Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  “What is she thinking about, do you suppose?”

  Shedara looked sideways. Azar stood beside her, still clad in the same ragged robes he’d worn since Akh-tazi. While the others had accepted warm clothes from the Swiftwing’s captain—winter was easier there than in the west, but they were fairly far north, and the fog was cold—Azar still refused to wear any garment but the one the Faceless had given him.

  Shedara sighed, running a hand through her hair. It was growing out long, something she hadn’t let it do for decades. It felt good, sliding between her fingers.

  “Your father, of course,” she said. “She loved him. Seeing him again after what happened must be … difficult.”

  “But that couldn’t have been him,” Azar replied. “You said so yourself. He’s dead. I killed him.”

  Shedara flinched. He’d said it so matter-of-factly. She glanced sideways, looking for Hult as a chill ran through her. The Uigan was busy, however, hauling on a halyard like the rest of the crew, happy again to be working on a boat. His eyes raised and met hers, questioning: Is something wrong? She shook her head and turned back to Azar.

  He watched her, curious as a child, though he looked roughly thirty. He could tell she was unsettled but didn’t understand why. “What happens when we reach the Rainwards?” he asked.

  We rest, Shedara thought. Maybe we set this madness aside. Others can take up the fight; it doesn’t have to be us all the way to the end. Does it?

  “We have to tell the kings,” she said. “About Maladar, the hobgoblins … everything. There’s going to be an important battle soon. They need to be ready. And we should find out if there’s a way to stop him. If what your mother says is true, Maladar’s going to raise the Chaldar, try to bring Aurim back. We have to keep that from happening.”

  “Why?”

  Shedara opened her mouth, then closed it again. She was quiet for a time, the only sounds the muted creaking of the boat and the slap of water against its hull. “Because he’s evil,” she said at last. “Because he’s caused too much suffering already.”

  Azar nodded but abstractly, as if they were two philosophers discussing some minor point of rhetoric. He doesn’t care, Shedara realized. This isn’t his world; he hasn’t seen what the rest of us have. He doesn’t know what will be lost.

  She was about to press her point when a shout from above cut her off. “The Spires!” called the lookout atop the crow’s nest, a short, narrow-eyed seafarer with beads woven into his long mustaches. “Sevenspires off the starboard bow!”

  Shedara turned and caught her breath. There they were, as the lookout proclaimed: seven slender, onion-domed towers, jutting out of the mist. Two were hewn of green stone, two of blue, and the middle three moonstone-white, all inlaid with gold and gems that would have sparkled had the sun been shining. Each had to be three hundred feet high, maybe more, and silver lights shone from their windows. The stubborn fog clung to their lower reaches, hiding their bases so they seemed to float in the air. Jagged hills loomed behind them, capped with dark pines.

  They’d reached the end of their travels, and miraculously, all four of them were still alive.

  The boat’s captain, whose plaited beard was dyed a startling shade of sea-green, raised his fist, holding fast the tiller with his other hand. “Ready oars!” he shouted. “Hai!”

  Working as one, the sailors lowered the sails, then moved to the benches that ran along the skiff’s sides. Each of them took a paddle, lowered it into the water, and began to pull. Even Hult did it perfectly, and Shedara had to smile at that. For a man who’d been afraid of the sea—and rightly so, having lost most of his people to the raging waters at the Lost Road—he’d become quite the mariner.

  There was a faint clanging in the mist, some great gong being struck. At the prow of the Swiftwing, carved into the image of the front half of a leaping griffin, one of her crew struck a bronze bell in reply. Then, all around them, more chimes rang. They were coming into the harbor blind, the fog driving away all sight of docks and breakwaters and other boats, but they could hear the warning bells. The captain urged his men to row slowly, one ear cocked as he guided the steering oar. Dark shapes of rocks and ships faded in and out of the mist on either side, but it was the bells, each with its own distinct tone, that told him where to go.

  They headed straight for one of the sounds, a deep, tuneless clanking that made Shedara think of a mace striking an iron shield. It got louder and louder as the rest of the bells faded away. Then, finally, the captain raised his fist again. “Back water, hai!” he bellowed.

  “Hai!” the sailors answered and immediately reversed the direction of their rowing. As they did, a long wooden pier jutted out of the murk. With an expert’s eye, the captain guided the ship toward it, and the oarsmen killed the boat’s momentum, bringing it to a halt, then raising their dripping oars out of the water again as they pulled up alongside. Two sailors grabbed ropes and hopped onto the dock to lash her to the waiting bollards. The Swiftwing bumped against the dock, then was still. It was as gentle a mooring as Shedara had seen, and all of it lost in thick fog.

  The bells fell silent. She looked at the dock, then up at the seven towers, the only part of the city that could be seen.

  “Welcome to Suluk,” called the captain.

  Shedara had never been to Suluk before, though she had heard tales. One of the largest “kingdoms” of the Rainward Isles, it—like its fellow realms—was really a city-state on the coast of a rocky, ruin-strewn island, part of Aurim’s far-flung provinces that had shattered when the Destruction struck. The folk who lived there were, like the men of the League and Thenol, descended from refugees who had fled the ashes of the fallen empire.

  Unlike the League, however, the Rainwarders had lived in isolation ever since, making contact with the rest of the world on only rare occasions. Far away, in the west of Taladas where the minotaurs ruled, the kingdoms’ existence hadn’t even become known until two hundred years after the rain of burning stone. Since then, knowledge of the isles had grown: there were nine kingdoms in all, populated mostly by men and dwarves, though other races lived in the Rainwards as well. The kingdoms had fought several wars among themselves since the Destruction, but these days they tried to live in peace, for they needed one another to survive. Their true enemies were the monsters that lived in the depths, twisted, goblinlike creatures called disir who regularly raided the surface from the tunnels that shot through the rock. Because a disir attack could come at any time, and from any direction, nearly every Rainwarder was expected to be skilled in fighting or magic—or both.

  That was good. An army of Rainwarders was needed, and quickly.

  The fog was still thick on the shores as Shedara and the others walked the streets of Suluk. Its buildings were broad and many-columned, hewn of dark gray stone and decorated with bas-reliefs of sailing ships and images of Old Aurim at its height. Golden light flickered in the many windows, bleeding into the mist. Statues of mariners and warriors lined the main boulevard, which wound back and forth up the steep slope on which the city was built: smaller lanes took a more direct approach, climbing stairways carved out of the island’s rock to unseen courtyards on terraces above. Down the center of the main boulevard was a long strip of garden, with spindly, silver-barked trees that were just starting to come into their spring flower; tiny golden buds frosted the ends of their branches. At their feet grew riots of white and pale green flowers that glowed softly in the murk.

  The streets were mostly deserted, the doors locked and barred: the disir came out when the fog was thickest. Silence even hung over the marketplaces; the only sounds were the distant, faint clamor of the harbor-bells as other ships moved into and out of port. Behind them, the mist swallowed the wharf. Above, the seven towers faded in and out of view, dark shadows in the gloom. They crowned the king’s palace, at Suluk’s highest point.

  “What do you know about the one who rules here?” asked Hult, who kept one hand on his sword as they wended their w
ay uphill.

  Shedara shrugged. “The last word we had in Armach, King Zaldash was very old, and that was about five years ago.”

  “Zaldash is dead,” the Uigan said. “His successor is named Nakhil. The sailors told me.”

  “Then you know more than me,” she said. “What else did they say?”

  Hult waggled his maimed hand. “Not much. Most of them were from the other kingdoms, and the ones who came from Suluk have never seen him. They don’t spend much time on land, these seafarers.”

  “And then they probably don’t make it much past the alehouses,” Shedara said, chuckling. “Essana, did the Keeper tell you anything?”

  She waited and got no reply. Essana walked alone, her head bowed, lost in thought. Shedara plucked her sleeve.

  Essana jerked, startled. “What?”

  “Wherever Forlo is,” Shedara said, “he is. There’s nothing we can do about him right now. I’m asking you a question. Did the Keeper tell you anything about the king of this place?”

  “No.” Essana glanced around. “He only said the name of the kingdom. This is where the hobgoblins are going to attack?”

  Hult nodded. “It’s closest to Aurim. If they hit one of the other kingdoms, the Suluki might be able to flank them. Maladar’s too smart to take that chance. He’ll hit here first, then work his way north. It’s what Chovuk Boyla would have done.”

  “Can they hold out?” Azar asked. “Suluk, I mean. Can they stop them?”

  Hult made a glum face and gave no answer.

  The boulevard leveled out, giving way to a wide plaza dotted with ivy-covered pillars, atop which blue flames cast halos of light in the fog. The square was an overlook, and would have given a fine view of the city and the water below, except that right then they could see nothing but gray with the occasional shadow of a turret or steeple adrift in the vapor. On the square’s far end, beyond a wide pool ringed with more statues, stood the palace. It was built of the same stuff as the towers—a mix of blue, white, and green marble that glistened in the pillars’ light. A wide sweep of steps led up to doors of green bronze, surrounded by carvings of men on horses. Guardsmen stood silent before the entrance, clad in mail that was lacquered sea-green and snow-white cloaks. Plumes of peacock feathers fanned the crests of their helms. They held tall, oblong shields emblazoned with the seven towers and long glaives chased with gold. They stood motionless, staring at the four travelers as they drew near.

  “They aren’t the only ones on watch,” Shedara murmured. “There are wizards too, though we can’t see them. I can feel the magic here.”

  “What do we do now?” Hult asked.

  “Get your hand off that blade, for starters,” Shedara said. “Let’s not give them any reason to be nervous. As for getting in …”

  “Leave that to me,” Essana said.

  Hult and Shedara looked at each other. The Uigan raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “All right,” Shedara said. “You’re the noblewoman, after all.”

  Their footsteps sounded unnaturally loud as they crossed the plaza. A narrow bridge spanned the pool; they crossed it single file, then climbed the steps to the doors. As Shedara expected, the guardsmen lowered their glaives to bar the way. What she didn’t expect was the dwarf who stepped through the doors to greet them.

  He was tall for one of his race, nearly reaching the height of her shoulder. His beard was the color of gold, forked and bound with silver rings. He wore fine robes of crimson silk with brocade in the shapes of foaming wave crests. When he spoke, his accent was so thick that Shedara could barely make out the words. The air around him seethed with strong magic, making Shedara’s scalp prickle.

  “I am Roshambur,” he said, “vizier to Nakhil the Shrewd, King of Suluk and the South Reach. You are strangers to this land, and must go no further.”

  Essana stepped forward and pressed her hands together, a courtly gesture of the League. “Most Excellent,” she said, “we beg admittance, that we might seek His Majesty’s counsel.”

  The dwarf raised an eyebrow. “You speak sweetly, my lady. Who are you?”

  “I am Essana Forlo, baroness of Coldhope, in the Imperial League,” she replied, pressing her hands again. “These are my companions and protectors, Hult of the Tamire and Shedara, an agent of the elves of Armach.”

  “A strange company,” Roshambur replied. His eyes lingered on Shedara. “I sense your mastery of the Art. That would make you a moon-thief, yes?”

  Shedara nodded. “You are most perceptive, Magi.”

  The dwarf allowed himself a chuckle, and turned back to Essana. “You have only named three of your company,” he said. “Who is this man who stands before me, who wears the garb of dark sorcery?”

  “Most Excellent,” Essana replied, “this is my son, Azar. He bears the name of one who is known to this court, and to its king.”

  Roshambur blinked. His hands twitched. He stared at Azar, who reached up to remove his hood. His face was very pale, almost white.

  Azar’s namesake had been one of the Faceless, a man called the Keeper, but he had also been a spy, keeping watch on the Brethren for the Rainward kings. He had tried to help Essana escape, and had paid for that betrayal of his brother-wizards with his life … but only after days of unspeakable torment. Essana had told the rest of them the tale on their first night together, an age ago in Neron.

  “Azar!” Roshambur murmured, and licked his lips. “You know him?”

  “I did,” Essana said. “He was a friend of mine … before he died.”

  The dwarf jerked again. He was silent for a moment, his lips pursed in thought. Then, though he made no movement or gesture, the doors clicked and swung open. He nodded to the guards, who raised their glaives out of the way.

  “Come,” he said. “His Majesty will see you at once.”

  Chapter

  12

  SEVENSPIRES, SULUK

  Everything about the citadel of Suluk’s king filled Hult with wonder. Its entry hall alone was larger than most Uigan villages. Its walls, floor, and ceiling all were inlaid with tiles that surrounded him with the image of some ancient city at sunset—Aurim itself, Shedara told him, as its survivors had recalled it. Beyond stood an indoor garden beneath a crystal dome, lush with green trees and gold and crimson flowers, alive with birdsong and the chirping of crickets the size of small dogs, whose shells were the color of polished bronze. Hult and his companions followed the dwarf, Roshambur, down a path of crushed blue stone to a shallow stair that swooped up to a massive pair of doors. The doors easily stood the height of five men and were made of some glossy black wood and inlaid with malachite and white onyx to form the image of cresting waves. From their mass, Hult expected them to groan and shudder when they opened, but they swung wide with silent ease when Roshambur touched them.

  The throne room of King Nakhil was an oval, fifty paces across and seventy long, its high ceiling towering higher above their heads than the tallest tree Hult had ever seen. Its floor was mosaic again, this time a vast and intricate map of Taladas, with Hith’s Cauldron a blot of orange and crimson at its center. Hult couldn’t help but glance in the direction of the Tamire, which stretched green and gold across the northwest corner of the room; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shedara look at Armach the same way, and Essana’s gaze drifted to the northern coast of Coldhope.

  “Clever,” Shedara murmured as Roshambur held up his hand and bade them wait. “Everyone who sees the map looks first toward home, even if they don’t realize it.”

  “So the king already knows something of us, even before we approach him,” Hult said.

  Shedara frowned. “Did you see which way Azar looked?”

  “No.” Hult studied Azar, who stood silent, hands folded in his tattered sleeves, watching the dwarf cross the hall. “Did you?”

  “No.”

  Later, it occurred to Hult that he had looked at Azar. The boy hadn’t looked anywhere at all. He’d barely even noticed the map. Hult wondered i
f he even knew what a map was—unless the Faceless had taught him, probably not. It would just be pretty colors on the floor.

  The rest of the room was just as dazzling. The walls were polished white marble, veined with blue and green; four rows of broad pillars ran the length of the hall, made from the same stone and decorated with giltwork. They glistened in the light of hundreds of turquoise candles set around the room. Above, the ceiling was painted to resemble the sky at twilight, with the gods’ constellations in white and gold on a field that ran from blue-black in the east to rosy pink in the west. The three moons, white and red and, yes, black as well, stood at high sanction across the center of the room.

  There were fountains too, tall lapis and silver sculptures of mermen and krakens and dragon turtles, spitting jets of water into deep basins, filling the air with sweet, tinkling sounds. Hult counted more than thirty of them, mostly around the edges of the room, though in its midst an arched walkway actually passed between two battling founts: one of a sea elf brandishing a trident, the other a hideous creature that looked like a man with the head and fins of a shark. It held a long, barbed spear, locked together with the elf’s weapon, to form an arch above the path. Roshambur passed under the arch, and approached a dais at the room’s far end. The candles were thick about it, dazzling Hult’s eyes so that he had to look away.

  “They never took your weapons,” Essana said. “Strange.”

  Shedara shook her head. “Not very. We’d never get near the throne if we meant them harm. There are mages scrying us even now. I can feel them in my thoughts. And look there!”

  She nodded toward the ceiling. Hult followed the gesture with his eyes. About two-thirds of the way up the wall, a balcony he’d missed before ran around the entire room. Archers stood watch there, arrows nocked on their bowstrings. He tried to count them, got to thirty before he was halfway around the room, and yielded the point. Any false move, and he’d have more feathers sticking out of him than a steppe-grouse.