Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  His commanders dispersed to reestablish order and discipline among the nervous troops. The knights returned to their duties with only occasional lapses, when here and there one or another would stop and stare at the southern battlements, which were now being called accursed.

  Ariakan, accompanied by his bodyguards, ascended to the lookout point known as the Nest of the Kingfisher. He left his guards at the foot of the stairs, climbed the rest of the way alone.

  The highest vantage point in the tower, the Nest of the Kingfisher was a small, circular room with slit windows all the way around, providing a breathtaking view of the Vingaard Mountains, the Solamnic Plains, and surrounding territory. Ariakan looked out over the pall of smoke that hung from the valley to the peaks of the Vingaard Mountains. He saw the strange darkness flow among the crags and crevices, devouring the light.

  Alone, Ariakan could give vent to his frustration. He paced about the small room, going from window to window, searching for answers, his soul filled with dread and foreboding. He recalled the young mage’s story, about Chaos returning, about the gods themselves being threatened, endangered. He had not believed it … until now.

  As he stared into the mountains, trying to see anything that might give him some hint, he was aware of the sound of booted footfalls coming up the stairs.

  “A messenger,” Ariakan muttered to himself, hope rising. “My people have found something.”

  But the person who entered the chamber was not a breathless runner, coming with important information. The person was a knight, one of Ariakan’s own knights, presumably, for the man was clad in shining black armor. The knight’s face was hidden; he wore his helm over his head, the visor down.

  “Who are you, Sir Knight?” Ariakan demanded. “Why have you left your post?”

  The knight did not answer. He was immensely tall. The black plume of his helm brushed the roof. His shoulders were broad, the arms thick and muscular. A heavy sword hung at the knight’s side, the scabbard was of dark leather, decorated at the top with five bands of color: red, blue, green, white, black. The hilt of the sword was fashioned in the shape of a five-headed dragon. He was cloaked in black, as if he wore the night itself around his shoulders. The knight’s eyes were as pale and hot as stars.

  Memory stirred in Ariakan. He knew this knight, had seen him before, somewhere in the distant past …

  Lord Ariakan fell to his knees, awed and worshipful. “Your Majesty!”

  “Rise, Lord,” said a woman’s voice as deep as the Abyss. “The hour of doom is upon us. Chaos has returned, the Father of All and of Nothing. He has come back in anger, prepared to destroy all creation. We fight for our very existence.”

  “My knights and I are ready, Your Majesty.” Lord Ariakan rose to his feet. “You have only to command us.”

  The Dark Warrior crossed the floor of the small room, came to stand at one of the windows. She gestured, a peremptory motion of her black-gloved hand. Ariakan moved swiftly to stand at the queen’s side.

  “Doom is at hand,” Takhisis spoke softly, “but also the chance for ultimate victory. Ultimate victory, Ariakan!” she repeated, her black-gloved hand clenching to a fist.

  “If you defeat Chaos, Ariakan, the people of Krynn will know that they have me to thank for saving them. They will be forever in my debt. My hold on this world will be so tight that no one can break it.”

  “True, Your Majesty,” Ariakan agreed, “but how is that to be accomplished?”

  “The people of Ansalon will emerge from this war leaderless, confused. Anarchy will reign. That will be our chance. When the forces of Chaos have been driven back, you—my knights—must be poised and ready to seize control.”

  “We already control much of Ansalon, Your Majesty,” Ariakan protested, thinking that she implied fault with himself and his knights.

  “Do you rule Silvanesti?” Takhisis asked. “Has the dwarven kingdom of Thorbardin fallen?”

  “Not yet.” Ariakan was grim.

  “Your forces still fight in Northern Ergoth. Rebellion foments in Qualinesti. And what of Taladas and the distant regions of this world?”

  “Your Majesty must give us time,” Ariakan said, pale and frowning.

  “You don’t need time. We will let the forces of Chaos do our work for us. Do you understand?”

  “I understand, Your Majesty,” Ariakan said, bowing. “What are your orders?”

  “Paladine is throwing everything he has against Chaos. The forces of good will be utterly vanquished, wiped out, decimated. We must take care that this does not happen to us. You will hold a certain number of your knights and their dragons in reserve. Keep one of your wings out of the coming battle. Do this in secret.

  “When the fight for the High Clerist’s Tower is ended and we have won, these knights will be fresh, ready to ride to take over key strategic points on the continent of Ansalon. Your knights will not be alone. I have alerted others loyal to our cause. Draconians, ogres, minotaur, goblins—right now they fight as allies with the forces of good. But when this ends, they will join your army, complete the takeover.”

  “As you command, Your Majesty,” said Ariakan. He gazed back out the window, out at the unnatural darkness. “But first we have to hold the High Clerist’s Tower against the enemy. What can you tell me of this foe, Your Majesty? What is it?”

  “Shadow-wights—creatures formed of the essence of Chaos. They are without form and without shape. To look into them is to look into oblivion. When they attack, they take on the appearance of their opponent, exact in every detail. They speak words of darkness and despair, depriving their enemies of the will to fight. If they touch a mortal being, they reduce it to nothingness.

  “And in the next wave will come daemon warriors. They are creatures as cold as the vast, empty darkness between the stars. A sword thrust into them will shatter as if it were made of glass. A man’s hand that touches them will go numb, lifeless, and will never know warmth again.

  “Among these troops are the fire dragons with claws of flame and sulfurous, poisonous breath. These are the foes you will face. These are the foes you must defeat.”

  Ariakan was grim. “How can such creatures be defeated, Your Majesty?”

  “Because they are creatures without form or substance, born of Chaos, they can be destroyed by any forged weapon that has been touched by one of the gods. The swords of your knights have all received my blessing. These blades will kill the shadow-wights. The knight must take care not to look into the wight’s eyes; yet he must, at the same time, draw close enough to the wight to deal the blow. As for the daemon warriors, a forged weapon will unravel the magic, but the blow that strikes it will be the last. The weapon will be destroyed, leaving the knight who wielded it defenseless.”

  “What about my magic-users? Your own clerics?”

  “Light spells will prevent the shadow-wights from taking their enemy’s form, fire spells will destroy them, but the wizard must be able to shut the deadly voices out of their minds or they themselves will be destroyed. Any holy object that touches the daemon warrior will cast it back into oblivion, but the object itself will be lost, sacrificed.”

  Ariakan was silent, thoughtful. Then he nodded. “I begin to see why Your Majesty wants troops held in reserve. This battle will considerably weaken us.”

  “It will weaken everyone, Lord Ariakan,” Takhisis returned. “And therein lies our ultimate victory. I shall reign supreme. Farewell, my lord.”

  The queen extended her gloved hand. Ariakan fell again to his knees, to receive her blessing.

  “We will fight to the death, Your Majesty!” he said fervently.

  Her Majesty withdrew her hand. She was displeased.

  “I have souls enough, Ariakan,” she said coldly. “It’s the living I want.”

  Ariakan, rebuked, bowed his head.

  When he looked up, the queen was gone.

  25

  Orders. Hidden away.

  hat are you saying?” Steel demanded furio
usly, forgetting discipline in his bitter disappointment. “Trevalin, you can’t mean this?”

  The other knights of the talon gathered around their commanding officer, echoed Steel’s protest.

  “I don’t like this any better than you do, but I have my orders,” Trevalin said. “We are to conceal ourselves in the dragontraps, keep away from the battle, stay there until we receive new orders. And,” he added, fixing his men with a stern gaze, “we’re to keep quiet about this. Death to the man who speaks of this to anyone outside this talon.”

  “We’re being punished,” said one knight.

  “What have we done to displease our lord?” asked another.

  “Skulking about in secret, hiding in the dark like stinking gully dwarves!”

  “People will make songs of our comrades’ valor …”

  “They’ll make songs of our shame!”

  “That’s enough, Gentlemen. My orders came directly from Lord Ariakan himself,” Trevalin said, his voice grim. “He has a plan in mind. It is up to us to obey, not to question. If you have any complaints, I suggest you take them up with His Lordship.”

  That silenced the protests—at least those spoken aloud. The knights exchanged frowning, unhappy glances, but said nothing.

  Because of the need to keep their meeting secret, Trevalin had brought his men together in the talon’s barracks, away from the main body of the knights. He glanced out the window. The sun was at last starting to sink; was glaring balefully over the horizon as if loathe to leave and miss the coming battle. The tower was readying for the next attack, presaged by immense pools of darkness, sliding down the mountainside, seeping around the walls. Eyes could be seen in the darkness now, the daemon warriors walking among the shadow-wights. Only eyes, nothing more. The eyes were red, hideous, and they gleamed of death.

  The Vision permitted each knight to share in Her Dark Majesty’s description of the shadow-wights and daemon warriors and how to defeat them. The Knights of the Lily were readying their dragons for flight; the Knights of the Skull were granting the queen’s blessing to armor, shield, and weapon; the Knights of the Thorn were gathering spell components, committing spells to memory. Steel’s talon was preparing to go away and hide.

  “It is time we were moving,” Trevalin said at last, reluctantly. “I won’t ask if there are any questions, because I couldn’t answer them if there were. We are to report to our post down in the dragontraps within the hour. Because of the need for secrecy, go there by ones and twos, take different routes. Knight Officer Brightblade will assign you.”

  Glumly, the knights prepared to leave to take up their new position, “in the cellar with the old women and the kids,” as one put it, though not in earshot of Trevalin.

  Steel was as angry at missing the battle as the rest, but—after his first outburst—he said nothing more. He had regained his rank, was once again second in command of his talon and, as a knight officer, he was expected to give Trevalin loyal and unquestioning support. Steel organized the knights of his talon, gave each group directions on their particular route, listened to their grumblings, did what he could to mollify them by talking of “shock troops” and “secret missions.” When the last contingent had moved out, he went to make his report to Trevalin.

  “You’re not far off the mark, you know,” Trevalin said in an undertone, as the two headed for the dragontraps themselves. “From what I can gather, we’re being held in reserve to take on some important assignment given to Ariakan by Her Majesty herself. I heard from one of Ariakan’s bodyguards that the queen met our lord in the Nest of the Kingfisher, that they spoke. The bodyguard knows because he saw Ariakan go up there alone and, afterward, heard two people talking—one of them a woman, with a voice like the knell of doom. When Ariakan came down, he was pale and shaking, like a man struck by a thunderbolt. It was shortly after that these orders were issued.”

  Steel smiled, pleased. “Why don’t you tell the others? It will make them feel better.”

  “Because we’re to obey orders without feeling one way or the other about them. And what I’ve told you is scuttlebutt, nothing more,” Trevalin replied tersely. Relaxing, he shrugged, smiled. “In other words, I can’t say anything official, but you could spread the word, Brightblade.”

  “Our queen herself chose us!” Steel said to himself in exultation as he went through the bronze doors leading to the dragontraps.

  But it was hard to maintain the pride, the elation, in knowing that they were singled out, specially chosen, when the darkness of the dragontraps closed around them, cut them off from the rest of their comrades, enveloped them in its shroud.

  They sat or stood in silence broken only by the trumpet call to battle, a call they were forbidden to answer.

  Steel disciplined himself to sit calmly, await orders. He looked with disapproval on those knights taking refuge in nervous pacing, ordered them to settle down, conserve their energy. He spent the first hour cleaning and polishing his sword, his father’s sword, admiring again the craftsmanship, not to be equaled even by the master swordsmiths hired by His Lordship. Ariakan himself had said it was one of the finest blades he had ever seen.

  The sword did not really need cleaning—Steel took excellent care of his weapons—but polishing the fine metal gave him something constructive to do and was, at the same time, reassuring. He found himself thinking of his father and the stories he’d heard about his father’s courage. His thoughts traveled back through time beyond his father. Steel wondered about the other knights who had carried this sword to honor and glory. Were they gathered now, all the Brightblades? Were they ranged in line behind their leader, Paladine, preparing to ride to battle? The Brightblade ancestors fought in Paladine’s name; their living representative, Steel, fought for Takhisis. But he saw little difference—the flip side of the same coin.

  He imagined the battle that must be raging in the Abyss, the gods banding together to fight Chaos, his queen in the forefront of her dread legions, leading them to victory. His heart swelled with pride and reverence; he whispered a prayer to Takhisis as he worked, asking her to grant him a small portion of Her Majesty’s vast courage. He could almost envy the dead, who would be privileged enough to fight at Her Dark Majesty’s side.

  His dreams and imaginings and his work took him fairly quickly through the first hour of waiting. The second he spent sitting on the stone floor, sweating in the heat that had found its way even to the inner portion of the tower, and listening to the sounds of battle coming from above. The other knights listened, too, speculated on what might be happening. The sounds were indistinct, muffled and distorted, drowned out by rumblings of thunder that shook the tower to its foundation, the wild blaring of trumpets, the thumping heart of the war engines. Occasionally they could hear, rising above the rest, a terrible, bellowing cry—the death scream of a dragon. At this horrible sound, the knights would all fall silent and study the stone on the floor at their feet.

  Time passed and still no word. No breathless messenger came clattering down the stairs, ordering them to saddle their dragons, take to the skies.

  The third hour, all the sounds suddenly ceased. An uncanny silence fell. The games of dicing that had been going on halted. All attempts at conversation ceased. Trevalin went to stand at the closed, barred bronze door, staring at it, his face drawn and grim. Steel could stand the strain no longer. He was on his feet, pacing restlessly, bumping into others doing the same.

  He felt something wet hit him on the forehead. He put his hand to his head, drew it back, looked at his fingers, and gave a hoarse shout. “Bring a torch someone! Quick!”

  Several torches were brought, and the men huddled nervously around him.

  Trevalin shoved his way through the circle of knights. “What? What is it? What’s the cause of this commotion? Break it up, you men—”

  “You’d better see this, Subcommander,” said Steel. “Shine that light down here.”

  One of the knights lowered the torch. Firelight shone in a
fresh pool forming on the stone floor. In the sudden silence, they could hear the slow and incessant drip, drip.

  Trevalin knelt, dipped the tips of his fingers in the pool, held them to the light.

  “Blood,” he said softly, staring up at the ceiling.

  Trevalin rose to his feet. “I’m going up there,” he announced, and several of the knights raised a cheer.

  “Stop that,” he ordered angrily. “Take up your weapons; make yourselves ready. Brightblade, walk with me.”

  The others dispersed rapidly, happy to be doing something, even if it was only buckling on their swords and lacing up their armor.

  Steel accompanied Trevalin to the doors.

  “You’re in command while I’m gone,” Trevalin said. He fell silent, but did not leave, glanced at the doors and back again, seemed to be making up his mind whether to speak or not.

  “Brightblade,” Trevalin said finally, keeping his voice low, “have you noticed something strange? Something about the Vision?”

  Steel nodded slowly, once. “I had hoped I was wrong, Subcommander,” he said quietly. “I had hoped it was just me.”

  “Apparently not,” Trevalin said, with a sigh. “I can’t seem to see it anymore. Can you?”

  “No, Subcommander.”

  Trevalin shook his head, pulled on his gloves. “I’m disobeying direct orders, doing this. But, without the Vision to guide me … Something’s gone wrong. It may be up to us to fix it, if we can. Wait for me. I won’t be long.”

  Taking a torch, Trevalin lifted the heavy bar across the door, opened it, went out. Steel stood inside the door, followed the light with his eyes as it moved down the corridor, watched it until its glow vanished. He remained standing there, the door opened a crack, straining to hear something from beyond.

  The other knights joined him, forming a semicircle around him. They, too, were quiet, except for the clink and rattle of armor and soft, measured breathing.