The cataclysm

Part IV

The great seaport city of Palanthas, built by dwarves, fabled as far back as the Age of Might, was, according to swift-flying rumor, one of the few cities to come through the Cataclysm almost unscathed. Michael and Nikol, to their astonishment and disquiet, found themselves two drops in a steadily flowing stream of refugees, flowing toward what was purportedly a rich, safe harbor.

Located in western Solamnia, on the Bay of Branchala, the Cityhome, as it was known among its inhabitants, was governed by a noble lord under the auspices of the Knights of Solamnia, whose stronghold — the Tower of the High Clerist — guarded the mountain pass that kept goods and wealth flowing from Palanthas to the lands beyond.

But, though the city's walls and pavement, its tall towers and graceful minarets, may have survived the Cataclysm without damage, the disaster opened cracks within its population. These cracks had always been there, but the rifts had been covered by wealth, reverence for the gods, respect for (and fear of) the knights.

Now, almost a year after the Cataclysm, wealth had ceased to enter Palanthas. Few ships sailed the sea. Beggars, not gold, came pouring through the gates. The city's economy collapsed beneath the weight. Here, as in other places throughout Ansalon, the people looked for someone other than themselves to blame.

Michael and Nikol, along with numerous other fellow travelers, arrived at the city of Palanthas in midmorning. They'd heard rumors in abundance, some good, but many more dark — tales of beating, looting, murder. Mostly, they'd discounted them, but rumor had not prepared them for the sight that met their eyes.

"May the gods have mercy," said Michael, staring in pity and horror.

Throngs of people — ragged, wretched — crouched on the road outside the walls. At the sight of new arrivals, they surged forward, begging for anything that might, for a moment, relieve their misery and suffering.

Michael, sick at heart, would have given them all he owned, but Nikol, her face pale, her lips pressed tight, steered him with a firm hand through the grasping, wailing mob that surrounded the city gates.

The gates stood open wide, people pouring in, shoving their way out. The guards kept traffic moving, but did little else. One of them, however, eyed Nikol, and the weapon she wore, with interest.

"Hey, you. Mercenary. The Revered Son's looking for swords," said the guard. "You can earn yourself a meal, a place to sleep." He jerked a thumb. "Head for Old City."

"Revered Son?" Michael repeated, in disbelief.

"Thank you," said Nikol, catching hold of her husband and dragging him away. Outside the walls, they could hear the disappointed cries of the beggars.

Inside the walls, things were not much better. People lay sleeping in doorways or on the bare, cold pavement. Evil-looking men drifted near, saw Nikol's sword and Michael's stout staff, and drifted away. Two slatternly women caught hold of them and tried to drag them into a tumble-down hovel. The city stank of filth and death and disease.

They were loathe to stop and ask anyone directions. Nikol's father had visited Palanthas often, however, and had described the layout of the city, which was like a gigantic wheel. The great and ancient library stood in the city's center, known as Old City, along with the palace, the homes of the knights, and other important structures. They made their way through the wall that separated Old City from the New. Here the streets were not as crowded, almost empty. The air was cleaner, easier to breathe.

Michael and Nikol hurried forward, certain that the library must be a haven of peace in this wretched city. They had barely passed through the Old City wall when they discovered why the streets had been deserted. All the people — and there must have been hundreds — were gathered here.

"Where's the library?" Michael asked, peering over the heads of the crowd.

"There," said Nikol, pointing to the building the mob surrounded.

"What's going on here?" Michael asked a woman standing near him.

"Hush!" she said, glaring at him. "The Revered Son is speaking."

"Over here!" Nikol drew Michael into a grove of trees that bordered one of the broad avenues of Old City. From this vantage point, both could see and hear the speaker, who stood upon the very steps of the Great Library of Palanthas.

"Do you know what is behind those walls, good citizens? I'll tell you! Lies!" A man pointed an accusing finger at the large, elegant, columned building behind him. "Lies about the Kingpriest!"

The crowd gathered around him muttered angrily.

"Yes, I've seen them, read them with my own eyes!" The man tapped those eyes, remarkable only for the fact that they were squinted and sly-looking. "The great Astinus" — the voice was poisoned with sarcasm — "writes that the Kingpriest called down the wrath of the gods by making demands of them! And who had a better right? What man has lived who was as good as that man? I'll tell you the real reason the gods hurled the fiery mountain upon Istar!"

He paused, waited until the crowd hushed.

"Jealousy!" he breathed in a stage whisper that carried clearly through the chill air. "They were jealous! Jealous of a man more godly than the gods themselves! They were jealous and afraid that he might challenge them. And so he might have! And he would have won!"

The crowd roared its approval, with an undercurrent of anger frightening to hear.

"But, though he is gone," continued the man, clasping his hands in pious grief, "some of us have vowed to carry on, to keep his memory alive. Yes," he cried, raising his fist to heaven. "We defy you, gods! We are not afraid! Drop a fiery mountain on us if you dare!"

Michael stirred restlessly, opened his mouth.

"Are you mad?" Nikol whispered. "You'll get us killed!" Taking hold of his medallion, she tucked it down the front of his blue robes, hiding it from sight.

Michael sighed, kept silent.

No one else in the crowd saw them. All eyes were on the speaker.

"Lord Palanthas sides with us," the man cried. "He would agree to pass our laws, for he knows they are right and just, but he is prevented from doing so by that old man in there!" Again he pointed at the columned building behind him.

"Then we'll pass the laws and enforce them ourselves!" shouted a voice from the crowd, who, by the quickness of his response, obviously had been waiting for a cue. "Read us your laws, Revered Son. Let us hear them."

"Yes, read us the laws!" The crowd picked up the shout, turned it into a chant.

"I will, good citizens," said the squint-eyed speaker. He drew forth a scroll from the bosom of robes that were rich and snowy white — a marked contrast to the worn and shabby clothing of those who hung upon his every word.

"First: no elf, dwarf, kender, gnome, or anyone with so much as a drop of blood of any of these races is to be allowed in the city. Any now residing here will be expelled. Any caught here in the future will be put to death."

The people looked at each other, muttered their approval.

"Second: any wizard or wizardess, witch or warlock, apprentice mage, sorcerer or sorceress" — the man ran out of breath, paused to catch it — "caught within these city walls will be put to death."

This met with nods and shrugs and even some incredulous laughter, as though such an occurrence was almost beyond the realm of possibility. Palanthas had divested itself of such evil long ago, though at a heavy cost.

"Third" all Knights of Solamnia — "

Boos and hisses and angry shouts interrupted the speaker. He smiled in satisfaction and raised his voice to be heard above the uproar.

"All Knights of Solamnia or any member of a knight's family found henceforth within the city limits shall be expelled!"

A loud cheer.

"All lands and goods and properties of said Knights of Solamnia shall be confiscated and turned over to the people!"

An even louder cheer.

Now it was Nikol who flushed in anger and seemed about to speak.

"Are you mad?" Michael whispered, wrapping her cloak more closely about the telltale breastplate, twitching the folds over the sword in its antique silver sheath, decorated with kingfisher and crown.

The two drew back to stand in the shadows of a large, spreading oak.

"Fourth: the library will be razed to the ground! All the books and scrolls and the lies that they contain will be burned!"

The speaker snapped his own scroll shut. Leaning toward the crowd, he made a sweeping gesture with his arm, as if he would scoop them up and send them in a surging tide toward destruction. The mob shouted its agreement and made a tentative movement toward the steps of the ancient library.

No one came out from the library. No defender appeared in the doorway. The building itself, the weight of years, its age and veneration and dignity, spoke a silent, eloquent defense and daunted the crowd.

Those in the front ranks seemed unwilling to proceed, fell back to let those behind come forth if they wanted. Those behind, finding themselves about to become those in front, had second thoughts, with the result that the mob began to mill about aimlessly at the foot of the library stairs. Some shouted threats; others threw rotten eggs and vegetables at the venerable structure. No one wanted to go any nearer.

The speaker gazed at them with a grim face, realized that the time was not propitious. He stepped down from his platform and was immediately surrounded by people, who cried out for his blessing or reached out to touch him reverently or held up their children for him to kiss.

"In the name of the Kingpriest," he said humbly, moving from one to another. "In the name of the Kingpriest."

"What is this mockery?" Michael gasped, appalled, no longer able to keep quiet. "I can't believe this! Haven't they learned? This is worse, far worse — "

"Hush!" Nikol hissed and dragged him even farther back into the shadows.

The speaker moved through the crowd, handling the people skillfully, giving them what they wanted, yet subtly ridding himself of them. A small retinue, led by the man who had asked the speaker to read the laws, formed a circle around the Revered Son and managed to extricate him from the press. He and his henchmen emerged near where Michael and Nikol stood, hidden by the trees.

Some of the mob continued to surge sluggishly about the library steps, but most grew bored and wandered off to the taverns or whatever other amusements could cheer their dreary existence.

"You had them eating out of your hand, Revered Son. Why didn't you urge them on?"

"Because now is not the time," the Revered Son answered complacently. "Let them go to their friends and neighbors and tell what they have heard this day. We'll have a hundred times more people than this at our next rally and a hundred times a hundred more after that. In the meantime, we'll whip up their fear and their hatred.

"Remember that half-elf baker we talked to yesterday, the stubborn one, who refused to leave the city? See to it that his loaves make a few people sick. Use this." The Revered Son handed over a small glass vial. "Let me know who's taken ill. I'll be around to 'heal' them."

One of the henchmen, taking the vial, looked at it dubiously. The Revered Son regarded him with some impatience. "The effects wear off naturally after a while, but these ignorant peasants don't know that. They'll think I've performed a miracle."

The man pocketed the vial. "What about the library?"

"We'll hold another rally in front of it day after tomorrow, after we've had time to stir up trouble. If you could get me one of those books, the one with the lies about the Kingpriest — "

The man nodded, shrugged. "Nothing to it. That fool old man, Astinus, lets anyone read 'em."

"Excellent. I'll read it aloud to the crowd. That should seal the library's fate and the old man's. He's been the main one opposing my takeover of the city's government. Once he's out of the way, I'll have no trouble with that nambypamby Lord Palanthas.

"Now, tonight," continued the Revered Son, "I want you and the others in the taverns, spreading stories about that knight, the one that was god-cursed — "

"Soth."

"Yes, Lord Soth."

Nikol sucked in her breath softly. Michael caught hold of her hand, squeezed it, counseling silence.

"I'm not certain we should rely on that story to drive the mob to attack the knights, Revered Son. There's more than one tale about him going around."

"What's the other?" the speaker asked sharply.

"That he was forewarned about the Cataclysm. He was riding to Istar, planning to try to STOP the Kingpriest — "

"Nonsense!" The Revered Son snorted. "Here's the story you tell them. Soth was furious because the Kingpriest was about to make public the knight's dalliances with that elven trollop of his. Make that clear. Oh, and throw in that bit about him murdering his first wife. That always goes over — "

"Shush, someone's wanting a blessing."

A young woman, carrying a baby, was hovering timidly on the outskirts of the group. The Revered Son glanced about, saw the woman, and smiled at her benignly.

"Come closer. What may I do for you, Daughter?"

"Pardon me for disturbing you, Revered Son," the woman said, with a blush, "but I heard you speak at the temple yesterday, and I'm confused."

"I'll do my best to help you understand, Daughter," said the Revered Son humbly. "What do you find confusing?"

"I have always prayed to Paladine, but you say we're not to pray to him or any of the other gods. We're to pray to the Kingpriest?"

"Yes, Daughter. When the wicked Queen of Evil attacked the world, the other gods fled in terror. The Kingpriest alone had the courage to stand and fight her, just as did Huma, long ago. The Kingpriest fights her today, on the heavenly plane. He needs your prayers, Daughter, to aid him in his struggles."

"And that's why we must drive out the kender and the elves — "

"And all those whose disbelief come to the aid of the Powers bf Darkness."

"I understand now. Thank you, Revered Son." The young woman curtseyed.

The Revered Son laid his hand upon her head, and upon her child's. "In the name of the Kingpriest," he said solemnly.

The young woman left. The Revered Son watched after her, a pleased smile upon his lips. He cast a glance at his cohorts, who grinned and nodded. Their heads bent together in continued plotting, the Revered Son and his minions walked off in the opposite direction.

Neither Nikol nor Michael could speak for long moments. The shock of what they'd heard and seen took their breath, made them dizzy and sick, as if they'd been physically assaulted.

"Oh, Michael," murmured Nikol, "this can't be happening! I don't believe it. Lord Soth was so valiant, so brave. No knight would do such terrible things — "

"Lies!" said Michael. His face was pale. He literally shook with anger and outrage. "That false cleric has twisted the truth — "

"But what is the truth, Michael?" Nikol cried. "We don't know!"

"Hush, we're attracting attention," he cautioned, noting that several men were casting suspicious glances in their direction. "The truth about that friend of ours," Michael continued loudly. "We'll find out, I'm certain, now that we're here in this fair city. A city obviously blessed."

Several men, burly and unwashed and smelling strongly of dwarf spirits, lurched over to stare at them.

"Strangers, are you?" one said, scowling.

"From Whitsund, Sire," said Michael, bowing.

"At least you're human. Refugees? Thinkin' of movin' in?" He glowered at them. " 'Cause if you are, you got another think comin'. We got beggars enough as it is." Those with him muttered their assent. "Why don't you two just head on back to wherever it is you came from?"

Nikol shifted restlessly; her armor jingled, her sword clanked. The man turned, looked at her with drunken interest.

"That steel I hear?" The man took a step nearer Nikol. Reaching out a filthy hand, he caught hold of her by the chin, wrenched her face to the light. "You look as if you've noble blood in you, boy. Don't he, fellas? Not some noble's son, by any chance? With a fat purse?"

"Let go of me," said Nikol through clenched teeth. "Or you're a dead man."

"Please," said Michael, trying to come between them, "we don't want any trouble — "

But he only made matters worse. His staff caught on Nikol's cloak, dragged the fabric aside. The shining breastplate she wore glittered in the sun.

"A knight hisself!" The man howled in glee. "Look, fellas. Look what I've caught! I'm gonna have a little fun.' " He drew a long dagger from his belt. "Let's see if your blood does run yellow — "

Nikol thrust her sword into the man, yanked it out before he or his drunken companions knew what had happened. The man stared at her in blank astonishment, then groaned and toppled to the ground. A pool of blood spread beneath him. The sight sobered up his friends, who growled in anger. Some drew knives; one wielded a blackthorn cudgel. Michael whirled his staff. Nikol set her back to his, her sword, red with blood, swinging in a slow arc.

The men made a half-hearted show of attacking. Michael's staff lashed out, caught one on the side of one man's head, sent him into the dust. Nikol gave another a slash on his cheek that he would carry to his grave. The men, eyeing the knight and the cleric, decided they'd had enough. They broke and ran.

"Cowards!" jeered Nikol, cleaning her sword with the tail of the dead man's shirt. "'Thieves and knaves."

"Yes, but they'll be back," said Michael grimly. "And they'll bring help. We can't stay in the city. We'll have to leave." He cast a longing, disappointed glance at the great library.

"We'll return," said Nikol confidently. "I have an idea. Hurry up. One of those thugs is talking to that so-called Revered Son."

Sure enough, the Revered Son was turning, staring hard in their direction. The man was pointing at them excitedly.

The two ran, blended in with the rest of the flotsam and dregs of humanity that had washed ashore in Palanthas. Reaching the gates, they were walking out just as one of the Revered Son's henchmen came pounding up, breathless, to deliver a message to the guard.

Michael and Nikol ducked behind a wagon that had become mired in the crowd.

"Knight of Solamnia!" the man shouted. "A huge fellow with a sword six feet long! He's got a friend, some fellow wearing the blue robes of the false goddess."

"Yeah, sure, we'll watch for them," said the guard, and the henchman dashed off, to spread the alarm at other gates. "Get that wagon moving! What's the matter with you?"

Nikol drew her cloak close around her, pressed her sword against her thigh. Michael made certain his holy medallion was well hidden. The guard didn't even bother to spare them a glance. Once outside the gate, they fended off the beggars, traveled some distance up the road, finally stopping in a grove of stunted trees.

"What's your plan?" Michael asked.

"We'll travel to the High Clerist's Tower," Nikol replied. "The knights must be told about what is going on in Palanthas, how this false cleric is plotting to take control. They'll soon put a stop to it, then we can go into the library and find the Disks of Mishakal. We'll use them to prove to people that this Revered Son is a crook and a charlatan."

Michael looked doubtful. "But surely the knights must know — "

"No, they don't. They can't or they would have stopped him before now," Nikol argued. Serene, confident, she looked up into the mountains that loomed over Palanthas, to the road that led to the knights' stronghold. "And we'll find out the truth about Lord Soth, too," she added softly, her cheeks flushing. "I don't believe what they said, not a word of it. I want to know the truth."

Michael sighed, shook his head.

"What?" Nikol demanded sharply. "What's the matter?"

"I was thinking that perhaps there are some truths we are better off not knowing," he replied.