Chapter 34

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 tell: 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.

Those who had fled early on, when the quakes first began, saw the burning mountain as it struck, pulverizing the Temple and driving the rest of Istar deep into the ground. Seconds late, came the deathly sound—a noise unlike any heard on Krynn before or since. It was like thunder and screaming and dragons breathing fire, all of these combined, and then a thousand times louder. With the wall of sound came another wall of hot air, powerful enough to flatten trees and blow apart castles. It picked up men and women and hurled them like kernels of grain. A few survived being hurled through the air, and these fell to the earth howling, and clutching at their heads as blood poured from their eyes and ears.

A heartbeat later, a shock wave split the air. Huge chasms ripped through the earth, and entire hills fell into their depths. Beautiful Lake Istar boiled in an instant, becoming a huge geyser that flung burning ships half a mile high. The steam swept over the cities clinging to its shores—Odacera, Kautilya, island-bound Calah, even Chidell—cooking alive anyone it breathed upon. Moments later the cities themselves crumbled from the shock, then burned with the flames that billowed from the Lordcity’s grave. In the space of a minute, the heartland of Istar, and the half-million souls who lived there, became nothing but ash.

But the death and destruction did not end there.

There were fault lines beneath Istar, undiscovered cracks deep beneath the earth, unknown even to the dwarves. For all the ages of Krynn they had lain dormant, but the hammer weakened them, and one by one they opened up. The land—from the northern ocean to the Sea of Shifting Sands, from the Taoli foothills to the easternmost rim of Falthana and Seldjuk—shattered. Great shelves of rock splintered and gave way, tumbling into chasms a thousand feet deep. The sea, no longer held in check by coastline, rushed in to fill the void. Its waters poured over what had once been rich farms and vineyards, lush jungles, harsh deserts. Mist rose in great plumes, that were visible all over Ansalon. Millions died, were crushed, or drowned. By the time the day was done, more than three-fourths of the Holy Empire of Istar lay forever lost beneath the waves.

Even on the realm’s fringes, in those places the sea didn’t claim, destruction still ravaged the land. Thousands more perished as quakes and fires consumed all the many cities—Micah, Yerasa, Pesaro, Tucuri. In Govinna, half the buildings crashed down into the River Edessa, clogging its flow; the rest became a deathtrap of burning timbers and crushed rock. Showers of broken sandstone buried the ruins of Losarcum, finally placing that long-dead city in its grave. Lattakay’s white arches fell, as did the jeweled halls of Karthay.

Nor did the destruction stop at Istar’s borders. The upheavals rippled across the land, leaving nowhere untouched. The empire of Ergoth, also fault-ridden, broke away from the mainland, the Sirrion Sea flowing in as it fractured into jagged islands. In the south, the lands between Kharolis and the isles of Icereach rose up, draining the oceans away to lay bare the sea floor, where whales and sea serpents lay gasping in the silt. The waters receded from the great port of Tarsis, draining its harbor and miring its fabled, white-winged ships in muck. New jagged peaks thrust up amid the Khalkists, and the southern fiefs of Solamnia followed Istar beneath the waves, giving birth to a new, inland sea. Fortresses and towers and crude huts all disappeared. Forests and plains and mountain ranges burned. A pall of smoke, steam, and dust blotted out the sun.

And in Xak Tsaroth…

To his surprise, Cathan felt no fear.

He had faced death before… had, come to think of it, died before… and each time, there had been some kind of terror. Now, though, as he stood on the island and watched the distant smoke rise from Istar, he did not quail or shiver. All he felt was sorrow, at what had been lost. What could have been.

And could be again.

Opening his pouch, he pulled out the Peripas. They made a faint, musical sound as he held them up, and they flashed with light even though the pall hid the sun. There would never be another Istar, but the Disks remained. One day, a true church of the gods must rise again. That was why Paladine had bidden him bring them here. He had no idea how anyone would ever find them in the leavings of the coming disaster, but he knew someone would, some day. His faith told him so.

He heard screams from the city now: men and women and children knowing these were their last moments on Krynn. The better part of an hour had passed since the flash of flame rose beyond the Eastwalls, signaling the strike of the burning hammer. The shock waves still hadn’t come here—for the Lordcity was far away—but it would soon enough. Cathan looked back one last time at Xak Tsaroth, at the beauty that would be lost forever… then, holding the Disks close to his breast, he turned to gaze eastward once more.

The mountains trembled, and broke apart.

The temples shuddered, and fell.

Then the blast struck.

The noise was incredible, even hearing it from so far away. It slammed into Cathan, flattening him back against the headless statue, leaving no other sound but the ringing of absent bells. The statue cracked at the waist, and its upper half tumbled away from him, splashing into the water. He felt a series of terrible crashes and knew Xak Tsaroth was dying—domes collapsing, colonnades cracking, its very walls toppling, crushing those atop and beneath.

He didn’t watch. He didn’t want to see. Instead he kept his eyes on the lake, waiting for the sign, the cue to act. He’d seen it in the vision, just as he’d seen every moment that had happened since he left the Shinarite church this morning. Still, he felt no fear. He raised the Disks, pressing them to his lips.

“Palado, mas pirhtas calsud,” murmured. “Adolas brigim paripud, e me anomud du tas rigo iudjn donbulas. Sifat.”

Paladine, welcome my soul. Forgive the evils I have wrought, and take me to thy kingdom beyond the stars. So be it.

The faults that made the New Sea stretched far to the south. One, a deep underground cleft, ran right under Xak Tsaroth. Now, with a loud crack that nearly knocked Cathan off the spire, the ground buckled. Behind him, a great fissure opened and the dry tumbled in. Buildings spilled down the sides, exploding with blood and debris. A great gout of green dust billowed up.

Deafened by the blast, Cathan kept watching the water; and waiting… waiting…

There.

It started as a rippling on the lake’s surface, but quickly grew into something much greater, a swirling eddy that opened like some fell beast’s maw into a whirlpool. The bed of the lake had broken, and the water was draining out, pouring into the bottomless gulf, smothering those who yet breathed The level of the lake dropped almost instantaneously, laying bare its shores. White-foaming waves crested as the current dragged everything toward the vortex. Cathan stared into the yawning, hungry hole, and nodded to himself. Then he drew back his hand and flung the Peripas in.

The throw was perfect. The Disks glinted once, then disappeared into the mouth of the abyss.

Without knowing he was doing it. Cathan delved into his pouch again. Cold stung his fingers, sending daggers of pain slicing up his arm as he touched Fistandantilus’s spellbook; he almost snatched his hand away. But instead he tightened his grip and pulled out the tome. This had been in the vision too—for some reason, the god wanted him to obey the Dark One, and hurl the book after the Disks. It was foolish to do so, but he followed the vision anyway, slinging the book away. It spun lazily as it arced up, then dove down into the maw of the depths.

Another great crack, and the palace and the temple of Paladine dropped out of sight. With a groan, the earth closed over it. And now his island was trembling, the stone shifting mushily under his feet like sand. Sheets of rock broke away, sliding into the receding water. Cathan wearily pushed away from the statue, staggering to the island’s edge.

And jumped.

The water was frigid. It spun him around in circles, clogged his lungs and choked him as it dragged him toward its center. He stared into the center of the whirlpool that had taken the Disks, and the book, and now wanted him. The eddies swung him around and around, nearer with every pass. He shut his eyes.

I’m sorry, Blossom, he thought. I won’t be coming home.

Then he was falling… falling… platinum wings rose to meet him, bearing him away.