Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  Trevalin eyed the hilt, with its decoration of the kingfisher and the rose—symbols of the Knights of Solamnia—and the subcommander shook his head.

  “I’ll not touch it. I’m going to need my hands tomorrow. I don’t want them burned off in Paladine’s wrath. It amazes me that you can handle such an artifact with impunity. It amazes the Nightlord, too. That was one of the remarks she mentioned against you.”

  “The sword was my father’s,” Steel said, wrapping the belt around the sheath with prideful care. “Lord Ariakan gave me permission to carry it.”

  “I know, and so does the Nightlord. I wonder what you did, Brightblade, to cause her to hate you so? Ah, well. Who can tell with wizards? Wait here while I inform the others where we’re going.”

  The walk was not a long one. Neither was the trial.

  Ariakan had ordered a watch kept for them, apparently, for the moment they arrived, a knight on the lord’s staff recognized them, drew them forth from the large but orderly crowd of officers, couriers, and aides, all waiting to gain Lord Ariakan’s attention.

  The knight led them into the large tent, over which flew Ariakan’s flag: black, adorned with a death lily, entwined around a sword. The lord himself sat at a small blackwood table, which had been a gift to him from his men on the anniversary of the founding of the knighthood. The table traveled with Ariakan, was always carried among the baggage. This night, most of the shining black wood was covered with rolls of maps, which had been tied neatly and shoved aside. In the center of the tent, in front of Ariakan, was an enormous box filled with sand and rocks, arranged to represent the battleground.

  The Battle Box was Ariakan’s concept, one of which he was extremely proud. The sand and rocks could be smoothed over, reshaped to form any type of terrain. Large rocks stood in for the Vingaard mountains. Palanthas—its buildings made of gold, surrounded by a wall made of pebbles—was located in the western corner of the box next to a patch of crushed lapis that represented the Bay of Branchala. In the pass between the mountains was a miniature High Clerist’s Tower, carved of white jade. Small knights cast of silver stood near the High Clerist’s Tower, along with silver and a few gold dragons.

  The Knights of Takhisis, done in shining obsidian, had the tower surrounded. Dragons of blue sapphire perched on the rocks, their heads all pointed in one direction: the tower. The disposition of battle had been thus determined. Each talon now had its orders. Steel saw his own talon’s flag, carried by a tiny knight astride a tiny blue dragon.

  “Knight Warrior Brightblade,” came a stern, deep voice. “Advance.”

  The voice was Ariakan’s. Subcommander Trevalin and Steel walked forward, both men conscious of the stares of those crowded around the outside of the tent.

  Ariakan sat alone at his table, writing in a large, leather-bound book, a history of his battles, on which he worked whenever he had a moment to spare. Steel was close enough to see neat marks on the page, marks that approximated the disposition of the troops represented in the Battle Box.

  “Subcommander Trevalin, reporting with the prisoner as ordered, my lord.”

  Ariakan added a final flourish, paused a moment to review his work, then—beckoning to an aide—he shoved the open book to one side. The aide sprinkled sand on the page to dry the ink, and removed the volume.

  The Lord of the Night, commander and founder of the Knights of Takhisis, turned his attention to Steel.

  Ariakan was barely fifty, in the prime of his manhood. A tall man, strong, well conditioned, he was still an able warrior, held his own in joust and tourney. He had been a handsome youth. Now, in his middle years, with his sharp, beaked nose and bright, far-seeing black eyes, he reminded one of the sea hawk. It was an appropriate image, since his mother was purported to be Zeboim, goddess of the sea, daughter to Takhisis.

  His hair, though graying at the temples, was thick and black. He wore it long, swept back into a clubbed tail, held at the base of his neck with a braided silver-and-black leather thong. He was clean-shaven, his skin tanned and weathered. He was intelligent, could be charming when he wanted to be, and was well respected by those who served him. He was reputed to be fair and just, as dark and cold as the water in the depths of the ocean. He was devoted, body, mind, and soul, to Queen Takhisis, and he expected no lesser devotion from those who were loyal to him.

  He gazed now at Steel, whom he had first taken into the knighthood when the boy was twelve, and—though there was sadness in the eyes—there was no mercy, no compassion. Steel would have been surprised, and probably disappointed in his commander, to have discovered otherwise.

  “The accused, Knight Warrior Brightblade, stands before us. Where is his accuser?”

  The gray-robed sorceress, who had concurred in sending Steel on the ill-fated mission, stepped out of the crowd.

  “I am the accuser, my lord,” the Nightlord said. She did not look at Steel.

  He, in his turn, kept his gaze proudly on Ariakan.

  “Subcommander Trevalin,” the lord continued, “I thank you for your services. You have delivered the prisoner as ordered. You may now return to your talon.”

  Trevalin saluted, but did not immediately leave. “My lord, before I go, I request permission to say a word on the prisoner’s behalf. The Vision prompts me.”

  Ariakan raised his eyebrows, nodded. The Vision took precedence over all else, was not invoked lightly. “Proceed, Subcommander.”

  “Thank you, my lord. May my words go on record. Steel Brightblade is one of the finest soldiers it has been my privilege to command. His bravery and skill are above reproach. His loyalty to the Vision is unswerving. These attributes have been proven time and again in battle and should not now be questioned.” As he said this, Trevalin cast a baleful glance at the Nightlord. “The loss of Knight Warrior Brightblade would be a grievous loss to us all, my lord. It would be a loss to the Vision.”

  “Thank you, Subcommander Trevalin,” Ariakan said, his voice cool and dispassionate. “We will take what you have said into account. You are dismissed.”

  Trevalin saluted, bowed, and, before he left, whispered a few words of encouragement to Steel.

  The knight, holding fast to his father’s sword in both his hands, nodded his thanks, but said nothing. Trevalin left the tent, shaking his head.

  Ariakan motioned. “Bring forth your sword, Knight Warrior.”

  Steel did so, advancing to the table.

  “Take the blade from its sheath,” Ariakan continued, “and place it before me.”

  Steel obeyed. Removing the sword from its battered and well-worn sheath, he placed the blade—turned lengthwise—in front of his lord. The sword no longer gleamed, but appeared gray and lusterless, as if overshadowed by Ariakan’s dark presence.

  Steel walked five paces backward, stood erect, motionless, his hands at his sides, his eyes straight ahead.

  Ariakan turned to the Gray Robe. “State your charges against this knight, Nightlord.”

  In strident tones, Lillith related how Steel had volunteered to take the bodies of the two dead Knights of Solamnia back to their father—a debt of honor, she conceded. Ariakan, glancing at Steel, indicated his approval with a slight inclination of the head. The lord was familiar with Steel’s history, knew that the knight owed his liberty and very possibly his life to Caramon Majere. That debt was now expunged.

  The Nightlord went on to say how Steel had further taken charge of the young mage, Palin Majere, how he had accepted the mage’s parole, how Steel had offered to take upon himself the prisoner’s death sentence should the prisoner escape.

  “The Knight Warrior is back in our midst, my lord,” the Nightlord concluded her summation. “And his prisoner is not. Brightblade’s mission has failed. He has permitted his prisoner to escape. Indeed, my lord,” she added, gliding forward to his desk, bending over it, moving close to him as if she were about to uncover some dread conspiracy. She lowered her voice, which was throaty, hissing. “Considering Brightblade’s lineage, it
is my belief that he assisted his prisoner to escape.”

  “Make yourself clear, Nightlord,” Ariakan said, with a hint of impatience. Although he recognized and appreciated the value of magic-users, like most men of the sword he tended to grow weary of their penchant for obfuscation. “I dislike vague innuendoes. If you have a complaint against this knight, state it in words we simple soldiers can understand.”

  “I thought I had, my lord,” the Nightlord said. Drawing back, standing straight, she regarded Steel with enmity. “This knight wears an elf bauble at his throat. He carries the sword of our enemies. I say to you, my lord, that this knight is not completely loyal to our glorious queen or to the Vision. He is a traitor to our cause, as witnessed by the fact that his prisoner escaped. I submit, my lord, that Brightblade should be made to pay the penalty he himself agreed to accept. Steel Brightblade should be put to death.”

  Ariakan shifted his gaze back to Steel. “I have known this man since he was a boy. Never has he given me cause to question his loyalty. As for the sword and the jewel, these were given to him by his father, a man who, though our enemy, is honored among us for his courage and bravery. I knew of these gifts at the time,” Ariakan continued, slightly frowning, “and approved them, as did the High Priestess of Takhisis. Do you question our loyalty, Nightlord?”

  Lillith was shocked that Ariakan could imagine such a thing, devastated that she should be so misunderstood. “Certainly not, my lord. Your decision was undoubtedly a wise one—at the time it was made.” She lingered over the phrase, gave it emphasis. “But I remind my lord that times change, as do the hearts of men. There remains the question of the prisoner. Where”—she spread her hands—“is Palin Majere? If he may be brought forward, either alive or dead, then I will withdraw all my accusations and beg this knight’s forgiveness.”

  She smiled, folded her arms across her chest, and gazed at Steel in venomous triumph.

  “What is your response, Knight Warrior?” Ariakan asked Steel. “What have you to say in your own defense?”

  “Nothing, my lord,” Steel answered.

  A low murmur rose from the knights gathered to witness this trial—and there were many more now than when it had started, word having spread rapidly through the camp.

  “Nothing, Knight Warrior?” Ariakan appeared astonished and troubled. He cast a sidelong glance at the Nightlord and very slightly shook his head. The gesture told Steel plainer than words that Ariakan was on Steel’s side. “Let us hear your story.”

  Steel could have told them his story, could have won admiration by relating how he had made his way safely through the infamous Shoikan Grove—a heroic feat few people on Krynn would dare attempt, much less live to tell about. He could have further excused himself by saying that Palin Majere had undoubtedly received help in his escape from his uncle Raistlin Majere, of infamous memory. Once the facts were known, Steel had no doubt that Ariakan would judge in his favor.

  But Steel said simply, “I offer no excuses, my lord. I accepted this mission, and I failed in it. I gave my word of honor. I lost the prisoner I was bound to keep safe. I accept your judgment, my lord.”

  “My judgment will be death,” said Ariakan, his frown deepening.

  “I am aware of that, my lord,” Steel answered calmly.

  “Very well, then. You leave me no choice, Knight Warrior.”

  Ariakan rested his hand upon the sword’s hilt. An expression of pain contorted his face—the sword was an artifact dedicated to Paladine and thus did Paladine punish those who followed the paths of darkness. Ariakan did not release the sword. Slowly, gritting his teeth, he turned the blade’s point toward Steel. Only then did Ariakan let go.

  “Steel Brightblade, you are hereby sentenced to die by this very sword which you have disgraced and dishonored. The sentence of death will be carried out …”

  It will be carried out now, thought Steel, who had seen similar trials before. Discipline must be swift, to be maintained. He tried to prepare himself to meet his queen. What would he say to her, who could see into his heart? Who knew the truth?

  His body stood firm, his soul trembled, and he did not, at first, hear Ariakan’s words. The low murmur of approval from the assembled knights, mingled with a few scattered cheers, brought Steel back to the world of the living.

  He stammered, not believing. “What … what did you say, my lord?”

  “The sentence will be carried out in one month’s time,” Lord Ariakan repeated.

  “My lord!” The Nightlord was swift to protest. “Is this wise? This man has admitted to his treachery! What harm might he do among us?”

  “This knight has admitted to losing his prisoner,” Ariakan returned. “He has submitted willingly to just punishment. I remind you, Nightlord, that his commander, invoking the Vision, asked that this knight be spared to fight in the upcoming battle. I, too, have consulted the Vision, and thus my judgment stands.”

  Ariakan’s voice was cold and soft, but all present could sense his anger. The Nightlord bowed her head, withdrew, but not before she had cast Steel Brightblade a look that, were looks capable of killing, would have carried out his execution then and there.

  Dazed, still not quite believing he was to live, Steel stood unmoving. Ariakan was forced to motion twice before the knight walked forward to retrieve his weapon.

  Lord Ariakan gestured to the sword, careful not to touch it. The palm of his right hand was blistered and inflamed, as if he had grasped red-hot metal. “Take back your weapon, Knight Warrior. You have the chance to restore your honor in this battle, so that your soul may face our queen proudly, not crawl before her.”

  “I thank you, my lord,” Steel said, his voice thick with emotion. He lifted the sword reverently, slid it back into its sheath.

  “I must order you to remove your spurs, however,” Ariakan said. “You are stripped of rank and title. I am placing you in command of a company of foot soldiers. You will have the honor of leading the charge upon the front gate.”

  Steel lifted his head, smiled. Leading the charge, fighting on foot, the first to enter the tower, the first to face the brunt of the enemy’s defense, he would be among the first to die. Ariakan was doing him a great favor.

  “I understand, my lord. Thank you. I will not let you down.”

  “Return to your talon for the time being, Brightblade. You will be reassigned in the morning. You are dismissed, unless you have anything further to say to me.”

  Ariakan was, once again, giving Steel a chance.

  In that moment, Steel longed to unburden himself. But he knew if he did so, the pride and affection in his liege lord’s manner would freeze, change to anger and bitter disappointment.

  “No, my lord. I have nothing more to say except to once more offer my thanks.”

  Ariakan shrugged. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the Battle Box. His officers surged around him, bending over it, moving units here and there, once more discussing strategy and tactics. A dark cleric came bustling up to cast a spell of healing on the lord’s injured hand.

  Steel was forgotten. He slipped out the back of the tent to avoid the crowd. Leaving the light and the noise behind, he made his way beyond the camp’s outer perimeter to someplace where he could be alone.

  He would die on the morrow, die with honor, spare his lord, his comrades from ever knowing the tumult in his soul, from ever knowing the truth—that he had hesitated on the laboratory threshold, hesitated because he’d been afraid.

  3

  Ariakan’s battle plan.

  Steel’s own battle.

  t was hours before dawn, but the army of Lord Ariakan was already on the move, winding its way from the plains into the Virkhus Hills, heading for Westgate Pass and their target, the Tower of the High Clerist.

  The road was clear; the Knights of Solamnia could not afford to waste their forces in defending it. Ariakan’s armies moved rapidly, their way lighted by fire of torch and fire of magic. Steel, walking in the vanguard, turned to look an
d marvel. The line of men, equipment, and machines stretched from the hills back down to the plains. Massed on the road, moving with well-trained precision, the army appeared as a flaming snake in the darkness—a gigantic snake that would soon wind around and crush the life out of its victim. The army’s numbers were incalculable. In the history of the world, no mightier force had ever been assembled on Ansalon.

  The defenders of the High Clerist’s Tower would be able to see the army clearly now. They would be watching that dread serpent make its inexorable approach. Steel could imagine their awe, their dismay. Any hope the Knights of Solamnia might have entertained of holding their tower must surely be gone by now.

  As he buckled on his sword, Steel recalled stories he had heard of his father’s brave stance, alone on the battlements of the very tower his son was about to attack. Sturm Brightblade had foreseen his death as well. He had also seen beyond, seen the bright victory that awaited him.

  Steel felt closer to his father now than his warrior mother. Sturm understood the decision his son had made, the decision to choose death over dishonor. His mother, Kitiara, did not.

  Throughout the night, Steel had felt the heat of their battle, a war he had known all his life. He could hear his father’s voice speaking of honor, self-sacrifice, his mother’s voice urging him to lie, connive, or charm his way out of trouble. The fight had been a long one and exhausting; it had continued even in his sleep, apparently, for he dreamed of silver armor and blue, the clash of weapons.

  Dreams ended with the trumpet call to arms. Steel woke feeling well rested, exhilarated, empty of fear. He and his men—a force of barbarian swordsmen and archers, all of whom were as excited as their commander—marched rapidly, so rapidly that they had to occasionally slow their pace, to avoid tripping on the heels of the talon in front of them.

  Steel would die this day, he knew it for a certainty. But he would die gloriously, and this night his soul would stand before his queen, his loyalty proven beyond question, the tumult within him ended forever.