Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two

by James Wyatt

  So he kept an eye on the shifter for the rest of the journey. The man was tall and strongly built, and armored in a shirt of gleaming silver chainmail made from light, flexible mithral. Two long-bladed knives hung at his belt, and he carried a quiver of red-feathered arrows on his back. A long bow, unstrung, leaned against the window beside him. His mane of brown hair was streaked with blond and woven into two thin braids that hung in front of his slightly pointed ears. He had amber eyes that never seemed to lift their gaze above the floor. Whenever Kauth tried to catch his eye, the shifter simply ignored him.

  He hadn’t moved since Kauth had last studied him. He sat across the aisle running down the center of the coach, as alone on a bench as Kauth was. Leaning forward, the shifter rested his head on the seat in front of him, staring down at the floor, his hands clenched as if in prayer.

  Kauth felt the coach slow, and he looked back out the window just in time to see the river and the forest beyond it disappear as they passed through the walls of Varna into the city. The quiet fields and ranches gave way to the noisy bustle of city life—people on the move, buying, selling, and crafting.

  He suddenly felt very tired, and he leaned his head against the glass. Here was a city full of life and energy, people going about their lives trying their hardest to find fulfillment and happiness in the circumstances they were given. And if his mission succeeded, the city would soon be a ruin—either besieged by Aundairian forces or razed by the hordes of the Carrion Tribes.

  Nothing is permanent, he reminded himself. Change is part of the cycles of time. Creation, destruction—one flows into the other and neither is cause for joy or grief. Detachment is the key to peace and understanding.

  He glanced back to the shifter’s seat. It was empty. He leaped to his feet and scanned the coach, but the shifter had vanished. He threw himself into the shifter’s vacated seat, heedless of the stares he drew, and peered out the window. A quick glimpse confirmed his fear. The shifter had leaped off the moving coach and was doing his best to lose himself in the crowd.

  Kauth cursed under his breath and ran to the front of the coach. The busy street passed by more quickly than he liked. Shifters had a natural agility that would have made the jump relatively easy for his quarry, but it made him nervous. For a moment he questioned whether this particular shifter was worth the risk of a broken bone.

  I’ll get a lot more than a broken bone if I try the Demon Wastes alone, he told himself.

  Drawing a deep breath, he jumped. He landed hard but kept his feet. Scanning the street, he spotted the area where he’d seen the shifter, and wove his way back through the traffic.

  He was glad he’d chosen a tall body for this persona—it gave him a slightly better view over the crowd. And he was looking for another tall man, so he focused on other heads that jutted up from the masses. A mane of brown hair streaked with blond caught his eye, and he altered his course to intercept the shifter at a side street.

  He lost sight of his quarry on the way, but kept on course until he reached the other street. He stopped at the corner and scanned all around, to no avail.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  A hand gripped his shoulder and a voice growled in his ear. “Why are you following me?”

  Kauth spun around and found himself face to face with the shifter. The man’s amber eyes bored into his, and his teeth were bared in a very animalistic display of aggression.

  “I need your help,” Kauth said, spreading his hands, palms out.

  People aren’t so different from animals, he thought. Displays of aggression and peace, rituals of dominance and submission. Do animals manipulate each other, though? Do they pretend to be submissive to lull the dominant ones into a false sense of control?

  The shifter’s eyebrows rose. “My help? What in the ten seas do you need me for?”

  You’re so accustomed to being useless, Kauth thought. You’ll do whatever I ask you to.

  “I need strong allies for dangerous work,” he said. “You struck me as a man who could handle the work.”

  “I assume you’re not talking about menial labor.” The shifter’s hand rested on the hilt of a long knife at his belt.

  “Can we talk somewhere more private?”

  The shifter looked him up and down. His eyes lingered for a moment on the flanged mace at Kauth’s belt and the crossbow slung over his shoulder, then he gave a slight nod.

  “I’m Sevren Thorn,” he said, extending a hand.

  Kauth clasped it and smiled.

  Who are you? he thought.

  “Kauth Dannar.”

  Sevren Thorn was a desperate man, quickly won over. Kauth said he was a scout for the Wardens of the Wood, the druidic sect that maintained order throughout the Reaches. Rumors of war were building, not just in the east near Aundair, but also on the Reaches’ western border. He had been charged with infiltrating the Demon Wastes to determine the truth of these rumors.

  Sevren drained his third pint of the dark, bitter ale common in the Reaches as Kauth sipped his first with distaste. “So is it just the two of us?” the shifter asked. “Or are you looking for more strong allies?”

  How many people am I willing to lead to their deaths? Kauth thought.

  “More would improve our chances,” he said. “But too many will draw attention. Do you know anyone who might be interested?”

  “I have a couple of ideas. People I’ve worked with before. People who have some trouble fitting in to city life, like me.”

  “Can you contact them?”

  “It might take some work, but I’m sure I can track them down. That’s what I’m good at.”

  “I’d be glad to meet them,” Kauth said.

  The next evening, he draped himself in a heavy cloak and altered his face and form as much as he could while wearing Kauth’s metal-studded leather armor, and then he made his way to the same tavern. From outside, the tavern’s location offered a splendid view of Lake Galifar and the light of the Ring of Siberys gleaming on its waters. Inside, though, the few small windows in the fieldstone walls were paned with smoke-blackened glass. One roaring fire threw its flickering light over the crowded room, casting large and looming shadows.

  He spotted Sevren Thorn and his two companions as soon as he entered, but he didn’t look directly at them. He sat at the bar and ordered a pint of the vile ale before turning to survey the room. The shifter was at ease with these friends, laughing loudly at some joke, his head thrown back. The changeling smiled despite himself—he had quickly come to like the shifter, whose ready laugh was one of his most endearing traits.

  His companions looked like very much the same kind of man, perfect for this mission. One stood out immediately from the crowd. First because he evidently thought drinking was a serious, even dangerous business. He wore heavy armor, well-crafted plate with one pronounced shoulder plate. Second, he was an orc, gray-skinned, hideous, and huge. He didn’t even smile at whatever had made Sevren laugh so loudly.

  The other man was human, but he stood out from the crowd no less than his companions. He wore a flamboyant emerald green shirt beneath a black vest embroidered in gold. His head was bald except for an arc of black hair sprinkled with gray running around the back, baring an elaborate black tattoo of angular patterns that covered his scalp. Kauth recognized the tattoo as an arcane symbol, suggesting the man had some kind of magical ability. Thick eyebrows rose from the bridge of his nose to a high point before bending back down at the ends. His mouth was twisted in a sardonic grin—some barb of his had doubtless spurred Sevren’s laughter.

  Satisfied, the changeling slipped out of the bar, leaving his ale on the counter. He stood in the shadows outside and slid into Kauth’s familiar form, then stuffed the cloak into his pack. Running a hand over his face to make sure he hadn’t missed any details, he walked back in the door as though he had just arrived, pretending to scan the room until he spotted Sevren.

  He walked to their table. “I’m Kauth Dennar,” he said.

 
; Sevren stood with a smile and clasped Kauth’s hand in greeting. “This is Vor Helden,” he said, indicating the orc.

  Kauth nodded at the orc, puzzling over the odd name. It didn’t seem Orc.

  “And this is Zandar Thuul.” Sevren clapped the other man on the shoulder. “Have a seat.”

  Kauth settled into the empty chair across from the shifter and smiled at the other men. “Sevren told you about the job?”

  “He did,” the orc, Vor, answered. “And I’ll be blunt. You need me. You’ll never get through the Labyrinth without me.”

  Kauth’s eyebrows raised, and he noticed Zandar’s mouth quirking into the same grin. “You’re a Ghaash’kala?” Kauth asked. The Ghaash’kala tribes patrolled the broken land between the Demon Wastes and the Eldeen Reaches. Zealous believers in an obscure religion, the Ghaash’kala orcs tried to ensure that no evil escaped from the Wastes—and that no one entered that land of corruption. They would be the first casualties of Kauth’s mission, if he succeeded.

  “He was,” Zandar said.

  Vor glared at the human before turning back to Kauth. “I was born among them, and I know the Labyrinth well. I no longer carry the privilege of calling myself a Ghaash’kala, or of using my full name.”

  Kauth nodded, deciding not to press him further. That explained the simple name, anyway. “I’ll be glad for your help,” he said. He looked at Zandar. “How about you?”

  “What about me? You want me to tell you all the reasons you should bring me along? I’ll keep you alive—that’s all.”

  “And how will you do that?”

  “If anything tries to kill you, I’ll kill it first.”

  “Quite a boast from a man who doesn’t carry a weapon,” Kauth observed.

  In answer, Zandar pointed his finger at the half-drained mug of ale in front of Vor. A stream of shadow shot from his hand and shattered the mug. Shards of pottery flew everywhere, and ale sprayed all over the orc. Vor jumped to his feet, reached across the table, and hauled Zandar up by his collar.

  “I’ve had enough from you, warlock,” the orc snarled. “I’ll be damned before I take another journey with you.”

  Zandar didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “Aren’t you damned already?” He sneered. “Hasn’t the Silver Flame abandoned you?”

  Vor threw him back into his chair. “Kalok Shash is testing me,” he said, but the fire was gone from his eyes. He settled back into his chair, his plate armor clanking.

  Interesting, Kauth thought. An exiled Ghaash’kala warrior, sworn to protect the world from evil, and a warlock, a pracitioner of an arcane tradition said to come from fiendish pacts. Certainly both men would be useful—as long as they didn’t kill each other.

  “Don’t mind them,” Sevren said, smiling at Kauth. “They do this all the time. It’s like they’re married.”

  Vor glared at him, but Zandar leaned toward Kauth. “It’s just so much fun to see him riled up. I’ve never seen a paladin with such a temper.”

  “A paladin?” Kauth arched an eyebrow at Vor.

  Vor glared at Zandar. “I was,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Totem Beach,” Jordhan announced, his voice hushed with awe. Gaven could only stare. An uneven row of monolithic dragon heads towered over the sandy beach. Their necks rose up from the sand and the sea, and their heads glared down at the approaching ship. The Sea Tiger was miles from shore, but the gray stone dragons still seemed impossibly large. Gaven couldn’t imagine how human hands could have shaped such immense figures, and he had never thought of dragons as sculptors. But there they were—standing watch over the beach to accept the sacrifices of the Serens, or to warn away intruders. Or both.

  It was awe-inspiring—and completely unfamiliar. Gaven had hoped that laying eyes on Argonnessen would trigger some memory of the land. He had harbored the memories of a dragon for all those years in Dreadhold, but now that those memories were gone, he couldn’t remember anything of Argonnessen. He couldn’t even remember whether the dragon in his mind had ever been there. Totem Beach did nothing to jar his memory, and he grew increasingly convinced that the dragon had spent its whole life in Khorvaire. Mostly, as far as he could recall, in the lightless depths of Khyber.

  “We might have trouble,” Rienne said, pointing off to port. Gaven squinted against the morning sun and saw the object of her concern—a three-masted longship sailing toward them. “The Serens?”

  Jordhan shielded his eyes with his hand and followed Rienne’s finger. “Yes, that’s one of theirs. You can tell by the long prow and the distinctive shape of the sails. They—”

  Gaven cut him off. “Will they attack us?” The Seren ship was smaller than the Sea Tiger, but that long prow was built for ramming, and with enough speed she could tear a hole in the galleon’s hull.

  “Only if they can catch us,” Jordhan said with a grin. He spread his arms to indicate the grandeur of his ship—her three masts and the elemental ring of water surrounding her. He had every reason to be proud of her.

  “We can outrun them to the coast easily enough,” Rienne said, “but then what? When we disembark, we’ll be on the beach and you’ll be at anchor, and we’ll both be easier targets.”

  “I could sink them,” Gaven said. The idea was distasteful, but if it meant that Jordhan and his crew were not at risk, he’d do it.

  “Don’t be so sure,” Jordhan said. “Their ships are built to weather storms. I’ve never heard of the Dragonreach lying as still as it has these past few weeks.”

  Rienne put a hand on Gaven’s shoulder. “You can thank the Storm Dragon for that.”

  Gaven leaned on the bulwark and surveyed the coast. Beyond the sandy beach, a cloud of mist hung over what looked like thick jungle, obscuring the horizon.

  “I wish I had a better sense of the land.”

  “You’re looking at as much as the charts show,” Jordhan said. “The beach with its watchers, then a strip of forest. That mist might be a permanent feature.”

  “That’s one thing about the weather,” Gaven said with a grin. “It always changes.”

  He closed his eyes and felt the air around him, the wind blowing toward the coast. He spread his arms and drew a long breath, then let it out slowly.

  I am the storm, he thought. I am the wind.

  The skin of his arms tingled, and his dragonmark grew warm. For a moment he held a swirling ball of air in his outstretched arms. With a sharp breath, it gusted out before him. He took a step back against the force of it, then planted himself more firmly on the deck. He felt Rienne’s hand on his back, lending him her strength.

  The wind grew into a gale blowing out from the Sea Tiger’s prow. He opened his eyes and watched it churn the sea into foaming waves, then kick up blasts of sand on the beach. Branches thrashed wildly, and the mist roiled before dissipating completely in the face of the mighty wind.

  Beyond the forest, the land rose up in a wall of forbidding mountains, high enough that their peaks were cloaked in snow. Gaven staggered back another step, as though the mountains pushed back against his blast of wind.

  “Ten seas,” Jordhan breathed. “How are you going to get across those?”

  Gaven ignored him, keeping his mind focused on the wind. The mist draping the forest blew off in wild streams away from the central point directly ahead of the ship’s prow. The mountains indeed formed a wall following the line of the coast, rising higher toward the east. As he watched, dark shapes took to the air, spreading wide wings to ride the wind rising off the mountains. Dragons.

  “There, to the east,” Rienne breathed in his ear.

  Gaven focused more of his attention to the east. The Seren longship’s sails flapped fiercely, and the wind turned her broadside to the Sea Tiger as the Seren crew fought to furl the sails and bring their oars to bear. Gaven kept his eyes on the horizon and saw what Rienne had seen. After reaching their highest point, the mountains dropped abruptly on either side toward the sea.

  “Good
eye, Rienne,” Jordhan said. “There’s an inlet or bay there, and I’d wager it cuts through the mountains.”

  Gaven slumped against Rienne, and the wind died as suddenly as it had begun.

  “Get us there,” he said, panting for breath.

  “I’ll do my best,” the captain answered.

  “You’d better get your charts,” Rienne said. “You’re going to be adding to them.”

  “Let’s hope they find their way back to Khorvaire.”

  Despite their taste of Gaven’s power, the Serens shadowed the Sea Tiger along the coast, trying to keep between her and the beach. The Serens knew the waters better than Jordhan’s charts could show him, and the captain’s caution kept the galleon from outdistancing the Seren longship.

  “If we hit a rock or even a sandbar out here, we might as well have sailed into the jaws of the Keeper,” he said. “No one will come to rescue us, and we’ll find no harbor to repair the hull.”

  “We’re no better off if the Serens ram us,” Gaven pointed out.

  “I’m fairly certain you can prevent that.”

  “Probably. But they have oars as well as sails, and I’m not going to underestimate their determination to drive us away.”

  Jordhan sighed. “We’re going as fast as I dare. They haven’t caught us yet.”

  As fast as Jordhan dared proved to be fast enough. The captain dropped anchor at night, refusing to sail the unfamiliar waters in the dark. Gaven stayed on deck through the night, tracking the shadow of the Seren ship by the light of the Ring of Siberys, but they came only a little closer, keeping a safe distance from the Sea Tiger while still guarding the beach. By the middle of the next day, the inlet was in clear view—wide and calm, flanked by jutting pillars of natural stone like twin sentinels guarding the entrance to Argonnessen’s inner reaches.

  As they approached the inlet, the Serens fell farther behind, until the longship was nothing more than a dark speck amid the sea spray on the horizon.

  “I think they’ve turned back,” Rienne said.