Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  “Can they be killed?” Hult asked.

  “They’re not alive to begin with,” Roshambur said. “But they can be destroyed, the enchantment in the stone unbound. A spell could do it—lightning in particular. And you can even bring them down with force of arms … though a sword’s not going to be much help unless it has a lot of magic bound into the blade. Better to use a good, sturdy war hammer.”

  “Which we don’t have,” Nakhil noted.

  “Best get some, then,” Shedara muttered. “Next chance we have.”

  “What happens now?” Azar asked. “My father’s gone. How do we go after him?”

  Hult nodded, looking at Nakhil. He’d been wondering the same thing.

  “We don’t,” the centaur answered. “Not directly, anyway. If his army marched across the strait, he’ll be at the edge of the Cauldron by now. Maybe farther. Whatever, he’s beyond our reach … unless we get help crossing the Burning Sea.”

  “The minoi,” Shedara said, pointing. “The Pillars of Bilo aren’t far from those mountains there, if I remember correctly. The gnomes who live beneath them have iron ships that can sail through the fire.”

  “So the legends say, anyway,” Roshambur replied. “If they aren’t at war with the minions of flame, we may be able to discuss the situation with them. All we’d need is a boat.”

  “Two boats, actually,” Nakhil said. “The Shining Lands lie between the far shore and the minoi. A hundred leagues of melted desert that wasn’t smashed and drowned. We’ll need the help of the Glass Sailors to cross it.”

  Hult shook his head. “Three boats,” he said. “We haven’t even crossed the water yet. Unless you can use one of those sending spells on us, of course.”

  Shedara and Roshambur exchanged quick head shakes, then turned to Azar. The boy flushed, his face darkening into a scowl. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I can’t choose what to cast. The magic just comes to me when I need it.”

  “Convenient,” Nakhil grumbled. “Does anyone have another idea?”

  “Yes,” Shedara said. “We walk.”

  Hult stiffened, staring at her. “Like the Ghelim? We’ll drown. Unless you have a spell to let us breathe water,” he said, chuckling.

  Shedara gave him a look and his laughter died. “I do know that spell,” she answered. “As does Roshambur, I’m sure.”

  The dwarf nodded, then made a face. “It won’t last long enough. We’d never make the far side before the magic gave out; we’d be about halfway across.”

  “With nothing but water all around us,” Nakhil muttered. “How lovely.”

  “You’re forgetting something, Roshambur,” Shedara said. “We don’t have to go under water. We don’t even have to get wet, for that matter.”

  “What do you mean?” Hult scoffed. He trailed off, his mouth opening then closing as he glanced at Roshambur. A crooked grin had split the dwarf’s beard.

  “Oh,” Hult said.

  The mud stank of rot and death, clinging in Hult’s nostrils, making his gorge rise. It sucked at his boots, tried to pull them off, to drag him under. Not far away, one of the Ghelim continued its fruitless struggles, mired waist-deep in the slime. As he watched, it sank an inch deeper, then another. In a day or so, it would be gone. Perhaps some had already vanished into the muck, trapped and squirming, never to emerge again unless someone dug them out.

  He shuddered, putting it out of his mind, and turned to watch the wizards.

  Shedara and Roshambur stood apart from the others, heads bent close to each other, talking in whispers. The sun westered above, Solis already having risen on the far horizon, not quite full. Magic surged strong in the air, and Hult was surprised that he could feel it. Being so close to the elf for so long had attuned him to the moons’ power. That alone would have been enough to get him exiled from his tribe in his old life, doomed to wander homeless upon the steppes.

  The two sorcerers broke away from each other and slogged back to him and Nakhil and Azar. “Are you ready?” the centaur asked, his tail twitching in annoyance. “This place reeks like a cesspit.”

  “Oh?” Roshambur asked, his face sour. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  Shedara grinned, and Nakhil laughed as well. “We can do this,” the elf said. “Between the two of us, we’ll hold the spell long enough to walk across. It will take half a day’s march, if the seas stay calm, so we’ll need to do it in shifts so we don’t tire.”

  “And if the seas don’t stay calm?” Hult asked.

  Everyone was quiet.

  “Pray they do,” Roshambur said.

  Nakhil coughed. A short distance away, the Ghelim sank deeper.

  “There’s no other way,” Azar said. “No turning back. Suluk is too far. We don’t have the time to spare if we’re going to find my father.”

  “I will pray to Jijin that the weather holds,” Hult murmured. His voice was taut, his heart slamming against his ribs. That was how his people had died: at the mercy of the sea, the merciless sea. “You should all do the same.”

  “Better to pray to Zai,” Nakhil said. “The sea-bitch may not have any love for us land-dwellers, but she can be appeased. I wish we had a cow to slaughter in her name.”

  “I’m sure she appreciates the sentiment,” Shedara said, her mouth crooking. “Now everyone hold still. This will feel a bit strange.”

  And it did, as always. When she placed her hand on his forehead, chanting the scuttling words and wriggling her fingers, Hult felt the familiar prickle of the moons’ power flow into him. He tensed, tasting something like golden wine, just for an instant, then an unspeakably sour flavor that faded just as fast. For a moment he felt as though he had no weight at all, as if he were suspended in midair and might float away if he pushed too hard off the ground. Looking down, he saw he was rising, his feet pulling out of the clinging mud, water seeping in to fill the holes where they’d been. When Shedara was done, he stood on top of the sludge as though it were a solid floor. He raised his eyebrows, stomping his feet. They didn’t even make a splash. The mire of ebb tide might have been solid granite.

  Shedara was a little paler, a little weaker when she was finished, but they all stood on top of the mud. Nakhil smiled, pawing the ground with his forelegs, then dug the butt of his halberd into the mud. It sank in, and he had to yank it back quickly to keep from losing it altogether.

  “Not bad,” he said. “Let’s see how the water is.”

  Like that, before anyone could stop him, he broke into a half, then a full, gallop. He left no tracks in the mud as he ran across it, swerving around a Ghelim whose head and left arm were all that remained above the muck. He didn’t even break pace when he got to the shoreline but instead pushed himself even faster, leaping forward and landing on the breaking waves.

  He should have gone down, straight to the bottom. Everything Hult knew, everything sane about the world, told him that much. But Nakhil lit upon the water without so much as a drop of spray. His laughter carried back to them, and he shook his halberd in the air as he charged out in a wide arc, curving back to shore. By the time he got there, Hult and the others had moved out to the water’s edge, and he came to a halt upon the surface, ripples eddying out from his hooves. Little fish darted beneath him, unconcerned. Hult made a face at the sight. That wasn’t right, not at all.

  “Well,” Nakhil said, “shall we start walking?”

  They did, though it took every ounce of Hult’s will to take that first step … and the second … and the third. For the whole first hour, in fact, he couldn’t raise his eyes to look at the others; he kept his attention fixed on the water beneath his feet and the shapes of the sea creatures that went about their lives beneath him, oblivious. Even a huge gray shark, running deep after a school of darting green fish, didn’t pay them any mind.

  Jijin, Hult prayed, I will kill a hundred goats in your name. Just get me across this water alive.

  So they went, eyes on the far shore, leaving the foundering Ghelim well behind. The ocean grew deep, t
he bottom fading from sight as soon as they got past the sandbar. Birds wheeled above, squalling at them as if wondering what they were doing there, occasionally dropping from the sky to plunge into the water—the very same water that bore Hult and the others up—and lunge free again, little silver minnows wriggling in their beaks. In time they left even the birds behind, and the Rainwards dropped away into the twilight, vanishing from sight.

  The halfway mark came and went. The far shore became the near shore. Roshambur took over the spell, murmuring an incantation to draw control away from Shedara. She stumbled to her knees when the power left her, the water’s surface bowing beneath her weight. Hult and Azar were at her sides at once, each taking an arm and raising her up. She leaned on them, breathing hard, as they walked on.

  Dawn came. They bent their course westward, into the heart of the glasslands. The coast was jagged and sparkling, riddled with cracks. Huge knives of obsidian loomed above them, too sharp to give purchase for the seabirds. The waves smashed against them, shredding into spray. As they drew near, Hult saw a great shelf of glass that had collapsed, sagging without breaking down to the water. He pointed, shouting to make himself heard above the surf.

  “Is that a way up?” he asked, leaning close to Shedara.

  She followed the gesture, then shrugged. “How should I know?” she replied. “I’ve never been here before. None of us have!”

  Azar stared at it, brow furrowed. “It will serve,” he said. “We’d best get onto land soon. If we’re caught out here when the storm breaks, we won’t stand a chance.”

  Hult frowned. Storm? he wondered. What—?

  A great, roaring peal of thunder smote the air. They all looked up. Huge, anvil-shaped clouds, streaked with green fire, towered above them. They moved like an avalanche, pouring across the sky, devouring the morning light. There was no way the storm was natural, as they all realized instantly. None needed speak Maladar’s name.

  “Mother of the gods,” Nakhil swore. “Move! Now!”

  They ran, pelting toward the glass shelf as fast as they could while the wind whipped the water into frothing peaks. Rain began to fall, first in spattering drops, then in sheets. Lightning flared, striking a nearby spire and blowing it to flashing splinters. Hult felt one of them cut a furrow in the back of his leg, and he heard the others yell as well. One scream cut through the rest.

  “Roshambur!” Nakhil cried.

  The spell began to buckle as Hult turned to see the dwarf go down. There was a great sliver of glass, two feet long, lodged between his shoulders. He fell face-first onto the water’s surface, blood pouring from his mouth. Nakhil pulled to a halt, then twisted and charged to the wizard’s side. Leaning down, he caught Roshambur by the collar of his robes and scooped him up onto his back. Then he charged again, galloping toward shore. Water sprayed from his flying hooves.

  “We’re sinking!” Azar cried. “The magic’s giving way!”

  Hult swallowed, looking down. His feet dipped into the water as he ran now, about an inch … then two. He shook Shedara, feeling panic rise in him. “Hai!” he yelled. “You’ve got to take the spell back!”

  “I don’t have the strength!” she answered. “I’m spent, Hult!”

  He looked down. He looked at the shelf. He was three inches into the water … then four, deeper with every step. His grip on Shedara’s arm grew iron hard. They weren’t going to make it.

  “Try,” he rasped. “Or we’re dead.”

  Chapter

  22

  GLASSTRAND, THE SHINING LANDS

  Her blood felt like fire, like lead. Her eyes burned. Every breath was an effort. And yet, there was Hult, shaking her, yelling something about having to take back the spell. Take it back, when she lacked the strength even to cast the simplest of cantrips. The moon power surged around her like the rapids of a great and rushing river, a river that, if she set foot in it again, could easily pull her under and drown her.

  Drown her. Drown.

  Shedara looked down. She was sinking, up to her shins in the sea now, the wicked edges of the glass shards jutting beneath its surface. Her feet were only inches above one fragment’s point, sharper than any spear. If she slid down much farther, it would pierce her. She would slide down its length, awash in pain as the waters closed over her head.

  Astar, Hult was right. She needed to take the spell back.

  Shedara didn’t know what had happened to Roshambur, only that the dwarf no longer had a firm grip on the magic, the weft of which was fraying with each breath. She could see the glowing threads, waving around her. It was a miracle he’d held on to it that long; it ought to have been in tatters by then, pouring away into the air. Whatever had become of Roshambur, it had to be bad, but at least he wasn’t dead … not yet.

  She reached out, though it hurt terribly. Spidery words tore her tongue as she spoke them. The power of Lunis and Solis poured into her, hot as boiling oil. She kept her focus on that single glass blade beneath her, watching her feet creep down toward its tip.

  The threads snarled in her hands. She wove them together, her fingers working so fast they became a blur. Someone was screaming, and a distant realization told her the voice belonged to her. It felt like the moons’ power might burst forth from her nose, her mouth, her eyes, red-silver light annihilating all that she was, but it held, just at the cusp of rupturing. She wove on.

  And she and her companions began to rise.

  It was unbearably slow, but together they moved up through the water, only ankle-deep, their feet breaking the surface again. Thunder cracked, and lightning flashed above, a green bolt blasting another shard into molten fragments. They hissed as they splashed down into the sea. She jerked, nearly losing the spell threads, then got hold of them again and pulled taut. The water grew solid beneath her feet.

  “Go!” she shouted through teeth clenched so tight, she feared they might shatter. “I can’t hold it long!”

  They ran, Nakhil bearing Roshambur, who lay motionless on the centaur’s back. Hult and Azar bore Shedara up, half-carrying her as they sprinted for the fallen shelf. She felt the spell start to pull apart as she staggered along and clenched her fists about the threads as hard as she could. Her nails pierced her palms, drawing blood. Stars exploded in her eyes, crimson and white. She smelled roasting meat, and had the awful feeling it was her own flesh burning. A hot, iron taste flooded her mouth.

  Hult lifted her up at the end, stumbling beneath her weight, and hurled her onto the glassy shelf. She hit it hard, the breath bursting from her with a guttural bark, and had to scrabble to keep from sliding back into the water. The spell unraveled in an instant, flaring away in scraps that faded like mist into the air.

  Azar yelled something, and Hult was screaming too. She heard splashing. Shedara looked down toward the water, fighting to get her eyes to focus through the rain and weariness. Azar was sprawled on the edge of the shelf, legs splayed wide to anchor himself as he leaned out, one hand stretching as far as it could toward the Uigan. Hult, meanwhile, was two paces from shore, down in the water and thrashing, his eyes wide with panic as he tried to keep his head up. The water was pink, darkening to red: below the surface, the shards were slicing him to pieces.

  “No!” Shedara shouted, heaving herself up.

  The glass was smooth, made slick by surf and rain, and she immediately slid toward the water, fumbling to stop herself before she could plunge in. She ended up lying headfirst, just at the edge, staring down into the deep, where needles of death jutted every which way. Hult’s legs were impaled on several of those, and he was sinking farther down them the more he struggled. Waves crested over his head, and he came up sputtering, choking. Then he sank again and didn’t come up at all.

  “Grab my legs!” Azar said and threw himself forward.

  Shedara obeyed, though in her haze she didn’t really understand the words. She threw her arms around Azar’s knees as he lunged, holding on as tight as she could. He splashed into the water, a sword of glass missin
g his face by a hand’s breadth, and caught hold of Hult’s wrists.

  “Pull!” he yelled, then coughed as a wave slapped him in the mouth. “Get us up!”

  Shedara tried. She pulled with all her might, even as tired as she was. But Hult wouldn’t budge, and she knew why. The spikes had him anchored, held him fast. It would take more might than she could muster to pull him loose or break them off.

  And she was starting to slide again.

  “Nakhil!” she screamed, watching the thicket of glass beneath the water creep closer. She shut her eyes. “Help us! For all the gods’ love!”

  She heard the centaur coming, his metal shoes ringing against the glass, then scraping as he came to a halt. She heard him grunt as his hands wrapped around her ankles, and again as he pulled with all his might. Hult howled with agony, then gurgled and fell silent. Azar made no sound at all. Shedara sobbed, broken. Somewhere, she heard glass break.

  Then, like someone snuffing out a candle, it all went dark.

  Images came to her through clouds of fog, coalescing out of the blackness and vanishing again like smoke. She knew she was on the edge of death. She felt cold, felt the void clawing at her. It was exhilarating, in a way. Each new thing she saw could be the last thing her eyes ever beheld in this world:

  … great black ships gliding toward her—three of them, running over fields of glass on great metal blades. The air shrieked as shards of glass blew up from those scimitar runners …

  … figures approaching, bound head to foot in cloth and leather, their faces covered by masks of white bone, painted red and green and black … hooked spears held at the ready, chattering in a language full of pops and clicks …

  … the sea sliding away beneath her as someone carried her away from it … blood on the glass, great dark clots of it …

  … the sky racing by above, dark and storm-torn … glassy pinnacles scudding past to either side … voices shouting, and rigging creaking as a sail billowed and bellied above her …