The cataclysm

Part VII

Nikol and Michael spent the night in a cave they found in the mountains. Huddled together for warmth, they slept only fitfully. Again they had the feeling they were being watched. Both were up with the dawn, made haste to return to Palanthas, though what they would do when they arrived was open to question.

"If we can only find the holy disks, then all will be put right," Michael said more than once.

"We can warn Astinus about the library's danger," said Nikol. "And we can take the Disks of Mishakal to safety"

Take them to Lord Soth, don't you mean?" Michael asked her quietly.

"He saved us at the tower. We are in his debt. If I can end his torment, I will. HE is a true knight," she added, casting a sad and wistful look back up into the mountains. "I know it in my heart."

Michael said nothing. Soth had saved them, but for their drsake or his own? Had he been cursed unjustly or had his dread fate been forged by his own evil passions? Michael could only repeat what had become a litany: the blessed disks would make everything dear, everything right again.

Neither wayfarer was overly concerned at the thought of reentering the city. Having seen the confusion at the main gate, they doubted if the guards would even remember they were supposed to be searching for a beardless knight and blue-robed cleric. They timed their arrival for midday, when the traffic should be at its peak.

But, when they reached Palanthas, they found the road before the city empty, its gates standing wide open.

Alarmed at the sudden and inexplicable change, they ducked into the same grove of stunted trees, waited, and watched.

"Something's definitely wrong," said Nikol, eyeing the city walls. "I haven't seen one guard go past on his rounds. Come on." She buckled on her sword, wrapped her cloak around her. "We're going inside."

No beggars accosted them. No guard hailed them. No one challenged them or demanded to know their business within the city. The walls were deserted, the streets empty. The only living being they saw was a mongrel dog, trotting past with a dead hen in its mouth, having taking advantage of the situation to raid an unguarded chicken coop.

They hurried through the merchandising district of New City, the streets of which should have been filled with people at this time of day. Stalls were closed. Shop windows were barred and shuttered.

"It looks like a city preparing for a holiday," said Michael.

"Or a war," Nikol said grimly. She walked with her hand on the hilt of her sword. "Look. Look at that."

One of the shops was not closed. It had been destroyed, its windows smashed. The shop's goods — gaily colored silks from the elven lands of Qualinesti — lay strewn about the streets. Ugly epitaphs had been scrawled across the walls, written in blood. Lying in front of the shop was the body of an elven woman. Her throat had been cut. A dead child lay beside her.

"May the gods forgive them," murmured Michael.

"I trust your disks can explain this," Nikol said bitterly.

They continued on, passing other sites of senseless destruction, other wanton acts of violence. Palanthas itself may have escaped the ravages of the Cataclysm, but the souls of its people had been cracked and shattered.

It was at the Old City wall that they first heard the sound of the mob, the sound of a thousand people gone mad, a thousand people finding anonymity in their numbers, driven to commit crimes one alone would have been ashamed to consider. The noise was frightful, inhuman. It prickled the hair on Michael's neck, sent a shiver down his spine.

Smoke boiled up from beyond the walls of Old City. Under its cover, Michael and Nikol slipped through the gates without attracting anyone's attention. Reaching the other side, they came to a halt, stared in disbelief. Nothing, not the sight of the destruction, not the tumult that raged around them, prepared them for what they saw.

Several large and beautiful houses had been set ablaze and were burning furiously. Large crowds danced drunkenly in front of the fires, cheering and waving bottles and other, more gruesome, trophies. But the largest concentration of the mob was farther on, gathered around the great library.

Here the crowd was more or less hushed, heads craning to see and hear. A voice rose, exhorting them to further acts of terror. Nikol climbed a drainpipe that ran up the side of a house, and stood on the roof to gain a better view.

"The Revered Son is on the library stairs," she reported on her return. "His men are there with him. They're armed with clubs and axes and carrying torches. He's — " Her words were drowned out by a roar that set the windows rattling.

"We must get inside the library!" Michael was forced to shout to be heard over the clamor. He was starting to feel panicked. The idea that the holy disks might fall victim to this unholy chaos appalled him.

"I have an idea!" Nikol shouted in return, then motioned him to follow her. They slipped past on the fringes of the crowd, ducked down an alleyway, ran its length. Reaching the end, they stopped, peered out cautiously. They stood directly opposite one of the library's semidetached wings. The mob, intent upon hearing the speaker, blocked the front, but not the sides, of the building.

"We can climb in through the windows," said Nikol.

They headed for the ornamental grove of trees, the same grove that had provided them shelter the last time they were here. Keeping to the shadows, they trampled on dead, unkempt flower beds and shoved through hedges, once clipped, now left to grow wild. A narrow strip of open lawn stood between them and the library. Breaking free of their cover, they ran across the wellkept grass, came to a window on the ground level. They flattened themselves against the building, trying to keep out of sight of the mob.

"The window's probably guarded," said Michael.

Nikol risked peeping over the ledge. "I don't see anyone, not even the Book Readers," she added, using a common slang term that referred to the Order of Aesthetics, followers of the god Gilean who devoted their lives to the gathering and preserving of knowledge.

Nevertheless, she drew her sword from its sheath. "Quickly!" whispered Nikol.

A blow from Michael's staff broke the window, knocked down fragments of glass. Nikol clambered through, kept her sword raised. She stared about intently. Seeing no one, she reached back to help Michael.

He climbed inside, came to a halt. He had heard all his life about the great library, but he'd never seen it, and this was beyond anything he could have imagined. A vast room held row after row of bookshelves, each shelf filled with neatly arranged, lovingly dusted, leather-bound volumes. His heart yearned, suddenly, for the wisdom stored within these walls, ached to think that all this irreplaceable knowledge was in such dire danger.

"Michael!" Nikol called a warning.

A robed monk, wielding a sword, had crept out from the shadows of one of the bookcases, stood blocking their path.

"Hold… hold right th-there," stammered the Aesthetic. "Don't… don't m-m-move."

The monk was thinner than the heavy, antique, twohanded broadsword he was trying his best to hold. His face was chalk-colored, sweat ran down his bald head, and he shook so that his teeth clicked together. But, though obviously frightened out of his wits, he was grimly standing his ground. Nikol had been about to laugh. She remembered the brutal mob, their hands already stained with blood, and her laughter changed to a sigh.

"Here," she said, stepping forward, accosting the terrified monk, who stared at her, wide-eyed. "You're holding that sword all wrong." Wrenching the poor man's hands loose from the weapon, she repositioned them. "This hand here, and this hand here. There. Now you have a chance of hurting someone besides yourself."

"Th-thank you," murmured the monk, gazing at the weapon and Nikol in perplexity. Suddenly, he brought the sword, point-first, to her throat. "Now… I s-s-suggest you.. you leave."

"For the love of Paladine! We're on YOUR side," said Nikol in exasperation, shoving the wavering blade away from her. Outside they could hear the mob raise its voice in response to the Revered Son's harangues.

"We want to help you," Michael said, coming forward. "We don't have much time. We're looking for the disks — "

"What is going on in here, Malachai?" questioned a stern voice. "I heard glass breaking."

A robed man who seemed old, but whose face was unlined, smooth, and devoid of expression, entered the library room. Calm and unruffled, he walked down the aisle between the bookcases.

"They… broke in, M-master," the monk gasped.

The man's stern gaze shifted to the couple. "You are responsible for this?" he said, indicating the broken window.

"Well, yes, Master," answered Michael, astonished to feel his skin burning in shame. "Only because we couldn't get in the front."

"We don't mean any harm," said Nikol. "You must believe us. We'd like to help, in fact. Master — "

"Astinus," said the man coolly. "I am Astinus. Did I hear you say you were searching for the Disks of Mishakal?" His gaze went to Michael's breast.

The cleric had been careful to hide the medallion beneath his robes, but this man's ageless eyes seemed able to penetrate the cloth.

"The true clerics have all departed Krynn," observed Astinus, frowning.

"I was given the chance," said Michael, defensively. "I chose to stay. I could not leave — "

"Yes, yes. It is all recorded. You've come for the disks. This — "

A howl rose from the mob outside. Shouts of anger and rage surged up against the library walls like the pounding of a monstrous sea. The monk, hearing that terrible sound, seemed likely to faint. He was sucking in breath in great gulps. His eyes were white-rimmed and huge.

"Sit down, Malachai. Put your head between your knees," advised Astinus. "And for the gods' sake drop that sword before you slice off your toe. When you feel better, fetch a broom and sweep up this glass. Someone could get cut. Now, if you two will come with me — "

Nikol stared at the man. "You daft old fool! Listen to that! They're out for blood! YOUR blood! You should be preparing for your defense! Look, we can barricade these windows. We'cll overturn these bookcases, then shove them up against — "

"Overturn the bookcases!" Astinus thundered, his placid calm finally disturbed. "Are you mad, young woman? These hold thousands of volumes, catalogued according to date and place. Do you realize how long it would take us to put every volume back in its proper position? Not to mention the damage you might do to some of the older texts. The binding is fragile. And the method of making paper was not as advanced — "

"They're about to burn you to ground, old man!" Nikol shouted back. "You're not going to have anything LEFT to catalogue!"

Astinus pointedly ignored Nikol, shifted his gaze to Michael. "You, Cleric of Mishakal, are, I take it, not here to overturn bookcases?"

"No, Master," said Michael hurriedly.

"Very well. You may come with me." Astinus turned, started to leave.

"Pardon, Master," Michael said meekly, "if my wife could accompany us…"

"Will she behave herself?" Astinus demanded, regarding Nikol dubiously.

"She will," said Michael. "Put your sword away, dear."

"You're all mad!" muttered Nikol, staring from one to the other.

Michael lifted his eyebrows. "Humor the old man," he said silently.

Nikol sighed, slid her sword in its sheath. The monk, Malachai, was sitting on the floor, his hand still clasped over the hilt of the sword.

Astinus led them out of the room, into the main portion of the library. He walked at a leisurely, unhurried pace, pointing out this section and that as they passed. Outside they could hear the mob gathering its courage. Smoke, drifting in through the broken window, hung ominously in the still air.

Michael moved as if in a dream. Nothing seemed real. Inside the library, all was as quiet, calm, and unperturbed as Astinus himself. Occasionally, they caught sight of some monk running down a hallway, a scared look on his face, some precious volume clutched in his arms. At the sight of the master, however, the monk would skid to a halt. Eyes lowered before Astinus's frown, the monk would proceed at a decorous walk.

They passed from what Astinus said were the public reading rooms, through a small hallway, up two flights of stairs, into the private section of the library. Here, at high desks, perched on tall stools, some of the Aesthetics sat at their work, pens scratching, a ghastly counterpoint to the roaring outside. But a few had left their work, were clustered in a frightened knot at one of the windows, staring down at the mob below.

"What is the meaning of this?" Astinus barked.

Caught, the monks cast swift, apologetic glances at the master and hastened back to their seats. Pens scratched diligently. Work resumed.

Astinus walked among them, eyes darting this way and that. Pausing beside one pale-faced older man, the master of the library stared down at the manuscript, pointed.

"That is a blot, Johann."

"Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

"What is the meaning of that blot, Johann?"

"I–I'm afraid, Master. Afraid we're all going to die!"

"If we do, I trust it will be neatly. Start the page over."

"Yes, Master."

The Aesthetic removed the offending sheet, slid a clean one in its place. He bent to his task, but, Michael noticed, the monk's fear had eased. He was actually smiling. If Astinus could be concerned over blots at a time like this, surely there was no danger — that's what he was telling himself.

Michael would have liked to believe that as well, but more and more he was becoming convinced that the master of the library was either drunk or insane or perhaps both.

They left the main library, entered what Astinus termed the living area. He guided them through long hallways, past the small, comfortless cells where the monks resided.

"My study," said Astinus, ushering them into a small, book-lined room that contained a desk, a chair, a rug, a lamp, and nothing else. "I rarely permit visitors, but today I will make an exception, since you seem unduly disturbed by the noise in the streets. You" — he indicated Michael — "may sit in the chair. You" — he glowered at Nikol — "stand by the door and touch nothing. Do you understand? Touch nothing! I will be back shortly."

"Where are you going?" Nikol demanded.

He stared at her, face frozen.

"Master," she added in a more respectful tone.

"You asked for the Disks of Mishakal," said Astinus, and left.

"At last!" Michael said, sitting in the chair, glad to rest. "Soon we'll have the disks and the answers — "

"If we live long enough to read them," Nikol stated angrily. She left her place by the door, began pacing the small room, waving her hands. "That old man is a fool! He'll let himself and these poor, wretched monks be butchered, his precious library torn down around his ears. When we get the disks, Michael, we'll take them and leave. And if that old man tries to stop us, I'll — "

"Nikol," said Michael, awed. "Look… look at this."

"What?" She stopped her pacing, startled by the odd tone of his voice. "What is it?"

"A book," said Michael, "left open, here, on the desk."

"Michael, this is no time to be reading!"

"Nikol," he said softly, "it's about Lord Soth."

"What does it say?" she cried, leaning over him. "Tell me!"

Michael read the text silently to himself.

"Well?" Nikol demanded, impatient.

He looked up at her. "He's a murderer, Nikol, and worse. It's all here. How he fell in love with a young elven maid, a virgin priestess. He carried her off to Dargaard Keep, then murdered his first wife, to have her out of his way."

"Lies!" Nikol cried, white-lipped. "I don't believe it! No true knight would break his vows like that! No true knight would do such a monstrous thing!"

"Yet, one did," came a deep voice.

Lord Soth stood in the room.