The Dark Queen (21 page)

*****

Using his extraordinary speed, Fordus burst clear of the smoke. Behind him the plains were
ablaze from one horizon to the other. Istarian legionnaires raced toward the city in
panic, but Fordus passed them by, his thoughts no longer on strategy and tactics. He was
bound for the city gates, for the Temple.

And for the Kingpriest. On whose head he would rain the fire of vengeance.

*****

Upon the Tower's highest balcony, reeling in disbelief from the sudden turn of the battle,
Tamex saw a solitary figure spring clear of the holocaust. “Fordus!” he breathed, alarm
changing slowly to a silent exultation as the man raced toward the gates of the city.

Oh, this is better, Tamex thought, his faceted features suddenly feminine, reptilian. Rain
on, Sargonnas. Rain on, you petty fool. May the smoke of your torment ascend for ever and
ever, and may you have no rest in day or night. You cannot send fire enough to burn me,
storm enough to make me seek shelter. Now, across the burning plain, Fordus comes to
Istar. He will be mine, and I shall keep my promise. I will show him who he really is.

The last morning of the Shinarion was disrupted by the smoke from the battlefield. It
began as a shifting haze overhead, a sharp musty smell in the sunstruck air. But slowly it
thick- ened, and the merchants, the drovers, the pickpockets and vendors took to the
northern streets in. curiosity at what could possibly overcome the lingering smell of dead
fish. Their golden ribbons, worn in honor of the goddess, fluttered soiled and frayed.
Their pockets were empty, their resources drained, for the saying held true that nobody
grew rich at the Shinarion. Above all, they felt weary, tired out by the revelry, by the
wheeling and dealing and the thick corruption on display in the final days of the
festival. What they sought in the streets, the air above them bristling with smoke and
cinder, offered diversion. Something was afoot in the fields outside the city. The rumors
were as thick as the smoke. So, many of the celebrants, watching the sky and listening and
gossiping, missed entirely the strange, quiet warrior that slipped through their midst,
borne on fleet foot through the northernmost streets of the city, his head bared, his eyes
smoke-stung and ravening, his heart twisted toward murder. The city lay before him like a
maze of crystals, the tall reflective buildings blinding him, baffling his path to the
Tower. For long, painful moments Fordus ranged through the baffling marbled streets. Smoke
from the burning plain drifted over the Istarian walls, and the new, alien landscape of
man-made things clouded over, hazy and indistinct. At the edges of his sight, just out of
focus, dark shapes flitted and dodged like swamplight. The Prophet could see the gold
fretting on their robes, the gold ribbons drooping over their shoulders, a testament to
some forgotten god. They chattered to each other in a hidden language. He knew the army of
the dead had come to help him. They had come at last, just as he prophesied. They had
invaded Istar at his orders, and were waiting for him. Heartened, the raving Prophet wound
his way through the intricate streets, past tavern and booth and vendors' wagons, always
moving toward the center of the city where, through the fretted purple smoke, the looming
spires of the Kingpriest's Tower dodged in and out of view. His city. His Tower. He would
meet this usurping Kingpriest face-to-face. As equals, who spoke to the gods, who
commanded innumerable legions. Into the Marketplace Fordus rushed. A passing squadron of
Istarian soldiers startled, dropped their weapons, and dispersed as the haunted, robed man
rushed at them silently, like some dangerous wind from the desert. It lay directly before
him now: the great Tower with its ancient marble foundations, low surround-

ing wall... and bolted iron gates. Muttering distractedly, Fordus rattled the bars across
the archway. Then, like a spider, he scrambled over the wall. And found himself in yet
another mazethis time of thick foliage and lush, overgrown garden rows of evergreen and
climbing vine. Drawing his throwing axe, Fordus cut his way through the Kingpriest's
private wilderness, slashing and hacking, his anger rising until his hand touched cold
marble, his axe splintering with a blind, furious blow against the strong foundation of
the Tower itself. For a moment the Prophet rested his head against the cold stone, choking
and gasping for air. Had the smoke come this far? He looked up the Tower. Faint murky
tendrils encircled the spire, and its looming top was lost in a higher haze, but directly
above was the dark of a window. Instantly, resolutely, using only his fingers and toes,
Fordus began to climb. Through the smoke and the damaged landscape, Stormlight followed.
Wading through the burning fields, he traced a long, looping path around the flames, the
massacred rebels, the ignited Sixth Legion, and found his way to the damaged gates of
Istarto the same portal through which the Prophet had passed. Istar loomed inside them,
unreal and dark. Tracing a roundabout path through the concentric pen- tagonal walls of
the inner city, he approached its epicenter, its heart: the marble tower that housed the
Kingpriest. For that was Fordus's destination. Stormlight was sure of it. And sure, from
the years of affinity between Prophet and interpreter, in which their minds had virtually
melded in the search for water, for victory, for hidden dangers, that his old companion
was still alive. Alive, and bound for the end of his journey. At the very window toward
which Fordus climbed, Takhisis waited, breathing cold life into the crystalline form of
Tamex. Her hours as a warrior of salt and sand were dwindling. Already Tamex crumbled at
the edges, two of his fingers broken off in the mere act of opening the door to this
sparely appointed guest chamber. Yes, the both of them waited therethe translucent warrior
and his animating spirit. But there was another as well. A blue-eyed, balding man who
cowered in the corner of the chamber, nervously fraying the lace on his high priest's
robes. Tamex had wakened him from his unsettling mid-morning slumber, where he dreamt
trees as things with daggers, brooks and streams thickening and darkening in the red moon.
He had almost been grateful to awaken, until he saw his visitor, translucent and eroding,
at the foot of his bed. He whimpered once, most unroyally. Fumbling for the broadsword in
which the druid had instructed him all these years, he clutched the pommel desperately,
but it was as though his arms had failed himthe sword was heavy and his hands trembled.
Tamex had dragged the Kingpriest from his sumptuous quarters, imprisoning him in this room
to wait out the last of the night, the sunrise, the first blood of the battle. Then,
coming down from the walls, the crystal warrior had joined his captive in a meeting he
knew would be brief. Now Fordus climbed the last few feet toward the window. Tamex glanced
once at the Kingpriest, whose sea-blue eyes widened at the sound of something scraping
beneath the sill. Good, the goddess thought, swirling slowly in her body of salt. Good. It
is time for them to meet.

*****

Fordus climbed through the window. Moving quickly, his eyes adjusting to the shadows of
the room, the Prophet saw two figures at the far door. One was Tamex, the man in the salt
flatsthe dark and menacing warrior who had trifled with Larken in the battle's aftermath.
Fordus crouched, prepared for battle. But then he noticed the other.

The older manthe balding, robed dignitaryhe had seen somewhere, he was certain. The face
lay half-shadowed, but the curious sunlight in the room illumined the man's eyes.
Sea-blue. The color of Fordus's own. Cautiously, the Prophet approached them, drawing his
dagger.

“At last,” Tamex said, with a voice that resonated out of Fordus's memorya voice he
recalled from a vision, a dream. He shrank from its sound. “At last,” Tamex repeated,
raising a cracked and crumbling hand. “I have brought us all together.” With astonishment,
Fordus saw that the warrior the creaturebefore him was a thing of rock and crystal, a
breathing stone with a stone's heart.

The thing gestured toward its white-robed companion. “Bow before the Kingpriest of Istar,
Fordus Firesoul.” “The Prophet bows to no man,” Fordus replied coldly, knuckles whitening
as his grip on the dagger tightened.

“But honor is due the Kingpriest,” Tamex insisted melodiously. “A natural honor that rises
. . . from a forgotten time.” “You talk in riddles, false warrior,” Fordus replied. “Who
is this man, Tamex?” asked the Kingpriest nervously, and the pale man turned his faceted
face to the cowering ruler.

“This is the one who would have your throne, such as it is,” Tamex announced. “This is
Fordus, the Desert Prophet.” “Wh-What do you want of me?” the Kingpriest stammered,
backing hard against the wall and the nearby door. “I intend you no harm, no slight. Stay
away from my throne!” His fingers fumbled vaguely for the latch.

“You will remain!” ordered Tamex, a new, cold authority in his voice. It delighted and
amused the goddess within him to humiliate the ruler of a vast empire, but the cravenness
of the Kingpriest was sometimes . . . inconvenient. In disgust and contempt, Fordus
watched the robed man grovel. Why, the Kingpriest, his chosen enemy, was nothing but a
coward! A thing of robes and heraldry and high renownno more than a figurehead, an elegant
glove for his general's iron hand.

“And are you any better, false Prophet?” asked Tamex, his glittering amber eyes turned
toward For- dus. “You accuse me of speaking in riddles . . . you! The mirage of the
desert, the mockery of a Prophet!” “You dare call me a mockery?” Fordus asked menacingly,
taking a long, aggressive stride toward the warrior.

“Oh, yes, Fordus Firesoul. You are a mockery. And many other foolish things.” With a
brittle arm, Tamex seized the Kingpriest by the nape and dragged him into full light. Now
Fordus and his adversary looked at one another face-to-face, and the slow light of
recognition dawned in each man's eyes. “That is correct, Your Eminence,” Tamex sneered.
“The son of a slave girl you wished so ... devoutly to forget. And when the time came, you
took the childno, you had the child takento the desert, and there, in a lonely place where
predators stalked and the sun was nigh and merciless . ..” “No!” the Kingpriest cried,
covering his ears. In astonishment, Fordus dropped his dagger. The world seemed to rock
and, tumble around him, as though once again, huge cracks opened in the earthmolten
crevasses, threatening to engulf and swallow him. He staggered, fell against the far wall.
“Don't you admit the . . . family resemblance?” asked Tamex, a sinister glee in his voice.
“Why, the two of you are exactly alike!” He gestured to the Kingpriest, who had fallen to
his knees, moaning and shaking his head. “You, sir,” Tamex said, “are nought but a
backwater king. A ruler of ghosts and little fictions. And you, Fordus Firesoul...”

His amber eyes fixed Fordus once again. “You are as much a tyrant as the man you sought to
overthrow. I knew you always had it in you. In all your talk of liberation, you have only
shackled, only oppressed! ”Yes, the two of you are identical! And you are both my
creatures!“ With a cry, Fordus leapt for Tamex, but the crystal warrior tumbled into dust
and swirled in a blinding cloud through the room. The dust rose, glittering and eddying,
and flashed suddenly, painfully, into the Prophet's eyes. Blinded, Fordus fell to the hard
stone floor, groping for his dropped dagger, for anything. Slowly the Kingpriest
approached the helpless rebel. ”Forgive me,“ the Kingpriest murmured ironically, as
delicately he touched the collar at Fordus's neck, removing the opals with a whispered
spell. He stalked from the room as the golden tore around the Prophet's neck began to
sparkle, tighten, compress. Blute lightning played over the glittering metal,
whichVontracted with a slow, inexorable motion. Fordus, writhing and gasping, clutched
savagely at the strangling collar, tried to cry out. He fell face first to the floor,
stirring the unswept dust with his last, desperate thrashing. Slowly, with a choking cry,
he sank into a black, abiding darkness, where the army of the dead opened their ranks to
receive him. His last breath eddied on the dusty floor of the Great Tower of Istar. At the
door, the Kingpriest turned, looking guiltily back into the rooni He whispered a last
incantation, waving his hand over the dead Prophet, and the body of his son, now
unprotected, hardened, blanched, and crumbled quickly into sand. ”I could not have done
otherwise,“ he declared, to nothing but theidust and his conscience. ”He was found in the
salnds of tljie desert,/fhe protective tore I had devised around his neck. Sand and opals
were the unsteady ground of his prophecy. Now to sand he returns, but his memory .... Nor
will the world remember, Takhisis replied, mingling the remains of Fordus with the
whirlwind that rose and vanished through the chamber window. We will veil it all, y0u and
I. We shall decide what history is. Create it... Or destroy it. The Kingpriest reeled, as
relief and sorrow and secret ambition warred for mastery in his heart. Now do my bidding.
“But...” began the Kingpriest, but the last wisp of dust spiraled swiftly out the window,
leaving a whisper in its wake. Prepare for the incantation. The one we planned in the
first days. “But it is too soon . . .” began the Kingpriest, and his protest died in his
throat. Be ruled by me, the window murmured, and the chamber settled into unnatural
darkness.

*****

The Prophet was vanquished. In a chaotic swirl above the Kingpriest's Tower, a faint,
reptilian outline coalescing and dissolving in the whirling sand, Takhisis watched and
laughed. Now the Cataclysm was inevitable. Now the world would begin again in chaos; the
gods would be readmitted. And she would await them all. From her stronghold she could
seize them as they tried to enter the plane. Oh, yes, they would all comegood and neutral
and evil alikebut her clergy would be there before them, her way estab- lished, and the
blandishments of their followers would fall on deaf ears. The age to come would be hers
entirely, and last for thousands of years. All that remained was the Kingpriest's ritual,
the binding of her spirit in the glain opals, the gods- blood stones. Then her stay would
be permanent. Never again would she be driven from-Krynn. How long yet would she wait? A
year, perhaps two. The elven miners brought forth an abundance of gems from the dark.

From a dark far deeper than they imagined, Takhisis thought, and chuckled as her whirlwind
moved through the cloudy Istarian sky. But thoughts of the Lucanesti brought her back to
StormlightyThe last of the rebel triad. She wpmd see to that elf. If only out of
thoroughness.

With a shriek, the whirlwind dove into the streets of the city. *****

The elf reeled and stumbled in the wind. Full of gravel and sand, it encircled him,
whirling him about, smothering him in a harsh and stinging flood. In the heart of the
wind, Takhisis swirled and laughed. Swept along by the bizarre sandstorm, the elf gasped
and choked as the salt rushed into his nostrils, down his throat, into his eyes until,
blinded, he groped his way across the Tower yards, looking for shelter, for covering, for
the lee side to the pummeling wind.