“Funny in the head,” he said, sitting down at his desk again. He reached for his pen, dipped it in the ink, and-
A single drop fell from its tip onto the paper, spattering it with black. Denubis stopped, stared, and sighed. Then he set the stylus down, picked up a brush, and daubed the page’s corner with red. He’d known something like that would happen.
He didn’t waste any tears over it, though. Setting the blemished page aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, picked up his pen, and started anew.
That night became known in later history as the Night of Doom, the night the last true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their ultimate fate may have been, never became known. Their passing went all but unnoticed at first, for few remained whose faith was pure, and those few were little missed-minor monks and clerics like Denubis, living in obscurity. The rest of the world continued on, certain the Kingpriest would deliver them from darkness.
Far off, deep in the night sky, something began to move.
Chapter 29
Quarath awoke covered with sweat, his bedsheets soaked through and sticking to him. It was not yet dawn, but already it was hotter than yesterday-oppressive, muggy heat. His bedchamber felt like summer in the jungles of Falthana; the elven plants he kept, used to cooler climes, were wilting. He felt grimy. He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, and muttered a curse.
He would have to send word to the Arena, postponing the Games; Rockbreaker’s gladiators wouldn’t be able to put on a proper show tomorrow, in this torrid air. He’d been looking forward to watching the Barbarian fight again, too; the big brute had proven quite popular, second only to the great Pheragas. He’d been a good investment. As soon as the heat broke, he vowed, the Games would go on.
He glanced at the windows. He kept them shuttered these days, so the room could stay in shadow, but even so, light leaked through. Something about the light today wasn’t right; the foredawn glow seemed wan, weak, somehow unclean. And now that he paid attention, the sounds he heard were all wrong, too. The choirs should be practicing the Morningsong, but the delicate harmonies that greeted him when he awoke every morning were not there. In their place his were shouts and strangled cries, unpleasantly discordant to refined ear.
“What now?” he muttered, rising from his bed. He folded a robe about his body, went to the windows, cracked open the shutters-and stiffened, sucking in a horrified gasp.
Less than a minute later, he was standing outside with what seemed like the entire population of the Temple-priest and acolyte, knight and monk. Like them all-and the thousands who massed in the Lordcity’s streets beyond the great church-Quarath stared upward, and what he saw made him shiver.
The sky normally, at this time of day was a deep, brilliant blue, the color of sapphires. Now, however, it was a distinct green … a putrescent green, like the color of decaying flesh. Not a cloud marked the sky, from horizon to horizon. No breath of wind stirred the trees and banners. Everywhere there was the reek of ordure, raised by the heat from the city sewers.
Murmurs ran among the clerics. “The end is come,” whispered some. “The dark gods have awoken,” said others. Still others simply spoke one word, echoed across the Lordcity:
“Doom.”
The word resonated in Quarath’s heart, arousing animal fears. He tore his gaze from the firmament to look around for the other hierarchs. Before long he spotted Lady Elsa, who was out front of the Revered Daughters’ cloister, gaping upward with terror-filled eyes. He went over to her, grabbing her arm.
“Snap out of it, Efisa,” he barked. “We are the high clergy of Istar. This sort of thing is what common folk do, not the Kingpriest’s trusted ones!”
Elsa blinked, her eyes meeting his blankly. He shook her, but she still didn’t seem to recognize him. Giving up in disgust, he shoved the First Daughter away and swept onward toward the imperial manse. There, on a balcony overlooking the gardens, stood Beldinas’s glowing figure. Pushing his way through the crowds-they grew thicker every moment, as more and more clerics came out to watch the dreadful sky-Quarath dashed up the front stairs, past the knights on guard, and before long he found himself out on the balcony beside the Lightbringer.
“Do you see, Emissary?” asked the Kingpriest, gesturing skyward. “Do you see what the enemy does, when its defeat is imminent? Behold-even the dawn is poisoned.”
He waved his arm toward the east. There, above the Temple’s silver rooftops, the sun had risen. Rather than a bright orange disc, however, it was a smudge of olive-green. Quarath felt sick to his stomach.
“I’ve never seen its like, Holiness,” he declared. “I can call for an astronomer, if you like. They may have some answers.”
“I have the answers,” Beldinas said feverishly. “Evil sees its doom, and fights back however it can-I do not need star-watchers to tell me what is obvious. And it does not do such things in parts. There is worse to come.”
“Worse?” Quarath echoed, staring at the dim sun in the green sky.
Beldinas nodded. “I saw it in my dreams last night. A terrible wind, cutting through stone like parchment. It will strike the Temple soon.”
Quarath’s eyebrows shot up. “The Temple?” he echoed. The Kingpriest nodded. “But then, shouldn’t we hasten to evacuate?”
“Not the whole thing,” Beldinas said, thinking. The Durro Jolithas only. See that it is cleared at once, Emissary. No one may set foot in there again until I say it is safe.”
The Temple of Istar boasted seven golden spires. The tallest, the Durro Paladas-the Tower of Paladine-rose from the top of the basilica, where the bells were sounding the call to morning prayer, even now. The other six ringed it round, and rose from the corners of its walls. At the tip of each spire was the symbol of a god of light: the twin teardrops of Mishakal, the harp of Branchala, the rose of Majere, the wings of Habbakuk, the disc of Solinari, and the horns of Kiri-Jolith. Quarath’s eyes fixed on this last, and a shudder ran through him. Ordinarily, he didn’t believe in premonitions, having never communed with the gods himself. But if Beldinas said the Durro Jolithas was in danger, then…
“Hurry, Emissary,” the Kingpriest murmured. “It will not be long now.”
Then Quarath felt a change in the humid air, a rising heaviness and tension. Below, fingers were rising, pointing up at the venomous firmament. Following the crowd’s eyes, Quarath felt his heart lurch in his chest.
A black cloud had appeared directly overhead, turning slowly, like some kind of living monster. No lightning played within it, and no rain dropped from it-but the wind had shifted now, and began to pluck furiously at Quarath’s robes. The almond and citrus trees of the gardens began to tremble, then sway.
Quarath left Beldinas at once, splinting down the steps of the manse and out into the courtyard again. He called several elder priests and knights to him. They hurried over, looking to him for answers even as the wind unsettled their hair and robes. Quarath felt their fear, like his own, rising up into his throat
“The Durro Jolithas,” he declared, pointing. “It is in danger; the Lightbringer says so. It must be cleared at once.”
Without hesitating, the men of the Divine Hammer plunged into Jolith’s tower headlong, while the priests herded the crowds away. Quarath watched as monks and servants emerged from the Durro; running across the gardens. Above, the black cloud filled the sky, dark as smoke and as large as the Temple itself. A low, howling drone filled the air, pierced by the shriller sounds of screams from all over the Lord city. Slowly, like a serpent rising from a Seldjuki charmer’s basket, a tendril began to extend downward from the cloud. Down… down…