by Dragonlance
She bowed her head, a hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her shoulders shook.
“I just wish … I wish we could have done better for you,” she said, and drew a shuddering breath. “I wish we’d.…”
That was all. She stood silent a while longer, covering her eyes, her free hand balled into a fist. Then, shaking her head, she turned and strode away, into the trees. Hult watched her go but didn’t follow.
Essana watched too.
She was still alive, in part, because of Eldako’s sacrifice, but she felt neither glad nor sorrowful. She felt nothing at all. Everything was dull, numb. So she watched from where she sat, on the bottom of the temple stair, while one by one the cha’asii came forward and thrust their own arrows into the wild elf’s grave. And then the funeral was done.
There wasn’t to be a second.
They had talked long and hard about what to do about Barreth Forlo. Shedara considered him dead, and though he didn’t say it, Essana knew Hult thought so as well. Those two should know. They had seen the dagger pierce him, seen his stillness in the moments before the Hooded One exploded. Essana had not; she’d passed out, her strength finally failing her in those last moments. When she’d woken, it had been over. Maladar was gone, and her husband too.
Shedara had told her what happened: Forlo was dead. The only thing that animated his body was the soul of the Faceless Emperor, who had taken residence in his flesh.
But Essana didn’t—wouldn’t—believe it. She would allow no funeral for him, not until she felt certain he was gone. The “killing” knife had had no blood on it. There was still a chance, and she wouldn’t give that up, no matter what. She’d believed in him, and he’d come for her as she’d hoped. She’d keep believing.
Movement behind her made her stiffen. She turned and looked, still weary but no longer paralyzed now that her captors were all dead, their spells lifted. She didn’t need to see, though: it was clear who it was. She knew the sounds of his footfalls.
Azar wouldn’t look at her, not in the eye. She didn’t blame him. The guilt over what he’d almost done to her—and what he had done to his father—must be overwhelming. And the horror of what Maladar had meant to do to him.…
He came down the steps and sat beside her. He gazed at the grave, his young-old eyes glistening. “Pretty words. Who was he, again?” he asked.
“A friend of your father’s,” Essana replied. “An elf.”
Azar pursed his lips as the last of the cha’asii planted their arrows. “I know he … died trying to save you. From me.”
She looked across at him. His face was dark, tormented. Her heart, already broken many times over, gave a little wrench. “From them,” she said. “From what they made you do.”
He shrugged, turning away.
“I should have died,” he said. “It should be me they’re burying.”
Yes! Essana thought. It should be. But she swallowed those thoughts, born of grief and spite. “It wasn’t your fault,” she said instead. “If the Master had meant for me to wield the knife, I would have had no more choice than you. And you didn’t know better. You never had a chance to.”
She held out her hand. It was feeble, bony, and spotted—an old woman’s hand. She didn’t think she would ever look or feel young again. It hovered over her son’s shoulder for a long moment, trembling, then she forced herself to touch him, to try to give him comfort.
He shrank back as if burned, hissing between his teeth. “Please, don’t.”
She could have pulled away, left him here in his torment, then. A large part of her wanted to. But instead she shifted closer, put her arm around him, drew him closer. He stiffened, as she’d known he would—then, all at once, the fight went out of him and he sagged against her, put his own arms around her, buried his face in her neck.
“I’m sorry,” he moaned.
“I know, child,” she said and held him close, cradling him. “I know.”
Daylight bathed the Emerald Sea. It seemed a less terrifying place now, teeming with life, almost serene. With the Brethren and the yaggol and the black wyrm gone, perhaps it was. The cha’asii, at least, saw what had happened as a victory. But Hult and Shedara were grim and quiet as they looked out from the temple’s rooftop. They gazed north, over the rippling, mist-shrouded carpet of trees, toward a distant, purple line of mountains. Birds and flying serpents broke out of the canopy, darted through open air, and dove back again. Somewhere in the distance, a waterfall roared.
Shedara held a slim, jagged chunk of stone: a piece of the Hooded One. She squeezed it until its sharp edges dug into her palms.
“He’s out there,” she murmured. “Somewhere. I can feel it.”
Hult nodded, thoughtful. He wore a new sword on his hip—the same blade Forlo had carried when they attacked the temple. “Wherever he went, we don’t have much time,” he said. “If he isn’t stopped.…”
Essana stepped up behind them. Azar was holding her up, helping her walk. “The Burning Sea,” she said. “They’re going to where Old Aurim used to be, at the center of the fire. They’re going to raise the Chaldar.”
Hult blinked at her, startled, and Shedara turned pale. “How do you know?” the elf asked.
“I saw it,” Essana replied. “In a vision, when Maladar’s mind touched mine. I saw the Chaldar, risen anew. He had taken it over, raised new armies of flame … armies to lay waste to Taladas. He’s not going to forge his empire again. He’s going to destroy everything and rule over the ashes.”
Shedara sighed, a hand going to her forehead. She turned to look at Hult, who looked ill. “Armies of flame … how can we beat that? We don’t even have any allies. The minotaurs certainly won’t listen, and my people and yours are too few.”
“There are other places,” Essana said.
“Oh, yes,” Shedara shot back. “Thenol, Syldar … or maybe we can gather what’s left of the Ice People and the kender. ‘Oh, we know your people are almost all dead, and what’s left might not survive, but … would you mind coming with us to the Burning Sea?’ ”
Essana shook her head, undeterred. “There are still the Rainwards.”
Hult rubbed a bruise on his face. “The Rainwarders don’t deal with foreigners,” he said. “They will not help us.”
“Yes, they will,” Essana said.
“What makes you say that?” Shedara asked, her brows knitting.
Essana glanced up at Azar. Then she looked out, across the sun-washed jungle, at the mountains beyond. “Let me tell you how my son got his name.”
Epilogue
THE ASHEN SHORE
The roar of flames was deafening, the ruddy glare too bright to look at without pain. Stinking, yellow smoke hung in the air, so thick that every breath scorched. There was no relief, no respite. Those who ventured to these lands without magic to protect them died quickly—the only question was, of what? Poison, suffocation, burning … it was a race to see which would kill a man first.
Maladar feared none of these sorry fates. He had his magic, spells woven so tightly about him that he didn’t need to breathe. He felt no hunger, no thirst, no weariness, no pain. He felt only hate, a golden-glowing coal of it, buried deep inside. He nurtured the hate, fanned it, made it grow.
He stood upon a beach, at the edge of a vast and roiling sea, ringed with roaring volcanoes. The beach was not sand, but soot and ash, black and white mingling into great, gray dunes. And the sea was not water, but molten stone, a wound in the earth so deep that in four centuries it had not healed. Left alone, it never would. Maladar had learned of the Burning Sea from the Brethren. It sat at the heart of Taladas, its heat and fumes so powerful that much of the continent remained unlivable. It had been like this since the First Destruction, when a massive ball of burning rock, ten miles across, had struck the city of Aurim. It had slain hundreds of thousands, and unleashed plagues and earthquakes that killed millions more. Entire nations vanished, and the survivors became nomads, settling in realms far away �
� the League, the Rainwards, and elsewhere. The world had never been the same.
This was mine once, Maladar thought as he gazed across the churning ocean. From here, I ruled the greatest empire Krynn has ever known—even greater than Istar across the sea. Gone now … burned away, lost. The fools let it fall into ruin.
“I could have stopped it,” he uttered with absolute certainty. “I could have smashed the moon of fire that fell upon my palace. I could have prevented the Destruction, and all the suffering that followed. But I was trapped in that thrice-damned statue, lost to the ages.”
“No more, though,” whispered a voice to his right. “Now you are free.”
Another man might have been surprised—frightened, even—to see what was coming toward him, walking through the ashes without leaving a single footprint behind. It was not a man, that much was certain; it had the barest shape of one, but mostly looked like an empty cloak of tattered gray cloth, surmounted by a hood where two red eyes smoldered. But more terrible was the aura that surrounded it, the sensation of formidable power. For all his might, all his arcane knowledge, Maladar nearly fell to his knees before the awe and terror that radiated from that wraithlike figure.
Nearly … but did not. Instead he folded his arms across his chest, the sensation strange after all these years. He had gotten used to his prison of stone; a body of human flesh took some getting used to again.
Maladar an-Desh knelt before no one. Not even a god.
“You came,” he said. “I had some doubt.”
The cloaked shape bowed—not a mocking gesture, as it might have used with a more insolent being, but respectful, grave. “Oh?” it asked, in a voice like a scorpion skittering over bones. “And why would you have doubt?”
“Rumors I have heard,” Maladar answered. “Some say the heavens are troubled these days. That there is strife among the gods. Already one has died.”
“Erestem, yes,” the shape hissed. “And her counterpart, the platinum dragon, has lost his powers. Others may follow, before matters are settled. But that is not our concern. Not here, not today.”
“No, Lord Hith. It is not.”
Hith, god of lies, looked him up and down. “You have a new body.”
“I do,” Maladar agreed, uncrossing Barreth Forlo’s arms. He eyed his hands, the scarred palms and callused fingers. “Not the one I wanted, though. It is … older. Not as agile.”
“It will suffice,” the god said. “Before long, you will have your pick of younger bodies, and you can give this one to the fire.” The glowing eyes shifted, looking around. “I cannot help but notice that you are here alone. Where are your disciples?”
Maladar felt a flash of anger. “You know well enough. Surely you watched as they fell, one by one … the last three at the final hour.”
“I did,” Hith allowed. “A pity none survived. Their fear when they met me would have been … pleasing.”
Maladar shrugged. The Faceless Brethren meant nothing to him anymore, now that he was free. They had served their purpose.
“So, then,” Hith pressed. “One leg of your journey ends; another begins.”
“With you to guide me,” Maladar declared. “If you still wish this, that is.”
The god looked at him, the hood cocking sideways. “And why should I not? I yearn for power, as much as you do. While my brothers and sisters quarrel, I will take what I can. Taladas is in disarray, ready to fall. Even the minotaurs’ empire has collapsed into chaos. None remain who can stand against you.”
“There are the Rainwards,” Maladar said. “One from those lands came very near to thwarting us.”
“You speak of the Keeper, Azar. I have his soul now, you will be glad to know. The torments I have shown him!” Hith laughed, a rusty, grinding noise. “The Rainwards will be dealt with. You are not my only agent in this world.”
Maladar raised an eyebrow, but asked no more questions. “Well, then,” he said. “Show me my road.”
The god bowed again, an empty, flapping sleeve extending to point across the sea. Maladar’s eyes followed the gesture, noting where the lava there began to roll and churn. Something was rising from its depths: something long and broad. After a time, it broke the surface: a bridge of rough iron, glowing golden from the heat. He watched as it cooled to amber, then to red. Its near end shifted, sliding up onto the beach. It extended away from the shore, out across the Burning Sea, until it vanished in the lethal haze.
“This is your road. It will lead you where you must go,” said Hith.
“To the Chaldar?” Maladar asked. “The tower of flame?”
Hith neither nodded nor shook his head. The red eyes glinted with amusement. “It will lead you where you must go.”
A noise arose, a loud blustering like a whirlwind. As Maladar watched, the god’s shapeless cloak folded in on itself, crumpling into a smaller and smaller bundle, then vanishing altogether. Ash puffed up from the beach where he had stood, then slowly settled.
Annoyance gnawed at Maladar. Hith was vexing, but his power was necessary … for now, anyway. He could not have crossed the Burning Sea otherwise: even his own magic couldn’t give him the power to walk a hundred leagues and more across molten rock. But this bridge—cooled to black now, its surface gnarled and pitted by the fire—would serve him. He started toward it—then stopped, a voice in his ears.
Help me, it begged, small and alone and afraid. Starlight? Hult? Shedara?
Maladar listened to its pleas with a smile. He cared nothing for the suffering of Barreth Forlo. The man had traveled half the world to attack him. He was paying the price now, trapped and helpless in his own body. None could hear the voice but Maladar, and so he let it whine. It amused him.
Chuckling, he stepped onto the bridge. He half expected it to vanish like smoke as soon as he was over the lava—Hith was a capricious god—but it was solid, firm beneath his feet. He gazed down its length, into the smoke, yearning to see what lay beyond.
Then he began to walk.
GLOSSARY
Geographic terms and place names:
Akh-tazi: A ruined temple in Neron, thousands of years old.
Armach-nesti: A small elven kingdom, home to the Silvanaes.
Aurim: A vast empire that covered much of Taladas, smashed in the First Destruction.
Chaldar: A tower of solid flame that once stood in the midst of Hitehkel.
The Dreaming Green: A forest north of the Tamire, home to the merkitsa elves.
Greytooth: The tallest of the Hoarspine mountains.
Hitehkel: A sea of molten rock at the center of Taladas, where Aurim stood before the Destruction. Also called Hith’s Cauldron.
The Hoarspine: A line of sharp, icy mountains that cut through the Panak Wastes.
Hosk: The western half of Taladas, divided by the Tiderun into northern and southern parts.
The Imperial League: An empire of minotaurs and humans that covers much of Southern Hosk.
Indanalis: The Boiling Sea, a long channel of superheated water between Southern Hosk and Hith’s Cauldron.
Marak: Several valleys in the central Steamwalls, home to clans of kender.
Neron: A little-known jungle land in the southeast of Taladas.
Panak: A frozen wasteland in the north of Taladas.
Rainward Isles: A piece of Aurim that survived the Destruction, now home to kingdoms of refugees.
Starshimmer: A lake in the heart of the Marak valleys.
Steamwalls: A range of volcanic mountains in the east of Southern Hosk, on the Indanalis coast.
Suluk: A kingdom of the Rainward Isles.
Syldar: An island in the southwest of Taladas, home to fishermen and bloodthirsty tribes.
Taladas: A continent on the northern hemisphere of the world of Krynn.
The Tamire: A vast stretch of grasslands and steppes, covering much of Northern Hosk.
Thenol: A human realm in Southern Hosk, ruled by evil priests and necromancers.
Tiderun: A shallow strai
t running east-west across the middle of Hosk. Also called the Run.
People and Cultures:
Amaruik: A clan of Ice People who take the Spirit Wolf as their totem beast.
Anho-ti: The snow lodge of a makau, the heart of an Ice People village.
Astakha: A martial art perfected by Manithite monks.
Boyla: The prince of the Uigan, the highest lord of all the Tamire.
Cha’asii: A small, reclusive race of aboriginal elves in the jungles of Neron.
Cham ka: A complicated dice game of the Ice People.
Chapak: A battle-axe used by the kender.
Fianawar: A hardy race of dwarves who dwell among the Steamwall mountains.
Heerikil: A Silvanaes term for non-elves.
Hoopaui: A kender bow, used to hurl rocks instead of arrows.
Hosk’i imou merkitsa: Clans of barbaric elves native to the Dreaming Green. Also simply known as the merkitsa.
Hulder: A mysterious, elf-like people once common in Hosk, now almost never seen.
Ice People: Tribes of humans who rove across the Panak Wastes.
Ishka: A large, pulpy fruit from Syldar; sweet and yellow when ripe, but very sour when still green.
Kazar: A nation of barbarians native to the Tamire, all but exterminated by the Uigan.
Khot: A minotaur obscenity, often used by soldiers.
Krahd: A clawed hammer, used by the folk of the Rainward Isles.
Makau: A shaman and sorcerer, the leader of an Ice People tribe.
Ningasuk: Stone statues erected by the Ice People to ward against the Uitayuik. Also called the Patient Folk.
Shalukh: A curse-word in the tongue of the Rainwards.
Shivis: A boardgame popular in the Imperial League, also used by the minotaurs as a tactical tool.
Shuk: A curved Uigan saber.
Silvanaes: An elf people of Southern Hosk, descended from survivors of an ill-fated expedition from Ansalon.