Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  The argument went on so long and was so wearing and unproductive that Palin several times drifted off to sleep. He would wake again with a start when some particularly loud voice was raised, only to drift off yet again. He had the distinct and somewhat uneasy feeling of the passing of time, but that time was somewhere else, not here.

  He would have questioned Raistlin, but when he tried to speak, Raistlin shook his head, the golden eyes narrowed. He appeared highly displeased. Tasslehoff was sound asleep, snoring softly.

  At length, just when Hiddukel stated that he was prepared to cite several important legal precedents, all of which had a direct bearing on his case, Paladine and Takhisis, who had remained silent during the argument and who continued to remain silent, exchanged glances.

  There was a sudden flash of brilliant light, and only the three elder gods were left standing in the circle. The lesser gods had been banished.

  “It was useless to bring them here,” Takhisis said bitterly.

  “We had to try.” It was the hitherto silent Gilean who spoke. He held a large book, in which he was constantly writing. “We might have learned something that would aid us.”

  “It is obvious to me that none of them knows how this happened,” Paladine returned. “Somehow, Chaos apparently became trapped inside the Graygem, and—rightly or wrongly—he blames us.”

  “If he’s telling the truth,” Takhisis said. “This could be a ruse.”

  “I believe he was trapped inside,” Gilean said thoughtfully. “I’ve given the matter careful study, and it would explain a great deal: the havoc that the Graygem has wreaked all over Krynn, the fact that none of us could control it—”

  “Your Irda managed to control it, Brother,” Takhisis interrupted, with an accusatory glance at Paladine.

  “It controlled them, you mean,” the god answered sternly. “Chaos at last discovered people he could manipulate, people strong enough in magic to free him, yet not strong enough to stop him. They have paid for their folly.”

  “And he is determined to make us pay. The question is, can he do it, my brothers? Is he strong enough? We have grown in strength ourselves over the centuries.”

  “Not nearly as strong as we need to be,” Gilean said with a sigh. “As you yourself reported, Sister, Chaos has caused a great rift to form in the Abyss. He has grown in power, far beyond anything we could ever dream. He is summoning forth his armies: fiends and dread shadow warriors, fire dragons. When he is ready, he will attack Krynn. His object: to destroy everything we created. When that is accomplished, the rift will be vast and deep, so vast and deep that it will swallow the world. All that is now will be nothing.”

  “And what of us?” Takhisis demanded. “What will he do to us?”

  “He gave us life,” Paladine said heavily. “He could take it away.”

  “The question is, what do we do now?” Gilean asked, looking from one sibling to another.

  “He’s toying with us,” said Paladine. “He could destroy us all with a flick of an eyelash. He wants to see us suffer, to see our creation suffer.”

  “I say we leave, Brothers, slip away before he knows we are gone.” Takhisis shrugged. “We can always create another world.”

  “I will not abandon those who trust in me.” Paladine was stern. “I will sacrifice myself for them if need be.”

  “We might be doing them a favor by leaving,” Gilean pointed out. “If we leave, Chaos might follow us.”

  “After he destroyed the world,” Paladine insisted, glowering, “our ‘plaything,’ as he calls it. He will show no mercy. I will stay and fight him—alone if need be.”

  The other two gods were silent, thoughtful.

  “Perhaps you are right, Brother,” Takhisis said, with sudden, disarming sweetness. “We should stay and fight. But we will need the help of the mortals, don’t you agree?”

  “They will need to help themselves, that much is true,” Paladine said, eyeing his sister distrustfully.

  “We could never destroy Chaos,” Gilean said, “but there might be ways to force him to leave. In this, the mortals could aid us.”

  “If they were united,” Takhisis said. “It wouldn’t do to have armies of humans and elves turn on each other when they were supposed to fight the legions of Chaos.”

  “They would unite,” Paladine said grimly. “They would have no choice.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Do we dare risk it, my brothers? For their sakes, as much as ours?”

  “State your meaning plainly, Sister,” Paladine demanded. “You have some plan in mind, I see.”

  “One that will undoubtedly be to her advantage,” Gilean added in a whispered aside to his brother.

  Takhisis heard him, looked hurt at the thought that they could so misunderstand her. “What benefits one benefits us all, if we manage to rid the world of Chaos. Is that not true, dear brothers?”

  “What is your plan?” Paladine repeated.

  “Only this. Give control of Ansalon to my knights. Permit them to hold sway. Under their rule, law and order will prevail. This endless bickering and fighting among the mortals will cease. Peace will come to Ansalon. The mortals will be unified and therefore prepared for Chaos’s attack.”

  “Unity? The unity of slaves! The peace of the prison house! I cannot believe this, not even of you, Sister,” Paladine returned angrily. “Never have we faced such peril, and even now, while your very existence hangs by a thread, you scheme and plot to have your own way. I will not agree.”

  “Now, wait a moment, Brother,” Gilean said in mollifying tones. “Certainly our beloved sister is double-dealing, trying to play both ends against the middle. What else did you expect? But the plan she has proposed does have some merit. A unified and peaceful Ansalon, even if it is unified under darkness, would be better prepared to face the armies of Chaos than an Ansalon that is fragmented, divided, in turmoil.”

  Paladine was thoughtful, troubled. His gaze went to Takhisis, back to Gilean. “Do you stand with her on this?”

  “Yes, Brother, I’m afraid I must,” Gilean said gently. “Otherwise, I see no hope.”

  “Come, Brother, don’t be selfish,” Takhisis advised, her tone mocking. “You speak very glibly of sacrificing yourself for your precious mortals. But when it comes to the point where you must do so, you balk. Are you all talk? Or do you really mean what you say?”

  Paladine was silent a long, long time. His brow furrowed in thought, he turned his sorrowful gaze out toward the world. At length, he shook his head. “I cannot see the future. Flame and smoke block my vision. I am not certain you two are right, yet, if you both are against me, I have little choice but to acquiesce. I agree, Sister,” he said, with a bitter sigh. “Ansalon will be yours.”

  “You have chosen wisely, Brother,” Takhisis said, cool and dark, magnanimous in triumph.

  “But you rule only until the forces of Chaos are destroyed,” Paladine insisted.

  “Or we are,” Gilean added gloomily. He exhibited the book, in which he continued to write. “It could be, dear brother, dear sister, that I am penning the last chapter.”

  “Then,” said Takhisis, “we had better make it a good one. Farewell, my brothers. I have a battle to win.”

  She disappeared. Paladine left immediately after. Gilean alone remained. He sat down, continued writing in the great book.

  8

  Disappointment. Victory is ours.

  The surrender.

  teel Brightblade was alive.

  He didn’t want to be. He wasn’t supposed to be. He should have died in the assault on the High Clerist’s Tower, died nobly, bravely in battle, his life sacrificed for his queen, his honor restored.

  And he had been meant to die—his armor pierced by a spear wielded by a noble enemy. Tanis Half-Elven had thwarted fate by saving Steel from that spear. Tanis Half-Elven had died Steel’s death.

  Steel stood in the central courtyard of the High Clerist’s Tower, his bloodied sword in a hand that was sticky and gum
med with blood—some of it his own, most of it belonging to others. He couldn’t quite comprehend what was happening; the battle-lust burned hot in him still. His most vivid memory was of his father, bearing away Tanis’s body. And he wondered now if he might not have imagined all that, but for the fact that Tanis’s blood stained the stones at his feet.

  After that, he knew nothing but the strange silence of battle—the silence that encompasses the clash of arms, the grunts of the dying, the shouts of orders, the trampling of feet. Yet all these sounds are blotted out by the silence within, the silence of the warrior, who must concentrate his being on his objective, who must let nothing distract him, nothing interfere.

  For Steel, the silence was broken when he looked around for another opponent to fight—and realized there were none.

  “Victory! Victory is ours!” Subcommander Trevalin—his armor blood-spattered and dented, his face covered with sweat and grime—strode into the central courtyard, shouting the news.

  “Tell this to my Lord Ariakan!” Trevalin commanded, catching hold of a squire and shoving him toward the entrance. “Tell him—if he hasn’t heard already—that the Solamnics want to discuss terms of surrender.”

  Trevalin glanced around, saw Steel, standing, dazed and bewildered, in the center of the courtyard. Trevalin strode over, clapped his arms around his friend.

  “Brightblade! Sheathe your sword! We’ve won!”

  “Won …” Steel repeated. The battle had ended and he was alive.

  Trevalin, exhilarated, continued on. “A glorious campaign! It will live forever. The High Clerist’s Tower falls for the first time in recorded history! A stunning victory! Palanthas is ours next. Once they hear that their protectors have been defeated, the good dragons fled, the citizens will drop like rotten fruit into our hands. And you, my friend! I’ve heard tales of your valor already! They say you are the slayer of Tanis Half-Elven.”

  “No,” Steel mumbled. The fire of battle that had raced through his veins was slowly being stamped out, leaving nothing but ashes and smoke. He was alive. “No, I didn’t kill the half-elf. He saved—”

  But Trevalin wasn’t listening. A courier from Lord Ariakan had ridden into the courtyard. His horse—trained for swiftness, not battle—shied at the sight of the bodies, the stench of blood. The courier fought to hold the animal steady, searched for someone in authority.

  “His Lordship has seen a white flag displayed from the top of the tower. Messengers report that the tower’s defenders wish to discuss terms of surrender. My lord has also heard that the silver dragons and the golden dragons have abandoned the field, left the battle. Is any of this true, Subcommander?”

  “It’s true, all of it. I myself saw the so-called ‘good’ dragons flee.” Trevalin laughed. “Perhaps Paladine sent them a message, ordered them to retreat.”

  The courier didn’t seem to find this funny. His horse stamped and snorted, cantered about nervously, its hooves slipping on the blood-covered stones. The courier hung on gamely, guiding the restive animal this way and that, while talking to Trevalin.

  “His lordship suspects a trick.”

  Trevalin nodded, more soberly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if the dragons have fled only to regroup somewhere, increase their numbers. All the more reason to accept the surrender of the knights and take command of this fortress quickly.”

  “Are these their officers?” the courier asked in a low voice, leaning over his horse’s neck. “These men coming toward us?”

  Three Knights of Solamnia advanced into the courtyard. One, the commander, a Lord Knight of the Rose, walked in front; the other two walked solemnly to either side. They had removed their helms—either that or they had lost them in battle. The three knights bore marks from the fray; their armor was battered, covered with dust and blood. The commander limped badly, grimaced in pain with every slow and halting step. Another’s face was covered with blood from a gash on his head; he carried one arm stiffly. The third had a crude bandage wrapped about one eye; blood seeped beneath it, trickled down his cheek.

  They carried, between them, a length of white cloth.

  “Those are the officers,” Trevalin confirmed.

  The courier rode to meet them. Halting his steed, he saluted.

  The defeated Solamnic commander lifted his haggard gaze. He was middle-aged, but he appeared far, far older. “Are you from Lord Ariakan? Will you carry a message to him?”

  “I will, Sir Knight,” the courier replied politely. “What message am I to carry to His Lordship?”

  The Solamnic Knight rubbed his hand across his face, perhaps wiping away blood, perhaps tears. He sighed. “Tell His Lordship we ask permission to remove our dead from the field.”

  “This means, my lord, that you surrender this tower?”

  The knight nodded his head slowly. “On condition that there be no more bloodshed. Too many have died this day.”

  “It may be that His Lordship requires unconditional surrender,” the courier returned.

  The knight’s expression hardened. “If such is the case, we will continue fighting until not one of us is left alive. A grievous waste.”

  At this point, one of the knights accompanying the commander spoke in urgent tones, appeared to renew an argument.

  The commander silenced him with a motion of his hand. “We have discussed this once. I will not send any more young men to their deaths in what would be a wasted effort. I know Ariakan. He will act honorably. If not—” He shook his head, returned his grim gaze to the courier. “Those are our terms. Tell your lord he can take them or leave them.”

  “I will do so, Sir Knight.”

  The courier galloped off. The three defeated knights stood off to themselves, held themselves aloof. They said nothing to each other, kept their eyes straight forward, refusing to acknowledge the presence of the enemy.

  “He’ll accept them,” Trevalin predicted. “The battle’s done. All else is useless slaughter. As I said, my guess is he’ll want to take control of the tower swiftly, before the gold dragons return. And now I must go back to my command. You will be pleased to know, Brightblade, that Flare survived the battle without injury. She fought well, though she seemed to me to be lacking spirit. Missed her true master, I guess. I—Brightblade, what is this?”

  “My sword,” said Steel darkly, bitterly. “I surrender myself up to you, Subcommander. I am your prisoner.”

  Trevalin was at first confused. Then he remembered. “Damn! I had forgotten all about that.” He shoved the proffered sword aside, moved closer, spoke softly. “Listen to me, Steel. Don’t say a word to anyone. His Lordship will have forgotten all about this, too. As to that Nightlord—well, Ariakan will hear of your valor this day. What is the loss of one measly mage compared to the duel between you and Tanis Half-Elven? A duel you won!”

  Steel was cold, calm. “I am your prisoner, Subcommander.”

  “Brightblade, damn it,” Trevalin began, exasperated.

  Steel unbuckled his swordbelt, held his sword in his hands.

  “Very well, Brightblade,” Trevalin said in a low voice. “I place you under arrest. But the first opportunity I have, I will personally speak to Lord Ariakan on your behalf, ask him to take into account your bravery—”

  “Please do not, Subcommander,” Steel said in the same chill tone. “Thank you, but I ask you to say nothing. My lord will think that I am begging for my life. Take me to wherever it is they are holding the prisoners.”

  “Very well,” Trevalin said, after a moment’s pause, waiting—hoping—Steel would change his mind, “if that is what you want.”

  Trevalin gestured for Steel to precede him, indicated a door at the far end of the courtyard.

  Outside the tower walls came the blare of trumpets and the shouts of men, celebrating victory. Steel heard the clatter of hooves. Lord Ariakan was approaching, riding in triumph, riding as conqueror to the fortress he had once entered as the conquered.

  Steel did not wait to watch. He did not want t
o spoil the moment, did not want his lord—in his glory—to see Steel in his shame. Lifting his head, his jaw set firm, Steel walked across the crimson-stained stones toward the prison cells of the High Clerist’s Tower.

  9

  The portal. Old friends return.

  Tasslehoff’s confession.

  ell,” muttered Tasslehoff Burrfoot, “as Bupu would have said, this is a fine kettle of rat stew!” He blinked, gasped. “I heard myself! My voice has come back! Did you hear that, Raistlin? I—”

  “Uncle,” said Palin, troubled, “what does this—”

  “Not now, kender,” Raistlin interrupted. “Nor you, either, Nephew. Questions later. We must leave swiftly, before we are discovered.”

  Relieved that he could talk again, excited to realize that he was going to be magicked yet again (twice in one day), Tas hoped they were going someplace as interesting. Another duck pond, perhaps.

  Raistlin said nothing, did nothing. But suddenly the column behind which they had hidden began to dissolve, dwindle, disappear.

  The magic whirled around Tas, or perhaps he whirled around the magic. He couldn’t tell, due to the extremely gratifying sensation of having his stomach flattened up against his spine and his topknot wrapped around his eyes.

  When the whirling stopped, his stomach fell back into its proper place. He dragged the hair out of his eyes, looked around, and sighed.

  No duck pond, nothing but gray sky above, gray ground beneath. They were back where they had started.

  There was the Portal. Beyond the Portal was the laboratory, exactly as they had left it—filled with jars and bottles containing the most interesting, if disgusting, things; books and scrolls; perhaps a magical ring or two. Tas had always had lots of luck with magical rings.