Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  By the time he arrived, he could see the dragons.

  They flew above the ships—there were now sixteen—in three long, evenly spaced lines, keeping formation, their wings moving in rhythm. They were still far enough away to look black against the sun-lit sky, but every now and then the light would flash off a blue scale. The dragons flying above, the ships sailing below, had a kind of beauty about them, a deadly beauty. Already a few small vessels, having seen what was bearing down on them, were fleeing the harbor, trying to scoot to the safety of the open seas.

  “Call out the militia,” ordered the governor. He was a half-elf, a silversmith by trade, and had been the governor for three years now.

  “Perhaps they’re not coming here,” ventured the watchman hopefully. “Perhaps they’re on their way to Palanthas.”

  “They’re coming here,” said the governor grimly, lowering the spy glass. He’d served in the War of the Lance, and he knew the signs. He also knew what the people of Kalaman were about to face. He was not a praying man, generally, but he said a prayer that moment to every god who could conceivably be expected to listen.

  The governor acted quickly. He had one slim hope: the harbor defenses. Those had been built up and reinforced, following the War of the Lance. They might be able to hold off the ships and the men aboard them. The two large catapults and four ballistae were manned by experienced crews, all facing the harbor entrance. These weapons were the pride of the militia, and well maintained.

  Fire ships, whose wooden decks and masts were soaked with oil, were made ready to set sail into the harbor entrance. Daring crewmen would set the ships ablaze, then stay with the burning ships as long as possible, guiding them in to wreak burning destruction upon the enemy fleet.

  The city bells were ringing wildly, frantically now. Men went racing to their posts. Women were drawing water from the wells, filling buckets, horse troughs, anything that would hold liquid, to be used in fighting fires. Children were sent down into cellars, told to be brave.

  The governor saw the dragon-prowed ships slow, saw them lower their sails, start to drop anchor. His spirit soared in hope, which was immediately dashed by a messenger, dragging with him a frightened farm girl.

  “An army, sir!” The young woman gasped. “An army of blue giants, coming this way! They passed our farm, set fire to the buildings. My father … dead …” She choked, almost broke down, but managed to fight back the tears. “I rode as fast as I could. They’re right behind me, on foot.”

  “Blue men? Giants?” The governor suspected the girl was crazed with grief. “Calm down, girl, and tell me this story straight. Someone bring her a glass of wine.”

  She shook her head. “I tell you, sir, these men were as tall as our house. They are stark naked, their bodies smeared with blue paint. They—”

  A soldier arrived on horseback, jumped down, ran to the knot of men. “Governor, sir. The general says to tell you that an army has been sighted, coming up the main road. They have siege engines, sir. Siege engines pulled by huge beasts the like of which we’ve never seen!”

  The governor ceased his prayers.

  The first wave of dragonfear struck those manning the walls. The shadow of blue dragon wings slid over the town.

  It was noon. Lord Ariakan stood aboard his flagship, his officers gathered around, watching the siege of Kalaman through a spy glass. Signal flags slid up and down, carrying Ariakan’s commands to the rest of the fleet and to his officers on shore.

  Ariakan was sweating in his heavy armor. The sun beat down on the ship, was reflected off the water. He didn’t mind the heat. He knew that the people of Kalaman were sweating far more than he was. They were sweating with fear.

  His dragon flights circled above the city, not attacking, letting the fear they engendered drive men in panic from the walls. Occasionally, a blue dragon would unleash a blast of lightning, knock down a guild hall tower, set fire to a warehouse. But the dragons had orders not to attack.

  The legions of brutes drew up beneath the city walls, surrounded the city six deep, their bodies heaving against the walls like a living, savage ocean. They raised their siege engines with impunity; few were left on the walls to try to knock them down. The brutes clashed their swords against their shields, shouted threats in their uncouth tongue, and fired arrows at anyone brave or foolish enough to show himself. But that was all. They, too, held off the attack.

  The fleet remained out to sea, except for two frigates, which had been sent in to deal with the harbor defenses. As they approached the harbor wall, the first battery of ballistae opened fire on the lead frigate, catching it amidships, but above the waterline. Its crew worked to repair the damage, and carried forward with speed. The catapults fired, missed both shots. The frigates dashed into the mouth of the harbor and grappled the fire ships, just starting to blaze up. Two blue dragons circled low over the harbor wall and blasted the emplaced weapons into the sea; their crews jumped into the frothing water.

  The lone ballistae battery on the far side opened fire on the dragons as they flew past. Neither dragon was hit, but one of the dragonriders pitched off the side of the beast, plunging into the water.

  The frigates secured the fire ships to long tether lines and began to drag them from the mouth of the harbor, to let them burn out at sea. The valiant ballistae crews, fearful of the wrath of the dragons, fled back to the city proper.

  By midafternoon, Ariakan had decided that the town had sweated enough. He called for his herald, gave the man his orders, sent him—bearing a flag of truce—into Kalaman.

  The envoy rode to the city gates, a white flag fluttering above his head. He was escorted by three of Ariakan’s knights, wearing neither mail nor bearing arms, to indicate that they intended no violence. The city refused to open the gates to admit the envoy, but the governor did agree to a parley from atop the wall. He stood plainly visible in bowshot range, an act of courage for which the dark knights accompanying the herald gave the half-elf a salute.

  “What do you want?” the governor demanded. “You minions of evil who come without cause to attack a peaceful town.”

  “We come to demand that the city of Kalaman be surrendered to the might of Ariakan, Lord Knight of Takhisis, soon to be ruler of all Ansalon.”

  “Other servants of Takhisis have boasted that in the past, and they now serve her in the Abyss, which is where I would consign your master.” The governor talked boldly to hearten his men, those who had courage enough to withstand the dragonfear. He didn’t feel bold, however. He was crushed, despairing. Kalaman could not hope to fight off such numbers, coming at it from land, sea, and air. “Let us hear your terms,” he added grimly.

  The herald recited them. “The people of Kalaman will lay down their arms, open the city gates, and permit entry of Lord Ariakan and his troops. The people of Kalaman will swear allegiance to Lord Ariakan as their liege lord. Men of fighting age are to report to the city square, where they will be offered the opportunity to join the ranks of Lord Ariakan’s forces. Those who do not want to join will be made prisoner.

  “If you accept Lord Ariakan’s terms, he will spare your city harm. He will leave your women and children in peace. If you do not accept his terms, but persist in refusing Lord Ariakan entry into your city, he promises that the stones of your buildings will be razed, your houses burned to the ground, your men taken as slaves, your women given to the barbarians for their pleasure, your children slaughtered before their mothers’ eyes.

  “Lord Ariakan gives you until the sun sets to consider these terms.”

  “How do we know this Lord Ariakan will keep his word?” the governor asked.

  “Lord Ariakan is a Knight of Takhisis,” the herald returned proudly. “His word is his bond. He leaves you with this promise. Surrender and know peace. Fight and know destruction.”

  The herald rode off, the knightly guard of honor falling in behind him. The governor climbed down from the walls, went to consult the guildmasters. The blue dragons circled o
verhead, reducing what courage remained in Kalaman to ashes.

  “If there is a chance that this Ariakan will keep his word,” the governor told the guildsmen, “we must take it. Otherwise, we sentence our people to death or worse.”

  The guild masters reluctantly agreed.

  Lord Ariakan had his answer well before sundown.

  The city gates opened, and his troops marched inside. The people waited fearfully to be brutalized, mistreated, butchered.

  Able-bodied men were rounded up, taken to the city square, and given a speech by one of Ariakan’s officers about the glories and honors awaiting those who joined the ranks of Takhisis. Not a man did. They were then chained and manacled and led away, some to serve on the black dragon ships, others to work cutting down trees to build the rafts that would carry Ariakan’s forces swiftly downriver.

  The rest of the citizens of Kalaman were told to return to their homes.

  Ariakan’s fleet sailed into the harbor. He himself entered the town with little fanfare, set immediately about business. His knights patrolled the streets.

  The next day, the citizens of Kalaman woke to fear, only to find the dragons departed, the army of blue-painted barbarians vanished, the city intact. The market opened, under orders from Lord Ariakan. Shopkeepers were told to unbar the shutters and commence business as usual.

  Dazed, disbelieving, the people slowly began to go about their business. The only visible difference between today and yesterday was the knights in black armor patrolling the walls and walking the city streets. Here and there a wife wept for her prisoner husband, a child cried for its missing father, a father mourned his lost son, but that was all.

  Kalaman had fallen with hardly a whimper.

  Ariakan, seated at his desk in the governor’s mansion, unrolled a map and looked to Palanthas.

  14

  The wheel turns. The wheel stops.

  The wheel turns again.

  hat evening, before sundown, Caramon and Tika buried their two sons.

  It was the custom, in Solace, to plant a young vallenwood tree on every new grave. Thus, it was believed, the soul of the dead would enter the tree and therefore never truly die. This is one reason the vallenwood trees are sacred to the people of Solace, one reason that no living tree is ever cut down.

  Tanin and Sturm Majere were to be buried in a small family plot within sight of the Inn of the Last Home. Here rested Otik, the inn’s founder, lifelong friend to both Tika and Caramon. Here the husband and wife would one day rest themselves, when they left the world and its cares behind them. They had never thought that two of their children might precede them.

  Caramon started digging the grave alone, but word soon spread through Solace, and it was not long before a neighbor came to help, then another, and another until every man in the town was there to lend a hand. They worked in the heat, taking turns, pausing to rest in shade that—due to the hot, incessant wind—offered little respite. The men dug the grave in silence, for the most part, having spoken their few broken words of condolence when they arrived. They generally ignored Porthios and his elves, who were standing guard around the inn, where their queen lay. The elves generally ignored them.

  The women of Solace came as well, bringing gifts of food and flowers and baby clothes—for word of the birthing had spread, too. Tika packed the baby clothes away, to be given to Alhana in secret before the exiled elven royalty left to continue their attempts to win back their thrones—and to win peace and stability for the elven nations. Tika was well aware that Porthios would never accept the cast-off “leavings” of humans, but, as she told Dezra, “The parents have nothing but the clothes on their backs. What’s the poor babe to wear? Leaves?”

  Tika worked fiercely all day, refusing to stop to lie down or rest. There was much to be done, what with the baby coming and the guests arriving and the townsfolk to be fed.

  “I’ll pack my tears away for today,” she said to Dezra. “The gods know that they’ll still be here tomorrow. As for the aching in my heart … it will be here always.”

  Palin slept the day through. His sleep was so deep that when his father lifted his slumbering form from the table and carried him to his bedroom, the young mage never stirred. Steel slept, too, in a room in the back of the inn, his sword hilt under his hand, his breastplate standing guard duty against the door. The knight had resisted all attempts to persuade him to rest, until Tanis Half-Elven had curtly pointed out that Steel’s refusal to trust them impinged on their honor.

  “When we escorted you to the High Clerist’s Tower to pay homage to your father, both of us pledged our lives to protect you, to protect Sturm Brightblade’s son. It is dishonorable of you to refuse to accept that pledge.”

  Steel went haughtily to his bed and fell asleep almost instantly.

  Tanis spent the day with Porthios, not because he particularly enjoyed his brother-in-law’s company, but because the proximity of so many humans was making the elven lord edgy.

  The day was tense and sorrowful. One of the men digging the grave succumbed to the heat, collapsed, and had to be carried into the inn, where the women sat, sweating and fanning, talking of the bad harvest and wondering how they would get through the winter. Young children, not quite understanding what was going on, but realizing that this was not a day to play and make noise, kept close to their mothers.

  The exiled elves stood in the branches of the vallenwood trees, keeping watch and dreaming of their homelands.

  And then, at sunset, came the funeral.

  Palin and Tika and Caramon stood with a cleric of Mishakal at the head of the grave. Tanis was near them, thinking tender thoughts of his own son, who—though still living—was lost to him.

  The bodies of the two brothers, wrapped in their linen shrouds, were lowered reverently to their final resting place, for they were to be buried together. The cleric asked a blessing. The townsfolk filed past the open grave, either dropping some small token of remembrance into the grave or relating a fond tale of some exploit of the brothers, who had been well loved.

  When this small ceremony was concluded, the men started to fill in the grave when, to the amazement of everyone, Porthios arrived, accompanied by a contingent of elven warriors. He spoke with awkward kindness to Caramon and Tika, then, standing at the grave site, the elf lord sang a song of lamentation for the dead. Though no one understood the words, the song’s sad, yet hopeful, melody brought tears that eased grief’s bitter pain, left behind only gentle sorrow. Tika wept then, cradled in her husband’s arms.

  Porthios finished his song, stepped back. The men picked up shovels and began to fill the grave with dirt. It was customary at this point to drop flowers on the bodies, but the flowers had all withered in the heat long ago. The mound of dirt covering both young knights was tamped down with loving care. The cleric of Mishakal was about to offer a final blessing when the crowd at the graveside suddenly parted. People fell back in alarm.

  Steel Brightblade strode into their midst.

  Outraged at the intrusion into their grief, the townspeople called for him to leave. Porthios glowered; the elves—hands on their weapons—gathered more closely around their lord.

  Steel ignored them, walked up to stand at the head of the grave site.

  The cleric of Mishakal said severely, “Sir, your presence here is not welcome. It is an insult to the dead.”

  Steel made no comment. He stood in silence, stern and aloof, ignoring the cleric, ignoring the insults and threats. He carried in his hands a bundle that had been lashed to the cart bearing the bodies.

  Caramon, perplexed, looked at his son. Palin could only shake his head. He had no idea what was going on. In troubled silence, all watched and waited to see what the dark knight would do.

  Steel knelt on one knee, unwrapped the bundle, and spread it out upon the withered brown grass.

  The last rays of the dying sunlight shone upon Tanin’s broken sword. The haft of his brother’s shattered spear lay beside it. Removing the wea
pons, Steel laid each carefully upon the grave site. Then, kneeling, his head bowed, he began to chant words in a strange and unfamiliar language.

  The cleric of Mishakal hastened to Tanis, plucked him by the sleeve. “Stop him!” she said urgently. “He is casting some sort of evil spell upon the dead!”

  “No, he’s not,” said Tanis quietly, his eyes filling with tears, his heart with memories. “The language he speaks is Solamnic. He is reciting the knights’ Prayer for the Dead.”

  Return this man to Huma’s breast

  Beyond the wild, impartial skies;

  Grant to him a warrior’s rest

  And set the last spark of his eyes

  Free from the smothering clouds of wars,

  Upon the torches of the stars.

  Let the last surge of his breath

  Take refuge in the cradling air

  Above the dreams of ravens, where

  Only the hawk remembers death.

  Then let his shade to Huma rise,

  Beyond the wild, impartial skies.

  All remained hushed until he had finished. Standing then, Steel drew his sword, gave the knight’s salute. He brought the hilt of his sword to his lips, extended the weapon outward in a sweeping arc. Making a formal bow to the stunned family, the dark paladin turned on his heel and walked slowly and haughtily through the crowd, who parted in awe for him.

  As he was leaving, Steel paused to stand in front of Porthios. A mocking smile played upon the dark knight’s lips.

  “Do not concern yourself with the civil war between the elven nations, sir. Soon, the Qualinesti and the Silvanesti will be united—under the boot heel of Lord Ariakan.”

  Porthios drew his sword. Tanis, who had foreseen trouble, moved swiftly to halt him.

  “Think of where you are, Brother. Think of Alhana,” he urged, speaking Elvish. “These are merely words of bravado from young blood. You’ve heard all this before. Ignore it.”