Margaret Weis - Dragons of Summer Flame

Reorx cast a nervous glance upward. “As... as it so happens, revered Father of All—”

“Father of All and of Nothing," the giant corrected with an ominous emphasis on the latter.

Reorx was shaken, but he stammered on. “It... it was a bit of an accident. I was forging the stone, intending to capture just a tiny wee portion of chaos, when—and I’m still not certain how this happened—but it seems I ended up capturing Yourself.”

“And why didn’t you free me then?”

The heat of the Father’s anger beat on the dwarf. He coughed in the thickening smoke.

“I would have!” Reorx gasped with desperate sincerity. “Believe me, Father of All, I would have freed you then and there, had I known what I had done. But I didn’t. I swear! I—”

“Fool!” The Father’s rage set the grass all around the dwarf ablaze. “You and my thankless children conspired to imprison me. Am I to be captured by one puny god? It took the powers of all of you combined to hold me captive. But, though you had captured me, you couldn’t control me. I did damage enough to your precious toys. And all the while I searched for one of your puppets, who could be tricked into freeing me. And finally I found him.”

The giant cast a glance at the Decider. Casually he placed his huge, booted foot on the man’s body and stomped it, crushed it, ground it into the dirt. Bones cracked. Blood welled out from beneath the giant’s boot.

Reorx, sickened, turned away his head. He had the distinct and unhappy impression that he was next.

The giant knew what the dwarf was thinking. The Father gazed down on Reorx, long and grimly, enjoying watching the god squirm.

“Yes, I could squash you as well, but not now. Not yet.” The Father looked again at the heavens, and he shook his fist at the stars. “You refused to pay me homage. You refused to be guided by me. You went your own ways to ‘create’ a world, fill that world with dolls and puppets. Well, my children, as I gave you life, so I can take it away. I am weak now, since I’ve been forced to assume mortal form, but my power grows by the second. When I am ready, I will destroy your plaything, then cast you and your creation back into the oblivion out of which you were made. Beware, Children. The Father of All and of Nothing has returned.”

The Father turned his attention back to the dwarf. “You will be my messenger. In case they didn’t hear me, go to them and warn my children of the doom that awaits them. I will enjoy seeing them try to escape me for a change! And show them this!”

The Father plucked a strand of flame from his beard and cast it among the pine trees. First one, then another caught fire, exploding into flame. The still-living trees writhed in agony as their limbs were consumed in the roaring inferno.

Reorx knelt among the smoke and the ashes, helpless to stop the blaze that was rapidly spreading from the pines to the other trees in the tinder-dry forest. Flames leapt from tree to tree. Flames sizzled over the ground. The flames burned even the air, left it scorched and empty. The flames created their own wind, that roared and drove the fire onward.

Within seconds, the firestorm reached the Irda village.

Over the rush of wind, the crackle of flames, Reorx heard the screams of the dying. Covering his face with his hands, the god wept... for the Irda, for the world.

The Protector sat stunned and immobile in his house. He knew—all the Irda knew—that the Decider was dead. They heard booming thunder that seemed to be words, but the words were too enormous, too monstrous, to be understood. And then the Protector, looking out his window, saw the red glow of the flames. He heard the cries of the dying pine trees.

The glow grew brighter. He could feel the heat. Cinders began raining down on his house and, soon, his roof was burning. He looked out the window, uncertain what—if anything—to do.

Several elder Irda appeared, attempted to stop the fire with their magic. They summoned rain. It evaporated in the heat. They summoned ice. It melted to water and sizzled away. They summoned wind. It blew the wrong direction, only fanned the flames. The Protector watched as, one by one, the Irda were consumed.

A distant neighbor ran out of her burning house. She was screaming something about the ocean. If they could reach the sea, they would be safe.

Flames, running through the grass, caught hold of the hem of the woman’s skirt like a playful, deadly child.

The woman’s clothing burst into flame. She became a living torch.

The roof of the Protector’s house was engulfed now. From somewhere in the back came a crash: a beam falling.

The Protector coughed, choked. While he could still see through the smoke, he searched the house until he found the precious object.

He held the doll clasped to his breast and waited—not long—for the end.

***

Far out to sea, the sailboat began to pitch and lurch in a hot wind that was blowing from the north. The erratic motion—a change from the gentle rocking that had lulled her to sleep—woke Usha from a sound sleep. At first she was disoriented, couldn’t remember where she was. The sight of sails and masts, pointing toward the heavens and the clustering stars, reassured her.

Hearing thunder, she sat up, scanned the dark skies for the storm. She had no fear the boat would capsize; Irda magic would keep it afloat in the strongest gale.

Flickering lightning came from the north, from the direction of her homeland. She watched it, then saw a lurid red glow light the sky. The Decider must be working his magic.

Usha could not go back to sleep. She sat huddled in the stern, watching the red glow grow brighter and brighter. Then she watched it begin to dwindle, fade away.

Usha smiled. The magic must have been very powerful. And it must have worked.

“You will be safe now, Protector,” she said softly.

As she spoke, the clear, sweet call of trumpets drifted over the water. Usha turned.

The sun was rising up out of the water, looking like a red and fiery eye glaring in hatred at the world. Bathed in that strange light, the spires of the city of Palanthas glistened blood red.

The bodies of the Knights of Solamnia had been laid out in a long row upon the sands of the shore of Thoradin Bay. There were not many of them, only eighteen. They had been wiped out, to a man. Their squires lay in a row behind them. These, too, had all died. There was no one left to tend to the dead except for their enemies.

A hot wind swirled among the sand and tall grasses, lifted and plucked at the torn and blood-spattered capes that had been draped across the men’s lifeless forms.

A knight officer supervised the burial detail.

“They fought bravely.” He pronounced the dead knights’ epithet. “Outnumbered, taken by surprise, they might have turned and run and none the wiser. Yet they stood their ground, even when they knew they must be defeated. Lord Ariakan has ordered us to bury them with full honor. Lay out each man properly, place his weapons at his side. The ground is too marshy to bury the bodies. I am told a cave has been found, not far from here. We will entomb the bodies within, seal it up and mark it as a resting place for brave men. Have you examined the bodies? Is there any way we can determine their names, Knight Warrior Brightblade?”

“There was one survivor, sir,” the knight reported, saluting his superior.

“Indeed? I hadn’t known.”

“A white-robed mage, sir. He was captured at the last.”

“Ah, of course.” The subcommander was not surprised. Mages fought at the rear of armies, casting their magical spells from safe places, since they were prohibited by the constraints of their art from wearing armor or carrying more conventional weaponry. “Odd that Knights of Solamnia should have been using a wizard. That would have never happened in the old days. Still, times change. This mage must know the names of the dead. Have him brought here to identify them, that we may do them honor when we lay them to rest. Where is he now?”