The Reign Of Istar (34 page)

“No, not immediately,” she replied. “And don't wait for me. I will try to save what little
of value remains.”

“My lord - ” “Go, Jeoffrey. Take my thanks and my blessing.” The knight held out a
gauntleted hand. The old man caught hold of it, pressed it to his lips. “Never did a noble knight fight with such
courage as you have fought this day, my lord I May Paladine walk always at your side.”

The sergeant bowed his head. Tears streamed down the weathered cheeks. Then he was gone,
running through the smoke, shouting orders.

Michael stepped forward, out of the shadows. “You should go with them, my lady.”

Nikol did not even glance at him. She stood staring out into the woods, crawling with evil
creatures. “Your prayers did little good, Brother.”

Michael's face burned with shame. Did she know the truth? Suspect? He turned away in
unhappy silence. “Don't go, Michael,” she said softly, remorsefully.

“Forgive me ... and ask the gods to forgive me. It's just ... so hopeless!”

She leaned against him, thankful for his support. He couldn't very well take an armored
knight in his arms. He made do by squeezing her hand tightly. “We must get away, my lady.”

“Yes,” Nikol murmured. She talked as if she were in a daze. “There is a cave, not far from
the castle. Nicholas and I used to play there, when we were little. It is well hidden. We
will be safe.”

“Is there anything you want to take with you?” Michael asked, feeling helpless. He looked
at the castle walls. Even now, they appeared stalwart, impregnable. It was difficult to
imagine that they could no longer offer the shelter they promised. “What about the
servants?” he asked.

“I sent them away long ago,” said Nikol. They were alone now. The men had fled. She
removed her helm. Her face was ashen, grimy with dirt and blood and sweat. “Most of them
have family in these parts. They'll warn them, hopefully in time to get away safely. As
for the jewels, we sold them years ago. I have with me what matters to me most.”

Her gaze went fondly, sadly to the sword in her hand -

her brother's sword, which once had been her father's and his father's before him.

“But we'll need food, water skins ...”

A hideous yell went up from the goblins in the woods. A black wave started to roll across
the torn and trampled grasslands in front of the castle. The gate was shut. It would take
them some time to storm the walls, even though they were no longer defended.

Nikol's lips tightened. She replaced the helm over her head, gripped the sword. “Stay
behind me and keep clear of my sword arm. I may need to fight our way out.”

“Yes, my lady.”

They hastened to stairs, leading downward. Nikol paused, turned to him, grasped his hand.

“We'll find Nicholas, and you will heal him,” she said. “Yes, my lady,” Michael replied.
What could he say? She nodded abruptly and disappeared into the darkness of the spiral staircase. Michael followed after her, his heart aching, heavy.

“It's hopeless!” he wanted to shout. “Hopeless! Even if we did find him, I can't heal him!
Don't you see? Don't you understand?”

Grasping the blue holy symbol of Mishakal, he drew it forth from beneath his robes. Once
it would have lit the darkness. Once it would have glowed brightly, radiantly. Now he
could barely see it for the thick shadows surrounding him.

He let the medallion fall heavily to his chest. “You will see, soon enough. Now you
despise me. Then you will hate me.”

He stumbled after her through the darkness. Part IV 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.

“My wish is granted!” Akar said in satisfaction. “No! Paladine, forfend! Take my life!
Kill me now!” The young knight struggled to his feet. Ripping the bandages from his wound, starting the blood flowing freely, he lurched across the
clearing, heading toward the forest.

Akar made no move, watched calmly.

Nicholas fell to his knees. His lifeblood flowed from him. He stared at it, watched it
soak into the ground. The pain was intense, excruciating. He doubled over, cried out to
die.

Death did not come. Nicholas lay in his own blood, writhing in agony.

Akar whistled. A horse as black as goblin's blood - which was, indeed, the steed's name -
cantered into the clearing, drawing behind it a small wooden cart. The wizard grasped hold
of the knight by the shoulders, dragged him across the bloody grass to the cart, and
heaved him up into it. Removing a length of rope from the cart, Akar bound the suffering knight's hands and feet securely. “Not that I think you're in any
shape to do me harm,” said Akar. “But you're a tough breed, you knights. I'm sorry I can do nothing to ease the pain.
But, look at it this way. After a few hours of agony, you'll be more than ready to die.
Try not to groan too loudly. Foul creatures roam the countryside these days. And now, to
find the Lost Citadel.”

Akar mounted the cart, lifted the reins in his hands. Once again he gazed up at the sky.
As he watched, a shadow crossed the sun, like the moon eclipsing it, but it was a shadow
only he could see. He stared at it, squinting against the sunlight, until he found what he
sought.

The shadow extended downward from the sun, formed a shaft of darkness that pierced the
daylight. Whatever that shadow touched instantly burst into flame. Fire roared through the
forest. Smoke, foul and poisonous, hung in the air. Akar sniffed its perfume. Behind him,
he heard the knight choke and retch.

When the smoke dissipated, blown aside by a death- cold wind, Akar saw that a trail had
been burned among charred trees, a trail of blackness, a trail of night in day.

“Nuitari be blessed,” said Akar.

Slapping the reins on the horses back, he drove the cart onto the shadow-shrouded path.

Part V The goblins' trail was easy for Michael and Nikol to follow ... too easy. The army had cut
a swath of destruction through the forest surrounding the burned and gutted castle. Their
numbers were strong; they had no need to hide or conceal the path that led back to their
lair in the mountains. They feared no retribution. Neighboring knights, in neighboring
manors, had their own lands and people to consider.