Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

The old man shrugged. “I am … or as good as. I will not live much longer. But I had to hold on. I kept some of his power, you see … enough to remain here, for a time.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hult said.

  “I’m afraid I have one task left: to save you,” Azar said with a bare smile. “Unless you already had a plan for leaving Aurim, with the Varya gone.”

  They looked at each other, understanding.

  Azar gestured to them both. “Hurry! Come close. Bring my father. Quickly, now. I still have power, but it’s fading. I will not last much longer.”

  Hult scowled, confused, but did as the old man bade. Grabbing Forlo under his arms, he dragged his friend across the bridge to where Shedara knelt. Forlo didn’t stir, didn’t make a sound.

  “Soon this place will turn back to flame,” Azar said, looking down regretfully at Forlo’s motionless form. “No living thing could survive inside. I must send you away before that happens.”

  “What about Maladar?” Shedara asked. “Did we kill him?”

  “No,” Azar said.

  Just then, a howl rang out, a noise of pure wrath, as if the air itself had turned to knives and venom. It came from all around, loud and shrill and utterly insane. It went on and on, for far longer than any human voice ought to have been able to last, but finally it died away into a feeble, broken croak.

  “Ancestors’ bones,” Hult breathed.

  Shedara swallowed. “What’s happened to him?”

  “His punishment,” Azar said. He shut his eyes, taking a deep breath. “You must go at once. Death is coming for me, and it will take you as well if you delay.”

  Hult looked around. The room was starting to swim, details dissolving in the living fire. The air grew warmer and warmer, baking him. The Chaldar was reclaiming itself, shedding the shape Maladar’s will had imposed upon it.

  “But if Maladar isn’t dead, we’ve failed!” Shedara protested. “He has to be stopped.”

  “He is stopped!” Azar said. “Death is not his fate. What awaits him is far worse. There is no more time for talk. Come near.”

  Shedara still didn’t look happy, and Hult couldn’t blame her. But the edges of the throne room were gone, devoured by the inferno, which crept nearer every moment. They gathered around Azar, huddling close, trying not to look at the fatal wound gaping in his throat.

  “Farewell, my friends,” Azar said. “When my mother and father ask about me …” He trailed off, lost for words.

  “We will tell them you met a hero’s end,” Hult said. “Do not fear.”

  The old man nodded. He looked down at Forlo, a lifetime of sadness in his eyes.

  “Tell them … tell them it will be all right,” he said. “Tell them to try again, and to remember me.”

  Hult looked at Shedara, who was weeping unabashedly, and felt a surge of love and sorrow. His eyes burned, tears spilling onto his cheeks as well.

  The air shimmered, so hot it grew hard to breathe. Azar began to chant, calling down the moons’ power. His face swam before Hult, aging with every word, until it was a withered mass of wrinkles beneath hair so white that it fairly glowed. Then the flames caught him, and he went up like a torch. Hult recoiled, barely noticing that he wasn’t burning as well.

  Then silver light surrounded him, and he was gone, rushing through darkness toward some place far away.

  Maladar knew fire and little else.

  Flames swirled around him, blue and gold and white: a whirlwind of them, rolling and curling and billowing in great, blooming clouds that choked the air with smoke. There was no sky above him, no ground below. In fact, there was no up or down. There was only the fire, the unending fire.

  It did not burn him; there was no pain, not even warmth. No feeling at all. He couldn’t feel his own body, and as soon as that thought came to him, another followed: he had no body. Barreth Forlo had rejected him, and Azar had chosen death rather than yield up Maladar’s soul. He remembered looking out of both sets of eyes, each of them seeing the other half of his ghost, with the cord of magic snaking between. He remembered pulling himself toward himself, and the Uigan—another Hith-be-damned Uigan!—attacking with a sword, severing the cord.

  Though he couldn’t feel it, the memory of the pain remained strong. Being split from his own soul was a worse agony than he’d ever known, more terrible even than the day he’d cut off his own face or when he’d died, writhing, from poison. It was like a jagged blade, ripping him in two. Then one of his twin visions had dimmed to darkness as the piece of him that had dwelt in Barreth Forlo’s son dissolved.

  After that, he remembered nothing else. What became of Forlo, the Uigan, and the elf-bitch, he had no idea. Everything had gone dark and cold, and he’d awoken to the sound of his own voice screaming, surrounded by flame, with no idea where he was or what he was.

  I am the fire, he thought. He couldn’t speak, for he had neither lungs to make a voice nor tongue to shape words.

  The fire is me.

  “Yes,” whispered a voice, very near. Maladar didn’t have to turn, just shift his attention toward the sound. And, of course, there was Hith, scarlet-skinned and black-armored, the only thing in sight besides the flames. “You and the fire are one, as you and the stone were when you dwelt within the Hooded One.”

  I don’t understand, Maladar thought. How is this possible?

  “Because I willed it to be so,” the god replied. “You are stupid, and you failed. This is the price of your arrogance, my servant. You are no good to me dead, with your soul trapped forever in the Abyss. But here, in the Chaldar, you remain within my reach. Here you may linger, so that one day you might serve me again.”

  If I am freed, Maladar thought. It worked with the statue. It can work here too.

  “In time, perhaps,” the god said, shrugging. “Though only three know you are here, and none of them is likely to tell anyone. Perhaps, one day, your soul may escape. But that day may be longer in coming than all the time you spent in the Hooded One. Or it may never come at all.”

  And if it doesn’t?

  “Then you will remain here until the great book of the world is closed, and time is no more.” Hith chuckled. “You should be glad, Faceless One. Your dearest dream was to live forever. Now it has come true.”

  Then the god was gone, and he was alone … utterly alone, amid the boundless fire, the fire that never stopped.

  Maladar screamed for centuries.

  Chapter

  37

  THUMAR, RAINWARD ISLES

  Water thumped against the ship’s hull, waves lapping in a steady rhythm as the sailors furled the sails and brought her to a halt in the shallows off the port. Already a longboat was rowing out to meet them from the docks, which were lined with ships bearing refugees from lost Suluk. Thumar, home of King Calex and the northernmost of all the Rainward realms, surrounded the ship on all sides, a metropolis sprawled on seven rocky islands in a blue-green bay, linked to one another by high, vaulted bridges. Gulls wheeled above, diving down from the arches beneath the spans to pluck golden fish from the water or, sometimes, from the decks of fishing boats, lifting them away to the curses of the men who crewed them. Tall, moss-sheathed stone towers leaned over the water, carved out of the jagged rocks of the isles themselves. Stairs led down from those spires to the marble piers, and long-chained winch lifts carried cargo up and down.

  All was quiet in Thumar that day, the banners flying from her parapets black, rather than the accustomed violet. The petals of lilies spilled down to the waves, along with a fine rain that was little more than mist, pattering down from a sky the color of lead.

  Forlo looked up into that sky, letting the rain wash down his face and into his beard. That is the color of my heart, he thought as he stared at the clouds.

  Someone waited for him, above, but a large part of him didn’t want to see her. Word had preceded the ship, which had borne him and his friends from the shores of the Shining Lands, through Mirrorshards and the Grayveil, all the wa
y back to the isles. That was why Thumar was in mourning: their coming brought word that King Nakhil and his counselor Roshambur were both slain. There was some joy in knowing that Maladar was defeated—if not killed—but the death of the last sovereign of Suluk outweighed it in the people’s hearts. The loss overshadowed the victory.

  So it was with Forlo. His son was dead: Azar, who had lived so short a life, whom he’d never known, whose name he hadn’t even learned until it was too late. He was lost in the flames of the Chaldar. He had died saving the rest of them, and Taladas as well.

  Forlo had tried to let that knowledge cheer him, the gods knew. The Faceless Emperor was thwarted, imprisoned within the tower of flame amid the empty stone hulks of his city, an impotent ruler of a dead realm. It was a great triumph, though outside of the Rainwards few might ever know of it. Still, they’d done it. They’d beaten Maladar, right when he’d looked ready to seize absolute victory.

  It didn’t matter to Forlo. His son was dead.

  “It should have been me,” he murmured, not for the first time. “He should be standing here, in my place.”

  “Perhaps,” said a voice behind him. “We all have things we wish were different.”

  Forlo glanced over his shoulder and saw Hult. The Uigan gazed up at the bridges above and the circling gulls. Forlo barely recognized him, even after the long journey back from the Columns of Bilo, where Azar’s final spell had sent them. Hult’s hair was long, tied back in a plait that hung between his shoulders, and he wore no sword. His blade had broken in the Chaldar, and he’d refused all offers of another. After all they had gone through, Hult, son of Holar, had sworn never to lift a sword again.

  “Who are you to say that?” Forlo growled. “You haven’t lost your only child.”

  “No,” Hult said. Pain tightened his voice, but his face didn’t change; it kept the same unreadable nonexpression it had since Forlo awoke beside the Burning Sea. “Only my people and my home.”

  Forlo fell silent, stung. He looked away, across the water, at Thumar’s distant island wards. Behind him, he sensed Hult stirring, as if the Uigan wanted to say more. Instead, though, the barbarian sighed and walked away.

  Shedara came next, after a while. The longboat was almost to them, its oars dipping in the water to the toll of a bronze bell. The elf leaned on the rail beside him, jabbing at the wood with a dagger.

  “You don’t have to be so hard on him, you know,” she said. “He’s carrying a lot of guilt. It was his sword, after all.”

  Forlo grunted, refusing to look at her. The longboat came nearer.

  “I don’t blame him,” he said. “He did what he had to.”

  “So did Azar.”

  Forlo coughed. It was all the answer he gave.

  Shedara’s blade thunked into the gunwale, carving out splinters. “You think the pain will never go away, and you’re right. It won’t. Eldako is still in my memory, like a thorn. But you’ll get used to the hurt, and after a while, you’ll stop noticing so much.”

  “Will I?” he snapped. “I can’t dull my pain by sharing my bed with Hult, you know.”

  Shedara caught her breath, the sound of her knife stopping. He could almost hear the vituperations she wanted to hurl and knew he deserved them. What he’d said was unfair. He should be happy that she and the Uigan had found comfort in each other. But all he could think of was Azar and the red welter that sprang from his throat when the talga went in. To his right, the longboat bumped against the ship, and shouting sailors tossed a rope ladder down. He glanced toward it and shuddered.

  It was too soon. He couldn’t move.

  “You’ve got to go,” Shedara murmured. “You’ve got to face her. You can live the rest of your life hating Hult, hating me … hating yourself if you want. But Essana needs you, Forlo. And Azar wanted the two of you together.”

  Forlo nodded. He knew that. They’d passed on the boy’s last words to him. Try again.

  But how could he?

  “You could come with me,” he said.

  The elf shook her head. “We’ve been through this. Hult and I hanging around would only make the memories more painful.”

  “For who? Me or you?”

  He finally glanced at her and immediately regretted his words. Anguish etched her face, almost as deep as his own.

  “Both,” she said.

  He blew out a long, slow sigh. “I’m sorry, old friend. It’s just hard, after all this, to say good-bye.”

  “Yes. But you and Essana need to be together. You’ve got to build a new life, and we, as you say, are part of the old.”

  She had a point. If he was going to live there in Thumar, or in another of the island realms, or even somewhere else, such as Baltch or Syldar, he had to let go of everything. He was no longer Barreth Forlo, Baron of Coldhope. He wasn’t sure who he was, but that man had died many times over.

  “Where will you go?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “The Dreaming Green, eventually. We promised we’d tell Eldako’s father how he died. But that’s a long way away, and it will take time. As for afterward …” She trailed off, spreading her hands. “Maybe the Tamire, to see what Uigan still survive. Maybe Armach, to find my brother and help him rebuild. Maybe Panak or Marak or the cha’asii lands. We’ll probably wander a long time before we find a place we feel at home. And maybe, in a few years, we’ll come back and see how you’re doing.”

  “No,” Forlo said. “We won’t see each other again.”

  Shedara stepped forward, took his hand in hers, and pressed it to her lips. “Never say never, Barreth. Now go see your lady-wife. Those oarsmen are getting impatient.”

  He glanced at the longboat, whose crew was watching him with dark eyes. When he turned back, Shedara wasn’t there anymore. He glanced down the deck and saw her walking back toward Hult. The Uigan gazed back at him, their eyes meeting.

  Then he turned away.

  Feeling a thousand years old, Forlo walked to the rope ladder, looked down at the waiting boat … and didn’t move. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. Someone offered a hand to help him down; even weeks after fleeing the Chaldar, he was still weak and frail, and missing a hand. He doubted he’d ever be as hale as he’d been, but he hated how the sailors were always offering to help him, as if he were an elderly man. He shook his head at the proffered hand—and stopped.

  The hand had only three fingers.

  He looked up, saw Hult, and nearly broke. The barbarian gazed at Forlo, inscrutable, then threw his arms around him in an iron embrace.

  “I am glad I didn’t kill you, back at the Run,” Hult said when they finally separated. “You are as good a friend as I have ever known, and you are a far better man than Chovuk Boyla ever was.”

  Forlo nodded. “And you’re a far better man than me.”

  The Uigan chuckled. “Thank you,” he said. “Before you go … have I ever told you about the Takhanshi?”

  “No,” Forlo replied.

  “Among the Uigan, we believe the honored dead go on to dwell in the halls of Jijin and ride beside their ancestors for eternity. Those who fall into dishonor are cast into darkness beyond all knowing. But then there are the Takhanshi, They Who Linger. They are children, newly born, who die before their first year ends. The elders say they remain in the world and wait just out of sight until the winter comes. And if a Takhansho’s parents seek to make another child before the end of that winter, the ghost enters his mother’s womb, so he may be reborn into the world … for another chance.”

  Forlo stared at him. “Are you saying Azar is a Takhansho?”

  “I would not presume,” Hult said. “It is only a tale. But there is always hope. Farewell, my friend.”

  Clapping Forlo’s shoulder, he turned and strode back to Shedara. Forlo watched him go, his mind a whirl. He glanced up, at the mossy towers above him, and ached. Essana was up there, waiting. His Starlight.

  Eyes burning, he turned to the ladder and stepped down onto the first rung.

&nbs
p; Epilogue

  FROM THE ARCHIVES OF NIGHTLUND, VOLUME XXII

  PENNED BY THE RED ROBE PELANDER

  Three years have passed since the last of my vivid dreams of the lands across the sea. Many nights have I lain awake, wishing that they would return. In my mind, much remains unanswered. The bloodshed wrought by Maladar surely changes the face of Taladas to this day, and I yearn to discover more, but the gods, if gods it was that gave me the visions in the first place, evidently have had better things to do. There have been no more dreams, and I begin to believe they will never return.

  Perhaps, in time, a lord or lady with the mind and the means will read this account and voyage over the seas of Krynn, to make contact with those who live there. If so, I do not know what such an expedition may find. It will surely be a long time before the continent recovers, and it will never be what it was. Such is the way of things.

  With that said, I commit the last of my dreams of Taladas to this chronicle. It came to me on a stormy autumn night, long months after I last beheld our friends—Forlo, Shedara, and Hult. It does nothing to illuminate their fates, but I believe it is important to any who might seek, one day, to set foot upon Taladas. And with it, I bid you, my honored readers, farewell.

  Far away from the Rainward Isles, on the other side of Taladas, a minotaur commander crests a hill, leading a company of soldiers, both his kind and men. His name is Bolgash, and he is young, newly elevated to the rank of Centurion in the Third Legion. There are many young officers in the League’s armies these days: the wars of ascension, following Emperor Rekhaz’s assassination by the traitor Forlo, have taken a deep toll. But there is a new emperor on the throne now, who has taken the name of Ambeoutin XIII in hopes of restoring the old peace to the war-torn land. He has commanded the Third to travel north, to the Tiderun’s shores, and investigate the village of Kharto, which rumor says has been destroyed.

  Both Ambeoutin and Bolgash’s superiors suspect bandits, preying on the weak in the aftermath of war. But when Bolgash looks down from the hilltop, he sees something else.