Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  Palin, breathing hard, fell back a step before the knight’s fey look. “Steel, it’s me …”

  The light of the Staff of Magius shone brightly on the young mage’s face. Steel gave a great sigh of relief, of which he was immediately ashamed.

  “Where have you been, Majere?”

  “Trying to catch up with you, Brightblade!” Palin answered. “You ran off so fast … It’s going to take both of us to get through that cursed grove … if we make it at all.”

  They could both hear the voices of the undead now.

  “Warm blood, sweet flesh, come to us … come …”

  Palin was white to the lips. The hand holding the staff was white-knuckled, slippery with sweat.

  “Blessed Paladine!” Palin grabbed hold of Steel’s arm. “Look! Dear gods! It’s coming straight for us!”

  Steel turned back, sword raised. And then, he lowered it.

  “What are you doing?” Palin fumbled frantically for his spell components. “We have to fight …”

  “My father won’t hurt us,” Steel said softly.

  Two guides, Lady Crysania had said.

  A knight clad in armor that shone like silver in the moonlight stepped from the shadows of the grove. The armor was decorated with the rose, the crown, the kingfisher. It was old-fashioned armor, dating back practically to the Cataclysm. The knight wore no sword; he had given his to his son.

  The knight came to stand before Steel.

  “You have promised, on your honor, to enter this accursed place?” Sturm Brightblade asked.

  “I so promised, Father,” Steel replied, his voice steady. His hand on his sword was steady now, too.

  Sturm’s eyes, careworn, sad, loving, proud, seemed to take the measure of the living man. Sturm nodded once, solemnly, and said, “Est Sularus oth Mithas.”

  Steel drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. “I understand, Father.”

  Sturm smiled. Lifting his hand, he pointed at his son’s throat. Then, turning on his heel, he walked away. He did not disappear into the shadows; it seemed that the shadows parted for him. He vanished in a glade of silver moonlight.

  “Do you know what he means?” Palin asked in a hushed voice.

  Steel reached his hand beneath his armor, took hold of a jewel he wore around his neck. He drew it forth. The jewel was of elven make and design—a token elven lovers often exchange. It had been Alhana’s gift to Sturm: token of love eternal. It had been Sturm’s gift to his son. The jewel’s light shone bright and cold—a clean, piercing cold, like a shaft of ice. Or like the sharp blade of a lance.

  “ ‘My honor is my life.’ I will not shame my mother. I will not fail my father. We will enter the grove now,” Steel Brightblade said.

  19

  Tas is bored.

  Conversation with a specter.

  Powerful kender magic.

  asslehoff Burrfoot heaved a sigh. Plunking his small body down on a chair, he looked around, sighed again, and made an announcement.

  “I’m bored.”

  Now, at the sound of these dreaded words, anyone who had lived long on Ansalon would have made every attempt to flee for his life. Go up to any seasoned warrior and ask him, “Pardon me, sir, but which would you rather be locked up in a room with—an army of ogres, a regiment of trolls, a brigade of draconians, a red dragon … or a bored kender?”

  The warrior will pick the ogres, trolls, draconians and the red dragon hands down, every time. He will tell you, as will everyone you meet, that nothing on Krynn is more dangerous than a bored kender.

  Unfortunately, Usha, never having lived among kender, didn’t know this.

  The two had spent the first night of their arrival, the next day, and well into the next night slumbering under the enchantment cast on them by Dalamar and Jenna. Tas awoke first and, being a considerate kender, he took pains not to wake Usha, even refraining—with a heroic effort of will—from rummaging through her pouches, one of which she was using as a pillow.

  He explored the room, which was filled with interesting objects collected from all over Krynn by Raistlin. Dalamar had added to the collection, and Tas admired the delicate wooden statues of animals carved by the Wilder elves; shells and sponges brought up from the Blood Sea of Istar; porcelain boxes decorated with fanciful paintings of peacocks from Northern Ergoth; huge, ornately carved cedar chests produced by the dwarves of Thorbardin; and various other objects of interest.

  Any and all of these (with the exception of the cedar chests) might have ended up in Tas’s pouches, and more than one item did actually tumble in by accident, only to tumble out just as rapidly. The room had obviously been kender-proofed.

  “My goodness!” said Tas, as a crimson-stained shell of a spiny sea urchin leapt from the kender’s pouch back onto its shelf. “Would you look at that!”

  “Look at what?” Usha said sleepily.

  “Why, every time one of these things jumps into my pouch, it jumps itself back out again. Isn’t that marvelous? Come and watch!”

  Usha watched, but she didn’t appear much impressed.

  “Where is Lord Dalamar and that woman—Jenna? Where did they go?”

  Tas shrugged. “People are always disappearing around this place. They’ll be back.” He turned his attention to the locks on the cedar chests.

  “I don’t want them to come back,” Usha said irritably. “I hate this place. I don’t like that Dalamar. I want to leave. And I’m going to. Come on. Now’s our chance, while they’re gone.”

  Gathering up her packs, she marched over to the door, grasped the handle, and pulled.

  The door didn’t budge.

  Usha rattled the handle, tugged on it, even kicked the door.

  It didn’t open.

  Tas glanced over. “I’d say it was bolted,” he offered helpfully.

  “But why?” Usha was bewildered. “Are you sure?”

  This state of affairs being nothing new or out of the ordinary for the kender, Tas nodded. “People always seem to be locking me up or locking me out or both. You get used to it.”

  The locks on the cedar chest also proved immune to kender prying. The hole where the key was supposed to fit kept darting from one side to the other, in a most unsportsmanlike manner. While this proved highly diverting for the first ten minutes, Tas soon grew bored with chasing the locks about and again made the pronouncement that would have sent most people running, screaming, for the exit.

  “I’m bored.”

  Usha, pacing like a restive cat, made no reply. Passing the window, she stopped, looked hopefully out. It was a long, long drop to the spiked rails of the tall iron fence below. She drew back hurriedly.

  “Well,” Tas added, slapping his hands on his knees, “I’d say we’ve done just about all there is to do around this place. Let’s leave.”

  Fumbling about in one of his pouches, he produced the lock-picking kit that is a kender’s birthright. “I’m sure Dalamar didn’t mean to bolt us in. The latch probably fell down on its own when he left.” He eyed the lock, added severely, “So long as it will hold still, I can fix his oversight.”

  Producing several interesting-looking tools, Tas—no longer bored—walked to the door and set to work.

  Usha came over to watch. “Where do we go once we leave this room? Do you know the way out?”

  “Yes,” Tas said eagerly. “It’s through the Shoikan Grove, a really horrible haunted forest filled with undead who want to devour your flesh and hold your soul in torment throughout all eternity. I know. I saw it once, but I never got to go inside. Only Caramon got to go. Some people have all the luck.”

  He paused a moment, misty-eyed, remembering the good times. Then, whistling a dwarven marching tune, he wiped his nose on his sleeve and cheerfully returned to the task at hand.

  The pick rattled inside the lock.

  The lock remained locked.

  Tas frowned, slid the pick back into his kit, selected another, and tried again.

  “Then it doesn’t ma
tter whether we get out of here or not. If we can’t get through this grove, we’re still trapped here!” Usha sounded disheartened.

  Tas paused to consider. “I know the grove keeps people out, but I never heard anything about it keeping people in. Maybe we won’t have any problems at all.”

  “Do you think so?” Usha regarded him with renewed hope.

  “It’s worth a try.” Tas pried away at the lock energetically. “The worst that can happen is that skeletal hands will reach up out of the ground and try to grab our ankles and drag us under the dirt, where we’ll die in terrible agony.”

  Usha gulped, apparently not seeing the fun in all this. “Maybe … maybe we should just stay here after all, wait for Dalamar to return.” She returned to her chair and sat down.

  “Got it!” Tas cried triumphantly.

  The lock made a loud snick. Tas threw open the door.

  Two cold, disembodied white eyes stared at him from the darkness.

  “Oh, hullo there,” Tas said to the undead being, somewhat taken aback at its sudden appearance.

  “Shut the door!” Usha cried urgently. “Shut it quick! Before that … that thing comes in here!”

  “It’s just a specter,” Tas said, and he politely held out his hand. “How do you do? My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot. Oh, I guess you must find it hard to shake hands, seeing as how you don’t have any. I’m sorry. I hope that didn’t make you feel bad. I know I’d feel really bad if I didn’t have any hands. But it’s very nice to meet you. What’s your name?”

  The specter didn’t respond. The eyes floated nearer. A bone-numbing chill flowed into the room.

  Usha jumped out of her chair, ran behind it. “Shut the door, Tas! Please, please! Shut the door!”

  “It’s all right, Usha,” Tas called, though he involuntarily backed up a pace or two. “Come in,” he invited the specter politely. “We were just leaving …”

  The unblinking eyes moved inexorably back and forth.

  “We’re not leaving,” Tas guessed, and he was starting to grow a bit miffed. He had really spent as much time in this room as he wanted. Perhaps the specter was lonely, wanted to engage in some pleasant conversation.

  “You’re one of the undead, aren’t you? Would you happen to know Lord Soth? He’s a death knight and a great friend of mine.”

  The specter’s eyes glittered in a decidedly hostile manner. Tas suddenly recalled that Lord Soth, having tricked Kitiara into almost murdering Dalamar, probably wasn’t highly revered among those who guarded the tower.

  “Uh, mmm, not really a friend,” the kender admitted, backing up another pace or two. As the eyes floated nearer, the temperature in the room fell to an uncomfortable level. “More like an acquaintance. He never comes to visit or drops by for lunch or anything. Well, it’s certainly been nice chatting with you. Now, if you’ll just step aside, we’ll slip out and not bother you anymore.…”

  “Tas!” Usha screamed.

  The kender tripped on the trailing skirt of the tablecloth and fell down.

  The specter hovered over him a moment, then, suddenly, it was gone. The door slammed shut. The chill abated.

  Usha, shaking all over, crouched behind the chair. “What was that thing?”

  “Extremely rude,” Tasslehoff remarked, picking himself up and dusting himself off. “I admit that most undead I’ve met aren’t very good conversationalists, with the exception of the spectral minions we ran into in Darken Wood, who very obligingly told us their life stories, all about how they were cursed and everything. Only they talked by using Raistlin’s mouth. They had mouths of their own—no lips, only mouths. It was truly wonderful. This specter doesn’t have any mouth, which I guess is why it never says anything. Would you like to hear the story about Darken Wood? Since Raistlin is your father and all—”

  “I just want to get out of this horrible place!” Usha snapped. She shivered with fear, but she was growing angry, too. “Why are they holding us prisoner? I don’t understand!”

  “Probably because Raistlin is your father,” Tas suggested after considering the matter. “Dalamar was Raistlin’s apprentice, but the dark elf was also the Conclave’s spy on Raistlin, because he was a renegade wizard, and they didn’t trust him. Raistlin knew that Dalamar was a spy, and he punished Dalamar by boring holes in the elf’s flesh. The bloody holes are still there, and they still hurt him, but don’t ask Dalamar to let you look at them, because that puts him in a really bad mood. I know. I did once.

  “After that, Dalamar was going to kill Raistlin when Raistlin tried to come back through the Portal of the Abyss after almost defeating the Dark Queen, which was when Caramon tried to go through the grove and Tanis almost fought with Lord Soth, only he couldn’t because I stole his magical bracelet …”

  Tas had to pause here to breathe. Usha stared at him, wide-eyed.

  “This Raistlin … I mean my father … My father did all that! You never told me that part!” She sank back down, limp, in her chair. “No wonder Dalamar doesn’t trust me! He’ll never let me go! He … he might even kill me!”

  “I don’t think so.” Tas pondered the issue. “But they might take you before the Wizards’ Conclave. If they do, will you take me with you?”

  Usha groaned, put her hands to her head. “I don’t want to go to any Wizards’ Conclave. I just want to go home!”

  Tas had difficulty understanding this notion, having been afflicted by Wanderlust at an early age. He knew, from long association, that homesickness was a failing among humans.

  “I could probably get us out of here if I truly put my mind to it. But what about all those magic items you have?” Tas pointed at Usha’s pouch. “You told Dalamar you were a very powerful wizardess. Being Raistlin’s daughter and all, of course, you must be. I adore magic spells! I’d really like to see some of yours.”

  Usha glanced nervously at the pouches, particularly the one that held the magical objects. “I don’t think there’s anything in here that will help.”

  “But maybe you don’t know that for sure. Let’s look! I can help you sort out all your things,” Tas offered magnanimously. “I’m really good at sorting and finding. It’s amazing what people turn up when they go through my pouches. They find stuff that they didn’t even know they’d lost!”

  “I’m certain there’s nothing in here that will help,” Usha said, drawing her pouches closer to her, which proved that she was starting to learn a bit about kender after all. “But why don’t you look in yours. Maybe you’ll find something.”

  “That’s true. You never know.” Tas plopped down on the floor, began fishing around in his pouches. Out came half a moldy piece of cheese, a dead and remarkably stiff bat, a spindle, an inkwell (dried up), a book with the name “Haplo” written on the flyleaf (“Never heard of him”), a hard-boiled egg, and a silver spoon.

  “Ah, ha!” Tas let out a shout.

  Usha, surreptitiously looking into her own pouch, jumped. “What? What is it?”

  “I’ve found it!” Tas said reverently. “A holy artifact.” He held it to the light. “The Kender Spoon of Turning!”

  “Are you sure?” Usha leaned forward, examined it closely. “It looks like the spoons we used last night at dinner. It’s even got strawberry jam on it.”

  “Don’t be frightened, Usha, but that’s blood,” said Tas solemnly. “It’s the Kender Spoon of Turning. I’d know it anywhere. My Uncle Trapspringer carried one with him all the time. He had a saying: ‘Most undead are more afraid of you than you are of them. They just ask to be left alone, to haunt and howl and rattle their chains. But occasionally you’ll run into one who wants to suck out your liver. That’s when you need the Kender Spoon of Turning.’ ”

  “How does it work?” Usha appeared dubious.

  Tas scrambled to his feet. “You must present it boldly. Hold it up in front of the specter or the skeletal warrior or whatever sort of ghoul you might chance to encounter. And then you say, in a very firm tone, so that there’s no misundersta
nding, ‘Leave.’ Or maybe ‘Begone.’ I’m not sure. Anyway, when the specter is concentrating on the spoon—”

  “I’ll sneak past it, out the door,” Usha joined in eagerly. “And then when the specter goes to look for me, you sneak past it, out the door. How does that sound?”

  Tas found this puzzling. “But we won’t need to sneak past it, Usha. By the time I get finished with it, the specter will be obeying my every command. Maybe,” he added, inspired, “we’ll take it with us!”

  Usha shuddered. “No, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “But you never know when a specter could come in handy!” Tas said wistfully.

  Usha started to argue logically, to point out that the specter would be a very unpleasant, not to mention dangerous, companion. She swallowed logic just in time. She was learning a great deal about kender.

  “What would Dalamar think of us if we stole his specter?” Usha said gravely. She draped her packs around her. “He’d be mad, and I wouldn’t blame him.”

  “I wouldn’t steal it!” Tas protested, shocked at the accusation. “I only want to ‘borrow’ it for a while, show it to a few people … Oh, well, I guess you’re right. I can always come back and pick up one later.”

  He scooped all the articles he owned inside his pouches. One or two he didn’t own happened to fall in there as well, but they jumped back out again.

  Gripping the spoon in his left hand, he held it up in front of him boldly, and walked over to the door.

  “You open it,” he said to Usha.

  “Me?” She gasped. “Why me?”

  “Because I have to stand here boldly holding the spoon,” Tas replied, somewhat irritated. “I can’t be bold and open the door at the same time.”

  “Oh, all right!”

  Usha crept over to the door, flattened herself against the wall. Reaching out with one hand, she gingerly grabbed hold of the door handle and, holding her breath, she gave the handle a yank.

  The door creaked open. The two disembodied eyes—now narrowed in anger—started to float inside.

  Tas thrust the spoon in what he presumed to be the specter’s face. “Leave this place immediately! Be gone! Return to … to wherever it is you came from.” Tas wasn’t exactly clear on that point. He assumed it was the Abyss, but then you never knew, and he didn’t want to hurt the specter’s feelings.