Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two

by James Wyatt

  Gaven cursed, and lightning flared in the clouds. A flashing bolt speared through the gold dragon, knocking it into the water with a great splash. He ran to Rienne and bent to help her stand.

  “Never mind me,” she gasped. She pointed weakly behind him.

  Gaven spun around just in time to catch the full brunt of a blast of frozen air streaming from the white dragon’s mouth. Frost crusted on his eyes and mouth, ice formed in his hair, and a layer of rime coated the deck. He staggered backward a few steps and slipped, landing hard on his back.

  “First you dare trespass in our land.” The dragon landed on the deck again and prowled toward Gaven. Its voice was a low growl. “Then you have the audacity to hurt me. Now I plan to eat you alive.”

  Gaven struggled to get his feet under him again, but the deck was too slippery.

  “Is this dragon talking to you, Gaven?” Rienne stepped over him and took up a stance between him and the dragon. She didn’t speak or understand Draconic, and Gaven wasn’t sure whether the dragon understood Common. But it didn’t matter. “What a waste of time,” Rienne said, and she and Maelstrom began their deadly dance.

  Gaven spoke a quick spell to sheath his body in a shield of flickering violet flames that warmed his body and turned the frost beneath him to water, and then to steam. He sprang to his feet, sliding his greatsword from the sheath on his back. Another arcane word made crackling lightning spring to life along the blade, sparks flying off into the air. He edged forward to stand beside Rienne.

  The dragon reared up, batting at Maelstrom with its front claws but unable to stop its incessant whirling. Rienne had already scored its hide with several long gashes, and fear was in its eyes. It spread its wings and flapped them hard.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Gaven said in Draconic. He sprang forward and slashed the muscle where the dragon’s wing connected to its body, and that wing crumpled at the dragon’s side. The dragon roared its pain and fury, then brought its front claws down hard on Gaven.

  The sword clattered from his hand as he fell to the deck. The dragon’s weight on his chest knocked the wind out of him, but then the beast roared again and drew back, seared by the flames around Gaven’s body. Gaven swung his arms and brought his hands together in front of him, and a boom like thunder knocked the dragon backward.

  This is harder than it should be, Gaven thought. Have I led these people to their deaths?

  The ship rolled beneath him, and Gaven found himself sliding toward the gold dragon on the tilted deck. His sword slipped just out of his reach.

  Gaven got to his feet once more. “I’m finished lying on my back now,” he growled in Draconic. “Get ready to see what the Storm Dragon can do.”

  The gold dragon recoiled at that, and the white was still reeling from the blast of thunder and Rienne’s unrelenting assault.

  “That’s right,” Gaven growled. “I am the Storm Dragon.”

  Wind swept around the ship and gathered quickly into a whirlwind that pinned the gold dragon in place, tearing at its wings and snatching the breath from its snout. Lightning flashed within the walls of howling air, searing the dragon’s scales. The wyrm opened its mouth, but it had no breath to roar.

  With only a glance in its direction, Gaven thrust a hand toward the white dragon and pierced its body with another blast of lightning. It crashed to the deck, and a final slice from Maelstrom made sure it didn’t move again.

  The gold dragon beat its wings furiously against the whirlwind. Gaven snarled, and a thunderous crash exploded inside the swirling air. The dragon’s wings crumpled, and another crack of thunder crushed it. With a wave of his hand, Gaven sent its body hurtling off the deck and into the water.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Past Greenheart, the trees that gave the Towering Wood its name grew taller and broader—older, Kauth realized. An ogre couldn’t circle one of their massive trunks with its arms, and one of the giants of Xen’drik couldn’t reach their lowest branches. Their broad leaves were larger than a soldier’s shield, and their gray-blue bark could have served as armor. At times he felt as though he walked through a grand cathedral, the trees supporting a soaring roof, a place of sacred beauty. In other places, where the trunks grew closer together, it felt more like a labyrinth, when the farthest he could see in any direction was straight up. There the beauty became something awesome and terrible, daunting him with the sheer age of the forest and its trees. It seemed unearthly—strangely enough, considering that it must have been the place in Khorvaire where the worldwas most like it had been before goblins and humans built their cities and empires.

  Sevren led their party along a course as straight as the forest allowed. No paths wound among the trees, excepting places here and there where deer or other animals had trampled the soil and dead leaves down into something like a trail. Still, Sevren’s sense of direction seemed unerring—whenever Kauth was able to determine the direction they traveled, they were still heading northwest, the shortest way through the forest to the Shadowcrags and the Demon Wastes beyond.

  The woods teemed with life, but the animals kept a safe distance from Kauth and his party. Squirrels scampered up trees at their approach, rabbits broke cover and hopped away, birds fluttered up out of reach. Larger animals stalked just at the edge of their vision, appearing only in glimpses between distant trees. Kauth found himself most aware, though, of the favored creatures of the Children of Winter—the spiders and scorpions crawling at their feet, hunting their own tiny prey among the detritus of the forest. A centipede the size of a viper writhed its way alongside Kauth’s path for a few unnerving moments, and he shuddered at the memory of their confrontation with the druids on the road.

  At night they pitched their tents wherever they could find space. Kauth repeated his nightly ritual beside the embers of their small fires, cementing his identity in his mind to make sure he didn’t slip out of it while he slept beside Vor in their little tent. His focus grew stronger each night, the unwelcome memories of Kelas and his early training intruding less often into his thoughts. Each night he hardened his heart to the impending death of his comrades, only to find himself warming to them again as they walked through the days.

  On the fourth day of their journey, as he laughed at Zandar’s latest quip, he wondered how and when he had become so weak.

  Six days outside of Greenheart, the trees thinned, and ferns and shrubs crowded into the patches of sunlight in the spaces between. Sevren pointed out scattered blocks of stone—the crumbled ruin of an ancient wall—mostly covered with lichen and creeping vines.

  “That explains the thinning trees,” the shifter said. “There’s probably a paved area not far ahead. The trees will grow through it eventually, but it takes time.”

  “We should skirt the ruin,” Kauth said.

  “Are you serious?” Zandar said. “This is our specialty.”

  Sevren nodded. “We can afford a brief diversion from our journey. Vor?”

  “This is how we make our living,” the orc said. “If there’s nothing of value in the ruins, it won’t take long for us to determine that, and we won’t have delayed our journey. If there are treasures to be found, it’s worth a small delay.”

  Zandar clapped Kauth on the shoulder. “I’m afraid you’re outvoted, friend.”

  Kauth thought briefly of pulling rank, asserting his role as leader of the expedition. Then he remembered that the others had stripped him of that authority back on the caravan, after they caught him in his lies. He shrugged in resignation, and Sevren altered their course slightly to take them into the heart of the ruins.

  Twenty paces past the ruined wall, shattered cobblestones paved the forest floor. Plants sprouted up between the ancient stones, and a few trees—smaller than elsewhere in the forest—pushed the stones apart and buckled them with their spreading roots. Sevren slowed his pace, stooping every few paces to examine a fern or vine. Each time he bent down, his face showed more concern.

  Soon the s
hifter stopped entirely, kneeling on the cobblestones and examining the underside of a pale, almost white fern. “What is it?” Kauth asked.

  Sevren yanked the fern from the ground and stood up. He held the plant out to Kauth, pointing at the leaves. Strange nodules covered them, purplish white and pulsing faintly with life that struck him as distinctly not plantlike.

  “We call it the Depravation,” the shifter said. “It’s the influence of the Realm of Madness. There’s probably a portal somewhere in the ruins. Maybe still sealed—or mostly sealed. Possibly broken.”

  “You think there’s a daelkyr here?” Kauth carefully kept the alarm from his voice, though it was written plain on the others’ faces. Thousands of years ago, the alien world of Xoriat, called the Realm of Madness, had come close to the natural world—close in some abstract, metaphysical sense that, fundamentally, meant it was easier to cross from one world to the other. What had crossed from Xoriat into the world had given the Realm of Madness its name: tentacled horrors and deformed monstrosities much like the beings that had spilled out of the Soul Reaver’s domain in the Starcrag Plain. But the rulers and makers of these monstrous aberrations were the daelkyr, deceptively humanlike beings of incredible power whose greatest skill lay in warping flesh according to their insane designs. With their gibbering hordes, they had devastated the goblin empire of Dhakaan before the druids known as the Gatekeepers had pushed Xoriat away from the world and sealed the portals the daelkyr had used. Even so, their influence still lingered, particularly in the western parts of Khorvaire.

  “I suppose there could be, but I don’t think it’s likely. The Depravation would be stronger, more noticeable.”

  “What, then?” Zandar asked. He maintained his cocky smile, but Kauth could see the effort it required.

  “Some weaker spawn of the daelkyr, I expect,” Sevren said.

  Kauth pointed at the fern. “So what are those nodules?”

  “Eggs.” Sevren used the sharp nail of one finger to pry one of the objects loose from the leaf. Tiny tendrils trailed behind it, sliding out of the fern. They seemed to writhe in the air before curling up close to the body of the egg.

  Holding the tiny object gingerly between two fingernails, Sevren stooped to pick up a small piece of cobblestone. He laid the egg on the flat stone and pressed his nail into it. There was a barely audible squelch and a violet fluid oozed out. He picked at the shell, revealing a tiny maggot-thing, the same pale purple as the nodule. It was about as large as the husk that held it, suggesting that it had been almost ready to hatch. Indeed, it pulsed with life and began to writhe as soon as the air touched its slimy skin, lifting one end toward Sevren’s finger. With a snarl of revulsion, the shifter cut the larva in two. The halves continued squirming for a moment before falling still. Sevren stooped again and used the stone to grind the maggot against another cobblestone.

  “What will those grow into?” Zandar asked.

  “No idea. Probably some warped form of fly or beetle. A blood drinker or flesh eater.”

  “So are we continuing into the ruins?” Kauth asked. “Or circling around?” He glanced at his three companions.

  Zandar’s revulsion was clear on his face—ironic, Kauth thought, considering the dark and twisted forces the warlock dealt with in practicing his magic. Vor’s face was impassive, while Sevren looked grim.

  The shifter set his jaw and spoke through clenched teeth. “Continuing.”

  Vor nodded, and Zandar looked off in the direction they had been walking.

  “Until discretion trumps greed, we forge ahead,” Zandar said. “I’m not letting flesh-eating flies dissuade me. At least, not before they’ve hatched.”

  Kauth smiled. These were, indeed, the kind of men he’d been looking for—rootless, experienced, and tough. Expendable, he reminded himself—but not until they reached the Demon Wastes.

  “Let me see your weapons,” Kauth said. “What?” Vor asked. “Why?”

  “If we’re going to fight the spawn of the daelkyr, I want us to be ready. I’ll enchant your weapons to strike truer and harder against them.”

  “I can’t argue with that,” Sevren said, sliding his knives from their sheaths and handing them to Kauth. Vor followed his example.

  Zandar shrugged and gestured toward the dagger at his belt. “If I end up drawing this thing in battle, we’ve already lost,” he said.

  As they pressed farther toward the heart of the ruins, scattered heaps of crumbling stone marked the locations of ancient buildings. The vines that covered them were acid green or lurid yellow, studded with spiny thorns, and they bore sharp-edged leaves. Clouds of flies swarmed around the party, tormenting them with painful bites, some even drawing blood.

  Sevren held a hand up, bringing them to a stop. Kauth saw what had caught his attention—the foliage was tramped down ahead of them, woody stems snapped and leaves ground into the fractured cobblestones. The shifter dropped to one knee beside the most obvious marks, then followed them a short way to the right. He stood and rejoined them, his brow furrowed.

  “It’s big,” he said. “Walks on two feet, but dragging its arms as it goes. Except where it picks up a chunk of rubble and tosses it aside. A gray render, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “You can tell it’s gray from its tracks?” Zandar asked with a sardonic smile.

  “I don’t know that for sure, but I’ve never seen a gray render that wasn’t gray.”

  “How many have you seen?” Kauth asked. “Just one.”

  “So what can we expect,” the warlock said, “based on your extensive past experience?”

  Sevren shot him a glare. “They’re big, and strong as a giant. Their name comes from their color, obviously, and from the way they grab and tear. Stay out of its claws.”

  “The voice of experience?”

  “Yes. The other thing is, they have a strange habit of taking up with other creatures, assuming a role like a bodyguard.”

  “Like a loyal dog,” Kauth said.

  “Exactly. And about as smart. So it’s probably attached itself to whatever spawn of the daelkyr—”

  Sevren’s hands shot to his ears and his mouth opened wide in a voiceless scream. Vor stepped to his side as Kauth looked around for the source of the attack. The first thing he saw could only have been the gray render Sevren had described—a hulking brute with a hairless gray body, long arms, and short legs. Kauth’s head reached about to its gaping mouth, but the thing’s sloping forehead and hunched shoulders rose several feet above him. Six small eyes in two columns rose up above the razor-toothed jaws.

  Kauth’s mace was in his hands before he saw the render’s companion—an enormous emerald-scaled serpent almost as large as the gray-skinned brute. It slithered along the ground, holding its head high. A cobralike cowl spread out behind its head, which bore a twisted mockery of a human face, snarling in rage.

  Vor stepped forward to meet the onrushing gray render. It thrust its misshapen head forward and tore the orc’s flesh with its black teeth, catching Vor off guard—his axe was ready to block a claw swinging in from the side, not the bite coming down from above. Only after the bite connected did the thing bring its claws to bear. Kauth’s gut clenched in fear—not for his own safety, but for the fallen paladin’s. He cursed his weakness even as he sprang forward to distract the creature before it could tear Vor apart.

  His mace’s flanges tore into the render’s upper arm, and the monster’s head turned to him. Vor wrested himself out of the render’s grasp and struck a powerful blow with his greataxe, drawing its attention back to him.

  Kauth nodded. Back and forth, back and forth, he thought. Keep it constantly distracted so it can’t land a solid blow.

  He edged around the beast so it was directly between him and Vor, meaning it had to turn farther each time it shifted its attention. He scored a telling blow on the render’s back, just behind its arm, and it roared in pain as it wheeled back to face him. He concentrated on defending himself until Vor struck it again.


  Back and forth, he thought, and it’ll be dead in no time.

  Then the pain hit him, in the form of an arcane word that coursed through his body and set his nerves on fire. There was no part of him that wasn’t in agony, and he doubled over, clutching at his ears as Sevren had done. Even the gray render’s tearing bite didn’t increase the pain. He started falling backward from the force of the render’s blow, but its claws caught him before he hit the ground. Just as the torturous word faded from his ears and its wracking agony with it, the render’s claws tore at him and sent a jolt of a different kind of pain through his chest. At last, the render tossed him aside, turning back to face Vor, and he fell to the ground in a heap.

  Kauth just wanted to lie there—it hurt to move even the slightest bit. It was humiliation, though, that made him reach for one of the wands at his belt and send its healing magic into his body. He didn’t want to be the one who got knocked out of the fight again, as he had when they fought the Children of Winter. He didn’t want to lose the respect of his companions.

  The wand’s magic coursed through him, knitting his flesh and easing the ache that still throbbed in his skull. He took a deep breath as it flowed like cool water through his veins, bracing and refreshing, then got to his feet.

  He heard Vor shout in pain, caught in the gray render’s grip again. Shifting his hold on his mace, Kauth swung it as hard as he could into the beast’s shoulder. The spikes dug deep, and the club’s impact made the render stagger forward. Vor stumbled backward out of its grasp, and then it fell on him. The orc managed to shift its weight to one side and send it crashing to the ground without being crushed beneath it.

  Kauth drew a wand again and started toward the orc, but Vor waved him away, pointing weakly at the others. Kauth spun around—focusing on the gray render and the combat rhythm he had found with Vor, he had all but forgotten their two companions and the serpent creature.

  Trying to assess the situation was like watching a complex dance. Sevren preferred to dart in, cut with his knives, and dart back out of reach, and Zandar liked blasting the serpent from a safe distance. The serpent wove between them, repeating its word over and over, rendering one man or the other helpless for a few moments at a time. Without Vor at the forefront, none of the battle’s participants wanted to stand still next to the others.