by James Wyatt
Before the falling roof reached the ground, they were gone.
Gaven lay on broken ground, looking up at a clear blue sky that framed the angry face of the copper dragon. Its horns were similar to the red’s, but their bases met between the dragon’s eyes to form a V shape atop its skull. Its eyes were smooth pools of liquid turquoise, burning with fury.
“You thought to escape us, meat?” the dragon growled. “You think your power is a match for ours?”
Phaine, the other dragons, and the undead dragon-king stood around them in the same positions they had occupied in the chamber. Gaven’s body ached from the dragon’s attack, even though its claws hadn’t torn his flesh. He was utterly spent.
“Enough, Aggrand,” the dragon-king hissed. “He has failed.”
Still snarling, the copper dragon stepped off Gaven and backed away to its place in the circle. There was a circle traced in the ground here, a faint echo of the elaborate carving in the chamber they’d left behind. It might have been scratched in the dirt with a stick, but its lines were carefully drawn to match the whorls and words of the original. Rocky canyon walls rose up on two sides, framing the sky.
He tried to sit up and look around, but the tip of Phaine’s sword appeared at his throat. His head fell back to the ground, and he watched a cloud begin to form in the cloudless sky.
“Knock him out,” the dragon-king said. “We will have no more storms to ruin this perfect day.”
Sword still at Gaven’s throat, Phaine kicked at his head. It was a precise blow despite its savagery. Gaven struggled for a moment to keep the darkness from closing in on his vision, but a second kick tipped him over the edge into oblivion.
Blue light. Gaven blinked, trying to clear his vision. Two human men propped him up between them, eyeing him warily as he lifted his head. They were burly soldiers in metal-studded leather, their hair matted with the dirt of weeks in the field. They stood facing an enormous mass of blue crystal that jutted up from the ground at the head of the canyon. At the top and sides, large facets blended into the surrounding rock of the cliff wall, but the front was a smooth plane, like a window into a vast blue sea.
Near the canyon floor, a tracing of gold wound its way from the edges of the crystal to a circle engraved in the center. Two great metal cylinders stood on either side, connected to the inlay with fine gold threads and covered with gemstones arranged in precise patterns. Glass tubes extended out from these cylinders, greenish liquid lying quiescent in their bottoms, linking them to what seemed to be construction in progress-the shell of a metal building surrounded by a deep trench.
Something nagged at the edge of Gaven’s memory, disjointed scenes from a dream that made no sense. The crystal-he’d seen it, a coil of silver writhing inside, a smear of darkness trapped in its grasp. On the lightning rail in Zil’argo he’d dreamed it, jutting from the ground in this canyon. Two spirits bound in a single prison.
A man stepped in front of Gaven, blocking his view of the construction. Another human in studded armor, this one was older than the soldiers holding Gaven up, and carried an air of authority. He wore a midnight blue coat over his armor and fashionable boots that marked him as something more than a soldier or even a military officer. He smiled warmly at Gaven.
“I’m so glad you’re awake to see this, Gaven,” he said. “It would be a shame for you to sleep through such a turning point in history, since you play such an important part in it.”
Gaven looked around and saw other people arrayed around the crystal, many of them familiar. Phaine d’Thuranni stood just off to his left, his sword still in his hand. Haldren ir’Brassek stood away to the right, arms crossed, glaring at Gaven with barely contained fury. Cart was in his accustomed place behind the general’s shoulder. Gaven felt a pang of disappointment and grief-Cart could have been so much more than Haldren’s lackey.
The dragon-king perched on the edge of the canyon above the crystal, but there was no sign of the other dragons. A scattering of soldiers with spears and swords, miners hefting picks and shovels, and what might have been magewrights-Gaven saw the Mark of Making on one or two of them-filled out a rough arc centered on the crystal. They watched him and the man standing before him with expectation.
“I’m Kelas ir’Darran,” the man said. “I see you recognize some of your old friends.”
Gaven scanned the crowd for Rienne, but of course she wasn’t there. His gaze fell on Cart again, and he thought of Darraun.
Could the changeling be here? he wondered. Perhaps wearing a different face? No, of course. Darraun is dead.
“I have no friends here,” Gaven said, his eyes still fixed on Cart. He saw the warforged shift, and he wondered if that were true.
“Indeed.” The smile fell from Kelas’s face. “However, at this point you are here merely as a witness-the Dragon Forge is not ready for you yet.”
Gouts of dragonfire in a furnace below him-another scene from a dream. The same dream? He wasn’t sure.
Kelas turned his back on Gaven and looked up at dragon-king. “The Prophecy, Malathar!” he shouted in Draconic. “Tell us!”
The dragon-king’s voice was undiminished by the distance to the top of the canyon. “One drop unites Eberron with the Dragon Below,” he said.
Kelas repeated the dragon’s words in the Common tongue, his arms spread wide like a priest in prayer.
Gaven whispered the Draconic words along with the dragon-king. “Blood is drawn from a serpent binding the spawn of Khyber and the fiend that is bound.” His eyes fixed on the crystal and the vague shapes within it. “Bound they remain, but their power flows forth in the blood.”
From somewhere inside his coat, Kelas produced a large silver ring, a torc in the shape of a twisting serpent. He held it up, and silver light flashed within the crystal in answer.
“The Torc of Sacrifice,” he said, addressing the entire assembly, “an embodiment of the power that allows the serpent of the crystal to bind the fiend. With this torc around her neck, a paladin of the Silver Flame took a possessing spirit into her body and bound it there, then gave her own life to destroy it. With the torc at the heart of the Dragon Forge, we will siphon power from the mighty beings in this prison-without setting them free.”
“Bound they remain,” Gaven said, “but their power flows forth in the blood.”
Kelas turned, all warm smiles again. “Very good, Gaven.”
Gaven looked at Cart, a willing participant in this… the only word Gaven could find to describe it was blasphemy. The emblem of a paladin’s sacrifice, used to draw power into this Dragon Forge. For what purpose?
Kelas walked to the crystal prison, holding the torc in both hands, and carefully placed it over the ring of gold at the center. It flared with brilliant white light, and white fire ran along the intricate gold inlays, outward from the ring, turning the gold to silver. Kelas stepped back and watched the transformation, flexing his hands in anticipation. When the fire had burned to the gem-covered cylinders and gone out, he drew his sword and held it above his head.
“The Ramethene Sword,” he said, “forged by fiends for their champion to wield in battle against the dragons of the world’s dawn. Haldren, what say the Serpentes Fragments?”
Ramethene Sword, Serpentes Fragments-the names meant nothing to Gaven, but the sword drew his attention. It was heavy and angular, almost as though it had been carved of stone. It looked like it might have come from the ruins of Paluur Draal or Xen’drik, but it was not really like anything Gaven had seen before.
Haldren cleared his throat and recited a verse, unfamiliar to Gaven. The Sunderer smote to the dragon’s heart, and its blood formed a river upon the land. The Fleshrender drew forth the serpent’s life and its blood gave life to the gathered hordes. For the blade drinks the blood, and the hand that wields it feasts on the life.”
The Sunderer seemed more like a name from the Prophecy, and Gaven racked his brain in an effort to dredge up anything pertinent.
“The Sunderer,
the Fleshrender,” Kelas said. “This is the weapon that will smite to the heart of this prison and draw forth the blood to power the Dragon Forge.”
Gaven wondered whether Kelas had any idea what he was doing. He had noticed that the dragon-king omitted any mention of the Time Between from his recitation of the Prophecy. Almost without doubt, Kelas was a tool in the dragon’s claw, fulfilling the Prophecy of the Time Between while vainly pursuing his own ends.
Once again Kelas stepped up to the crystal. He put both hands on the hilt of the Ramethene Sword, drew a deep breath, and shoved it through the circle of the silver torc.
There was a sound like the plucking of an enormous string, almost too low to hear, but making the air thrum with its vibration. Gaven felt a wave of nausea pass through him, and his muscles felt even weaker. The soldiers supporting him staggered as well, and his knees buckled. Everyone standing around the crystal clearly felt it-they lowered their heads, staggered backward, or fell to their knees. The dragon-king and Cart alone seemed unaffected.
The canyon was hardly vibrant with life, but something was happening to it-the thin patches of grass dissolved into ash, bare rock blackened, the dry shrubs that grew here and there on the canyon walls shriveled and died. Desolation spread out in a wave from the crystal. Gaven looked in sheer terror at the shadow, expecting to see it burst forth from its azure prison.
Both the silver serpent and the dark fiend were agitated, moving quickly, almost frantically. The Ramethene Sword glowed so brightly it hurt his eyes to look at it. The inlaid tracery pulsed with light as well, and gemstones came to life on the surface of the cylinders, glowing in a mosaic of different colors. The liquid in the glass tubes began to bubble and churn.
Then fire burst from the earth to fill the trench that surrounded the Dragon Forge.
CHAPTER 31
Rienne awoke, and Gaven was not there. She frowned at the place where he’d lain-usually she awoke long before he did and had time to exercise and meditate before she roused him for the day’s journey. Something was wrong.
She sprang up with Maelstrom in her hand and rushed out of the small shrine. The dragonborn city was only starting to come alive with the first light of dawn. She saw dragonets flapping at open windows where dragonborn placed scraps of meat in tiny houses. She heard strange singing, low droning chords and high chanted melodies, that might have been a form of morning prayer. But she couldn’t see Gaven.
“Gaven?” she called. Several pairs of eyes turned her way and quickly turned back. Louder-“Gaven!” He did not appear or call an answer.
The sky was cloudless, which gave her an odd reassurance that he was not in serious trouble. If he were fighting somewhere, certainly a storm would be brewing. At the same time, it was disappointing-if nothing else, she could have found him by heading to the heart of the storm.
“Gaven!” She heard the desperation in her own voice.
“Rienne!” The voice was not his, and she barely recognized her own name. A dragonborn was running toward her-the one who had led them to this city and shown them the shrine. Lissa.
As the dragonborn drew nearer, Rienne clenched the hilt of Maelstrom more tightly and called out. “Where is he?” Even as she said it, she realized the stupidity of it-Lissa didn’t understand Common, and Rienne knew only a few words of Draconic, mostly words related to obscure aspects of the Prophecy that resisted translation.
Lissa’s axe was slung at her belt and her shield at her back, so Rienne sheathed Maelstrom out of courtesy. The blade could be back in her hand in an instant if she needed it. When the dragonborn reached her, spewing a torrent of Draconic babble, she put a hand on Rienne’s shoulder and tried to guide her back into the shrine. She seemed anxious, so Rienne followed.
When they were in the shrine and safely out of view, Lissa slumped against the wall beside the archway. Rienne could read the fear on her face, but couldn’t determine the cause of it-was she being pursued? She should, perhaps, not be here with Rienne.
“Gaven?” Rienne asked desperately. Could Lissa give an answer she could understand?
Another gush of Draconic, but Rienne heard Gaven’s name. She stared blankly at the dragonborn, and Lissa started again, slowly as if talking to an imbecile, but accompanying her words with pantomime, watching to make sure that Rienne understood each concept.
“Gaven,” she said… hands bound together-a prisoner. Lissa pointed at Rienne… go, go quickly, Lissa wiggled her fingers like legs at top speed. Run. Run away. Lissa shook the axe at her belt and then pointed again at Rienne.
Flee or die.
“Not without Gaven,” she said, more to herself than Lissa. She took the dragonborn’s hands and put the wrists together, as Lissa had done to show Gaven’s imprisonment. Pointing at Lissa, she said, “Gaven.” Then she pointed at herself, and chopped her hand between Lissa’s wrists. “I must free him.”
Lissa’s eyes went wide with fear, and she shook her head. Rienne guessed that meant the same thing to the dragonborn that it did to her.
“I can’t leave him here,” she said, her voice pleading. Lissa’s eyes softened-she recognized the tone, at least. Rienne held up one fist-“Rienne”-and the other, “Gaven.” She brought the two hands together, entwined the fingers. “Together.” Hands still together, she moved them in imitation of the gesture Lissa had used to mean go away. “We have to leave together.”
Lissa’s face mirrored her own sadness. She took Rienne’s wrists gently in her big, clawed hands and slowly pulled away the hand that was Gaven, lowering it back into Rienne’s lap. “Rienne.” Rienne alone.
Tears welled in Rienne’s eyes, and she shook her head. “How can I leave without him?”
Lissa took the Gaven hand back in hers and led Rienne to the back of the shrine. High on the wall behind the stone tablet of the Prophecy, a mural depicted a dragon’s skeleton, proud and erect, its eyes burning with purple flame and its entire form surrounded by a nimbus of deep violet. The dragon’s bones were carefully marked with writing-perhaps another fragment of the Prophecy, Rienne couldn’t tell.
Still holding Rienne’s wrist, Lissa pointed at the undead dragon and said a single word, “Drakamakk.” Then she lifted Rienne’s hand up toward the dragon. Rienne understood. Gaven was a prisoner of this undead dragon, who was perhaps the ruler of this city. Lissa shook her head slowly, sorrow in her eyes. There was no hope of freeing him.
Rienne wrenched her hand away from Lissa and drew Maelstrom. She swung the blade high, toward the image of the undead dragon. Lissa caught her wrist again, stopping Maelstrom a hand’s width from the mural image. Her eyes had hardened, just slightly. So Lissa was willing to help Rienne flee, but not to help her fight the dragon-king.
Thoughts racing, Rienne turned away from the dragonborn. What could she do? She couldn’t hope to be inconspicuous in a city where she was the only half-elf-the only one these people had ever seen, as far as she knew. She couldn’t secure help, couldn’t bluff her way past the guards, couldn’t exert the influence of her noble birth-she couldn’t interact in any meaningful way with the dragonborn without speaking a word of their language. She wasn’t sure the money she carried would buy her food or assistance. And if Lissa wouldn’t help her against the undead dragon, how could she expect anyone else to?
She blinked back tears. “I can’t leave him, I just can’t,” she said. “All those years he was in Dreadhold, I died without him.” Lissa laid a hand on her shoulder, and Rienne was surprised at the tenderness of the gesture. The dragonborn seemed so large, so strong-so inhuman.
Rienne looked down at her feet, at the fine silver chain wrapped several times around her ankle. With barely a thought, it would take her home. Gaven had one, too, unless they took it from him. She could look for him, even in the palace of the dragon-king, and break the chain if she found herself in trouble. But using it would seem so final. If she fled at the first sign of danger, she would never have the chance to return.
“I have to look for him, at
least,” she said.
Lissa seemed to read the resolve in her face. She shook her head, breathing a hiss from the corners of her mouth, then stepped back toward the shrine’s arched entrance. The dragonborn said a word of farewell-or perhaps it was a blessing or a warning-and then she was gone.
It was worse than Rienne had imagined. She was accustomed to the gawks and rude comments of the lowest classes in the streets of Khorvaire’s cities, even used to fighting off attackers in the most dangerous neighborhoods, when business took her there. But she also expected polite treatment from her social equals and the middle class, and in Rav Magar she found none of that. Everyone stared at her, nearly everyone pointed, and many gave threatening hisses in her direction. Several dragonborn accosted her, puffing out their chests and shouting, sometimes roaring, until she guessed their meaning and made her best attempt at a display of submission.
She wandered through the city, searching for roads to take her to the higher parts of the city, toward the dragon-king’s lofty palace. Few roads connected the city’s different levels, but each time she did find her way to a higher tier, the size of the buildings, the ornateness of the decoration, the sheer displays of wealth grew more impressive. The layout of the city enforced the division among the different castes of its people, she realized. Silver inlays and then gold, marble, and alabaster taking the place of wood and granite; silks and jewelry adorning the people she passed-they all spoke of the greater status of the residents of the higher tiers. More elaborate displays also marked the distinctions between these dragonborn and the lower-tier citizens who did business in the higher levels.
When the sun had not yet reached its zenith and she had climbed only as high as the fourth tier, four armed dragonborn challenged her. They wore metal armor like what Lissa had worn in the forest, and sashes of rich black silk draped across their chests seemed to indicate some official status. As a reflex, her hand started for Maelstrom’s hilt, but she pulled it back-four dead soldiers would not help her any. She held her hands out in front of her.