The Reign Of Istar (37 page)

“What must I do?” he asked in a low voice.

“The lady is right. Akar intends to murder the knight, but the mage must commit the crime
within the precinct of the ruins or, as you see it, on the bridge of starlight. If the
blood of the good and virtuous is spilled on the sacred bridge, the dark clerics, long
held prisoner in the Abyss, will be free to return to Krynn.”

“Will you help me?” Michael demanded.

“Don't trust him!” Nikol cried, twisting in the mage's grasp. “His robes are cut from the
same black cloth!”

“I brought you here,” said Raistlin softly. “And without my help, you will not succeed.
Your brother will die, and all of Krynn will fall into the hand of the Dark Queen.”

“What must we do?” Michael asked.

“When Akar drops the dagger, pick it up swiftly and do not allow him to retake it. He has
foolishly bound the knight's life in the weapon.”

“I will seize it,” said Nikol. “No!” Perhaps it was a trick of the light shining from the temple, but the wizard's brown eyes, staring at Michael, gleamed suddenly golden, as if
that were their true color, the other, only a disguise.

“The cleric alone must take the dagger, else the spell cannot be broken.”

“What do I do then?” Michael's gaze shifted back to the black-robed wizard, laboriously
dragging the body of the dying knight across the grass.

“I do not know,” said Raistlin. "I cannot hear the voice of the gods. You can. You must
listen to what they say.

“And you, my lady” - the wizard released Nikol's hand - “must listen to your heart.”

Nikol sprang away from Raistlin, drawing her sword in the same motion. She held it, blade
toward the wizard, as she began backing up. “I don't need either of you. I don't need your
gods or your magic. I will save my brother.”

She ran off, sword flashing in the temple light, a light that, to her, was darkness.

Michael took a step after her, fear for her and for himself and for them all constricting
his heart. Then he paused, turned to look at the wizard. Raistlin stood leaning on his staff, regarding the
cleric intently. “I don't trust you,” said Michael. “Is it me you do not trust?” asked the
wizard, his thin lips twisted in a smile. “Or yourself?” Michael turned without responding, ran after Nikol.

There came to him the words, “Remember, when the dagger falls, pick it up.”

Part VIII Sweating and straining, stumbling over the hem of his black robes, Akar dragged the
unconscious knight across rough and uneven ground. The mage, though strong, was more
accustomed to spending his time studying his spells. Akar was forced to pause a moment in
his exertions, rest aching muscles. He glanced over his shoulder to judge the distance to
his destination.

He could see, by Nuitari's dark light, a ruined citadel, its stone walls crumbling into
dust. A bridge extended outward from the broken floor, a bridge that glimmered with a
ghostly, wraithlike glow. On the far side of the bridge, shadowy figures reached out eager
hands to him. Hollow voices shouted for him to free them, release the legions of darkness.

“A few moments more, Knight, and you will be free of this life and I will be free of you,
for which we both will be grateful,” Akar grunted, bending once again to his task.

Nicholas had regained consciousness, pushed back the shadows that would have brought him
blessed relief from the agony he suffered. But worse than the pain of his wounds was the
bitter knowledge that he would be, however innocently, responsible for the resurgence of
evil in the world. He kept his gaze focused on the face of his enemy.

“Why do you stare at me so?” Akar demanded, somewhat disconcerted by that burning-eyed
gaze that never left him. “If you are afraid you will not recognize me when our souls meet
on the other side, save yourself the trouble. I will be more than happy to introduce
myself.”

It took all the knight's will to release each indrawn breath in a sigh and not a scream.
Nicholas managed a smile, through lips caked with blood, parched and cracked from thirst. “I watch you as I
would watch any opponent,” he whispered hoarsely. “I wait for you to slip, to lower your
guard, to make a mistake.”

Akar laughed. “And then what will you do, Sir Knight? Drool on me? Or do you have the
strength to do that much?”

“Paladine is with me,” said Nicholas calmly. “He will give me the strength I need”

“He had better hurry, then,” said Akar, grinning.

Perhaps it was the urging of the dark voices, but Akar found himself suddenly anxious to
have this task done. He allowed himself no more rest, but manhandled the knight up the
broken stairs of the citadel, listened to the cries of agony wrenched from the man with a
certain satisfaction.

“I do not think Paladine hears your cries” - Akar sneered - “for here we are at the
bridge. And here, Sir Knight, your life ends.”

Dreadful moonlight shone upon the knight's face and bandaged, bloodied body. The unholy
radiance washed out all color, turned red blood black, reduced waxen flesh to bone,
glistened in the eyes like unshed tears. The light blinded Nicholas with its vast and
terrible darkness. He cried out, clutched at nothing with groping hands.

“Know despair!” breathed Akar, drawing the dagger from his belt. “Know defeat. Know that
your god has forsaken you and the world - !”

“Halt, foul servant of evil! Stay your hand or I swear, by Paladine, I will cut it from
your arm!”

Akar stopped, peered out into the darkness. He was not arrested in his movement by the
living voice, though it was stem and commanding, as he was halted by frantic, whispered
warnings coming from the shadow voices on the other side of the bridge. What threat did
they see?

The wizard's gaze flickered over the figure of a knight in armor, sword in hand, who ran
forward to challenge battle. Strong enchantment surrounded the Lost Citadel. Akar doubted
if the knight could break through it. As he expected, the armored figure came up against a
barrier that was like an explosion of stars, was thrown suddenly and heavily backward.

“Nikol!” cried the knight, straining to reach her, but he only managed to fall forward on
his bloodied breast.

The woman hurled herself once again into the barrier, cried out in pain and frustration
when she could not get through, and she began to hack at it with her sword. A cleric in
nondescript blue robes appeared to be trying to remonstrate with her. Akar paid them scant
attention. He saw, by Nuitari's dark light, something far more disquieting.

A mage clad in black robes stood leaning heavily on a staff that had at its top a crystal
clasped in the claw of a dragon. Akar recognized the staff, the Staff of Magius, a
powerful magical artifact that was, the last he had heard, in safekeeping in the Tower of
Wayreth. Akar recognized the staff, but not the mage who held it, and that disturbed him,
for he knew all who wore the black robes.

“So you would try to usurp me, would you, Akar?” said the mage. Raistlin strode closer.

Who was this stranger wizard? His voice sounded familiar, yet Akar could swear he had
never before seen him. The words of a killing spell were on Akar's lips. He shifted the
dagger to his left hand; the fingers of his right slid into his pouch, gathering
components. The voices from the darkness shouted cries and warnings, urged him to destroy
the silent onlooker, but Akar dared not kill the stranger without first ascertaining who
he was, what his purpose. To do so would be against all the laws of the Conclave. In a
world in which magic is mistrusted and reviled, all magi are loyal to one another for the
sake of the magic.

“You have the advantage of me, Brother Black Robe,” shouted Akar, trying in vain to see
more clearly beneath the shadows of the hood that covered the mage's face. “I do not
recognize you, as you seem to recognize me. I would be glad to renew old acquaintance but,
as you see, I am somewhat busy at the moment. Allow me to dispatch this knight and
complete the spell and then I will be happy to discuss whatever grievance you think you
have against me.”

“You don't recognize me, Akar?” came the soft, whispering voice. “Are you sure?”

“How can I if you do not remove your hood and let me see your face?” demanded Akar
impatiently. “Be swift. My time. is short.”

“My face is not known to you. But this, I believe, is.”

The strange mage lifted an object in his hand and held it forth to be illuminated by
Nuitari's dark light. Akar saw it, recognized it, felt the chill hand of fear close around
his heart.

In a thin and wasted hand - a hand that seemed, to Akar, to gleam with a golden light, as
if the skin had a strange gold cast to it - the mage held a silver pendant, a bloodstone.

Akar knew that pendant. Often he'd seen it hanging around the neck of his teacher, one of
the greatest, most powerful wizards who had ever lived - and one of the most evil. Akar
had heard the whispered rumors about that bloodstone, how the ancient wizard used it to
suck life out of an apprentice, infuse his own powerful life into a new, younger body.
Akar had never believed the rumors, never believed them until now.

“Fistandantilus!” he cried in recognition, and fumbled for the spell components with
fingers gone numb while his brain fumbled for words that eluded his grasp.

A jagged bolt of lightning streaked through the night, struck Akar's left hand. The jolt
knocked the dagger from the wizard's grasp, flung him backward, momentarily dazed.

Nicholas made a feeble effort to try to escape. Crawling on his hands and knees, he
dragged his suffering, tortured body out of the ghastly light. He reached the edge of the
stairs, tried to crawl down, slipped in a pool of his own blood, and plummeted down the
steps. His death-shadowed eyes sought and found his sister. He stretched his hand out to
her.

She dropped her sword, tried to clasp him, but the magical barrier kept them apart.

From behind them, out of the darkness, came the urgent command, “Pick up the dagger!”

Part IX Michael heard Raistlin's command, remembered the mage's instructions.

WHEN THE DAGGER FALLS, PICK IT UP!

“But how can I?” Michael cried. “How can I cross the barrier?”

The cleric had been attempting to keep Nikol from injuring herself, flinging herself again and again into the magical wall that kept her
from her brother. Her hands were burned and blistered, yet, even now, she ignored the
pain, trying her best to reach Nicholas, though every time she did so, a cascade of sparks
burst around her.

Michael looked past her, looked past the tortured Nicholas, and saw the dagger that lay
gleaming on the citadel steps, near the bridge. The black-robed wizard who had wielded it,
who sought to bring into the world the dark clerics that shouted and gibbered from the
other side, was recovering from his shock, was starting to look around and take stock of
his situation. He was much closer to the dagger than Michael.

“You can enter, fool cleric!” Raistlin cried. The words were his last, however, tearing
the breath from his body. The spell he had cast had weakened him. A violent fit of
coughing brought him to his knees, near where Nikol stood.

Akar saw his enemy falter. His eyes glinted. He lurched to his feet.

Michael grasped his holy medallion, the medallion that was dark and lifeless, and plunged
forward, gritting his teeth against what he knew must be a surge of magic that would most
likely kill him.

To his amazement, nothing happened. The barrier parted. He ran up the stairs and plunged
forward to snatch the dagger from beneath Akar's clutching fingertips. The mage's chill
touch brushed the cleric's skin. Michael shrank from the horrible feel and the sight of
the burning enmity in the black eyes, but he had the dagger.

Clasping the weapon in his hand, hardly knowing what he was doing, only wanting to escape
the wizard, Michael stumbled back down the stairs.

At the bottom lay Nicholas. Michael looked down at the pain-twisted face, lost his fear in
his compassion for the young man's suffering, his admiration for his courage. He knelt,
lifted Nicholas's hand in his, held it fast. The dying knight managed a pain-filled, weary
smile.

“Paladine, help me!” Nicholas said, gasping for breath.

A blue light bathed Michael, bathed the knight, washed the dreadful lines of pain from the
gaunt face, as if he had been immersed in a lake of placid water. Time ceased its flow.
Every person was arrested in motion, from Nikol, striving desperately to reach her
brother, to the evil wizard, trying still to achieve his heinous goal. Michael, his heart filled with
thankfulness, raised his eyes to the radiant blue goddess who stood at the entrance to the
shining bridge.

“Mishakal,” Michael prayed, “grant me the power to heal this man, Paladine's faithful
servant.”

The blue light dimmed. The goddess's face was sorrowful.

“I have no power here. The knight's life is bound by the magician's cursed wish to the
dagger you hold. Only the dagger and the one who wields it, for good or evil, will bring
this young man ease.”

Michael stared at the dagger in his hand with horror and the sudden, sickening realization
of what he was being asked to do.

“You can't mean this, Lady! What dread task is this you give me? I am a healer, not a
killer!”

“I give you no task. I tell you how the knight's pain may be forever ended. The choice is
up to you. You can see the bridge, can you not?”

“Yes,” said Michael, looking with longing at the radiant, shining span and the peaceful,
serene features of those ethereal figures who walked it. “I see it clearly.”

“Then you may cross it. Throw aside the dagger. The concerns of this world are no longer
yours.”

Michael looked down at Nicholas, who lay still, eyes closed, in peaceful sleep ... as long
as the light of the goddess shone on him. When it was withdrawn, the terrible spell that
bound him to his cruel suffering would be empowered once more. Nikol had ceased her bitter
struggle and was on her knees, as near her brother as was possible for the magical barrier
that barred her way.