With that, he let loose his stored-up power, channeling it into the force hovering above the altar. He caught the sensation, grasping it tightly as it fought to free itself-but the power could not escape. A thrill surged through the Kingpriest, His fears, the dread and worries that had haunted him these long years, all lifted away. The plan was working. He only had to hold on, and the resistance would end. Paladine would kneel! They would all kneel before him!
“The gods come!” he shouted. “At my command!”
There was a tiny, musical sound.
Beldinas blinked. Something lay on the altar.
Looking closer, he saw a single glass tile, cracked in half by the fall from the mosaic above. It was the tessera he’d noticed earlier, the one that had disturbed the beauty of the whole piece. Involuntarily, he glanced up at the false sky above, at the bare spot where it had been… then he stopped, freezing with horror. He’d taken his attention off the force above the altar. Now it was gone!
Wildly, he reached out for the power, trying to catch hold again. But it was too late: the god’s presence was as fleeting, as insubstantial as smoke. It slipped from his grasp, rising up into beyond his grasp. The air shimmered like sunlight on water: platinum scales, the dragon taking form, full of beauty and majesty.
And rage.
Beldinas stood motionless, arms still outflung, staring at the god’s materializing serpentine form. It filled the room, every part of it in motion … except the face. That hung above him, staring with eyes of amber, burning with wrath. Paladine’s anger was hotter than any furnace, colder than the storms of Icereach, more fearsome than any storm. But there was something else in those eyes, too, deep beneath the fury… sorrow over what was about to ensue.
Too late, Beldinas understood. In his mind, he saw what he himself had wrought, in his blindness. What fate awaited him. What a fool he had been. “Why…?” he cried again, his voice shrill.
The dragon hissed, and one by one the stars fell from the mosaic, white tiles separating from the black, tumbling over and over to shatter on the floor. They made a terrible music, each note lingering rather than fading, the discord full of menace. Beldinas hardly noticed; his attention remained on Paladine, hovering above him. The god’s gaze remained locked with his until the last tile fell. Then the regal head gave one last shake, opened its jaws wide, and shrieked its fury.
Beldinas dropped to his knees, cutting them on the broken glass. Paladine’s scream was as solid as any fist, smashing him down and pressing him lower and lower. At last, unable to bear the pressure any longer, he flung himself onto the floor, weeping. The Miceram fell from his head. His light faltered.
“I’m sorry,” he sobbed. “Palado Calib, forgive me…”
NO, said the dragon.
Flowing like quicksilver, the dragon turned and flew up through the ceiling, through the mosaic. As it did, the Temple burst apart, floor after floor opening almost gracefully like the petals of a rose. The Hall of Audience ripped apart, and the dome of the basilica exploded, raining shards of glowing crystal all over the Temple grounds. The central tower, with its dulcet bells and golden spire, groaned and then toppled with a crash, crushing the imperial manse beneath.
Beldinas saw it all in his head… the harbor in flames, the streets awash with blood, the Tower of High Sorcery split in half and pouring smoke, the Arena a mad jumble of stone and flesh. Istar was destroyed, and he was to blame. His arrogance, his pride, his fear had wiped out the greatest empire in the world.
And that was just the beginning.
He lay there, his eyes raw, his chest aching from gasping and weeping, and prayed for death… madness… anything to take him away from this reality. But nothing freed him. He would see it all. The gods’ wrath was inescapable. It was High Watch now, the middle of the day. Above him, the sky… the real sky, not an artful mosaic… was as black as a moonless night. No-blacker, there weren’t any stars. A void hung above Istar.
At last, Beldinas saw it coming: the hammer that had long haunted Cathan’s dreams. It appeared high above him, a mountain of burning stone, trailing flame, moving down with awful speed. Beldinas’s eyes gleamed.
It was so beautiful.
Chapter 34
CATACLYSM
The island was small, barely more than a finger of stone jutting out of the lake, fifty yards off the shore where Mishakal’s temple stood. A lone statue perched atop the island, hewn of white stone: the figure of a man, his arms spread wide. One hand was missing, broken off, and the head and face as well. Moss crept up its south side, clinging to the folds of its robes. Another time, Cathan would have been hard-pressed to telclass="underline" perhaps it was a lord, or a high cleric from ages past. But glancing at it now between strokes of his oars, a feeling of certainty came over him. This was Paladine, some old incarnation from the time before Istar’s church tore down the old temples and built the new. He thought he could even see something of Brother Jendle in the figure. It made him smile.
Then he looked up, past the statue, and the smile faded. The sky beyond the Eastwalls had turned weird and forbidding. It was dark, as if at dusk, though the sun still rode high above Xak Tsaroth. Turning to look back the way he’d come, he saw the crowd on the wharf pointing and staring at the strange sky. They were shouting too, but their voices were faint across the water, the meaning of their words lost.
They don’t realize what is happening, he thought sadly. If they did, they’d be running for the city gates.
He half expected someone to be waiting for him when he reached the rocky spur: Lady Ilista, maybe, or Jendle himself. There was no one there, though-just a pair of gulls that squawked irritably and took wing as his boat bumped up against the shore. Cathan climbed out, not bothering to tie the mooring lines, and pulled himself up the stone slope to the statue. He was very tired, and reached the foot of the statue, aching to his bones. The statue towered above him; it was twenty feet high even without any head, and it seemed to be beckoning-reaching toward the city with its serpentine walls and golden roofs. He set his back to it and looked the other way, up past the jade palace and temples, at the blackness that was gathering over Istar. A sickening excitement burned in his breast.
Then a thrill shot through him as he saw it-small, from this far away, a falling red star that left a trail of crimson and gold. He couldn’t make out the shape, but he didn’t need to. He’d seen the hammer enough in his dreams to imagine it vividly now. Tears flooded his eyes as he watched it streak down to vanish behind the mountains.
“Farewell, Beldyn,” he murmured.
The people of Istar also saw the hammer coming. It was a mountain of burning rock, and their screams were the cries of the damned. Some tried to run; others turned toward the flaming ruins of the Great Temple and fell to their knees; still others pointed and stared as the sky began to rain stone and fire.
Balls of molten rock the size of houses fell onto marketplaces, mansions, gardens, churches. In moments, huge swaths of the city became raging infernos. One smashed the Hammerhall, killing every knight within its walls; another sheared off the top of the broken Tower of High Sorcery, sending its bloody-fingered turrets crashing into the street. Many pelted the Temple, turning the wreckage to slag, then melting the slag down to a hole in the earth.
That was before the full force of the hammer struck, and the entire Lordcity disappeared from the face of the world.