Марк Энтони - The Cataclysm

The mob gave an exultant shout, rushed at her. She tried to reach her weapon, beating those nearest her back with fists and feet, kicking and gouging, knowing all the time she must fall.

She heard Michael shout her name, turned her head, tried to find him, then she was hit from behind. Pain exploded in her brain. She stumbled to her knees, weak, unable to rise.

A shadow fell over her. Someone was standing at her back. Someone was helping her to her feet. Someone had retrieved her sword, was handing it to her. Wiping away blood, she peered through mists of pain and failing consciousness.

A Knight of Solamnia stood beside her. His armor shone silver in the sunlight. His crest fluttered bravely in the wind. His sword gleamed, argent flame, in his strong hand. With respect and reverence, he lifted his sword to her in the knight’s salute, then he turned and faced the mob.

Nikol put her back against his, did the same. At least now she would not die alone, without making one last, glorious stand for the honor of the knights. True knights …

Nikol blinked, stared in dazed astonishment, unable to comprehend what was happening. She and the knight were outnumbered a thousand to one, yet the mob was not attacking. Faces that had been contorted in bloodlust were now twisted in horror. Curses and threats shrilled to terrified shrieks. Men who had been racing up the library stairs were tumbling over themselves and each other in a panicked race back down.

The Revered Son was among the first to flee, running for his life, driven by such stark terror that it seemed likely he would stop running only when he reached the Newsea.

Nikol’s sword was suddenly too heavy for her to hold. It slid from her grasp. She was tired, so tired. She sank to the stone steps, wanting only to sleep. Strong arms took hold of her, gathered her close.

“Nikol!” a voice cried. “Beloved!”

She opened her eyes, saw only Michael’s face, illuminated by a soft blue light.

“Is the library … safe?” she asked.

Michael nodded, unable to speak for his grief and fear for her.

Nikol smiled. “Cowards,” she murmured. “They dared not stand and face a true knight.”

“No,” said Michael, through his tears, “they dared not.”

Blue light surrounded her, soothed her. She slept.

“Are you certain you are well enough to travel, my lady?” The young Aesthetic, Malachai, gazed at Nikol anxiously. “You were grievously hurt.” “Yes, I’m fine,” said Nikol, with a hint of irritation. “My dear …” Michael reprimanded gently. Nikol glanced at him, glanced at the young monk, who was looking downcast. She sighed. She detested being “fussed over.”

“I’m sorry I snapped at you. You’ve all been very kind to me. I thank you for everything you’ve done,” said Nikol.

“We would have done more, much more, but you seemed to be in good hands,” Malachai said, with a smile for Michael. “I’ll never forget that terrible day,” he added, with a shudder. “Looking down from the window, seeing you standing beside that evil knight, so brave, so courageous—”

“What evil knight?” Nikol asked.

The Aesthetic flushed crimson, clapped his hand over his mouth. Casting a guilty look at Michael, Malachai made a brief, bobbing bow and scuttled from the tiny room.

“What was he talking about?” Nikol demanded. “There was no evil knight there. He was a Knight of the Rose. I saw him clearly.”

“Astinus wants to see us, before we go,” Michael said, turning from her. “Everything’s packed. The Aesthetics have really been very kind. They’ve given us food, warm clothing, blankets—”

“Michael.” Nikol came to stand in front of him, forcing him to face her. “What did that Book Reader mean?”

Michael took hold of her, held her tightly, thinking of how he’d almost lost her. “Lord Soth was the one who fought at your side, Beloved.”

She Stared at him. “No! That’s not possible. I saw a knight, a true knight!”

“I think you saw the part of him that still struggles toward the light. Unfortunately, I think it is part of him that few will ever see again.” Michael added, with a sigh, “Now, come. We must bid farewell to Astinus.”

The Aesthetics led them to the master’s study. The ageless man with his expressionless face was hard at work, writing in a thick book. He did not glance up at their entry, but continued working. They stood for long moments in silence, then Nikol, growing bored and restless, walked over to look out the window.

Astinus lifted his head. “Young woman, you are standing in my light!”

Nikol jumped, flushed. “I beg your pardon—”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“You sent for us, Master,” Michael reminded him.

“Humpf.” Carefully Astinus replaced his pen back in the inkwell. Folding his hands, he regarded the two impatiently.

“Well, go ahead. Ask your question. I’ll have no peace until you do.”

Michael stared. “How did you know I meant to ask—”

“Is that your question?”

“No, Master, it isn’t, but—”

“Then out with it! Entire volumes of history are passing while you stand there yammering, wasting my time.”

“Very well, Master. My question is this: Why were we directed here to search for the Disks of Mishakal when they are not here?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Astinus. “I thought you came here searching for the answer.”

“I came here searching for the disks that hold the answer,” said Michael patiently. “I didn’t find them.”

“But did you find the answer?”

“I—” Michael stopped, taken aback. “Perhaps … Well, yes, in a way.”

“And that is?”

“Those people out there are searching for the answer. Lord Soth was searching for his answer. The knights in the tower are searching for theirs. They were all looking, like we were, in the wrong place. The answer is here … in our hearts.”

Astinus nodded, lifted his pen, delicately shook off a drop of ink. “And you discovered that without overturning my bookshelves. Gilean be praised.”

“There is one more thing,” said Nikol. She laid a bundle that clanked and rattled down on the floor in front of Astinus’s desk. “Would one of your people see that this is returned to the knights in the High Clerist’s Tower?”

“Your armor,” said Astinus, still holding the pen poised above the inkwell. “Or should I say, your brother’s armor. What’s the matter? Ashamed of being thought a knight?”

“I am not!” Nikol retorted. “I would wear this armor with more pride than ever, but in the lands where we’re planning to travel, the people don’t use metal armor. They’ve never seen anything like it, in fact, and may be frightened.”

“You are going to join up with the Plainsmen,” Astinus said. He put his pen to paper, began to write. “Some of the few who still believe in the true gods. But, eventually, even their faith will weaken and dimmish and die. Still, your mother will be glad to see you, Cleric.”

Nikol stared. “His mother! How did you know—We never told anyone—”

Astinus made an impatient gesture. “If that is all the business you have with me, Malachai will see you out.”

Michael and Nikol exchanged glances. “He’s not even going to say thank you,” Nikol whispered.

“For what?” Astinus growled.

Nikol only smiled, shook her head. Malachai waited for them at the door. The two turned to leave.

“Cleric,” said Astinus, without pausing in his work.

“Yes, Master?”

“Keep searching.”

“Yes, Master,” said Michael, taking hold of Nikol’s hand. “We will.”