Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Leave us.” The Nightlord, Lillith, turned to the jailer. “Shut the door.”

  “Don’t keep him long, Nightlord,” the jailer growled, placing the burning torch in an iron sconce on the wall. “He’s got work to do.”

  “I will be only a few moments.” Lillith waited until the jailer had left, then turned back to Steel. Her eyes shone eerily. She regarded him with an intensity that seemed to give them a baleful, inner light.

  “Why have you come, Nightlord,” Steel asked finally, growing weary of this silent scrutiny. “To revel in my downfall?”

  “I take no pleasure in this, Brightblade,” Lillith answered abruptly. “What I do, I do for the glory of our queen. I came to tell you why it is necessary that you must die.”

  Steel shrugged. “Then you have wasted your time, Nightlord. I know why I must die. You said it yourself. I lost the prisoner entrusted to my care.”

  “You were meant to lose him,” the Nightlord said calmly. “I sent you on a fool’s errand, knowing full well that you would lose him. I did not, however, expect you to return. I had hoped,” she continued, speaking in a detached manner, “that you would both die in the Shoikan Grove. Barring that, I trusted the Dark Queen would kill you and the mage in the Abyss. That plan also failed. But, hopefully, by now, the mage is dead. And shortly you will be, too.” She nodded several times, repeated, “You will be, too.”

  Steel was confounded, could find nothing to say. That this woman should hate so completely, so malevolently, without cause was beyond his understanding. At length, seeing that she expected him to speak, he said, “I fail to understand why you have come, Nightlord. If it is to taunt me—”

  “No, not that. I take no satisfaction in this. I came because I wanted you to understand. I would not want you to stand before our queen and accuse me of having had you executed falsely or unjustly. Her Majesty can be … most vindictive.”

  The Nightlord was silent, brooding.

  Steel was not inclined to be sympathetic. “What you did was tantamount to murder, Nightlord, treacherous and deceitful, unworthy of one of Ariakan’s knights.”

  Lillith paid this scant consideration. “I looked into the future, Steel Brightblade. I saw you and the mage, the White Robe, together on a field of battle. I saw lightning strike the tower. I saw death, destruction, the fall of the knighthood.” The strangely lit eyes turned to him. “You and the White Robe must die. Only then will doom be averted. Do you understand? Surely you accept this as necessary!”

  “I accept my lord’s judgment,” Steel said, choosing his words carefully. “If my death benefits the knighthood, then so be it.”

  The Nightlord seemed less than satisfied with this answer. She gnawed her lower lip, rattled the seeing stones in their pouch.

  The jailer opened the cell door. “You have another visitor, Brightblade.”

  Subcommander Trevalin entered. He appeared displeased to find the Nightlord. She was not overjoyed to see him. She said no further word to Steel. Pivoting on her heel, she swept out of the cell, her gray robes swirling around her. Trevalin stepped back, took care to keep out of the way of their touch.

  “What was she doing here?” he asked.

  “Wizard talk,” Steel said, deeply troubled. “Omens, that sort of thing. She said”—he paused, hesitated—“she says my death is necessary or else the knighthood will fall. She has foreseen it, she says.”

  “Rot!” Trevalin snorted. He lowered his voice. “I know our lord sets great stock in these magic-users, but you and I are soldiers. We know that the future is what we make it, with this.” He rested his hand on his sword’s hilt. “You are a valiant warrior, Brightblade. You served our queen well. You should be rewarded … I don’t suppose I can persuade you, one last time, to speak to Lord Ariakan?”

  Steel hesitated. The thought of leaving this foul jail cell, of being returned to his command, of once again riding into battle, was almost too much for him, almost overcame his resolve. This was a glorious hour for Lord Ariakan, for their queen. The armies of the Knights of Takhisis were thundering across Ansalon. No one was able to stop them. Palanthas had already fallen. The knights were preparing to go to war against the elves. And Steel would miss it. Manacled, chained hand and foot, he was working at slave labor. In another fortnight, he would be walking out that cell door the last time, to his own execution.

  He had only to speak to Lord Ariakan, but to tell him what? The truth?

  “I am sorry, Subcommander,” Steel said with a faint smile at Trevalin’s obvious disappointment. “I have nothing to say.”

  Trevalin gazed at him in silence, hoping he would change his mind.

  Steel stood silently, unbending.

  Trevalin shook his head. “I am sorry, too, Brightblade. Well, I have done all I could.” He rested his hand briefly on Steel’s arm. “Our talon leaves this day. We are being sent to aid the fighting in Northern Ergoth. I could have used you. I shall not see you again, I suspect. Her Dark Majesty be with you.”

  “And with you, Subcommander. Thank you.”

  Trevalin turned on his heel, left, just as the jailer entered.

  “Time for work detail, Brightblade.”

  Steel moved slowly, stalled for time. He did not want Trevalin to see him being led ignominiously out of his cell in chains, to be lined up with the other prisoners, marched off to the quarries. When he was certain he could no longer hear Trevalin’s footsteps, Steel walked out of the cell.

  He joined a group of other prisoners, Knights of Solamnia who had either been captured during the battle or who had surrendered. Most were young—younger than Steel.

  The Solamnic Knights knew he was the enemy. They believed he was responsible for Tanis Half-Elven’s death. They had first thought him a spy in their midst. But then they had learned the truth from their guards, how Steel had lost a prisoner, had voluntarily returned to face his punishment, which was death. An act of such courage and honor earned him the young knights’ grudging respect. They said little to him, but they no longer shunned him, spoke freely among themselves when he was among them. Occasionally—during the brief rest periods—they even attempted desultory conversation. Their attempts were coldly rebuffed.

  Steel walked in a bleak despair that would admit no comfort.

  Lord Ariakan was not harsh to his prisoners, but he was not kind to them either. He saw to it that they were adequately fed and watered—a weak, sick man is not fit for hard labor—but he worked them mercilessly and did not spare the lash when he needed them to work harder. Ariakan had won a great victory, but he hadn’t yet won the war.

  He knew dragons, knew that they couldn’t be trusted. He guessed that the silver and gold monsters had flown away to regroup, summon others of their kind, were preparing to return to attack in force. He kept his troops on alert, worked his prisoners day and night, rebuilding, repairing, refortifying the High Clerist’s Tower.

  The prisoner knights had expected Steel to use his rank and his allegiance to garner favors from the guards. Steel could have done so, in fact. His enemies were not the only ones to admire him. His voluntary return to face his punishment, his bravery in battle, his subsequent stoic acceptance of his own imprisonment and execution were praised nightly around the watch fires.

  But Steel scorned to accept any favors. He did not deserve them.

  Therefore, he threw back the extra food the guards gave him, thrust away the extra dipper of water. He worked side by side with the captured Solamnic Knights: stone-cutting in the mountain quarries, hauling the huge blocks back to the tower, struggling to fit them into place. All the work was done in the glaring light of the merciless sun. But he was never struck, never lashed like the other prisoners. So bound up was he in his misery that he had never noticed this difference.

  The prisoners were marched off to the quarry as usual. Their task was to load giant blocks of granite onto large wooden sleds, which were then dragged by the huge mammoths to the tower. The blocks were pulled by ropes up a ramp,
onto the sled. Prisoners, positioned behind the blocks, shoved them along the incline.

  Steel’s thoughts were centered on Trevalin, on his talon. He imagined his comrades flying into what was bound to be a challenging fight with the Ergothians, humans of enormous courage and prowess, who had held their lands all during the War of the Lance and who were determined to hold them now.

  Steel pictured the engagement, fought the battle in his imagination. The guide rope he was supposed to be holding went slack. Warning cries and shouts jolted him from his reverie. The huge block of granite, half on the sled and half off, had tilted, tipped, and overturned the sled.

  “Clumsy bastard! Pay attention to what you’re doing!” The overseer snarled and struck out with his lash. He did not strike Steel. He struck the young knight standing next to Steel.

  The whip laid open the flesh of the young knight’s bare back; the blow knocked him to the ground. The overseer stood over him, whip raised, ready to strike again.

  Steel caught hold of the overseer’s arm.

  “The fault was mine,” Steel said. “He did nothing. I let go of the rope.”

  The overseer stared at Steel in astonishment. So did the other prisoners, who had all ceased work, were watching in disbelief.

  The overseer recovered himself. “I saw it all. The Solamnic—”

  “—did nothing to merit punishment.” Steel shoved the overseer aside. “And don’t call me knight. I am a knight no longer. And don’t do me favors, ever again.”

  He walked over, helped the young Solamnic to his feet. “I am sorry this happened, sir. It won’t happen again. Will you accept my apology?”

  “Yes,” murmured the knight. “Yes, of course.”

  Satisfied, Steel went back to the overseer. “Strike me.”

  The overseer grunted. “You’re wasting time. Get back to work.”

  Steel repeated, “Strike me. As you struck him. Or else I will report you to my lord for dereliction of duty.”

  The overseer was, by now, angry enough at Steel for making a fool of him that he welcomed inflicting the blow. He brought the lash across Steel’s bare shoulders, flaying the skin almost to the bone.

  Steel bore the pain without flinching. No grimace crossed his face. No cry escaped his lips. The overseer struck once more, then, with a snarl, turned away.

  Seeing his punishment was finished, Steel went back to work. His back was raw, bleeding. Flies began to buzz around the open wounds.

  The overseer began to harangue the other prisoners, urging them to shift the block onto the sled. The young knight took advantage of this opportunity to draw near Steel, awkwardly offering his thanks.

  Steel turned away. He wanted no thanks; he had not done this out of any misguided sense of compassion. The sting of the lash had returned him to reality. He had no right to even imagine himself as one of Takhisis’s chosen. The Dark Queen knew his guilt.

  He could have entered the mage’s laboratory—that was the knowledge that tormented him. The door held open a moment for him. He could have gone in after Palin, but he had hesitated, only a moment, unwilling to walk into that gibbering, whispering, death-dealing darkness. And then the door had slammed shut.

  Takhisis had seen into his heart. She knew him for a coward. She had refused to grant him an honorable death, and now, apparently, she wanted him further punished. He would not stand by and see another punished in his place.

  Steel lifted the guide rope, returned to his work. The salt sweat running into his wound stung like fire. He was, now, like all the other prisoners.

  Except that in a fortnight, in the dawn of the day celebrated as Midsummer’s Eve, if Palin Majere did not return or was captured, Steel Brightblade would die. And if, as the Nightlord had said, his death would save the knighthood, as his father’s death had saved the Solamnic Knighthood, then, perhaps, he could feel more at peace.

  But he would serve Chemosh for all eternity before he asked Takhisis to forgive the Nightlord.

  11

  Queen’s vengeance.

  Raistlin’s choice.

  asslehoff woke with a pain in his head and the feeling that he’d been trodden on by a woolly mammoth, such as the one he’d once helped rescue from an evil wizard. Sitting up, rubbing his head, Tas demanded, “Who hit me?”

  “You were in the way,” Raistlin returned shortly.

  Tas rubbed and blinked and saw more stars and wondered aloud. “Where am I?”

  And then he remembered where he was. They were in the Abyss. The dragons’ heads were glowing very brightly now, and they had to get back through the Portal.

  “Come over here, kender,” Raistlin ordered. “I need your help.”

  “They always need my help,” Tasslehoff muttered. “After they knock me down because I’m in the way. And my name’s Tasslehoff,” he added, “in case you forgot.”

  He blinked some more, and finally the stars quit bursting long enough for him to see.

  Raistlin was crouched over Palin, who lay, unconscious, on the gray ground. Tas picked himself up, hurried over.

  “What’s the matter with him, Raistlin? Is he going to be all right? He doesn’t look at all well. Where did Kitiara go?”

  The archmage glared at him. “Shut up.”

  “Sure, Raistlin,” Tas said meekly. And he truly meant to. The next words just sort of popped out by mistake. “But I would like to know what happened.”

  “My beloved sister stabbed him, that’s what happened. She would have finished the job, but I stopped her. She is no match for me, and she knows it. She has gone off to seek reinforcements.”

  Tas hunkered down beside Palin, inspected the wound. “It doesn’t seem too bad,” he said, relieved. “It’s in his right shoulder, and there’s not a lot of important parts in your right shoulder. He’s passed out. Why—”

  “Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” Raistlin said.

  “Probably.” Tas sighed. He was feeling sad and low-spirited. “You usually do.” He would have added more, but Palin groaned and began to twitch and writhe.

  “What’s wrong with him, Raistlin?” Tas asked, suddenly afraid for his young friend. “He looks like … like he’s dying.”

  Raistlin shook his head. “He is dying. Palin has to return to his plane of existence quickly.”

  “But the wound isn’t serious—”

  “The blade that stabbed him was of this realm, kender, not your own. You managed to block her killing stroke, but the blade entered his flesh. The curse is already working on him. If he dies here, his soul will remain here—a captive of Chemosh.”

  Raistlin rose to his feet, stared at the Portal. The eyes of the dragons stared back. The sky was gray, streaked with black strands, like tentacles, snaking out toward them.

  Tas looked from Palin to the Portal to the sky and back to Palin. “I suppose I could drag him that far, but what would I do for him once I got him back inside the laboratory?” He thought a moment, then brightened. “I know! Maybe there’s a magic spell you could teach me that I could use on him. Will you, Raistlin? Will you teach me some magic?”

  “I have sinned enough against the world,” Raistlin said dryly. “Teaching magic to a kender would ensure my damnation.” He frowned, pondering.

  “You have to go back with him, then, Raistlin,” Tas said. “I suppose you can go back?”

  “I can go back,” Raistlin said. “My physical body did not die in the world. I may return to it. The question is, why would I want to? The only pleasure I ever found in that world was in my magic. And if I returned, do you suppose the gods would let me keep my powers?”

  “But what about Palin?” Tas argued. “If he stays here, he’ll die!”

  “Yes.” Raistlin sighed. “What about Palin?” The archmage smiled bitterly, gazed with enmity up into the dark sky. “So I am to go back. Is that what you want? Weak and defenseless as I am! Thus do you, my queen, have your revenge!”

  All this made little sense to Tasslehoff. He reached out to give Palin a
soothing pat. But when he touched Palin’s skin, it was cold. The young man’s lips were blue; the flesh starting to turn a sickly white.

  “Raistlin!” Tas cried, gulping. “You better do something quick!”

  Raistlin knelt swiftly at Palin’s side, rested his hand on the young man’s neck. “Yes, he’s very far gone.”

  With sudden decision, he reached down, caught hold of Palin’s shoulders. “Kender, you and I between us will carry him.”

  “My name’s Tasslehoff. You seem to keep forgetting.” Tas jumped to help, noticed something lying on the ground. He pointed. “What do we do with the staff?”

  Raistlin stared at the Staff of Magius. The archmage’s thin, nervous fingers twitched. He reached out to it suddenly, eagerly. “On second thought, there could be a way …”

  And then his hand stopped, withdrew.

  “You bring his staff, Kender,” Raistlin said in a low voice. “I will take care of Palin. Hurry!”

  “Me?” Tas could barely speak for the thrill. “Me? I get to carry the … the staff?”

  “Quit dithering and do as you’re told,” Raistlin ordered.

  Tas clasped his hand around the famed Staff of Magius, lifted it up. He’d longed to touch the staff from the very first moment he’d seen Raistlin holding it, back in the Inn of the Last Home.

  “I’m ready!” Tas said, gazing up at the staff with pride.

  Raistlin was not strong enough to lift Palin. The archmage placed his hands under the young man’s shoulders, dragged him over the gray ground, and managed, by a great effort, to carry Palin to the Portal.

  The dragons’ heads gleamed with a strange, hideous beauty.

  Raistlin halted, breathing heavily, and now, for the first time since he’d met him, Tas heard Raistlin begin to cough.

  “Kender,” he ordered in a choked voice, “raise the staff! Raise it high, so the queen can see.”

  Tas, thrilled to the very soles of his green shoes, did as he was told. He lifted the staff in the air as high as he could.

  The dragons’ heads shouted defiance, but the Portal remained open.