Steel started to commend their souls to Takhisis. He bit off the words.
“Anything else?” he asked wearily.
“There is some good news, sir. We’ve found a few of the blue dragons still alive. They had been ordered, as we had, to keep out of the battle. And some silver dragons have joined them. They came late, it seems. They were at Silver Dragon Mountain, guarding the tomb of Huma, when they received orders to come to the High Clerist’s Tower.”
“Orders? Who gave them these orders?”
The knight gazed at Steel steadily. “They claim it was Huma himself, sir.”
Steel shook his head. “What else have you to report?”
“Every weapon we have has been shattered, destroyed, with one exception. We’ve found a pile of lances. Dragonlances, they look like. They’ve all been stacked up neatly against the wall, here by the staircase, sir.”
“Dragonlances.” Steel stared at the man. “Are you sure?”
“Well, no, sir, not really. None of us have seen one before. But they match the descriptions we were given.”
“Where are they?” Steel asked, a chill creeping through him despite the heat. “Show me.”
“Yes, sir. This way.”
The knight led his officer through the corridors to the entrance to the Chamber of Paladine. A bright silver glow welled up from below.
“It was the glow caught our eye, sir. We thought there might be someone down there. But all we found were the lances.”
Steel descended the stairs, acutely reminded of the time he’d walked these stairs before, in company with Caramon Majere and Tanis Half-Elven, to pay his respects to his father.
All the knights in his talon had gathered here, amid the tombs and the dust. The chamber seemed strangely empty, though the bodies did not appear to have been disturbed. Perhaps the souls of the dead of ages past had risen and gone to the attack. The lances, shining silver in the torchlight, were stacked neatly against the wall. The dark knights stood well back, kept away from the lances, eyeing them with suspicion and doubt, muttering among themselves.
Were these the famed dragonlances, forged of magical silver by Theros of the Silver Arm? Were these the weapons that had helped defeat the Dark Queen? If so, how had the lances come to be in the tomb and why? No one loyal to Takhisis could touch the weapons, blessed by Paladine, dedicated to his service.
Steel walked over to inspect the lances more closely. He had studied descriptions of these weapons, as he had studied all the battles in which the dragonlances had played a part. If they were the famed dragonlances—and they certainly looked it—they were the type known as the footman’s lance, shorter and lighter than the mounted lances that were fixed on the dragon saddles.
Bending down to more closely inspect one, Steel marveled at the craftsmanship. Each lance was about eight feet long, the haft and head both made of silver—presumably the magical silver that came from Silver Dragon Mountain. Legend had it that these lances could be forged only by a man with the Silver Arm of Ergoth and the famed dwarven artifact, the Hammer of Kharas. The head was honed to a razor-sharp edge, and barbs protruded from the sides. The lances appeared to be well balanced. Steel reached to pick one up.
A shock, as if he’d been struck by lightning, jolted through Steel’s arm, numbing it from fingers to shoulder and sending currents of sizzling fire through his body. For several seconds, he was paralyzed, unable to move. Clutching his arm, trying to rub some life back into it, he fell backward.
“An amusing joke, Father,” Steel muttered. “Your god must have gotten a good laugh out of that one. I renounce you all, every one of you.” He tried to lift his hand, to take hold of the necklace and tear it from his neck, but his arm spasmed and his hand would not obey his will. “Take the lances, you say! Ride to defeat Chaos! How, when the damn lances are utterly useless—?”
“Not to us.”
Steel halted his ranting.
A small band of Solamnic Knights—lean, clad in rags, their arms and backs marked by the stripes of the lash—stood at the top of the stairs.
“The prisoners!” Several of the knights drew their swords. “They’ve escaped!”
“Put away your weapons,” Steel ordered. “They’re not here to fight us. At least, I don’t think so.”
He recognized the knight who had spoken as the same young man who had been lashed for Steel’s mistake when they had both been prisoners.
“Why are you here, Sir Knight?” Steel asked. “We didn’t know you had escaped your cells. You could be on your way to Palanthas by now.”
“We were,” the young knight said with a rueful smile. He descended the stairs, came to stand in front of Steel. “We were in the dungeons when the attack began. Our guards left us to join in the fighting. We had no idea what was going on. We couldn’t see, but we could hear well enough. The horrible sounds nearly drove us crazy. We thought we were going to be butchered in our cells, but the enemy never came below, never found us. Something struck the tower, shook it to its foundations. The walls cracked. Stones began to tumble down. We thought we were going to be buried beneath. Eventually, the shaking stopped. We were still alive and, what’s more, our cell door had shaken loose.
“We slipped out. We were about ready to sneak out through one of the side doors on the Knight’s Spur when we overheard you”—the knight indicated Steel—“talking to someone about how the war was not lost, that you were planning to lead a band of heroes into the Abyss.”
The young knight reached down, lifted one of the silver-glowing lances in his hand. He hefted it easily. The lance was—as Steel had guessed—very well balanced.
The dark knights murmured in warning, drew nearer the Solamnic, ready to run him through.
The Solamnic Knight ignored them. He lowered the lance before him so that the tip touched the floor. “Rarely have we known a man of such courage and honor. If you will accept our services, Steel Brightblade, we will follow you into battle.”
Steel gazed at them in wonder. “You could have escaped, gone back to your homes. Why did you return?”
The young knight nodded gravely. “We heard what you said about singing the hero songs. You were right. Perhaps no one will sing them for us. But at least we won’t be forced to go through our lives singing them for someone else.”
“If we go, we go without hope of ever coming back alive. We cannot even count on our gods to go with us,” Steel added with a bitter smile. “We fight alone.”
“We know, sir,” said the young Solamnic Knight. “We understand, and we are prepared to go. We ask only that you give us back our armor and our swords.”
You’re a fool, Son! His mother’s voice. They want their weapons so they can turn on you!
These are your example, Son. His father’s voice. These men go forth in honor, for the sake of doing what is right.
Steel reached up, unfastened the clasp that held the starjewel. The chain slid into his hand. He folded his fingers over it, held it fast for a moment, then laid it, with a steady hand, on his father’s bier.
The warring voices fell silent. The tomb was silent. The knights stood silent, awaiting Steel’s decision. He drew his sword, his father’s sword, which would break only if he did.
“We will sing the hero songs ourselves.”
27
Preparations.
he Knights of Takhisis did honor to their dead with words and song. There wasn’t time to do more, to entomb them properly or burn the corpses. There were too many. Some of the knights were disturbed by this, spoke of carrion birds and jackals or other creatures, more hideous, that might prey on and defile the dead.
The dark paladins stood in a circle around the body of their fallen lord, wondering what in haste they could do to protect their dead, when they were suddenly aware of a woman standing in their midst.
She had come upon them silently, no one knew from where. She was beautiful, her eyes the color of moonlight on blue water. Yet—though she appeared serene on the su
rface, there was dangerous power beneath. She was clad in armor that glistened with water, had the appearance of fish-scales. Her dark hair was bound up with sea flowers and shells. The knights knew her, then, and bowed before her.
It was Zeboim, goddess of the sea, the mother of Ariakan.
She knelt over the body of her dead son, gazed at him long. Two tears slid down her cheeks, fell, gleaming like pearls, onto her armor. She glanced around the tower, with its flickering torchlight, its flitting shadows, its empty corridors and silent halls. Her gaze at last fell on the knights.
“None will come to bother your dead,” the goddess said. “Look. Listen. No birds circle in the sky this night. No beasts prowl. No flies buzz. Every creature, from the lowest insect to the mightiest dragon, knows that its fate hangs in balance this night. All wait for the end—as do we.”
Steel gestured silently to his men. They left the goddess alone with her dead.
The Knights of Solamnia donned the armor taken from them when they were captured. They buckled on their swords, placed their helms on their heads. The dragonlances in their hands, the Solamnic Knights mounted the silver dragons who had arrived too late to fight in the battle of the High Clerist’s Tower.
The dark paladins mounted the blue dragons who had been held in reserve.
Steel was disappointed to find that Flare was not among them. Her comrades had no idea where she had gone. She had been enraged when the orders came that they were to take no part in the fighting. She had nearly blasted the officer with her lightning breath, had blown a great chunk of rock out of the mountainside. Sulking, she had disappeared. No one knew where, but it was assumed she had disobeyed, gone to do battle on her own.
Steel searched among the bodies of the dragons, hoping to find Flare, that he might do her honor before he departed. His search had been, of necessity, a quick one, and he had not been able to find her corpse among the other blues. He could only conclude that her body lay somewhere in the forests, among the rocks of the Vingaard Mountains.
He was about to climb into the saddle of a strange blue dragon when there came an angry call from above. Wings whipping up clouds of dust, Flare descended from the skies, landed right in front of the strange dragon. Her neck arched in challenge, her wings spread, tail lashing, she advanced on the stranger.
“This is my knight!” Flare hissed. “He rides to battle with no one except me!”
Steel hastily intervened before a fight broke out, for the blue he rode had no intention of backing down. Steel asked the strange blue politely to join those dragons who were going along on their own. The blue agreed, stiffly, making it clear he was offended. Flare did not attack the stranger, once Steel had asked the dragon to leave, but she got in a nip on the stranger’s tail as he departed.
Dragon and rider greeted each other joyously, each pleased to see the other still alive and, apparently, unharmed.
“The others said you left in anger,” Steel said. “Where have you been? Where did you go?”
Flare tossed her head; her blue mane glistened in the torchlight. “I went to see this rift of which everyone talked, to see for myself if it existed or not. I admit,” she added, with a sidelong glance at the silver dragons, “I thought it might be a trick.” Her voice deepened, and she lowered her head. “It is not a trick, Steel,” she said. “A dreadful battle rages within the Abyss. I’ve been there. I have seen it.”
“How does the war go?”
Flare’s eyes glinted. “Our queen fled. Did you know that?”
“I knew.” Steel’s voice was soft, grim.
“Some of the gods left with her: Hiddukel was the first one out. Zivilyn departed, saying he had seen all the endings and feared to influence the outcome if he stayed. Gilean sits, writing in his book, the last book. The other gods fight on, led by Kiri-Jolith and Sargonnas, but they—being on the same immortal plane with Chaos—can do little against him.”
“And we can?” Steel asked.
“Yes, that is what I came to tell you. But”—Flare glanced around at the mounted men—“it seems you have already heard.”
“I have, but I am glad to have the information confirmed.”
Steel climbed onto Flare’s back. He raised the standard of the Knights of Takhisis, the flag bearing the death lily, the skull. The Solamnic Knights raised their own standard, decorated with the kingfisher, holding in one claw a rose, the other claw a sword. The flags hung limp and lifeless in the hot, breathless night.
No one cheered. No one spoke. Each man took a long, last look around him at the world he was never going to see again. The Solamnic Knights dipped their standard in salute to the High Clerist’s Tower. Steel dipped his standard to the dead.
Their dragons took wing, bearing their riders up into the empty, starless, godless sky.
28
The gift. Instructions.
hat are we waiting for?” Usha demanded, nervous and irritable. “Why don’t we go somewhere, do something?”
“Soon, soon,” Dougan murmured.
“I agree,” said Tasslehoff, scuffing about dispiritedly, kicking up clouds of ash with his boots. “Things picked up considerably when those shadow-what-ma-jiggers tried to snatch us. Mind you, I wasn’t afraid. Not really. It sort of gave me a turn to see me standing in front of me when I knew I wasn’t. Wasn’t me, I mean. And then to hear myself saying such really awful things to myself … all about how I was nothing. When I’m not, you know.”
Palin shuddered. “Don’t talk about it anymore. I agree with Usha. We should be doing something.”
“Soon, soon,” Dougan repeated, but he didn’t move.
The dwarf sat on a charred stump, fanning himself with the plumed hat. He was solemn and preoccupied and seemed to be somewhere else. He would cock his head, as if he were intently listening; peer straight ahead, as if he were intently watching. Once he groaned and covered his face with his hand, as if what he both heard and saw was too much for him to bear.
The other three watched him anxiously, continuing to ask questions, receiving no response. At last, they gave up. Usha and Palin sat together, holding hands and talking together in quiet tones. Tas, complaining about the ash that made him cough, began to rummage through his pouches.
“That’s it, then,” said Dougan, jumping to his feet with a suddenness that startled everyone. “They’re on their way. We must be there to meet them.”
“Not yet,” said a voice. “Not yet.”
Raistlin materialized inside the center of the grove of seven pines, near the shattered altar.
“Fine!” Dougan muttered, eyeing the mage with no great pleasure. “This is just all we need.”
He stomped across the ground, kicking irritably at bits of tree. Raistlin watched with a thin-lipped smile of amusement.
“Uncle!” Palin called out gladly. “What news do you bring? Did you see those creatures who attacked us?” He went to meet Raistlin.
Usha followed, reluctantly.
“Wait! Wait for me!” Tas yelled, but at that moment, something upturned all his pouches, spilling the contents. He was forced to scramble around to gather everything back up again.
Palin and Dougan entered the grove. Usha remained diffidently behind, though Palin would have drawn her forward. “You go talk to your uncle,” she said, drawing her hand out of his. “This is important. I’d only be in the way.”
As Raistlin watched all this, his golden eyes narrowed in impatience and disdain. Palin, uncomfortable, feeling somehow that he had betrayed his uncle’s trust, left Usha without another word, hurried into the grove.
Raistlin gazed at his nephew steadily. “You very nearly failed.” His gaze shifted to the spot where Palin had been standing when the shadow-wights attacked.
Palin flushed. “I—I am sorry, Uncle. It was … so horrible and … strange and …” His voice trailed off lamely.
Raistlin shifted his cold-eyed gaze to Usha. “Perhaps you were distracted, unable to concentrate.”
Palin’
s flush deepened. “No, Uncle. I don’t believe so. It was …” He shook his head, straightened, faced Raistlin directly. “I have no excuse, Uncle. If it hadn’t been for Usha, I would be what the creature told me I was—nothing. It won’t happen again, though. I promise you.”
“It is said we learn more from our failures than our successes. I hope this adage holds true for you, Nephew, for all our sakes. You are to be entrusted with an enormous responsibility. Lives—many lives—hang in the balance.”
“I will not fail you, Uncle.”
“Do not fail yourself.”
Raistlin’s gaze went again to Usha, who sought refuge in the shadow of a burned tree.
“Enough of this nonsense,” Dougan growled. “To my mind, the young one handled himself well enough, Master Mage, considering his age and his inexperience. And if he was a wee bit distracted by his love for the lass, it was her love that saved him in the end. Where would you be now, Raistlin Majere, if you had counted love a strength, not a weakness?”
“Probably sitting in my brother’s kitchen, making gold coins come out my nose for the enjoyment of little children,” Raistlin retorted. “I gave my all to my magic, and it never disappointed me. It was lover, wife, and child.…”
“You even killed your own brother for it,” said Dougan.
“I did,” Raistlin replied calmly. “As I said, we learn from our failures. Enough of this. We are running out of time—literally. Dalamar returned to the tower. His adventures were many and dangerous, and I will not waste what moments we have left detailing them. Suffice to say, he and the others have discovered a weakness. Chaos has been forced to manifest himself on this plane of existence. He has taken on physical form. This makes him vulnerable.”
“About as vulnerable as a mountain to a gully dwarf with a pickaxe,” Dougan muttered.
“I did not say he would be easy to defeat.” Raistlin flicked a disparaging glance at the dwarf. “But there is a fault in the rock.”
“Aye, I know it.” Dougan sighed.
“Then you know what must be done?”
Dragons of Summer Flame Page 65