“Good news.” Tanis grunted, shoved the messenger to one side, and attacked a draconian who had very nearly landed on top of the young man.
That small break-wall of hope soon gave. The tide of darkness poured through, continued to rise throughout the afternoon. The knights were driven from one position after another. Retreating, they regrouped, tried to hold on, only to be pushed back again. Tanis fought until he was gasping for breath. His muscles burned, his sword hand was cramped and aching.
And still the enemy came.
Tanis was conscious only of clashing steel, the screams of the dying, and the splatter of what he thought at first was rain.
It turned out to be blood—dragon’s blood, falling from the skies.
Over and above the din came the underlying, nerve-shattering boom, kaboom of the great ram, beating like a dark heart, pulsing with strong, terrible life.
There came a momentary lull in the fighting. The enemy was waiting for something. Tanis took advantage of the respite, leaned against the wall, tried to catch his breath.
From below came a splintering crash and a triumphant shout. The massive gates of the Tower of the High Clerist gave way.
A force of enemy troops, which had been held in reserve behind the siege engine, rushed the entrance. They were led by a knight in armor fighting on foot, and they had gray-robed wizards among them.
Rallying his men—those who were still able to stand—Tanis ran to defend the front gate.
5
Promise made.
Promise kept.
teel deployed his troops behind and on each side of the huge siege engine. The brutes were skilled archers; their bows stood taller than most humans, and they fired strange arrows that made an eerie whistling noise during flight. Steel used his archers to keep the battlements clear of defenders, permit the siege engine to do its work uninterrupted.
This strategy worked, for the most part, with the exception of a small group of Solamnic Knights who hung on to their post with grim determination, beating off draconian attacks from above and fending off the brutes’ arrows from below. They proved to be a nuisance to the siege engine, dumping boiling oil on it, nearly setting it ablaze; hurling large rocks, one of which smashed a mammoth’s head to a bloody pulp; and using archers of their own with deadly effect.
Long after other defenders had given way or been killed, these knights remained. Even as he chafed at the delay, Steel saluted them and their unseen commander for their courage and bravery. But for them, the ram would have battered down the gates by midafternoon.
Eventually, inevitably, the ram did its work, bursting open the heavy wooden gates. Steel brought his troops forward, prepared to enter, when the head engineer—after taking a quick look inside—ran back to report.
“There’s a damn portcullis blocking the way.” The engineer looked personally affronted by this unexpected obstacle. “It wasn’t on Lord Ariakan’s map.”
“A portcullis?” Steel frowned, tried to remember. He’d entered the tower this way himself five years ago, couldn’t remember seeing a portcullis then either. But he did recall some construction work going on at the time. “They’ve added it apparently. Can you break it down?”
“No, sir. The engine won’t fit under the wall. This’d best be wizard work, sir.”
Steel agreed, dispatched a courier to carry the news to Lord Ariakan. Nothing to do now but wait.
He recalled the time he’d entered this gate, the time he’d gone down to the Chamber of Paladine to pay his respects to the memory of his father. The body had lain in state on the bier, preserved, some said, by the magic of the elven jewel Sturm had worn around his neck. The sword of the Brightblades had been held fast in the still, cold hands. Admiration for the dead man’s courage and bravery, regret to have never known him, a hope to be like him—all these emotions had moved Steel’s soul to reverence and love. His father had returned that love, given his son the only gifts Sturm Brightblade had to give—the jewel and the sword—fey gifts, both blessed and cursed. Though the midafternoon sun was grueling, Steel shivered slightly beneath his armor.
Beware, young man. A curse will fall on you if you find out the true identity of your father. Leave it be!
It was Lord Ariakan’s warning, given to Steel when he was still very young. The warning had come true. The curse had fallen like an axe, cleaving Steel’s soul in two. Yet, it had been a blessing as well. He had his father’s sword and a legacy of honor and courage.
Up there, on those battlements that had been defended with such bravery and tenacity, his father’s blood stained the stone. His son’s blood would stain the rocks below. One defender, one conqueror. Yet, eminently fitting.
The courier returned, bringing with him three Knights of the Thorn. None of them, Steel noted in grim relief, was the Gray Robe who had been his accuser.
Steel recognized their commander, a Lord of the Thorn. The man was in his middle years, had fought in the War of the Lance, and was Ariakan’s personal wizard. He was accustomed to working with soldiers, accustomed to blending blade with magic.
He gestured casually to the tower entrance, shouted to be heard above the noise of battle. “My lord has ordered us to take out the defenses within. I’ll need your troops to guard us while we work.”
Steel drew his forces into position. The master wizard and his assistants took their places in the rear. A cloud, coming from behind, indicated that the second strike army was forming, ready to enter when the way was clear.
The Lord of the Thorn motioned with his hand.
Steel raised his sword, saluted his queen. With a ringing battle cry, he led his troop, followed by the gray-robed wizards, inside the shattered gates of the High Clerist’s Tower.
The iron portcullis stood between the knights and the central courtyard. Defenders on the other side fired a deadly barrage of arrows through the bars of the gate.
An old hand at dealing with such defenses, the Lord of the Thorn and two other, lower-ranking Gray Knights, handled their work swiftly and cleanly. Steel, always somewhat distrustful of magic, watched them in astonished admiration, while his own archers fired arrows back through the iron grillwork, forcing the defenders to keep their distance.
A few arrows, fired by Solamnic archers, fell among the magic-users. The two Gray Knights took care of these. Using various shield and disintegrating spells, they caused the arrows to either bounce off an invisible barrier or crumble to dust before they struck.
The Lord of the Thorn, working as coolly and calmly as if he’d been safe in his own laboratory, removed a large vial containing what appeared to be water from his pouch. Holding the vial in his hand, he dropped in a pinch of dirt, replaced the stopper, and began to chant words in the spider-crawling language of magic. He opened the vial again and, still chanting, tossed its contents onto the stone wall into which the portcullis was mounted.
The water ran down the stone in rivulets. The wizard tucked the empty vial carefully back into his pouch, clapped his hands, and instantly, the wall began to dissolve, the stone changing magically into mud.
His work done, the Lord of the Thorn folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes and stepped back.
“Push on it,” he said to Steel.
The knight ordered three of the largest brutes forward. They set their shoulders against the iron and, with two or three heaves, ripped the portcullis from its moorings and flung it to the floor.
The Lord of the Thorn, looking bored, rounded up his assistants.
“Unless you need me for something significant, we’ll be returning to my lord.”
Steel nodded. He was grateful for the wizards’ help, but he wasn’t sorry to see them go.
“Alert me when the tower falls,” the mage added. “I’m supposed to break into the treasury.”
He left, his assistants hastening after him. Steel ordered his men to rid themselves of bows and arrows, draw their swords and knives. From here on, the combat would be hand-to-hand. Behind him, h
e heard shouted orders. The second strike army was preparing to advance.
Steel led his men over the shattered gate, beneath the dripping mud, and down the hallway leading to the central courtyard of the High Clerist’s Tower. He stopped his forces at the hall’s end.
The courtyard was empty.
Steel was uneasy. He’d expected resistance.
All was quiet inside the tower’s heavy walls, too quiet.
This was a trap.
Unused to attacking fortifications, the brutes would have dashed heedlessly into the open. Steel rasped out a command, was forced to repeat it twice before he could make the brutes understand that they were to await his signal to advance.
Steel studied the situation carefully.
The courtyard was formed in the shape of a cross. To Steel’s right were two iron doors, marked with the symbol of Paladine, which led deeper into the tower’s interior. At the far end of the cross stood another portcullis, but Steel had no intention of fooling with that. The corridor led to the dragontraps—ancient history, as far as the Knights of Takhisis were concerned.
On each side of the portcullis were two staircases, which wound down from the battlements. Steel stared hard at those staircases. Ordering the brutes to keep silent, he listened carefully, thought he heard a scraping sound, as of armor against stone. So that’s where they were hiding. He would draw them out, and he knew just how to do it.
Pointing to the iron doors to his right, those marked with the kingfisher and the rose, Steel gave his orders in a loud voice.
“Break down those doors. Downstairs is a tomb containing the bodies of accursed Solamnic Knights. Our orders are to loot it.”
Several of the brutes went to work on the door, hurling their massive bodies at it, hacking at the lock with their swords. Steel entered the courtyard swaggering, undisputed master of the tower. Removing his helm, he called for a waterskin, took a long drink. The brutes clambered after him, laughing and jabbering. Grabbing torches off the walls, they jeered impatiently at the slow work of their comrades, who were not having much luck breaking down the door.
Steel had not expected they would. He had been given no orders to loot the tomb; he had no intention of permitting the barbarians access to that hallowed hall. But his ruse had worked. Sauntering near the staircase, he now heard clearly the clink of metal against metal and even a low murmur of anger, swiftly hushed.
Keeping up the act, pretending he had heard nothing, he stalked over to berate the brutes.
“You weaklings!” Steel fumed. “Must I call in the wizards every time we come to a door? I would do better with an army of gully dwarves! Put your backs into it—”
A clatter, the clash of swords, and sudden outcry to his left informed Steel that the defenders had left their hiding place, were attacking.
A contingent of Solamnic Knights burst into the midst of Steel’s force. The suddenness and swiftness of their attack caught even Steel off guard. Several of the brutes were cut down before they had a chance to raise their swords.
The knights had, apparently, an able and intelligent commander. They did not attack in a mob, but with precision, driving a wedge through the main body of Steel’s force, splitting up his troops while maintaining unity among their own. With the second strike army entering from the front, Steel’s force had nowhere to go, was trapped in the courtyard.
He had foreseen this, of course. He did not expect to win this battle, but at least the second strike army would find the way clear.
Steel left the brunt of the attack to his men. His responsibility was to find the able and intelligent commander, perhaps the same man who had fought so determinedly on the battlements, and eliminate him.
“Chop off the head, and the body will fall,” was one of Ariakan’s dictums.
Replacing his helm, closing the visor, Steel pushed and shoved his way through his own men. He knocked aside swords, stopped to fight when he was forced. But his attention remained centered on locating the officer in charge. That proved difficult. All the knights were wearing armor—most of it dented and bloody. He was hard-pressed to distinguish one from another.
Battling his way into the center of the melee, Steel heard, above the tumult, a commanding voice raised, issuing new orders. This time, Steel saw the commander.
He wore no helm, perhaps so that his orders could be heard clearly. He was not in full armor, but wore only a breastplate over tooled leather. Steel couldn’t see the commander’s face—his back was toward the dark knight. Long, graying brown hair indicated he was older, undoubtedly a veteran of many battles.
Part of the man’s breastplate swung loose; one of the leather ties had been cut, leaving his back partially exposed. But Steel would have died himself before he attacked any man from behind.
Shoving between one of his own men and a battling Solamnic Knight, Steel reached the commander, laid his hand on the man’s shoulder to draw his attention.
The commander whipped around, faced his opponent. The man’s bearded face was covered with blood. His matted hair, wet with sweat, hung over his eyes. A tiny, tingling jolt shot through Steel. Something inside him said, “You know this man.”
Steel gasped. “Half-Elven!”
The man arrested his attack, fell back, peered suspiciously at Steel.
The knight was furious at this trick fate had played on him, but he could no longer fight, in honor, this man who had once saved his life.
With an angry gesture, Steel raised his visor. “You know me, Tanis Half-Elven. I will not fight you, but I can and do demand your surrender.”
“Steel?” Tanis lowered his sword. He was surprised at this meeting, yet, in a way, wasn’t surprised at all. “Steel Brightblade …”
A young Solamnic Knight, standing near Tanis, surged past the half-elf, a spear aimed at Steel’s unprotected face.
Steel raised his arm to counter the blow, slipped in a pool of blood, fell to the ground. His sword—his father’s sword—flew from his grasp. The young Solamnic Knight was on him.
Steel tried desperately to stand, but the heavy armor prevented swift movement. The Solamnic Knight raised his spear, prepared to drive the point through Steel’s throat. Suddenly spear and knight vanished from Steel’s view.
Tanis stood over him, offered him a hand to help him rise.
Pride urged Steel to refuse aid from the enemy, but common sense and the Vision prompted him to grudgingly accept Tanis’s assistance.
“Once again, I owe you my life, Half-Elven,” Steel said bitterly when he was on his feet.
“Don’t thank me,” Tanis returned grimly. “I made a promise to—”
The half-elf’s eyes opened wide, his face contorted with pain. He lurched forward with a pain-filled cry.
One of the brutes, standing behind the half-elf, jerked free a blood-covered sword.
Tanis staggered; his knees gave way.
Steel caught the half-elf, lowered him gently to the floor. Cradling Tanis in his arms, Steel could feel warm blood wash over his hands.
“Half-Elven,” Steel said urgently. “I wasn’t the one who struck you! I swear it!”
Tanis looked up, grimaced. “I … know,” he whispered, with a wry smile. “You are a … Brightblade.”
He stiffened, gasped, drew in a ragged breath. Blood trickled from his mouth. His gaze slid past Steel, attempted to focus on something behind the dark knight.
Tanis smiled. “Sturm, I kept my promise.”
Sighing softly, as if grateful for the chance to rest, Tanis closed his eyes and died.
“Half-Elven!” Steel cried, though he knew he would hear no answer. “Tanis …”
Steel was aware, suddenly, of a Solamnic Knight standing over him. The knight stared down at the body at his feet with an expression of intense grief, anguish, and sorrow.
The Solamnic Knight wore no helm, carried no weapon. His armor was antique in design. He said nothing, made no threatening move. He shifted his gaze, regarded Steel with an intense expr
ession that was both sorrowful and filled with pride.
Steel knew then who stood over him. No dream. No vision. Or, if so, his imagination gave the dream form and body.
“Father!” Steel whispered.
Sturm Brightblade said no word. Bending down, he picked up the body of Tanis Half-Elven, lifted it in his arms, and turning, walked slowly, with measured tread, from the courtyard.
The sound of defiant shouts and clashing arms roused Steel. The iron doors, marked by the symbol of Paladine, burst open. A new force of Solamnic Knights rushed into the courtyard, coming to the aid of their comrades. A knight shouted that Tanis Half-Elven was dead; another knight vowed to Paladine to avenge his death. They pointed at Steel.
Steel, retrieving his sword, advanced to meet them.
6
The dragons silent. The door open.
Someone waiting on the other side.
ops,” said Tasslehoff Burrfoot, stunned and awed. Then he added, with a wail, “I broke it! I didn’t mean to, Palin! I’m always breaking things. It’s a curse. First a dragon orb, then the time-traveling device! Now I’ve really done it! I’ve broken the Portal to the Abyss!”
“Nonsense,” snapped Palin, but his voice lacked conviction. The thought occurred to him—alarmingly—that if anyone on Krynn could “break” the Portal to the Abyss, it would be Tasslehoff.
More logical thought prevailed. The Portal had been constructed by powerful mages using powerful magic that not even a kender could unravel. But, if that was true, then what was wrong?
Palin, cautiously approaching the Portal for a closer look, regarded it in perplexity.
“I saw it once before, you know, Palin.” Tas gazed at the Portal and sadly shook his head. “It was truly wonderful in a horrible sort of way. The five dragon heads were all different colors and they were all shrieking and Raistlin was chanting and inside were swirly lights that made you dizzy to watch and I heard terrible laughter from inside and … and …” Tas sighed and slumped gloomily to the floor. “Look at it now.”
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 38