Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Haunt this door no more.” That was a rhyme. Tas was rather proud of it, repeated it. “Haunt this door no more.…”

  The specter wasn’t regarding the spoon with the respect it ought, considering that this was the holy Kender Spoon of Turning. The undead eyes were, in fact, glaring at Tas with a most deadly expression. A chill like the chill of the grave made the kender’s teeth chatter. But at least the specter was glaring at Tas, not at Usha, who was almost through the door and heading for the hallway.

  At that moment, the eyes started to shift.

  “Hold!” Tas shouted with about as much boldness as he could manage. “Cease and desist!” He’d heard a constable say that once and was rather fond of the expression.

  The specter’s gaze was still moving around.

  “Run, Usha!” Tas shouted.

  Usha couldn’t. The cold numbed bone and muscle, froze the blood in the veins. She shook and shivered, unable to move another inch. The specter was almost on her now.

  Tas, truly outraged—this was the Kender Spoon of Turning, after all—leapt forward, straight at the specter.

  “Go away!” the kender shouted.

  The eyes shifted to Tas, to the spoon. Suddenly, the eyes widened, blinked, closed, and vanished.

  The chill receded. The door remained standing open.

  In the distance, a silver bell chimed faintly.

  Usha was staring, not at the spoon, but somewhere in the back of the room.

  “I turned it!” Tas sounded slightly amazed. “I turned it! Did you see that, Usha?”

  “I saw something,” she said, a quiver in her voice. “Behind you. A man. He was wearing black robes. A hood covered his face. I couldn’t see—”

  “Likely another specter,” Tas said. Whipping around, he again presented the spoon boldly. “Is he still here? I’ll turn him, too.”

  “No. He’s gone. He left when the specter did. When that bell sounded.”

  “Oh, well.” Tas was disappointed. “Maybe another time. Anyhow, the door’s open. We can leave.”

  “None too soon for me!” Usha started for the door, hesitated, peered outside. “Do you think the specter’s truly gone?”

  “Sure it is.” Tas polished the spoon on his shirt front. This done, he thrust the spoon in his topmost pocket, to be available in case of need, and strolled out the door.

  Usha followed closely behind him.

  They emerged onto a broad landing. Stairs spiraled up and stairs spiraled down. The tower’s interior was dark but, at their coming, flickering flames appeared, burning from some invisible source on the walls. In the dim light cast by these eerie flames, Tas and Usha could see that the stairs had no railing, no enclosure. The tower’s center was hollow. One misstep on the narrow stairs would be the last.

  “It’s certainly is a long way down,” Tas remarked, leaning precariously over the edge of the stairs to stare into the shadows.

  “Don’t do that!” Usha grabbed the kender by the strap of one of his pouches, dragged him back against the wall. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Down?” suggested Tas. “The way out is down.”

  “I guess,” Usha mumbled. Neither up nor down appeared particularly promising. She cast one last glance behind, at the room they were leaving, half-fearful, half-hoping to see that strange, black-robed figure again.

  The room was empty.

  Hugging the wall, holding each other by the hand—“In case one of us should slip,” Tas said helpfully—they slowly and carefully descended the stairs. No one and nothing disturbed them until they reached the lower levels.

  Here, on the ground floor, the apprentice mages, who studied under Dalamar’s tutelage, had their living quarters. Tas was just breathing a sigh of relief at reaching the end of the incredibly long descent, when he heard the rustle of robes, the patter of slippered feet, the sound of raised voices. Light shone up the dark stairwell.

  “My, I wonder what’s going on,” Tas said. “Maybe it’s a party.” He started eagerly down the stairs.

  Usha pulled him back.

  “It’s Dalamar! He’s come back!” she whispered fearfully.

  “No, that doesn’t sound like his voice. It’s likely some of Dalamar’s students.” Tas listened to the voices for a moment. “They sound awfully excited. I’m going to go see what’s happening.”

  “But if his students catch us, they’ll put us back in that room!”

  “Why, then, we’ll have the fun of breaking out again,” Tas said cheerfully. “Come on, Usha. We’ll think of something. We can’t just stand around this boring old staircase all night.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Usha said, adding, “Those sound like real, live people. I can deal with real, live people! Besides, if we stay here, someone’s bound to find us, and it would look less suspicious if we walked right out in the open.”

  Tas gazed at her in admiration. “You know, if you weren’t part Irda, I’d say you must be part kender. That’s a compliment,” he added hurriedly. Sometimes, when he said that, people tried to hit him.

  But Usha seemed flattered. She smiled, straightened her shoulders, tossed her head, and walked down the stairs and into the light.

  Tas had to hurry to catch up. They both nearly bumped into a red-robed mage, who had come dashing around the corner. He brought himself up with a start, stared at them in astonishment.

  “What’s the problem?” Usha asked calmly. “Can we help?”

  “Who in the Abyss are you and what are you doing here?” the Red Robe demanded.

  “My name is Usha …” Usha paused.

  “Majere,” Tas inserted.

  “Majere!” the young mage repeated in shock. He almost dropped the spellbook he was holding.

  Usha glared at the kender. “There, you see! You weren’t supposed to tell!”

  “I’m sorry.” Tas clapped his hand over his mouth.

  “Anyway, now you know.” Usha heaved an elaborate sigh. “It’s so difficult. The notoriety. People just won’t leave me alone. You won’t tell, will you? Lord Dalamar wouldn’t like it.”

  “I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot, Hero of the Lance,” said Tas, but the Red Robe wasn’t impressed, appeared to have forgotten the kender’s existence. He was staring at Usha with a worshipful expression, his heart and his soul in his eyes.

  “I promise, Mistress Majere,” he said softly. “I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Thank you.” Usha smiled—a smile that said, It’s you and me, alone, against the world.

  The Red Robe melted. Tas was surprised he didn’t see the young man’s heart oozing out of his slippers.

  “I may be studying here with you,” Usha continued, glancing around to see how the place suited her. “I haven’t decided yet.” She looked back at the mage. “But I think I would like it here.”

  “I hope you do,” he said. “It’s quite comfortable.”

  “Dark, damp, and smells funny,” Tas observed. “I’ve been in better prisons. But I suppose there must be compensations.”

  The Red Robe blinked, coming suddenly to the realization that there was a kender in the Tower of High Sorcery. He glared at Tas, frowning. “What are you doing here? My lord would never permit—”

  Usha took hold of the man by the arm, leaned near him. “We were sound asleep—Lord Dalamar gave us his finest guest quarters—when we heard a bell clanging. We thought it might mean …”

  “A fire!” Tas filled in the blank. “Is there a fire? Are we all going to get burned to a crisp? Is that why they’re ringing the bell?”

  “Ringing bells?” The Red Robe looked as if he’d been hearing bells ever since he laid eyes on Usha. He came to his senses. “Bells! The silver bell! I—I must go.” He wrenched himself away.

  “There is a fire!” Tas grabbed hold of him.

  “No, there is not,” the young mage said crossly. “Let go of me. And give that back!” He snatched a scroll out of the kender’s hands, a scroll that was inches from disappearing into one of Tas
’s pouches.

  “Good thing I found that for you,” Tas said gravely. “You might have lost it. There’s the bell again! The fire must be spreading.”

  “It’s not a fire. The silver bell means that someone has entered the Shoikan Grove. I’ve got to go,” the Red Robe said again, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Usha. “Stay right where you are. You’ll be safe here.”

  “The Shoikan Grove!” Tas said to himself. “And they’re going to get dragged down into their graves by skeletons! And I won’t be there to see it. Unless—” He had an idea. “Unless I’m there to save them!”

  He drew the silver spoon from his pocket and, before Usha or the Red Robe could stop him, made a dash for the tower’s entrance.

  20

  White robes.

  Black armor.

  he hideous voices of the Shoikan Grove were silent. The hands of the undead, which tried to drag their victims down to join them in endless, hungry darkness, stirred restlessly beneath the rotting leaves, but did not attack. The trees kept grim vigil, but appeared prepared to permit the knight and the mage to pass.

  Side by side, they entered the dread woods together. Voices of the dead led them on. Voices of the dead lured them on.

  The way was not easy. No path existed in the Shoikan Grove, at least not for Steel and Palin. They had to forge a path as they went, battling through thorn-encrusted, tangled undergrowth; the noxious smell of death and decay nearly choked them. In the world outside the Shoikan Grove, the ground was dry and sun-baked, covered with dust. Inside the grove, the ground was wet and soggy, mud oozed beneath their feet, and brackish water filled their footprints as they passed. The air was damp and cold, and moisture—like the sweat of a chill-racked fever patient—beaded on their skin, trickled down their necks.

  Each step was terror-filled. The dead of the grove said nothing aloud. They whispered words that were only half heard, but were filled with loathing and horrible desire.

  Steel took the lead, his sword drawn, held in both hands, raised to attack. He was watchful, wary, his every move made with extreme caution. Palin came after, walking in the glow of the Staff of Magius, which he used to light their way. It may have been his overwrought imagination, but it seemed to him that the grasping skeletal hands drew back whenever the bones were illuminated in the staff’s light.

  The journey seemed endless. Fear lengthened seconds to hours, hours to years. The whispering darkness, the breath-snatching stench, the cold that made the bones ache and the fingertips numb, began to work on both warrior and mage.

  The ground grew wetter; walking became increasingly difficult. Steel, in his heavy boots, weighted down by his armor, sank up to his ankles in the foul, clinging muck. Each time he moved, it took a great effort to pull his feet free, one after the other. Each step became a battle with the squelching ground, and he was soon breathing hard from the labor. He grew increasingly exhausted. His legs burned from the exertion. He tried to find firmer footing, watched where he put each step, but it made no difference. With every step, he sank a little deeper; each time it was harder to free himself. Weary, far more weary than he should have been, almost sobbing for breath, he came to a halt, looked back at his footprints.

  They were filling up with blood.

  Palin had no difficulty walking; he trod lightly on the ground, left no mark of his passing. He could walk, but he couldn’t breathe.

  The air beneath the trees seemed liquid, flowed into his nose and mouth like dark, oily water. He choked and swallowed and choked again. His lungs burned. He inhaled deeply, only to gag and retch as if he’d drunk swamp water. Tiny pinpricks of light sparked on the fringes of his vision; he was slowly suffocating, starting to lose consciousness.

  Gasping for breath, he was forced to a halt beside Steele.

  The dead were waiting for them.

  Fleshless hands, nothing but tendon and bone, reached up out of the black loam and grasped hold of Steele around the shins. Bone-brittle voices gibbered and laughed. The hands pulled, with inhuman strength, trying to drag the knight down to join them in unquiet death.

  Drawing his sword with a shout, he slashed at the hands with the shining blade.

  More hands clutched the knight’s feet, wrapped around his ankles. His blade severed the hands from the skeletal wrists. One hand would fall limp, only to be replaced by another and by another after that. He was losing the battle; was being dragged inexorably under. Already, he had sunk into the quagmire up to his knees.

  Palin plunged forward to help. The words of his magic on his lips, he struggled to find the breath to say them aloud. But he could not speak; what air he had, he was forced to use to stave off suffocation. Desperate, he struck at the hands with the butt-end of the staff.

  Bone shattered, tendons snapped.

  Elated, he continued the attack, found his breath coming easier. Steel, too, fought with renewed hope. He could move his legs.

  “Take hold!” Palin cried and held out the staff.

  Steel reached for it.

  Cold bone fingers dug into the back of Palin’s neck. Hot, stinging pain shot through his body. Spasms twisted his limbs. The Staff of Magius fell to the ground. The bright light of its crystal went out.

  Darkness, thick and palpable, rushed in on them, as if it had been lying in ambush, awaiting its chance. Palin tore frantically at the hands, panic rising, when suddenly he knew what to do. The memory of his brothers, training for hand-to-hand combat, came to him with desperate clarity. He saw Tanin grasp Sturm around the throat from behind, saw Sturm plant his feet solidly and shove backward. He knocked Tanin flat on his back on the ground, breaking his grip.

  Palin planted his feet as best he could in the muck, with all his strength, lunged directly backward. He fell through the darkness, no solid body behind him to break his fall. He landed heavily on the ground, driving what breath remained from his body. But the hands had let loose their grip around his throat.

  He lay panting for breath, knowing he must move, but too shaken to attempt it yet. Looking up, he thought he saw a star shining through the darkness, and he marveled at how this could possibly be, until he realized that what he saw was the light of the starjewel, shining from around Steel’s neck.

  “Hurry, Majere!” Steel commanded, offering to help Palin stand. “They’ve gone … for the moment.”

  Palin ignored the outstretched hand. He lurched to his knees, began scrabbling through the rotted leaves. The darkness whispered around him.

  “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?” Steel asked.

  “My staff! Where is it? I can’t find it! I can’t see!” Palin ran his hands through the wet leaves.

  “Hurry, mage!” Steel urged.

  The knight stood protectively over Palin, shielding him with his body and drawn sword.

  “I have it!” Palin gasped in relief. His hand closed over the smooth wood and immediately the staff burst into light. Leaning on the staff thankfully, he drew himself to his feet.

  And there, before them, was the Tower of High Sorcery.

  A tall building, constructed of magic and of black marble, thrust up into the sky, which was dark around it. Not even the stars would come near the Tower of Palanthas. Three moons shone on it. The marble walls glistened in Solinari’s light, for though Solinari was a deity revered by the White Robes, he—like his siblings—revered all magic. Lunitari’s red beams shone on the blood-red spires atop the tower. Above the spires, above the balcony known as the “Death Walk,” floated Nuitari, the black moon, special guardian of this tower, visible only to the Black Robes.

  “We’ve made it,” Palin said, a catch in his throat.

  The longed-for moment had arrived. He almost broke into a run, but events had taught him caution. He waited for the knight to precede him.

  Despite his fatigue, Steel moved forward rapidly. He, too, was relieved to see their journey’s end before them. Together, walking now by the light of two moons, they approached the iron gates.

  The
re was no lock that they could see. It seemed the gates would open with a shove. Yet neither put his hand out, neither wanted to touch that iron, which was dripping with the strange, uncanny moisture of the Shoikan Grove.

  No one was around. No one was in sight. No lights shone from the windows, but that may have been only illusion. There might—probably were—any number of eyes watching them.

  “Well, Majere, why do you wait?” Steel motioned at the gate with his sword. “This is your bailiwick. Go on.”

  Palin couldn’t very well argue the point. He walked forward, reached out to put his hand on the gate.

  The gate swung open.

  Palin’s spirits lifted. He looked back at Steel with a certain amount of weary triumph. Now it was his turn to lead. “Come ahead,” he said. “We’ve been invited to enter.”

  “Lucky us,” Steel muttered, and did not lower his sword. He stepped through the gate and into a garden courtyard. It was a strange sort of garden.

  Here grew many herbs and flowers used for spell components. Cultivated and tended by the apprentice mages, most of these plants grew by night, thrived in the unseen light of Nuitari. Nightshade, the death lily, black orchids, black roses, rue, bittersweet, henbane, poppy, mandrake, wormwood, mistletoe—their perfume hung, sweet, cloying, and heavy, in the still air.

  “Don’t pick or touch any of the plants,” Palin warned as they walked the dank gray cobblestone of the courtyard.

  “Not a bouquet I would fancy,” Steel said, though he did pause to make a slight bow of reverence for the lily that was the symbol of his order.

  Palin was just wondering how he would get inside the door—he had some vague memory that there was a bell—when he saw them. Everywhere. All around him.

  Eyes. Unblinking eyes. Only eyes.

  No skulls. No necks. No arms or torsos or legs.

  Eyes and hands.