Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [39]
There was no sign that the destruction was continuing.
Throughout the day, a steady stream of injured people made their way into South Haven. Many of these were burned, while others had been wounded by weapons or the crush of the mob. They gathered in a miserable huddle outside the gates of the temple compound, pleading for entrance, but Kelryn was adamant that the gates remain shut.
Late that afternoon he sensed an ominous change as the crowd outside grew still, an expectant silence that swiftly extended to those within the temple compound as well. From the height of his temple wall, Kelryn saw a masked and armored officer marching at the head of an escort of scaled, hissing draconians. The company advanced down the street toward the Sect of the Black Robe, the throng of refugees parting almost magically before the horrific visage of the officer’s leering mask. The awe-inspiring warrior confidently presented himself at the gates of the temple, sending his respects and a message that he wished to speak to the high priest.
Kelryn knew that the time had come to talk. He ordered the gates opened, and the dragonarmy officer, his stature and presence heightened by the grotesque mask, strode boldly into the courtyard. The draconians remained outside, but many more of the sick and wounded citizens of Haven took advantage of the opened gate to pour inside the compound, despite the presence of the sinister warrior.
Meeting the man in the middle of the courtyard, conscious of hundreds of eyes upon him, Kelryn bowed stiffly. “I am the high priest,” he declared. He guessed that this was the man he had watched in flight on the previous day-at least, the garish mask and armor were identical to that dragonrider’s. The priest felt a small shiver of gratitude that, for now, the great red dragon was nowhere to be seen.
Kelryn Darewind stared at the mask, hating the fanged maw portrayed there, reviling the tiny eyes that glittered at him from the narrow slits above the nose.
“And who is the god you serve?”
“My faith is that of Fistandantilus,” Kelryn Darewind proclaimed.
“Archmage of the black robes, he has joined the gods in the constellations of the heavens. I merely strive to see that his memory receives its proper due here upon Krynn.”
“I see,” murmured the officer, though there was something in his voice that belied the statement. Again Kelryn wished to rip that mask away, to confront the human face underneath.
Surprisingly, the officer suddenly obliged by lifting the heavy metal plate from his head and shoulders. He was astonishingly young, the priest thought, with a face masked by strains of sweat and grime, the sparse stubble of several days’ beard blue-black on his chin, cheeks, and neck.
With a curt gesture, the man swept his arms outward to indicate the attentive gathered crowd. “If you are in fact a priest, then you should cure those who have been injured. It is not enough that you merely offer them the security of your compound.”
Kelryn laughed, a sharp and bitter sound. “Surely you know that no priest, not since the Cataclysm, can heal the hurts of mortal flesh. I merely strive to instruct my flock-“
“No priest?” The officer was mocking, and Kelryn flushed, sensing the tension among his faithful like a lute string pulled taut through the air. He feared suddenly that he was being drawn into a trap.
The dragonrider spun on his heel, turning his back to Kelryn and addressing the gathered populace. “I come to you with a warning and with a promise of hope. For years has Haven been filled with charlatans and pretenders.” He spat over his shoulder, and the high priest was forced to sidestep quickly to avoid the spittle.
“You should know that Fistandantilus is not a god, no more so than any of the Seeker deities. These are make-believe faiths, created by fakers