Shadow of the Flame - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  Between, there was nothing but bubbling, molten rock: mile upon mile of it. The gods had done that to his empire, his beloved Aurim. They had sent flame and stone plummeting from the heavens, had delayed his return for centuries when they smashed the empire into oblivion.

  Had it been deserved? Possibly. The later emperors had been seeking ways to push their power beyond the mortal realm, it was said. The Faceless Brethren had said that, in the end, one had found a way to achieve godliness, and the gods had acted to stop him. Of course, no one knew for sure: anyone there had died that day, so there were only scattered scraps of history to go by. The truth was probably more complicated. It usually was. But it was gone, lost forever in the fire … like Aurim itself.

  “No,” he murmured. “Not forever.”

  Maladar shut his eyes, opening himself to the black moon. Nuvis was waning, a mere sliver of itself, but it didn’t matter; he drank deep of its power, all the same. Some on Krynn saw the black moon change that day, saw it swell full. Few could see it at all, though, so it went unnoticed except by a bare, troubled few. Then it was done, fading back to a crescent again.

  Maladar held the power, filling him with euphoria. Wine, dreamleaf, lovemaking—all were mere shadows of that rapture. He retained it as long as he could, savoring it. Then, when he feared he might burst, that the magic might burn him up from inside, he began to chant, to move his one good hand, tracing complex patterns in the air, forcing the sorcery out through his fingertips.

  “Rise!” he cried, throwing his arms wide. “Rise, my kingdom!”

  The magic erupted around him, forming clouds that spat black rain. The black rain fell all around the Chaldar, evaporating as it struck the lava. When it did, the sea stopped moving. A tremor shook the tower, making it jump beneath Maladar’s feet. He smiled, looking down at the Cauldron. The rain intensified, slashing down, raising great gouts of steam. Black thunderbolts flared, striking the magma, throwing gobs of it into the air. And the Cauldron began to roll, molten rock rising up from beneath.

  Yes, it was working. Yes.

  “I am Maladar!” he cried. “I am the one true emperor! This is my realm! Come forth, City of Songs! Rise anew, and be reborn!”

  The roiling grew stronger. Geysers of magma erupted as the rain hammered down. The Chaldar trembled, green flames running up its length.

  Then, at last, dark shapes began to emerge from the heart of the Burning Sea. They were dull gray and glistening black, obsidian and basalt, domes and spires and colonnades, clustered on hills of smoldering pumice. The lava receded around them, running down streets of cooling glass. Charred husks of trees lined the boulevards; gardens of ash trembled in the midst of broad plazas. An island was surfacing from the depths … and on it, a vast city.

  His city.

  It had begun. Aurim was rising again.

  The streets were empty, silent. All the windows were dark. No water flowed in the fountains. No stalls crowded the markets. There were no bright awnings or banners, no blooms in the gardens, no frescoes on the walls; no colors at all to that place of black and gray, save for the ruddy glow of the Cauldron and the Chaldar’s blue shine. The scents of a city—the spices and incense, the sweat and filth—were absent as well. There was only smoke and brimstone. The wind sighed down vacant avenues, throwing up whirlwinds of soot.

  Forlo walked the streets by himself and felt lonelier than he had ever felt in his life. Aurim was a metropolis three times the size even of Kristophan at its height; half a million people could dwell there easily, swelling to two or three times that number at the height of the summer trading season. It ought to have been packed with laborers and merchants, priests and soldiers, nobles and servants, but there was no one. Aurim was a place of ghosts, a City of Whispers.

  He gazed up at a statue of black iron, perched atop an obsidian plinth, and felt his stomach clench. Like all the statues he’d seen since coming down from the burning tower, it was shaped in his likeness. It had his gaunt face, his charred armor and tattered clothes. But at the same time, it wasn’t him at all: its stance was one of arms-folded arrogance, the head cocked back. Its expression was twisted into a sneer. The sculpted figure looked like Forlo, but it was all Maladar.

  His eyes turned away from the statue, back to the city itself, bereft and silent as anywhere he’d ever seen. Black rain continued to drizzle down from the clouds above.

  This is what you will rule over? he thought at Maladar. Ashes and dust? Halls home to nothing but wind?

  Maladar laughed, his mirth filled with scorn.

  For now, he said. Only for now. Those who survive will bow before me. They will come dwell in this place. I will raise the meadows and mountains again, and my new thralls shall toil in the fields and mines. They will make war on my enemies. Aurim will find its old glory. It will surely take time—decades, maybe even centuries—but it will happen. Perhaps, if you are lucky, I will keep you alive long enough to see it. If not, your ghost can always be bound to this place.

  Forlo wanted to scoff at the notion. He wanted to call Maladar mad, his dream empty, but he couldn’t. He saw it in his mind: men and dwarves, goblins and ogres, even minotaurs submitting themselves to the emperor who had traveled through time and death to rule again. If it was the only alternative to doom beneath the fire dragon and the Kheten Voi, many would submit. Not every being valued his honor above life; indeed, when it came down to it, most simply preferred survival. Good people bowed to evil rulers all the time; even in the League, they had submitted to Emperor Rekhaz. The power to choose between light and darkness meant that, at least as often as not, people made the wrong choice.

  Maladar was right. Aurim would not stay empty long.

  He kept walking, down a long slope from the hilltop where the Chaldar stood in place of the imperial palace—the only part of the city that was different from how it had been when Maladar reigned. Many-columned buildings loomed on both sides, their windows staring like the eyes of skulls. The main street opened into a broad square where more statues towered. Beyond that were docks, jet-black jetties extending into a river of lava, with another bleak, dark skyline rising on the far side. Towers and obelisks stood black against the crimson-glowing clouds.

  The plaza by the riverbank was not empty. The Kheten Voi awaited him, assembled row upon row, standing still except for their heads, which tilted slowly downward, always staring directly at him as he descended a flight of cinder-caked steps to the square. Their eyes gleamed in the smoldering haze. His army stood ready, awaiting orders.

  He had already sent the fire minions to war, unleashing them upon the gnomes of Bilo. It was time to send forth the rest of his forces. He strode across the plaza, beneath the towering pillars, and climbed onto a high platform where poets and musicians had performed, back in the days when Aurim was a living place. Drifts of ash lay scattered across its surface. He walked through them and turned to look out upon the Voi.

  As one, they faced him.

  “The time has come,” Maladar declared through Forlo’s lips. “Chaos reigns across the face of Taladas. The minotaurs war amongst themselves. The tribes of the Tamire are scattered, crushed. The Rainward Isles reel in disarray. Thenol has fallen to war. Death and destruction have visited Panak, Armach, and the Emerald Sea. All across the continent, the iron lies waiting upon the anvil. It wants only the hammer’s blow. And you, my children, you will be that hammer. The cities and the tribes will fall to you, one by one. Only those who lay down their swords before you, who agree to surrender, shall be spared. They will follow you. Your ranks will grow.

  “You,” he said, pointing to the nearest of the stone soldiers. “Come forward.”

  The Voi did as he bade, stomping toward him, up the steps and onto the platform. Its legs creaking and cracking, it dropped to one knee before him. Forlo laid his fingertips upon its brow and shut his eyes, murmuring spidery words.

  Magic flowed through him, dark and intoxicating. It poured out through his hand, and into the Kheten Vo
i. The statue grew warm, the light in its eyes darkening to violet. When Maladar lifted Forlo’s hand away, there was more than blind obedience in those eyes: a malicious intelligence shone through. Forlo wasn’t sure, but he thought the statue’s draconic features changed as well; they seemed less fierce, more cunning.

  “You will be my voice,” he said. “When our enemies submit, when they swear to serve me in exchange for their lives, they will kneel before you.”

  “Yes, my lord,” said the Voi in a voice like stones being rubbed together. “They will bow to me.”

  Maladar’s lips curled into a smile. He stepped back. “Rise, then, and go to war.”

  He extended his hands, pointing at the blazing river. The power of Nuvis coursed through him, and the surface of the lava simmered again. More shapes rose from the depths: long ships of stone, with tall masts that looked like trees that had died in a forest fire. They emerged all along the banks and at the docks, more than a hundred within sight, and many more around the river’s bends. The Voi turned and marched toward them, following shouted orders from their leader. One by one, they stepped aboard the ships, and gray sails unfurled, throwing up clouds of billowing soot. Then the sails filled, catching the hot winds, and the boats began to move.

  Forlo watched them go, pulling away from the docks and sailing downriver. He felt hollow inside. The League would fall, and the other realms of Taladas after that. Aurim would rise in their place. Maladar would forge a new world from the ruins. It had already begun. And he could only watch, helpless, as everything he knew came to an end.

  Chapter

  31

  THE BURNING SEA, HITH’S CAULDRON

  Molten rock fanned through the air, soaring high and far before splashing back down. The wheel turned fast, hurtling the Varya across the Cauldron, devouring the miles at a speed Shedara had seen a sailing ship achieve only once before without the aid of magic, and that had been running full-out at the leading edge of a storm so powerful it had drowned entire towns when it came ashore.

  She had given up trying to understand how the fireship moved so quickly; the wheel was powered by steam made by the furnace, like most gnomish machinery, but how that could be enough to push a heavy boat through magma as fast as a skysteed could fly? None of the others could figure it out either, and the gnomes weren’t about to tell their secrets.

  Shedara let her gaze linger on the paddlewheel a while longer, then glanced in the direction of Bilo. The columns were almost out of sight, only their tops visible above the horizon. The siege would be underway, the minoi of Ilmach using their water cannons and repeating crossbows and the gods knew what else to repel the kurshakur. Nosk had assured them, several times, that the gnomes could seal themselves up for years, sheltering from the fire minions in their stone citadel. Nothing could get in or out.

  She wasn’t sure, though, and neither were Hult and Nakhil. After Suluk, after everything, how could they feel any confidence? Maladar was too cunning. She couldn’t shake the feeling that, if the Varya ever returned, it would find its home port in ruins, its halls scorched down to bare rock, the bodies of gnomes scattered and charred to black skeletons.

  She sighed. Whatever the case, it was beyond her power. She couldn’t stop the devastation, any more than she’d been able to stop anything since the Faceless Brethren died. The gnomes, and the Glass Sailors beyond them, would either live or die. Never mind, then. There were other things she had to worry about. One was standing at the Varya’s rail beside her, gazing ahead, toward the Chaldar.

  “He is waiting,” Azar murmured. “I can sense him, at the top of the tower. His war has begun, his armies are on the move. But something troubles him. He doesn’t have the power he believed, and he doesn’t know why.”

  Shedara studied Azar. He looked as old as his father had: though he had no beard, gray showed in his hair at the temples, and harsh lines etched his brow and around his mouth. Maladar’s power had done that.

  “What about us?” she asked. “Does he know we’re coming?”

  Azar shut his eyes, concentrating, then shook his head. “Not yet … but soon. If I can sense him, he will be able to sense me as well, before long.”

  “And then he’ll know,” she said. “He’ll understand why his power’s limited. It’s because of you … because you share his soul.”

  “Yes. Without me, he can never be complete.”

  And we’re bringing you straight to him, Shedara thought. Her mouth twisted. We really ought to hide you away, where he won’t find you in a thousand years. There are places … perhaps across the sea, in that place called Ansalon. Or we could just kill you, send the scrap of his soul to the gods, where he’ll never get it.

  The idea was tempting. She bent her arm slightly, preparing to drop a knife into her hand. That and a quick stab, from his left side through the ribs … that was all it would take. Quick, easy. Dump him over the side, let the Cauldron devour the remains. She straightened her wrist, and the hilt slipped into her palm. She took a step toward him, the blade hidden from view. She’d done it before. Shedara was a thief, not an assassin, but that didn’t mean she’d never killed anyone.

  “What will he do when he finds out?” she asked.

  Azar never looked away from the Chaldar. “Send his minions for us. There are still many that haven’t gone to war, no matter what the gnomes believe. They will try to take me and bring me to him.”

  “And if they do?” Shedara took another step closer, gripping the dagger firmly. Yes, one good stab, and Maladar would be thwarted forever.…

  “I said they would try,” Azar replied.

  He might have smiled slightly, or it might have been a trick of the light. Whatever it was, it was soon gone. He turned his head and looked directly at her, his eyes gleaming orange in the Cauldron’s glow.

  Shedara froze, holding the blade motionless. She forced herself to keep her expression calm, friendly.

  “You haven’t asked the real question yet,” Azar said. “The one you truly want to ask.”

  Shedara swallowed. “All right. What happens when we reach the Chaldar? What are we going to do?”

  “No,” Azar said. “That still isn’t it. You know most of the answer to that. You’re going to ascend the tower, and you’re going to try to destroy Maladar, even if you have to kill my father to do it. I know this, though you have tried to keep it secret from me. What you intend is no mystery.

  “It’s what I’m going to do that troubles you.” His gaze turned back toward the Chaldar. “Because of what I carry. Because he and I are one.”

  There was only the roar of flames and the constant churning of the Varya’s wheel. Shedara bit her lip, looking around. Nakhil was dozing on the other side of the boat. Hult was with the gnomes, helping them run the ship. Neither would see. She could make up a story, a lie to tell: an accident … something. She took another step, bringing her right beside Azar, the dagger between them. No one would see. It would take only a moment.

  “I won’t deny it,” she said. “I want to trust you, Azar, but … well, it’s Maladar, even if it’s only the smallest part of him.”

  “I know,” he said. “I hear that part speaking to me, in the silence. It says … terrible things.” His mouth pinched, his hand tightening around the Varya’s rail. “Even now, it tells me to take the knife from your hand and kill you with it.”

  He moved then, so fast she had no idea how he did it. Maybe it was Maladar’s magic; maybe he was just that quick. All Shedara knew was, one moment she was holding the blade near his ribs, tensed to jab it into his heart; the next, her hand was numb, her wrist hurt like the Abyss, and Azar was pressing her dagger against her own throat, just hard enough that the slightest twitch from either of them would pierce skin and jugular.

  “Azar,” she breathed.

  “He wants me to cut you open,” Azar said. “He wants me to kill everyone on this boat and come to the Chaldar alone.”

  Shedara stiffened. “You’re … you’re not goi
ng to, though. Right?”

  He met her gaze a moment longer, then grimaced as if someone had just punched him in the stomach. He stepped back and opened his fingers, letting the knife drop. It clattered against the Varya’s metal deck.

  “No,” Azar said, shaking his head. “But I may not always be able to resist. The voice grows stronger, the closer we get to my father. Who knows what will happen when I’m standing before him?”

  Sweet Astar, Shedara thought. “That wasn’t the answer I was hoping for.”

  “I know it isn’t.” Azar sighed. “You want me to tell you I’ll hold my ground, that I won’t falter or break. You want me to promise I’ll help you defeat Maladar. But … I can’t. That’s the truth. When the time comes, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

  “Then we may have to kill you too,” she said. “If it comes to a choice between our lives and yours.”

  Azar looked up at her. He looked even older. He seemed to be aging by the hour. “I know,” he said, his eyes shining. “And I don’t blame you. But you won’t succeed. If that time comes, you will die first, just as sure as I took that knife from you.”

  Shedara was still dwelling on those ominous words, staring up at the Chaldar, when a shout arose from the Varya’s bow. It was the lookout, Yorgam. He was bellowing in the gnomish language, which sounded to her ears like someone speaking three times normal speed and backward. He grew more frantic as he shouted, gesticulating wildly ahead and to starboard.