by Dragonlance
It reared, rising almost to the level of his throat, mandibles clacking in the air. He leaped aside, rolled, and came up with his shuk in front of him. The huraj settled back to the ground, then whipped around and started forward again. Hult had long enough to see Forlo swiping his own blade at the other one, keeping it at bay while he tried to circle to its flank. Then the black huraj came on again, clawed legs churning. He brought back his saber, spun it, then snapped it around as hard as he could, striking with the tip of the blade at the creature’s neck. It was a powerful stroke, swift and well aimed, strong enough to take off the huraj’s head. But it didn’t.
Instead, his sword shattered.
Volume One
Blades of the Tiger
Volume Two
Trail of the Black Wyrm
Volume Three
Shadow of the Flame
Also by Chris Pierson
Bridges of Time
Spirit of the Wind
Dezra’s Quest
Kingpriest Trilogy
Chosen of the Gods
Divine Hammer
Sacred Fire
TRAIL OF THE BLACK WYRM
The Taladas Trilogy • Volume Two
©2006 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Manufactured by: Hasbro SA, Rue Emile-Boéchat 31, 2800 Delémont, CH. Represented by Hasbro Europe, 2 Roundwood Ave, Stockley Park, Uxbridge, Middlesex, UB11 1AZ, UK.
DRAGONLANCE, Dungeons & Dragons, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, all other Wizards of the Coast product names, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the USA and other countries.
All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.
Cover art by: Matt Stawicki
eISBN: 978-0-7869-6500-7
640A5943000001 EN
For customer service, contact:
U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice
U.K., Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: +08457 12 55 99, Email: [email protected]
All other countries: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel: +32.70.233.277, Email: [email protected]
Visit our websites at www.wizards.com
www.DungeonsandDragons.com
v3.1
FOR MICHAEL.
BET YOU DIDN’T SEE THAT COMING.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue: The Temple of Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 1: Coldhope, The Imperial League
Chapter 2: Coldhope, The Imperial League
Chapter 3: Coldhope, The Imperial League
Chapter 4: The Tiderun Shore, The Imperial League
Chapter 5: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 6: Kristophan, The Imperial League
Chapter 7: The Mariners’ Crest, Armach-nesti
Chapter 8: Kristophan, The Imperial League
Chapter 9: Kristophan, The Imperial League
Chapter 10: Kristophan, The Imperial League
Chapter 11: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 12: White-storm Shore, Lower Panak
Chapter 13: The Drifting Sea, Lower Panak
Chapter 14: Kitaglu, Lower Panak
Chapter 15: The Wastes, Lower Panak
Chapter 16: The Wastes, Lower Panak
Chapter 17: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 18: Beneath Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 19: The Boiling Sea
Chapter 20: Marak-in-Exile, the Steamwalls
Chapter 21: Lake Starshimmer, Marak
Chapter 22: Lake Starshimmer, Marak
Chapter 23: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 24: Thousand-spire Bay, Neron
Chapter 25: Thousand-spire Bay, Neron
Chapter 26: Ke-cha-yat, Neron
Chapter 27: The Emerald Sea, Neron
Chapter 28: The Temple of Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 29: Ke-cha-yat, Neron
Chapter 30: The Emerald Sea, Neron
Chapter 31: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 32: The Emerald Sea, Neron
Chapter 33: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 34: Akh-tazi, Neron
Chapter 35: Akh-tazi, Neron
Epilogue: The Ashen Shore
Glossary
Prologue
THE TEMPLE OF AKH-TAZI, NERON
She awoke to darkness, to silence. She awoke to it every morning—if morning it was. It could be the middle of the night. There was no way to know.
Light came twice every day: the cold, white glimmer of magic, shining from the hall when her captors brought her food. That was it. With this light, she had defined the boundaries of her cell. It was small, three paces on a side, with a high ceiling that caused every cough, every groan, to echo horribly. Its walls and floor were dark stone, graven with images she did not recognize—awful images. Eagles with serpents’ heads. Men with the heads of hunting cats. Corpses with their chests flayed open. She tried not to look at them when the light came, but it was hard. They were all around and never seemed to be in the same place twice.
There was a bed, reeds stretched over a wooden frame, with a blanket of some woven plant fiber that itched horribly. There was a clay pot for waste. There was nothing else.
She had yet to see her captors. The food simply appeared; the scraps vanished. The waste pot was emptied, replaced by a fresh one. She could sense them when the door opened—mocking eyes in the shadows—but they did not reveal themselves.
Essana Forlo, Baroness of Coldhope, had never felt so desolate in her life.
Sleep brought terror, dark dreams she could barely remember when she woke. The glisten of black scales, the creak of leathery wings, the chanting of many growling voices. Shadows that walked like men, whose touch was like knives of ice. The dreams had no coherence, made no sense. She tried to untangle them, but they frayed, fell apart. Every time. She wept with frustration.
Where in the Abyss was she?
The door opened. Cold light spilled in. No one there. Food came. It was almost always the same meal: a roasted game bird of some sort, the skin crackling, the meat succulent. A porridge of something close to mashed turnip. A mound of little, round fruits, red-fleshed and sour. A cup of bitter, steaming tea that must be drugged. There was plenty of it … which was good, for she had another to feed, growing inside her. Her son, by her husband, Barreth—Barreth, who had left to fight a battle both of them knew he couldn’t survive. He must be dead now, slaughtered by barbarians. How long until their son was born? Three months? Four? It was impossible to tell; time in this place meant nothing.
After the door slammed shut, she wolfed her food. It could have tasted like ashes, and she would have gobbled it down—her unborn child made her hungry beyond reasoning—but it was delicious. That only made her imprisonment worse, somehow. Still, she needed the food for strength. Today she would try to escape.
It had taken a long time to make the decision, longer still to find the courage. But Essana knew there was no hope if she stayed he
re. What her captors had in mind, she didn’t know … but she had to get out. So she decided as she sat in the dark, stuffing porridge in her mouth, that she would leave her cell the next chance she got.
And if they caught her? If they killed her?
She didn’t care anymore.
She was still half awake when the door opened again, well after supper. She hadn’t drunk the drugged tea today; had poured it into the waste pot instead. She feigned grogginess, moaning as the light spilled in. The platter holding the scraps of her meal quivered, then rose off the floor. So did the waste pot. Nothing held them up; they simply floated into the air and slid out of the room. She bit her lip, gathered her strength, tensed herself to follow. She would have a second, maybe two, to heave her pregnant body out the door. The door would probably crush her if it shut on her. Had to be quick.
Wait … wait … now.
Something appeared in the doorway, just as she was leaping forward: a shape. It was tall, maybe seven feet, slender, and not human. The thing was an abomination: its flesh a mottled mess of moss green and ruddy brown; its hands three-fingered, with long, slender talons; its head a bulbous, hairless orb with dead-white eyes and four writhing tentacles where its mouth should be. A stink rose from it, like skunk spray mixed with rotting fish. It burned her nose, made her eyes water. It wore a filthy gray cassock, cinched with rope, like a monk’s habit.
Essana let out a near-voiceless scream and fell back. The thing watched her, its gaze devoid of emotion. Its tentacles twitched, moving as if each had a mind of its own. When it spoke, it made no sound: the words simply formed in her mind, toneless and scratchy.
We know what you were going to do. If you try, this will be your fate.
An image blazed in her mind, as clear as if she were seeing it with open eyes. Essana beheld herself from above. She was naked, chained to the floor of this very cell, her body a ruin. Her arms were broken; so were her legs. Her eyes were hollow pits. Her tongue was gone. But her belly was large, round and hard: the baby, almost ready to emerge. And she knew what she’d suspected since she first awoke here:
Her captors cared nothing for her. They wanted only the child.
“Why?” she screamed. “What are you going to do with him?”
The tentacled horror stared at her without emotion. More words came.
Do nothing to thwart us, and you will not suffer. Betray us, and you will know pain, for the rest of your life. Soon the Brethren will send for you.
Essana stared at the wretched creature, hate boiling inside her. She wanted to crush it, smash its awful, glistening head against the wall until it cracked open. But she held herself in check, backed against the wall, slid down to the floor. The creature watched her a moment longer, then vanished into the shadows. A clean waste pot glided into the room and settled to the floor. The door rumbled shut.
Darkness again. Essana sat in the gloom, shaking. In time, sleep came—and with it new dreams, of tentacles and blank, white eyes.
She woke. She slept. Inside her, the new life grew.
Essana lay on the bed, her hand on her belly. She knew the baby was still alive, but sometimes, in the stillness, she prayed the gods would claim him. It would be easier if she miscarried … but she did not. For many years, she and Barreth had struggled to conceive a child. Now her body would not give it up.
“They won’t have you,” she whispered. “I will not give you to those … those.…”
Creatures. Things.
She was lying there, aching, when the door opened again. A figure stood framed against the light. She shrank back against the wall, then realized it wasn’t the monster that had confronted her before. This was a man, clad in a dark cloak, a deep hood drawn low over his face. He watched her from the doorway, framed by the light.
“Who …” she croaked.
“I am called the Keeper,” he replied. His voice was strange, with a thick, rasping quality. It was the voice of a strangled man, or one whose throat has been cut.
Essana swallowed painfully. “What do you want with me? With the child?”
“You will learn the answers,” said the Keeper, “if you come with me.”
“And if I refuse?”
His head tilted, his shoulders shaking. The man was laughing—not mockery, but genuine mirth.
“Spirited,” he said. “I knew one like you, once. Before I came to this place. But you cannot refuse—you will come of your own accord, or … by their command.”
He stepped aside. There was movement behind him. Two of the things came in. One was green and brown, the other fish-belly grey. They stared at her, unfeeling, tentacles waving. Essana felt a prickling in her mind, like a name she wanted to remember, but couldn’t. She put a hand to her forehead. The feeling grew, became a thought.
Get up.
Her eyes locked on the creatures. They are doing this to me, she thought. I must resist.
Stand.
She bunched her hands into fists. She bit her tongue. She thought of songs, memories, making love to Barreth. She fought the command, but the suggestion kept growing in her mind, growing so strong her legs burned to move.
STAND.
It was too much. Groaning, she swung her legs off the bed and lurched to her feet. Tears of frustration crawled down her cheeks.
“Gods damn you,” she growled, her teeth grinding.
The Keeper had watched it all happen, not saying a word. Now he raised a hand. “Enough,” he murmured. “Leave us.”
The creatures glanced at him, and at once their minds were gone from Essana’s. She nearly collapsed as they withdrew from the cell. She staggered against the wall, glowering at the cloaked figure.
“What are they?” she asked.
“They are called yaggol,” he replied. “An ancient race. They built this temple. Once they ruled a mighty empire, but now they serve the Brethren.”
Essana wiped her face with the back of her hand. “And who do you serve?”
“You will see. Now come.”
She still wanted to tell him to rot in the Abyss, but the thought of the yaggol compelling her again sickened her. Defeated, she gestured for him to lead on.
He did, and she followed. The yaggol walked behind, silent. The Keeper strode down the cramped stone passage, his black cloak billowing behind him. They came to a stairway, leading up. The Keeper climbed, and Essana and the yaggol followed. He never glanced back.
Scents came to her: fresh air. Trees. Strange flowers. She heard wind through leaves. She glimpsed moonlight, red and silver, upon the stone. They emerged into an open courtyard, at night, a clear sky above: Solis and Lunis and stars. The plaza was ringed with pillars of black stone, crumbling and vine-throttled, some broken, some toppled. The floor was stone as well, huge blocks between which grew white flowers surrounded by blue-glowing fireflies. Beyond, on three sides, stood dense walls of jungle. The trees were huge, rising high above. Strange animals called from within. The air sweltered, humid and hot even at night.
She knew where she was now—Neron, the southernmost reaches of Taladas. A thousand miles from home. Despair clawed at her—even if someone were looking, how could they ever find her? How would they even start?
On the fourth side of the courtyard rose a tall, stepped pyramid, a ziggurat hewn of the same black rock as everything else. A broad, steep stair rose up the pyramid’s side, awful gargoyles of animal-men perched on each step. More cloaked figures loomed at the top.
“The Brethren await,” said the Keeper, and he walked on. Essana glanced at the yaggol, who stared back. She followed him.
The stairs were hard going, especially in her condition. She moved slowly, using her hands to brace herself against the steps above. Not far from the top she faltered, slipping. The Keeper reached down and caught her wrist before she could fall. His grip was firm but gentle. He helped her the rest of the way up.
There were five more like him atop the ziggurat. All wore cloaks. They watched from the shadows of their hoods as
the Keeper led her forward. There was an altar, old and worn, with grinning skulls carved on its sides. Dried blood crusted its top. Essana froze at the sight.
The Keeper glanced at her. “Do not fear, lady. That is not for you.”
A mad impulse came to her, then—she should turn and run. Throw herself down the stairs. The fall would almost certainly kill her. It would definitely kill the baby. But when she looked behind, the yaggol were there, watching. They saw what was in her mind. She wouldn’t be able to take two steps before they seized control of her again. She hated them, more than anything she’d ever hated in her life.
Another of the cloaked figures exchanged hushed words with the Keeper, then turned toward her. She felt her knees buckle. This one had no humanity left in him; there was only malice, and burning zeal. She could feel his evil gaze, and it made her shudder.
“You have questions,” he said. “You will have answers soon. I am the Master; the Keeper you already know. The others are the Watcher, the Speaker, the Teacher, and the Slayer. We are the Faceless Brethren.”
As one, the six figures cast back their hoods, and Essana let out a gasp of horror. What they revealed weren’t faces at all, but leering skulls, the flesh stripped away by blade and flame to lay bare the bone beneath. Black tongues worked behind long teeth. Bloodshot eyes glistened in their sockets. They had been human once; now they were something else. Essana tasted bile. She wanted to look away but realized she couldn’t.
“You wish to know who we are,” said the Master, the tendons of his jaw working. “We are heralds, disciples. We prepare for the return of a great power—one who once slept, but is now awoken.”
A shriek pierced the night: a furious, skirling cry that awakened a memory buried deep in her. She looked up, and saw it—the vision from her nightmares.
The black dragon.
It slid between the stars, long and sinuous, almost invisible. Its wings eclipsed the moons as it swept over the trees. Its scales glittered. Its eyes were coals of burning red. Venom dripped from its fangs. In its claws it held two things: the limp, dark-skinned form of a person, and a statue carved of dark stone.
