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.
"You can heal him, Michael," she was saying.
Near her, the strange, black-robed mage, Raistlin, who had fought one of his own kind, watched Michael with glittering eyes that reflected back the goddess's light, seemed to see and know all that was passing.
Who was this Raistlin? What was his purpose? Michael didn't know, didn't understand. He didn't fathom any of this, knew himself suddenly to be nothing more than a frayed thread in a tangled skein.
Anger stirred in him again. What was his life or any of their lives worth to the gods, who live forever? How could he be expected to know what was right and what was wrong if he stumbled through life as blind as he'd been in that enchanted forest?
"While I am in the world, its concerns are mine," cried Michael. "When I took your vows, Lady, I accepted responsibility for the world and its people. Those will be mine, as long as I live. How can you ask me to break them?"
"But by killing this man, Michael, you do break my vows."
"So be it," said the cleric harshly. He gripped the dagger with hands that trembled. "Must… must I stab him?"
"No," said the goddess gently. "Draw blood only. That will break the spell."
"And my vows?" Michael looked up at her again, calmly, not pleading, but in deep sadness. "Will I lose your favor?"
The goddess did not reply.
Michael bowed his head. The blue light faded. Time began its ticking, like the beating of a heart. He heard, behind him, Akar's trampling footfalls, the rasping of his breath. He saw, before him, Nikol regarding him hopefully, expectantly. He felt the knight's hand, still clasped in his own, stiffen in agony, saw the young man's face twist.
"Strike now!" ordered Raistlin, so weak with coughing that he could not stand. "Or else all is lost!"
"Strike? What do you mean?" Nikol sprang to her feet. She saw the dagger in Michael's hand, suddenly understood his intent. "What are you doing? False cleric! You have betrayed me!" She turned to Raistlin. "Help me! You understand what I feel! Don't let him kill my brother!"
She wasn't watching. Michael must strike now, while she wasn't watching. Barely able to see for the tears in his eyes, Michael rested the dagger's tip on the knight's sweatcovered brow and pressed the point into the flesh. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the scratch.
Akar cursed bitterly.
Nicholas opened his eyes, turned his head. The light of the bridge shone on his face.
"Paladine is merciful," he said. "He gave me strength."
At the sound of his voice, Nikol turned swiftly. "Nicholas!"
His eyes had closed. His breath left him in a sigh. The lines of pain and suffering were smoothed away, as if by some immortal, soothing hand.
She saw Michael lay the dagger reverently on the knight's bare breast.
"Nicholas!"
Nikol's voice, ragged with grief, pierced michael more deeply than the dagger had pierced her brother's flesh. The barrier was lifted. She fell upon the lifeless body. The hair that she had shorn for his sake mingled with the hair that was so like it that it was impossible to tell them apart.
Suddenly, she raised her head, stared at Michael and Akar.
"The cleric killed your brother!" Akar cried. "It was my spell that kept him alive. The cleric broke it!"
Michael could say nothing, couldn't explain, if she didn't understand.
She stared at him, eyes empty of all feeling.
Rough hands grabbed hold of Michael from behind, jerked him to his feet. A black-robed arm wrapped around his neck.
"Here, cleric!" Akar said. "Come up here to the temple. Away from that evil wizard, Fistandantilus. You don't know him. He's dangerous!"
Michael started to cry out a warning. Akar's hand covered the cleric's mouth.
"Yes, I've captured you. The good and virtuous!" Akar laughed beneath his breath. "I saw the goddess speak to you! You are in her favor. Your blood will do as well as the knight's!"
Michael tensed, prepared for a struggle.
"I wouldn't try it," breathed the wizard, "unless you want to see the young woman die in flames! There, that's better. Come quietly. And you, Fistandantilus!" Akar sneered, all the while dragging Michael backward, up the stairs. "You are too weak to stop me!"
Raistlin was on his knees, clutching the staff to keep from falling. Blood flecked his lips. He could not speak, yet he smiled and pointed.
Michael, clasped close against the mage, heard Akar draw in a sucking breath.
The dagger. The dagger lay shining on the knight's lifeless breast.
STEEL MUST DRAW THE BLOOD.
Akar halted, ground his teeth in frustration. Michael saw the bridge beneath his feet. And now that he was this near to the other side, he could hear cold voices calling for his death, see shadowed shapes writhing in eager ness to be free.
Michael had, at first, thought it was his fevered imagination, but now he was sure of it — the light of the bridge was growing gradually dimmer, the clamoring shouts of the dead growing louder, more frantic. The Night of Doom was ending.