Trail of the Black Wyrm - Chris Pierson

by Dragonlance

  “We have the scale,” he said at last. “We could go on to the Wyrm-namer without them.”

  She blew out a long, slow breath. “The thought has occurred to me,” she said. “The statue’s what really matters … finding the dragon, and stopping Maladar. Not Forlo or Hult—or you or me, for that matter.”

  Eldako nodded, saying nothing for a time. “But they are your friends.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Well, Forlo is, anyway. I have to try and rescue them.”

  “Then I will stay and help. We can’t rescue them ourselves, though,” Eldako declared. “No matter how good a fighter you are. We need help, like you said—particularly if we have to free them from this Kristophan place.”

  Shedara scooped up a handful of pine needles. “Well, then,” she said. “There’s only one place to go.”

  “Where?”

  She looked at the needles in her grasp then tilted her hand and let them fall, bit by bit, back to the ground. “Armach,” she said. “My home … or what remains of it.”

  Chapter

  5

  AKH-TAZI, NERON

  The baby was growing. She could feel it. On the worst days, she wished it would stop: that her “troubled” womb—as the physics had called it when she was younger, when she and Barreth had failed repeatedly to make a child—would do what it had always done and reject the life it held. Then there would be bleeding, and grief, and loss … but the Brethren would be foiled. They would not have her son. She prayed to Mislaxa sometimes, but no answer came.

  There were alternatives. Essana was not yet ready to consider them.

  The darkness was her constant companion. Days passed when she saw not another living soul, and most times it was worse when she did. The yaggol came to inspect her, to study the progress of her pregnancy. When she fought them, tried to escape their clammy, grasping hands, their minds entered hers and froze her in place until they were done. She wept when it was over, every time.

  Twice the Faceless came: always the same one, the one who called himself the Keeper. He was surprisingly calm, even gentle, and never did a thing to harm her. She could feel his power, though—the black-moon magic seething within him. He could burn her to ashes with a word or strip the flesh from her bones … that knowledge alone was enough to still her.

  Both times, he brought her to the same place, to the altar on the rooftop. There they joined the rest of the Brethren—all who were at the temple, anyway. Once, the Teacher was absent; the others, all were there. The Master would look her up and down, noting the growth of the child—the vessel—and then the dragon would appear, bearing the statue and another elf.

  She asked the Keeper about the elves. He told her they were a tribe native to Neron, called the cha’asii. They were ancient enemies of the yaggol, and once had been their slaves. That had been thousands of years ago, before some long-forgotten calamity … war, disaster, plague … had toppled the jungle kingdoms. Since then, cha’asii and yaggol had fought a savage war across the breadth of Neron, erupting into open, bloody battle every century or so.

  When they first came to the temple, many years ago, the Brethren had found use for both of the jungle’s races. The yaggol were willing allies and servants, and bowed to dark gods. Akh-tazi, to whom the temple was holy, was said to be the same deity as Hith, the lord of deceit. As for the cha’asii, who worshipped the spirits of nature and rejected the Brethren’s overtures … they still had their uses.

  The second time, the ritual was the same as the first. The Brethren pulled back their hoods to reveal their horrible, disfigured faces. The dragon laid the elf—a woman this time, broken and pale with terror—upon the altar. The Master hailed the Hooded One, and his disciples replied in kind. Then the Slayer cut the cha’asii’s throat, gathered the blood, and poured it at the statue’s feet. When it was done, they gave the elf’s body to the dragon, which devoured it in two swift bites, then lifted the statue in its talons and bore it away again into the night. After that, the Keeper brought Essana back to her cell and left her there, with only her memories of the elf-woman’s dying screams for company.

  The third time was different. The victim—a silver-maned elder, with bright feathers and beads of amber and jade strung into his hair—did not struggle, nor did he cry for help. He simply stared at the Brethren with a strange expression. It wasn’t fear or hatred; it might have been pity. Perhaps even a hint of mockery. He spoke in a strange language, like the song of birds; Essana didn’t understand the words. Whatever he said, however, angered the Master so much that he took the Slayer’s knife and cut the elf himself. The cha’asii made no reply, only lay back, let out a breath, and died.

  The Brethren’s faces, fleshless as they were, could show no emotion. Yet the Master’s bloodshot eyes, when he turned to face the others, seemed to blaze with rage. His hands trembled.

  Essana’s heart lurched when he said, “Bring her.”

  The Keeper hesitated. “It is not time. She is not ready. The child—”

  “Is grown enough. I will say when she is ready, Brother. Or do you forget your place?” The Master’s words dripped with venom.

  “No, my lord,” said the Keeper, his own voice edged with frost.

  “Then bring her. Now.”

  Reluctantly, it seemed, the Keeper took Essana’s arm. She resisted, but his fingers gripped her fast, finding a nerve that sent bolts of lightning shooting up through her shoulder to her spine. She gasped, her knees buckling as he led her toward the altar.

  The Master was even less gentle, wrenching her from the Keeper’s grasp then ordering him back. Furious, he pushed her to her knees before the Hooded One, then seized her hair and jerked her head back, making her look at the statue. The knife was still in his hand, dripping with blood. Bile burned Essana’s throat.

  But the Master’s thirst for murder had been slaked, for the time being. Instead, he gave the blade a swift flick, slitting open her shift to expose the growing roundness of her belly. The flesh there was taut, distended. Inside, she felt the baby kick.

  Mislaxa, she prayed, oh, hand-who-heals, I beg you … take my son.

  “Blood for you, Faceless One,” spoke the Master. “Blood for Maladar, the Sleeping King.”

  Turning the sickle, he wiped it on Essana’s stomach. It left a long, dark streak of the dead elf’s blood. It trickled down her skin, sickeningly warm. It soaked her clothing, staining it crimson. Then, with a sudden, rushing sensation, as if the whole world were dropping away, she felt a presence flood her mind. It was not cold and emotionless, like the yaggol, but hot and filled with fury. This presence burned with hate, with rage, with hunger for the life within her.

  Maladar.

  I will have the child, said the Faceless Emperor. I will claim him, and be born again into the world. I will grow, and in his flesh I will conquer. I will raise a new land, from the ashes of the old.

  The world faded before her eyes, and another place revealed itself. She saw a sea of molten stone, roiling beneath a smoke-heavy sky. Red lightning smote distant, black peaks. Islands of glass floated upon the magma, moving in slow, spinning circles around a column of fire at its midst. The fire rose high into the hazy air, a mile and more. It was white at its core, slender and straight—but it was not just fire. It held a shape, hidden within. There were windows, buttresses, turrets. It was a tower, built of flame.

  Chaldar, she thought. She had heard the tales; every child in the League did. The Chaldar, the Burning Spire, was said to stand at the heart of Hith’s Cauldron, the great, fiery wound where the gods had split the earth, and laid low the empire of Aurim in the Great Destruction. The tower, the stories said, had arisen in the spot where Aurim’s capital once stood. None had entered it and returned to tell what lurked within, but there were many rumors. Some said the ghosts of the Aurish dead haunted it, others that demons from the Abyss walked its burning halls. Others claimed it was empty, waiting for its true lord to come. No one knew, but Essana thought she sensed something in her v
ision … something watching her. She quailed before those unseen eyes.

  I will rule, said Maladar. My realm, reborn.

  The sea began to churn. As she watched, new islands arose, pillars of obsidian that pushed up from the churning lava. Flickering red, they rose higher and higher, and she saw now that they were not just columns but buildings … shining, black buildings in an antique style. A city.

  His city.

  “No,” she moaned. “Not with my son. You will not.”

  Laughter filled her head. The Flaming Spire erupted, hurling tendrils of fire across the sky. It poured down like rain, burning as it fell. It washed over her, scorching her skin, roasting flesh, charring bone. It ran down her throat, into her lungs. Her hair became a torch. Her eyes boiled.

  She screamed.

  “She wakes.”

  Essana ached all over. She tried to roll away from the voice. She couldn’t move her arms and could barely feel her legs. She tried to groan, but all that escaped her mouth was a noiseless sigh.

  Hands touched her roughly. They gripped her wrist, pinching down to the bone, then ground into her throat, probing for the life-beat. Then they drew back. She drew a breath … and all at once, out of nowhere, a hand slapped her—hard—across the face.

  Her eyes flew open. She cried out. The Master stood over her, glaring from the depths of his hood. All she could see was light shining off the moistness of his eyes.

  “There, sweet one,” he hissed. “You tried to escape from us, didn’t you? Crawled inside your mind, so far even the yaggol couldn’t reach. But it couldn’t last, not forever. We are not made to hide like that for long.”

  He struck her again, across the other cheek. His leather glove stung her. She tasted blood.

  “Enough!” said another voice. “She is awake. Leave it.”

  The Keeper grabbed the Master’s hand as it rose to deliver another blow. The Master whirled, glaring. “I could kill you where you stand!” he grated. “Do you forget yourself, Brother?”

  “Do you?” the Keeper replied, not flinching. “Every time you harm her, you endanger the child. Will you explain to Maladar if it dies?”

  The Master was silent. There was hate between him and the Keeper, deep and abiding. A history there. Essana wondered what it was.

  “You will go too far one day,” said the Master.

  “Of course. We all will.”

  The Master stayed still for a moment longer, then turned and stormed away. Essana heard a door open, then boom shut. The Keeper looked down at her. He examined her, his hands gentle. Not like the Master’s. The Master had a warrior’s hands. The Keeper’s were those of a healer. Essana shut her eyes and let him touch her belly, to feel the life beneath.

  “The child is healthy,” he said after a time. “All is well.”

  She laughed bitterly. “Oh? I should be happy?”

  He drew back, startled by her rancor, then turned away. She heard the whisper of his robes as he moved to another part of the room. He returned with a steaming cup that smelled of bitter herbs. He put it to her lips.

  “Drink,” he bade. “It will help.”

  She sipped, nearly spitting it out. The tea tasted awful, like it came from a well where something had died. The flavor lingered long after she forced the mouthful down.

  “H-horrible,” she gagged.

  The Keeper nodded. He watched her, his eyes glistening beneath his cowl.

  As she lay there, Essana felt her strength return, the throbbing pain in her head subside. She pushed herself up, looked around. The room was one she hadn’t been in before, more comfortable than her cell, but not much. The same black stone. Lanterns on the walls, glass orbs filled with what looked like glowing centipedes. They scuttled around and around their prisons, casting eerie, blue-green light. She lay on a divan padded with velvet. A small fire burned in a brazier nearby, with a kettle over it, giving off the same acrid stink as the tea. There was a table, laid out with strange metal instruments, and numerous crystal jars of herbs, powders, and oils. Books bound in leather the color of dried blood lined a shelf opposite the door. A map hung on the wall, of a land she didn’t recognize. A land far from Coldhope, to be sure. It was a large island, triangular, and its longest coast—in the southwest—was jagged and broken. Off its eastern shore were numerous smaller islets. Mountains formed a spine down its center; forest covered its southern half; ice its northernmost edge.

  The place tickled at her mind. She had seen this island before, in studies when she was a child. Where was it?

  “You had a vision,” said the Keeper, drawing her gaze away from the map. These were his chambers, she was certain. The home of a scholar and a surgeon of sorts. “When the Master brought you before the Hooded One.”

  She saw no reason to lie. “I did. Then I blacked out. How long?”

  “Two days. You had a fever. You would have died, but.…”

  “But you took care of me.”

  Again, the Keeper said nothing.

  “The vision,” she said. “I saw the Chaldar and Hith’s Cauldron. I saw him. He spoke, and a city rose from the flaming sea. A city of shadow and fire.”

  The Keeper stiffened, then controlled himself and gazed down upon her. “This city … did it look like the old paintings? Images of Aurim?”

  “Yes. Is that it? Does he mean to raise the old empire from the ruins of the Destruction?”

  The Keeper shook his head. “I don’t know. But you should not speak of this to anyone. Not even the Master. If he asks about the vision, it is best if you tell him you remember nothing.”

  “And if he uses the yaggol? If he tells them to drag it from my mind?”

  “He already has. They couldn’t bring it forth.”

  Essana shuddered, thinking of the creatures’ cold, twitching tentacles, touching her while she lay unconscious. She could see their empty eyes in her mind, feel their spindly fingers on her. Gooseflesh rose on her arms.

  The Keeper watched her silently.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why did you take me?”

  He shrugged. “We needed the child. You were with the statue. The fact you were pregnant spared you, or Gloomwing and his shadow-servants would have killed you with the others. We need the unborn son of a human, a boy of noble birth. It is prophesied. When the dragon saw you, he knew you were the one.…”

  “My son. You’re going to give him to this Faceless Emperor.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  He studied her, steepling his fingers. “Do you truly wish to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Very well,” he said, his eyes glistening. “You know as well as I that there is plenty of trouble in Taladas. There has been, for many years, but it is growing steadily worse. You have seen it—earthquakes that topple cities. Restless barbarians razing their neighbors’ lands. Riots, banditry, and seemingly endless war. Fire and blood. We have seen this spreading trouble, even in the Rainwards.”

  Essana caught her breath, glancing again at the map. Of course—the Rainward Isles! A cold, mist-shrouded place, off the northeastern shore of Taladas. It was the one piece of Old Aurim that had survived the Destruction nearly intact … at least, it was not blasted to wasteland like the rest. Great kingdoms had risen there in the years since: warlike realms that fought one another constantly. They were lands of legend in the League, too far to trade with or invade.

  “You come from there?” she asked. “All of you?”

  The Keeper nodded. “I lived my life before in a kingdom called Suluk. I was a healer … a physic, not a Mislaxan. This was during the Godless Night, when the Mislaxans had no power. I met the Master then, and the others. We saw what had befallen the world since Aurim fell, and we knew Taladas could never recover. Things would only get worse. The land is dying, killing its people by stages. In five hundred years, in a thousand, who is to say what will remain?

  “The Master was the one who first learned of Maladar, and the Hooded One.
It was his decision to form the Brethren … to scar ourselves and seek the statue. He read prophecies, and made some of his own. We traveled here, to Neron, so we could work in secret, away from the eyes of our people. We searched long and hard for the Hooded One, ranging across the Aurish wastes, even into the Cauldron itself, but we found nothing. Still, we never lost hope.

  “In time, the Hooded One was found, but not by us. Word came to us that the minotaurs had located it in the ruins, and brought it back to their empire in the west. Your empire. So we set plans in motion, to throw their League into chaos by shattering their capital, then threatening it with a barbarian horde from the north. The Teacher was our envoy. He goaded the Uigan to war, seduced their prince, their Boyla, with promises of power. And meanwhile, the Slayer went forth to find the statue itself. He tracked it across the continent, from one owner to the next, killing as he went. He even murdered the Voice of the Silvanaes elves, in Armach.

  “For a time, the Slayer lost the trail. But we knew, once the Uigan came south, that Maladar would surface again. Some fool would be seduced by the power of the Faceless Emperor, and use it against the barbarians. We were right.”

  “Shedara,” Essana murmured.

  “Yes, the elf,” agreed the Keeper. “She invoked his power and summoned the wave that destroyed the Uigan. And, in so doing, she revealed herself, and drew the Slayer to her. To you. And now … now we have all we need, at last. All that remains is for the child to be born. When he is, Maladar will claim him, and the Sleeping King will be free of his prison at last.”

  “And he’ll raise Aurim from the burning sea,” she said, her voice now no more than a whisper.

  The Keeper paused then inclined his head. “Just so, if your vision holds true. He will bring peace to these troubled lands. Order will return to Taladas, for the first time since the rain of death fell upon this world. Maladar will bring new life to the fallen empire, and reign over all. Even, perhaps, the fabled lands across the sea.”