The Second Generation

by Margaret Weis

The main stronghold and current headquarters of the Knights of Takhisis is located far north and west of the continent of Ansalon, on a vast rock peak somewhere in the Simon Sea. The fortress is difficult to discover, for the elements themselves guard it. Storm clouds, dark and churning, conceal the fortress from the air. The goddess Zeboim and those creatures of the deep loyal to her make certain that no unwanted visitors arrive by sea.

  Storm’s Keep is immense and impregnable. Some say the fortress was dragged up from the bottom of the ocean floor by Zeboim, as a gift to her son Ariakan. The less romantic maintain that since the structure is similar in design to those favored by the minotaurs on their isle of Mithas, the knights probably hired minotaurs to build it.

  The fortress is not marked on any map. Lord Ariakan has forbidden the making of such maps, knowing that they could conceivably fall into the hands of enemies. The only two outsiders—Tanis Half-Elven and Caramon Majere—purported to have slipped inside the fortress, traveled there on dragon back during a storm-ridden night and are unable to give any indication of the fortress’s location.

  The layout of the fortress itself is also unknown. Arriving in the confusion of a mock battle, fearful for their lives, Tanis and Caramon were able to furnish few details, beyond the estimation (given to Lord Gunthar) that a direct assault launched by the combined armies of the peoples of Ansalon, including the good dragons, would likely have no more effect on the fortress than the raindrops that constantly pelt it (Lord Gunthar, naturally, believes Tanis Half-Elven to be exaggerating.)

  It was hoped that Sara Dunstan, the only person ever known to have escaped Storm’s Keep, would be able to furnish detailed drawings of the fortress. But—fearful for the life of Steel Brightblade, the young Knight of the Lily whom she loves as a son—Sara has thus far refused to reveal any of the keep’s secrets. She is, of course, in hiding for her very life.

  It is either known or assumed that the fortress has barracks for the housing of the knights; outbuildings where live servants, slaves, and workers; storehouses; a stronghold for the wealth of the knighthood; stables for horses; a large courtyard; an infirmary; several turreted main buildings with watchtowers; and, at the heart, the Temple of Takhisis. An enormous wall, which appears to have been built of the same rock as the peak on which the fortress stands, surrounds and protects it.

  In addition, the Conclave of Wizards speculates that the Knights of the Thorn have their own magical Tower of High Sorcery located on this isle. Here are stored all books and scrolls and other magical artifacts, many of them undoubtedly newly created by the Knights of the Thorn. The conclave estimates that the knights have spent much time and research on the development of magical weapons of tremendous destructive power.

  The Knights of Takhisis are not confined to this one fortress. Groups of them are currently abroad in Ansalon. Secret, hidden—even from other forces of darkness in Krynn—the knights and their Dread Queen are quietly preparing to conquer the world.

  What is Currently Known on Ansalon About the Knights

  Twenty years after the War of the Lance, very few people in Ansalon have any knowledge of the existence of the Knights of Takhisis. Among those who do know, most either refuse to believe what they have been told (the Knights of Solamnia) or are simply too involved in their own political turmoil to care (the elves).

  Surprisingly enough, this lack of knowledge extends even among those who might be considered to be the Dark Queen’s loyal subjects (dark priests, draconians, and minotaurs). Only someone who might be considered a suitable candidate for recruitment is ever approached by the knights, and then only after a long period of secret surveillance and evaluation. Such a recruit who decides to join would simply drop out of sight, vanish forever to the knowledge of friends and family. Either no recruit has ever turned down such an honor, or they have not survived to speak of it.

  The only people truly concerned and aware of the terrible threat posed by this newly emerging force are the robed wizards of Krynn. Even this knowledge is primarily confined to the members of the conclave. All three robes, Black, Red, and White, view these renegade wizards with alarm.

  It is speculated that the conclave actually attempted to magically penetrate the secret confines of the Thorn Knights’ Tower of High Sorcery. Rumor has it that this attempt was not only easily repelled, but that it had nearly disastrous consequences for the members of the conclave.

  All members of the conclave, and in particular Dalamar the Dark, head of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, are avidly seeking information about the Knights of Takhisis in general, the Gray Robe Knights of the Thorn in particular.

  The rest of the people of Ansalon are too busy quarreling and fighting with each other to pay any heed to the deadly lilies that have been planted and are now being cultivated right in their own gardens.

  DRAGONS of SUMMER FLAME

  An Excerpt

  From a Work In Progress

  by

  Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

  TSR, Inc. is proud

  to announce publication of

  DRAGONLANCE® Chronicles

  Volume Four

  Dragons of Summer Flame

  by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman

  The following three chapters are unedited excerpts previewing this epic story.

  The book, which will feature a cover painting by Larry Elmore, will be released in November 1995.

  Chapter 1

  The Honored Dead. A single prisoner. A fated meeting.

  The bodies of the Knights of Solamnia had been laid out in a long row upon the sands of the shore of Thoradin Bay. There were not many of them, only eighteen. They had been wiped out, to a man. Their squires lay in a row behind them. These, too, had all died. There was no one left to tend to the dead except for their enemies.

  A hot wind swirled among the sand and tall grasses, lifted and plucked at the torn and blood-spattered capes that had been draped across the men’s lifeless forms.

  A knight officer supervised the burial detail.

  “They fought bravely.” He pronounced the dead knights’ epitaph. “Outnumbered, taken by surprise, they might have turned and run and none the wiser. Yet they stood their ground, even when they knew they must be defeated. Lord Ariakan has ordered us to bury them with full honor. Lay out each man properly, place his weapons at his side. The ground is too marshy to bury the bodies. I am told a cave has been found, not far from here. We will entomb the bodies within, seal it up and mark it as a resting place for brave men. Have you examined the bodies? Is there any way we can determine their names, Knight Warrior Brightblade?”

  “There was one survivor, sir,” the knight reported, saluting his superior.

  “Indeed? I hadn’t known.”

  “A white-robed mage, sir. He was captured at the last.”

  “Ah, of course.” The subcommander was not surprised. Mages fought at the rear of armies, casting their magical spells from safe places since they were prohibited by the constraints of their art from wearing armor or carrying more conventional weaponry. “Odd that Knights of Solamnia should have been using a wizard. That would have never have happened in the old days. Still, times change. This mage must know the names of the dead. Have him brought here to identify them, that we may do them honor when we lay them to rest. Where is he now?”

  “He is being held by the Gray Knights, sir.”

  “Go and fetch him, Brightblade.”

  “Yes, sir. At your command, sir.”

  The knight left upon his errand. His task was not an easy one. The battlefield atop the seawall was now the only quiet place on the southern coast of Thoradin Bay. The vast stretch of black sand was awash with men and equipment. Shore boats lined the beaches, rubbing side against side, and more boats came ashore each moment. The brutes, under command of dark knights, were unloading stacks of equipment and supplies. Everything from massive coils of rope to water casks, from quivers of arrows to huge shields, marked with the death lily—insignia of the
Knights of Takhisis.

  Horses were being ferried ashore, their handlers keeping close to the beasts, soothing their terror and promising that their long voyage would end soon. Blue dragons, ridden by knights, patrolled the skies, though Lord Ariakan did not have much fear that his landing would be further interrupted. Scouts reported that what few people lived in the nearby fishing village east of Kalaman had all fled.

  They would certainly report his arrival, but by the time any substantial force could be mustered and sent against him, he would not be here. His beachhead established, he was planning to march swiftly west, to seize the deep-water port city of Kalaman. Once Kalaman fell, he would summon the rest of his troops from Storm’s Keep, the knights’ impregnable fortress to the north, in the Turbidus Ocean. With a deep-water port for his ships, his forces massed, he would launch the main assault up the Vingaard River and into the heart of the Solamnic Plain.

  His objective: to take the one place on Krynn that had never fallen to enemy assault, the place he’d spent many long years as prisoner. Honored prisoner, to be sure, but a captive nonetheless. To take the one place that he saw nightly, in his dreams. And he could take it, he had no doubt. In that place, they had taught him the secrets of their strength. He already knew the secret of their weakness. Lord Ariakan’s goal—the High Clerist’s Tower. And from there, the world.

  The knight picked his way through the confusion, almost deafened by the shouts of the officers, the curses and grunts of the brutes bent beneath heavy loads, the frightened whinnying of the horses and, occasionally, from up above, the shrill call of a blue dragon to its comrade.

  The early morning sun blazed; already the heat was intense, and it was only the beginning of summer. The knight paused to dip a scrap of cloth in the salt water, used it to bathe his neck and face. He had removed most of his armor once the battle was over, but still wore his breastplate and bracers, the death lily marking him as a Knight of the lily. A dragon rider, he had not himself taken part in the battle, which had been fought on the ground. Following the battle, his talon had been chosen to take responsibility for the dead on both sides, and thus, though second in command, he was placed in the position of errand runner.

  Brightblade did not resent this, however, just as his commander did not resent being placed in charge of burial detail. It was part of the discipline of the Knights of Takhisis that they served their Dark Queen in all capacities and gave her glory in the doing.

  Halfway across the beach, Brightblade was forced to stop and ask where the Gray Knights, the Knights of the Thorn, had set up their headquarters. He was grateful to discover that they had sought shelter in a grove of trees.

  “I might have known,” he said to himself, with a slight smile. “I never knew a wizard yet who didn’t relish what comfort he could find.”

  Brightblade left the crowded, hot and noisy beach, entered the relatively cool shade of the trees. The noise receded, as did the heat. He paused a moment to revel in both the coolness and the stillness, then continued on his way, anxious to discharge his duty and leave this place, no matter how cool and inviting. He was now beginning to experience the customary sense of unease and disquiet all those not endowed with the gift of magic feel around those who are.

  He found the Knights of the Thorn established in a glade, located some distance from the beach, in a grove of tall pine trees. Several large wooden chests, carved with intricate arcane symbols, rested on the ground. Apprentices were sorting through these chests, ticking off items listed on sheets of parchment. The knight gave these chests a wide berth. The smells issuing from them were sickening; he wondered how the apprentices could stand it, supposed they must grow used to it over time. The Thorn Knights carried their own equipment, always.

  He grimaced at a particularly foul odor emanating from one of the chests. A glance within revealed rotting and unsavory objects, best not defined. He turned his gaze away in disgust, searched for his objective instead. Through the shadows of the trees, he saw a patch of white, gleaming in a shaft of sunlight, yet partially obscured by gray. Brightblade was not particularly fanciful, but he was reminded of fleece-white clouds, overtaken by the gray of the storm. He marked it as a good omen. Diffidently, he approached the Head of the Order—a powerful wizardess of high rank, known as a Nightlord.

  “Madam, Knight Warrior Steele Brightblade.” He saluted. “I am sent by Subcommander Knight Trevalin with the request that your prisoner, the white-robed mage, be conveyed to him. Lord Trevalin is in need of the prisoner to make identification of the bodies of the dead, that they may be entombed with honor. Also,” he added in a low voice, not to be overheard, “to verify the count.”

  Trevalin would be glad to know if any Solamnic Knight had escaped, one who might carry news of the dark knights’ arrival.

  The Nightlord thus addressed did not return the knight’s salute, nor did she appear at all pleased by his request. An older woman, perhaps in her late forties, she had once been a Black Robe, had switched allegiance when the opportunity presented itself. As a Thorn Knight, she was now considered a renegade by the other wizards of Ansalon, including those who wore the black robes. This might seem confusing to some, since the sorcerers all served the same Queen. But the Black Robes served Nuitari, god of dark magic, first, his mother, Queen Takhisis, second. The Knights of the Thorn served the Queen first, last, and only.

  The Nightlord eyed Steele Brightblade intently. “Why did Trevalin send you?”

  “Madam,” Brightblade returned, taking care not to reveal his irritation at this unwonted interrogation, “I was the only one available at the time.”

  The Nightlord frowned, deepening an already dark line between her brows. “Return to Subcommander Trevalin. Tell him to send someone else.”

  Brightblade shrugged. “I beg your pardon, Madam, but my orders come from Subcommander Trevalin. If you wish to have him countermand them, then you must apply to him directly. I will remain here until you have conferred with my commanding officer.”

  The Nightlord’s frown deepened, but she was caught on the hooks of protocol. To alter Steele’s orders, she would be forced to send one of her own apprentices dashing back across the beach to talk to Trevalin. The journey would likely accomplish nothing, for Trevalin was shorthanded anyway and would not send another knight to do what this knight could do with ease.

  “It must be her Dark Majesty’s will,” the Nightlord muttered, regarding Steele with green, penetrating eyes. “So be it, then. I bow to it. The mage you seek is over there.”

  Steele had no idea what this odd conversation was in regard to, and he had no desire to ask.

  “Why does Trevalin want the mage?” the Nightlord inquired.

  Steele counseled patience, repeated himself. “He needs him to identify the bodies. The White Robe is the sole survivor.”

  At this, the prisoner lifted his head. His face blanched, he grew nearly as pale as the corpses laid out on the sand. The White Robe jumped to his feet, to the startlement of those assigned to guard him.

  “Not all!” he cried in a ravaged voice. “Surely, not all!”

  Steele Brightblade responded with a respectful, yet dignified, salute, as he had been taught. Treat all persons of rank, title, and education with respect, even if they are the enemy. Especially if they are the enemy. Always respect your enemy; thus you will never underestimate him.

  “We believe that to be so, Sir Mage, although we have no way of knowing for certain. We plan to bury the dead with honor, record their names on the tomb. You are the only one who can identify them.”

  “Take me to them,” the young mage demanded.

  His face had the flush of fever. Splotches of blood stained his robes, some of it probably his own. One side of his head was badly bruised and cut. His bags and pouches had all been taken from him, and lay on the ground to one side. Some unlucky apprentice would be given the task of sorting through those, risking the possibility of being burned—or worse—by the arcane objects which, due to thei
r propensity for good, only a White Robe could use.

  Such objects would not be of any immediate use to a Gray Knight, for despite the Thorn Knights’ ability to draw power from all three moons—white, black, and red—each magic knows its own and often reacts violently to the presence of its opposite. A Thorn Knight might be able to use an artifact dedicated to Solinari, but only after long hours of the most disciplined and intense study. The White Robe’s spell components and other captured magical objects would be held in safekeeping to be studied, then those that could not be safely handled might be exchanged for arcane artifacts of more value—and less danger—to the Thorn Knights.

  Brightblade did note, however, that the White Robe kept with him a staff. Made of wood, the staff was topped by a dragon’s claw, fashioned out of silver, holding in its grip a multifaceted crystal. The knight knew enough about the arcane to realize that this staff was undoubtedly magical and probably highly valuable. He wondered why the White Robe was permitted to retain it.

  “I suppose the mage may go,” said the Nightlord ungraciously and with true reluctance. “But only if I accompany him.”

  “Certainly, Madam.”

  Brightblade did his best to conceal his shock. This White Robe could not be of very high level. He was too young, add to that the fact that no high-level White Robe would have ever permitted himself to be taken prisoner. Yet the Nightlord—head of the Thorn Knight’s Order—was treating this young man with the careful caution she would have treated … say … Lord Dalamar, renowned Master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas.

  The White Robe moved weakly, leaned heavily upon the staff. His face was drawn with pain and anguish. He winced as he walked, bit his lip to keep from crying out. He crept forward at a gully dwarf’s pace. It would take them the remainder of the day and into the night to reach the bodies, traveling at this rate. Subcommander Trevalin would not be pleased at the delay.