Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two

by James Wyatt

  She cupped his cheek in her hand, but he couldn’t feel anything. “You need to stay alive, love.”

  “Why?”

  “You have to save the world, remember? That’s why we came here.”

  “I could have been immortal, Ree. I could’ve stepped into the Crystal Spire and been a god. Do you know why I didn’t?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Because of you, Ree. I wanted to be with you.”

  Tears streamed down her face, and she clutched him to her. “So don’t leave now. I love you.”

  He still couldn’t feel her touch. “You’re not really here, are you?” he murmured, his eyes drooping.

  “No, love. You’re all alone.”

  A dragonborn stood in the open door, and Gaven waited for his latest hallucination to deliver its message. Chains rattled in her hands, and she stepped close, cautiously, to clap a manacle on Gaven’s wrist. When he didn’t move, she rolled him over and pulled his arms behind him, binding his hands together. A longer chain went on his ankles, then Lissa tried to pull him to his feet. He couldn’t stand.

  She breathed a hiss or a sigh from the corners of her mouth. “Stop the river, and the city will fall,” she said. “Perhaps we let the siege go on too long, but we thought you a worthy and dangerous foe.” She lifted him over one shoulder. “We couldn’t risk your escape.”

  Gaven’s head turned enough as she walked to give him a vague sense of stone halls, dimly lit with oil lamps, but mostly he saw her back or closed his eyes, expecting at any moment to wake up in his cell.

  Lissa set him down on his feet, but he slumped back to the floor—smooth, polished marble, rich black laced with veins of purest white. He saw Lissa drop down beside him, pressing her face to the floor.

  “He is weak.” The voice sounded like bones rubbing together, a whisper.

  Lissa raised her head only slightly, still facing the floor. “He has been denied food and water for six days,” she said. “We had to be sure he would not try to escape.”

  “There certainly seems to be no risk of that.”

  Gaven tried to raise his head to see the one speaking, but he couldn’t.

  “Is he strong enough to endure the Dragon Forge?” the whisper asked.

  Lissa brought her face lower again. “I fear he is not.”

  “My lord.” Another whispery voice, this one familiar—the Thuranni. It took Gaven a moment to remember his name and his face. Phaine. “If I may be so bold, I suggest that we transport him to the Forge in his weakened state and bring him back to a semblance of health once we arrive.”

  “You may not be so bold.” The whisper grated harshly. “You suggest nothing I have not already planned. You will remember your place, randravekk.” Giant-slave—a harsh word recalling the ancient history of the elves among the giants of Xen’drik. Phaine didn’t respond.

  The voice grew closer. “Let me see his mark.”

  Lissa stood and lifted Gaven to his knees, and he looked for the first time on the dragon-king of Rav Magar. No flesh covered the bones of the enormous dragon, except for tatters of leathery skin between the bones of its wings. Its bones were blackened as though by fire, but deep violet light shone in the grooves of arcane lettering carved into nearly every surface. Purple fire danced in its eye sockets, set deep between two long horns curving forward around its tooth-filled snout.

  The skeletal head came close and the burning eyes peered at his neck, his bare chest, and his arm. Gaven’s dragonmark tingled, a faint memory of his agonizing dream. He remembered Rienne’s finger tracing the lines of his mark and the glimpse of his destiny he’d seen.

  “Why does the Prophecy mock us so, writing itself on the flesh of these creatures? Is it not defiled when it is written on meat?”

  The dragon-king stretched out a bony claw and scratched a bloody line down Gaven’s chest. “No matter,” the dragon said. “The Dragon Forge will purify it.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  Farren led the Ghaash’kala back to Maruk Dar, unerringly choosing a path through the twisted and branching canyons of the Labyrinth. When they neared the city, Aric was surprised to see another band approaching the city from the opposite direction and still another group already inside the walls.

  Reading his face, Farren explained. “Four times a year, the Maruk Ghaash’kala return as one to Maruk Dar. We celebrate the victories of the past season, mourn the fallen, and renew our vows. You will make your formal vow at a ceremony two days hence.”

  My formal vow? Aric thought. That’s right—the one where I commit my life to Kalok Shash and the calling of the Ghaash’kala. The one I’ll break as soon as I think I can find my way out of here.

  He wondered if he could escape the city before two days had passed.

  The mood in the city was celebratory—friends and relatives from different warbands were coming together again for the first time in three months, embracing and laughing and trading stories. Children, dressed like warriors in uniforms of leather armor, ran through the streets to find their parents. Food appeared, such as it was—ground squirrels and rabbits caught near the Shadowcrags, the scant produce of dry gardens within the city walls, all heavily spiced and salted. Aric wandered the streets and squares for a while, enjoying the vicarious experience of community and fellowship. Then fatigue crept into his legs and a dull ache gnawed at his heart, and he tried to find the barracks he had briefly called home before setting out with Farren’s band.

  Just as he thought he’d spotted the right place, he found himself encircled by humans—black haired, scar-faced barbarians like … like himself, he remembered. They wore grim expressions but spoke words of welcome, inviting him to join them at their table, half-dragging him when he tried to refuse. They pressed a wooden cup into his hand, and the evident leader of the gang, a tall and wiry man with his face so covered with scars that it was barely recognizable as human, put an arm around Aric’s shoulders.

  “I’m Dakar,” he said. “I keep an eye on this lot.”

  “Aric.”

  “What’s your story, then?” His face was too close to Aric’s, and his breath reeked of whatever strong liquor they were drinking. “How’d you hear the call?”

  Aric stared into his drink, trying to identify the viscous liquid. How did one hear the call of Kalok Shash? He decided to tell a story that was close to the truth—such lies were usually easiest to maintain.

  “Pangs of conscience,” he said, shaking his head. That was all too true, and he still wasn’t sure how it had happened. “My tribe was torturing some men they captured in the Labyrinth, and it made me sick. I wandered off and into the Labyrinth.” He paused to gauge his audience’s reaction. He needed a touch more. “I must have heard the call of Kalok Shash, even if I didn’t recognize it at the time. Or why would I flee into the Labyrinth?”

  Several of the others nodded, staring into their own drinks.

  The woman on his left leaned in close as well, her black hair streaked with red and her face half-covered by a blotchy red birthmark. “What happened?” she said.

  “I wandered for days, and finally I collapsed—hunger and thirst, exhaustion, maybe despair. And that’s when Kalok Shash lifted me up.” He saw a few eyebrows rise, and he wondered if he’d made the sacred flame sound too human, too physical. “Farren found me. He issued the challenge, and I just had strength to call on Kalok Shash. So he brought me here.”

  “That’s it?” the woman asked. Her S was slightly slurred from her liquor.

  Aric shrugged. He had no idea what further elements a conversion story should contain, at least among these people. “There might have been more,” he offered. “I was half-dead for quite a while.”

  The woman laughed. “For me,” she said, “Kalok Shash came as I was fighting against the Ghaash’kala. My companions were dead. I had killed fourteen orcs myself, and only three were left. They offered me mercy and I promised them a swift death like their fellows.” She wore a savage grin, and as she looked
around the table most of her companions returned it. This was the warrior pride of the Carrion Tribes, Aric realized. Probably no more than half true.

  The grin dropped from the woman’s face as she continued. “Then all the dead ones, they got up and surrounded me. Or at least their spirits did. They closed in on me, and started blowing around like a whirlwind of fire. I couldn’t move, and my skin burned. I fell, and Kalok Shash burned the evil out of me.”

  “And the Ghaash’kala spared you,” Aric said.

  “No. I was forced to kill them. I did my penance when I took my vows.”

  “When was that?”

  “This past Highsun, the last gathering.”

  Aric turned to Dakar, whose arm was still casually draped around his shoulder. “What about you?”

  Dakar’s scarred face twisted into what might have been a grin—Aric was reminded for a moment of Zandar. “My conversion happened when he took over my tribe,” he said.

  He—that could only mean Kathrik Mel.

  “I was advisor to the chieftain,” the man continued, “so encountering Kalok Shash seemed like a good idea.”

  That explained the sardonic smile. Dakar’s “conversion” was a sham, and his oath was pretense. Aric wondered how many of the others here had similar stories. Most of them looked disappointed, and the woman on his left shook her head in disgust. But they tolerated this pretender as their leader.

  “How long have you been here?” Aric asked.

  “The longest of any of us. This is my third gathering.”

  Aric looked around the table. “You’ve all been here less than two seasons?” The half-dozen other barbarians nodded, looking perplexed by Aric’s amazement.

  “We don’t last long here,” Dakar said. “This will probably be my last gathering.”

  “But you’ve already survived one excursion,” the woman said to Aric. “That’s a good start.”

  “See any action?” the man asked.

  “Some. We killed a band of Plaguebearers.”

  Dakar withdrew his arm from Aric’s shoulder, to his relief, and everyone else at the table seemed to shrink away from him. Aric took advantage of the moment of stunned silence to choke down the foul-tasting liquor they’d given him.

  “You were lucky,” the woman said. “Sooner or later, they get us all. You can never really leave the Carrion Tribes.”

  After his mention of Plaguebearers, none of the barbarians were willing to touch him, so he managed to escape and make his way to the building he’d identified as his barracks. He slept heavily and woke feeling groggy. His body ached from too many days and nights in the Labyrinth, and he lay in his hard bed for a long time, hoping in vain to fall back asleep.

  He gave up and found his way to the mess hall, but no sooner had he sat down with a plate of food than a great bell tolled somewhere in the heart of the city. He saw the orcs around him look up, shovel a last bite or two into their mouths, and head for the door, so he did the same. As the bell continued its somber tolling, crowds filed into the central city square, where a slender bell tower ornamented with carved flames rose high overhead. No one spoke—each citizen walked slowly, head bowed.

  An orc woman stood at the center of the square, and Aric realized that the square was actually depressed like a shallow amphitheater, making it easier to see over the heads of orcs in front of him. The priestess was draped in ceremonial robes dyed emerald green. A length of silver chain hung around her neck almost to the ground. As the last toll of the bell faded into a lingering shimmer of sound, she raised her arms.

  “Maruk Ghaash’kala,” she said, and her booming voice carried easily through the plaza. “As the sun begins its slow descent into winter’s night, we gather again to mourn the dead. We celebrate that their spirits have joined Kalok Shash, strengthening our case, even as we grieve the loss of their blades and their physical presence beside us.”

  Aric tried to imagine Sevren and Zandar incorporated into Kalok Shash, their spirits merged with those of all the Ghaash’kala who had died protecting the Labyrinth and the world beyond from the evils of the Demon Wastes. Joined, perhaps, with the noble knights and paladins of the Silver Flame across the world who gave their lives in service to their higher calling.

  He couldn’t. They hadn’t died in any noble pursuit—he’d killed them, leading them into the nightmare of the Labyrinth in order to spark a new war. How many of the Ghaash’kala would soon die because of him?

  His thoughts turned to Vor, and there at least he found some comfort. He had no difficulty whatsoever imagining the noble orc’s spirit joined in the eternal Silver Flame—joined with Dania’s spirit, perhaps.

  A line had formed among the crowd, and people were filing forward to stand before the priestess and speak the names of those who had fallen. After each name, the priestess chanted a simple response: “Kalok Shash burns brighter.” Aric imagined Vor’s spirit as a brilliant mote in a stream of fire.

  Silently, Aric mouthed his own list of names: Vor Helden. Sevren Thorn. Zandar Thuul. Dania ir’Vran. Kalok Shash burns brighter.

  Farren stood by the priestess now, and he recited a dozen names, some of which Aric recognized—they were warriors who had fought beside him against the Plaguebearers and fallen. Some of them had died trying to protect him.

  His voice choked with grief, Farren spoke one more name: “Durrnak Durashka, my brother.”

  The paladin who had stood against them in the Labyrinth, the old friend Vor had killed—Durrnak was Farren’s brother.

  “Kalok Shash burns brighter.”

  Aric felt suddenly light-headed, and his stomach churned. This ceremony is not for me, he thought. I’m not part of this community—I have no business prying into their grief.

  He worked his way out of the crowd and back to his bed. Finally, sleep claimed him again.

  The war drums of the Carrion Tribes beat a slow cadence as the hordes marched eastward, spilling into the Labyrinth. The cadence shifted to double time, then resolved into a knocking at the door. He bolted awake with no idea of where he was, and he reflexively put a hand to his face.

  He had no face—it was a blank canvas waiting for someone to paint features on it. Another knock rattled the door, and he tried to remember who he was supposed to be. He had never, since he was a child, awakened without a face. He was ashamed.

  Aric, he remembered. Wide jaw, thin nose, long black hair. Scars on his cheeks. He’d never seen Aric’s eyes. He could only hope he made them the right shade of blue.

  “Come in,” he murmured.

  Farren pushed the door open and stepped in. “Are you ill?”

  “I was dreaming.”

  “What did you dream?”

  “War drums.” Aric forced a grin—just a matter of moving the right muscles. “Must’ve been your knocking.”

  “I neglected you yesterday,” Farren said. “We need to prepare you for the ceremony tonight.”

  “Prepare me? How?”

  Farren tossed him a bundle of white linen. “Put that on,” the orc said. “We’ll spend the day in the tower. I’ll teach you about Kalok Shash, and about the vow you’ll be taking tonight. I’ll leave in the early afternoon, and you’ll spend the rest of the day in prayer, until the ceremony begins at sundown.”

  Aric nodded, and Farren stepped back into the doorway. He started to pull the door closed behind him, then turned back. “Aric, listen,” he said. “There are some humans here among us purely out of expedience—they took the oath without any sincerity and they don’t give a damn about Kalok Shash. They’re only trying to prolong their lives a few months.”

  “So I’ve seen.”

  “You are my responsibility, and you will not be one of those. I will know what’s in your heart, and if I don’t see at least the glimmerings of true faith, you will not take the oath tonight.”

  “Then what?”

  “I’ll kill you myself.”

  “Make it solid,” Aric whispered. Eyes closed, he reviewed every detail
of his face and body, cementing them in his memory. He immersed himself in the persona of a Carrion Tribe barbarian who had heard the call of Kalok Shash, a man wracked with remorse over his past evils and truly aflame with his new-found faith. That part was not too difficult, but Farren’s warning had made him worry that the paladin might see deeper into Aric’s heart than either of them would like.

  Farren returned much too soon. Aric looked hopefully in at the mess hall as they passed, but it was deserted. Farren explained that the third day of gathering was a fast day, making Aric wish he’d eaten more the night before. They walked in silence to the bell tower at the central plaza and climbed a long stair to a room near the top.

  The rest of the tower was deserted. Aric had expected to see at least a handful of other new arrivals who would take the vow with him tonight. The thought of standing alone before a gathering of the whole Maruk Ghaash’kala made him nervous. His work generally demanded that he lie low, avoiding attention that might lead to discovery. He’d been good at his work, once. Now here he was, preparing to stand up and face the attention of the whole orc clan.

  He had trouble concentrating as Farren ran through the teachings of Kalok Shash, but it didn’t matter much. Farren thought he was an ignorant barbarian and presented his faith in the simplest possible terms. Even with only half an ear on the paladin’s words, he had no trouble following the simplistic theology—

  The spirits of the Ghaash’kala’s dead warriors were gathered into the Binding Flame, a spiritual power that warded off evil and kept the fiendish beings of the Demon Wastes imprisoned in their shattered land. As servants of the Binding Flame, the Ghaash’kala shared the same mission—preventing the evils of the Wastes from spilling out into Khorvaire.

  “Listen well now,” Farren said, forcing Aric back to attention. “The day I found you in the Labyrinth—you died that day. You are a ghost now, privileged to spend your last, fleeting days on this world serving Kalok Shash, proving yourself worthy to join its holy flame. You are already dead. So when a man’s club smashes your skull or a fiend’s claws rip out your heart, that is simply the completion of your spirit’s journey from life to Kalok Shash. You have already given your life to Kalok Shash, and you will never live again.”