Dragons of Summer Flame

by Tracy Hickman

  And then the glow reappeared at the end of the corridor. The light wavered, as if the hand that carried the torch was weak, unsteady. Booted footfalls, hesitant, shuffling. Trevalin came into view, leaning against the wall. He came slowly down the corridor, staring at his feet.

  Steel opened the door. When Trevalin reached it, he stopped, looked at his men with a glazed, blank expression, as if he had no idea who they were, what they were doing here.

  Trevalin’s face was ash-white in the harsh light of the torch, which he suddenly let fall to the floor. The torch burned there, sputtering and smoking. No one moved to pick it up.

  “Subcommander,” said Steel. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” said Trevalin thickly. “They’re all … dead.”

  No one spoke, though someone sucked in a hissing breath.

  Trevalin’s eyes closed, as if in pain. Tears squeezed out from beneath the lids. “My lord … dead!” He spoke with almost a sob. Opening his red-rimmed eyes, he stared around. “Dead! Can’t you understand? All dead! Dead … All … Dead …”

  He sagged. His knees giving way, he slid down the wall. Steel caught his commander in his arms.

  “Sir, you’re wounded! Where? Help me get his armor off.”

  Trevalin caught hold of Steel’s hand, stopped him. “No use,” he said. “It …” He choked, swallowed. “It hit me … from behind.” Trevalin frowned, angered, puzzled. “Coward … hits you … from behind … I never saw … never had a chance to fight back … No honor …”

  “Sir … is the enemy out there? How many?”

  Trevalin shook his head. He gasped, tried to speak, but only bubbles of blood and saliva came from his mouth. He sank back against the wall. The hand holding Steel’s went flaccid.

  Steel held his commander’s hand a moment longer, then laid it gently, respectfully over the dead man’s chest.

  “Walk with Takhisis, sir,” Steel said softly.

  He could see, then, the massive wound that had ripped through the black armor as if it were parchment paper; the charred and bleeding skin; the great, ugly gash in his side.

  “Claws did that,” one knight said, grim, awed.

  “If so, they are claws of fire,” said Steel, rising slowly to his feet. He gazed out the door. “I wonder what our orders were.”

  “It doesn’t matter now,” said one of the knights. “What are your orders, sir?”

  It occurred to Steel then that he was in command. He was in command, not only of his talon, but—if what Trevalin had said was true—in command of the High Clerist’s Tower. Steel shoved the terrible thought out of his mind. Trevalin must have been mistaken. He had been hideously wounded. Surely they couldn’t all be dead!

  Steel made his decision. “Two of you, lay the subcommander to rest down here. Cover his body with his shield. The rest of you draw your weapons and come with me. If the tower has fallen, the enemy probably doesn’t know we’re down here. We may be able to catch them unawares. No light. Make no noise.”

  Dipping his fingers in Trevalin’s blood, Steel smeared it on the black bracers around his arm, as another might wear the ribbon-token of his lady. He drew his sword—his father’s sword—and walked out the doors of the dragontraps.

  One by one, saluting their dead, the dark knights followed him.

  26

  The vision.

  teel crept stealthily through the corridors of the tower, moving slowly. It was impossible to see anything. He had not expected such dense darkness. He sent several of his men back for torches. They would be in more danger bumbling around in the darkness than they would from any enemy who might by lying in ambush.

  The strange, stubborn sun had finally set; night had finally come. But where was the starlight, the light of the three moons that should illuminate their way? While waiting for his men to return, Steel groped along a wall, discovered a window, and stared out. He searched the sky, thinking that maybe the drought had broken, that the stars were clouded over.

  Lightning flashed through the sky—a clear, cloudless, empty sky.

  No stars. No moons.

  Steel stared into the dark—endlessly dark—sky until his eyes ached, searching for some glimmer of light. He found none. He drew back from the window, not allowing himself to speculate on what meaning this dread phenomenon might hold. The men were returning with the torches, coming along behind him. He kept them moving, ordered them sharply to keep their eyes ahead, if any seemed inclined to go near the windows. They’d find out the truth soon enough, but hopefully after he determined what they were facing.

  As they moved through the corridors, they saw the signs of terrible fighting. The walls were scorched and charred and, in some instances, holes had been blasted through them. Heaps of fallen stone clogged the corridors, made the going difficult. And then they began to find the bodies, some of them horribly burned, metal armor fused to flesh by the searing heat. Worse were the piles of empty armor; pitiful heaps of gray robes alongside scattered spell components; black robes, adorned with emblems of Her Dark Majesty, now lying crumpled on the stone floor.

  At intervals along their route, Steel ordered his men to halt. Standing in breathless silence, they listened—listened for the orders, for victorious shouts, for gloating laughter, for the screams of captives, the defiant curses of prisoners.

  They heard nothing, nothing except the sigh of the hot wind blowing through the wreckage of what had once been the mightiest fortress on Ansalon.

  The knights moved on, well disciplined still, though their grim faces, pale in the torchlight, reflected the horrors they saw around them. They entered the central courtyard.

  The body of an enormous red dragon almost filled the area. Torchlight glistened on broken scales, on long gashes in the body, tears in the wings, which were bent and mangled. The enormous creature had died of innumerable wounds; its blood made the stone floor wet and slippery.

  “Spread out,” Steel ordered quietly. He was beginning to realize, chillingly, that his men had nothing to fear, and, by the same token, no hope. “Search for any survivors, report back here.”

  The knights separated, moving off in groups of two and three, their weapons in their hands.

  Steel placed his torch in a sconce, walked around to the dragon’s head. He’d seen a human body from where he had stood in the gateway.

  Lord Ariakan lay close to the dragon. The red must have been his mount in that last desperate fight, until the beast crashed to the ground, forcing Ariakan to meet his enemies on foot. His sword was still clutched in his cold hand, the blade broken, yet covered with blood, as if he had fought on even after his weapon had failed him. No bodies of whatever foes he had faced were anywhere around him. Steel found oily, charred patches nearby, had a sudden image of daemonic soldiers, touched by forged steel, bursting into flame.

  Steel knelt beside the body of his liege lord, beside the man who had found him, raised him to be a knight. He saw clearly, as if in the flare-up of a flaming log, Ariakan as he had come to the home of a twelve-year-old boy, had taken the measure of that boy with his dark eyes.

  I offer you hard work, brutal toil, a harsh life with little ease, no comfort. You will gain no personal wealth. The most you can ever hope to earn will be the respect of your comrades-in-arms. You will forego the love of family and friends. Taking their place will be battle, glory, honor. Do you accept these terms, young Steel?

  “I do accept, my lord,” Steel said now as he had vowed then.

  It was difficult to tell which of the many wounds had been Ariakan’s death wound. His face was contorted with a grimace—not of pain, but of determination. He had battled valiantly to the very end. The metal of his blade had snapped; Ariakan’s courage had not. Steel guessed now why the Vision had died. It had died with the man who had created it.

  “Receive his soul, Majesty,” Steel prayed, tears choking his voice. He shut the corpse’s staring eyes, composed the twisted limbs into some semblance of easeful rest. He f
ound the shards of the broken blade, laid them across Ariakan’s chest.

  Slowly, Steel rose to his feet. “Now, my lord, you fight at the side of Her Majesty. You fight with honor. Prepare the way for the rest of us.”

  Standing in the courtyard, his head bowed, alone, Steel wondered what to do. The enemy had been victorious. The High Clerist’s Tower had fallen. But this enemy had no care for occupation, for conquest, had no interest in fortresses, lands, cities, wealth, subjects. This enemy had only one objective: dealing death. The mightiest fortress had been taken, and its defenders—the mightiest force on Krynn—had been utterly wiped out. Their main task accomplished, the enemy had surged on, bringing flame and blood and terror with them.

  “We’re all that’s left,” Steel said to himself, dazed by the thought. “What do we do? The Vision is gone, but surely it could be reborn!” He looked up into the empty heavens, spread his arms wide. “Dark Majesty! Tell me what to do! Give me your guidance!”

  Footsteps—booted footsteps, light footsteps, rapidly approached. Steel’s heart jumped; he lifted his sword.

  “Who is there?” he called out.

  A woman came into view, a knight clad in blue armor. Her hair was short, curly, dark. She smiled at Steel, a crooked, charming smile.

  Steel lowered his sword. He had no doubt that this was his queen’s response. Now he would receive his orders.

  Kitiara walked up to stand in front of her son. Noticing blood on his armor, she looked grave. “You are not wounded, are you, Steel?”

  “The blood is that of my commanding officer, who gave his life defending the tower.” Steel felt his face burn with shame. “I took no part in the battle, Mother. My talon was ordered to remain hidden—”

  “I know all that,” Kitiara said, waving away the irrelevant. “I was the one who gave those orders.”

  Steel stared at her, aghast. “You! Ordered me hidden away from the battle! My honor—”

  “To the Abyss with that crap!” Kitiara snorted. “Prattling of honor, you sound just like that hidebound dunderhead, your father. Listen to me, Steel. We haven’t much time.”

  Kitiara moved closer to him. Cold flowed from her, seeped into his body, freezing the bone marrow, making breathing painful. Her words came not through his ears, but pierced through his heart.

  “The battle is lost. The war is lost. The forces of Chaos are too strong. Our queen intends to make good her escape, while she still can. She is preparing to leave, and she will take her most loyal followers with her. Through my intercession, you, my son, are one of the chosen. Come with me now!”

  “Come with you?” Steel regarded her in confusion. “Come with you where?”

  “To another world, my son!” Kitiara said eagerly. “Another world to rule, to conquer! And you will be part of our triumphant force. We will be together, you and I.”

  Steel was doubtful, troubled. “The war is lost, you say?”

  “Must I repeat myself? Hurry, my son. Come quickly.”

  “My queen would not run away,” Steel said, backing up from his mother. “Her Majesty would not abandon, betray, those who fought in her name, those who died for her.…”

  “Died for her?” Kitiara laughed. “Of course they died for her! It was their privilege to die for her. She owes them nothing! She owes the world nothing. Let it be destroyed. There will be others. New worlds! You will see such wonders, my son. And we will take these wonders, these riches, and make them ours! First, however, you must take off that silly elf toy you wear around your neck. Get rid of it.”

  Steel looked past his mother, at the body of Lord Ariakan, at the corpse of the ancient, magnificent red dragon. He thought of Trevalin, returning to his command though he was bleeding to death.

  The torchlight blurred in Steel’s eyes. He sagged back against the wall, struggling to breathe. And it seemed to him that the wall moved. All that was real and solid was being pulled out from underneath him.

  Abandoned, betrayed, he had nothing left. The Vision was gone, not because Ariakan had ceased to see it, but because it had ceased to exist. The stars had fallen from the sky, and they had all tumbled down on him.

  “Come, Steel!” Kitiara’s voice sharpened. “Why do you hesitate? Remove the jewel.”

  “No, Mother,” Steel said quietly. “I’m not going with you.”

  “What? Don’t be a fool!”

  “Why not, Mother?” Steel demanded, bitter. “I’ve been a fool all these years, it seems. Everything in which I believed was a lie.”

  Kitiara glared at him. Her eyes were as dark as the empty sky. “I was mistaken, it seems. I thought there were the makings of a true warrior in you. The fight! The victory! The power! That is all. That is everything! Act like your father, and you will die like your father—alone, abandoned, throwing your life away for some worthless cause. You can’t win this one, Steel!” Kitiara hissed his name. “You can’t win!”

  “You’re right, Mother,” Steel said calmly. “I’ve already lost. I have lost my god, my lord, my dream. I have lost everything”—his hand moved to the jewel he wore around his neck, hidden beneath the black armor—“except what is inside me.”

  “What is in you comes from me!”

  Kitiara’s anger was like a mailed fist across his face. He turned away his head, averted his eyes.

  Suddenly, her mood changed, her anger subsided; her voice was soft, caressing. “You are battle-weary, Steel, grieving for your loss. It was wrong of me to try to force you to make this decision now. Take your time, my son. Think about what I’ve offered. A new world. A new life.…”

  The mailed fist was a gentle hand. A soft warmth, like the touch of black velvet, flowed over him … and then was gone.

  He closed his eyes, leaned back against the stone wall, now firm and steady, supporting him. He was tired, but his weariness ran deeper than battle-fatigue. After all, he hadn’t swung a stroke. Yet he was bruised, felt as if he’d been kicked and pummeled, left alone in some dark alley. Left alone to die.

  Why should I?

  New worlds. Wonders … Conquests … Glory …

  Why not? Why the hell not? My mother is right. This world is finished. It holds nothing for me anymore.

  The emptiness inside Steel was like a killing gash from a dragon’s claw. His queen’s betrayal had torn out his soul, drained him, left him a hollow husk.

  Why not fill that void with war, the adrenal rush of battle, the ecstasy of victory, the pleasure of its spoils. I will no longer fight for any god. I will fight for myself first. I will be the one who gains!

  His hand closed over the jewel.

  “She lies …” came a voice, another voice, from inside, from outside. It didn’t matter anymore.

  Steel kept his eyes shut. “Don’t try to stop me, Father. It’s finished. The battle is ended, and we have lost.”

  “Kitiara lied. The battle is not over, not for some. Paladine and the other gods fight on against Chaos. The magical children, Lunitari, Solinari, Nuitari, continue to wage war. Sargonnas has sworn a blood-oath to keep on fighting. Chemosh has raised the dead and leads them to battle. All across Krynn, people fight, with no hope of victory. They do not talk of abandoning the world.”

  “And what will it gain them, Father?” Steel asked. His thoughts went to the body of Ariakan, lying beside the dead dragon. “Who will reward them? Who will sing hero songs for them?”

  “You will, Steel,” said his father. “You will honor them every day of your long, long life.”

  Steel said nothing. He held fast to the jewel in his hand, but whether out of need or out of loathing, he couldn’t decide.

  “What would you have me do, Father?” he demanded, despairing, disdainful. “Chaos can never be destroyed.”

  “No, but he can be made to retreat. Chaos has opened a rift in the world. Through that rift he has brought his forces: shadow-wights, fire dragons, daemon warriors. But that rift has made Chaos vulnerable. It is a hole in his armor. He has been forced to descend to
our plane of existence. Paladine and Gilean both believe that if we can catch him here, on this plane, and defeat him here, Chaos will be forced to abandon the battle and close the rift, lest it consume him as well.”

  “And how do I fight Chaos? What weapons do I use?”

  “A band of knights, bearing the famed dragonlances, must enter the Abyss, confront Chaos and his legions. They must ride forth knowing they will not return. They must ride knowing that their deaths may well be in vain, that no one will be left to sing hero songs for them.”

  Steel stood, irresolute, undecided, a battle of his own raging within him, a battle that had been fought every moment from the day of his birth. He stood in the torchlight, beneath the starless sky, his head bowed as the warring armies clashed, both sides wounding him, making a ravaged battlefield of his soul.

  “Sir! Brightblade, are you all right?”

  Steel raised his arm, lashed out. He was exhausted by the struggle, aching from the wounds. And he was angry, angry to be made to go through this.

  “Leave me be!” he cried.

  “Yes, sir.” The knight, startled, stepped back. “I’m sorry, sir. I only wanted to report—”

  “No, wait …”

  Steel blinked, looked around him. He had no idea, for a moment, where he was, how he came to be here. He saw his lord’s body, and memory returned. He sighed. He was, he discovered, clutching the jewel he wore around his neck with a strangling, deathlike grip.

  Unclenching his hand, he released the starjewel, tucked it back beneath the breastplate. He wiped the sweat from his face. The night was hotter, more oppressive, than the day. The heat and his own exhaustion had caused him to fall asleep on his feet.

  “I’m sorry. I must have dozed off. You startled me.” Steel forced himself, by an effort of will, to pay attention. “Make your report.”

  “No sign of the enemy, sir. No sign of anyone at all—anyone alive, that is. There are no survivors. The wounded …” The man swallowed. “The wounded were slaughtered, lying on their cots.… They never had a chance.”