Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Astar’s arrows, she thought. I’m in love again.

  He kissed her again, gently. She let him.

  “There’s a place,” she said. “Not far from here, where no one from the serai will see.”

  He flushed, blinking suddenly, looking away. He’d trained as a tenach since childhood, and that meant a vow of chastity, to remove distractions from protecting his master. All that time, he’d kept to his oath: he had never known a woman. But Chovuk was dead, the Uigan slain and scattered, his homeland lost to him forever. Death awaited them, inside the burning tower, across the sea of fire. He swallowed, then carefully slid his talga back into its scabbard.

  “Show me,” he said.

  They were late rising the next morning. The sun was already cresting the basalt columns, casting long shadows across the Shining Lands. Far away, the Chaldar still burned. A chill wind blew down from the north, rattling the rigging of the glass boats. The sailors worked aboard their ships, silent as ever. The gnomes, meanwhile, were taking down their tents, breaking camp.

  Malkis greeted them, leaning on his staff while his people packed their belongings. Azar and Nakhil were with him. The centaur gave Shedara and Hult a knowing smile.

  “We looked for you last night,” he said. “But not too hard.”

  Hult scowled at that, turning away. Malkis chuckled. Azar had no reaction at all. He knew nothing about that sort of a thing; the Brethren hadn’t taught him about it. Shedara gave Nakhil a wink, then studied Azar. “You seem yourself today.”

  The boy shifted from one foot to the other. He didn’t remember anything about the Chaldar’s rise.

  “Can you sense him?” she asked. “Your father?”

  Azar shook his head. “No more than before.”

  She let it go at that, for the moment, and looked around, eyeing the gnomes. “I don’t see any carts,” she said. “Or pack animals. How are we traveling to Ilmach?”

  Nakhil coughed, baring his teeth. Beside him, Malkis raised his eyebrows.

  “No, you weren’t there, were you?” the minoi asked. “Of course not. I showed the others last night, but you were … occupied.”

  Hult made a strangled sound and strode away.

  “It was his first time, wasn’t it?” Nakhil asked, watching him go. His grin grew broader and slightly evil.

  Shedara glared at him. “Leave him alone. Showed the others what, Malkis?”

  The gnome’s grin widened, his eyes agleam, and Shedara shuddered. There was something unsettling about that smile, as if he had too many teeth.

  “Come,” Malkis said and hobbled away, leaning on his staff.

  They followed him to the back of the camp, through a gap between two tall, hexagonal pillars. The stone columns were close enough that she could lean against one while reaching out to touch the other. Above, the sky narrowed to a crack of blue. At the chasm’s far end, small figures moved around something she couldn’t make out. Shedara glanced at Nakhil and Azar, but neither gave her any hint as to what lay ahead.

  Before long the gap widened again, into a clearing among the columns, where one of the pillars had sunk into the ground, forming a smooth stone floor. There, in the clearing’s midst, stood five large wicker baskets. For some reason, they were all attached to the ground with ropes and pitons. Above them, suspended by metal frames, were large braziers, burning with bright blue flames. And above those were billowing sacks of canvas, each painted with an image of a fist holding a tinkerer’s hammer, black on gold. As she watched, the sacks grew taut, filling with hot air from the braziers. Then, one by one, they lifted off the ground, stopped only by their anchoring ropes.

  “Gods’ blood,” she breathed, the color draining from her face.

  “We use no carts, my dear,” said Malkis. “When we’re not sailing the Burning Sea, we minoi ride the winds!”

  Shedara stared at the contraptions, feeling ill. Already the gnomes were loading them with sacks and barrels, climbing dangling rope ladders to get into the baskets. They were going to fly to Ilmach on those … those … whatever they were.

  “They are called Zarlakanquistorphentilgormushandoloi,” Malkis said. His voice swelled with pride. “It means, carriages of the clouds that are lifted by bladders of air heated with burning vapor.”

  Nakhil leaned down, close to Shedara’s ear. “Just so it’s known,” he whispered, “I don’t like the idea either.”

  Shedara swallowed, still staring. Then, out of nowhere, she began to laugh.

  “Why not?” she asked. “We’ve already walked on the ocean and sailed on glass. How much worse can this be?”

  But the first thing she did when they returned from the clearing was to open her spellbook. Licking her fingers, she flipped pages until she found the one she wanted. Then she began to read, her eyes quickly scanning down the script, committing the incantation and gestures of the feather-falling spell to memory … just in case.

  Chapter

  26

  THE CHALDAR, HITH’S CAULDRON

  To Maladar’s surprise, his hand still hurt.

  He tried to push all of the pain away, to force it upon Forlo, but it wouldn’t obey—not completely. True, what should have been searing agony was little more than an annoying throb, but that he felt anything at all was unsettling. It seemed there were limits to his abilities. That wasn’t a thought he enjoyed having.

  It was a minor concern at best, though, and it hadn’t hampered him from casting the spell that raised the Tower of Flame, at least. The spire shot up from the maelstrom in the Cauldron’s midst, at his command, fed by the black moon’s power. The magma sea continued to spin, and the storm clouds to surge, but at their midst was not the bottomless hole he’d first found, but a mile-high needle of living, writhing fire.

  Up close, it had a shape: there were walls of what looked like fitted stone and sharp-pointed turrets and a dome capped with a tall spike at its pinnacle. That was an illusion, though, kept real by will alone. Maladar’s mind gave the Chaldar form, and the magic continued to pour through him, keeping it aloft. That was unexpected … and unpleasant: he’d thought that once the tower was erected, it would keep its shape without his help. It meant he had to stay there or risk its falling.

  He would have to find a way around that. He couldn’t conquer the world if he had to remain in the Cauldron: that would make him a prisoner, not an emperor. There must be an answer, though, and he had time to find it. First, however, he had things to do.

  The first was entering the Chaldar. That proved difficult, for the tower had no door. Indeed, he walked all the way around it, casting spells to cool the lava into islands of floating rock that he could walk upon, and there was no sign of any entrance at all—no windows, no parapets, nothing. It was just a sliver of fire with the shape of a tower trapped within. He sat upon a promontory of obsidian for hours, contemplating, before the answer occurred to him.

  I am the Chaldar’s master. I can make it have a door.

  No sooner had he thought that than a portal appeared in the tower’s wall, right in front of him. It was a tall double gate, apparently made of bronze and damasked with a clenched fist in gold and silver, with rubies and topaz glittering on the knuckles—the ancient emblem of Aurim. It was the gate of his long-lost palace, exactly as he remembered it, down to the script arcing above the fist, in ancient runes. Cha burush, cha yûn, cha kintai.

  One realm, one rule, one empire.

  Maladar smiled and bade the gates open. They did so at his command. He didn’t have to touch them. Within, a colonnade of red-veined marble ran down the length of a long hall … longer, indeed, than the Chaldar was wide. Birdsong sounded from within, and the music of unseen dulcimers echoed. Fountains bubbled, spilling liquid flame over the edges of their bowls. Burning statues of fierce warriors and stern-browed wizards gazed down from stout pedestals: the rulers of Aurim, down through the ages. At the far end, a pair of broad staircases swept up to floors above. He knew all of it very well.

  I am ho
me, Maladar thought, joy leaping in his breast. At long last, I have returned.

  Smiling, he started up the steps toward the doorway. Before he could enter, however, an empty black cloak emerged from the flames to stand in his way.

  Maladar’s elation gave way to fury. “You,” he growled. “You would bar me now, at the last?”

  Hith stared back at him with unseen eyes. The dark cloth rippled in the heat but did not burn. The god made no reply at all, but neither did he move.

  “What, then?” Maladar demanded. “I have done what was foretold. I awakened my army, tamed the dragon of flame. I raised the Chaldar, gave it form.”

  “Indeed,” Hith whispered. “You did all these things, and for that I am grateful. But before you enter, there is something else.”

  Maladar pursed his lips, his anger boiling. This is a god, he reminded himself. He is more powerful than you—for now. Humor him.

  “What more must I do?” he asked.

  The god gazed back at him, emotionless, impervious to Maladar’s rage. “It is not a thing you must do,” he said. “It is something you should know. Something about who you are.”

  “Who I am?” Maladar shot back. “What do you mean? I am Maladar, emperor of Aurim, and I have returned to reclaim my empire. Who else could I be?”

  Though Hith had no form, Maladar had the distinct feeling the god was smiling at him. It was not a pleasant feeling.

  “Well,” the god said, “there is the other soul inside you, but that isn’t the trouble. No, it is something else.”

  Maladar glowered. “Enough riddles. I am weary, and I wish to enter the Chaldar and rest. Either tell me now or get out of my way.”

  Hith could have lost his temper, could have smote him, crushed him for his insolence. Other gods would have—Sargas, for one, or Jolith. But Hith was devious, and he was hateful, and he had a sense of humor. He laughed at Maladar.

  “Go in, then,” he said. “You will see the answer, soon enough.”

  He folded in on himself, vanishing in an instant. The aura of awe and power that surrounded him went away as well. Maladar breathed a sigh of relief. Gods were more trouble than they were worth.

  A splinter of misgiving had lodged in Maladar’s mind, however, and worked its way deeper the more he worried at it. So as he stepped inside the Chaldar at last, the thought running through his head was not one of triumph and exultation, as he’d hoped. Instead, at what should have been the finest moment of his reborn life, doubt gnawed his mind in the form of a question.

  Who am I?

  Pain blinded Forlo, swallowed sound, devoured smell. All he could sense was the blazing agony at the end of his left arm—that, and Maladar’s thoughts, looming huge in his mind, like a mountain of hatred. He pushed back against that rage, but only enough to keep it from utterly crushing him. He didn’t have the strength for anything more—not with the pain.

  Only once since his hand burned away had the agony lifted, and then just long enough for him to see the Chaldar rise. Maladar had done that, allowed Forlo to look through his own eyes while he waved his remaining hand, the fingers dancing as he chanted the words. Forlo felt the power of Nuvis stream through him, darker and richer than dwarven ale. He watched white fire erupt from the Cauldron’s center, blasting high into the sky like a geyser, then spreading across the undersides of the clouds. He felt the unspeakable wave of heat that swept outward as the tower rose, smelled the smoke and brimstone that thickened the air, heard his own voice rise in a victorious cry.

  And after that—nothing. The pain crashed down again, leaving him cowering in the shadow of Maladar’s fury. Through his head boomed a lone thought, over and over again.

  You have failed. The tower is risen. Taladas is mine.

  No, he lamented. No, there is still a way. There must be.

  YOU HAVE FAILED!

  Essana, I’m sorry. I tried. I truly did.

  When the pain subsided again, he was standing in a room he knew, though he had never been there before. He’d seen it, though, in faded frescoes and crumbling mosaics, in the ancient ruins that still clung to the rocks in the League’s eastern provinces. It was a vast chamber, grander even than the halls of the minotaur emperor, drowned and buried by the earth’s fury. The place was long gone as well, lost in the Great Destruction. All the historians agreed that the rain of burning stones had struck that very spot, smashing it into oblivion more than four centuries earlier. Yet there he was, standing in the grand doorway, peering down its immense length. There was no mistaking it at all: the moonstone tiles; the fat, golden pillars; the fountains of silver and crystal cages where feathered serpents slithered. And there, at the far end, towered the fabled dragon-horn throne, resting on its island dais amid a pool of still water.

  The throne room of the Aurish emperors lay before him, whole again, in all its glory. But it was not entirely as the frescoes depicted it, for the chamber was crafted not of stone and metal, glass and jewels. No, it was made of fire, made solid by magic, shifting and flickering and throwing off smoke and shimmering heat. The fish in the pool were licks of living flame; golden light wreathed the throne.

  That, then, wasn’t the true throne room; no, that was lost forever. He was inside the Chaldar, in a room hewn from Maladar’s memories.

  Your empire is dead, he thought scornfully. This is just a delusion, just your pride given form. You are a king of ashes.

  He expected the pain to return, to smash him, smother him, maybe finally kill him. But it didn’t. Instead, his head nodded.

  “I am,” Maladar replied, using Forlo’s own breath and voice. “Lord of embers, master of soot. My subjects are fire and stone. That will change, however. I will make war on the League and subjugate Thenol. I will raze the Tamire. I will overrun the Rainwards. Neron and Panak and Syldar … all shall fall before my might, and their people will give me their fealty.”

  No, Forlo thought. They will refuse. Aurim is dead. No one will suffer to see it reborn. Not even the Thenolites, evil as they are, would submit to your dark empire again.

  Maladar laughed. “You think too highly of your fellow men, Barreth Forlo. I had willing subjects in this world, even when I was a mere phantom trapped in that accursed statue. The Brethren were not the only ones in this world who would serve me … particularly if the alternative is so much worse.”

  The throne room vanished. In its place stood the Gotharak, one of the grandest surviving monuments in Kristophan. It, too, was made of flame, but on some level it felt as real as the last time Forlo had stood there, with the men of the Sixth Legion prior to going to war against Thenol. Then it had been a military parade ground; as he watched, he saw it was a bustling plaza. Minotaurs and men hurried about, clad in armor or loose, flowing tunics. Statues of imperial marshals stood atop pillars, armed with spear and axe, looking down on a broad expanse of marble surrounding a small lake, ringed with benches and blooming cherry trees. In the lake’s midst, on a rocky island, stood a green-bronze sculpture of a dromond riding a foaming wave, its sails full. That was where Gothos, the first of the minotaur sea captains to make landfall on Taladas, had claimed those shores in his people’s name.

  “What is this?” Forlo asked.

  “Their fate, should they resist me,” Maladar said. “Watch.”

  No sooner had he spoken the words than chaos broke out. The cries started on the plaza’s far side and quickly grew in volume and pitch. They were shouts of anger, of pain, of terror. Forlo felt his heart clench: the bull-men didn’t know fear except in the direst circumstances. He craned his neck, trying to see what was going on.

  When he saw the lumbering stone shapes, he knew. The Kheten Voi had come.

  They moved through the crowds at a relentless pace, swords and maces rising and falling, rising and falling, leaving bodies and blood scattered in their wake. Even fully armed warriors perished before the onslaught, and though they brought down one or two of the statues here and there, hundreds more came forward, the press all but unstop
pable. Blood ran in rivers between the marble paving stones. It spilled into the lake, reddening the water. Panicking mobs fled, trying to get away, only to find more of the Kheten Voi coming at them from the other streets that fed into the plaza. Forlo turned slowly—under Maladar’s power, not his own—and saw slaughter in all directions.

  “So will it be for those who refuse to submit,” Maladar said. “My armies will destroy them, one by one. Even your mighty legions will not stop me. They are too weak now. And when the streets are flooded with the blood of my enemies …”

  A new shriek cut through the air, and Forlo’s blood froze. He knew what it was, even before Maladar made him look up. The sky was heavy with clouds, but a golden glow was moving through them, just hidden from view. The scream went on, long and loud, shaking buildings and breaking windows all around the square. The folk still left alive howled and clutched at their ears, falling to their knees. Forlo might have done the same, but Maladar forced him to stand still, watching the golden glow come closer … closer.

  “Behold,” Maladar whispered, “the vessel of my wrath.”

  The fire dragon dropped through the clouds like a falling star, like the Destruction itself. Its eyes shone bright as the hearts of forges. Its mouth gaped wide. White-hot flames burst forth, slamming down upon Kristophan. Fearful cries became wails of agony as the flames swept over the plaza. The lake boiled, its cherry trees becoming torches. The bronze ship cracked, then began to melt. The giant statues ran down their pillars like glowing candle wax.

  Forlo stood amid it all, fire surging around him, obliterating everything. All of Kristophan was in flames. Chunks of it broke away, tumbling into the sea. Despair clouded his vision, choked him, left him cold and numb.

  And Maladar laughed.

  Chapter

  27

  ILMACHRUTANDABRUNTHABRAM, BILO COLUMNS