Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  All except Steel. Perhaps the starjewel protected him, perhaps the sword, perhaps the dark influence of his mother. He alone, of all the knights in the chamber, could move.

  Palin, the knife in his hand, put his back to the table, looked uncertainly at Steel.

  “We are cousins,” Palin said. “You saved my life. I don’t want to fight you.”

  Usha ran to his side. She held the crystal in one hand, the tiny figurine of a white horse in the other. “Why don’t you join us? Come with us! They mean to kill you, too!”

  Steel frowned, troubled. His sword was half in, half out of his scabbard. “My lord is just.”

  “Like hell he is!” Palin swore. He slashed out with the knife, forced Steel to step back. “You want to die, you coward! You’re afraid to live!”

  Glowering, Steel thrust his sword back into its sheath.

  Palin was wary. He lowered his dagger. “You’ll come …”

  Steel lunged forward. Catching hold of the wrist of Palin’s knife-hand, Steel flung the mage backward, struck the hand holding the dagger against the stone table.

  His hand was cut and bleeding, but Palin clung desperately to his only weapon. Steel slammed his hand into the table again. Palin gasped in pain, let go of the dagger. It fell, clattering to the floor.

  An explosion—deafening, heart-stopping—shook the High Clerist’s Tower to the very foundations. The floor vibrated; the walls shuddered and cracked. The crystal fell from Usha’s hand, landed on the marble table, shattered. The spell was broken.

  “What the—?” Ariakan began.

  Another horrific boom rocked the tower, knocking many of the knights to their hands and knees. Steel staggered backward, fell into Palin, who instinctively held on to him to steady them both.

  “Someone find out what is going on!” Ariakan roared. “Are we under attack?”

  Men hastened to do Ariakan’s bidding, began running for the exits. Others remained with the prisoners.

  “My lord! Where is my lord Ariakan?” A young squire, round-eyed with fear, was pushing and shoving his way through the confusion.

  “I am here!” Ariakan cried out, his voice carrying above the turmoil.

  “My lord!” The squire could scarcely breathe. “The tower … it’s been struck by lightning! Twice, my lord! Terrible lightning! I’ve never seen the like before! It streaked down from the skies like a thrown spear. Twice it hit us,” he repeated himself in his awe. “In exactly the same place! And … and …”

  He gulped for air. “Dragons, my lord! Hundreds of them … gold, silver …”

  “We are under attack,” Ariakan said grimly, and he drew his sword.

  “No, my lord!” The squire was reduced to a hoarse whisper, and all around him hushed to hear his words. “Red dragons fly with the gold. Blue fly side by side with silver. A terrible light shines in the northern sky, a hideous red glow that is brightening and spreading, as if every tree in the great forests to the north have caught fire. You can smell the smoke …”

  Tendrils and wisps of gray were seeping through the open gate. Another boom came, and another shook the High Clerist’s Tower. A sconce broke loose from a wall, fell to the floor with a clatter, dousing its torch. The iron portcullis rattled, chains swung back and forth. Choking clouds of dust began to filter down from the ceilings. The knights glanced at each other in alarm. They were brave men; no one doubted their courage, but they did not relish the idea of being buried alive.

  Palin and Usha stood close, arms clasped around one another. Tasslehoff, held fast by a knight, was squirming in his captor’s grasp. “I want to see!” the kender begged. “Please, please, please! You can kill me later! I promise. Word of honor. Just let me go and see!”

  Steel was staring at the Nightlord. “The tower, struck by lightning …” he murmured.

  Lord Ariakan issued swift commands, sent his troops racing back through the attack alcoves, up the nearest staircases.

  “Call a meeting of my commanders,” he ordered. He was walking as he talked, his aides and lieutenants gathered around him. “I want reports from all on what they’ve seen, what they’ve heard. I’ll speak to the dragons myself. Send for the Lord of the Skull.”

  “What do we do with the prisoners, my lord?” someone demanded.

  Ariakan waved his hand impatiently. “I don’t—”

  “Slay them, my lord!” the Nightlord cried, and she had the temerity to clutch at Ariakan’s arm. “Kill them now! They! … They are the cause! I have read it in the seeing stones.”

  Ariakan impatiently shook the woman loose. “May our queen take you and your seeing stones, Lillith! Get out of my way!” He flung the woman backward.

  The Nightlord tried to catch her balance, but the Staff of Magius tangled between her feet, tripping her. She sprawled backward onto the floor, beneath one of the iron portcullises used to trap the dragons.

  Another ear-splitting peal of thunder reverberated through the tower. The portcullis, loosened by the shock waves of the previous explosions, broke loose from its moorings, plummeted down.

  The Nightlord saw death descending, tried to crawl out of the way. She was not fast enough. The iron bars, as sharp as spears, meant to cleave their way through the tough scaly hide of dragons, slid with ease through the Nightlord’s soft flesh. The portcullis thudded to the stone floor, pinning Lillith beneath it.

  She gave a hideous shriek, clutched at the bars that had impaled her, as if she might wrench them loose. Blood spurted from the terrible wounds. Her hands lost their grip, slid weakly to the floor. Her fingers rested on the Staff of Magius, touched it, twitched feebly. The bag of seeing stones gaped open, spewed the agates into the widening pool of blood. Her eyes fixed in her head. The hand on the staff stiffened, went limp.

  Lord Ariakan gazed down at the corpse in horror. He was pale beneath his black beard. Sweat glistened on his skin. “I have seen death in many forms, but few as terrible as that. It is a sign! May our queen have mercy on her soul.”

  He glanced about, searching. Catching sight of Palin, he motioned.

  “You, Majere. Come over here. Don’t be afraid. What you told me, up in the courtyard, about Chaos seeking to destroy us. Is this the beginning?”

  Palin hesitated, then said quietly, “I believe so, my lord, but I don’t know for certain.”

  Ariakan drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly. He wiped sweat from his face. “I want to speak with you further, White Robe. Brightblade, bring him along. Both of you, come with me.”

  Palin gestured toward Usha and Tasslehoff.

  “I want to bring my friends with me,” Palin said. “I want to be assured of their safety.”

  “Very well!” Ariakan was impatient. “Let’s get out of here before the damn tower tumbles down around our ears!”

  “And,” Palin continued, not moving, “I want my staff.”

  “Take it!” Ariakan was grim. “I doubt if anyone else wants the accursed thing. Brightblade, bring these three to my quarters.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said Steel.

  Lord Ariakan hurried away, leaving the four alone in the dragontraps.

  Palin walked over to where the Nightlord lay sprawled in her own gore beneath the iron bars. As he bent to retrieve the staff, he caught sight of the Nightlord’s staring eyes, pain-twisted face. He could smell the still-warm blood.

  Had the staff killed her? Had it acted a role, lured her into its own trap, deliberately tripped her? Or had it all been a freakish accident? Palin’s hand, reaching for the staff, halted, trembled.

  Usha hastened to his side, wrapped her hands around his arm. He held on to her thankfully.

  Tas wiped blood out of his eyes with the end of his topknot. “Hurry up, Palin! I want to see what’s going on!”

  “I’ll fetch the staff if you’re too squeamish, Majere,” Steel said in disgust.

  Palin shoved the knight back. Keeping his eyes fixed on the staff, he drew in a deep breath, reached down, and slid the staff out from u
nderneath the dead hand.

  Retrieving it, he started to straighten.

  A figure draped and hooded in black stood directly in front of him.

  Steel, alarmed, drew his sword. Palin sprang to halt him. “Don’t! It’s my uncle!”

  Raistlin gazed at Steel without, so it seemed, much interest. He soon shifted the gaze to Palin. “Well done, Nephew.”

  “Uncle, how—” Palin began.

  A low rumble of thunder that seemed to rise from the ground, not the heavens, caused the floor to quake beneath their feet. A crash sounded somewhere close.

  “No time for questions,” Raistlin said. He grasped hold of Palin, motioned for Usha and Tasslehoff to come to his side. “Dalamar arranged my journey. He waits for us at the Tower of High Sorcery.”

  “You’re not going anywhere, Palin,” Steel said grimly, “except to see Lord Ariakan. You and your uncle.”

  Palin hesitated. “I promised I would talk to Ariakan. Perhaps we should—”

  “The time for talk is past. The battle has begun. Even now Lord Ariakan walks into the midst of it.”

  Raistlin’s gaze went to Steel. “Your sword is needed elsewhere, son of Brightblade. Permit us to leave in peace.”

  Steel could hear the truth of that statement for himself. The sounds of battle had penetrated to the depths of the tower.

  Raistlin strode forward, black robes whispering across the stone floor. Steel eyed him warily, drew his sword.

  “I recognize that blade,” Raistlin said calmly. “Your father’s, isn’t it? I never liked your father much. All that business about knightly honor, nobility. He made such a show of it, flaunted it, threw it in my face.”

  Steel said nothing, but his hand gripped the sword’s hilt more tightly, until the knuckles were white.

  Raistlin drew closer still.

  “And then I discovered something very interesting about your father. He lied to us. Sturm Brightblade was no more a knight than I was. He was made a knight only shortly before his death. All that time, he wore the armor, carried the sword … and it was all a lie.”

  Raistlin shrugged. “And do you know what? I liked him better after I discovered that.”

  “Because you supposed he had sunk to your level,” Steel said hoarsely.

  Raistlin’s smile was twisted, bitter. “You would think that, wouldn’t you, Brightblade? But, no, that’s not the reason.”

  Raistlin moved closer, so close that Steel could feel the chill of the mage’s frail body, could hear the breath rattle in the lungs, could feel the soft touch of black velvet.

  “Your father lied to every person except one—himself. In his heart Sturm was a knight. He had better claim to that false title than many who held it for truth. Sturm Brightblade obeyed laws that no one enforced. He lived by a noble code in which no one else believed. He swore an oath that no one heard. Only himself … and his god. No one would have held him to that oath, to the Measure. He did that himself. He knew himself.

  “Who are you, Steel Brightblade?” Raistlin’s golden, hourglass eyes flickered. “Do you know?”

  Steel’s face drained of color. He opened his mouth, but no words passed his lips. A tear slid down his cheek. He lowered his head so swiftly that the long black hair tumbled down in front of his face.

  With an angry motion, he thrust his sword into its sheath. Turning, not looking at any of them, he ran toward the stairs and the sounds of battle.

  18

  All must join as one.

  aistlin stood at one of the windows in the upper chambers of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. The archmage was back in his old study, a room that—he was surprised and somewhat amused to note—Dalamar had left much as it had been when his shalafi had left. The study had not been shut off from the world, as had the laboratory, with its dangerously powerful artifacts, its dark and disturbing secrets.

  Certain objects, mostly magical in nature, had been removed from the study, taken to Dalamar’s rooms, perhaps, or maybe to the classrooms, where young apprentices studied them, worked to unlock the arcane mysteries. But the intricately carved wooden desk was still here. The volumes of books on the shelves were old friends, their bindings familiar—more familiar—than the faces of the people in Raistlin’s past. The carpet on the floor was the same, though considerably more worn.

  Usha sat in the very chair in which Lady Crysania had once sat. Raistlin looked through the ethers, tried to see Crysania’s face. She was veiled in shadow. He shook his head, turned again to the window.

  “What is that strange light shining in the north?” he asked.

  “The Turbidus Ocean is on fire,” Dalamar replied.

  “What?” Palin cried, startled, springing out of his chair. “How is that possible?”

  “I want to see!” Tas crowded nearer the window.

  The night sky was dark everywhere, except to the north. There it glowed a hideous orangish red.

  “The sea, burning!” Palin said, awed.

  Tas sighed. “I wish I could see it.”

  “You may yet have the chance.” Dalamar was searching among the volumes lining the bookshelves. He paused, turned to face them. “Members of the Conclave were sent to investigate. They report that a vast rift has opened up in the ocean, between Ansalon and the Dragon Isles. Fire springs from it, causes the ocean water to evaporate. What you see are clouds of steam, reflecting the dreadful light.

  “Out of that rift spring fire dragons, ridden by fiends and some sort of shadow creatures. Their numbers are incalculable. Every tongue of flame that licks the broken side of the rift erupts into the fearsome dragons, made of fire and magic. The creatures who ride them are created out of the swirling darkness of Chaos. His forces now assault the High Clerist’s Tower. Soon they will attack all other strategic points on Ansalon. We have had reports that the dwarves of Thorbardin already battle these fiends in their underground caverns.”

  “What of the book?” Raistlin asked, unperturbed.

  “I can’t find it!” Dalamar muttered something beneath his breath and turned back to his search.

  “My people.” Usha spoke through trembling lips. “What of my people? They … they live near there.”

  “Your people were responsible for bringing this doom upon us,” Raistlin observed caustically.

  Usha shrank back, shriveling in the mage’s view. She looked to Palin for comfort, but he had been avoiding her ever since their return from the tower. All the while, his uncle watched both of them closely. Obviously, Usha had not yet told Palin the truth. Just as well, considering what trials they both faced. Just as well …

  “What is the Conclave doing?” Palin was asking Dalamar.

  “Attempting to determine the construction and nature of these magical creatures, so that we may fight them. Unfortunately, this can only be done by confronting them directly. As head of the Conclave, I have volunteered to undertake the task.”

  “A dangerous one,” Raistlin remarked, glancing back at the dark elf who had once been his apprentice. “And one from which you are not likely to return.”

  “It won’t much matter, will it?” Dalamar said, shrugging. “You were in the meeting of the Conclave when we discussed this. If our theories hold, it won’t matter at all.”

  “I’ll go with you, sir,” Palin offered. “I’m not of very high rank, but I might be of some help.”

  “The gods need the help of us all. Especially our Dark Queen. Yet, she still tries to play both ends against the middle,” Raistlin mused. “She hopes to emerge from this the victor.”

  “She’d better hope she emerges from it at all,” Dalamar said dryly.

  “Then you’ll take me?” Palin asked, his hand tightening around the staff.

  “No, young mage. Don’t look downcast. You will have a chance to die. You are being sent on another task. The head of the White Robes, Dunbar Mastersmate, goes with me, as does Jenna, to represent the Red Robes. Hopefully, even if we fall, our findings will be delivered to the Conclav
e in time to be of use.”

  “It won’t come in time to help those in the High Clerist’s Tower,” Raistlin observed, pointing. The fiery glow in the sky glistened on the mountain peaks, burned brighter and brighter, turning night into an eerie and terrifying day. “The knights are already under attack.”

  “It’s too bad Tanis isn’t here,” Tas said wistfully. “He was always good at this sort of thing.”

  “Tanis Half-Elven fights his own battle on his own plane,” Raistlin said. “So do the elves, the dwarves, the kender.”

  “Are they attacking Kendermore?” Tas asked, a catch in his throat.

  “All places on Krynn, Master Burrfoot,” Dalamar answered. “All beings, of all loyalties, will be forced to drop other quarrels, join to fight for their very survival.”

  “Perhaps they will,” Raistlin said. “Perhaps not. Hatred runs deep on Ansalon. Alliance is our only hope … and the one with the least chance of occurring.”

  “Would you send me home, Dalamar?” Tas asked. He drew himself up to his full stance. “Laurana taught me a lot about being a general. I know important things, like you’re not supposed to sound ‘retreat’ at the start of the battle, because that gets the soldiers pretty well confused, even if it is a lovely bit of music to play on the trumpet and I was only seeing if I could. So, if you would magick me back to Kendermore, I’d like to do what I could to help.”

  “Kendermore must do without their general, I’m afraid,” Raistlin said. “I believe I remember where that volume was kept.” He walked over to help in the search. “Your skills are needed elsewhere.”

  Tasslehoff gasped. He struggled to speak, managed a croak. “Would you … would you say that again, Raistlin?”

  “Say what again?” the mage demanded irritably.

  “Say that … that I’m needed,” Tas said, swallowing a lump in his throat. “Fizban used to think so, but then he tended to be a bit fuddled in his mind—a few sandwiches short of a picnic, if you know what I mean. No offense,” he added, glancing upward. “He and I decided that since I was a small person, I could help on the small things, like rescuing gully dwarves about to become breakfast for a dragon. The really big stuff I should leave to big people.”