Dragons- Worlds Afire

by R. A. Salvatore

  “But… if power is what they want, why not just use force? You didn’t get as close to that thing as I did, but I wouldn’t try fighting it if it was alive!”

  Tolar stopped walking. He turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder, staring down into her eyes. Whenever he looked at her that way, Zaehr always remembered their first meeting in the sewers so many years ago—that absolute confidence that had caused her to hold her attack, the determination that had drawn her up into the civilized world.

  “Look beyond the obvious, child. If the tales are true, the civilization of the dragons is over a hundred thousand years old. These creatures… they are the children of Eberron and Siberys, the earth and sky. Magic is in their blood. Now look at us, with our short lives and the narrow-mindedness that accompanies such frailty. Weak but arrogant, always pressing forward, shattering walls and breaking barriers, heedless of what might be on the other side. The great Houses always striving for more gold. The nations going to war for pride and ambition—and these last few years have shown us the price of such arrogance.”

  He was referring to the Mourning, the disaster that had destroyed the nation of Cyre and brought an end to the Last War… at least for now. No one knew the cause of the Mourning, but most assumed it was tied to the war—either a new weapon that spun out of control or the combined result of the magical forces used during the war.

  “What would the dragons have to gain from conquering us?” Tolar continued. “Even if they had the power, why would they want such short-sighted subjects?”

  “To keep things like the Mourning from happening again.”

  Tolar nodded, and Zaehr could sense his satisfaction in the minute shift of his mouth and the faintest change to his scent. “A good answer. But perhaps they wish to help us find that path for ourselves instead of forcing us on it. Where are the gods?”

  “What?”

  “The gods. The Sovereign Host. People revere them, believe that they guide and protect, but you never see them. If the gods exist, why wouldn’t they conquer the world to enforce proper behavior?”

  “That’s why I’ve never believed in gods,” Zaehr said.

  Tolar smiled. “Ah, yes. The eternal pragmatist.” He dismissed the conversation with a wave of his hand and began walking again. “We’re wasting time. Tell me what else you found. I want to know everything before we arrive at Stormwind Keep.”

  “Stormwind Keep?”

  “Home to Lord Dantian d’Lyrandar, the owner of Pride of the Storm.” He smiled ever so slightly and tapped his cane against the densewood cobble. “It seems we have a mystery to solve.”

  “Here’s a mystery,” Zaehr said. “Why do people build things like this?”

  Dantian d’Lyrandar was a dragonmarked lord of the House of Storm, heir to the Lyrandar line’s mystical power to control wind and water. House Lyrandar had built a vast mercantile empire around this magical ability. Their raincallers provided “insurance” against drought to the farmers of Galifar, a policy some called extortion. Lyrandar merchantmen had long dominated the seas, and now their airships were carving new trade routes across the sky. Only half-elves could carry the mark, and for many people Lyrandar defined the race. Certainly it had transformed them from a race of outcasts to a proud folk who stood on equal ground with both humans and elves.

  Dantian’s abode spoke to that pride. A densewood funnel stained in black and silver, shaped like a tornado rising up to the sky, formed the base of the tower. This was topped by a massive kraken, whose long tentacles wrapped around the tower. The beast was carved from densewood, but it was remarkably realistic; the blue paint covering its skin glistened as if wet. The eyes of the kraken were octagonal windows, and golden light burned behind the panes.

  “The kraken is the sigil of House Lyrandar,” Tolar said.

  “He’s got his kraken boat and his kraken house. Does he wear a big golden kraken with tentacles wrapped around his chin?”

  “It is his gold, Zaehr, to dispose of as he will.”

  Zaehr growled. Her childhood had been a constant struggle for survival, and she still felt an instinctive disdain for the wealthy.

  “Where’s the door?” she said as they drew closer to the tower. While a broad stairway rose up from the street, it came to a stop at the junction of two tentacles.

  “I’m sure it will appear, in due time,” Tolar said. He paused at the base of the steps. “What can you tell me?”

  Zaehr studied the labyrinth of sounds and smells around her. Following scents was like gazing into the past, and city streets were always overwhelmingly chaotic, flowing with the traces of hundreds of people. It was as difficult to pluck a scent from this mass as it would be to listen to a whispered conversation in a noisy crowd, yet the task had its own satisfaction, much like piecing together a complex puzzle.

  “A gargoyle has been here within the last hour,” she said, closing her eyes to better taste the wind. “Been and gone, staying only for a few moments. A gnome came later—ink and leather, still within. Many half-elves. Perfume and silk in the past, but the recent smells are soot and rain.” She breathed in again. “Unless it rained in the last hour and I didn’t notice, I think it’s the blood of the dragon.”

  “As expected,” Tolar said. “You said Lyrandar salvagers were at the scene. Naturally one or more would arrive to inform Lord Dantian of the disaster.” He started up the flight of stairs and was halfway up when a voice rang out.

  “Who approaches?” It was deep and inhuman, the sound of a storm at sea.

  “Tolar Velderan, from the Globe Agency of House Tharashk,” Tolar replied. “And my associate Zaehr. We are expected.”

  “You were not called for.”

  “Nonetheless, we are expected. Lord Dantian received a message from Lady Solia d’Lyrandar within the last hour, delivered by gargoyle courier. Surely Lord Dantian will respect his aunt’s wishes on the matter.”

  No response. The only sound was the faint wind blowing through the densewood spires.

  “We’re working for Globe?” Zaehr whispered. “How did that happen?” The dragonmarked House Tharashk used its Mark of Finding to dominate the field of private investigation. Tolar was bound to the house by blood, but he did not bear the dragonmark, and there was a rift between the old man and a few of his more successful relatives—especially Lady Kava of the Globe.

  “I still have connections in the house, child,” Tolar murmured. “And it’s not every day we see something like this. Now hush.”

  A moment later, the wooden tentacles before them burst into animate life, pulling back to reveal a massive doorway. The door split down the center and creaked inwards.

  “Enter.”

  Zaehr stepped in front of Tolar. She did not draw any of her knives, but her hands were poised by her favorite blades, and every muscle was tensed and ready for action. Cautiously, she stepped into the hall.

  Fresh rain.

  The smell of mist and water filled the hall—the scent she had judged to be the blood of the dragon outside. It overpowered all lesser odors and had to be generated by magic. But to what end? Did Dantian d’Lyrandar enjoy the smell of the storm, or was there some stench he wished to conceal?

  “Welcome to Stormwind Keep!” a voice boomed.

  As a race, half-elves were not known for their girth. Whether it was cultural or the result of their fey heritage, the half-elves were usually slender and delicate. The speaker shattered these expectations. Zaehr and Tolar could have both fit beneath the man’s silk robes and had room to spare.

  “I am Kestal Haladan, and it is my honor to manage Lord Dantian’s affairs.” His eyes twinkled beneath deep rolls of flesh. He mopped his brow with a heavily scented kerchief, and Zaehr wrinkled her nose at the sweet smell. “You, good man?” he said to Tolar, “You are the representative of the Globe Agency? My humblest apologies for the delay at the gate. We were of the impression that our inquisitive would have a little more… gray blood in his veins.”

  “Gray”
was a polite way of saying “orcish.” House Tharashk had emerged from the mingling of human refugees with orcs in the western swamps known as the Shadow Marches. Most people associated House Tharashk with orcs and half-orcs, but there were just as many humans in the house as orcs.

  “I assure you, we are quite capable of handling the task at hand,” Tolar said.

  “No.” A new voice rang through the hall. A man, young and arrogant. “We can handle this task. Your services will not be required.”

  “Lord Dantian!” Kestal Haladan made a surprisingly graceful bow considering his girth. “My lord, I was going to bring your guests to the lower hall….”

  “No.” Lord Dantian d’Lyrandar was dressed for battle. Four silver lightning bolts adorned a jerkin of oiled leather, and a dark blue cloak flowed across his shoulders. His pale white hair was held back by a narrow circlet of gold, adorned with a writhing kraken. His right hand clenched the gilded hilt of a fine longsword. “I have no intention of granting my hospitality to these… people.”

  “Lord Lyrandar,” Tolar replied, “it is not your decision to make.”

  Zaehr stepped between the two men before Dantian’s blade was fully drawn. She caught the half-elf’s wrist and showed him her teeth. “Don’t,” she said, and she could see her blood-red eyes reflected in his furious gaze.

  “Guards!” cried Haladan.

  Zaehr could feel Dantian’s surging emotions in the tension of his wrist, the flicker of his eyes, the shifting scent that rose over the smell of rain. “We were sent for,” she whispered, tightening her grip until he released his sword. “We just want to talk, but if you start a fight…” As Zaehr spoke, her jaws extended, fangs stretching down in a vicious wolf-like snout. “I’ll rip your face off.”

  A half-dozen guards had responded to the alarm, and they surrounded Zaehr and Dantian, iron-shod clubs at the ready. Zaehr knew that if she harmed the Lyrandar lord, it probably would be the last thing she did, but she kept her gaze on his, holding the promise of bloodshed in her eyes.

  “Well?” she said.

  She knew his answer before he spoke, and she let go of his hand even as he opened his mouth.

  “Fine,” he said, taking a step back. “I suppose I should indulge Aunt Solia. Haladan, I’ll receive them in the garden.” He turned and walked down the hall, gingerly rubbing his right wrist.

  “Very well, my lord.” The servant scowled at Zaehr, his beady eyes dark points in his flabby face. “If you’ll follow me….”

  Lord Dantian proved as good as his word. He might have set the guards upon Zaehr the moment he was safely out of reach of her fangs. Although he sought no vengeance for the blow to his pride, Dantian was no fool. A squad of guards remained with Zaehr and Tolar as they traveled deeper into the keep, and these soldiers watched Zaehr’s every movement.

  Dantian’s garden was another toy, a chance for the young lord to show off his wealth and power. The circular chamber lay at the center of the tower, but for all appearances it was an open-air park, the ceiling masked by cunning illusion. A paved path wove between dark grass, well-groomed trees, and displays of exotic wildflowers.

  It was raining.

  Rain in Sharn was a common occurrence. Tolar’s long coat was oiled cloth, and he drew his hood up over his face. Zaehr liked the rain. She had spent her first years around water, and while it was hard to be truly nostalgic for a life in the sewers, she had never minded getting wet.

  Still, she guessed that the rain wasn’t intended as a gift, and this seemed to be confirmed when the drizzle faded away just before Lord Dantian returned. The illusory clouds evaporated, leaving blue sky and bright sun—though it did not escape Zaehr’s notice that the sunlight provided no heat.

  “I apologize for my brusque behavior.” Dantian had changed his clothes and was wearing blue and black robes in place of his armor. “Baroness Solia has instructed that I assist you within reason, and it is not my place to question my aunt.”

  “Don’t you want to know who destroyed your ship?” Zaehr said.

  “I do know.” He jabbed a slender finger at Tolar. “You. Your kind.”

  “Old men?” Zaehr said. She could still sense Dantian’s rage. It didn’t seem to be an act.

  Tolar said nothing.

  “Tharashk!” Dantian roared. “You foul graybloods with your druids and your dragons!”

  Zaehr glanced at Tolar, nonplussed.

  “I assure you, Lord Dantian, we have no idea what you are talking about,” Tolar said. “My own ties to the House are—”

  “Don’t try to deny it. I know all about your kind. And yours.” A glare at Zaehr. “Do you think this is the first airship we’ve lost? I’ve done my research. Wretched druids, trying to stop progress. Druids. And who were the first druids? Orcs. And shifters. And who taught the first druids? Dragons. It all comes together, doesn’t it? You’re still working with these hidden dragons. You destroy our ships. And who gets called in to investigate? You do. At least this time your damned dragon was caught in the blast.”

  “Lord Dantian,” Tolar said, “while your theories are most intriguing, I have my own paths of inquiry I should like to pursue. And Lady Solia has ordered you to—”

  “I know what my aunt requires,” Dantian growled. “Just as I know she’s wasting her time. And mine. So what is it you want?”

  “A list of all those aboard Pride of the Storm at the time of the explosion, making note of those who lived and died. As I was unaware of any similar incidents, I should like a list of those as well, along with any organizations or individuals you might have quarreled with recently.”

  Dantian glared at Tolar but said nothing.

  “I will also need to speak with the surviving elemental heart of the Pride.”

  This meant nothing to Zaehr, but it certainly produced a violent reaction from Dantian. “How do you know about that?” he said, clenching his fists. The wind rose, and Zaehr guessed that the brewing storm might be the accidental child of the Lyrandar lord’s fury.

  “Anyone can study the most basic principles of elemental binding, Lord Dantian,” Tolar said. “And the second explosion aboard Pride of the Storm was the result of the detonation of the fire heart. There was no similar release of air. Therefore the elemental that empowered the ring of air is still contained. I’m sure such an artifact would be the first thing your salvage teams would recover, and I imagine you’d get a gnome translator to come and transcribe the spirit’s memories of the events. Perhaps the gnome who arrived just before we did? While I’m sure the report will be most informative, I wish to speak to the elemental myself.”

  Dantian’s fury had given way to sheer surprise. For a moment he stood in silence. Finally, he grimaced and gave a curt nod.

  “And the other information?” Tolar asked.

  Dantian glanced at the portly servant. “Haladan will take care of it for you.” He looked back at Tolar. His gaze was hard. “I warn you, grayblood, my aunt will hear of this, and now. If anything happens to the heart, I’ll put you and your dog in the ground.”

  “Of course,” Tolar said, unmoved. “Now, if you can show us the way? There’s work to be done.”

  Lord Dantian took his leave. Another six guards took his place, and Zaehr could smell their hostility. Clearly Dantian was prepared to make good on his threat. Zaehr hoped that the old man knew what he was doing with this elemental heart.

  “So did your family have anything to do with it?” she whispered to Tolar, as they made their way up a spiral staircase.

  He said nothing, but the disappointment in his expression was answer enough.

  “Just asking,” she said, keeping her voice low and an eye on the nearest guard. “We’ve had troubles with your cousins in the past. If there’s something I need to know—”

  He cut her off with a curt shake of the head. “Lord Dantian’s delusions are just that. There are no ties between my family and the druids of the west, especially the more violent sects. Though it is curious that he has f
ormed a link in his mind between dragons and druids.”

  “They don’t mix?”

  “Not now. It’s said that it was a dragon who first brought the secrets of natural magic to the orcs, who later shared it with humanity. But that was thousands of years ago—and a legend at that, not a tale I’d expect a rather spoiled Lyrandar lord to have heard.”

  “So you’re not planning on destroying this magic heart?”

  His eyes widened in fractional surprise. “Even if I possessed the means to do such a thing, why would I?”

  Zaehr shrugged. “You say that as if you’ve never sprung a surprise on me before. If it does come to a fight, I think I can bring down six of these sentries, but I’m leaving the rest to you.”

  “Then I suppose I’ll have to be on my best behavior,” he said, with a faint smile. “But I must say I’m disappointed. A year ago I would have expected eight. Are you finally learning restraint?”

  Zaehr grinned. “Ask again tomorrow,” she said.

  Kestal Haladan led them to a small chamber high in the tower. Zaehr stepped in first to examine the room. The western wall was dominated by a massive octagonal window, and she realized that this was one of the eyes of the sculpted kraken atop the tower. This room was a sharp contrast to the luxurious appointments they had seen so far. The walls and floor were completely bare, and there were only three pieces of furniture in the room: a sturdy densewood table and two stone pedestals. One of these pedestals was currently empty. The other held a steel sphere roughly the same size as a human head. Drawing closer, Zaehr saw that it was actually a complex metal latticework laid atop a large chunk of crystal. The table was empty, but the scents told a tale. Two half-elves wearing leather and steel had brought the sphere into the chamber within the last two hours. A gnome had followed—male, young, accompanied by scents of ink and paper. He’d sat on the table, no doubt scribbling notes. Moments ago, one of the original guards had returned and approached the gnome, and the two had left together.