Dragon forge dp-2

by James Wyatt

  Malathar gave the dragonshard back to Kelas without a word. Gaven had neither strength nor will enough to strain for another look at the stone, though he saw Phaine shift again in hope of a better view. Kelas turned back to the eldritch machine and returned the dragonshard to the new setting of glass and gems.

  “Now,” he said, “we learn the true power of the Dragon Forge.”

  He grasped two crystal rods that jutted out beneath the shard, and a brilliant light flared to life between them. Gaven couldn’t look at the light, but he didn’t need to-the tracings of the dragonmark, his dragonmark, now filled the enormous room. Lines of scarlet fire etched the ceiling’s arch and turned slowly as the machine rotated the dragonshard in its setting. A cluster of artificers flocked around the machine and manipulated its controls.

  The sky rumbled with thunder, a brewing storm that had nothing to do with Gaven.

  It was all around him, the mark he had carried for five years, the Prophecy that had been written on his skin but out of reach of his understanding. His gaze darted around the room, trying to take it all in.

  The Storm Dragon flies before the traitor’s army to deliver vengeance.

  The storm breaks upon the forces of the Blasphemer.

  When Rienne traced his dragonmark on his skin, it had been only a vague foreboding, a sense that his end might come at the hands of the Blasphemer. Now it took concrete shape in his mind, spelled out in the breadth and depth of his mark.

  But did it apply to him? Without the Mark of Storm, without the Storm Dragon’s power, he couldn’t fulfill that part of the Prophecy. But if he was no longer the Storm Dragon, then who was?

  A deafening clap of thunder made the soldiers cover their ears and even Phaine looked up nervously. Rain fell in huge, splattering drops, and shouts of fear and pain arose from outside, from soldiers and laborers seared by the acidic downpour.

  I am the storm…

  Gaven remembered losing himself in a storm over the Aerenal forest, fighting off a pack of beasts with his bare hands and summoning lightning to spear them. He made one more effort to reach his mind up into the storm, but his mind was as tightly bound as his hands.

  My hands…? Gaven thought.

  He looked at the manacle holding his right wrist and the chain that pulled his arm out straight, almost wrenching it from its socket. The chain disappeared into an extension of the forge machinery, presumably attached to the winch he’d heard.

  Perhaps the manacles were constraining more than his body. Maybe with his arms free he could command the storm again. Or at least die trying to fight his way out of the Dragon Forge.

  Once he’d been known for his strength. Especially for a Khoravar, he was mighty-his body had none of the slender grace of his elf ancestors. Whenever he was in Stormhome, delivering his latest cargo of Khyber shards for use in his House’s elemental galleons, he used to arm-wrestle at taverns, to Rienne’s utter embarrassment-and he never lost. He defeated Cart at the goblin wrestling game in Grellreach. Even without a sword, he had that strength to fall back on.

  The winches creaked slightly as he began to pull. He glanced around at Phaine and the guards, but none of them paid him any mind. He’d become irrelevant.

  He shifted his weight to his left side and was pleased to find some relief to the burning pain in that shoulder. He’d already created some slack in the chains. With one more glance around at his guards, he pulled the chain on his right. The winch groaned and pain stabbed through his shoulder, but the chain didn’t give.

  Another clap of thunder shook the roof and walls, and sparks shimmered down along the metal walls to the ground. Kelas looked up for the first time, then looked at Gaven. He strode over to stare Gaven in the face.

  “Did you do that?” he demanded.

  “I thought you were making the storms now,” Gaven said. His throat was raw from screaming, and his voice came out a rough scratch.

  Kelas’s face flushed with anger. “I am,” he said. “I made it. Did you make the lightning strike the forge?”

  “Lightning is a willful mount. Sometimes it goes where it wants to go.” Gaven’s heart thrilled at the idea that he might still have influence over the storm, might still be able to control it. “It especially likes metal buildings.”

  Kelas slapped him, surprisingly hard for a man half Gaven’s weight. “Before treating me like an idiot, remember who has done this to you.”

  Anger flooded Gaven’s body, surging into his muscles and pounding in his heart. He would never forget who peeled the dragonmark from his skin. The winch on his right creaked again, louder, making Kelas wheel to look.

  Just as Kelas called out-“Knock him out! Get him out of here!”-something cracked inside the forge and the chain rattled loose. Gaven yanked the chain free, grabbed a loop of it, and swung it hard into Kelas’s face, sending him reeling backward.

  A needle of pain lanced Gaven’s shoulder and his arm went limp. Gathering more chain in his left hand, he wheeled to see his attacker. Phaine stood there, the very tip of his dagger stained with blood. Gaven glared-of all his captors, Phaine had managed to make Gaven loathe him most of all. He aimed right at the elf’s smirking face, but the chain, still attached to the winch, caught him up short. Phaine vanished into the gloom, then another quick stab of pain numbed his left arm.

  “Do you like that?” the elf whispered over Gaven’s shoulder. “We use that to incapacitate people we aren’t quite ready to kill. Yet.”

  Gaven’s foot shot out behind him, cracking into Phaine’s shin. He tried to tangle Phaine in the chain binding his legs, but the elf stepped nimbly away. At least Gaven had the satisfaction of seeing Phaine favor his injured leg.

  In a panic, Gaven tried to shake his arms, to bring feeling back into them or make them move, but they just swung from his shoulders, useless. Phaine vanished into shadow again, and Gaven spun just in time to see the Thuranni appear right in front of him. He jerked his head forward and down, smashing his forehead into the bridge of Phaine’s nose. As the elf stumbled back, clutching at his bloodied nose, Gaven kicked at his knee. Gaven had almost reached the end of the chain that held his left arm, but he just had room to bring his foot down on the prone elf’s neck His right arm jerked up across his chest, pulling him back and off balance before his foot came down. Kelas had hold of the chain, and Gaven’s limp arms now crossed in front of him, holding him firmly in place.

  “Damn it, Thuranni!” Kelas yelled. “Stop playing games and get him out of here!”

  Gaven threw his weight away from Kelas, yanking the chain from his hands. Some feeling was returning to his right hand, and he fumbled trying to grab hold of another loop of chain to use as a weapon.

  A sharp jab of pain in his neck made his whole body go limp, and the world went black as he slumped to the floor.

  Ashara laid her hands on Cart’s shoulder, giving him one last infusion of magical power, and he was as strong as when he’d come out of his creation forge. He watched her as she worked, bewildered by the attention she gave to him, by the concern in her eyes and the care in her hands.

  “There.” She sighed. “Feeling better?”

  “Why are you doing this? I turned against Kelas, killed Haldren-” The memory of what he’d done overwhelmed him. He killed the Lord General, the man he’d sworn to serve, the man he’d helped break out of Dreadhold.

  “You really don’t know?”

  Cart shook his head.

  “You’re my friend,” she said. Then her brow furrowed, unsure of his reaction. “Aren’t you?”

  Friend. Cart cast his memory back over the thirty years of his life. He’d been one of the first warforged, born as a slave to House Cannith and then sold to Aundair’s army. He was a successful soldier, not just surviving year after year of battle, but rising through the ranks to Haldren’s right hand. Soldiers had called him comrade, or they’d called him Captain. Haldren had described him once as his most trusted ally, and he’d included Cart when addressing his “friends
”-but Cart knew full well that Haldren used that word to manipulate his audiences. Always in the plural.

  No one had ever called him friend before, not really.

  “I… I hope to be,” he said, and she smiled.

  “Good. Then let’s get out of here.” She stood and held out a hand to help Cart up.

  “Wait. What happened to Gaven?”

  The smile fell from Ashara’s face. “I’m told the Dragon Forge worked perfectly, and that Kelas is very pleased with me.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “Dead? No, not yet.” She looked at the ground. “But the Thuranni has him in custody. It might take a while, but death will come.”

  “I need to free him,” Cart said, getting to his feet.

  Ashara sighed. “I thought you’d say that. But look where it got you last time. It’s far easier for you and me to sneak out of this camp than for us to break Gaven out of Phaine’s hands.”

  “You were right about me, Ashara. It’s not enough for me to be a soldier. Now Haldren is dead and no one gives me orders. It’s time for me to be a hero.”

  She put a hand on his arm and looked up, her face a mixture of pleasure and grief. “You already are,” she said.

  “Time to act like one, then. Where is Gaven?”

  “You have led me on quite a chase, Gaven.” Phaine was clearly enjoying himself. With every prick of his blade, he leaned close to Gaven’s ear and whispered some new taunt or imprecation. He had bound Gaven to a wooden chair and continually pricked at his nerves to deaden his limbs, ensuring he never mustered the strength to break his bonds. Blood trickled from a dozen tiny wounds.

  “From Dreadhold to Q’barra. When we found your room in Whitecliff, the bed was still warm.”

  “You’ve been following me since Dreadhold?” A personal or House interest in dragonmarks couldn’t explain that kind of interest. Had Phaine come looking for the Storm Dragon as soon as he escaped?

  “Indeed. Then to Aerenal, which was most enlightening. It had been some time since I visited my ancestors.”

  “It took you this long to catch up to me? Three other Houses got to me first, you know.”

  “And failed to capture you. You killed the Deneith Sentinel Marshal, of course. House Tharashk, too, has abandoned the search. House Kundarak is probably still scouring Khorvaire, stinging from the blow of losing two prisoners from Dreadhold. But then, none of them knew what you were.”

  “And what am I?”

  “You were the Storm Dragon. Now, you’re nothing. Nothing but a man who’s responsible for the extermination of the Paelions and the fracture of my House.”

  “You can blame your own baron for that.”

  That must have angered Phaine-he jabbed his dagger more deeply into Gaven’s upper arm.

  “The baron acted on information you planted.”

  Gaven’s memories of that period of his life were shrouded in a haze. It had been nearly thirty years, but more than that, he had barely known his own mind at the time. But he knew there was some truth to what Phaine said. He had helped plant false evidence to suggest that the Paelions were plotting against the other Houses. But it had been Baron Elar d’Thuranni who ordered the slaughter of the entire Paelion clan.

  “So you’ve followed me all this time to get revenge?”

  “That is merely the sweet finish to the chase.” Another jab of pain showed Gaven how much Phaine enjoyed the taste of revenge.

  CHAPTER 37

  Rays of sunlight from the shattered ceiling lit clouds of dust as the rubble settled in the great chamber. Smaller rocks shifted and fell within the pile and tumbled from the cracked roof above. Gaven had been there. Rienne was certain of it. But he was gone, and whoever or whatever he had been fighting was gone as well.

  She walked in a dream into the chamber, circling the largest pieces of the fallen roof. Something moved in the rubble, and she hurried to the spot, lifting slabs and pushing rocks aside until she found bare floor beneath. There was nothing, no sign that he had been present.

  A sparkle of color at the edge of the room caught her eye. Crushed gemstones in pieces ranging from powder to granules filled a pattern of lines engraved into the floor. Shattered granite covered most of the pattern, but she guessed it was a circle lining the perimeter of the room. Magic. Some ritual had taken Gaven away.

  The thunder of approaching footsteps filled the hall. She turned to face the doorway, Maelstrom limp in her hand. She wasn’t sure she could muster the energy to fight anymore. Why bother? Gaven was gone.

  I could escape, she thought. If I can’t find Gaven, perhaps he can find me.

  Sheathing Maelstrom, she bent down and unfastened the slender chain around her ankle and held it up in the sunlight. She could almost feel the magic contained in its fine silver links, promising freedom.

  “Rienne!” Lissa appeared in the doorway, more footsteps resounding behind her.

  “I have to go, Lissa,” Rienne said.

  Three more guards crowded behind Lissa, but she held up a hand to stop them. Her voice was tender and calm when she addressed Rienne.

  Tears sprang to Rienne’s eyes. “Promise me that if you find him, you’ll tell him where I’ve gone.” There was no way the dragonborn could have understood her words, but there was understanding in her eyes, and sympathy, and grief.

  Rienne snapped the chain. She blinked as one of the tiny links broke, and when she opened her eyes she was in a green courtyard surrounded by orange trees. The citrus smell was intoxicating, but it was carried on a sea wind that told her she was home.

  The courtyard was part of a stately house with a blue-tiled roof and white plaster walls. A fountain burbled against one wall, opposite a hall leading to the front door. Rienne looked around nervously. Jordhan had not told her where he got the magic chains, though she trusted his discretion. Presumably, this place belonged to whatever artificer had crafted them.

  The roof framed a square of dark sky, dawn just beginning to light one side-or evening fading in the west. It had been morning when she entered the dragon-king’s palace in Argonnessen, far to the east. Morning to the east meant that dawn was still approaching in Stormhome, and the house’s owner was probably still asleep. She crept to the hall, then stopped short.

  If Gaven had already broken his chain, he would have come here as well, and the artificer might have seen him appear. If he hadn’t yet, the house’s owner could tell him that she’d been there and give him some message, some idea of how to find her.

  But that would mean she’d have to know where she was going. At the moment, she had no idea. She crossed the courtyard again and settled herself on a stone bench beside the fountain to plan and wait.

  Stormhome was not a safe place for her. She could go to her own family, but the Sentinel Marshals had come to her house when Gaven first escaped. Thordren’s house had been watched the last time she and Gaven appeared there. Would they still be watching it? Gaven and Rienne had been gone for months. How badly did House Kundarak and the Sentinel Marshals want to find him?

  Stormhome had no poorer neighborhoods where Rienne could remain anonymous and unseen. House Lyrandar controlled who lived and worked there. Anyone who couldn’t afford the rather steep price of a place to live in Stormhome went back to the mainland, one way or another. Rienne had no place to hide. She couldn’t linger there, waiting for Gaven to appear.

  She had struck out on her own once before-she’d flown to Vathirond, found Gaven, and rescued him from his pursuers. She could do it again.

  On the other hand, leaving Stormhome presented its own set of challenges. House Lyrandar operated the only ships passing to and from the mainland, and it would be hard to find a captain who didn’t know her, at least by reputation. Jordhan would have helped, of course, but he might still be half the world away, as far as she knew. What, then?

  She had called in plenty of favors before leaving in search of Gaven the first time, but that was no longer an option. She had also turned much of her weal
th into a more portable form, a small bag of tiny, perfect gemstones she kept next to her skin. Selling a single stone would provide her with living expenses for weeks. The money, at least, would serve her well.

  If she only had some idea of where to look for Gaven.

  Her thoughts were going in circles, running through every possibility she could imagine of finding help, departing the city, and leaving word for Gaven. She replayed the last few days in her mind, from her arrival in Rav Magar to Gaven’s sudden disappearance and Lissa’s farewell. Her dream in the shrine of the Prophecy played itself over and over in her mind-Maelstrom in her hand, portentous words describing the Blasphemer, and the tumult of a battlefield.

  A battlefield where she, in her dream, had played a decisive role. Perhaps Gaven had been right and Maelstrom was indeed a sword of legend, the weapon of a champion. In her dream, she had faced the demon at the heart of an army. Could it be that her destiny was to kill that demon, thus preventing or at least putting an end to the devastation described in the Prophecy? The idea turned her stomach. She didn’t want the crowning accomplishment of her life to be ending another life. Any other life.

  Her eyes drooped and her head nodded, and she slept where she sat beside the fountain.

  Maelstrom clashed against a sword that burned red, a ceramic urn shattered on the cobblestones, and a girl’s shriek jolted Rienne from her sleep.

  The sky was a little brighter, and sounds indoors suggested that the household was beginning to stir. A girl of perhaps thirteen cowered behind a pillar, peering out at Rienne with round eyes, pieces of the urn littering the floor around her bare feet. She must have been a serving girl, sent to fetch water for the kitchen or bath, shocked to find a stranger sleeping by the fountain.

  “I’m sorry,” Rienne said, and the girl stood a little straighter. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”