Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “So these are the thieves,” he muttered into his beard. “I might have known it. No one else could have kept my treasure hidden from me for so long. I’ll have it back, though. Paladine or no Paladine, they will return it to me or, by my beard, my name isn’t Reorx!”

  A chiming sound, as of metal striking against metal, rang through the night.

  Reorx paused, cocked his head. “Strange. I didn’t know the Irda practiced the fine art of metal forging.” He stroked his beard. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated them.”

  Another ringing sound. Yes, it was most definitely the sound made by the blow of a hammer. But it lacked the deep resonance of an iron hammer and not even the dwarf could convince himself that the Irda had suddenly taken an interest in making horseshoes and nails. Silversmithing, perhaps. Yes, it was the sound made by silver.

  Teapots, then, or fine goblets. Jewelry maybe. The dwarf’s eyes glistened. Working with sparkling gems, setting them into the metal …

  Gems.

  One gem. A hammer blow …

  Fear shook Reorx, a fear such as he had not known on this plane of existence. He endeavored to penetrate the shadows. The god’s eyesight was keen. He could see, on a fine night, a steel coin that had been carelessly dropped on the streets of a town in a country on a continent of a distant star. But he could not penetrate the darkness of the grove of pine trees. Something blocked his view.

  Trembling, the dwarf stumbled forward, his terror clutching at him with cold, sweaty hands. He had only the vaguest idea what he feared, a fear enhanced by a certain suspicion that had been niggling at his mind for centuries. He’d never admitted to it, never openly explored it, for the possibility was too dreadful to contemplate. He’d certainly never told any of his fellow immortals.

  Reorx considered calling on Paladine, Takhisis, and Gilean for aid, but that would mean explaining to them what he was afraid he might have done, and there was always the chance that he could halt the Irda in their madness. No one would ever be the wiser.

  And there was always the chance that he was wrong, that he was worrying about nothing.

  The dwarf increased his speed. He could see a flicker of gray light now.

  “You can’t hide from me long,” he cried out, and barreled ahead.

  Keeping his gaze fixed on the light, Reorx didn’t pay much attention to his immediate surroundings. He crashed headlong through bushes, tripped over exposed tree roots, slipped on wet grass. He thumped and thudded and made noise enough for an army. The noise disturbed the Irda in their concentration. They thought it was an army—the return of the black-armored knights—and that increased their fear and desperation. They urged the Decider to hurry.

  The dwarf reached the grove of pine trees. The gray light welled out from the center; he could see it shining sullenly through the intertwined branches. Reorx searched for a place to enter, but the pines stood as close as soldiers drawn up in battle formation, shields held up to present a solid wall against the enemy. They would not permit even the god to enter. Panting and cursing in frustration, Reorx ran round and round the grove, seeking a way inside.

  The silver ringing increased in intensity. The gray light dimmed a bit with each blow, then shone brighter.

  Reorx was certain he knew what was happening, and his terror grew with his certainty. He tried shouting out for the Irda to stop, but the ringing hammer blows drowned out his cries. At last, he gave up yelling, quit running.

  Panting, sweat dripping from his hair and beard, he pointed at two of the largest pine trees and cried, in a voice that was like a blast of wind, “I swear by the red light of my forge that I will shrivel your roots and wither your limbs and send worms to eat your nuts if you do not let me pass!”

  The pines shuddered. Their limbs creaked. Needles fluttered down all around the furious dwarf. An opening appeared, barely large enough for him to squeeze through.

  The rotund god sucked in his breath, wedged his body between the trunks, and struggled and heaved and, eventually, with a gasp, burst out the other side. And just at that moment, just as he staggered out into the glade, blinking in the brightening light, the Decider hit the spike a seventh sharp blow.

  A crack that was like the rending of the world split the night. The gray light of the gem flared brilliantly. Reorx, accustomed to staring into his forge fire, the light of which shone in the heavens as a red star, could not bear it and was forced to shut his eyes. The Decider screamed and clutched his head. Moaning in agony, he slumped to the ground. The altar, on which the gem had rested, split asunder.

  And then, the light blinked out.

  The dwarf risked opening his eyes.

  The altar where the Graygem rested was now dark. Not a natural, normal darkness, but a terrible, foreboding darkness.

  Reorx recognized the darkness; he’d been born of it.

  He tried to move forward, with some wild and panicked idea of repairing the damage, but his boots weighed more than the world he had once forged. He tried to cry out a warning to the other gods, but his tongue was made of iron, would not move in his mouth. There was nothing he could do, nothing except tear at his beard in frustration and wait for what was coming.

  The darkness began to coalesce, take shape and form. It took the shape of mortal man, not in homage—as do the gods when they take man-shape—but in savage mockery. It was man enlarged, engorged. A giant emerged from the darkness, grew and grew until he stood taller than the pine trees.

  He was clad in armor made of molten metal. His hair and beard were crackling flame. His eyes, pits of darkness. And in their depths burned rage.

  Reorx sank, shivering, to his knees.

  “Himself!” the dwarf whispered in awe.

  The giant roared in triumph. He stretched up his arms, broke through the boughs of the pines as if they were made of straw. His fingertips brushed the clouds, tore them into rags. The stars, the constellations, glittered in terror.

  “Free! Free from that wretched prison at last! Ah, my beloved children!” The giant spread wide his arms, gazed up at the stars, which quivered before him. “I have come to visit you! Where is your welcome for your father?” He laughed aloud.

  Reorx was in such terror as he had never before known, but he was not scared witless. Greatly daring, while the giant’s attention was focused upward, the dwarf crawled on hands and knees to the shattered altar.

  In the wreckage lay the Graygem, broken, split in two. Nearby was the Irda who had cracked it open. Reorx put his hand on the Irda to find a pulse. The mortal still lived, but he was unconscious.

  Reorx could do nothing to save the Irda; the dwarf would be lucky if he was able to save himself. Something had to be done to stave off calamity, though just exactly what and how, Reorx had no idea. Hastily, he caught up the two halves of the Graygem, shoved the fragments beneath the wreckage of altar, covered them with bits of wood. Then he scuttled backward, as far from the altar as he could get.

  The giant, sensing movement, glanced down to find the dwarf attempting to burrow into the roots of the pine trees.

  “Trying to escape me, Reorx? You puny, wretched imp of a thankless god!”

  The giant leaned down near the cowering dwarf. Cinders from the giant’s beard drifted among the pine trees. Tendrils of smoke began to rise from the dried pine needles on the ground.

  “You thought you were quite clever, imprisoning me, didn’t you, Worm?”

  Reorx cast a nervous glance upward. “As … as it so happens, revered Father of All—”

  “Father of All and of Nothing,” the giant corrected with an ominous emphasis on the latter.

  Reorx was shaken, but he stammered on. “It … it was a bit of an accident. I was forging the stone, intending to capture just a tiny wee portion of chaos, when—and I’m still not certain how this happened—but it seems I ended up capturing Yourself.”

  “And why didn’t you free me then?”

  The heat of the Father’s anger beat on the dwarf. He coughed in the thickening
smoke.

  “I would have!” Reorx gasped with desperate sincerity. “Believe me, Father of All, I would have freed you then and there, had I known what I had done. But I didn’t. I swear! I—”

  “Fool!” The Father’s rage set the grass all around the dwarf ablaze. “You and my thankless children conspired to imprison me. Am I to be captured by one puny god? It took the powers of all of you combined to hold me captive. But, though you had captured me, you couldn’t control me. I did damage enough to your precious toys. And all the while I searched for one of your puppets, who could be tricked into freeing me. And finally I found him.”

  The giant cast a glance at the Decider. Casually he placed his huge, booted foot on the man’s body and stomped it, crushed it, ground it into the dirt. Bones cracked. Blood welled out from beneath the giant’s boot.

  Reorx, sickened, turned away his head. He had the distinct and unhappy impression that he was next.

  The giant knew what the dwarf was thinking. The Father gazed down on Reorx, long and grimly, enjoying watching the god squirm.

  “Yes, I could squash you as well, but not now. Not yet.” The Father looked again at the heavens, and he shook his fist at the stars. “You refused to pay me homage. You refused to be guided by me. You went your own ways to ‘create’ a world, fill that world with dolls and puppets. Well, my children, as I gave you life, so I can take it away. I am weak now, since I’ve been forced to assume mortal form, but my power grows by the second. When I am ready, I will destroy your plaything, then cast you and your creation back into the oblivion out of which you were made. Beware, Children. The Father of All and of Nothing has returned.”

  The Father turned his attention back to the dwarf. “You will be my messenger. In case they didn’t hear me, go to them and warn my children of the doom that awaits them. I will enjoy seeing them try to escape me for a change! And show them this!”

  The Father plucked a strand of flame from his beard and cast it among the pine trees. First one, then another caught fire, exploding into flame. The still-living trees writhed in agony as their limbs were consumed in the roaring inferno.

  Reorx knelt among the smoke and the ashes, helpless to stop the blaze that was rapidly spreading from the pines to the other trees in the tinder-dry forest. Flames leapt from tree to tree. Flames sizzled over the ground. The flames burned even the air, left it scorched and empty. The flames created their own wind, that roared and drove the fire onward.

  Within seconds, the firestorm reached the Irda village.

  Over the rush of wind, the crackle of flames, Reorx heard the screams of the dying. Covering his face with his hands, the god wept … for the Irda, for the world.

  The Protector sat stunned and immobile in his house. He knew—all the Irda knew—that the Decider was dead. They heard booming thunder that seemed to be words, but the words were too enormous, too monstrous, to be understood. And then the Protector, looking out his window, saw the red glow of the flames. He heard the cries of the dying pine trees.

  The glow grew brighter. He could feel the heat. Cinders began raining down on his house and, soon, his roof was burning. He looked out the window, uncertain what—if anything—to do.

  Several elder Irda appeared, attempted to stop the fire with their magic. They summoned rain. It evaporated in the heat. They summoned ice. It melted to water and sizzled away. They summoned wind. It blew the wrong direction, only fanned the flames. The Protector watched as, one by one, the Irda were consumed.

  A distant neighbor ran out of her burning house. She was screaming something about the ocean. If they could reach the sea, they would be safe.

  Flames, running through the grass, caught hold of the hem of the woman’s skirt like a playful, deadly child.

  The woman’s clothing burst into flame. She became a living torch.

  The roof of the Protector’s house was engulfed now. From somewhere in the back came a crash: a beam falling. The Protector coughed, choked. While he could still see through the smoke, he searched the house until he found the precious object.

  He held the doll clasped to his breast and waited—not long—for the end.

  Far out to sea, the sailboat began to pitch and lurch in a hot wind that was blowing from the north. The erratic motion—a change from the gentle rocking that had lulled her to sleep—woke Usha from a sound sleep. At first she was disoriented, couldn’t remember where she was. The sight of sails and masts, pointing toward the heavens and the clustering stars, reassured her.

  Hearing thunder, she sat up, scanned the dark skies for the storm. She had no fear the boat would capsize; Irda magic would keep it afloat in the strongest gale.

  Flickering lightning came from the north, from the direction of her homeland. She watched it, then saw a lurid red glow light the sky. The Decider must be working his magic.

  Usha could not go back to sleep. She sat huddled in the stern, watching the red glow grow brighter and brighter. Then she watched it begin to dwindle, fade away.

  Usha smiled. The magic must have been very powerful. And it must have worked.

  “You will be safe now, Protector,” she said softly.

  As she spoke, the clear, sweet call of trumpets drifted over the water. Usha turned.

  The sun was rising up out of the water, looking like a red and fiery eye glaring in hatred at the world. Bathed in that strange light, the spires of the city of Palanthas glistened blood red.

  BOOK 2

  1

  The honored dead. A single prisoner.

  A fated meeting.

  he 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’ epithet. “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 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 on his errand. His task was not an easy one. The battlefield atop the sea wall 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 shi
elds, 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 Plains.

  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.

  Brightblade 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 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 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 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.