Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  “Caramon!” the Nightlord repeated, turning to look at him. “Caramon Majere?”

  “That’s me,” Caramon confirmed grimly, after an uncertain glance at his brother.

  He was obviously reluctant to leave, but he did as he was told, though he made certain not to turn his back on the Gray Knights. Walking sideways, he descended the hill, heading for the creek that was little more than a trickle of brackish water. He pulled out the waterskin, bent to fill it.

  Raistlin, bereft of his brother’s support, stepped closer to the gigantic willow, rested his back against it.

  “Caramon Majere, so-called Hero of the Lance,” the Nightlord said, her gaze going back to Raistlin. “Traveling in the company of a black-robed wizard. How strange.”

  Raistlin withdrew his hands from his sleeves, pulled back his cowl. “Not so strange—for brothers to travel together.”

  Caramon, looking at his twin, dropped the waterskin.

  Raistlin’s face was no longer gold-skinned. It was bone-white, as was the skin of his hands. His lips were bluish. The hourglass eyes stared out from dark, greenish hollows.

  The Nightlord gasped, fell back a step. “Raistlin Majere! By Chemosh!” she cried. “You are dead!”

  “So I am,” said Raistlin softly. “Yet I stand before you. Here, touch me!” He stretched out his thin, ashen-skinned hand toward the Gray Robe.

  “Keep away!” she commanded, drawing forth a silver skull pendant, which she wore on a silver chain around her neck. The other Gray Nights were all fumbling with spell components and scrolls.

  “Put away your magic,” Raistlin commanded scornfully. “I mean you no harm. As I said, I come bearing a warning. Our queen herself has sent me.”

  “Takhisis sent you?” the Nightlord asked dubiously.

  “Who else?” Raistlin demanded. “Who else has the power to clothe my restless spirit in flesh and bone? If you are wise, you will leave this place at once, bear my warning to your lord—Ariakan.”

  “And what are we to say to Lord Ariakan?” The Nightlord, after the initial shock, was starting to regain her composure. She was eyeing Raistlin closely.

  Caramon, retrieving the waterskin, was filling it with one hand, keeping the other near the hilt of his sword.

  “Tell Ariakan this,” Raistlin said. “His victory was hollow. He is now, in his moment of triumph, in greater danger than ever. Caution him not to relax his vigilance, but to increase it tenfold. Look to the north, for from that direction, doom will come.”

  “From where? The Knights of Solamnia?” Lillith scoffed. “Those who survived have surrendered to us and are now locked up in their own dungeons! I don’t think they—”

  “Do you dare mock the words of your queen?” Raistlin hissed. He stretched out both his hands. Fists closed, suddenly opened. “Beware her power!”

  A blinding flash of light, accompanied by an explosion, burst amidst the Gray Knights, who flung up their arms to protect their eyes. Their leader, the Nightlord, lost her balance and slid halfway down the hill. A cloud of foul-smelling, greenish black smoke hovered on the hot, still air. When the smoke cleared, Raistlin was nowhere to be seen. All that remained was a charred spot on the grass.

  Caramon dropped the waterskin again.

  Lillith picked herself up. She appeared shaken, though she made an attempt to conceal her nervousness. The others gathered around her, taking care to avoid coming anywhere near the charred spot.

  “What do we do, Nightlord?” asked one of the wizards.

  “That was a message from our queen! We should take it immediately to Lord Ariakan,” said another.

  “I am aware of that,” the Nightlord snapped. “Let me think.” She glanced suspiciously at the charred spot, then looked at Caramon, who was standing in the creek, turning this way and that, staring around in perplexity. The smell of sulfur lingered on the air.

  The Nightlord frowned. “Where is your brother?” she demanded.

  Caramon scratched his head. “Beats the hell out of me, Lady,” he answered.

  Lillith regarded him long and searchingly. Her eyes narrowed. “I have the feeling this is some sort of trick. But”—she raised her hand, stopping the shocked outburst of her subordinates—“trick or not, Lord Ariakan needs to be warned that Raistlin Majere now walks this mortal plane. Perhaps he was sent by our queen. Perhaps he is here for his own purposes, as he came once before. Either way, he could be a nuisance.”

  The Nightlord glanced out across the barren field, in what was reputedly the direction of the Tower of Wayreth.

  “And if Raistlin Majere walks free of the Abyss, you can be certain that his nephew, Palin Majere, came back with him. We’ve wasted time enough here. Let us be gone,” she said. Gracefully waving her arm three times around her head, she vanished.

  The other Knights of the Thorn were swift to follow. Casting a final, baleful glance at the charred patch, they muttered their incantations and, one by one, disappeared.

  Caramon splashed out of the creek. Holding out his hands tentatively in front of him, he groped through the air. “Raist?” he whispered, baffled and awed. “Raist? Where are you? You … you won’t leave me here … will you? Raist?”

  “I am here, my brother,” came a voice, tinged with smothered laughter. “But you must help me.”

  Caramon lifted his head, shocked to the core of his being. It was the willow tree that spoke.

  He gulped, swallowed. “Uh, Raist …”

  “Inside the tree, you thick-headed boob! Come around this direction!”

  “Inside …” Caramon hastened around to the side of the tree near the charred spot on the ground. Hesitantly, fearfully, he parted the willow’s long, dangling branches.

  A hand—a white, wasted hand—beckoned imperiously to him from the willow’s massive trunk.

  Caramon breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Raist! You’re alive! But”—he sounded puzzled—“how did you get inside the tree?”

  Raistlin snorted, but, when he spoke, he sounded well pleased with himself. “In the name of Hiddukel the Trickster, don’t tell me you fell for that old ruse? Here, help me. I can’t move. I’m caught on something.”

  Caramon took hold of Raistlin’s hand, was vastly relieved to find that the flesh was warm. He followed the arm up, discovered his brother, gazing out at him from inside the trunk of the willow.

  Understanding at last, Caramon began to chuckle, though his laughter had a shaky quality to it.

  “I don’t mind saying you gave me quite a scare, Raist. And you should have seen those Gray Knights! Their robes aren’t gray any longer, most of ’em. Here, don’t move. I see the problem. Your hood’s snagged. Lean forward just a bit. I can’t reach my hand in … Just a bit more … There! That’s got it.”

  Raistlin emerged from the tree’s interior. He began brushing off the dirt and cobwebs, shaking bits of bark out of his white hair.

  Caramon regarded his brother with pride. “That was really something! The white paint and everything! When did you do that?”

  “While we were on the back of the dragon,” Raistlin said complacently. “Here, help me down to the creek. I need to wash this stuff off. It’s beginning to itch.”

  The two descended to the creek bed. Caramon retrieved the waterskin. Raistlin laved his face and hands. The chill white of undead flesh bubbled away downstream.

  “It was sure realistic. I thought you had your powers back,” Caramon said.

  “You mean you thought I’d lied to you about losing them,” Raistlin countered tersely.

  “No, Raist!” Caramon protested, a little too volubly. “I didn’t. Truly. It’s just … well … you might have given me a hint …”

  Raistlin smiled, shook his head. “You have no power of dissembling, my dear brother. One look at your honest face and the Nightlord would have known all. As it was, she was suspicious, I think.”

  “Why didn’t she stick around to investigate, then?”

  “Because I had give
n her a perfect excuse to leave with her dignity still intact. You see, my brother, these Gray Robes were here with the purpose of attacking the Tower of Wayreth. They thought they could enter the forest unawares.”

  Raistlin lifted his head, gazed around intently. “Yes, I can sense the magic. They used various spells in an attempt to find the way in. They had no luck. I doubt the Nightlord wanted to return to Ariakan with news of her failure. Now they have news of a different sort to take him.”

  “You knew all this!” Caramon was admiring. “Before we even came?”

  “Of course not,” Raistlin returned, coughing a bit. “Here, just don’t stand there. Help me up this hill. I knew we might meet trouble on the road and so I came prepared, that is all. Having heard from Palin some of the more interesting legends that are being told about me, I decided that it would be easy to take advantage of the situation. Some white paint on my face and hands, a bit of charcoal dust and some of Tika’s pistachio nut paste under the eyes, a handful of flash powder, and—behold! The Dead Wizard from the Abyss.”

  “I might have figured the rest out, but the disappearing act. That was what boggled my mind.” Caramon helped his brother up the small rise.

  “Ah, that was an unexpected touch.” Raistlin returned to the willow, pointed to the tree’s interior. “I hadn’t intended to do that. But when I leaned against the trunk, I felt a large crack. Glancing inside, I discovered a portion of the tree is hollow. Evidence within indicates that the local children have used it for a tree house. It was a simple matter for me to pop inside under cover of the explosion and the smoke. Less simple to get out, unfortunately.”

  “Well, all I can say is that you—What in the name of—Where in the Abyss did that come from?”

  Caramon had been bending over to see inside the willow. Turning, he almost walked into a gigantic oak tree, which had not been there only moments before. He looked to his left and found another oak. On his right, still another. The dead field, the dried-up wheat, even the creek, were gone. He stood in a vast, dark forest.

  “Relax, my brother. Have so many years passed that you have forgotten?” Raistlin again folded his hands in the sleeves of his robes. “The Forest of Wayreth has found us.”

  The trees parted. A path appeared, leading them deeper within.

  Caramon eyed the forest grimly. He’d walked that path before, several times before. The memories it brought back were not happy ones. “Raist, one thing I don’t understand. The Gray Knights laughed at your warning. Lord Ariakan will, too. They won’t fight on our side …”

  “They will, my brother,” Raistlin said, sighing. “You see, there are no longer ‘sides.’ We all fight together. Or we all die.”

  Both stood a moment in silence. The rustle of the leaves of the trees sounded troubled, uneasy. The calls of the birds were hushed.

  “Well,” said Caramon, gripping his sword tightly, glaring balefully ahead into the enchanted wood, “I suppose we’d better get on with this.”

  Raistlin rested his hand on his brother’s arm. “I will enter alone, Caramon. You go back home.”

  “And leave you?” Caramon was adamant. “No, I won’t—”

  “My brother,” Raistlin chided gently, “you are falling into old habits again. I thank you for escorting me this far. I have no need of you any longer. Your place”—his grip tightened on his brother’s arm—“is with your family and the people of Solace. You must return, prepare them to face what is coming.”

  “They won’t believe me,” Caramon said bluntly. “I’m not sure I believe it all myself.”

  “You will think of something, my brother,” Raistlin said. Coughing slightly, he wiped his lips with a white cloth. “I have faith in you.”

  “You do?” Caramon flushed with pleasure. “You know, maybe I could put it out that I was forming a secret resistance movement. Then I—”

  “Yes, yes,” Raistlin interrupted. “Just don’t get yourself hanged in the process. Now, I must be going. I’ve wasted time enough. Return to the road. The dragon will be watching for you, will carry you safely back.”

  Caramon looked extremely dubious, but he knew better than to argue. “Will you be coming too, Raist?” he asked anxiously.

  Raistlin paused, considered. “I cannot promise,” he said, shaking his head.

  Caramon opened his mouth to cajole, caught his brother’s glinting glance, shut it. He nodded, cleared his throat, hoisted his knapsack to his shoulder. “You will take care of Palin, won’t you?” he asked gruffly.

  Raistlin smiled, grim, thin-lipped. “Yes, my brother. That I promise!”

  4

  Father and daughter.

  he Thieves’ Guild in Palanthas had fallen on hard times.

  At first, some in its membership had been pleased to see the Dark Queen achieve victory. They had worked hard for this time, when night should finally rule the land. The thieves prepared to be richly rewarded.

  They were in for a nasty shock.

  The Knights of Takhisis marched triumphantly into Palanthas. The hooves of their steeds clattered with the ring of iron on the city streets. The pennants of the skull and lily escorted them, the flags hanging limp in the hot and breathless air. The citizens were commanded to turn out to do honor to Lord Ariakan. Flowers were thrust into the hands of small children, who were ordered to throw them at His Lordship’s feet. The children proved terrified of the rictus grins of the knights’ skull-helms, and of the blue-skinned brutes, who made ferocious faces and lifted their voices in blood-chilling war chants. The children dropped their flowers, screamed, and wailed in their mothers’ skirts. Parents grabbed them and hustled them away, lest they bring down the wrath of the dark knighthood.

  And so Lord Ariakan’s arrival was greeted with tears, wilted flowers, and fear. He did not mind. He had not expected more. If, here and there, he heard a cheer from the throng, he turned his eyes toward that person and pointed him or her out to his aide. One of those persons thus indicated was Lynched Geoffrey, who, drunk as a skunk in honor of the day, was yelling his lungs out.

  When he had sobered up, Lynched Geoffrey went to pay his respects to His Lordship the very next day. He was refused admittance. Undaunted, Geoffrey came back daily and finally, several weeks later, the guildmaster was admitted.

  Ariakan had commandeered a house in the center of town, near that of the Lord of Palanthas, who was under house arrest. Ariakan could have taken the lord’s palace, but the commander of the Knights of Takhisis did not propose to remain long in Palanthas. His place was back at the High Clerist’s Tower, from which he would lead his armies to conquer all of Ansalon. He was in Palanthas only long enough to set up a provisional government, firmly establish his grip on the city.

  He spent his days seated at his favorite desk, which had been placed in the center of the dining hall, papers spread out before him, drafting edicts, writing laws. Aides and servants stood nearby, ready to run instantly on whatever errand he commanded. Suitors and well-wishers awaited His Lordship’s pleasure in a small antechamber that had been cordoned off by the knights.

  Lynched Geoffrey was made to wait among this number several hours before being invited in to see His Lordship. Geoffrey didn’t mind the wait; he spent his time profitably, lifting the purse of the head cleric of the Order of Chemosh.

  Lynch was finally admitted into Ariakan’s presence. The thief greeted Ariakan with a swagger, a leer, and a cheeky, “Well, it’s about time!”

  No chair being placed for him in front of His Lordship, Geoffrey remedied the oversight by dragging one up for himself. He plunked the chair down at one end of Ariakan’s desk, threw himself into the chair, slouched back, and, lifting his skinny legs, rested his boots comfortably on the table.

  Ariakan said nothing. He did not look at the thief. His Lordship was busy with the proper wording of one of his laws. He did not even raise his eyelids.

  The blade of a poleaxe crashed down, splintering the table, and slicing off the heels of Lynch’s boots. H
e was fortunate the blade did not slice off the boots themselves and his feet along with them. Geoffrey snatched his feet off the table. He stared at his ruined boots, cursed loudly.

  Ariakan made a slight gesture with the crook of his index finger.

  His Lordship’s aide grasped Lynch by the scruff of his scarred neck, jerked him to his feet, withdrew the chair, and ordered him, in a cold voice, to speak his piece in language suitable to His Lordship’s rank and station and then be gone about his business.

  Lynched Geoffrey gathered the shreds and tatters of his dignity about him. Fingers twitching, he sullenly reminded Lord Ariakan that they were both on the same side, that he—Geoffrey—was a leader to his people just as Ariakan was to his knights, that the Thieves’ Guild expected the knights’ cooperation in certain projects they had in mind and that, in return, the knights could expect to receive a little something for their pains.

  At which point Lynch shoved over a money bag to Lord Ariakan, who, much to Lynch’s discomfiture, had neither ceased to write nor had looked up once during the thief’s entire recitation.

  Lynch might have escaped with being merely tossed out on his head, but for the fact that the cleric of Chemosh came rushing in, panting and sweating, to cry that his money bag had been stolen.

  Ariakan lifted his head, looked at the money bag, saw there the horned skull that was the symbol of Chemosh.

  Lynch, with a smirk and a gibe, shrugged his skinny shoulders.

  “It’s all going to the same cause, ain’t it, Masters?” Lynch remarked with a sly laugh and a wink. “This is just my way of serving Her Dark Majesty.”

  Ariakan lifted his head, looked at Lynched Geoffrey for the first—and last—time.

  “And this is mine,” said His Lordship. “Hang him.”

  The sentence was carried out immediately, atop the city wall. The hanging went off quite well; some said because Lynch had already had practice.

  News of their leader’s sudden demise hit the Thieves’ Guild a stunning blow. The guild hall echoed with their outrage and vows to make the knights pay for what the thieves saw as an act of treachery against their own kind. Most switched allegiances on the spot. Paladine gained more supporters in a space of ten minutes than a cartload of clerics could have converted with a lifetime of prayer. Expecting to be attacked by the knights at any moment, the thieves made ready. They sent messengers to alert and round up all the membership, ordered everyone to report to the guild hall. When all were gathered, their leaders passed out weapons, removed the blankets from the windows, posted archers and spies, and waited for the assault.