Storm Dragon: The Draconic Prophecies - Book One

by James Wyatt

  He walked around Gaven’s tiny cell, reading whatever words his eyes fell on, hoping that something would leap out at him that would help him understand. He could certainly see why so many people thought Gaven was at least halfway across the Sea of Rage, practically lost to madness. Disjointed fragments full of strange imagery and obscure descriptions covered the walls. Bordan had been wrestling for hours with numbers: twice thirteen years, the first of sixteen, shards of three dragons, thirteen cycles of the Battleground, nineteen turns of the thirteenth moon.

  The thirteenth moon? Bordan thought. To the best of his knowledge, there were only twelve. And he could only guess at references for most of the rest of these numbers.

  His eyes fell on a scrap of writing at his eye level, and he read the words aloud. “The cauldron of the thirteen dragons boils until one of the five beasts fighting over a single bone becomes a thing of desolation.” Bordan stroked his beard. “Very well, Gaven, let’s play this game. Five beasts fighting over a single bone—is that your code for the Five Nations? Are we talking about the Last War here? And Cyre, bless it, has become a thing of desolation. So Galifar is the boiling cauldron of the thirteen dragons? It’s a boiling cauldron because of the war. Thirteen dragons—thirteen dragonmarked houses!”

  He looked up at the Ring of Siberys again. “But there were only twelve dragons before House Phiarlan split, Gaven. Is that why you conspired against them? Did you orchestrate the schism so there would be thirteen dragons and your precious Prophecy would make sense?”

  He looked around the room again, at all the writing on the walls, the rubble on the floor, the crack in the ceiling through which Gaven, formerly of House Lyrandar, had escaped.

  “So your Prophecy would come true?”

  CHAPTER

  7

  The Aerenal jungle teemed with life. Even discounting the insects that swarmed around them, the sounds of movement were everywhere—gibbons leaping through the canopy overhead and whooping at each other, the hiss of an emerald-scaled snake coiled around a nearby branch, the harsh cries and elaborate songs of a dozen different birds. More alarming, something large rustled in the undergrowth not far enough away, off to Gaven’s right.

  “Welcome to Aerenal,” Haldren announced. He swept his arm grandly around him, taking in the jungle, then pointed behind Gaven. “The City of the Dead lies in the valley in that direction.”

  “The City of the Dead?” Darraun paled, but Haldren ignored him, shouldering past Gaven to walk in the direction he’d indicated.

  Gaven followed, falling into step beside Cart. Senya slipped between them as she hurried to catch up to Haldren, and Darraun brought up the rear, grumbling to himself. Gaven saw a clump of ferns shake slightly, opposite where he’d heard the rustling a moment before. Without thinking, he reached over his shoulder to where his sword should have been, and cursed softly when his hand met only empty air.

  “What is it, Gaven?” Cart said, slowing his pace. “Did you see something?”

  Senya darted forward, shouting, “Haldren, look—” Another rustle in the undergrowth, then a creature collided with Haldren, knocking him to the ground. It was covered in sable fur like a panther and resembled a cat in its general form—a cat the size of a horse. Two long tentacles arced up from its shoulders, trying to rake at Haldren’s flesh even as it clawed him with six feet and bared long fangs. Gaven found that looking at it was like peering through a curved glass—it seemed to shift position without moving.

  Haldren did not cry out or make any exclamation. Calm and sure, he chanted a few words of power that grew in volume until they became a thunderous shout that blasted the beast off him, sending it sprawling on its back. As Haldren got to his feet—a little unsteadily, Gaven noticed—the beast flailed its six legs in the air for a moment before managing to right itself. Senya had already reached it and swung her sword toward its head in what should have been a deadly blow, but her weapon failed to connect. To all appearances, it passed right through the creature’s head.

  Cart took up a position between Haldren and the beast, waiting in case it threatened his commander again. Darraun produced a slender wand from his belt and reached toward Haldren, working magic to stanch the bleeding. For a moment, Gaven thought about running—getting as far away from Haldren and his team as he possibly could, and making his way on his own. Then he saw the rest of the beast’s pack emerge from the ferns, forming a wide circle around them. He cast his eyes around for a branch or even a stone he could use as a weapon, but then the beasts closed the circle. One pounced at him, rearing up to plant its front paws on his shoulders, trying to knock him down. Gaven planted his feet and stayed upright, raising his hands to grab the thing’s head just as it tried to bite at his neck. Its middle pair of legs tried to tear at his chest and sides, but it couldn’t quite reach him.

  His dragonmark was burning. The shadows around him deepened, and the sky grew dark. Gaven growled with the effort of wrestling the beast, and a rumble of thunder rolled overhead. He felt disconnected from the struggle—he was in the storm brewing in the sky, looking down at his tiny form far below—and the storm brewed in his blood. Lightning flashed in the clouds above, and Gaven felt it jolt across the Mark of Storm on his chest.

  The beast’s tentacles bludgeoned his back, but he barely noticed. His hands held its jaws open and twisted its neck around. With another rumble of thunder overhead, he snapped its neck and roared as he threw its corpse away.

  Gaven had become the storm. He was killing with his bare hands, a primal force of nature, and the sky met his savagery with equal fury. Unbound, no longer locked within the walls of Dreadhold, not restrained by convention or decorum, not confined by the limits of his flesh, Gaven’s fury flashed across the sky, making shadows dance across the forest.

  Two beasts lunged for him, but he held them off, one with each hand. His muscles screamed in pain, but he exulted in the raw physicality of it. For the first time in years, he was completely in the moment, ancient memories and prophetic nightmares exorcised from his mind. An ear-splitting crash of thunder made one of the beasts flinch slightly, and he pressed the advantage, pushing it off him. Finally able to bring two hands to bear on the other beast, he grabbed it and swung it around him, crashing its hips into the snarling maw of the first creature. Darraun appeared at the edge of Gaven’s awareness, bringing his heavy mace down hard into the ribs of the beast he’d thrown.

  A monstrous roar answered the thunderclap, and another beast crashed through the jungle to enter the fray. If the beasts they’d been fighting were the size of horses, this one was a small elephant, though it was as wiry and compact as the others. Trying to follow its movements made Gaven’s eyes ache.

  Gaven’s eyes rolled skyward, and he lost himself in the storm. The dragonmark that covered his chest was a mirror of the thundercloud overhead, surging with power and flashing with lightning. The wind howled around him, and he let it hold him upright as he gave himself over to the tempest. The rain began to fall.

  He was aware of shouts and bestial howls of pain, but if the downpour fell on him, he did not feel it. He opened his eyes, but he felt so far away, so high above the battle that he could barely make sense of it. Darraun stood in front of him, hefting his mace in both hands as if to protect Gaven from the great beast. Haldren was at the artificer’s shoulder, his magic searing flesh from the beast’s skull, and Cart drove his axe again and again into the creature. The beast’s tentacles thrashed through the air, but its roars of pain and rage were drowned out by the howling wind.

  The wind lifted Gaven off the ground, and light exploded around him. Gaven felt rather than saw the location of each remaining beast, and bolts of lightning impaled each one, tying them briefly to each other, to the churning clouds above, to the burning dragonmark on his chest.

  The world fell silent, and the wind set Gaven back on his feet. Small hailstones pelted him, but the storm’s power was spent. He shook his head, trying to make sense of the ground beneath his feet,
the fire in his muscles, the frenetic movement around him. Haldren’s mouth was open wide as though he were shouting in Darraun’s ear, but there was no sound. Darraun nodded to Haldren and ran somewhere behind Gaven, just as Cart’s axe felled the great beast.

  Then Haldren’s red face was inches away, apparently yelling at Gaven. The half-elf shrugged and tried to turn away, but Haldren grabbed his shoulders and continued his tirade. Gaven watched little flecks of saliva form around Haldren’s mouth, and he remembered all the times he’d seen that mouth through the shutters in their cell doors. Nausea gripped his stomach, and he curled around it. Haldren released his shoulders and let Gaven drop to the ground.

  The silence was strange. With his eyes open, Gaven could perceive the chaos left in the wake of their battle, but when he closed his eyes it was gone. The jungle was silent, and he might have been alone. The earth was warm beneath him, and the ferns made him a soft bed. He felt himself start to drift, so he opened his eyes, and found himself embroiled in chaos again.

  Darraun and Haldren stood over him, apparently bickering. Haldren no longer looked like he was yelling, which probably meant that he was getting angry. Darraun rummaged through a large pouch at his belt. Gaven had seen scrolls in there before, so he supposed that Darraun was looking for a spell that would restore his hearing. He closed his eyes again, relishing what might be his last taste of peace and quiet.

  His ears started ringing, and Gaven looked up. Darraun was still rummaging, so he wasn’t responsible. Gaven rolled onto his hands and knees, letting his head hang between his arms for a moment, then he pushed himself shakily to his feet. Darraun said something.

  “Just ringing,” Gaven said, pointing to one ear. He heard the sound of his voice, but it was muffled and strange.

  Darraun frowned, and Haldren crossed his arms impatiently. Haldren said something—Gaven could hear his voice now—and stomped away. Gaven watched him help Senya to her feet while Darraun talked, a rapid stream of syllables that didn’t quite resolve themselves into language in Gaven’s ears.

  Senya moved slowly, and Gaven noticed a lot of blood staining her clothes and armor. But something about her suggested that something besides her physical injuries slowed her down—she looked distant, almost vacant, as she got to her feet and looked around. Her eyes didn’t seem to linger on Haldren at all, almost as if she didn’t see him there. She turned slowly where she stood, as if she could see through the thick growth of trees to scan the horizon.

  Gaven’s ears cleared enough that he could hear Haldren’s voice, coaxing her, almost pleading in its tone. Senya lifted an arm to point into the distance, and Gaven could clearly hear her words: “The City of the Dead awaits us.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  Gaven took an involuntary step backward as the weight of Senya’s words—the weight of what they were doing here—finally registered in his mind. He was no longer in his cell, dreaming of the Prophecy and remembering all the research he had done into its mysteries. No, he was in the jungle of Aerenal, outside the City of the Dead, waiting for the Eye of Siberys to fall in fulfillment of the Prophecy. He was helping to bring it about.

  That was what had landed him in Dreadhold in the first place.

  Haldren’s eyes narrowed and rested on him. “What is it, Gaven? Did you see something?”

  “With respect, Haldren,” Darraun said, “I’m particularly interested in what Senya is seeing right now.” Senya took a few steps in the direction she had indicated, her eyes still fixed on some distant point.

  “Senya will guide us to the City of the Dead,” Haldren said. “But the Prophecy—Gaven, what did you see?”

  Gaven didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his eyes skyward. The clouds of his unnatural storm had cleared, but the sky was beginning to darken. Even in the deepening blue, the Ring of Siberys was visible, glowing faintly. By the time the sun’s light faded, the ring would be as bright as the sun—turning the night into day.

  Haldren followed Gaven’s gaze, and remembered the words Gaven had uttered before. “When Siberys turns night into day,” he muttered. “Yes, Gaven. The Time of the Dragon Above is here. All is coming to pass as the Prophecy declares.”

  Gaven shuddered. Some part of him wished he were back in his cell with his nightmares. That seemed preferable to living them out.

  * * * * *

  Senya led them through the jungle as though following a distant call, and as they crested a hill, the forest cleared before them. The City of the Dead lay exposed to their wondering gazes. Wide streets ran straight and long between hulking buildings—sloping pyramids crowned with pillared temples, squat ziggurats decorated with elaborate skull motifs, graceful domes with chiseled arches, winged pillars, and flying buttresses. Great eldritch fires leaped skyward atop towering columns and danced inside the galleries of ancient temple-tombs.

  Gaven saw no sign that the jungle encroached into the city—no trees adorned the streets, no vines clung to the ancient stones. No wall surrounded it, either, but the line between the vibrant life of the jungle and the calm stillness of the City of the Dead could not have been more clear. Where ferns and grasses ended, stone began. People walked the streets, though not in any great numbers—and Gaven couldn’t be certain whether those people were themselves alive. In the elven homeland, the spirits of long-dead ancestors still inhabited their desiccated corpses, speaking to the living within their ancient tombs. The City of the Dead was the center of the elves’ ancestor worship, where the Undying Court continued to guide the spiritual and political affairs of the elves, unhindered by the death of their mortal bodies. Even the guards at the gate might be undying soldiers conscripted to guard the elders’ rest.

  Senya insisted on leading them to a towering arch set up as an entrance. Two guards wearing helms decorated to resemble skulls crossed their spears in the archway as Senya approached, and easily a dozen more stood beyond. One spoke in Elven. Gaven couldn’t make out any words, but the hostility in his voice was unmistakable. Senya stepped forward proudly and replied in the same language. She spoke more slowly, and her voice wasn’t muffled by a helmet with a skull mask, so Gaven caught a few words: “the right of counsel,” “revered elder.”

  The guards looked at each other and moved their spears out of the way slowly, as if it caused them pain. Gaven watched them stare at Cart as the warforged lumbered past, and he thought he heard one of them make a spitting sound as he followed Cart through the arch.

  Then he was surrounded by the monumental buildings of Shae Mordai, the City of the Dead. He felt as though he had stepped into a tomb.

  “Haldren?” Darraun said.

  Darraun had been lingering behind as they entered the strange city of monuments, but now he hurried to catch up to the front of the group, where Haldren walked beside Senya. Gaven noticed that he still seemed pale, and wondered if the necromancy of the elves unsettled him. Haldren barely glanced over his shoulder to acknowledge Darraun.

  “Why are we entering the city? Didn’t Gaven say that we’d find what we need near the City of the Dead, not in it?”

  Haldren stopped and turned around. “Indeed he did, though I was not aware you had overheard that part of our conversation.” His pale blue eyes burned into Darraun. “However, Senya has access to an unusual store of knowledge here within the city, and I would not miss the opportunity to tap it while we’re here.”

  The Right of Counsel, Gaven thought—the privilege to confer with her ancestors within their tombs. The tradition of the elves attached so much weight to that right that the elders would be compelled to answer her questions. He wondered what they might have to say about the Prophecy and Haldren’s plans to fulfill it. The elves were the ancient foes of the dragons, sporadically warring with them since their first arrival on the island continent of Aerenal. The elves studied the Prophecy as a matter of survival.

  For that matter, what would they say about him? He had not missed the hostility of the guards at the gate, and he felt certain tha
t elves more ancient would share that distaste for a half-elf violating the sanctity of their tombs. And what of a half-elf who carried so much knowledge of the Prophecy?

  The sound of his name drew Gaven out of his reverie. Darraun had stepped closer to Haldren and lowered his voice, but he was gesturing in Gaven’s direction.

  “Yes, we do have Gaven,” Haldren said, turning his icy gaze on him. Gaven looked away. “But Senya’s additional information could corroborate what Gaven has told us—or contradict it. Or it could expand our understanding further. Besides, we have time. The Ring of Siberys is at its brightest, and the Eye should fall tonight. It might turn out that our hasty departure this afternoon was actually advantageous. Now come! Senya’s family is waiting.”

  “Family?” Darraun said. He looked slightly relieved and turned to Senya. “You have family living here?”

  “The living members of my family left Aerenal many decades ago,” Senya said, her voice little more than a whisper. “But the dead remain.”

  She started walking again, and Haldren took her arm. Darraun stared after her. Cart clapped him on the shoulder as he and Gaven walked past, and Darraun trailed behind them.

  Senya led them down a wide, quiet street into the city’s heart. The city seemed almost normal as they passed through—merchants beginning to pack up their wares for the evening, loading their carts and rolling up the tents they’d erected in front of the gigantic stone buildings. Most of the people on the street were alive, Gaven could see now, though a few had painted their faces to resemble skulls or corpses. All were elves, and they clustered together as Senya passed with her non-elf allies in tow. The hostility on their faces was clear.

  They turned a corner, and the trappings of life fell away. Twin rows of towering monuments stretched before them, many-tiered pyramids topped with thick columns, each column supporting a blazing beacon in honor of the dead who resided within. The air was thick with incense, wafting out the open doorways of the temple-tombs. This was the heart of the City of the Dead, where the Aereni priests performed the Ritual of Undying, which bound the spirits of revered elders to their bodies so they could continue sharing their wisdom with their descendants through the ages. Gaven stopped in his tracks.