Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  “I won’t,” Maladar replied and twisted the man’s head. There was a snap, and the man fell limp. Maladar rose, leaving him lying there. “He is yours now,” he told Ghashai. “But be quick about it. We sail on the morrow.”

  The tide was rising quickly; the hobgoblins watched it come, standing among their rafts on the debris-strewn beach. The fog still clung thick over the water. They watched with hungry eyes, occasionally shouting battle cries that rippled up and down the strand. They were all there, together, in one place for the first time, their numbers dizzying.

  A shout arose, a gleeful, hungry whoop: the water’s edge had reached the nearest boats, which were rising off the sand and bobbing on the waves. The hobgoblins pushed them out, jumping on and grabbing up crude oars to begin rowing. Some of them immediately began to sink. A few broke apart. Armored hobgoblins fell into the brine and sank to drown, to hoots of raucous laughter from rival tribes on shore. That was expected, but fewer died in those first moments than Maladar had thought. The hobgoblins were better builders than their savagery indicated.

  Ghashai stood beside him, as ever. “Do not worry, my lord,” he said. “The blood-hunger is on them, but not so strong that they won’t remember to row as one.”

  “Good,” Maladar replied. “I don’t want half my armada getting lost in that fog and rowing off every which way.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Ghashai gazed out at the horde, his chest swelling, his yellow eyes shining with reflected torchlight. “Never have so many of our people gathered together like this. The songs we will sing of the battles to come! The shamans will tell of this day centuries from now, when we feast among the broken towers of the isles!”

  Inside, Maladar heard Forlo praying. The man invoked every god he could name to make the hobgoblins fail, but especially Khubak, who ruled the calm sea, and cruel Zai who made the waves and storms. Let them be your sacrifice, the trapped soul pleaded. Claim their blood and breath. Let them drown in the fog!

  Silence. The gods made no reply. More rafts launched, a few more foundering but most staying afloat. Maladar smiled.

  “Your barge awaits, my lord,” Ghashai said, pointing down the beach. A much larger boat rested near the base of the cliffs, where the tides would climb at their highest; another hour or so, and it would be in the water. Many of the horde’s leaders were gathered near it already.

  Too many, was Maladar’s immediate thought.

  “You fools,” he growled. “Don’t gather all the chiefs together on one boat. One good shot with a catapult would cut off the horde’s head! Scatter the warlords among the fleet!”

  Ghashai stared, slack-jawed. “But, Great One … we thought it only fitting that the chieftains accompany you in the grandest—”

  Maladar struck him, hammering him in the face with his fist. Ghashai reeled, blood gushing from his snout, which broke with a ghastly snap. He staggered to one knee then got up again, confusion and anger burning in his eyes. His nose was flattened, spread across his right cheek.

  “Wretch!” Maladar thundered. “Oh, yes, a grand boat indeed … and a grand target! One for the Rainwarders to rain down all their wrath upon! Will it fit to have all my commanders lying bloated and crab gnawed on the seafloor because of your stupidity?”

  Ghashai made no reply. Maladar could tell from his expression that he didn’t understand; he had the look of a hound that had been whipped for some transgression it didn’t comprehend. That only aroused Maladar’s anger even more.

  “I will not sail in that boat,” Maladar went on. “I will not draw the enemy’s eyes to me … and neither will you. Go down there at once and disperse the warlords. And as for that barge … have it broken up with axes, so no one uses it. Now.”

  When you whip a dog too much, Maladar knew, it turns on you. He saw a hint of that in Ghashai’s sulky, resentful gaze as he slunk away, clambering down over the rocks. Satisfied, Maladar turned his eyes back out toward the sea. A third of the fleet was on the water, bumping and jostling, occasionally foundering, but mostly staying afloat. The water continued to creep up the beach, devouring it one wave at a time. From the great barge came much shouting and cursing in the hobgoblin tongue, but Maladar didn’t even bother to turn his head. Sure enough, after a few minutes of argument, the sound of axes hewing wood began.

  When Ghashai returned, his snout had stopped bleeding, though it was still askew. There was more black blood on his hands, and Maladar knew it wasn’t all his. He’d had to enforce his will on the others.

  “It is done, my lord,” Ghashai said, an edge of bitterness in his voice. “The warlords will sail with their own tribes.”

  “Good. As they should have done from the start, if they’d had any wits in their empty heads.”

  Ghashai was silent a moment, absorbing the insult.

  “What of you, Great One?” he asked. “What boat shall you take?”

  “Me?” Maladar replied. “Oh, I will take no boat. I will not sail with you.”

  What? Forlo thought, deep inside him.

  “What?” Ghashai asked.

  Maladar waved his hand.

  “The crossing and the battle are yours to command,” Maladar said. “You do not need my help—not any longer. I have … other business to attend to. I will meet you in Suluk when it is sacked and your feasting is done.”

  What? Forlo wondered again, bewildered.

  Maladar relished the man’s confusion. Did you think, he told Forlo in his mind, that I would make the army I sought out of this rabble? No. They are a distraction, nothing more. They need only draw the Rainwarders’ attention away from my real goal. As with the Uigan, and the Hooded One.

  “My lord,” Ghashai was saying, “do you not care to watch the city burn?”

  “I have burned cities before,” Maladar replied. “I’ve drowned them beneath the waves, and bidden the earth to swallow them whole. One more will not show me anything new. And you do not need me, Ghashai. You have enough warriors to win this battle without any trouble. Let the shamans sing of your victory, not mine.”

  That last part worked, as Maladar knew it would. Lust for glory, for riches and blood, eclipsed Ghashai’s worries. The hobgoblins, for all their shortcomings, were easy to manipulate. He sneered as Ghashai clambered down to the beach once more. Maladar knew he would never see the warlord again. He would never see any of the hobgoblins again.

  But it didn’t matter. None of it did.

  None of it, but reaching the Chaldar.

  Chapter

  14

  KARATH’S WATCH, SULUK

  The glow of burning ships cut through the evening fog, staining it murky orange. Standing on the parapet of one of Sevenspires’ green towers, Shedara gazed out at the strange light, her heart heavy. If things didn’t go well, she’d be seeing more of that light very soon. It might be the last thing she saw.

  “You’re sure this is necessary?” she asked. “It seems a bit … extreme.”

  The dwarf, Roshambur, stood next to her, stroking his golden beard. He shrugged. “Not as extreme as fifty thousand hobgoblins rowing into the harbor unopposed. If we sink enough ships in the port mouth, we’ll form a battlement against them, make it hard for them to pass through. It is a tactic we’ve used before.”

  Shedara regarded Roshambur with a thoughtful eye. She’d never liked his kind—the Silvanaes had long-standing troubles with the mountain-folk—but this one was different. She’d never known a dwarf to wear a wizard’s robes before; by her experience, they were gruff, rude creatures with little patience or care for inward thought. Roshambur, however, was as skillful a mage as Nalaran back home. She could learn a lot from him, she sensed. So far, though, they’d been busy with battle preparations; he hadn’t even had time to examine Azar, and the shred of Maladar’s soul inside him, much less commune about the finer points of sorcery.

  Also, unlike most dwarves, he didn’t smell like damp earth and stale beer. That boosted her opinion of him quite a bit.

  “The minotaurs
have other means,” she said. “Great chains they string across the harbor, sunken rams they can raise with winches to gouge out hulls.”

  “The minotaurs keep slaves to do that sort of work,” Roshambur countered, puffing out his chest. “We isle-folk do not.”

  Shedara spread her hands, as if to say, well, good for you.

  “And we have our wizards,” the dwarf went on, not seeming to notice her mocking. “Give me magic over engineer’s tricks any day.”

  “In this slop?” she asked, flicking her hand at the fog. “Most war spells I know, you need to see what you’re attacking. Unless you’ve found a way of casting blind.”

  “Perhaps we have,” Roshambur answered. “Or perhaps there are things you don’t know. You’re very sure of yourself. Are all elves this way?”

  From another dwarf, that would have been an insult, a challenge she’d feel obliged to answer. Even coming from Roshambur, it made her hand itch, wanting to draw a blade. Shedara ignored that impulse, though; the look on his bearded face was one of genuine curiosity, not scorn.

  “Perhaps we are,” she replied, “but you’re the one who claims your magic’s the key to winning the battle.”

  Roshambur shook his head. “I said nothing of the sort. Only that we have ways of dealing with this fog.”

  “Dealing?” Shedara asked. “You mean you can lift it?”

  “Of course we can lift it. We put it here in the first place.”

  Shedara looked around, stunned. “This isn’t natural?”

  “Not completely. Which is to say, the Grayveil’s a foggy stretch of brine, but come now. Mist that doesn’t lift for—how long have you been here, five days?”

  “Six.”

  “Six, then. Have you ever heard of such a phenomenon in nature?”

  Thinking about it, Shedara had to shake her head.

  “There you go,” Roshambur said with a wink. “We fog-bind our cities to keep them safe. If the hobgoblins could see us from the far shore, they’d have built themselves a fleet long ago and come across for plunder. It’s worked for four hundred years. If it weren’t for Maladar, it probably would have worked for four hundred more.”

  “And you’re leaving it be until they get close,” she said. “Until they’re close enough to hit.”

  “Aye. Leave ’em not knowing where they’re going until they’re past the burnt hulls. Then they’ll be scattered, disorganized. When we lift the fog, it’ll be the shock of their lives. Then we start blowing their boats out of the water.”

  She chuckled at that, imagining the hobgoblins’ faces when the fog bank suddenly vanished. Then another thought occurred to her, and her laughter died. “You’re forgetting Maladar. I’ve felt his power. He’s worth a hundred of your mages.”

  The dwarf’s face darkened. He twisted his beard between his fingertips. “Well, then, it’s a good thing we have two hundred mages,” he said.

  He bared his teeth in a grin as he spoke, but she could tell he was worried. The Rainwarders hadn’t forgotten Maladar; they just had no way to deal with him. Thousands of hobgoblins were bad, but an archmage who could drown entire cities—or a whole Uigan horde—was a dire threat. The look in Roshambur’s eyes when he regarded her made her feel cold.

  If Maladar wants to kill us all, it said, he will.

  They stood together, elf and dwarf, watching the glow of the burning ship. In time, the orange light faded; the burning ships would be sinking, breaking apart, pieces of their hulls jutting up out of the shallows like teeth. She saw it in her mind, though she still hadn’t seen much of Suluk for the mist, even after nearly a week in the city.

  Finally, a clamor rose from the palace below—the clash of large, silver gongs being struck with hammers, a heralding signal. She and her companions had heard it before, many times in the days since their arrival in Suluk.

  Beside her, Roshambur nodded. “I must go. The king needs me at his side.”

  “Of course,” she said as the dwarf bowed and left.

  She remained where she was a while longer, listening to the clamor of the gongs. She knew it meant another city’s fighters had arrived. The last of the reinforcements, in fact, from far-flung Thumar, the northernmost of the isles. They represented another thousand swords to defend against the hobgoblins, and thirty wizards as well. The Rainward kings had all answered Nakhil’s call. She must go down to meet the Thumarese and attend the ceremony of welcome—the last before the attack began.

  Still, Maladar preyed on her thoughts. Why did he even need the hobgoblins if his intent was to destroy Suluk? His magic alone could smash the city, kill everyone within its walls. Horde or no horde, it didn’t matter. Magic was all he required; he needed nothing more, unless …

  Unless destroying Suluk wasn’t his real goal.

  Shedara peered out into the gloom, suddenly afraid. She’d seen the tactic used before. The Faceless had spent the whole Uigan nation as a diversion from their theft of the Hooded One. The more she thought about it, the more likely it seemed that Maladar was trying the same trick. He didn’t want Suluk at all; he wanted something else. But what?

  She thought about it a while, then shook her head, cursing. She had no idea.

  That worried her more than anything.

  The Rainward kings—and queens—all crowded Nakhil’s throne room with their retinues, perfumed and groomed and clad in satin and cloth-of-gold, each trying to outshine the rest as they greeted King Calex of Thumar and his retainers. There were nine delegations in all, with all their heralds and servants—enough, at last, to make the room seem close to full.

  There was Calex and his three sons, dwarves all, mail-clad and armed for battle beneath the violet banners of their realm, emblazoned with the golden trident that was its sigil.

  Queen Pharga of Mazanti, also a dwarf, and the two princes who were her husbands, were clad in scarlet tabards with white storm clouds, all three wearing massive, two-handed mauls strapped across their backs.

  Partho, Suzerain of the Isles of Selenna—unmarried, childless, and deadly dull, reading ponderously from a scroll of soft griffin hide. His robes were deep forest green, with five silver stars.

  Queen Etishan, the oldest of the human rulers, was so frail and palsied that it seemed she might drop dead at any moment. She leaned on an ivory staff and was surrounded by a company of thirty warriors who were all her own great-grandchildren. They all wore white surcoats of the Great Isle Ios, cut diagonally in half by a black bar.

  Rakis of Essud was massively fat, with a long beard dyed fire-orange, and had eight young wives. They boasted no heraldry and wore rich garments of brocade and cloth-of-gold, as if they believed they were attending a ball rather than facing impending war.

  Vorth of Gald, another centaur, and his half-ogre bodyguards were each encased head-to-toe in polished steel plate with a copper manticore on the breastplate.

  Qinnuk of the Eastern Archipelago was a voyager from Panak who had risen through conquest to rule the scattered outer islets of the Rainwards. Three yellow warships blazed on his cloak of sea-green.

  King Talkash, dark-skinned and white-haired, showed traces of elf blood in the faint points of his ears beneath his iron crown. Aside from his wizard—they all had sorcerers as viziers, even the dwarves—he came to Sevenspires alone; his emblem was a fist of gray on charcoal, the war sign of his realm, the twin isles of Greater and Lesser Ull.

  And, standing on his dais of black stone among the lapis and silver fountains, between the statues of sea-elves and shark-men, were Nakhil and Roshambur.

  Nakhil was the first to speak, as was his right as host; he went on at great length, reciting a detailed history of the relations between his kingdom and Calex’s, from their rise out of the ashes of the Destruction, through the three great Wars of the Isles, to the peace forged at the end of the Godless Night. The welcome went on for half an hour, and though all the kings present—even barbaric Qinnuk—knew that history well, they all listened with rapt intent as Nakhil retold th
e tale.

  Next Calex spoke, at equal length, in reply—about the very same thing, only from Thumar’s perspective. The other kings all looked on, nodding sagely.

  Partho of Selenna was no better. If anything, his greeting was even duller, revolving around a parable involving wolves who yearned to reach a glistening river in a deep gorge until they fell in and drowned in the rapids.

  Etishan of Ios insisted on speaking in ancient Aurish, which meant everything had to be laboriously translated for those monarchs who didn’t know the tongue, which was most of them. Everyone held their breath a little, for each breath the queen took seemed weaker than the one before, likely to be her last. A quiet sigh of relief rippled through the chamber when she reached the end of her speech, for many in the room had wondered if she would survive long enough to finish it.

  By the time King Vorth of Gald got busy, quoting extensively from various heroic epics, Shedara decided she only had two choices left to preserve her sanity: flee or draw one of her daggers and shove it in her eye. She drew Essana aside, to the edge of the throne room.

  “I need to get out of here,” she said. “Will I be missed?”

  They glanced around at the various kings and their companies. There must have been two hundred people gathered in the throne room, what with wizards and bodyguards and counselors.

  Essana shrugged. “I doubt it,” she said. “I think we could lose a king or two, and we’d only know when it was their turn to talk. I wish you could take me with you; I’ve spent my whole life at court and never seen anything as drawn-out as this.”

  Shedara rested a hand on Essana’s shoulder, feeling a genuine kinship with her. After the first few times they told their tale—for they’d had to tell it to every ruler when they arrived—they’d stopped taking turns, and Essana’d taken on the whole of the obligation. Simply, Essana was by far the best storyteller among them, and so she would stay for the full length of the welcoming ceremony. Azar would remain too; he was listening intently to every word, his strange, young-old eyes shining. Shedara shivered, wondering what might be going on in his head …