"Who were they?" I cried. "Where did you find them?"
"They came to me!" Shrill triumph rang in the priest's voice. His words were addressed to the heavens, and it seemed that I overheard him as a mere eavesdropper.
"You tricked them, then killed them," I challenged him.
"They understood!" Erasmoth's voice hissed. "They offered their souls to the god! The god claimed them, and then gave them to me as slaves."
I noticed suddenly one of the zombies wore a black eye-patch covering one of its dead orbs. It all seemed some hideous joke, but I recognized, by that sign only, for his face was ravaged by decay, Tyrol Deet!
"This is your miracle?" I gasped, appalled. "The secret of undeath!"
"Approach the altar!" commanded Erasmoth. He reached to push me, but I avoided his shoving hand.
Kassandry took my arm, surprising me with the gentleness of her touch. I looked at her face, now so close to mine, and saw nothing but the rapture of one who believes she has found a greater truth. She paid no attention to me, save for the slight pressure of her grip upon my arm. Her bright eyes remained focused on the far side of the cave.
As if on command, fires surged upward from several of the great basins in the cavern, and for the first time I received a more accurate picture of this dreadful temple. It was monstrous, Excellency. Five pits belched columns of hissing flame into the air. The central flame was highest and flared as a bright red. Fires of blue and green surged to its left; a small fire of purest white flickered to the right.
The fifth flame I did not see immediately, and then I noticed it only as a shifting shade before the backdrop of several red pools of lava. Upon closer inspection, I saw that this was a fire of black! It absorbed the light around it, rather than casting illumination of its own, and thus was visible only by the outline of its greater darkness. Five fires, of black, white, red, green, and blue — the holy altar of this deity worshiped by Erasmoth Luker.
"Witness the power of my god," announced Erasmoth. The arrogance of his tone was now palpable. Clearly, he regarded me as little more than a tablet for the purpose of recording his mighty deeds.
Excellency, at this point in the course of events, I am afraid that my mind ceased to function with its usual acuity for detail and observation. Instead, I recall only a series of impressions — each, it seemed, more garish and terrifying than the one preceding.
I recall those five columns of flame. We were quite close to them, now, and I could feel the heat radiate from every direction. The spouts of fire sputtered and hissed and crackled, yet I could see no fuel of any sort. The pits were smooth bowls of black stone, deeper than a man's height, but rounded into the shape of a great cauldron.
The red flame — the centermost and tallest of the pillars — stood in front of the others. The black flame was farther removed from the group.
A circular depression, with four or five concentric rings of steps, allowed easy descent into the circle. Within the circle rested a block of stone, square and solid.
"Behold the altar of godhood!" Erasmoth cried. "Behold and tremble!"
A deeper pit opened in the floor before the altar. It was from this ghastly hole that the unspeakable odor flowed, as if all the foulness and perversion across the face of Krynn had been gathered into one place. The priest led me around this pit to stand before the altar.
Next in my recollection come images of my two companions — the woman, so slender and wanton in her god-inspired desire, and the man, his face distorted by shadow and by the intensity of his passion, as he focused upon the approaching ceremony. Kassandry, who had ignored me during the approach to this central altar, now turned her luminous eyes to my face.
She dropped her robe to the floor. She was naked, except for a belt of leather and steel gauntlets on her wrists. Two slender stilettos hung from the belt. Seizing one in each hand, she raised them toward the roof of the cavern.
Erasmoth, too, lifted his hands. Together the priest and priestess wailed a chant, repeating the beastlike sounds over and over, their voices rising to a pitch of ecstasy. I had no doubt but that the culmination of this ceremony would be the plunging of those razor-edged blades into my breast.
I confess, Excellency, that the thought of my duties, of the sacred trust of the historian, vanished from my mind. Fear consumed me. All I could think of was escape. The wailing of the clerics rose to a hysterical crescendo. Only a few feet away from me I saw steps that would lead me out of this unholy circle. Beyond — a desperate sprint away — the tunnel would take me to the surface. So convoluted was my own reasoning that I completely forgot about the gates of gold and silver that must eventually block my exit.
I sprang away from the priest and priestess, made a dash for the stairs. The two made no reaction; their chant continued without interruption. I reached the bottom step and leapt upward, passing in two bounds out of that hateful arena. Still Erasmoth and Kassandry chanted.
My breath came in ragged gasps. My heart pounded. I turned to look for the tunnel by which we had entered this accursed cavern.
But where was it? My surroundings looked different, as if this was not the place I had passed mere minutes before. Dark shadows stood in places where I remembered glowing patches of light. The five columns of flame still burned, however, and they gave me my bearings. I started in the direction I believed would offer escape. My feet skimmed across the smooth floor, and still the two clerics stood, locked in the grip of their unholy ritual.
I sensed the movement of the darkness against the fiery background. My heart chilled at the sound of approaching footsteps. Hands reached for me. The cloying scent of death was all around me. An arm, like a sodden piece of old meat, struck my chest, knocking me backward.
I collapsed into another animated corpse, and retched as I felt my hand sink into the rotted satchel of its belly. The zombies were all around me, reaching with horrible hands.
With a cry of horror, I broke free, lunging in the only direction that would take me away from the ghastly figures — back toward the pit and the Altar of Erasmoth.
"Come to us now, Historian!" cried the priest, ceasing his chant. Kassandry licked her gleaming lips. She held the two daggers high, crossing the blades over her head.
The ranks of the undead pressed forward, and in the surging light of the fires I could see scores of them. They emerged from the shadows around the periphery of the great cavern, shambling slowly out of the darkness to gather in an attentive circle around their master and mistress.
The close-packed ranks of the zombies pressed in on me, forcing me onto the top step leading into the circular altar pit, toward the doom that awaited me below. In desperation, I looked for some avenue of escape through the steadily closing circle. There were none!
"Make haste, Historian!" The priest's tone contained an element of irritation.
I could delay no longer. The zombies had driven me to the bottom step of the circle, and thence into the pit itself.
Kassandry's gaze locked on to mine. It was the priestess, in the end, who compelled me to step slowly across the floor of the circle, until I stood before her. Behind her was the black pit, which exuded that terrible odor.
"Now!" cried Erasmoth, raising his hands, his fists clenched in triumph. "In the name of the gods!"
Kassandry raised the knives, still staring at my face. I was transfixed, unable to break that hypnotizing gaze. I waited for the stabbing of that keen steel into my flesh.
Kassandry struck, slicing each blade through the neck, severing the two arteries that carry blood to the brain. But, as I live to write this, Excellency, it was not my flesh. Nay, and I swear by the sanctity of my Historian's Oath, Your Grace, she slashed her own neck as she stood before me! The priestess took her own life!