The cataclysm

THE HIGH PRIEST OF HALCYON

From the Continuing Research of Foryth Teel, Chief Scribe Assisting Astinus, Eternal Lorekeeper of Krynn. Most Esteemed Historian:

It is with reverence approaching awe that I again pursue the lost histories of Krynn. It seems to me that now, more than ever before, the search for truth must be pursued with unrelenting courage and diligence. By all reckonings during this bleak era, the gods have abandoned us. Godly powers have been unknown for generations. The scars of the Cataclysm ravage the land. Thus, it falls to us — the historians — to follow the flickers of light that will lead us to a brighter future!

Those flickers, as Your Excellency well knows, have grown faint. During the bleak century since the gods rained their ruin upon Istar, the tragedy of the Dwarfgate War hangs over the south. The violent Newsea, tortured since its very creation by typhoon and cyclone, divides the peoples of central Ansalon, fragmenting the countryside into tiny partitions of its former greatness.

And everywhere, the people seek their gods. They call to Paladine, plead for Gilean or Reorx to answer their prayers. Yet the gods of good and neutrality and evil do not reply. These sad worshipers find not even the hint of the oncemanifest presence of immortal beings. That, my lord, must certainly be deemed the most dire of the many effects attributable to the Cataclysm, for without gods, the people see no hope in the future.

On a brighter note, I am pleased to report that my health has been restored. As I have indicated previously, Your Grace's generosity in providing me with comfortable convalescence cannot be overthanked. With remarkable good luck — I dare not say the grace of the gods — I have regained full use of my limbs and the disfigurement left by the frostbite is only faintly visible.

In sum, my recovery is complete. Now, too, I have heard news that again compels me to walk the pathways of history! The information comes to me by a most reliable source (more about him in a moment).

I have received word of one who claims to have touched a higher power — and whose claims can be supported by creditable witnesses. A messenger arrived here, after many days of riding, from a land to the east. He tells me of a priest who has performed actual miracles. Having heard of we scribes who quest for the truth, the priest sends me testimonials by this messenger and extends an invitation to witness proof that the gods have not abandoned Krynn.

I understand that, if your calculations are correct (as they must undoubtedly be, Your Eminence!) and the gods have not left man, but man has left the gods, then there will be evidence of godhood found somewhere in the world. In a place distant or near, anywhere from the war-ravaged depths of Thorbardin to the crimson flowage of the Bloodsea, there exists proof of godly powers, whether they be curative or corruptive, beneficial or deadly.

The priest goes by the name of Erasmoth Luker. He dwells near a small town on the shore of the Newsea — a place called, oddly (symbolically?). Halcyon. Claiming that he can wield the powers of the gods, Erasmoth has established himself in a temple on a hilltop and preaches to all who will listen.

The source of my information — the one who dispatched the messenger to me — is a man known to you, Excellency. He is Underscribe Tyrol Deet, a historian of unusual acuity and perception. (Do you remember him — the young fellow who wanted to be a soldier until he lost his eye in a hunting accident? Now he wears a black patch over the socket and swears that the focus of his other eye has improved tenfold!) He says he has not witnessed the miracles wrought by Erasmoth — those traditionally have been reserved for the initiates, and, naturally, no historian could become such an initiate and still maintain the objective viewpoint required for our craft. Nevertheless, young Tyrol is convinced that there is truth to the tale and has persuaded the priest to allow your representative to witness and record the proof.

That one, needless to say, is me. The cleric has invited me, in my capacity as official scribe, to join his flock at the temple, there to witness the miracles of godhood and provide proof of their existence to you, Most Gracious Master Lorekeeper!

A ship awaits me at the wharf below. The captain has promised to carry me to Halcyon, though he warns that the waters will be rough. We embark with the morning tide, shortly past the dawn.

My lamp flickers as the oil runs low, and I realize that most of the night has passed. I will close for now. A rider departs for Palanthas in the morning, and he will carry this parchment with all the speed he can muster. I hope, Excellency, that it reaches your hands in good order. My next communication shall be sent by more unpredictable means, for it will originate from the vale of Halcyon itself.

Until such time, I remain your devoted servant:

Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe to Astinus Lorekeeper

Most Merciful Master,

I pen this missive from my room in the quaint shoreline town of Halcyon. The sun shines through my windows. The wetness of the recent rain steams on the cobbled street. Indeed, this is the first glimpse of sunshine I have seen since weeks before my departure. Perhaps the gods DO, in fact, favor this comer of Ansalon with their presence.

The voyage itself was a nightmare, from embarkation until I stepped onto the docks of Halcyon. Mountainous seas tossed the galley about like a matchstick. My poor body suffered countless bruises from the beating inflicted on it by collision with random parts of the vessel.

The voyage melded into a blur of seasickness; drenching, ice-cold rains; and even a night attack by some monstrous sea-beast. I could not get a look at the scaly horror in the darkness, but, whatever it was, it took two crewmen with it before it was driven off!

But, then, Halcyon hove into view, and the clouds lifted from my spirits as they did from the skies above. Green hills rise beyond whitewashed huts, huddled in a wide valley that breaks into a sheltered bay. Two broad arms of encircling ridge protect the waters, which seem too shallow for a vessel of any great draft but accommodated our galley with no difficulty.

I had expected Tyrol Deet to meet me at the dock, and I looked for his unforgettable eye-patch, but I was disappointed. He was not here. Seizing my small baggage, I hastened down the plank and was relieved to plant my feet once again upon a motionless surface.

I asked several people, but none of them knew the young scribe. I could think of no way to find him. As he gave me no address, I have reserved a room at the Halcyon Inn, the largest and grandest establishment of its kind within the town. I assume that Deet will look for me here.

This is the first night of my stay. I am hopeful that on the morrow the scribe will find me and we can commence our quest for the truth. In the meantime, I rejoice in the discovery of this tiny port — a place where the overcast breaks, at least momentarily, to allow Krynn to catch a little glimpse of the sun.

My next missive to Your Excellency will follow as shortly as circumstances allow. I remain your ever-devoted servant,

Foryth Teel

Most Esteemed Historian:

I resume my communication two days since my previous letter, which I trust has reached you in good order. Much has happened since that missive, which I will attempt to summarize for Your Grace as best I can.

The first news I received was not a positive harbinger. The morning following my arrival, I was greeted at my inn by a tall, slender man dressed in brown robes, who located me in the common room as I broke my fast. The gaze of his eyes, of clear and light blue, fastened on me from across the chamber, and I felt at once the presence of an unusual individual. As he approached, his narrow lips parted in a smile — though still I sensed those eyes appraising me, as if evaluating my fitness.

I must confess, Excellency, that I squirmed somewhat under that penetrating gaze, but nevertheless rose to my feet and took his hand as he reached my table.

"I am Erasmoth Luker," he said in a deep and powerful voice. "You are the scribe — the historian?"

"Indeed," I replied, not surprised to find that this was the priest of whom I had been informed. Something in the force of his gaze, in the depth of his voice, told me I faced an extraordinary person. "I am Foryth Teel, but I was supposed to be met by my colleague, Tyrol Deet."

"Alas," answered the priest. "I am sad to bring you unhappy tidings. The young scribe was taken by fever shortly after he wrote you. He was a strong lad, and held on for several days, but, in the end, to no avail."

"He's dead?" I asked, astonished. The news struck me with unexpected force. Deet was not a close friend of mine — we barely knew each other — but it was as if a promising lead had drawn me this far, only to vanish before my eyes.

"I see the news has affected you grievously," observed the priest, his tone sympathetic. "Would you want to see where he is buried? We have given him the full honors of the church, though, of course, he was not an initiate." "Yes.. yes, I should like that," I replied. The priest led me through the streets of Halcyon — which then, alas, were dark beneath the same gray overcast that so thoroughly blankets Ansalon these days. We passed from the town and climbed a smooth dirt track that progressed into the surrounding hills.

Erasmoth has an elegance about him — a grace, if you will — that made me feel immediately at ease. His hair is dark and long, combed back to his neck, and shows traces of silver at the ears. His skin is smooth, but there is a maturity in his bearing that causes me to guess his age at perhaps fifty. Nevertheless, he moves easily — with far more energy than I can manage!

Soon the priest turned onto a side trail, and we quickly passed between a pair of looming pillars into a small, sheltered grotto — a small niche protected by the much larger hills. A clear pool of water, surrounded by drooping willows, formed the centerpiece of the vale. Among the broad tree trunks I noticed several headstones. It was the most peaceful and pastoral setting for a cemetery this welltraveled scribe has ever seen.

"I hope you approve of the arrangements," said Erasmoth when, at length, we had passed among the graves to reach a flowered mound with an admirable granite marker, clearly bearing the name of Tyrol Deet, and marking his station as a scribe of Your Greatness.

(Indeed, though his actual rank was a mere assistant scribe, I saw that insufficient space remained upon the stone for a correction; therefore, I let the matter lie.)

"Very nice," I said. "You have honored him well."

"No more than you honor us by your presence," Erasmoth informed me.

"The honor is to my master's name — Astinus, Lorekeeper of Krynn," I reminded him.

"Quite. The written affirmation of a historian such as yourself will validate the truth of my faith. The gods have not abandoned Krynn! They merely require the proper forms of approach from those who would worship them."

"In reference to these gods," I responded, grateful for the opportunity to broach the subject of my quest, "young Deet was quite vague in his letter. How do you intend to prove their presence?"

"I'm glad you asked!" he declared, positively beaming. His enthusiasm, I must admit, was quite contagious.

Before he spoke further, he took my arm and led me back along the forested path, toward the rocky notch leading into this grotto. He explained as we climbed steadily upward.

"There are powers in the world that derive from sorcery," he said, "and others — reputedly vanished since the Cataclysm — that can be traced only to the gods and their faithful priests and priestesses. These powers, these clerical abilities, have been long since lost, abilities that no sorcerer can wield. Surely an astute historian like yourself is familiar with examples of those who have tried and failed."

True," I allowed. "Such things as the healing of wounds and sickness, the communing with gods, auguries of the future, powers over trees and water and air, come only from the gods and are granted only to their most faithful servants — not to mention darker powers," I added as an afterthought. "From gods of evil."

He brushed that aside. "Surely you see, then," he noted, "that any who can wield these powers must have gained knowledge of the true gods — and more than that, he must be the recipient of their favor!"

We came through the rock-bordered notch, and I saw several people waiting for us.

Where they had come from was a mystery, for there were no dwellings — not even a simple homestead or farm — within sight. The group included a dozen or so people dressed in plain, dark brown robes, each person's face concealed by a blank plaster mask. A tall woman, unmasked and wearing a lovely red dress, stood at the center of the gathering.

"My higher-ranking initiates," explained the priest, as we continued to advance. "They have come to meet us here, as I instructed them earlier."

Erasmoth gestured to the woman. "The high priestess Kassandry," he said. She stepped forward to meet me.

The woman was, even to my old and weary eyes, a person of exquisite beauty. Tall and lithe, her gown of shimmering red silk flowing around her; she moved like ripples of water across the surface of a pool. Her skin was pale, almost as if it had been powdered white, and her hair of deep black contrasted sharply with both her complexion and gown. She had high cheekbones and deep brown eyes flecked with green. Her long neck bore a collar that appeared to be a single bar of gold.

"These are my acolytes, the faithful initiates of my temple." Erasmoth gestured to the dozen or so masked figures who remained in their watchful semicircle around us. They regarded me impassively, their eyes invisible behind the dark holes in their white masks. "They will be our escort, as we take you to the entrance to our temple."

"Why are they masked?" I inquired.

"They have all witnessed the glory of my god," Erasmoth explained, "but they do not know the full extent of that glory, or its attendant power. Their masks are a sign of their endeavors to learn. Only when they have achieved mastery will they again bare their faces to the world."

"You will give me proof of that power today?" I asked, striving to contain my excitement.

"Patience," the priest said, softly. "First you must be prepared for the miracle."

Erasmoth took my arm and escorted me in the forefront. The priestess Kassandry raised her hands and uttered a sharp cry. The acolytes fell into rank behind us. The group led me higher into the hills of Halcyon.

We made an odd procession — the priest and myself marching in the vanguard, followed by the crimson-gowned priestess immediately behind and the silent file of masked apprentices, making our slow and deliberate way in a winding column up the twisting trail.

This lofty solitude seemed an appropriate place for the worship of gods. Blankets of mist shrouded the valleys, draping the gray-green domes of the hilltops like fine linen. Above, soft crests of heather and grass rose in pleasant majesty, without the craggy menace of higher mountains such as the Khalkists.

We came upon a small valley, where stood a cluster of neat, thatch-roofed houses, whitewashed and surrounded by bright flower gardens. A crystal pool of water, formed by the damming of a narrow stream, looked cool and inviting after the exertion of the march.

There!" proclaimed the priest, seizing my arm and gesturing with a finger toward the upper distance.

My eyes swept across the vast shoulder of the nearest hill, following the rising ground until I saw a tall white arch. A long white wall expanded out from either side of the arch. Several tall spires dotted the length of the barrier.

"What is it?" I asked.

"My temple — the holy place of the gods!" he proclaimed. "Tonight you will stay here in the valley, the outer sanctum of my temple. We shall endeavor to familiarize you with certain keystones of our faith. Tomorrow, or the next day, you will accompany the worshipers onto the mountain — there to witness the miracles wrought by me, in the name of the gods of Krynn!"

I studied the temple above with some trepidation. Your Excellency may recall, from my previous adventures, the vertigo that tends to grip me at the prospect of heights. The road that ascends to this temple is a sheer and winding track that would challenge a mountain goat — yet it was my goal!

The great temple arch was flanked by a pair of slender towers, an inherent part of the structure's design. The long, white wall stretching along the mountainside must enclose a compound of some sort.

Erasmoth led me on and, in a few moments, we had reached the houses in the valley. The high priestess went into one to arrange for my lodgings. I stood waiting on the shore of the pool.

"We call it the Mirror of Souls," Erasmoth said. "It is a splendid focus for meditation and introspection." Indeed, the water's dark surface lay as still as glass, and it seemed that one could imagine it as a repository for the fathomless depths of knowledge.

I stood entranced for some minutes, unaware of time's passage. At some point Erasmoth left, to arrange our dinner, as I recall him saying, but my gaze remained rapt on that magnificent reflecting pool.

"This scroll and package arrived in Halcyon for you. They were delivered to your assistant before he succumbed to the fever. Erasmoth directed me to save them for you."

Kassandry's voice brought me out of my meditation. She smiled, which was quite charming, and handed me a glass globe and a small scroll.

"Thank you," I said, surprised.

(Of course, Your Excellency is familiar with the package — the Jar of Sending, with which I shortly will try to convey this missive. At the time I did not know what it was, but I have since read your enclosed instructions.)

"We are pleased that you have come," said Kassandry, her tone surprisingly gentle. She no longer seemed the commanding high priestess. Instead, she was like any young maiden, eager to make her honored guest feel welcome, and fearful that he will not find matters to his liking.

"I'm grateful for the invitation and the hospitality."

She shook her head, as if I had missed the point. "No! The story must be told. The world must learn of our discoveries."

"It could be very important," I agreed, taken aback by her passion.

"Everything will have meaning then. If only you can convince the historian that the gods have not abandoned us!"

To my surprise, then, she leaned toward me, took my gray head in her hands, and kissed me full upon the lips!

I must admit, Your Grace, that it has been many years since I have received the attentions of a young woman — not to mention one of such stunning beauty.

"Er… delightful," I stammered, somewhat slow to respond, "but I really… my task is to observe…" In retrospect, I find that my words were a trifle confused.

Her gaze burned into mine with a secret smile — a smile that kindled spiritual fires I had thought long extinguished. Fortunately (unfortunately?) Erasmoth called us to dinner just then.

We dined on rib of lamb, accompanied by spiced potatoes. Our meal was a most pleasurable experience, prepared and served by Erasmoth alone. Only the high priestess, the priest, and myself were seated at the wellladen table; the acolytes presumably shared some plainer fare elsewhere.

During the dinner, Erasmoth proved himself a gracious and charming host. He is well-educated, though he lacks the polish of formal schooling. By his accent, I place his home in Ergoth somewhere, though I gather from his remarks that he has been in nearly every part of Ansalon. He probably is the most well-traveled person I have met — outside of our own ranks, in any event.

His dinner was excellent — the meat delicately cooked, tender and succulent; the bread crusty and hot from the oven. His amusing remarks on the antics of his apprentices were delightful. I left his company — and that of the priestess — with true regret.

Now my bed has been prepared, and the weariness of the day's march propels me there. Nevertheless, my pulse quickens at the thought of the morrow, and the promised miracle. May we find proof that gods can work their powers upon Krynn I

I tremble with anticipation of the joyful news that might be contained in my next communication. Until then, Your Grace, I am your obedient slave:

Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe of Astinus

O Learned One:

A day has passed, and success! The priest has just pronounced me ready to bear witness at the inner sanctum of his temple! The activities of today have included exercises in meditative discipline and discussions with Erasmoth of the role of spiritual faith, which I quite enjoyed. We had a lively debate on the moral state of the Kingpriest prior to the Cataclysm and what effect, if any, that had on it. We debated the implications of the Newsea on trade in Ansalon.

I also spent time with Kassandry, and, though it was not so intellectual, it was no less stimulating, if Your Excellency understands my meaning. There was an air of desire — almost hunger — in her attitude toward me that, I confess, tempted me in ways I had thought long forgotten. I assure Your Grace that my impartiality remains intact, though her beauty and charm has put considerable strain on my sense of duty and discipline. Indeed, were I a younger man…

In any event, Excellency, the priest Erasmoth has agreed that tomorrow I will be given the opportunity to witness an actual demonstration of clerical powers!

He does not reveal the exact nature of the miracle he plans — nor even the nature of his god — but he has assured me that I will find it convincing. I am prepared for anything, hoping that soon I can relay a communication of truly historical import.

As to the strange globe you provided, Excellency, it seems to me that it functioned flawlessly. I inserted the letter into the jar as you instructed and screwed the top tightly in place, then I held it over the flame of a bright candle for a few seconds and — poof — the parchment vanished in a bright flash of light. I trust that it arrived safely in Your Great Library. Such a device has obvious advantages, Lord, in that it avoids the use of unreliable post. And, too, it allows me to report from locations where I must otherwise remain discreet. I will employ it in all future correspondence.

But that was last night. My day in this pastoral vale has passed swiftly, and once again it is after sunset that I relate my experiences to you now.

Those times I was not in the company of the priest or priestess I spent in contemplation beside the Mirror of Souls — a remarkably invigorating pastime.

Once again we dined sumptuously, just the three of us. Indeed, the valley has been empty most of the day, though toward sunset I witnessed a file of the brown-robed acolytes winding their way up the trail toward the gleaming arch of the temple gate. They go, Erasmoth informs me, to prepare for tomorrow's ceremony.

Kassandry was a delightful dining companion. She has not kissed me again, and I confess to a certain disappoint ment there — though, of course, her restraint does make my position of impartiality easier to maintain.

Until my next missive, Excellency, I remain loyal to the service of our cause! Your devoted servant of history:

Foryth Teel

Your Grace,

I inscribe this from the dizzying ledge that serves as portal to the temple, halfway up a mountain that is much steeper than it appeared from the valley. I steal a moment to inscribe some quick observations, prior to entering the stonewalled temple compound. I will endeavor to complete this later and send it to you by means of the magical device you provided to me.

Erasmoth himself led the procession to the gates of his temple. We stand beneath the alabaster arch, which looms high above, and wait for the priest to perform his incantations and gestures, all of which are rendered in a tongue indecipherable to myself. His apprentices, masked and silent, remain immobile while he performs his rites, with Kassandry at his side. Today the high priestess has been surprisingly aloof, and I wonder at the change in her attitude. She does not seem unfriendly, merely preoccupied.

I will spare you the details of the perilous ascent to the temple. Suffice to say that I survived by dint of concentration on the objective, with oft-repeated reminders to myself about the significance of the historian's role and the importance of diligence and integrity in research. I made it this far… and when we pass within the temple walls, at least the threat of a fatal fall will be removed!

The temple, which has been dedicated to the worship of Erasmoth's gods, looms above me. The walls are solid, smooth, and much higher than they appeared from below. Each is topped with an array of spikes resembling the bristling spears of a rank of soldiers. The towers that flank the gate are tall, and I sense the presence of watchful eyes observing me and my escort. When I asked him about this, however, Erasmoth assured me that the place is empty.

The gates themselves are impressive doors made of pure silver. Even to my untrained eye, the aura of power protecting them is visible; a hazy and ominous film sparkles from the metal, bidding the unwary or uninitiated to remain at bay.

"We may now enter," Erasmoth announced.

The great gates swung soundlessly open, revealing a courtyard of dazzling white stone, with a beautiful fountain splashing just beyond the gate. The wondrous sight infused me with joy of discovery. We shall enter at once.

I hasten to close, Your Grace, with the hope that you will hear from me soon with the proof that our poor people have so long been seeking!

I resume:

I begin with the presumption that the enchanted globe performs its task and carries this information to you. Without that, all my labors shall have been spent in vain.

I return to the moment when the portals of silver spread wide, and I followed my host beneath the tall archway. The high priestess Kassandry walked at my side, her step light, eyes shining. She did not speak, and her attitude toward me remained distant.

The courtyard was filled with flowers, blazing with color. Walkways of white gravel meandered through the garden, as if to acknowledge that any course plotted straight through these wonders meant too hasty a passage. There are no buildings within, though the face of the mountaintop Ehas been scored with several apertures.

We approached the inner doors of the temple, set in the mountain itself. These gleamed with a pure surface of burnished gold and, like the outer gates, seemed to forbid intrusion. Erasmoth approached them and barked a sharp word of command — required, apparently, to loosen the hold of magic and cause the doors to swing wide.

A dark tunnel led into the mountain. I hesitated for a moment, surprised by the sudden darkness, but Erasmoth entered and gestured to me with the imperious order, "Come."

Wondering at my sudden unease, I passed the gilded portal. Darkness washed over me. The gates closed with a resounding clang.

The heat was intense. I realized that the corridor must lead directly into the heart of the mountain itself! Great columns of basalt lined the walls to either side, with dusty alcoves lost in the shadows between them. Torches sputtered infrequently, cast inadequate light. It seemed a lifeless place, undisturbed for a long time, and I wondered how it could be the center of worship for the priest's faith.

"Why did you build the temple to your god — here — in this dark place?" I asked.

"I didn't build it. I discovered it." Erasmoth's voice rang with triumph. "It was placed here for me! I was a simple stone mason before I discovered my true calling. I was exploring, seeking materials for my trade, when I came across what was then only ruins. Now they are the magnificent gardens you have seen outside. I followed it to its heart… and learned of the glories of the gods!" Light flamed in his eyes, and his tone vibrated with intensity.

Sudden movement in the shadowy corridor seized my attention. Ghostlike shapes advanced all around me, and I gasped in terror.

Then a torch flared, and the forms were revealed as Erasmoth's acolytes, in their robes and flat masks. I heaved a sigh of relief and began to follow the priest and priestess down the long corridor, accompanied by the silent apprentices.

"How much farther do we have to go?" I asked the priestess. I found the darkness and the heat oppressive.

"Be patient, Historian!" said Kassandry softly. "We must display no unworthiness before we participate in the glories of the gods!"

"The role of the historian is not to participate — merely to observe and to report," I corrected mildly.

She regarded me strangely, her eyes flashing. Her oncepallid cheeks grew quite flushed, and her lips parted. She licked them, invitingly, I thought, but said nothing further.

I grew more uncomfortable. "Why did the gods choose you?" I asked the priest.

But Erasmoth did not seem to hear. "Await me here while I complete the preparations," he said abruptly, stopping and pointing to one side of the trail.

I noticed, for the first time, that what I took for an alcove between the arches of the tunnel wall was, in actuality, the entrance to a doorway. The priest chanted a word and waved his hand. This portal swung silently open to reveal a chamber of surprisingly comfortable appointments. A snap of his fingers brought a clear yellow flame to the wick of a glass lamp.

"I will return for you when all is ready," he announced, refusing my entreaties to watch his preparations.

I entered the room. The door closed behind Erasmoth. I was alone. The priestess Kassandry had already gone on ahead, striding toward the heart of the mountain.

Now I sit writing at a table of darkened wood, its surface polished and smooth. Lush carpets of fur and wool line the floor; soft chairs offer me comfort. The oil lantern burns without smoke, its light steady and bright.

But, now, Excellency, I bid farewell. I hear footsteps approaching down the hall, and hasten to complete the enchantment that will send this missive over magical pathways to your desk.

I pray that my next missive will contain the proof we both desire! Your ever-devoted servant:

Foryth Teel

Most Learned Master:

You probably are wondering at the delay. It has taken me time to regain my composure, so dramatic and terrible have been the experiences of the last few hours. Indeed, the palpitations of my heart bring tremors to my hand — I beg Your Excellency's pardon for my awkward script.

Immediately after I sent my last report, Erasmoth entered my chamber. He was a man transformed. The flush of rapture tinged his cheeks, and a supernatural glow burned in his eyes. His appearance alone was almost enough to convince me that some divine force was at work here.

The priest gestured to me, and I fell into step behind him. I noticed as I emerged from the room that two ranks of acolytes stood, waiting silently, their expressions concealed behind those featureless masks.

We followed the black-walled, torch-lit passage for a distance I estimated as more than a mile. Finally, the narrow passage led us into a much larger chamber. The yellow glow of torches was lost in the vastness of the space. For a moment, I thought all was blackness, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized that a sullen crimson glow emanated from all around me — pools of molten rock, bubbling and flaming.

"My temple!" proclaimed Erasmoth.

The first thing that struck me was the size of this cavelike expanse. Judging from the distant echoes of our footsteps and the dim glow of the pits of lava and deep wells of burning coals, I could guess that we stood in a vast room.

The floor was smooth beneath my feet — as if hundreds of hours of labor had been expended to polish the natural rock to an unnatural perfection.

My next observation, as we stepped away from the tunnel that had led us here, was an unpleasant — almost nauseating — odor. I was reminded of the thick, close air of a charnel house. I gagged convulsively. For a moment, Excellency, I was quite overcome, and would have fallen, if not for the supportive grip of the priest upon my arm. Remembering the dignity of my station, I recovered my composure. Politely declining Erasmoth's assistance, I once again walked forward under my own power.

I could see by the irregular shape that the shrine was a natural cavern, not an eccentric excavation. Nevertheless, it showed signs of centuries of use — such as the smoothness of the floor. Great, fluted columns, obviously wrought by hand, extended from floor to ceiling around the periphery.

I became aware of someone approaching out of the darkness. It was the priestess Kassandry. Her arrival sent a wave of relief through my body. I had become uneasy, due to the heavy stench and the unusual surroundings, no doubt.

A holy fire glowed within her, shining as a flaming light in her eyes. Her lips were moist; her tongue flicked back and forth across them. She wore no mask, and I feel certain she had not painted her skin in any way, yet the excessive pallor of her complexion was as white as if she had coated herself with chalk.

Her eyes passed over me, and I saw none of the warmth, the friendship, or affection that she had displayed in the vale beyond this temple. In fact, the priestess appeared to take little note of me. She drew near Erasmoth and seemed to meld her body to his. Her voice was a throaty whisper.

"All is readied," she told the priest.

My heart pounded with excitement. The ceremony, which would provide the most valuable find of my career, was, I believed, about to start.

"What do you do now?" I inquired, prepared to make mental notes.

"First, my acolytes take their proper stations." The priest gestured to his dark-robed, masked assistants, who had gathered in an arc around us. I noted that there were more than two dozen of them in all.

Erasmoth gestured imperiously to one of his masked apprentices, who shambled forward, stopping before Erasmoth. The acolyte waited for another command.

"Remove your mask!"

The acolyte did so. Forgive me once again, Excellency. The memory of what I saw causes a weakness in the very fiber of my being — a sensation like a stream of icy water infusing my limbs and paralyzing my heart.

The face was recognizable, barely, as having once been human, but now! Horrible! One cheek had rotted away, displaying a patchwork of grisly muscle and dank, decaying gum. Yellow teeth jutted like tusks from the slack-jawed mouth. The nose was a useless lump of cartilage and gore. Withered eyes rolled sightlessly in sockets.

The creature before me was unquestionably one of the walking dead — a zombie. It stood, pathetic and unknowing, awaiting the command of its master.

"Bear witness!" cried Erasmoth. "See the miracle of the gods!"

Kassandry watched him with rapture gleaming in her eyes. Her slender hands clasped before her, she paid no heed to myself, nor to the ghastly acolyte.

"You killed your own apprentice?" I gasped.

Your Excellency can imagine my shock.

"All of them!" he cried. "They know bliss now! Joy! An eternal freedom from want and desire!"

The other masked acolytes gathered close, removed their masks to reveal a gallery of horror. Each face was marred by decay, with peeling flaps of flesh and loosely hanging skin. Hair sprouted from the scalps of many; the pates of others gleamed as pure white bone.

"Who were they?" I cried. "Where did you find them?"

"They came to me!" Shrill triumph rang in the priest's voice. His words were addressed to the heavens, and it seemed that I overheard him as a mere eavesdropper.

"You tricked them, then killed them," I challenged him.

"They understood!" Erasmoth's voice hissed. "They offered their souls to the god! The god claimed them, and then gave them to me as slaves."

I noticed suddenly one of the zombies wore a black eye-patch covering one of its dead orbs. It all seemed some hideous joke, but I recognized, by that sign only, for his face was ravaged by decay, Tyrol Deet!

"This is your miracle?" I gasped, appalled. "The secret of undeath!"

"Approach the altar!" commanded Erasmoth. He reached to push me, but I avoided his shoving hand.

Kassandry took my arm, surprising me with the gentleness of her touch. I looked at her face, now so close to mine, and saw nothing but the rapture of one who believes she has found a greater truth. She paid no attention to me, save for the slight pressure of her grip upon my arm. Her bright eyes remained focused on the far side of the cave.

As if on command, fires surged upward from several of the great basins in the cavern, and for the first time I received a more accurate picture of this dreadful temple. It was monstrous, Excellency. Five pits belched columns of hissing flame into the air. The central flame was highest and flared as a bright red. Fires of blue and green surged to its left; a small fire of purest white flickered to the right.

The fifth flame I did not see immediately, and then I noticed it only as a shifting shade before the backdrop of several red pools of lava. Upon closer inspection, I saw that this was a fire of black! It absorbed the light around it, rather than casting illumination of its own, and thus was visible only by the outline of its greater darkness. Five fires, of black, white, red, green, and blue — the holy altar of this deity worshiped by Erasmoth Luker.

"Witness the power of my god," announced Erasmoth. The arrogance of his tone was now palpable. Clearly, he regarded me as little more than a tablet for the purpose of recording his mighty deeds.

Excellency, at this point in the course of events, I am afraid that my mind ceased to function with its usual acuity for detail and observation. Instead, I recall only a series of impressions — each, it seemed, more garish and terrifying than the one preceding.

I recall those five columns of flame. We were quite close to them, now, and I could feel the heat radiate from every direction. The spouts of fire sputtered and hissed and crackled, yet I could see no fuel of any sort. The pits were smooth bowls of black stone, deeper than a man's height, but rounded into the shape of a great cauldron.

The red flame — the centermost and tallest of the pillars — stood in front of the others. The black flame was farther removed from the group.

A circular depression, with four or five concentric rings of steps, allowed easy descent into the circle. Within the circle rested a block of stone, square and solid.

"Behold the altar of godhood!" Erasmoth cried. "Behold and tremble!"

A deeper pit opened in the floor before the altar. It was from this ghastly hole that the unspeakable odor flowed, as if all the foulness and perversion across the face of Krynn had been gathered into one place. The priest led me around this pit to stand before the altar.

Next in my recollection come images of my two companions — the woman, so slender and wanton in her god-inspired desire, and the man, his face distorted by shadow and by the intensity of his passion, as he focused upon the approaching ceremony. Kassandry, who had ignored me during the approach to this central altar, now turned her luminous eyes to my face.

She dropped her robe to the floor. She was naked, except for a belt of leather and steel gauntlets on her wrists. Two slender stilettos hung from the belt. Seizing one in each hand, she raised them toward the roof of the cavern.

Erasmoth, too, lifted his hands. Together the priest and priestess wailed a chant, repeating the beastlike sounds over and over, their voices rising to a pitch of ecstasy. I had no doubt but that the culmination of this ceremony would be the plunging of those razor-edged blades into my breast.

I confess, Excellency, that the thought of my duties, of the sacred trust of the historian, vanished from my mind. Fear consumed me. All I could think of was escape. The wailing of the clerics rose to a hysterical crescendo. Only a few feet away from me I saw steps that would lead me out of this unholy circle. Beyond — a desperate sprint away — the tunnel would take me to the surface. So convoluted was my own reasoning that I completely forgot about the gates of gold and silver that must eventually block my exit.

I sprang away from the priest and priestess, made a dash for the stairs. The two made no reaction; their chant continued without interruption. I reached the bottom step and leapt upward, passing in two bounds out of that hateful arena. Still Erasmoth and Kassandry chanted.

My breath came in ragged gasps. My heart pounded. I turned to look for the tunnel by which we had entered this accursed cavern.

But where was it? My surroundings looked different, as if this was not the place I had passed mere minutes before. Dark shadows stood in places where I remembered glowing patches of light. The five columns of flame still burned, however, and they gave me my bearings. I started in the direction I believed would offer escape. My feet skimmed across the smooth floor, and still the two clerics stood, locked in the grip of their unholy ritual.

I sensed the movement of the darkness against the fiery background. My heart chilled at the sound of approaching footsteps. Hands reached for me. The cloying scent of death was all around me. An arm, like a sodden piece of old meat, struck my chest, knocking me backward.

I collapsed into another animated corpse, and retched as I felt my hand sink into the rotted satchel of its belly. The zombies were all around me, reaching with horrible hands.

With a cry of horror, I broke free, lunging in the only direction that would take me away from the ghastly figures — back toward the pit and the Altar of Erasmoth.

"Come to us now, Historian!" cried the priest, ceasing his chant. Kassandry licked her gleaming lips. She held the two daggers high, crossing the blades over her head.

The ranks of the undead pressed forward, and in the surging light of the fires I could see scores of them. They emerged from the shadows around the periphery of the great cavern, shambling slowly out of the darkness to gather in an attentive circle around their master and mistress.

The close-packed ranks of the zombies pressed in on me, forcing me onto the top step leading into the circular altar pit, toward the doom that awaited me below. In desperation, I looked for some avenue of escape through the steadily closing circle. There were none!

"Make haste, Historian!" The priest's tone contained an element of irritation.

I could delay no longer. The zombies had driven me to the bottom step of the circle, and thence into the pit itself.

Kassandry's gaze locked on to mine. It was the priestess, in the end, who compelled me to step slowly across the floor of the circle, until I stood before her. Behind her was the black pit, which exuded that terrible odor.

"Now!" cried Erasmoth, raising his hands, his fists clenched in triumph. "In the name of the gods!"

Kassandry raised the knives, still staring at my face. I was transfixed, unable to break that hypnotizing gaze. I waited for the stabbing of that keen steel into my flesh.

Kassandry struck, slicing each blade through the neck, severing the two arteries that carry blood to the brain. But, as I live to write this, Excellency, it was not my flesh. Nay, and I swear by the sanctity of my Historian's Oath, Your Grace, she slashed her own neck as she stood before me! The priestess took her own life!

Blood spurted from the two wounds, drenching me. Kassandry remained standing, that same expression of rapture etched into her features. Then she started to topple forward and I — out of instinct — reached to catch her.

But Erasmoth knocked me out of the way. Kassandry's blood sprayed, slicking the smooth floor.

"I must make haste!" shouted the priest.

With surprising strength, he lifted her into his arms, turned toward the dark pit in the center of the circle, and threw the still-bleeding corpse into that blackened hole.

The five pillars of fire surged upward, their light illuminating the great cavern, washing across the senseless, unknowing faces of the zombies and the smiling visage of the triumphant priest.

0 wise Astinus, here, it seemed, my historian's instincts took over, rescued me as I teetered at the brink of madness. Shock welled within me and my legs grew weak, too feeble to support me. I remained senseless of the blood — Kassandry's blood — that stained my robe, or even of the fact that, for the time being, I had been spared.

I watched the proceedings with a sort of detachment — no longer was I a participant, as indeed I never should have been in the first place. I stared into that black pit. The zombies around us were still, and even Erasmoth's breathing had become slow and labored.

Then, from out of that obscene darkness, a hand reached forth — a slender, female hand, wet with blood. Another hand appeared, followed by a pair of arms. Then the face, now deathly pale, was visible — and then the mortal flesh that once had been the priestess called Kassandry.

The creature that emerged from the pit was dead, as insensate as the rank of rotting corpses that stood around us. The female zombie, her nearly naked flesh smeared with the gruesome refuse of the dark pit, climbed laboriously from the hole in the floor. The thing's — I cannot think of it, anymore, as female, or even human — movements were jerky and uncoordinated, as if it must learn to walk anew.

But the aspect that shocked me the most was the vacant stare of those once-bright eyes. Kassandry's gaze had been so intense, so vital, that it had fascinated me even as it made me quiver with uncertainty. Now the dull, deadened eyes of a corpse roamed sightlessly in that awful, pallid face.

"Before we proceed further," Erasmoth declared to me, "I want to show you something."

Numbly, still anticipating my imminent death, I nonetheless followed him. I believe I was in shock and would have jumped into the pit itself, then, if he had ordered it. My captor led me to the pillar of black flame.

"The black fire, as you can feel, radiates no heat," he said, as we approached the shadowy column.

Indeed, the flickering fire actually seemed to absorb warmth from the air. I felt as if I faced the open night, with my back to the comfort of a house or inn. A limitless well of cold seemed to emanate from the fire, sucking all that was living and warm into its black and soulless depths.

"A curious phenomenon, don't you agree?" he said. "Now, study the white one."

We moved to this pale phantasm. This column of fire was translucent and pearly as smoke, but possessed a definition of form and purpose that belied a vaporous nature. The chill of the blaze was like a forceful attack, like a blast of subfreezing wind across a field of ice. I recoiled, to the amusement of the priest.

"She saps your life, does this fire," Erasmoth said, "but gives you the eternal life of my goddess in return!"

"Life?" I cried, quite losing the impartiality of a historian, for which Your Eminence will no doubt chastise me severely. "How dare you call this evil abomination life!"

"Ah — but it is truly the greatest life!" responded the priest. "For it is life without end!"

"A life without awareness!" I retorted. "No life at all!"

"I did not expect you to understand," he announced, his tone filled with supreme arrogance, "but I have shown you the proof of a miracle. You, Historian, must take this message to the world."

"You have shown me proof of the presence of an evil god," I continued, still choosing my words with caution. "And that, in itself, is a remarkable discovery in this era when all gods were thought to have abandoned Krynn! But will you not tell me the name of this god?"

"Goddess," he corrected. "You already know her."

I looked again, realizing that I gazed at the five pillars of fire, the five colors… of evil dragonhood! "She is the Nameless One," I said quietly, "driven from the world more than two thousand years ago! She whose dark power once brought Krynn almost to the point of subjugation."

"The Queen of Darkness!" he shouted in ecstasy. "Mistress of the evil dragons, the five-headed wyrm!"

"Takhisis!" All of the horrors I had witnessed paled when compared with the menace raised by this dark priest. "Do you mean to tell me that she returns to the world?"

"Not yet, Historian, not yet, but her presence can be felt, by myself and others. She grows in power, and she is patient. She is not defeated. Never make that mistake, Historian. She will not be vanquished!"

Abruptly, he raised his voice, pointed. "Go, now! Take your notes and report to your master what you have learned! Let the great Astinus know and tremble! Let everyone know! The Queen of Darkness will return, and glory is the destiny of those who worship her name!"

His triumph ringing in my ears, I departed — precipitously, if the truth be told (as, of course, it must). The zombies parted, let me pass. The gold gates, and the silver as well, stood open for me. I ran through the sundappled courtyard, raced all the way down the winding trail to Halcyon. And even here, I do not feel safe.

Not because I fear the priest. If Erasmoth had wanted me, he could have taken me at his altar. My fear is deeper. It touches on the very survival of our world.

For I swear, Master Astinus — it is all true! The Queen of Darkness lives, and she longs to project her power into the world! She has found a cleric in Erasmoth. Will she find (or has she found) others?

What, then, can be the fate of the world?

Foryth Teel, In the cause of Astinus and the Great Histories of Krynn.