by Dragonlance
… Roshambur lying still upon a stone table on the far side of a dim room that stank of incense … a long shard of glass lodged in his chest, covered in blood … his face pale, his breast still … weeping, Nakhil covering him with a leather blanket …
… Hult and Azar, battered and bloody, looking down on her with stricken faces … Hult leaning on a crutch, Azar with fresh scars on both cheeks and his forehead … glancing at one another, then over their shoulders and nodding …
… a cloth-wrapped figure gazing at her, wearing a headdress of white, bone barbs arrayed around its mask like a peacock’s feathers … silently the figure raising its hands, slender and fine-boned—either a woman’s fingers or an elf’s—chanting in a voice made hollow and strange by the mask, more of a rasping howl than a song … somewhere beyond Shedara’s sight, someone rapping on a drum, a complicated pattern of five beats, then four, then three, over and over … the delicate fingers spreading over her, trailing the faintest strands of blue light …
Warmth suffused her, and it all flowed away.
She awoke from a dreamless sleep, what seemed like a hundred years later, to the sight of Hult looking down at her. His hand was on her head, stroking her hair, and for a moment he looked like he might pull it back, but she reached up and placed her own fingers over his.
“It’s all right. I like it,” she said, her voice dry and scratchy. “I’m thirsty.”
He held a flask to her lips. She took a careful sip: water. She’d never tasted anything so sweet, and shut her eyes as it slid down her throat.
“Roshambur,” she croaked.
The Uigan shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together.
She sighed.
“We burned his body three days ago,” Hult said. “The tchakkir tried to save him, but he was too far gone. The glass cut one of the veins near his heart. There was nothing anyone could do.”
Yet he had held on to the spell, Shedara marveled, held on to it though he must have known he was dying. Would I have done such a thing?
She thought on that a moment, then decided yes. For her friends, she would.
“Nakhil’s still grieving,” Hult went on. “I think Roshambur was the last thing he had left to tie him to his … to his home.”
He looked away, blinking, thinking, no doubt, of his own beloved steppes and all he’d left behind. Shedara remembered Quivris, her brother, still alive but no longer a friend, and knew in that moment that Armach was lost to her as well.
And Azar had never had a home.
All of us, outcasts, she thought. If we die out here, who will mourn us? Essana, perhaps, but no one else. We are alone.
Something occurred to her. “Three days ago?” she asked. “How many was I out?”
“Four,” Hult said. “You nearly died, Shedara. You hurt yourself very badly, using your magic like that. The tchakkir said you burned your insides. It would have killed you, if not for her.”
“I … see,” she said, feeling suddenly queasy. “And this tchakkir is the woman I saw? The one with the spikes on her head? She’s a Mislaxan?”
Hult nodded. “She prayed over you for a whole day. It took all her power to mend you.”
“And now? Is it safe for me to get out of this”—she glanced left and right to see what she was lying on—“hammock?”
“The tchakkir said it is, but you will be weak for another day or so. Have some more water first, so you don’t faint.”
Shedara took another sip, running it around her mouth to wash out the stale, sour taste that four days of unconsciousness had left, then tried to push herself up. The hammock lurched, making it difficult to get purchase, but Hult helped her, taking her hand and bracing her so she could get her feet on the floor. She rose, blood rushing to her head so fast that she thought she was going to black out again, and fought through the dizziness to stay standing. Her knees wobbled, and she trembled as she looked around.
She was in the cabin of a ship whose walls, floor, and ceiling were all made of the same dark wood. A few lanterns, dull red flames behind volcanic glass, shed a dim glow, just enough to see by. Bundles of dried grasses and medallions of some sort of beetle shell hung from the rafters, and strange, white runes were painted on the door.
The ship was moving, judging by the faint vibration under her feet, but it felt strange. There was no rocking, no motion of waves, but rather the occasional small, stuttering jump. And though the timbers creaked, there was no noise of water from outside; only a shrill keening, like a knife scraping fine porcelain. She blinked, her mind going back to her fever dreams.
“This is a glass ship,” she said. “We’re with the Sailors.”
The Uigan nodded, turning toward the door. For the first time she noticed that he was still leaning on a crutch. Looking down, she saw his left leg was bandaged from foot to knee.
“You’re hurt too,” she said. “The shards under the water?”
“Yes,” he said, turning pale. The memory could not be pleasant, particularly for a man who had long feared the sea. “I nearly lost my foot. I’ll probably always have a limp now.”
Shedara felt a pang at the edge of bitterness that crept into Hult’s voice. His hand was already mutilated, now this; here he was, not yet twenty and twice maimed. He had every right to resentment.
She took a deep breath and let it out. It hurt, but there was a relief to it as well. In her training she’d heard many tales of mages who used too much magic at once. Most of those who lived ended up invalids, bedridden, their lungs always straining for air. Whatever the sailors’ healer had done, it had saved her from that fate.
“I think I’d like to go up on deck,” she said. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
Hult shook his head, putting his arm around her waist. He stumbled, losing his grip on his crutch and nearly taking them both down.
“Look at us,” he said. “Mighty heroes, off to save the world.”
They laughed together, then headed to the door.
On deck, the world was filled with light. The ship—it was what the sailors called a Xogat, about the size of a small warship, with a crew of perhaps twenty—glided across a vast flatland of glass that reflected the sunlight from above. It sparkled in Shedara’s eyes, dazzling her. That was the Shining Plain, the remains of what once had been Aurim’s deserts. It ran for mile upon mile, smooth and sheer, marred only by the occasional ripple where the glass had still been flowing when it cooled. Dark mountains rose far to the south, lit red from behind: the Cauldron, where Forlo must be. On the northern horizon were towering, jagged hunks of glass, the edge of that strangest of seas.
The glass ships—there were three of them, two Xogatai and a smaller, more agile skiff called a Churqa, all running west with full sails—had no keels on their hulls, but steel runners instead, one at the prow and two extending to either side of the stern, pivoting whichever way the helmsman pointed the tiller. Those were what made the shrieking sound, flinging bits of glass up in billowing showers as they went. The sailors all wore masks to keep those motes out of their faces, and Hult donned one as well. He handed another to Shedara, who slipped it over her head. It was confining, unpleasant, like a burial shroud, but it was better than two eyes full of glass.
The sailors worked in silence, drowned out by the runners’ scream, communicating with hand gestures rather than words. There was no way to tell with the masks, but she got the feeling they were watching her as she and Hult made their way to the stern, where Nakhil and Azar stood with the tchakkir. Probably none of them had ever seen an elf before, and like most nomads, they feared her a little.
The tchakkir was the first to approach her, holding out a hand to touch her shoulder. She wore black robes, edged with night-blue, over her wrappings. There were red tears painted on her mask, leaking from the corners of the eye holes. She looked hard at Shedara, and the air between them quivered. Mislaxa’s power hung thick in the air; then it faded again, and Shedara felt invigorated.
“You
are well,” said the tchakkir in the tongue of the League, her accent so thick that even those small words were hard to understand. “You should take more rest, but now be with your friends.”
With that, the healer departed, her robes fluttering as she strode toward the ship’s bow. Shedara watched her go then turned to face the others.
“It’s good to see you awake,” Nakhil said, but there was pain in his voice, making it tight and brittle. In his hands was a vessel of translucent glass; inside it, she could just make out a fine powder: Roshambur’s ashes. “More than once, we feared we might lose you.”
“Yes,” she said. She nodded at the glass urn. “I’m sorry. He was my friend, and I’m sure he was more to you.”
The centaur nodded, his face inscrutable behind his mask. But his shoulders shook, just a little.
“He told me, before we left on this journey,” Nakhil said, “he hoped I would be proven wrong about Suluk. He wanted it to rise again. Now it will never happen. I will not go back, whatever happens … and neither will he.”
With that, he removed the lid of the urn and upended it. The ashes spilled out, caught on the wind, and wafted away, rising high above the Shining Plains. Shedara watched them go, thinking of Thalaniya and Eldako and all those she had known who had died because of Maladar. She thought of Forlo too, then glanced at the others. Hult and Azar and the grieving centaur—in her heart, she knew Roshambur would not be the last of them to die.
She sighed, watching the dwarf’s ashes drift away.
Chapter
23
HITH’S CAULDRON
He knew they were there before he saw them, but refused to slow his pace. He simply kept walking, eyes forward, staring at the smoky horizon beneath the red-glowing sky. The heat washed over him in waves, baking his skin, singeing his hair. His throat was parched, a desert. He didn’t notice, didn’t care. Let Forlo’s body and soul bear the suffering; for Maladar, there was only the road ahead, the iron bridge stretching off into the distance.
The fire minions swarmed around him, their green eyes appearing and vanishing again among the flames. The lava sea roiled beneath the creatures, islands of black crust dissolving in the heat. Their voices hissed and crackled, wary. That was a change; unlike the last time, they seemed hesitant, almost afraid. For this time he was not alone: the Kheten Voi walked behind him, the bridge ringing beneath the tramp of their stone feet. They stretched for miles, their strength undeniable. If they took notice of the flaming creatures skulking above the Burning Sea, they gave no sign.
Cautious or not, however, the minions couldn’t stay hidden forever; the forces that bound them to the Cauldron were too strong. They had to intervene, had to stop him and question him—kill him if they must—before he got close to the Burning Sea’s heart. That was their purpose, bound into them by gods and prophecy: to keep the unworthy from reaching the Chaldar. Two leagues after he first sensed their presence—and five days since he first set out across the sea—three of the minions wafted out of the flames and onto the bridge. White-hot tongues of fire, shaped like swords, flared in their hands.
Maladar halted, smiling, and waited. He could be patient; he had the upper hand. He folded his arms across his chest. Behind him the statues stood still, their eyes locked on the minions. Shapes guttered above the magma on either side: hundreds more of the creatures, hanging back, eyeing the Kheten Voi. And above, hidden by the pall in the sky and marked only by the distant whoosh of its wings, soared the flame dragon that had threatened Maladar before. Even that great creature seemed tentative, the sweeps of its great pinions a little slower, a bit less proud.
Maladar kept waiting.
Finally, the minion in the middle stepped forward. It was identical to the one he’d spoken to on his last attempted crossing, its form ever-shifting, towering above him. There was less menace in the way it approached him, though, and while its eyes were inhuman, mere licks of fire, Maladar saw doubt in their murky green depths.
“Who are you,” rumbled the minion, “who comes to this place unbidden?”
Maladar scowled. “Do not toy with me. I am not unbidden, and you know who I am. I have been here before and was turned back.”
“And yet you return?”
More doubt was hidden in the minion’s tone. The question could have been many things—mocking, threatening, angry—but it came across as nervous, nothing more.
“I do,” Maladar said. “I have done what was required. My coming was foretold, leading a great army, according to prophecy. Before, I was alone. Now I am not.”
He gestured behind him. As one, the Kheten Voi straightened, standing erect and looming taller than even the largest of the minions. The fiery creatures shrank back, eyes flicking toward one another, not sure what to do.
Maladar stepped forward. Heated by the minions’ presence, the metal bridge scorched his feet through the soles of his boots. Inside, Barreth Forlo screamed. Maladar shut out the man’s cries.
“The time has come,” he declared. “I am risen, lord of these lands long ago … and I have come back. Aurim is mine, and I shall raise its bones.”
Still the minions hesitated. Maladar took another step. They faltered.
“Yield to me,” he said. “I am the one you have awaited, these long years. It is all mine … the Chaldar, the sea, and all that lies beneath. Yield and serve me, and I will let you live.”
“What you say has the sound of truth,” said the minions’ leader, its eyes narrowing. “Yet it is hard to believe. Trickery surrounds you. We will not give way without a challenge.”
One of Maladar’s eyebrows rose. “There is no challenge here,” he said, his voice so soft, the Cauldron’s roar nearly consumed it. “I could destroy you with a word, as you know. And my army could slaughter the lot of you.”
The minion hissed a laugh. “Could they?” it asked. “With no ground to walk on? Your stone men would melt and become one with the Cauldron if—”
Sighing, Maladar flung his arms wide. A wintry wind, cold as a white dragon’s breath, rushed outward in all directions, blowing back the fire and smoke. As it passed over the sea, the lava on the surface hardened to a dark crust, shot through with veins of gold. No sooner had it done so than a hundred of the Kheten Voi sprang from the bridge onto the newly solid ground, swords and spears pointed at the minions. The fiery creatures scattered, howling in confusion and panic, leaving their three brothers alone on the bridge.
Maladar smiled and was about to speak again when a scream tore through the air overhead. He looked up at the rolling fume and saw ruddy light moving through it like slow lightning. His lips peeled back from his teeth as he watched the flame dragon emerge from the clouds, trailing a storm of smoke and cinders.
The beast was enormous, dwarfing most wyrms that lived on land. Certainly Gloomwing, the black dragon who had served him and the Faceless, would have been little more than a wyrmling beside that monster. It must have been a hundred paces from glowing snout to fire-limned tail, with wings that could have plunged entire villages into shadow. The reek of brimstone went before it, making Maladar’s eyes water as it roared overhead. The crust of stone he had summoned cracked and dissolved beneath the dragon’s heat, and he felt Forlo’s skin blister. Robbed of solid ground, the statues that had stepped off the bridge fell into the lava and disappeared, burning. They made no sound, nor did they struggle. They simply sank.
For the first time since he’d started crossing the Cauldron, doubt gnawed at Maladar. What if there was something else, something he hadn’t done? Was there more to the prophecy than the army?
The minions closed in again, eyes flashing, fiery swords at the ready. Maladar gritted his teeth and raised his hand, ready to send the Kheten Voi into battle. Far ahead—the creature had covered half a mile in the time it would have taken him to walk ten steps—the flame dragon let out a roar like a foundry, belching fire high into the sky. The inferno rose like a golden pillar, stark against the gloom. Then, as the fires died away,
the wyrm wheeled around in a grand arc and came rumbling back, running low, down the length of the bridge toward him.
Flee! screamed a voice inside him, a voice that, for a change, did not belong to Barreth Forlo. It will kill you! You must flee!
He came close to obeying. But before he knew what he was doing, the words to a sending spell were on his lips, his hands poised to cast. Then he pushed aside the terror, mastering the rising fear. He reshaped his hands and spoke different words, a calming spell to counter the dragonfear. Calm settled over him, driving back the urge to escape. He stood still, his stone soldiers arrayed behind him, and watched as the dragon rushed closer.
It will stop, he told himself. It will not attack. You are the one that was foretold.
He raised his head, staring straight into the smoldering white pits of the wyrm’s eyes. The fear clawed at the edges of his mind, but his magic kept it at bay—just. He extended a finger, pointing at the dragon, a mote of violet light burning at its tip. The smell of burning metal filled the air.
“Yield!” he shouted, his voice unnaturally loud, blaring across the Cauldron. “I am your master now!”
The dragon was three hundred paces away … two … one. Suddenly it fanned its wings, spreading them wide to either side to slow it down. Great claws, each talon half the length of Maladar’s body, reached down and caught hold of the bridge, screeching against the metal. The span shook, groaning as the wyrm settled to a halt behind the three minions; then it raised its head high to glower down at him.
Maladar glared back.
Their eyes met. Neither moved for what seemed like hours. Then the dragon shut its eyes and slowly lowered its head.
“It is accomplished,” it growled, its voice so deep he felt it in his stomach. “The prophecy has come to pass. The emperor of old returns.”
The fire minions glanced back at the creature, then turned to face Maladar again. The amazement in their eyes nearly made him laugh. As one, they let go of their swords, which dissipated into soot, blown away before they could strike the ground. Then they bowed before him.
