Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Which led to our ultimate downfall. ‘Evil turns upon itself.’ A credo of jealousy and treachery that meant destruction. Not anymore. We are allied, brothers in the Vision, and we will sacrifice anything in order to bring it about.”

  “You have never revealed your share of the Vision, Steel Brightblade,” Flare observed.

  “I am not permitted. Since I did not entirely understand it, I related it to Lord Ariakan. He did not understand it either and said it would be best if I kept it to myself, not discussed it with others.”

  “I am hardly ‘others’!” Flare bridled, the blue mane bristling in indignation.

  “I know that,” Steel said, softening his tone, patting the dragon on the neck again. “But my lord has forbidden that it be discussed with anyone. I see lights. We must drawing near.”

  “The lights you see belong to the city of Sanction. We have only to cross the Newsea, and we will be in Abanasinia, very near Solace.” Flare scanned the skies, tested the wind, which seemed to be dying. “It is nearly dawn. I will set you and the mage down on the outskirts of the village.”

  “Where will you hide during the day? It would never do for you to be seen.”

  “I will take refuge in Xak Tsaroth. The city remains abandoned, even after all these years. People believe it is haunted. It is, but only by goblins. I’ll breakfast on a few of those before I sleep. Shall I return for you at nightfall or wait until you summon me?”

  “Wait for my summons. I am not yet certain what my plans will be.”

  Both spoke nonchalantly, neither mentioning the fact that they were far behind enemy lines, would be in danger of their lives every second, and could count on no one for support. Certain knights of the Order of Takhisis were living on the continent of Ansalon, spying, infiltrating, recruiting others to the cause. But even if these other knights became known to Steel, he could make no use of them, could do nothing that would disturb the veil they had drawn around themselves. They had their tasks, according to the Vision, and he had his.

  Except he wasn’t quite certain what that task was.

  Flare left land behind, soared over the Newsea. The red moon had not yet set, but dawn’s gray light dimmed Lunitari’s luster. It sank down into the sea swiftly, almost as if it were thankful to be shutting its red eye to the world.

  Palin moaned in his sleep, spoke his dead brother’s name, “Sturm …”

  The name came eerily in the wake of the remembered Vision. Sturm had been the name of the mage’s brother, but that brother had been named for Steel’s father.

  “Sturm …” Palin repeated it.

  Steel twisted around in the saddle.

  “Wake up!” he ordered roughly, irritably. “You’re almost home.”

  Neither Steel nor Palin knew it, but the dragon set them down in almost the very same spot that had once been the meeting place of two friends, many years ago.

  The time then had not been much different from the time now. It had been autumn, not summer, but that was about the only difference. It had been a time of peace, as it was now a time of peace. Most said then, as they said now, that peace would last forever.

  Palin Majere slumped against the very same boulder on which Flint Fireforge had once rested. Steel Brightblade walked the path once walked by Tanis Half-Elven. Palin looked down into the valley. The tall vallenwood trees normally hid almost all signs of the village that perched in the trees’ limbs. But the thick green foliage was now a dusty brown; many of the leaves had died and fallen off. The houses were visible, naked and forlorn and vulnerable.

  Though it was early and the people of Solace were wakening and beginning their day, no smoke of fire or forge rose from the valley. It was dangerous to light a fire of any type; only last week, a tinder-dry vallenwood had gone up in a rush of flame, destroying several houses. Thankfully, no lives had been lost; those within had managed to jump to safety. But since then, people had been leery of burning anything.

  The Inn of the Last Home was the largest building in Solace and the first building that the two saw. Palin stared down at his home, longing to run to it, longing to run away from it. Steel had removed the bodies of Palin’s brothers from the dragon’s back. They now lay, wrapped in linen, on a crude, makeshift sled, fashioned by Steel out of tree branches. He was lashing the remaining few branches together now. When he was finished, they would start their journey down the hill.

  “Ready,” said Steel. He gave the sled a tug. It lurched over a stone and then skidded along the road, raising a cloud of dust as it went.

  Palin did not look at it. He heard it scrape through the dirt, thought of the burden it carried, and clenched his fists against the rending pain.

  “Are you fit to walk?” Steel asked, and though the knight’s voice was grim and rough, it was respectful, did not mock Palin’s sorrow.

  For this, Palin was grateful, yet he found it humiliating to be asked such a question. Sturm and Tanin would want him to appear strong, not weak, before the enemy.

  “I’m fine,” Palin lied. “The sleep helped me, as did the poultice you put over the wound. Shall we go now?”

  He rose to his feet and, leaning heavily on the Staff of Magius, started to walk down the hill. Steel followed after, dragging the sled behind. Palin, glancing back, saw the bodies jounce, heard the rattle of armor, as the sled lurched over the rough dirt road. He stumbled, losing his balance.

  Steel reached out his hand, steadied Palin.

  “It is best to look ahead, not behind,” the knight remarked. “What’s done is done. You cannot change it.”

  “You talk as if I’d upset a dish of milk!” Palin returned angrily. “These are my brothers! To know that I’ll never talk to them again, never hear them laugh or … or …” He was forced to stop, swallow his tears. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever lost anyone you care about. You people don’t care about anything—except slaughter!”

  Steel made no comment, but his face darkened at the mention of losing someone. He trudged on, tugging the heavy sled with ease. His eyes, shadowed beneath lowering black brows, were constantly moving, not aimlessly, but taking note of his surroundings. He stared hard into copses and tangled underbrush.

  “What’s the matter?” Palin glanced around.

  “This would be an excellent place for an ambush,” Steel remarked.

  Palin’s pain-drawn face eased slightly. “In fact, it was. Right over there, the hobgoblin known as Fewmaster Toede stopped Tanis Half-Elven, Flint Fireforge, and Tasslehoff Burrfoot and asked about a blue crystal staff. That moment changed their lives.”

  He fell silent, thinking about the terrible moments that had changed his life and had ended the lives of his brothers. Steel’s voice did not interrupt his thoughts, but marched along beside them.

  “Do you believe in fate, Sir Mage?” Steel asked abruptly, staring at the dirt-baked road. “That moment, the ambush, changed the half-elf’s life, or so you say. This implies that his life would have been different if that moment had never occurred. But what if that moment was meant to happen, that there was no way to escape it? Perhaps that moment was lying in ambush for him, waiting for him just as surely as the hobgoblins. What if—” Steel’s dark-eyed gaze shifted to Palin. “What if your brothers were born to die on that beach?”

  The question was like a blow to the stomach. For a moment, Palin couldn’t breathe. The world itself seemed to tip; everything he’d been taught slid away from him. Was there some inexorable Fate crouching behind a bush somewhere, waiting for him? Was he a bug, trapped in a web of time, wriggling and twisting in feeble efforts to escape?

  “I don’t believe that!” He drew in a deep breath and felt better. His mind cleared. “The gods give us choices. My brothers chose to become knights. They didn’t have to. In fact, since they weren’t Solamnians and didn’t have ancestors who had been knights, the way wasn’t easy for them …”

  “They chose to die, then,” Steel said, his gaze shifting to the bodies. “They could have run away, but t
hey did not.”

  “They did not,” Palin repeated softly.

  Amazed at the dark knight’s question, wondering what lay behind it, Palin examined Steel intently. And the young mage saw, for an instant, the iron visage of hard, cold resolution lift, saw the human face beneath. That face was doubting, seeking, suffering.

  He’s asking for something, but what? Comfort? Understanding? Palin forgot his own troubles, was prepared to reach out, to offer what poor counsel he could. But at that moment, Steel turned, saw Palin staring at him.

  The iron visage dropped. “They chose well, then. They died with honor.”

  Palin’s anger and bitterness returned. “They chose wrong. I chose wrong. What’s so honorable about that!” He gestured at the bodies on the crude sled. “What honor is there in having to tell my mother … to tell her …”

  Turning on his heel, Palin left the place where Tanis had first heard of the blue crystal staff, and continued on down the road.

  He heard Steel’s voice, musing, thoughtful, behind him. “Still, it is an excellent place for an ambush.”

  And then the sound of the sled, bumping and skidding through the dust.

  9

  A warning. The elves take up arms.

  Tika takes up the skillet.

  shaft of early morning sunlight shot through one of the diamond-paned windows of the inn, struck Tanis full in the eyes. He woke up, blinded, and realized he had been asleep, had dozed off in one of the inn’s high-backed wooden booths. He sat up, rubbing his face and eyes, more than a little angry at himself. He had fully intended to sit up all night, keeping watch. And there he was, slumbering like a drunken dwarf.

  Across the room from him, the exiled elven king, Porthios, was seated at a table covered with maps, a flask of elven wine and a glass at his elbow. He was writing something; Tanis wasn’t certain what. A report, a letter to an ally, noting down plans, updating his journal. Tanis recalled that Porthios had been in much the same position when the half-elf had drifted off to sleep. The wine flask was slightly less full; that was the only difference.

  The two were brothers, though not by blood. Tanis was married to Porthios’s sister Laurana. They had all been raised together, grown up together. Porthios was the eldest, had been born to the leadership of his people, and he took his role seriously. He had not approved of his sister marrying a half-human, as Porthios invariably viewed Tanis.

  Porthios lacked the charm of his father, the late Speaker of the Sun. Porthios was, by nature, stern, serious, plain-spoken to a fault. He scorned to tell the diplomatic lie. He was a proud man, but his reticence and diffidence caused pride to seem like arrogance to those who did not know him. Instead of endeavoring to overcome this flaw, Porthios used it to isolate himself from those around him, even from those who loved and admired him. And there was much to admire. He was a skilled general and a courageous warrior. He had gone to the aid of the Silvanesti, risked his life to fight Lorac’s dread dream, which had decimated their land. It was their betrayal that had soured him. And, for that, Tanis supposed he couldn’t blame his brother-in-law for wanting revenge.

  The strife had taken its toll. Once tall and handsome, with a regal bearing, Porthios had grown somewhat stooped, as if the weight of his rage and sorrow were bowing him down. His hair had grown long and ragged, was streaked with gray—something one almost never saw, even among the eldest elves. He was clad in leather armor, stiff and battered; his fine clothes were beginning to show wear, were starting to fray at the hem, come apart at the seams. His face was a mask, cold and implacable, bitter. Only occasionally did the mask slip to reveal the man beneath, the man who grieved over his people, even as he planned to go to war against them.

  Tanis glanced up as Caramon, yawning, lumbered over and settled his great bulk in the booth opposite his friend.

  “I fell asleep,” Tanis said, scratching his beard.

  Caramon grinned. “Yeah, tell me. Your snoring could have sawed down a vallenwood tree.”

  “You should have wakened me. I was supposed to be on watch!”

  “What for?” Caramon yawned again and rumpled his hair. “It’s not like we’re in a tower surrounded by forty-seven legions of hobgoblins. You’d been riding all day. You needed the rest.”

  “That’s not the point,” Tanis returned. “It looks bad.”

  He cast a glance at his brother-in-law. And though the elf king wasn’t looking at Tanis, Tanis knew by the set of Porthios’s jaw and the stiffness of his posture that he was thinking to himself, “Weakling! Pitiful half-human!”

  Caramon followed Tanis’s glance, shrugged. “You and I both know he’d feel the same way if you stayed awake the rest of your life. C’mon. Let’s go wash up.”

  The big man led the way down the stairs to ground level. The morning was already hot. It seemed to Tanis that the very air itself might catch fire. Beneath the inn stood a water barrel. It was supposed to be filled with water. Caramon peered inside and sighed. The barrel was almost half-empty.

  “What happened to the well?” Tanis asked.

  “Dried up. Most everyone’s well went dry around the end of spring. People’ve been hauling water from Crystalmir Lake. It’s a long journey. This barrel was full last night. Some people are setting guards on their water.”

  Caramon lifted a ladle, bent over the barrel, brought it up. He offered the water to Tanis.

  Tanis peered down at the muddy footprints surrounding the barrel. The mud was still damp.

  “But not you,” Tanis said. Smiling, he drank the brackish water. “You make that trip every day, to Crystalmir Lake and back, hauling water for the inn. And you never see more than half of it because your neighbors are robbing you of it.”

  Caramon flushed, splashed water onto his face. “Not robbing. I’ve told them they could take what they needed. But they feel ashamed, some of them. It’s too much like begging, and no one’s ever had to beg in Solace, Tanis. Not even when times were hard, after the war. No one ever had to steal just to survive either.”

  Heaving a sigh, Caramon snorted and blew and toweled his face with the sleeve of his shirt. Tanis laved his face, taking care to use the precious water sparingly. Some of the footprints around the barrel were small, child-sized.

  Tanis returned the ladle to its hook on the vallenwood tree. “Has Porthios been awake all night?”

  He and Caramon walked back to the bottom of the stairs, but did not immediately climb up. A common room filled with grim and dour-faced elves—half of whom were not speaking to the other half—was not the most pleasant place in the world.

  “He never even blinked, that I could see,” Caramon remarked, looking up at the window beside which the elf king was sitting. “But then, his wife’s having a baby. I know I didn’t sleep when Tika was … in the same condition.”

  “That I could understand,” Tanis returned grimly. “Any husband could. But Porthios looks more like he’s preparing for battle than preparing for fatherhood. I don’t suppose he’s ever even asked about Alhana.”

  “Not in so many words,” Caramon said slowly. “But then Tika’s been coming down pretty often, reassuring him. He really doesn’t need to ask. I’ve been watching him, and I think you’re wrong about Porthios. I think he truly loves Alhana and that, right now, she and his unborn child are the most important things in the world to him.”

  “I wish I could believe that. I think he’d trade both to have his kingdom back. It’s just—What in the name of the Abyss …?”

  The rope bridge above their heads—bridges that served as “roads” connecting the tree-built houses of Solace—swayed and rustled. An elven soldier came skimming along, running fast. By the grim expression on his face, the elf was the bearer of bad news. Tanis and Caramon glanced at one another and raced up the stairs. By the time they reached the inn, the elf was already reporting to Porthios.

  “What is it? What’s going on?” Caramon demanded, arriving late, puffing and red-faced from the unaccustomed exertion. “What
are they saying?”

  The urgent conversation was being carried on in the Qualinesti Elvish tongue.

  Tanis, listening, silenced the big man with a gesture. What he heard obviously disturbed him. Turning to Caramon, Tanis drew the big man behind the bar.

  “Their scouts have reported seeing a soldier, human, with long black hair, wearing accoutrements of darkness, walking down the main road, heading for Solace. And Caramon”—Tanis gripped the big man’s arm—“he’s in company with a white-robed mage. A young mage.”

  “Palin,” said Caramon instantly. “And the other? You’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “The description fits Steel Brightblade.”

  “But why would Steel come here? Is he alone?”

  “Except for Palin, apparently.”

  “Then what in the name of all the gods are the two of them doing together? Doing here together?”

  Tanis kept silent about the rest of the report, about the fact that the dark paladin was dragging behind him a sled bearing what appeared to be the bodies of two knights. He had a grim foreboding he knew the answer to those questions, but he might very well be wrong. He hoped and prayed to Paladine he was wrong.

  Porthios was issuing orders. The entire contingent of elves was on its feet, reaching for bows and arrows, drawing swords.

  Caramon looked at the commotion with alarm.

  “What are they doing, Tanis? That might be Palin out there!”

  “I know. I’ll handle it.” Tanis crossed the room to Porthios, broke in. “Pardon me, Brother, but the description of the young mage leads me to believe that he is the son of Caramon Majere, your host,” he added, with emphasis. “The young man is a White Robe. Surely you can’t be thinking of attacking him.”

  “We are not going to attack them, Brother,” Porthios returned, snapping the words, impatient at being interrupted. “We are going to ask them for their surrender. Then we will interrogate them both.” He fixed Caramon with a baleful glare, speaking in Common. “Your friend’s son may be a White Robe mage, but he is in the company of a soldier of evil.”