doors! The doors to the library!” Nikol gasped. “You … opened them! You’re mad! Now there’s nothing to stop the mob from entering!”

“At least,” said Astinus, “they will not harm the woodwork.”

The rising clamor of the mob was much louder than before. They were chanting, “Burn the books, burn the books, burn the books!”

Michael looked at the book on the desk. It was whole, unharmed. The fire had not touched it. He stared at Astinus and thought he saw the tiniest hint of a smile flicker on the stern lips.

“You two can escape out the back,” said the master.

“We should,” said Nikol, regarding him with scorn. Shoving past Michael, she drew her sword, started for the door. “We should leave you to the mob, old man, but there are others here besides you and, by the Oath and the Measure, I’m bound to protect the innocent, the defenseless.”

“You are not bound. You are not a knight, young woman,” said Astinus testily.

Nikol, however, had already gone. They could hear her booted footsteps racing down the hall. And they could hear, as well, the rising tumult of thousands. Michael took hold of his staff, set out after Nikol. As he passed Astinus, who continued to regard him with that faint smile, Michael paused.

“ ‘This woman is far more worthy than any of you to wield the sword and wear the armor of a knight,’ ” he quoted, pointing back at the book that stood upon the desk. “Soth said that. You can read it here.”

He bowed to Astinus and left to join Nikol in death.

The mob had been astonished to see the master open the great doors that led into the Library of Palanthas. For a moment, the sight of Astinus, standing framed in the doorway, even curbed the loquacity of the Revered Son, who certainly had never expected such a thing. His jaw went slack. He stared foolishly at the master, who not only opened the doors, but bowed silently to the people before leaving.

Then Nikol appeared. Alone, she advanced to stand before the great doors.

“Astinus asked me to tell you,” she called, spreading her hands in a gesture of welcome, “that the library is always open to the public. The wisdom of the ages is yours. If you enter, do so with respect. Lay down your weapons.”

The crudest, most murderous villain in the crowd could not help but applaud such courage. And most of the people were not murderers or villains, but ordinary citizens, tired of fighting poverty and disease and misfortune, seeking to place the blame for their problems on someone else. They looked ashamed of what they’d done, what they’d been about to do. More than a few began to slink away.

The Revered Son realized he was losing them.

“Yes, it’s open to the public!” he shouted. “Go inside! Read about the gods who brought this misery upon you! Read about the elves, the favored of the gods, who are living well while you starve! Read about the knights!” He pointed at Nikol. “Even now, they feed off your misery!”

The people stopped, exchanged glances, looked uncertain. The Revered Son sent a swift glance at the leader of his henchmen, who nodded. A stone hurtled from the crowd, struck Nikol on her shoulder. Hitting her breastplate, the stone knocked her back a step but did no harm.

“Cowards!” Nikol cried, drawing her sword. “Come and fight me face-to-face.”

But that is not the way of a mob. A second stone followed the first. This one hit its mark, struck her on the forehead. Nikol reeled, dazed from blow, and fell upon one knee. Blood streamed down her face. At the sight, the crowd howled in glee, excited. The henchmen, shouting, urged them on. Nikol staggered to her feet, faced them alone, glittering steel in her hand.

Michael saw her fall. He started toward the door, to her. A hand clapped over his shoulder.

The touch chilled him to the very marrow of his bones, drove him to his knees. Looking up into fiery eyes, Michael stifled a gasp of pain, knowing that the touch, if the knight had wanted, could have killed him.

“The book will remain here forever—for all to, read?” Lord Soth asked.

“Yes, my lord,” Michael answered.

Soth nodded slowly. It had not been a question, so much as a reaffirmation. “I cannot be saved, but perhaps my story can save someone else.”

The flame-eyes seemed to burn clear for a moment in what might have been a smile. “Ironic, isn’t it, Cleric? Two false knights defending the truth.” He let go his hold, turned, and walked out the library doors.

The mob surged forward. Men came at Nikol with clubs raised. She struck out at the leader, had the pleasure of seeing him fall back with a cry, clapping his hand over a broken, bleeding arm. For a moment, the rest held back, daunted, fearful of the gleaming steel. Then someone threw another rock. It struck Nikol on her hand, knocked the sword from her grasp.