Richard Knaak - The Citadel

An aide swallowed. “Still where they perched, sir!”

“Tell them to be ready!” Cadrio began to pace the deck, ever avoiding the spot last occupied by the unfortunate Timinion. “The moment those clouds thin, I want to be in the air!” He pictured the wizard’s mocking face. “I want his head!”

Serene sat on the edge of her lavish bed, feeling more confused than she ever had in her entire life. Everything had seemed so simple when she, a woodsman’s daughter, had suddenly been offered the role of cleric by the old woman who had for years taught her the ways of the wild. Serene had known of the old gods from her parents, still worshipers of the Bard King despite his absence from Krynn for centuries, but like most had assumed that they and the true clerics would never return. She had accepted the offer, never once since questioning her choice.

She had traveled much of Ansalon during her first few months, then settled in the forest where her family had lived for generations, rarely seeing other people unless they happened to pass through. Her devotion to her calling had helped her with her solitude, guided her through her relationship with Valkyn, then aided her in her search for answers afterward. No matter what had happened, Serene had always had her link to her god.

Now it seemed Valkyn had taken that away.

When she touched her medallion and tried to concentrate, she nearly blacked out. Unlike Tyros, Serene never felt any pain; she simply lost consciousness. A sign of Valkyn’s lingering devotion, perhaps, the cleric thought sourly.

Even thinking about Branchala made her light-headed. Serene had always admired Valkyn’s skill at his craft, but never once had she thought that those powers would be turned against her.

The gargoyles had left her alone once they had seen her to her chamber. Now was Serene’s chance to accomplish something. Tyros and the others needed her. They didn’t know Valkyn as she did, although even she had to admit he remained largely an enigma. The man Serene had loved did not exist, possibly never had. Still, the cleric felt she had the best hope of understanding Valkyn’s mind and using it to her advantage.

She clutched the medallion, at the same time taking a deep breath to help prevent her from collapsing.

“Branchala,” Serene whispered, thinking of Valkyn’s powerful magic and what it might do if left unchecked. “Branchala, hear me! Guide my strength again as you’ve done in the past. Branchala …”

The room spun around. Serene tried to rise, but at that moment, the floor chose to do the same.

She fell, only at the last minute managing to twist enough to keep from falling to the hard floor. The cleric landed on the bed. The room continued to spin about.

“Branchala …” Serene managed to whisper. She would not black out. She would not!

It seemed the dizziness would never end, but at last the cleric found she could think again … but not if those thoughts turned to her god.

“Damn you, Valkyn!” Serene had failed Tyros and the others, failed herself and her god as well. Still, at least this time she had kept herself from blacking out.

A tiny victory, though. Perhaps, given time, she could break his powerful spell, but time was something of which Serene had very little. Gwynned’s doom lay but a few hours away, and Tyros’s fate even less. Bakal and Rapp might already be dead.

The cleric clutched her medallion, feeling impotent. Without her god, though, what could she do … even for herself?

* * * * *

It had been years since Tyros had done anything of consequence without the benefit of magic to make the task easier. At this moment, he would have given nearly everything to regain his abilities. Tyros felt no shame at such thoughts; to wizards, magic meant life. The only things that concerned him more at the moment were the fates of his companions, Serene most of all.

He could only imagine the mental torment she suffered. Tyros had been tempted to go searching for her first, rather than seeking the heart of the citadel. In the end, though, he had known that everyone’s best hope, the cleric’s included, rode on his sabotage of Valkyn’s sinister toy.

Tyros went over Stone’s instructions. Stone had given him a fairly detailed description as to how to get to Valkyn’s sanctum. The gargoyle had wanted no mistakes made, emphasizing how much this meant to his flock.

That did not mean that all gargoyles could be considered friends. Stone had warned him about Crag’s people. They would serve the master no matter what, reveling in the chaos and bloodshed he brought forth. Crag especially sought the good favor of Valkyn, thinking that it would make him look even stronger in the eyes of the other gargoyles.

A slight clink of metal made Tyros curse. He had done the unthinkable, the unforgivable. In his left hand he carried the sword of the Solamnic Knight. Mages were forbidden such weapons. All the covenants spelled this out in black and white.

Tyros didn’t care. He had wanted-no, needed -that sword, oaths and laws be damned.

He started down a new corridor, then immediately backtracked. Pressing against the nearest wall, Tyros held his breath as a large gargoyle stalked past. The powerless mage remained frozen, uncertain whether even with the sword he could kill the monster before it tore him to pieces.

Fortunately the gargoyle, clearly not one of Stone’s folk, continued on. When at last the monster had vanished down the hall, Tyros hurried on his own way. If Stone’s directions held true, the wizard couldn’t be far from the chamber where Valkyn kept his horrific device.

Sure enough, he came across the doors but a few minutes later. Although Tyros’s own memories of this area consisted mostly of the chamber’s interior, he knew that this had to be the place he sought. Not only did it fit with the gargoyle’s directions, but even from out here Tyros could sense the awesome power within the chamber.

No guards stood at the doors, but that didn’t mean that none waited inside. Still, from what Tyros knew of his counterpart, Valkyn’s arrogance might lead the black mage to believe that nothing could harm him from within his own abode. Cautiously the mage crept to the entrance, sword ready. Tyros touched one door gingerly, then with more force when no spell attacked him.

The door swung open with a loud squeak.

Gritting his teeth, he leaped inside, the sword wobbling in his grip. Tyros had assumed correctly; in the center of the great chamber stood the massive marble columns with the huge golden crystals, from which pulsated pure magical energy. Here stood Valkyn’s infernal marvel, the secret not only to keeping Atriun afloat, but also to powering the deadly storm surrounding the citadel.

And here also hung what remained of Leot.

Head throbbing slightly, Tyros started for the columns with the intention of cutting his friend free, only to pause halfway there and look uneasily to his side. Not one but four of the ghostly servants of Valkyn stood nearby, staring in his direction.

Turning his weapon toward the nearest, Tyros waited for them to attack. Yet not one so much as raised a bony hand toward him. When Tyros moved, he saw that they continued to look past his prior position. The servants stood as if statues, their will nonexistent without Valkyn to guide them.

Breathing a little easier, the crimson-clad mage made his way to the columns. He lowered the sword to the ground, then moved closer to the still figure.

“Leot …” Tyros cupped the other wizard’s head in one hand. Up close, the damage the spell work had wrought on the white-robed spellcaster looked even more terrible. Little flesh remained on the man; Leot looked as if he had died long ago. His hair had turned pale, and the robes draped over him, now several sizes too large for what had once been a massive frame. “Leot?”