by Dragonlance
Many tales have been told of Krynn. Tales of warfare and ambition, darkness and light, and magic and danger. But these tales are only half the world’s story. For Ansalon, the land of Solamnic Knights and Dragon Highlords, draconians, kender, and gully dwarves, is but one part of Krynn, one small continent on a much larger planet.
There are other lands besides Ansalon.
In Taladas, the Faceless Emperor, finally awoken from his long sleep, is building his army. Hult and Shedara have fled to find safety, but no land is safe as Maladar rebuilds his empire from the ruins of Aurim.
And they have what Maladar wants most to perfect Risen Aurim and force Taladas to bow before him - or die.
Taladas once was a place known only to legend and rumor.
Until now.
Volume One
Blades of the Tiger
Volume Two
Trail of the Black Wyrm
Volume Three
Shadow of the Flame
Also by Chris Pierson
Bridges of Time
Spirit of the Wind
Dezra’s Quest
Kingpriest Trilogy
Chosen of the Gods
Divine Hammer
Sacred Fire
SHADOW OF THE FLAME
The Taladas Trilogy • Volume Three
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
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v3.1
FOR MARGARET.
THANKS FOR INVITING ME.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: Aurim, City of Songs
Chapter 1 - The Burning Sea
Chapter 2 - The Blackrain Hills, Neron
Chapter 3 - The Blackrain Hills, Old Aurim
Chapter 4 - The Cliffs of Glass, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 5 - The Dourlands, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 6 - The Dourlands, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 7 - Bishan, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 8 - The Dourlands, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 9 - The Blighted Plain, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 10 - Whitewold, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 11 - The Grayveil Strait
Chapter 12 - Sevenspires, Suluk
Chapter 13 - Hyo-Khal, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 14 - Karath’s Watch, Suluk
Chapter 15 - Square Of The Mariners, Suluk
Chapter 16 - Sevenspires, Suluk
Chapter 17 - Clovenmont, The Rainward Isles
Chapter 18 - The Ruins of Suluk
Chapter 19 - The Ruins of Suluk
Chapter 20 - The Grayveil Shore, Aurim-That-Was
Chapter 21 - Mirrorthorn Passage, Rainward Isles
Chapter 22 - Glasstrand, The Shining Lands
Chapter 23 - Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 24 - The Shining Lands
Chapter 25 - Bilo-Serai, The Shining Lands
Chapter 26 - The Chaldar, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 27 - Ilmachrutandabrunthabram, Bilo Columns
Chapter 28 - Ilmachrutandabrunthabram, Bilo Columns
Chapter 29 - The Bilo Shore, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 30 - The Chaldar, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 31 - The Burning Sea, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 32 - The Chaldar, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 33 - Risen Aurim, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 34 - Risen Aurim, Hith’s Cauldron
Chapter 35 - Hall of Emperors, The Chaldar
Chapter 36 - Hall of Emperors, The Chaldar
Chapter 37 - Thumar, Rainward Isles
Epilogue: From the Archives of Nightlund, Volume XXII Penned by the Red Robe Pelander
Glossary
Prologue
AURIM, CITY OF SONGS
The city sparkled like a jewel on the banks of the River Ush. It was a sprawl of marble and lapis, adorned with domes and statues and bridges of shining gold. Flowers of crimson and flame spilled across its gardens, and soldiers riding hippogriffs wheeled above its bustling streets and markets, where men and dwarves and elves from all over Taladas thronged. The rain had just stopped, and steam rose from the rooftops as the sun baked them dry.
Beyond the city’s walls, for league upon league, spread green fields and golden hills, ripe with rice and grapes and olives, food enough to sate a continent. The Ush wound its way across the swelling land, a broad silver rope that flowed west toward the shining Indanalis Sea. Away to the north, the river stretched toward an arm of mountains that loomed purple in the morning mist. Cool breezes blew from that direction, rustling leaves and men’s cloaks.
Nowhere else in Taladas was there such a city as Aurim—perhaps nowhere on Krynn, though the priests of Istar, far across the sea, might have argued the point. This was the pinnacle of civilization, of learning, of art and music, in all the world. But Maladar an-Desh, its rightful ruler, looked down on his city from the highest tower of his palace and saw only swine rooting through rubbish. It could be greater, more glorious, than this. It should be. He needed only time—time he did not have.
Today, he thought as the wind billowed his robes. He reached up to touch the hem of his hood, the hood that never fell unless he desired it. Today they will come to kill me.
One could rightly say he deserved to die. Even Maladar, in his black heart, had to admit that truth. Had he not done terrible things? Had he not made powerful enemies? How many thousands had perished in the Square of Spears before the palace and on battlefields far away for the glory of the City of Songs and its emperor? He could not count, not anymore. But they were many, and men remembered. Over time the memories of his enemies had cooled into hate. Assassins had tried to kill him more than a dozen times in the century since he’d wrested control of the empire. They had always failed. But this time … today … they would succeed.
He foresaw his death—first in dreams, then later confirmed in a scrying-pool filled with the blood of his servants, a hundred men whose throats he’d cut for that one spell. He’d seen his own body, lying twisted in agony on the floor of his throne room as the midday sun shone through its high, sapphi
re windows, his kicking legs tangled in the folds of his blue and golden robes. He’d watched his hands clench like claws, his back arch, then the slow, smooth relaxation, the breath letting out. Then there was nothing.
That had been a year ago. The dreams had stopped after a while, and he could divine no more, no matter how much blood he spilled into the pool. He did not know who would kill him, or why, or how. But he knew where and when. He might have tried to run, to hide in one of the other cities in the far-flung provinces of his empire, but Maladar was not that kind of man. He had gained his power by facing his problems. He would not run.
He had made plans, however.
Someone stirred behind him. He turned, a dozen spells flashing through his mind. Maladar was the mightiest archmage Taladas had ever known, and though Nuvis, the black moon, was waning, he still had the power to kill an army if he must. It was no army that stood behind him, though, only a boy of eight summers, a barbarian slave who served him.
The boy kept his almond eyes downcast, never gazing directly at Maladar. He was deeply tanned, his head shaven except for a lone braid that trailed down from its crown—the mark of the Uigan, a tribe that dwelt on Aurim’s edges, with whom the empire had warred for millennia. This boy was the son of the Boyla, the Uigan’s ruler, whom Maladar had captured in battle five years ago. The Boyla and his elder sons had died screaming, in pits deep beneath the City of Songs. He had sent their heads back to the Uigan, their braids cut off and stuffed in their mouths as a mark of shame. But this one he had kept as his cupbearer and hostage, both to stay any thoughts of vengeance the steppe-riders might harbor, and for his own … amusement.
“Shai,” Maladar murmured, his voice a low and unpleasant gargle. “I did not summon you.”
The boy bowed his head further, never looking up—never. “Even so, Majesty,” he said, “the Seven Swords await you below. They seek audience.”
Had he been capable, Maladar might have raised an eyebrow. “The Seven? Here?”
Shai nodded. “Caspa sent me to fetch you. She felt it better that she keep watch over them.”
“Caspa is wise,” Maladar said, his mind rushing. So it was the Seven who would seek to slay him today, and they would succeed if the blood-vision were to be believed.
The Seven made a kind of sense. They were the mightiest warriors in all of Aurim, ruthless men who commanded its armies and governed its border marches, keeping safe the rich, well-fed provinces at the empire’s heart. He had thought them among his allies, for he always made sure to give them what they wanted, whether it was gold or slaves or land. He’d once drowned an entire city—Am Durn, it was called—and given the undamaged surrounding fiefs as a gift to Iadro, the mightiest of the Seven. But such men were ambitious and surely coveted the throne.
“Majesty?” asked Shai. “Shall I have Caspa bid them leave?”
Maladar shook his head. “No, boy. I will be down in a moment.”
The boy touched his forehead, a show of deference, then left. When he was gone, Maladar turned to look out across the city once more. He felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind: a feeling that he would not gaze upon Aurim again … not in this life, anyway.
The wind tugged at his robes again, and he pulled down his hood. Then he whirled and stalked back into the halls of his palace to meet his death.
They were waiting for him in the throne room, a vast, vaulted hall with a floor of tiled moonstone and golden pillars the size of trees. They stood at its far end, beyond the play of light through jeweled windows, beyond the burbling silver fountains and Neroni feathered serpents, coiled in hanging cages of crystal. Maladar emerged from the tower stair behind his throne of carved dragon horn, which stood upon a dais amid a wide pool filled with glowing, golden fish. He walked forward to stand by his seat, resting his hand upon its arm. He tried to look untroubled as Caspa, his chamberlain—an aged elf woman who had served Aurim’s emperors for five centuries—crossed the floor. Her spidersilk slippers made no sound.
“Shai tells me I have guests,” Maladar said. He nodded toward the boy, who stood on the far side of the pool. “Bring wine, lad—the Chakani green. We should drink to welcome such august company.”
“The Seven, Majesty,” Caspa said as Shai withdrew to do his master’s bidding. “I asked them to give up their weapons, but they refused.”
“And so they should,” said Maladar, stepping forward. He crossed an invisible bridge, hidden just beneath the pool’s surface, which made him seem for a moment to be walking on water. “These are not common foot soldiers, Caspa; they are the right arm of the empire! Let them keep their blades and come forward.”
The throne room was two hundred paces across, so Maladar had time to think as Caspa went to fetch the Seven. He watched them approach: Iadro, in his enameled crimson armor; Bann the Lofty, seven and a half feet tall with a sword just as big slung across his back; Dreskith of Eöl, whose long beard was dyed the blue of deep water; Farashi Ogrebane, who had a golden left hand and was said to be half dwarf; Ettam and Ettor, twin brothers who fought with knives only; and a whip-thin, veiled warrior simply called Whisper, who never spoke. Maladar watched them come, wondering which would land the killing blow. He doubted it would be Iadro; he was the cleverest general of the lot but not the quickest blade. If he had to lay gold on any of them, it would be Dreskith … or possibly Whisper. With that one, it was always hard to tell.
He hoped to send a few to the Abyss before he fell. If Hith were merciful, he would manage all seven.
“How, then, have you come here?” he asked as the Seven drew near. “Long has it been since all of you have graced my halls together. Is there trouble in the marches? I had hoped for a summer free of war, but if the armies must march …”
“War does not bring us, Majesty,” said Iadro. He was smiling; Iadro always smiled, though his eyes glinted like diamond daggers. “Strange tidings have reached our ears, and we have come to parley with you about them.”
The men stopped, standing side by side, far enough apart from each other that he couldn’t hope to kill them all with a single spell, not without bringing down the palace in the bargain. They knew what they were doing today. None had laid a hand near his weapon yet, but they were ready.
“Tidings?” asked Maladar. “Of what sort?”
“A secret army,” said Bann, folding massive arms across his massive chest. “A force you have gathered in the eastern provinces, far from our lands.”
There was a moment’s silence in the throne room as Maladar thought: so, they know. Then he spread his hands. “Please, brothers. I know of no secret army. And why would I gather forces in the east, where peace has reigned since the Dynasty of Nûr?”
“Yes,” said Ettam, frowning, “why, indeed?”
“We were hoping you would tell us,” said Ettor, matching his brother’s glower.
Dreskith, ever the voice of reason among the Seven, held up a hand to stay the hot-headed twins. “Do not play us for fools, Majesty,” he said, stroking his beard. “We know you are smarter than that. We have sent spies to the east. All returned with the same tale: you are raising an army. We may not have learned where or who these warriors are to our satisfaction, but the news is true.”
“We have ways of making sure those we question do not lie,” added Farashi with an evil grin.
Whisper said nothing, only stood there, cracking his knuckles one at a time.
Maladar looked at them, from one to the next. “I had hoped you wouldn’t learn of this,” he murmured. “Not yet, at least.”
“I bet you did,” said Ettor.
Iadro shook his head. “Majesty, you must understand what we have to think about this army. There is only one reason to muster such a thing in the east when we command so many thousands of men on your western borders.”
“You mean to make war on us,” said Bann.
Then Maladar began to laugh.
The Seven bristled at that, for it was not scornful laughter that growled from ben
eath the Faceless Emperor’s hood, but a gust of genuine mirth. Maladar shook his head. “Oh, my friends,” he said. “Do not be angry when I tell you that you have ridden all this way for nothing! My eastern army is no threat to you … or to any living man.”
Ettor snorted at that while the others exchanged glances.
“What do you mean, Majesty?” asked Dreskith. “How can an army be of no threat? What good would such a force be?”
Maladar stepped back, folding his hands into the sleeves of his robe. “I can show you if you wish.”
The Seven were silent. They looked at one another. Ettor and Ettam shook their heads. Farashi made a forked sign with his fingers, a ward against evil, which was laughable considering how many vile things he had done to his enemies. Bann shrugged. Whisper, of course, said nothing. Dreskith leaned close to Iadro and murmured in his ear. Finally, the leader of the Seven nodded and took a single step forward, smiling his cold smile.
“I presume,” he said, “that you mean to use magic to do this.”
Maladar inclined his head.
“Know that you will rue any trickery, Majesty,” Iadro replied, “but not for long.”
“I do not doubt it,” Maladar purred. “But come now, my friends. We have done this before, many times, at your war councils. Have I not shown you our enemies and how they would array themselves? Have I not revealed the weaknesses of their keeps and cities? How, then, is this time different?”
Another silence answered him. Armor rattled as the Seven shifted from foot to foot. They looked to Iadro now, and he sighed, for the first time showing the burden of being the leader of such a band.
“So, then,” he said, gesturing for Maladar to begin.
The spell came easily to mind; Maladar had cast it hundreds, perhaps thousands, of times over the course of his reign. Even with the black moon’s power flowing sluggishly, he shaped it with ease, his silken robes fluttering as his hands danced in the air and he spoke the spidery words. The air shimmered around him, as the plains did on hot summer days. Most of the warriors rested their hands on their weapons, ready to draw them the moment anything went awry. Maladar paid them no mind, throwing himself into the magic instead.
