The Seventh Sentinel

by Mary Kirchoff

  “A great deal?” Bram repeated dully. “I feel like I’ve lost everything. First Guerrand, then Kirah!”

  “Magic requires that level of commitment from those who practice it. Guerrand knew that and accepted it.”

  Bram frowned. “I begin to think he was the lucky one. I would rather he had taken me with him. That much I was willing to give.”

  Par-Salian pursed his lips. “Apparently the gods had more need of you on this plane. I would venture it’s because they gave you more than most here and here,” he suggested, gently tapping Bram’s chest and temple.

  Bram’s anger was slowly slipping into numb acceptance. “But why Kirah? She had no commitment to magic.”

  “No, but your aunt had her own commitment to Lyim that had nothing to do with magic. Devotion to a cause or a person—” Par-Salian shrugged helplessly. “They’re equally strong.

  “By the way,” he continued in a lighter tone, “Dagamier has been asking about you. We carried her to my study after she was wounded in the courtyard. Justarius is tending her.”

  Bram perked up visibly. “She’ll live, then?”

  Par-Salian gave a gentle smile. “LaDonna’s convinced Dagamier’s too stubborn to die.”

  “May I go to her?”

  Someone cleared his throat behind Bram and the venerable mage. Turning, Bram spotted King Weador. “Mercadior sent me in to discover the cause for the nabassu’s hasty departure. They just fled to the four winds, abruptly and without explanation, almost as if chased.” Weador glanced from Lyim’s tree form to the gleaming gauntlet in Par-Salian’s hand and nodded somberly. “I thought I detected a difference in the magical fabric.”

  “They’re gone?” Bram repeated dully, but he already understood why the nabassu had fled. Lyim had brought the creatures from the Abyss; his death had released them from their servitude. It had delivered them all.

  Bram sighed and looked up at Par-Salian. “It really is over, isn’t it? We’re finally free of Lyim Rhistadt.”

  The head of the Orders of Magic saw the spark of hope in Bram’s aching heart and smiled his agreement. “We’re free of his threat, Bram.” Par-Salian looked admiringly at the twisted trunk that looked so incongruous in the charred council chamber. “We still must deal with the man, but that will come in due time.

  “For now, Justarius and LaDonna are already organizing the tower’s return to normal. Spellbooks and equipment are being brought out of hiding and placed back into the libraries and laboratories even as we speak. Before they join us, Bram, I would speak to you about something that has occupied my mind since your return from Qindaras.”

  The white-robe’s tone concerned Bram anew. “What is it, Par-Salian? Is something else wrong?”

  “No, Bram. I was wondering, however, if you’ve given thought to what you would do next.”

  Bram blinked. “I haven’t had much time to consider, but I suppose I’ll return to Thonvil after I see Dagamier. Why?”

  “You have defended magic as if you were one of Bastion’s guardians. I believe it was Dagamier who pointed out you were, in effect, its seventh sentinel.” The venerable mage seemed almost to blush. “Would you consider making your bond to the Orders in word as well by accepting a magical apprenticeship?”

  Bram started even further. “With you?”

  “I have not taken a student in many decades,” Par-Salian confessed, “but I have not seen one with such aptitude, not even Guerrand. Magic is, quite literally, in your blood. I observed you with Dagamier these last weeks. You would be ready for the Test in record time, I’m sure. The Orders could use such a mage as you would become, one who had command of both wizard and tuatha magic.”

  Though stunned, Bram was certainly flattered. And interested. But not just yet. He told Par-Salian so. “First, I must bury my aunt.”

  Par-Salian’s white head bowed respectfully. “Of course. There are many dead to bury and wounded to tend.” Turning to the Lyim-tree, the master wizard swept his hand across the scene, then balled it into a fist. The tree with its many tendrils and sagging branches shimmered slightly, then faded from view, gone to a place of safekeeping that only Par-Salian knew.

  He glanced at his hand briefly, then turned back to Bram. “That felt good again, after so long. Thank you.”

  Turning away, the master of the White Order strode toward the door leading to the foretower. “As for that other matter, you know where to find me when you’re ready, Bram. Wayreth will always be open to you.”

  “Thank you,” Bram said with true warmth. “If there’s nothing else the Council requires of me, I’ll make preparations to transport Kirah back to Thonvil. I’d like the therapy of traveling overland, but I’m afraid I couldn’t manage that alone. I’ll have to take her on the faerie road.”

  “Gods’ speed,” said the mage, holding a blue-veined hand up in farewell.

  Bram looked at Kirah. He felt more at peace with her peace now.

  “Take your journey of healing, and let us bring your aunt back on the faerie road for you,” Weador offered at Bram’s shoulder, so softly the young man was not startled, though he’d forgotten the king of the tuatha was still present. “You know she will be as safe with Thistledown and the others as if she were in the hands of Chislev himself.”

  Bram was touched by the offer. “You’ve done so much to help already, King Weador.”

  The tuatha smiled wryly. “Remember, we tuatha thrive on the positive energy of humans. Even half-humans.” He turned abruptly serious. “I would see you study with Par-Salian, Bram. I believe it is your destiny.”

  The king rightly interpreted Bram’s pensive silence as approval. Despite his royal status and his diminutive stature, Weador gathered Kirah’s slight form up in his arms with the tenderness of a father. With an encouraging nod, the king of the tuatha and his silent charge disappeared from view.

  Seeing Dagamier would be a tonic for his mood. Bram retrieved his beloved staff as he left the Hall of Mages. Through the door of the foretower, he could see that mages were already busy magically removing the bodies, the defensive spikes, and filling in the trenches. Work that had taken weeks to do by hand would be magically undone in less than a day. Mercadior and his cavaliers, Aurestes and his centaurs appeared to have already gone, unlikely ever to return. Bram would have liked to say thanks, or at least good-bye …

  Bram knew that when he stepped from the tower after seeing Dagamier, he would not be saying good-bye. Spring on the moors of Northern Ergoth would heal his spirit. Time would heal his heart.

  And then he would return and let magic fill his soul.

  Dragons

  Of

  Summer flame

  An Excerpt

  by Margaret Weis

  and Tracy Hickman

  Chapter One

  Be Warned …

  It was hot that morning, damnably hot.

  Far too hot for late spring on Ansalon. Almost as hot as midsummer. The two knights in the boat’s stern were sweaty and miserable in their heavy steel armor; they looked with envy at the nearly naked men plying the boat’s oars. When the boat neared shore, the knights were first out, jumping into the shallow water, laving the water onto their reddening faces and sunburned necks. But the water was not particularly refreshing.

  “Like wading in hot soup,” one of the knights grumbled, splashing ashore. Even as he spoke, he scrutinized the shoreline carefully, eyeing bush and tree and dune for signs of life.

  “More like blood,” said his comrade. “Think of it as wading in the blood of our enemies, the enemies of our Queen. Do you see anything?”

  “No,” the other replied. He waved his hand without looking back, heard the sound of men leaping into the water, their harsh laughter and conversation in their uncouth, guttural language.

  One of the knights turned around. “Bring that boat to shore,” he said, unnecessarily, for the men had already picked up the heavy boat and were running with it through the shallow water. Grinning, they dumped the boat
on the sand beach and looked to the knight for further orders.

  He mopped his forehead, marveled at their strength, and—not for the first time—thanked Queen Takhisis that these barbarians were on their side. The brutes, they were known as. Not the true name of their race. The name, their name for themselves, was unpronounceable, so the knights had begun calling them by the shortened version: brute.

  The name suited the barbarians well. They came from the east, from a continent few people on Ansalon knew existed. All the men stood well over six feet, some over seven. Their bodies were as bulky and muscular as humans, their movements as swift and graceful as elves. Their ears were pointed like those of the elves, but their faces were heavily bearded like humans or dwarves. They were as strong as dwarves and loved battle just as well. They fought fiercely, were loyal to those who commanded them, and, outside of a few grotesque customs such as cutting off various parts of the body of a dead enemy to keep as trophies, the brutes were ideal foot soldiers.

  “Let the captain know we’ve arrived safely and that we’ve encountered no resistance,” said the knight to his comrade. “We’ll leave a few men here with the boat and move inland.”

  The other knight nodded. Taking a red silk pennant from his belt, he unfurled it, held it above his head, and waved it slowly three times. An answering flutter of red came from the enormous black, dragon-prowed ship anchored some distance away. This was a scouting mission, not an invasion. Orders had been quite clear on that point.

  The knights sent out their patrols, dispatching some to range up and down the beach, sending others farther inland. This done, the two knights moved thankfully to the meager shadow cast by a squat and misshapen tree. Two of the brutes stood guard. The knights remained wary and watchful, even as they rested. Seating themselves, they drank sparingly of the fresh water they’d brought with them. One of them grimaced.

  “The damn stuff’s hot.”

  “You left the waterskin sitting in the sun. Of course it’s hot.”

  “Where the devil was I supposed to put it? There was no shade on that cursed boat. I don’t think there’s any shade left in the whole blasted world. I don’t like this place at all: I get a queer feeling about this island, like it’s magicked or something.”

  “I know what you mean,” agreed his comrade somberly. He kept glancing about, back into the trees, up and down the beach. All that could be seen were the brutes, and they certainly weren’t bothered by any ominous feelings. But men they were barbarians. “We were warned not to come here, you know.”

  “What?” The other knight looked astonished. “I didn’t know. Who told you that?”

  “Brightblade. He had it from Lord Ariakan himself.”

  “Brightblade should know. He’s on Ariakan’s staff. The lord’s his sponsor.” The knight appeared nervous and asked softly, “Such information’s not secret, is it?”

  The other knight appeared amused. “You don’t know Steel Brightblade very well if you think he would break any oath or pass along any information he was told to keep to himself. He’d sooner let his tongue be ripped out by red-hot tongs. No, Lord Ariakan discussed this openly with all the regimental commanders before deciding to proceed.”

  The knight shrugged. Picking up a handful of small rocks, he began tossing them idly into the water. “The Gray Robes started it all. Some sort of augury revealed the location of this island and that it was inhabited by large numbers of people.”

  “So who warned us not to come?”

  “The Gray Robes. The same augury that told them of this island also warned them not to come near it. They tried to persuade Ariakan to leave well enough alone. Said that this place could mean disaster.”

  The other knight frowned, then glanced around with growing unease. “Then why were we sent?”

  “The upcoming invasion of Ansalon. Lord Ariakan felt this move was necessary to protect his flanks. The Gray Robes couldn’t say exactly what sort of threat this island represented. Nor could they say specifically that the disaster would be caused by our landing on the island. As Lord Ariakan pointed out, perhaps disaster would come even if we didn’t do anything. And so he decided to follow the old dwarven dictum, ‘It is better to go looking for the dragon than have the dragon come looking for you.’ ”

  “Good thinking,” his companion agreed. “If there is an army of elves on this island, it’s better that we deal with them now. Not that it seems likely.”

  He gestured at the wide stretches of sand beach, at the dunes covered with some sort of grayish-green grass, and, farther inland, a forest of the ugly, misshapen trees. “Elves wouldn’t live in a place like this.”

  “Neither would dwarves. Minotaurs would have attacked us by now. Kender would have walked off with the boat and our armor. Gnomes would have met us with some sort of fiend-driven fish-catching machine. Humans like us are the only race foolish enough to live in such a wretched place,” the knight concluded cheerfully. He picked up another handful of rocks.

  “It could be a rogue band of draconiane or hobgoblins. Ogres even. Escaped twenty-some years ago, after the War of the Lance. Fled north, across the sea, to avoid capture by the Solamnic Knights.”

  “Yes, but they’d be on our side,” his companion answered. “And our wizards wouldn’t have their robes in a knot over it.… Ah, here come our scouts, back to report. Now we’ll find out.”

  The knights rose to their feet. The brutes who had been sent into the island’s interior hurried forward to meet their leaders. The barbarians were grinning hugely. Their nearly naked bodies glistened with sweat. The blue paint with which they covered themselves, and which was supposed to possess some sort of magical properties said to cause arrows to bounce right off them, ran down their muscular bodies in rivulets. Long scalp locks, decorated with colorful feathers, bounced on their backs as they loped easily over the sand dunes.

  The two knights exchanged glances, relaxed.

  “What did you find?” the knight asked the leader, a gigantic red-haired fellow who towered over both knights and could have probably picked up each of them and held them over his head. He regarded both knights with unbounded reverence and respect.

  “Men,” answered the brute. They were quick to learn and had adapted easily to Common, spoken by most of the various races of Krynn. Unfortunately, to the brutes, all people not of their race were known as “men.”

  The brute lowered his hand near the ground to indicate small men, which might mean dwarves but was more probably children. He moved it to waist height, which most likely indicated women. This the brute confirmed by cupping two hands over his own breast and wiggling his hips. His own men laughed and nudged each other.

  “Men, women, and children,” said the knight. “Many men? Lots of men? Big buildings? Walls? Cities?”

  The brutes apparently thought this was hilarious, for they all burst into raucous laughter.

  “What did you find?” said the knight sharply, scowling. “Stop the nonsense.”

  The brutes sobered rapidly.

  “Many men,” said the leader, “but no walls. Houses.” He made a face, shrugged, shook his head, and added something in his own language.”

  “What does that mean?” asked the knight of his comrade.

  “Something to do with dogs,” said the other, who had led brutes before and learned some of their language. “I think he means these men live in houses only dogs would live in.”

  Several of the brutes now began walking about stoop-shouldered, swinging their arms around their knees and grunting. Then they all straightened up, looked at each other, and laughed again.

  “What in the name of our Dark Majesty are they doing now?” the knight demanded.

  “Beats me,” said his comrade. “I think we should go have a look for ourselves.” He drew his sword partway out of its black leather scabbard. “Danger?” he asked the brute. “We need steel?”

  The brute laughed again. Taking his own short sword—the brutes fought with two, long and shor
t, as well as bow and arrows—he thrust it into the tree and turned his back on it.

  The knight, reassured, returned his sword to its scabbard. The two followed their guides deeper into the forest.

  They did not go far before they came to the village. They entered a cleared area among the trees.

  Despite the antics of the brutes, the knights were completely unprepared for what they saw.

  “By Hiddukel,” one said in a low voice to the other. “ ‘Men’ is too strong a term. Are these men? Or are they beasts?”

  “They’re men,” said the other, staring around slowly, amazed. “But such men as we’re told walked Krynn during the Age of Twilight. Look! Their tools are made of wood. They carry wooden spears, and crude ones at that.”

  “Wooden-tipped, not stone,” said the other. “Mud huts for houses. Clay cooking pots. Not a piece of steel or iron in sight. What a pitiable lot! I can’t see how they could be much danger, unless it’s from filth. By the smell, they haven’t bathed since the Age of Twilight either.”

  “Ugly bunch. More like apes than men. Don’t laugh. Look stern and threatening.”

  Several of the male humans—if human they were; it was difficult to tell beneath the animal hides they wore—crept up to the knights. The “man-beasts” walked bent over, their arms swinging at their sides, knuckles almost dragging on the ground. Their heads were covered with long, shaggy hair; unkempt beards almost completely hid their faces. They bobbed and shuffled and gazed at the knights in openmouthed awe. One of the man-beasts actually drew near enough to reach out a grimy hand to touch the black, shining armor.

  A brute moved to interpose his own massive body in front of the knight.

  The knight waved the brute off and drew his sword. The steel flashed in the sunlight. Turning to one of the trees, which, with their twisted limbs and gnarled trunks, resembled the people who lived beneath them, the knight raised his sword and sliced off a limb with one swift stroke.

  The man-beast dropped to his knees and groveled in the dirt, making piteous blubbering sounds.