Роджер Мур - The Reign of Istar

Night crept over the land. Nikol stood at the entrance to the cave and watched the lurid red glow of flames lighting the dark sky, at first brilliantly, then gradually growing dim. The smoke of the burning stung the eyes, bit into the nostrils. Occasionally, raucous shouts and wild laughter could be heard, carried on the wind.

“You should rest, my lady,” said Michael gently.

“You sleep, Brother,” she told him. “I’ll keep watch.”

Her spirit was strong, but it could not lend its strength to muscle and bone and sinew. Even as she spoke, her knees buckled beneath her. Michael caught her in his arms, eased her to the cavern floor. He pried her fingers from the sword she still held, fingers gummed black with goblin blood. He washed her hands, bathed her face with cool water.

“Wake me before the dawn,” she murmured. “We will follow them … find Nicholas.” She slept.

Michael sat back, closed his eyes. Tears of weariness and despair filled his eyes; a lump grew in his throat, choked him. He loved her so, and he must fail her. Even if they found Nicholas and saved him—and how could they do that, against a goblin army? —Michael could not heal him.

Tomorrow night, the Night of Doom, the bridge at the Lost Citadel will open to all true clerics. Only those who have faith may pass .

Mishakal’s voice came to him. The goddess had given him a chance to redeem himself.

Tomorrow night. The cleric had until tomorrow night to find the bridge, the Lost Citadel, a place remembered only in legend, from the beginnings of the world. He would cross the bridge. The light of the goddess once more would shine on him, envelop him, end the pain of this hopeless love, this useless existence. Once he was there, he would rediscover his lost faith.

“Good-bye, Nikol. Tomorrow, when you wake, I will be gone,” he told her. Reaching out his hand, he touched the rough-cut hair. “Don’t be angry with me. You don’t need me. I would be a liability to you, a weak man who cannot even call upon the power of the goddess to aid you. You will travel faster alone.”

He propped himself up against the cavern wall, fully intending to stay awake, watch for the gray light of dawn, when he would sneak away. But easeful slumber stole over him. His head drooped; his body slumped to the ground. He did not see it, but in the darkness, the holy medallion he wore began to glow a soft blue, and no harm came to them during the night, though many evil creatures skulked about their hiding place.

With the dawn, however, the medallion’s soft light faded.

The black-robed wizard squatted on a cleared patch of ground in the middle of the forest. It was midmorning. The sun shone through a haze of smoke that drifted among the treetops. Akar sneezed, glanced up at the smoke irritably, then turned his attention back to the divining rocks he had tossed on the ground. Leaning over them, he studied them carefully.

“This is it, the Night of Doom. The true clerics will depart Ansalon. I have one night to find the Lost Citadel. Where are those blasted goblins anyway?” Akar looked once again, grimly, at the smoke. “Enjoying themselves, I fancy. We’ll see how long they do if they fail me—”

The rustling of tree branches interrupted him. Akar gathered up the stones in one swift movement of his hand, thrust them into a black leather pouch. The words of a deadly spell on his lips, he crept back swiftly into the protection of the trees and waited.

A group of four goblins burst into the cleared space. They moved loudly, with the confidence of those engorged on victory. They bore between them a litter on which lay the body of a human male. The wizard, seeing the litter, cursed.

The goblin chief shoved past his men, looked around the forest. “Wizard? Show yourself! Make haste! I want my money!”

Akar stalked out of the woods. Ignoring the chief, he strode over to the litter, which the goblins had dropped on the ground. The young man on the litter groaned in pain. He was conscious, though he seemed to have little idea what was happening to him. He looked up at the wizard with dazed puzzlement.

Akar regarded him coldly.

“What’s this?” he demanded. “What have you brought me?”

“A Knight of Solamnia. They stripped him of his armor.” The goblin sounded bitter. He could have used that armor.

“Bah! He’s too young to be a knight. Even if I believed you, the man is wounded, near dying! What use is he to me in this state?”

“Lucky you are to have him in any state!” hissed the goblin. “Did you expect us to take a Knight of Solamnia without a fight?”

Akar bent over the young man. Roughly, he lifted the blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly around the abdomen, peered at the wound. The man cried out in agony, clenched his fists. A ring flashed in the light. Akar grasped it, stared at it, grunted in satisfaction.

“Well, well. You are a knight.”

“What do you want of me?” the wounded man managed to gasp.

Akar ignored him. He felt for the lifebeat in the neck, noted the fever burning the blood. The wizard sat back on his haunches.

“He won’t last another hour.”

“I suggest you do what you must do with him quickly, then,” advised the chief.

“Impossible. I need him alive all night.”

“Oh? I suppose now you’ll want us to go out and capture you a cleric?” The goblin chief sneered.

“It would do no good. No cleric you would find this night on Krynn could heal him.”

The goblin chief gestured. “Then you take care of him. You’re a wizard, after all. I suppose your magic’s good for something. Pay us what you owe us and let us be gone. We plan to make something out of this deal. The castle was picked clean before we got there. Not a woman to be had.”

The knight cried out, struggled to rise. His hand went for his sword, but it was no longer at his side.

“Save your strength.” Akar shoved the knight back down. The wizard stood up. He was in a better mood, almost smiling. “Here’s your pay.” He tossed a few gold coins at the goblin chief.

The chief found this sudden change in the wizard suspicious, apparently, for he eyed the money dubiously. “You pick it up,” he ordered one of his cohorts, who did as he was told.

The goblins slunk back to their looting, their chief keeping a careful eye on his man who held the wizard’s money.

Akar turned to the knight, who lay still and silent, fighting against the pain, refusing to show weakness.

“What do you want of me?” he repeated hoarsely.

“This night, I must spill the blood of a good and true person on the bridge of the Lost Citadel. You have the misfortune to be, Sir Knight, a good and true person. At least that’s what your people say of you. Something of a rarity these days, I must admit. Don’t trouble yourself over the how and why, but, with your murder, the clerics of Her Dark Majesty will at last be able to return to this world.”

The knight smiled. “I am dying. I will not live long enough to be of use to you, thanks be to Paladine.”

“Ah, now. Don’t give up hope. My magic is good for something. I cannot heal you, Sir Knight. Nor do I necessarily want you healed. You would, I fancy, prove a most troublesome captive. Yet you will remain alive until I can transport you to the Lost Citadel.

“A wish spell will accomplish what I want. Yes, a wish will do nicely. The spell will cost me a year of my life.” The wizard shrugged. “But what is that? When I have the power of the great Fistandantilus, I will gain that year back, with interest!”

Akar lifted his hands, gazed up at the sky, to the black moon, Nuitari, the moon that only those with the vision of darkness can see.

“My wish is thus: Let the knight remain alive until he meets death at the point of this dagger.” Akar removed the dagger from its sheath at his belt, held it up to the sky. The metal darkened, as if a shadow fell across it, then it flashed with a terrible, unholy light.