Dragon war dp-3

by James Wyatt

  His dragonmark hadn't made him the Storm Dragon of the Prophecy. It hadn't given him the power to defeat Vaskar in the Sky Caves and destroy the Soul Reaver beneath Starcrag Plain. But somehow that power seemed bound up in the lines of his mark, the lines that spelled out the myriad possibilities of his destiny and wrote him into the Prophecy. His mark said that he was the one who drove the Eye of Siberys through the Soul Reaver's black heart. He was the one who closed the bridge that linked starry Siberys to Khyber's depths. But his mark was scribed in a dragon-shard, and it seemed as though someone else had done those things. And whatever the Prophecy said about deeds the Storm Dragon had not yet done-well, anyone might do those things. Anyone who held the dragon-shard or managed to extract the mark from it and wear it on his own flesh.

  Had that been part of Kelas's plan, or Nara's? Kelas had fulfilled part of the Prophecy by using his mark in the Dragon Forge, the verse Nara had cited: "His storm flies wild, unbound and pure in devastation."

  For her part, Nara had seemed quite distressed at Aunn's lie, that Gaven had destroyed the shard. She clearly believed that the Storm Dragon had yet to fulfill some verses of the Prophecy, something related to the Blasphemer. Gaven rummaged in a different pouch and brought out the papers he'd brought from Kelas's office. At the top of the sheaf was the page Aunn had read from: "In the darkest night of the Dragon Below, storm and dragon are reunited, and they break together upon the legions of the Blasphemer."

  Storm and dragon reunited-it sounded like a reference to the Storm Dragon, especially given the separation of Gaven's dragonmark from his skin. What did the Prophecy say about that separation? Did this verse mean that his mark would be restored to his skin before he confronted the Blasphemer? Which was the storm, and which the dragon? Or did the verse refer to something else entirely?

  Gaven pulled his pouch open and peered at the dragonshard inside. It glowed softly, the lines of his mark casting a reddish glow over the inside of the leather pouch. He traced the lines with his eyes, felt them tug at his mind, inviting him to lose himself in their winding paths again, but he resisted. "No," he whispered.

  The Prophecy had spoken of the Storm Dragon crossing the bridge to the sky, becoming a god and leaving the world behind. So how could it account for all that had happened since he faced the Soul Reaver? He had bent the fluid verbs of the Draconic text to chart his own path, choose his own destiny. As far as the Prophecy was concerned, shouldn't he be finished? The Storm Dragon had done what he was put in the world to do. Perhaps he hadn't bent the Prophecy at all. Perhaps it accounted for his choice at Starcrag Plain, his trip to Argonnessen, and everything else he had done. Was he just a player in a scripted drama after all?

  Damn the Prophecy, he thought. You're not part of me any more-I'm not part of you. My destiny is what I choose.

  The sun warmed the back of his neck again, and he looked around the plaza. An airship drifted slowly toward the mooring tower. Soon, he thought with a smile, he would be aboard such a ship, sailing for home. With any luck, soon he would find Rienne. Then the rest would fall into place, one way or another.

  Gaven saw Cart and Ashara at the door of the Ruby Chalice. It was time. He stood, patted his pouch to make sure the dragonshard was safely in place, and walked slowly, enjoying the sunshine, to meet them.

  "Gaven, look." Cart thrust a leather folder across the table at him. Gaven took it, noting the embossed cockatrice seal of House Sivis on the cover. Inside was a single sheet of vellum adorned with a sketchy portrait of Cart and a faintly glowing arcane mark.

  "It says here you're twenty-three years old," Gaven said.

  "That's right. The twenty-second of Zarantyr, in the Year of the Kingdom 976-that's when the creation forge gave me life."

  "That makes you pretty old for a warforged, doesn't it?"

  "I suppose it does. The first of us were made in 965, but there aren't too many of that generation still around."

  That meant the first warforged were made only eight years before Gaven was locked in Dreadhold. He had known of them, of course. They were big news at the time. He remembered a parade in Fairhaven where a company of warforged soldiers marched at the back of the battalion, on their way to their first battle. But he had never seen one any closer than that, until Cart lifted him out of his cell.

  "And you were born-or made, here? In Fairhaven?"

  "I was. It was strange, when we arrived here from the Dragon Forge, right into the Cannith enclave, it was familiar to me. Even though I hadn't been inside in twenty-three years."

  Gaven looked at the paper again. The sketch was fairly crude, but it gave careful attention to the mark on Cart's forehead, the signature of the Cannith creation forge. He compared it to the original, trying not to stare too hard at Cart's face. It was very accurate.

  Gaven's head swam, and for just an instant he thought he saw meaning in the simple shape of the line, just an echo of Prophecy, some hint of destiny in the stamp of the forge. Then the feeling was gone, fading like a dream. He handed the folder back to Cart.

  "Congratulations," he said. "This is the first time you've had papers?"

  "Yes," Cart said. "Thank you."

  Gaven was struck again at the warmth of Ashara's smile as she gazed at Cart. She was nearly bursting with pride.

  "It's funny," Gaven said. "I've known you all these months now, and I never knew those simple facts about you. Where and when you were born, your service record in the war. I knew you were Haldren's aide, and that's all."

  "You were born in Stormhome on the seventh of Rhaan in 939. Your father was Arnoth d'Lyrandar, born on the twenty-first of Rhaan in 902. Your mother was Sheira Laran, born on the nineteenth of Lharvion in 903, died on the eighteenth of Lharvion in 944, giving birth to your brother Thordren."

  "How do you know all that?" Gaven said.

  "We were briefed. Before we broke you and Haldren out of-"

  "Best not to mention it," Ashara interjected, glancing around at the nearby tables.

  Gaven followed her gaze. No one seemed to be listening, but he cursed himself. He hadn't been paying attention. Cart had just identified him as a Lyrandar to anyone who might have cared, and had as much as said he was an escaped prisoner. If anyone came looking, here were a number of witnesses who could attest they had seen him.

  "Sorry," Cart said. "I keep doing that."

  "It's all right," Gaven said. "So where is Aunn with my papers, I wonder?"

  "Good question," Ashara said, frowning. "He's late."

  "Again." Gaven looked around the room. "I hope he didn't run into more trouble."

  "Gaven, listen." Cart leaned forward over the table and lowered his voice. "It took me a long time to come around and do what was right, and by then it was too late for me to stop… what they did to you. I'm sorry for that."

  "You have more than made up for it since."

  "No, I don't think I have. I'm not sure I ever will."

  "I wouldn't have made it out of there without your help. Both of you," he added, smiling at Ashara. "You got me out of Phaine's tent to safety, and then you went back to the forge with me. You helped me recover what they took from me."

  "Gaven," Ashara said, looking at the table, "I carry far more blame than Cart for what happened. I know it doesn't mean anything, but I'm sorry as well. The Dragon Forge, the whole thing was largely my work. Kelas might have operated it, but I built it-I took your mark from you."

  Gaven didn't know how to answer. He had been furious at the forge, when they first met-only a few days ago, but it seemed so much longer. But, as Cart had pointed out then, she had saved his life, tending his wounds after their narrow escape from Phaine and the dragon-king. She seemed committed to goals that he and Cart shared, now, perhaps trying to make restitution for the wrongs she had done.

  "Can you restore it?" he said.

  Ashara's eyes met his and widened in surprise. "I… I don't know." She frowned and looked away. "I can imagine another device, like the Dragon Forge, built to und
o its work."

  "Powered by dragonfire?"

  "I said I could imagine it. There's no way I could build it alone. But maybe a simpler item…" She trailed off, eyes closed in concentration. "What?"

  "It's possible I could mount the shard in a staff or rod, to let you access its power by holding the haft."

  "I can access its power by just holding the shard."

  "Oh. Of course. It is still your mark, clearly."

  "So you're saying that such an item would let anybody access its power, not just me? The way the Dragon Forge let Kelas call that storm and send it to Varna?"

  "Yes, although the Dragon Forge was designed to amplify the effect of the mark."

  "This would just let anybody wield the power of the Siberys Mark of Storm," Gaven said. "Have you ever known a Siberys heir in your own House, Ashara? Is there a Siberys Mark of Making loose in the world right now?"

  "There was, a few years ago. She came from Zorlan's branch of the family, in Karrnath, but she turned rogue."

  "You mean she refused to let the House keep her on a short leash in Korth."

  "Right."

  "And what happened to her?"

  "First, Jorlanna and Merrix tried to bring her under their thumbs. When that failed, all three branches of the House worked together to eliminate her."

  "If there's one thing that can make the three Cannith barons work together…"

  Ashara finished his thought. "It's the threat of a Siberys heir loose in the world."

  "So imagine House Lyrandar's reaction if they even learn that this dragonshard exists. The Siberys Mark of Storm, not just scribed on the skin of an excoriate criminal like me, but loose, so anyone could pick it up and use it. In Jorlanna's hands, or Phaine's?"

  "I hope you haven't been showing it around," Cart said.

  "Of course n-"

  A voice behind him cut Gaven off. "Good evening, Ashara."

  Gaven turned in his seat. It was a human man, with the Mark of Making on one temple, right beside a shock of white hair. The man glanced at Gaven as he turned, then looked back at Ashara.

  "Hello, Harkin." Ashara's voice was cold and flat, and her eyes went to Cart.

  Harkin's eyes followed hers, and he grinned. "And… Barrow, wasn't it? Carrying the dying from the field of battle?"

  "Cart," the warforged said.

  "Of course. And I don't believe I've had the pleasure." He looked at Gaven.

  Gaven stood, putting his eyes at a level with Harkin's. "I'm Keven," he said, taking Harkin's extended hand.

  "Harkin d'Cannith." He gripped Gaven's hand firmly and gave it a cursory shake.

  "Don't you mean ir'Cannith?" Ashara said. "We're a noble house now."

  "Of course," Harkin said. His eyes ranged over Gaven's face and arms, and Gaven realized he was looking for a dragonmark. "Are you part of the family, Keven?"

  "No," Gaven said. He hadn't given any thought to a family name for "Keven," but making himself a Cannith-either with a dragonmarked d' or a noble ir'-seemed like a bad idea.

  "Yet I've seen you before, haven't I?"

  Gaven frowned. He had the same feeling, a nagging sense of familiarity, but he couldn't find a specific memory. It seemed like something in a dream.

  "Yes, I have," Harkin said. His eyes narrowed. "In the enclave, last night. With Ashara and ir'Darren-he called you their prisoner, and the warforged led you out like a helpless child. Jorlanna seemed particularly furious when I told her about you. I wonder why."

  None of what Harkin said sounded familiar, but Gaven's pulse quickened. If Harkin recognized him as a prisoner, there could be trouble.

  "Listen, Harkin," Ashara said. She stood and took Harkin's arm, lowering her voice to a whisper. "This isn't the time or place to explain all this. I'm willing to help you with the family matter we discussed, so the Baron certainly doesn't need to know anything about this meeting, right?"

  "Of course." Harkin's smile did little to reassure Gaven. "I had hoped to discuss that family matter with you in more detail, but it can wait for your convenience."

  "Tomorrow would be better," Ashara said. "Perhaps luncheon? Here? I'm told this place offers private meeting rooms, if you know the right person to ask."

  "I would enjoy a private meeting with you," Harkin said.

  Ashara dropped his arm and stepped back, putting Cart between her and Harkin and resting a hand on the warforged's shoulder. "The three of us will have a great deal to discuss, I'm sure," she said.

  "Oh, you'll be joining us then, Keven?"

  "No. I think Ashara was referring to Cart."

  Harkin's eyes fell on Ashara's hand. "I see. Well, I'm sure that will be enlightening." He turned and extended a hand to Gaven again. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Keven, and I hope to see you again. Ashara, it's always lovely to see you, and I look forward to our meeting tomorrow. Good-bye."

  He turned and strode away, weaving through the tables, stumbling once as he tripped over a cloak trailing off someone's chair. He did not look back.

  "I'm sorry to say this, Ashara," Cart said, "but I don't like him very much."

  Ashara sighed and sat back down beside Cart. "Neither do I. But he could be very useful to us and to Aunn."

  Gaven dropped back in his chair as Harkin finally stormed out the door. "But where in the Ten Seas is Aunn?"

  CHAPTER 18

  Rienne stood near the front of the lines of Eldeen defenders as the Blasphemer's horde drew near. The Reachers were mostly farmers and herders drafted into the militia, handed spears and told to defend their lands, with only a few professional soldiers, officers scattered among the lines to enact a modicum of strategy. The front lines were reinforced with great Eldeen bears, giant animals wearing spiked plates of leather armor to reinforce their thick hides. Stretching to the tips of her toes, Rienne couldn't have reached a hand to the top of a bear's back. She found a position among the farmers and bears and waited in the darkness of night for the attack the Reachers were sure would come at dawn.

  The dragons were the first to attack, and they didn't wait for dawn. They were dark shapes set against the bright Ring of Siberys, outlined by the light of twelve moons-most of them about the size of the bears, with great wings blotting out the light behind them. Rienne gripped Maelstrom's hilt as three of them winged toward her position, painfully reminded of sailing into Argonnessen with Gaven. A terrible roar from the bears greeted the dragons' approach, then screams joined the chorus as the dragons unleashed great gouts of fire and lightning, flashing in the darkness.

  Rienne spun into motion, launching herself at the nearest dragon. Its scales gleamed gold in the light of the fiery wisps that surrounded it, exuded from its scales to sear the flesh of the two enormous bears that tried to hold it in their claws. Rienne reached it just as it sank its teeth into one bear's throat. She felt tiny beside the dragon and the great bear, all the more so when the dragon heaved the bear's corpse over her head to crash into the quivering soldiers behind her. The remaining bear stood on its hind legs to grapple the dragon, and she barely reached the bear's waist. Bony spurs jutted from its skull, spine, and shoulders, and its teeth were swords scrabbling against the dragon's plated scales.

  But they were not Maelstrom, the legendary sword of Lhazaar. Rienne came in beneath the dragon's notice and sliced a long gash across its belly. Fire erupted from its mouth like a cry of pain, casting pale golden light around the dark battlefield. Maelstrom whirled around her and deflected the full force of the blast, spinning it into a cyclone of fire that surrounded her without burning her. Without Maelstrom's protection, the second bear slumped to the ground, smoke wafting up from its scorched fur and skin.

  Lunging like a snake, the dragon snapped at her before the last of its fiery breath had dissipated. She couldn't bring Maelstrom around in time to block it, and the dragon's teeth slashed her shoulder. Rienne cried out in a reflex of pain, but she felt nothing. She brought Maelstrom up in an arc beneath the dragon's throat, but it pulled its head back jus
t in time. Her blade cut through a scaled tendril that hung beneath its jaw, and the dragon hissed in irritation, shuffling back to open the distance between them.

  The dragon's hiss became words-words she could understand, spoken in the Common tongue. "I know that blade," the dragon said.

  "You won't be the first dragon Maelstrom has killed," Rienne said.

  "Maelstrom," the dragon repeated. Rienne thought she saw fear in its eyes. "Barak Radaam, the Whirlwind Sword."

  "That's right." Rienne swung Maelstrom around herself, then let herself spin behind it, whirling back into motion toward the dragon. She planted a foot on the fallen bear's shoulder, then launched herself up to drive her blade into the dragon's eye. Too late, the dragon lunged at her, snapping its teeth inches from her face, but its lunge drove Maelstrom deeper into its brain. It fell onto the smoldering corpse of the bear and lay still.

  Dragons fly before the Blasphemer's legions-the Prophecy whispered in her mind, stilling the chaos of battle around her-scouring the earth of his righteous foes. Well, she thought, that's one less dragon to do any scouring.

  Her shoulder stung with a distant echo of the pain she should have felt, easy enough to ignore. She looked for another dragon and spotted an eruption of lightning piercing the darkness nearby. A dragon stood facing another Eldeen bear, lightning cascading from its mouth as the bear swiped at it. A squad of soldiers stood in a clump that bristled with spears, like a hedgehog rolled into a ball and hoping the predator wouldn't bite. As Rienne ran toward them, a few of the soldiers, caught in the blast of lightning, fell to the ground, screaming out their last breaths.

  The blue-scaled dragon lowered its snout, tipped with a jagged horn, and used the horn to toss the bear toward Rienne, but she vaulted over the mangled carcass without slowing her charge. Maelstrom seemed alive in her hand, her body just an extension of its will as it propelled her forward.

  Why had the gold dragon known and feared Maelstrom? Barak Radaam-what part did the Whirlwind Sword have to play in the Prophecy? If her destiny was bound to her blade, what part would she play as the Prophecy unfolded?