Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Algandothustokranthetoragon, First-maker of Ilmachrutandabrunthabram, peered down from his throne. He was an enormously fat gnome, his gut spilling over the sides of the great chair even though it had been built in such a cunning way that it could grow wider or narrower with the simple turn of a crank. The engineers who had designed the throne, which had served more than thirty First-makers in four centuries, had not taken into account this particular ruler’s voracious appetite for food.

  Indeed, while most gnomes tended to be so involved in their work that they forgot to eat for days—and so remained quite trim, if not gaunt—Algandothustokranthetoragon could devour sixteen roasted cave-lizards at a sitting … and that was before he tucked into his nightly bowl of fried mushrooms. He could barely walk under his own power, which was why he’d commissioned a movable bench that would do it for him. Said bench was still under development, however—the joints on the first three models had cracked when the appropriate test weight was placed on them—so the First-maker stayed put most of the time and rose only to waddle off to the water closet or to bed.

  He was toying with his beard, which, though full, looked like an absurd tuft of down on his quivering treble chins; similarly, his opal-studded crown looked like a child’s trinket, perched atop the neckless mound of his head. His eyes, sparks of blue almost lost amid the blotchy bloat of his face, squinted as he took in the four travelers who had come to his court.

  “A centaur, eh?” he asked. “Never seen one before. Very interesting, very interesting. Where do you keep your vital bits, anyway? Human half, or horse? Or do you have two sets of everything? Be good to have a second stomach. You could have luncheon again in the afternoon.”

  Hult didn’t know whether to laugh or be angry. Truth be told, he couldn’t really summon the wit for either. He was still numb after the journey to Ilmach: riding in the minoi airship had been harrowing, even though the flying machine had functioned perfectly well. Hult had taken one look down as they rose away from the Glass Sailors’ serai, and that had been enough. The image of the glass boats falling away beneath him, small as toys, crewed by men as large as ants, would surely haunt his nightmares for the rest of his life.

  The others had done better. Azar showed no fear at all, and Shedara—who had flown many times on the back of her hippogriff, Falasta—had been fine once the gnomes demonstrated the ship’s airworthiness. Even Nakhil had managed, reveling in the feeling of the wind in his mane as they cruised above the columns of stone. But Hult, who had never feared heights in his life and had climbed the steep foothills of the Ilquar Mountains without a rope when he was but a boy, couldn’t bring himself to rise to his feet again after the ascent. It was one thing to climb with one’s own muscle and sinew; it was quite another to be borne aloft by … he wasn’t sure what. He thought he heard old Malkis tell Shedara the ship was lifted by air, but that couldn’t be right. That would mean some air was lighter than other air, and that was ridiculous.

  He’d sat on the floor of the basket the whole way, missing the others’ first view of the Cauldron, and of Ilmach itself. Only when they were finally descending, into an open, vertical shaft dug into the rock, did he finally rise to look around. He caught a glimpse of the Burning Sea, all fire and ash and red magma, and found it utterly unfathomable. Saltwater oceans were strange enough to one raised on the steppes; molten rock he could barely comprehend, even when he saw it himself. Far away, so distant that the world’s curve hid its base from sight, the Chaldar rose unchallenged from the Cauldron’s heart.

  Ilmach itself was difficult to spot from outside; here and there, the gnomes had carved clusters of windows out of the columns, letting golden or blue light shine forth. Toward the bottom, gates with massive steel portcullises let out onto level ground. Chimneys jutted from the stone walls, spouting steam and ugly black smoke. From any distance, though, those features were all but invisible. Hult wondered how many more colonies of minoi lived along the shores of the Cauldron. Dozens, probably, which meant tens of thousands of gnomes … yet he’d never seen one before Malkis and his crew.

  They’d descended through the shaft and moored at a stone platform. Hult had been the first out of the basket, never so glad to feel solid ground beneath his feet. From there, Malkis had led them directly to the throne room, bypassing the gnome guards with a wave of his hand. At one point they’d entered a room with no windows and only one door, waited while it shuddered a while—and, strangely, he felt a bit heavier than usual—then emerged again in a completely different place. Shedara had tried to explain what happened, but Hult didn’t really believe her. Who had ever heard of a room that climbed up and down?

  Whatever, there they were, standing before Maker Algando, the world’s fattest gnome. Shedara told their tale, explained why the Tower of Flame had appeared across the northern horizon, told Algando about Maladar and the Hooded One and the fall of Suluk—everything, in fact, except for the bit of Maladar that dwelt within Azar—and all the great blob could think to ask was where Nakhil kept his kidneys. Another time, it might have been funny, but all Hult could see himself doing was drawing his talga and ramming it hilt deep into that prodigious belly.

  Fortunately, Malkis saved him the trouble.

  “Pay attention, my lord!” he barked, thumping his iron staff against the floor. It rang like a bell on the solid rock—Algando’s cramped, unadorned meeting hall was carved out of the stone, as were all parts of Ilmach—and everyone in the room jumped. “This is no time for trifles. The Chaldar is risen. It does not stand empty.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Algando, waving a hand like a clump of sausages. “The Chaldar. We saw it two days ago, from the highest watch. And what is more, the kurshakur all seem to have disappeared.”

  That rocked Malkis back on his heels. “Really? The kurshakur are gone?”

  The Maker nodded, a smug smile curling his lips. He was happy to know something the older gnome didn’t. “Not a one seen since the tower appeared, even out in the deep fire. Now tell me the one isn’t related to the other.”

  “Pardon, my lord,” Nakhil said, “but what is a kurshakur?”

  “No, no, no,” Algando replied. “Kurshak is the singular, kurshakur the plural. As a people, they are the kurshakutani. And the locative—”

  “Grammar aside,” Malkis interrupted, seeing the centaur’s face darken, “the kurshakur are the Flame Dancers, the creatures who live upon the Chaldar’s surface. We are always at war with them, for our ships must cross their territory to reach the other colonies. They roam the open fires, waiting to prey on the unprepared—”

  “Except now they’ve vanished,” Algando said. “And I’ve a thought that this new master of the tower, this Maladar—or Forlo or whatever he’s named—is responsible for their absence. Which can only mean one thing.”

  “He’s gathering them to him,” Shedara said. “As part of his army.”

  Hult swallowed, trying to envision it. He didn’t know quite what a kurshak looked like, but he made a guess, picturing something like a troll made of flame. There would be thousands of those, on top of the statues they’d found mired in the shallows of the Rainward coast, all gathered at the Chaldar. And they meant to head straight for it.

  “That is troubling,” Algando said. “If he means to make war, we minoi will be among his first targets.”

  “Yes,” Nakhil agreed. “And I will tell you, as one who lost his kingdom to Maladar of Aurim … he does not know mercy. He must be stopped before this war begins, or I fear that none will survive.”

  “No,” Azar said. “Some will. But they will not be the lucky ones.”

  An uncomfortable silence settled over the throne room. Somewhere in Ilmach’s depths, some giant thing let out a rumbling groan. That didn’t seem to make the gnomes nervous, though, and there were plenty of strange sounds within the colony, so Hult let it go.

  “My lord,” said Malkis. “We await your command.”

  Algando nodded, growing several extra chins as his head d
ipped. “Just so. Well, then. It looks like we’ve got some work to do. But first, let us eat. Never plan a battle on an empty stomach, I say.”

  They ate well that night—their first proper meal since Suluk was whole—and though the food was strange, Hult had never tasted better. In older days, his stomach might have turned at the notion of steamed giant spider, but he cracked their legs open and ate the meat with butter as everyone else did. There were no fewer than seven kinds of fungus, from fat, soft puffballs to long and delicate mushrooms that grew upside down from stalactites over underground lakes. There were thin slices of blind cave-fish, served still pink and cold with a pungent sauce made from some sort of grated tuber—the minoi name for it was, of course, enormously lengthy, but they shortened it to shawab. And there was beer, dark and earthy, made from mushrooms.

  He ate until it hurt. They all did. Even the gods might not know when they would get another chance.

  Algando, of course, put them all to shame. By the time the meal was done, his plate was piled so high with empty spider shells that all the others could see was the top of his head. He drank an entire gallon of beer. By the time the sweets came around—the gnomes served some kind of candied morel in honey—he alone still had an appetite for them. He finished the whole serving, looked as if he might demand another, then caught a look from Malkis and wistfully licked his fingers clean, waving to his servants to clear away the leavings.

  The servants themselves were especially strange, for they weren’t gnomes at all—nor were they any living creatures. They were strange, clattering people made of brass, which slid on metal tracks along the floor and occasionally emitted startling puffs of steam as they moved. Hult thought they were magical things, but Shedara assured him that they were anything but.

  “The minoi don’t use magic,” she said, unable to keep a note of disdain from her voice. “They use machines for everything.”

  Hult nodded, though he didn’t understand. Shedara had tried explaining machines to him on the voyage from the serai, but to him, it was all sorcery. That annoyed her, and by the time they let the matter drop, neither of them was happy with the other.

  Hult shied back as one of the brass men reached for his plate, neatly sliding fork-shaped arms underneath it and sweeping it away from the table. He glared at it as it went on its rattling way. Another appeared a moment later, bearing a deep crystal goblet filled with a thick liquor the color of rust. It set it down in front of him, then scooted off.

  “Garlathingurashepankistambutragolazar,” said Algando, relishing every syllable. He swirled the drink in its glass, holding it up to catch the light. “Distilled from the finest russet molds, from the steam caves along the Burning Shore. Drink it slow; it has a bite like a gloombat.”

  The other minoi at the table—Malkis, several advisors, and two young women whom Hult later discovered were Algando’s wives—all laughed and swirled their drinks. Hult followed suit, grinning as he raised the cup to his lips. He’d drunk fermented mare’s milk for most of his life, sometimes mixed with horse blood. He could handle any mold juice, he decided as he took a deep quaff.

  A sun exploded inside him.

  Shedara and Azar both had to pound on his back to keep him from choking. He felt like his lungs were ablaze, as though he’d gulped a mouthful of the Cauldron’s molten rock. Tears streamed down his face as the gnomes laughed and laughed.

  “F-fire …” he wheezed when he could breathe again.

  “Told you,” Algando said.

  Nakhil swirled his garlath expertly and took a sip, his eyebrows rising. “Good,” he said. “We had a drink like this in the Rainwards, though we made it from rice. Akistah, we called it.”

  “Oh?” replied the First-maker. “I shall have to try some. I do enjoy foreign goodies, but we so seldom get anything from the cold-lands. When you return to your home, you must send me a barrel of your Rainward brew. I will pay well for it, of course.”

  Pain creased the centaur’s face. “Pardon, honored one,” he murmured, “but I have no home to return to.”

  The chatter and clinking of glasses fell silent. It was like a cloud passing in front of the sun on an otherwise clear day. The minoi stared at Nakhil, their blue eyes blinking. Sorrow ran deep in all of them.

  “We understand your suffering, my friend,” said Malkis. “The columns have not always been our home. Our fathers dwelt beneath mountains long dead, lost in the Golden Rain that was Aurim’s doom. We know what it is to lose all we hold dear. The ache for your kingdom will never go away, I fear … but you will learn to live with it, as have we.”

  Nakhil bowed his head, looking very old. No tears came, though; he was well beyond that. Hult’s own eyes burned as thoughts of the Tamire ran through his head.

  “All right,” Shedara said. “Enough of this. We’ve eaten your food. We’ve drunk your drink. Now we need to talk, because tomorrow we have to sail.”

  “Of course, of course,” Algando said, draining his goblet in a long swallow. He let out a deep, rumbling belch as he set it down. “I understand your haste. All along the Cauldron’s shore, our people know something terrible is at hand. We always knew that, should the Chaldar rise again, it would mean trouble, but I don’t think any of us guessed how much trouble. If this Maladar means to restore Old Aurim …”

  He trailed off, shaking his head.

  “You will have all you need,” Malkis added. “On the morrow, our swiftest fireship, the Bandragothashingarthogliduras, will set out for the heart of the Burning Sea. You shall have charms against the fire and weapons that can harm the kurshakur.”

  “Thank you,” Shedara said. “We’ll need something to use against the statues too. Something blunt and heavy.”

  “Of course,” Algando said. “We can help with that as well. We are a stone-working people, after all. You shall each be given a hammer that will crack the hardest—”

  Before he could finish talking, an ungodly shriek ripped through the room, shrill and forceful, like a rampaging dragon. Hult was on his feet at once, reaching for his talga. Shedara and Azar rose as well, and Nakhil snapped out of his gloom and cast about, alarmed, as the terrible noise slowly faded to silence. Then it began again, blaring even louder than before and making Hult’s skull ache all over again.

  “What in Jijin’s name—?” he began.

  “An alarm!” Shedara shouted, raising her voice to be heard. “Steam-powered whistle of some sort, running all the way up from the bottom levels of Ilmach to the top of its columns. Am I right?”

  Malkis nodded. The minoi hadn’t reacted quite as swiftly as their guests, but they were all standing too—except Algando, of course, who was too full to dare putting weight on his feet.

  “A good guess,” the First-maker said. “We call it the Wyrmsthroat. There isn’t anywhere in Ilmachrutandabrunthabram where it cannot be heard.”

  Hult could believe it. The second whoop was winding down, and he hunched his shoulders in anticipation of a third. He wouldn’t have been surprised if Maladar could hear the whistle from his tower.

  A door rumbled open. A young gnome, his snowy beard scarcely long enough to touch his chest, came bustling in. He tried not to look flustered, but he wasn’t doing a very good job; from the flush in his cheeks and the sweat covering his brow, he’d clearly been running hard.

  “Majesty,” he gasped, trying to find his breath. “I come from the Firewatch.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Algando. “I suppose it was one of your fellows who sounded the Throat? Tell us what the trouble is.”

  The messenger bobbed his head, glanced at Nakhil, blinked in surprise—he might as well have yelled a centaur!—then took a deep breath.

  “It’s the kurshakutani, my lord. They’ve returned.”

  Algando smiled, indulgent. “You mean the kurshakur, don’t you? The kurshakutani are the whole race.”

  The young gnome swallowed as a chill ran through the room.

  “No,” Malkis whispered. “He means the kurshakutan
i. Don’t you, lad?”

  The messenger licked his lips. “Yes. It’s not just a few of them, Majesty. They’ve all come.”

  Chapter

  28

  ILMACHRUTANDABRUNTHABRAM, BILO COLUMNS

  The lift shuddered and rattled as it climbed up to the top of the column. Shedara wished it would go faster and briefly considered casting a spell to make it do so. That was a bad idea; the minoi considered magic to be cheating and would be affronted. As much as she needed to get where they were going, it wasn’t worth offending Algando and the other gnomes, not when there was no other way across the Cauldron.

  The kurshakutani. They’ve all come.

  The words echoed in her head, making her shiver. She already had an idea of what she would see when they reached the top of the Rokatushakorthabunduzograstakun, Ilmach’s highest tower. She hoped she was wrong, prayed it wouldn’t be as bad as that, but she couldn’t make herself believe it. If Maladar were moving against the minoi already, he wouldn’t do it by halves. He hadn’t with the Rainwards.

  Come on, you bastard, she thought as the lift shook and rumbled. Get there already.

  When the little room’s iron doors finally scraped open, she was the first one out into the room above. It was a small, dark chamber of fitted basalt blocks, brought up from the heart of the column when the gnomes first delved it. A circular flight of steps led up to the observation platform and open air above. She ran up them two at a time, reached a trapdoor, slid back its bolt, and climbed up onto the Rokatu’s parapet.

  Its height was dizzying, soaring five hundred feet above the tallest columns and giving a view that reached all the way back to the Shining Lands to the north. Hot wind whipped around her, blowing her hair into her eyes. She turned and crossed to the south side, where the Chaldar dominated the sky, a needle of blue-white light against the black broil. Beneath, the Burning Sea churned, slowly revolving around the flickering spire. Shedara leaned over the iron rail, gazing down at the shore as Malkis and her friends came up the stairs behind her.