Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  They left the upper levels, heading down into the depths of the tower, into the long unused dragontraps.

  16

  The dragontrap.

  he High Clerist’s Tower had neither place nor provision for magic-users. Not surprising, considering that the Knights of Solamnia had never, in their long history, had any use for wizards.

  It was said that Huma had gone into battle with a mage at his side, the two of them using both steel and sorcery to defeat their enemies. The wizard’s name was Magius, a Red Robe who had been Huma’s friend since childhood. The very staff Palin carried had belonged to this same Magius, whose tragic fate was also responsible for the fact that wizards on Ansalon were now permitted to carry daggers. But Magius was almost never mentioned by the knights when they told Huma’s story. Or, if they brought him into the tale, the mention was grudging and he played only a very minor role. The knights would always emphasize that Huma never relied on Magius, but—more than once—the noble and valiant knight risked all to protect his weaker friend.

  The wizards of Krynn tell a different story, of course. In theirs, Magius is the true hero, giving his life for his friend, dying a terrible death at the hands of the enemy. Huma is the minor character when the tale is told in the Tower of High Sorcery—a nice chap, all brawn and heart, relying on Magius to shape the course of the battle.

  The truth rests in the lost and forgotten grave where Magius’s body lies, in Huma’s empty tomb. What is certain is that there are no mage-ware stores, no wizard’s laboratories, no bookshelves filled with spellbooks in the High Clerist’s Tower.

  And so, the gray-robed wizards of the Knights of Takhisis had to make their own.

  They chose the long-abandoned dragontraps for several reasons, the main one being, of course, privacy. Though the sorcerers were part and parcel of the Knights of Takhisis, living, training, and fighting with their fellow knights, the Gray Knights were still wizards, and wizards require secret places, quiet places, safe places, in which to work.

  The dragontraps were all these. No one ever went there without reason. During the War of the Lance, the chamber in which the dragon orb had once stood had collapsed in upon itself. The Solamnic Knights had cleared away the rubble, but “stone remembers death,” or so the dwarves claim, for the blood that soaks into stone can never be completely washed away. The stone floors of the dragontraps were discolored with blood: the blood of dragons, the blood of the knights who fought the great beasts down here. It was a place alive with death, a dreadful place, a sad and sorrowful place.

  Palin heard the gruesome yells, the tortured cries, the dying screams. More than once he turned his head fearfully, thinking frantic wings beat the air behind him. But the sounds were all his imagination, unless the ghosts of the dragons slaughtered here and the ghosts of the knights slain in the desperate fray continued the battle on some other plane. On this plane of existence, the dragontraps were dark, as cool as any place could be in the sweltering heat, and filled with the small sounds associated with wizards: the scratch of a pen recording a spell, the whispered chant of someone committing a spell to memory, the slow speech of someone puzzling out the magical words, the swish of robes across the dusty floor.

  Palin had time to listen to the sounds—both of the living and of the dead. He was not being tortured, as he had expected, at the hands of the Nightlord. Neither had he been killed, as he had also expected. It seemed he had been forgotten. He had been left sitting here in the fortress’s inner core, away from the glaring sun, so long that he had lost all track of time. It might have been hours or days since he arrived in the fortress. No one came near him; no one spoke to him.

  The gag over his mouth fit tightly, pried his jaws open, gave him a choking sensation. He was thirsty, his throat parched and dry. The bindings on his wrists were cutting off his circulation. He was chained by the ankle to the leg of a large gray marble table, marked all over with cabalistic symbols.

  He once attempted to communicate, by incoherent croaks and grunts, his desperate need for water, but the mage walking past at the time ignored Palin, kept on walking.

  The Nightlord had taken the Staff of Magius from him, and its loss, perhaps even more than the gag, the thirst, his uncertainty and fear, was a bitter torment. Vanished with the staff was his uncle’s voice. Palin felt truly alone—a feeling he had not experienced since receiving the staff.

  He wondered what the Gray Knights meant to do to him, and when they meant to do it, and why they had done nothing to him as yet. The more time that passed without anything happening, the more fearful he grew. He hadn’t been afraid at all in the courtyard, talking to Lord Ariakan, surrounded by the enemy. Even when he’d looked at the block, seen the dried, caked blood crusted in the dreadful hollow. He could have died in those moments with dignity, without regret, except for the sorrow his death would bring to those he loved.

  Fear grew on him steadily as he sat here, alone, in the noisome darkness. His thoughts roamed, sometimes to horrible places. He looked around at the dragontraps, saw how they worked, saw the holes through which knights attacked with the dragonlances. The dragons the knights had killed had been evil, wicked dragons, creatures of the Dark Queen, red dragons and blue, who had butchered countless innocents, tortured and tormented their victims.

  The dragon orb, placed on a pedestal in the heart of the tower, had lured the dragons into the trap, calling them with the enchanted words they could not resist. Once they flew inside the gaping gates, the trap was sprung. Portcullises thundered down. The dragons could not escape. The knights attacked with sword and lance and arrow. Picturing the way the dragons had died—trapped, frantic, furious, roaring in rage and agony—Palin found it in his heart to pity the magnificent, doomed creatures.

  At length, worn out, exhausted, he dozed, only to wake with a start from terrifying dreams, filled with blood and stabbing pain and, above all, the terror of being caught in a trap, with no way out except death.

  Resolutely he thrust such nightmarish images out of his mind, only to find them returning with nagging insistence. He couldn’t understand them, but they troubled him, and his fear grew. His horror of being left alone in this dreadful place began to consume him until the thought of torture was almost pleasant, if pain brought with it a living face, a living voice.

  And so, when the Nightlord returned, carrying the Staff of Magius in her hand, Palin was irrationally glad to see her.

  The feeling did not last long.

  The Nightlord held the staff up before him. Palin’s dazed mind thought nothing of this at first. Then he recalled how the staff had burned the Nightlord the first time she had tried to touch it. His heart constricted in fear. Had she gained power over the staff? Had the staff abandoned him?

  “Shirak!” Lillith spoke triumphantly. The crystal atop the staff glimmered with a dull light, flickered sullenly, as if reluctant to obey.

  Palin lowered his head, as if the light bothered him. In reality, he hoped the woman would not see his tears.

  The Nightlord laughed and leaned the staff against the table; a tiny, tempting fraction out of Palin’s reach.

  “I knew the staff would come to me sooner or later. I saw it in the seeing stones. What did you say?”

  Palin had grunted something. The Nightlord removed the gag with a deft twitch of her hand, ripped it from his mouth.

  He tried to moisten his dry mouth enough to speak.

  “Water.”

  “Yes, I thought you might be thirsty.” The Nightlord uncorked a water pouch, tilted the liquid into Palin’s mouth.

  He gulped, choked, looked up at the woman with blurred eyes. “Why haven’t you killed me before now? What are you waiting for?”

  The Nightlord smiled unpleasantly. “Can’t you guess? The hunter does not kill the rabbit before the wolf sticks his head in the snare.”

  It took Palin a moment to comprehend what the woman had said. When he finally figured it out, he stared at her. “You’re setting a trap? For whom
? My uncle?” He almost laughed. “I would like to be permitted to live long enough to see that encounter.”

  The Nightlord smiled in her turn. “I would, too,” she said softly. Then she shrugged. “Some later date. The trap is not for your uncle, but another a member of your family.”

  Thinking she must mean his father or mother, Palin shook his head in bafflement. And then a thought came to Palin.

  “Steel …?”

  The Nightlord’s eyes flashed; she raised one eyebrow.

  This time, Palin did laugh, though it came out more a croak. “You won’t catch that wolf with this rabbit. What do you suppose? That he cares enough for me to try to free me?” Palin laughed again, amused at the thought.

  The Nightlord bent near, seemed to suck the laughter from him, draw his light into her darkness. “Her Majesty brought you two together for a reason. I have thrown the stones many times, and the answer is always the same. Look, I’ll throw again.”

  Lillith removed a handful of polished agates from a black bag she wore on her left wrist. Taking the stones, she muttered the spell words, tossed the stones onto the gray marble surface. The staff’s light gleamed more brightly, shone on the multicolored agates.

  “There! Look!” She pointed a fine-boned finger. “The black stone, that is Steel. The white, you. In between, a fortress …”

  Palin saw a green agate marked with a rune representing a tower.

  “… and, on top of the fortress, flames.”

  He stared at a red agate marked with a tiny flicker of fire.

  “You on one side, him on the other, doom in between.”

  Reaching down, she snatched up the stones with a snap of her hand.

  “There! Both of you gone!” she whispered. “The two of you dead and—”

  “And doom remains,” Palin said calmly, gazing at the tower stone and the flame stone. Both still lay upon the table.

  The Nightlord blinked, startled. She had intended to pick up all the stones. Somehow, her hand had missed these two. For a moment she hesitated, wondering, undoubtedly, what this new omen portended.

  Palin didn’t care. He was too tired.

  “You heard what I told your lord about the gods,” he said wearily. “I saw—”

  “—what your uncle wanted you to see!” The Nightlord scoffed. “And so I have told my lord. A trick of Raistlin Majere’s. Ah, he is full of tricks, that one. But one day he will play a trick too many.” Lillith picked up the two stones she had missed, swept them into her bag. “As for Steel Brightblade, he is a traitor to our queen’s cause. And I will prove it to my lord. Then you will both die together, as befits such close cousins!”

  The seeing stones rattling in the bag, the Nightlord departed, taking the glowing Staff of Magius with her.

  Palin leaned against the table. The darkness closed over him. With the darkness came despair. He was going to die here. They would find him, chained to this pedestal …

  Voices roused him.

  Palin lifted his head groggily, his eyes squinting in the bright light of a single torch. He could dimly make out figures, the glint of armor, perhaps the faint glimmer of a jewel, but nothing more.

  The people, whoever they were, held a brief, whispered conversation. A stern, cold, male voice cut it off, ordered, “Stay here. And keep quiet.”

  Palin recognized that voice, and his heart was in his throat. He tried to speak, but was too amazed, too baffled. The man with the torch and the glimmering starjewel was Steel Brightblade.

  He left his two companions behind, and they were immediately swallowed by the darkness that flowed in to replace the light of the torch. Steel advanced toward Palin.

  “Majere?” Steel did not lower his voice, his booted footsteps rang throughout the chamber. He walked with confidence, certain of his right to be here. This was not a man intent on stealthily freeing a prisoner. He drew closer. “Majere, I must talk to you—”

  Bright light flared. In the attack alcoves where, years ago, the Knights of Solamnia had hidden to fight the dragons, now stood Knights of Takhisis.

  “You see, my lord!” Lillith’s voice was shrill with triumph. The Staff of Magius burned bright in her hand. “You see!”

  Lord Ariakan’s voice came from the darkness, heavy with sadness, burning with anger. “Steel Brightblade has indeed proven himself a traitor. Seize him!”

  17

  The trap is sprung.

  nights strode forward, grasped Steel by each arm. He did not struggle. His eyes flicked once to Palin, flicked away.

  “You must believe me!” Palin said in a low voice. “I had nothing to do with this!”

  “Steel Brightblade, why have you come here?” Lord Ariakan demanded. “Your talon is not on duty. You have no business here.”

  “The reason is obvious, my lord!” the Nightlord stated. “He has sneaked down here to free the prisoner.”

  “I am not a sneak,” Steel returned coldly, goaded into speaking. “You saw me, heard me. I came openly.”

  “For what reason?” Ariakan persisted.

  Steel would say nothing.

  Lord Ariakan shook his head. “It was a mistake accepting you into the knighthood, Brightblade. Some warned me against it”—his glance slid to the Nightlord, who had the grace (or perhaps the presence of mind) not to appear smug—“but others urged me on, the high priestess, who now lies dead, being one of them. You are a good soldier, honorable, courageous, loyal. Yes, I say loyal,” he added, with a scathing glance at the Nightlord.

  “I truly believe, Brightblade, that you mean to serve our queen with all your heart and soul. But in that heart beats the dark ambition of your mother and in that soul rests the nobility of your father. Both are at war within you. And so you act at cross purposes. You are, therefore, a danger to the cause, a threat to the Vision. I sentence you to death, Steel Brightblade. Let the sentence be carried out immediately.”

  A knight drew his sword, walked over to face Steel.

  Steel did not struggle, or make any protest. Every word his lord had spoken rang true, like a true blade.

  The knight raised his sword, prepared to plunge it into Steel’s breast.

  “My lord!” a knight called out. “He had accomplices.” There came the sounds of a cry and a scuffle.

  “Is this man never to die?” Ariakan demanded impatiently. “Or,” he added to himself as an afterthought, “is Queen Takhisis so determined that he should live? Await my order!” he commanded aloud. “What have you found?”

  “Two more, my lord.” A knight came forward, dragging Tasslehoff and a slender person clad in black robes, the face and head hidden by the hood. “Brightblade was not alone, it seems.”

  Palin stood, hope surging through him. “Raistlin!” he whispered. “My uncle has come!”

  The Nightlord had the same thought, apparently. She surged forward, the Staff of Magius clasped tightly, protectively in her hand.

  “Who are you, Wizard?” the Nightlord demanded. “Remove your hood.”

  The robed figure lifted its head. The staff’s light gleamed in golden eyes.

  The Nightlord drew back, at first alarmed. Then, recovering herself, she gave a sneering laugh. “You are no mage. You have no magic in you!” She yanked the hood from the figure’s head.

  Palin’s glad cry changed to one of dismay.

  Pale and frightened, Usha stood there, blinking in the light.

  “What is going on here?” Ariakan now seemed more puzzled than angry. “A kender and a Black Robe wizardess?”

  “Not a wizardess!” the Nightlord said scornfully. “She has no more magic in her than this wall. She is a spy!”

  “I don’t know what she’s talking about!” Tasslehoff spoke up. “We’re not with this knight. We’re not with anyone—except each other.”

  “Silence that little worm,” the Nightlord said.

  “No, let him speak,” Ariakan countermanded, frustrated. “Something strange is going on here, and I mean to get to the bottom of it.
Put him down. Kender, come over here.”

  Tas readjusted all his pouches, stepped forward, extended his small hand.

  “How do you do, sir? My name is Eiderdown Pakslinger. This is my friend Usha, a very powerful evil sorceress, so I wouldn’t mess with her if I were you. She is Raistlin Majere’s daughter!” He stopped dramatically to give everyone time to be properly impressed.

  Ariakan, ignoring the kender’s proffered hand, frowned.

  The Nightlord snorted. “Spies! You came in here with Brightblade. Tell His Lordship the real reason you are here, kender.”

  “I’m trying to,” Tas told her, dignity offended. He turned back to Ariakan. “You may not know this, but I’m an evil kender. Yes, that’s why I’m here, to offer my services to the Dark Queen. Takhisis changed my life. I’m extremely wicked now. I’ll do something wicked, if you want me to. Watch this!”

  Tas dashed off. Several knights made a grab for him, but the kender was too nimble. He sped across the floor, darting and skipping out of the way of the knights.

  “I’ll kill this White Robe for you!” Tas shouted.

  Tas drew a small knife, feinted a stab into Palin’s stomach. Shifting the blade, the kender cut through the bindings on Palin’s wrists, cried “Catch!” and tossed Palin the dagger.

  Startled, unprepared, his hands and fingers numb from being bound, Palin fumbled with the knife, managed to hold on to it.

  Swords rang out. The knight who had been holding Steel prisoner turned to apprehend Palin.

  Tasslehoff clambered up onto the table, leapt onto the knight’s back. Grasping hold of the man’s helm with both hands, Tas pulled it down over the knight’s eyes. The sword thrust that would have killed Palin went wild. The knight lost his balance. He and the kender tumbled onto the floor.

  Other knights sprang at them.

  “Hard as ice!” Usha’s voice rang out. She held up a shining, clear crystal.

  Sword arms froze, feet could not move, and mouths gaped open. The chill of the Irda magic flowed around the dark knights, encased them in icy magic.