Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Maladar stared at the worm hanging over him. The fire hadn’t so much as scorched its flesh. He knew that none of the destructive magic he commanded would do any damage at all.

  He smiled anyway, and turned his gaze on Ukku.

  “I did not mean to destroy it,” he said, folding his arms again.

  Bak-su-chag let out a chittering squeal, and dived—at Ukku, not Maladar. The old hobgoblin’s eyes widened in disbelief, but he didn’t have time to react anymore. The worm struck, and suddenly Ukku was in its jaws. The shaman wailed as the fangs and barbs dug into his flesh. He tried to wedge his staff into Bak-su-chag’s maw, but his hands were covered with blood—his blood—and he lost his grip on it. The staff fell, hitting the ground with a crack that split the dwarf skull in half.

  Then Ukku was gone, pulled down the monster’s barbed throat. His screeches grew muffled, then ended altogether. The hobgoblins fell silent, shocked, as Bak-su-chag turned to look back at Maladar, like a hunting hound awaiting its master’s command.

  The green fire had been a ruse, nothing more. Maladar had hidden a second spell within it—the one he’d meant to use. Rather than harming the worm, he had charmed it, drawing its obedience away from Ukku, binding its mind to his.

  He nodded, gesturing at the hole. “Go now,” he said. “Rest. You are freed.”

  Bak-su-chag twitched, and it was gone, sliding back into the hole in the glass. Maladar’s eyes turned back up toward the battlements, where the hobgoblin archers watched him with horrified eyes. The looks on their faces made him want to laugh, but he kept the impulse in check. Instead, he raised his hand to point at the wall. He began to chant.

  The hobgoblins panicked, trampling each other in a mad rush to get away. Maladar did laugh at that, lowering his hand again.

  “Is that all?” he called. “Have you nothing more?”

  His answer came from the gates. Another figure emerged, an enormous hobgoblin clad in thick steel plate. In his hands he carried a double-bladed war axe. Behind him marched five other warriors, each bedecked in full armor, carrying cleaving swords and morning stars. They spread out in an arc before him, on the other side of the hole where Bak-su-chag and Ukku had vanished.

  The warriors eyed him. He eyed them back. His fingers curled, ready to cast again. “I will kill every hobgoblin in Sha Moku if I must,” he said, “and continue my search elsewhere. I seek an army to fight for me. Will you follow me, or must I empty this city?”

  The lead hobgoblin took a step forward, raising his axe, then bent down and laid it on the ground. The rest of the warriors did the same.

  “I am Ghashai,” said the leader. “I speak for the At-khorakha, the People of the Weeping Towers, now that Ukku is no more. If there is blood and plunder to be had, we will join your war.”

  He knelt, bowing his head. The rest of the warriors followed suit. Maladar looked at them and then back at the city. There were only a few hundred hobgoblins at Sha Moku, most likely. He would need many more before he had the horde he needed.

  It was a start, though.

  Chapter

  5

  THE DOURLANDS, AURIM-THAT-WAS

  The rain lasted for five days as Shedara and her companions wound their way through the hills. It left everything stained dark with soot, from their clothes to their hair to most of the contents of their pouches; only Shedara’s spellbook and components, sealed tightly in a sharkskin bundle at the bottom of her pack, escaped the black drenching. By the time the land started to slope downward, they were all praying for an end to the constant downpour, and to remember what it was to be clean and dry.

  The folk of Thenol had a saying: Irluth alcatha ec-harnos, pen ostigom delpharnos. The only thing worse than when the gods don’t answer your prayers is when they do.

  On the fifth day, the hills came to an abrupt halt, yielding to flat lowlands that stretched far ahead to a hazy horizon. The rain ended as well and would not return, for what lay beyond the highlands was a desert. Dunes the color of powdered bone undulated for leagues, slashed by narrow, deep crevices that were always filled with shadow—not canyons delved over millennia by water or wind, but great jagged cracks in the earth, opened in mere days by the quakes that shook Aurim apart after the Destruction. Plumes of ash and dust whipped into the air, stinging their eyes as they descended into the wasteland.

  “I heard the tales,” Essana murmured as they slogged through powder so fine that they sank to their knees. “The explorers who came to this place from the League, seeking relics of the old empire … my father collected books of their tales.”

  “Explorers,” Shedara muttered and lifted the cloth mask she wore over her mouth to spit into the dust. “Jackals, more like. The kind of man who robs the crypts of dead kings, hoping to make their fortune out of the suffering of others.”

  “Like you, you mean,” Hult added. “Or were you not a thief before this?”

  Shedara flushed, her hands clenching into fists. “What I did was different. When I stole, I did it for my people. There were elves in Aurim too. Many of their artifacts were lost. Recovering them honors their memory. It’s not the same as despoiling tombs for gold and jewels.”

  Hult shrugged and said nothing. His people were raiders, pillagers; the finer aspects of motive were not his concern.

  In time, they reached one of the crevices. Shedara wasted no time, unfurling a long coil of silken rope from her pack and dangling it over the edge. She murmured a spell, and the rope’s loose end tied itself around a jagged finger of rock, cinching tight enough that both she and Hult, pulling on it as hard as they could, couldn’t make it slip. When that was done, the four of them gathered at the crack’s edge and peered down. The fissure was only ten paces from one side to the other and descended far into the rock.

  “The explorers told tales of these places too,” Essana said, licking her lips. “They said awful things lived in the rifts. Dragons and demons and worse.”

  Hult bit the heel of his hand to ward off evil. Azar raised an eyebrow. The wind hurled a wave of dust at them, forcing them to turn away, coughing and shielding their eyes.

  “They would say that,” Shedara said when it had passed. “Places like this are the only shelter in these parts. These ‘explorers’ of yours make their camps in them, to keep hidden and stay out of the storms.”

  “Then the tales of demons are lies,” Azar said.

  She shrugged. “I didn’t say that. Some of these ravines might be swarming with them, or with the dead, or spiders and beetles the size of cattle. Aurim’s a bad place, and if I could avoid crossing these lands, I would. But the things they say live in these holes … we can avoid them if we’re careful.”

  “Careful,” Essana murmured and pursed her lips. “Ah.”

  Shedara studied her, watching her out of the corners of her eyes. Essana was a strong woman, and had been through dread and horror at the hands of the Faceless. But she was still afraid, and Shedara couldn’t blame her. Still, the only alternative to the chasms was slogging through oceans of ash for weeks on end. The entire southern half of what remained of Old Aurim was like this; it went on for a hundred leagues and more, broken only by the half-buried bones of cities where ghouls and hobgoblins dwelt. If those creatures didn’t kill them, thirst and fatigue would.

  Shedara wished, not for the first time, that they had gone to Baltch. The island kingdom off Neron’s eastern coast could have given them respite. She could have booked passage for them on a ship bound for the Rainwards; she knew a few people there who owed her favors. But the trip would have taken them well out of their way: it would have been at least sixty days’ hard march through the Emerald Sea alone, and probably that again to sail to the Rainwards. They didn’t have that much time. Maladar wasn’t taking the long, safe path to where he was bound.

  Still, Shedara worried.

  “I will protect you, Mother,” said Azar, reaching out to touch her arm. “Nothing will harm you.”

  Shedara glanced at Hult. He was l
ooking back at her, his mouth a grim line. She curled her lip in reply. They’d questioned Azar at length the morning after the fight with the trolls. He’d had no idea how he’d summoned the lightning. He had no memory of it at all. Shedara believed what he said was true; she’d even surreptitiously cast a spell that would tell her if he were lying. He truly didn’t know what he’d done.

  That troubled her even more.

  She had a spell she could cast to look deep into his mind and discover the truth. She’d used it on Forlo to find out the cause of the nightmares that had plagued him when they first knew each other. It was arduous magic, though. She had to have time to prepare, and a willing subject. Right at that moment, she had neither. So there was nothing for it, not then, except to keep an eye on Azar—and a blade close at hand, just in case.

  “I will go first,” Hult said. His face was pale even beneath its cake of dust, but he was proud, refusing to admit that he felt fear. He loosened his sword in its scabbard and bent to pick up the enchanted rope. “If there is trouble, I will call out.”

  If there’s trouble, Shedara thought, you’ll be dead before we can reach you.

  “Go on, then,” she said. “Jijin walk with you.”

  He gave her a surprised look—she had never invoked his god before—then swung down into the chasm and dropped out of sight. Shedara glanced over the edge, and for a moment she saw him descending the rope, hand over hand and as sure-footed on the rocks as a monkey. The darkness swallowed him.

  They stood there, none of them saying anything, waiting for the Uigan to call up to them—or scream. The wind buffeted them, sending ropes of ash hissing across the dunes. Above, the sun was a pale eye, almost lost in the yellow sky. Shedara realized she was holding her breath and forced herself to let it out. Hours seemed to pass. A tear crawled down Essana’s cheek, leaving a trail of clean skin behind.

  At last, the rope went slack. Shedara caught her breath again, then leaned down over the edge. She picked up the rope, wondering what that meant. Had Hult reached the bottom? Had he fallen? Had something darted out of a burrow in the crevice’s wall and devoured him before he could cry out?

  A moment later she got her answer: two hard tugs on the rope from the bottom. Hult’s voice drifted up from below, faint and hollow.

  “It’s all right!” he called. “It looks safe down here. There’s even water!”

  Essana bowed her head, exhaling. Azar put his arm around her shoulders. Shedara cupped her hand to her mouth and shouted back. “Don’t drink it! It’s probably fouled!”

  “All right,” he replied. “Who’s next?”

  They all looked at one another.

  “I should go last,” Shedara said. “It’s less safe up here than down there, most likely. I’m not about to leave you here alone to get grabbed by ghouls.”

  Essana nodded and wiped her face. The tear’s track smudged, dark. She took a deep breath and let it out. “Fine,” she said. “Give me the rope.”

  It was darker than Shedara expected at the bottom; the sun had moved on since Hult climbed down, and the shadows had closed in. She dropped down into the water the Uigan had found—a shallow stream that was little more than a trickle, running down the middle of the chasm—then glanced up and spoke a word of magic. In response, the rope untied itself and dropped down after her.

  Shedara nodded and glanced around, taking in her surroundings as she bundled the rope up again. The walls were close enough that she could reach across and touch both at the same time. The stone was jagged, dusted with ash, but also dotted with clusters of small, black mushrooms and patches of white lichen. The crack twisted enough that she could see only a dozen steps in either direction before it bent out of sight.

  Hult stood nearby, sword in hand. Near him, Essana and Azar huddled together, both wide-eyed and blind as barrow-rats. They looked right past her.

  “Shedara?” Essana asked. “Are you there?”

  “Right next to you,” she said.

  They all started, even Hult, who scowled. “We could use some light,” he said. “None of us share your elf-sight.”

  “Give me a moment,” Shedara replied, reaching into her spell component bag. She pulled out a puff of milkweed fluff, tossed it into the air, and spoke a word as it started to fall. It burst into pale, white light and hung in midair, no longer drifting toward the ground.

  They all blinked, squinting against the sudden glare. Their shadows danced on the chasm walls. Hult bent down and dabbled his fingers in the water, then raised them to his nose. Beside her, Essana did the same and winced when she sniffed.

  “It smells like rotting meat,” she said, flicking the drops away.

  “Or bodies,” Hult agreed. “A great many bodies, left out in the sun after a battle.”

  Shedara sniffed the water too, tears stinging her eyes. “Couldn’t drink that if we were half dead of thirst,” she said. “And no one touch those mushrooms either.”

  “Really?” Essana asked. “I was going to make them into a stuffing for the next lizard we caught.”

  Hult let out a chuff of laughter, and Shedara cracked a smile. Azar, however, looked at his mother in horror and shook his head. “You shouldn’t eat anything here,” he said. “These lands are poisoned.”

  There was a moment’s silence while Shedara did her best not to laugh out loud. She could see Hult doing the same, but Essana gave them both a hard look and reached out to pat her son on the shoulder.

  “I know, Azar,” she said. “It was another joke.”

  The young man blinked, not understanding. “Oh.”

  “We could use some food, though,” Essana said. “Before we get moving again. I suspect we won’t stop again before nightfall, and I for one could use the strength.”

  They all looked to Shedara, who sighed. She was tired already from the rope and light spells, but Essana was right. It was past midday, and they hadn’t eaten since morning. “Fine,” she said and took off her cloak to spread on the ground, away from the trickle. “Give me room to work.”

  It was a quick matter to cast the spell, one of the simplest she knew. She coaxed Solis’s power, cool and crisp, into her body, then eased it out with a wriggle of her fingers and a few spidery words. Magic swelled around them, forming a mote of golden light above the cloak, which swelled and burst into thousands of splinters. When they faded from sight, a heap of food remained.

  Food was a generous term for what lay before them. It was hard to describe—not bread, not porridge, but something in between, not quite solid but far from liquid. It was gray and greasy, but it was nourishing.

  “This,” Essana said as they dabbed their fingers in the sodden mass and scooped it into their mouths, “is why you mages haven’t taken over the world. It tastes like wet parchment.”

  “I’m sorry,” Shedara said and took a long pull from her waterskin. She’d conjured the drink that morning, enough to fill the flasks each of them carried. The next morning, she would have to do it again. “I suppose we should have asked Le-nekh for some kind of seasoning.”

  Hult grunted, chewing with a far-off look in his eye. “It will do,” he said. “I’ve had worse.”

  “You’re a rotten liar, Hult, son of Holar,” Shedara said.

  Azar ate ravenously, not seeming to care about the food’s questionable texture and appalling taste. Shedara eyed him, wondering what the Brethren had fed him while they were … growing him. She suspected it was better not to know.

  After they finished, Shedara shook out her cloak. Sucking at her teeth—the gruel clung to them like glue—she whipped the garment over her shoulders again. As she did, she caught a glimpse of Essana out of the corner of her eye and felt her scalp prickle. The woman’s eyes had gone wide, her mouth dropping open.

  “What’s wro—?” Shedara asked, turning toward her.

  “Hold still!” Essana breathed. “All of you.”

  They froze, stiffening. Hult’s hand was on his sword, but he didn’t draw it. Something had just c
rawled out of a crack in the stone, less than a hand’s breadth from his shoulder. It was a black scorpion the size of Shedara’s hand, but with two tails curling up from its backside. It held still on the stone, pincers flexing, then scuttled toward Hult. Venom the color of rust beaded on one of its twin stingers.

  In a single motion, Shedara flicked a knife from its wrist sheath into her hand, then slung it underhanded in Hult’s direction. The blade flew so quickly that the Uigan had no time to flinch, which was good because if he had, the scorpion would surely have stung him. Instead, he stayed still, and only recoiled when he heard the chink of the dagger striking rock. Sparks flew, and the blade dropped into the creek, the scorpion curled and twitching, impaled on its tip.

  “What in Jijin’s name—?” he gasped.

  “It’s all right,” Shedara said. “It’s dead now.”

  She took a step toward the dagger, picked it up, and examined the scorpion, still spasming. The thing was deformed in other ways besides its twin tails: one pincer was much larger than the other and covered with gristly knobs; it had seven eyes, three of which were dead white; and its underside was covered with a lattice of sticky fibers, some sort of corrupt growth that clung to her dagger when she pulled it out.

  “How horrible,” Essana said.

  “No kidding,” Shedara said, letting the creature drop and grinding it beneath the heel of her boot. “This is how things are for the creatures that still live in Aurim. They breathe poisoned air and drink that foul water all their lives.”

  “They live in pain,” Azar murmured, his eyes shut. “All their lives. They know nothing else.”

  They frowned at him; then Hult yanked his blade from its scabbard. “We’ll need more light,” he said, and nodded at the glowing bit of fluff that still hung in the air. “That bit wasn’t enough to drive that thing away, but a few more might keep its kind in the shadows.”

  “Good thinking,” Shedara said, reaching for her spell bag. “It’s lucky Solis is full for the next few days. I’m not sure I’d have the strength if it wasn’t—”