Storm Dragon: The Draconic Prophecies - Book One

by James Wyatt

  But circumstances were not normal. She had been badly injured, and her body needed a great deal of rest. She entered her trance in the late morning, and her mind wandered strange paths of fevered dreams. She surfaced from her trance in a panic and stared wildly around the room, trying to remember where she was. Darkness surrounded her, and something held her down where she lay. “Gaven?” she whispered, but then she remembered seeing him, spread-eagled on a great stone slab, covered in blood. Was that memory, or fevered imagining?

  Panic welled in her chest, and she started thrashing to escape whatever held her. To her surprise, the bonds came away easily, and she realized that she was lying in a soft bed, swathed in linen sheets and warm blankets. Other memories returned to her—their flight from the dwarves in Vathirond, the wind that carried her when she couldn’t run any more, the healers who tended her and loaded her into their wagon. And the knowledge that Gaven had abandoned her.

  At least he’s not dead, she thought—but the thought gave her little comfort.

  She fumbled her way out of the sheets and sat up in the bed. She wore something soft and loose, a nightgown or something very different than the leather she’d been wearing last. She swung her feet down to the bare wooden floor and slid along the bed until her outstretched hand touched the wall. Then she got to her feet and slowly shuffled along the edge of the room, keeping her right hand on the wall and her left stretched out low in front of her. She felt ridiculous, but the darkness was so complete that she still couldn’t make out the room’s dimensions or features.

  Her left hand brushed something she quickly decided was a nightstand, and she worked her way around it. She’d no sooner reached the other side of it than she found another wall, then heavy curtains. She fumbled at the windows, and her eyes finally came alive as dim starlight filtered through thick glass into the room. She was about to turn back to survey the room, but something in the sky caught her attention.

  It was Nymm, the largest of the twelve moons. It hung high in the sky, right near the top of her view out the window. At first she thought it was just in a crescent phase, nearly new or just beginning to wax again. But its shape was strange—its color, too—and she realized that a shadow blocked its light, an eclipse. Words danced at the edge of her memory, something about the great moon, something her ancestor had said in Shae Mordai. But it eluded her, and she returned her attention to her immediate surroundings.

  The room was small and simply appointed, but cozy in its way. She’d already discovered the bed and the nightstand. One chair stood near the other side of the bed. There was one door, opposite the window. Her coat and her sword hung from a hook on the back of the door.

  A good start, she thought. Now where are the rest of my clothes?

  Her eyes fell on the nightstand again, and she noticed the two drawers it held. She stepped to it and opened the top drawer. Sure enough, her clothes were there. She pulled them out and set them on the bed.

  My boots, my pack—where are they?

  A few steps took her to the other side of the bed, and there they were. Her pack was neatly arranged beside the bed, with the elegant, impractical boots standing perfectly next to it. She breathed a sigh of relief and sat down on the bed.

  “Well now, Senya,” she whispered to herself, “what are you doing?” She ran her fingers through her hair. It felt clean, silky. “They’re taking care of you here. Are you going to bolt out in the middle of the night?”

  Her thoughts ran back over her conversation with the halfling who had tended her, the way he avoided her gaze as he asked about Gaven. She thought about their ride on House Orien’s lightning rail, the House Medani inquisitives they’d avoided at the station in Korranberg, and the Sentinel Marshals of House Deneith who had captured her when the rail stopped in Starilaskur. Was it unreasonable to fear that House Jorasco’s healers might turn her over to the Sentinel Marshals or some other house?

  The more she considered the possibility, the more she convinced herself that the halflings would almost certainly hand her over as soon as they saw that she was recovered. She took off the nightshirt the healers had put on her, stuffed it into her pack, and put on her own clothes. She was lacing her boots when she heard a creak outside her door. She froze and listened, but the sound did not recur. Was there a guard posted outside her room? Had he heard her moving around?

  Taking care that her boots made no sound on the wooden floor, she crept to the door and lifted her sword belt and coat off the hook. She pressed her ear to the door, cringing as it jiggled in its frame. She heard nothing but the pounding of her blood in her ears.

  She started to inch away from the door again, but another creak from outside stopped her. She tried to bring her breath and her racing pulse under control and listen. She heard voices whispering outside. With agonizing slowness, she stepped back from the door and tugged at the hilt of her sword. It didn’t come free of its sheath, and she almost swore out loud. A glance confirmed her suspicion—the halflings had peace-bonded it, attached it to its scabbard with leather straps designed to make it impossible to draw in anger. It would take too damned long to undo the knots holding it in place. She reversed her grip on it and readied herself to swing the weighted hilt as a club, if the need arose.

  The metal latch clanked softly as it moved, and a sliver of light spilled into the room from the hallway. The hinges squeaked softly as the shaft of light grew wider. When the light fell on the empty bed, there was a pause, and Senya coiled, ready to strike.

  The door flew open, and a man rushed in, holding a longsword in his left hand. Senya stepped up to meet him, swinging the pommel of her sword as hard as she could. The attack had caught him by surprise and might have been deadly if she’d managed to pull the blade free, but instead it glanced off his mailed shoulder. He whirled to face her, but his eyes were clearly still adjusting to the darkness. Pressing that advantage, Senya batted at his sword with the basket hilt of her blade, trying to knock it from his hand for her own use.

  He kept his grip on his sword and used that moment of connection to swing Senya around until the light from the hall fell full on her face, reversing her initial advantage. Only then did he wrench his sword free, sending Senya’s sword skittering across the floor.

  Blinking into the light, Senya put her hands up in a gesture of surrender as she tried to size up her opponent. He was not a tall man, but his body was strong. He looked to be about Gaven’s age, but he was human, which probably meant he was considerably younger than Gaven’s sixty-odd years—certainly younger than Haldren, though his hair was lightly dusted with gray. His armor was gleaming mail, and he wore the black surcoat of the Sentinel Marshals.

  Behind this man, an armored halfling in the gold and green of House Jorasco held an everbright lantern—the source of the light shining into her eyes. His other hand was on the hilt of his sword, still in its sheath.

  “Senya,” the Sentinel Marshal said, “I am Sentinel Marshal Arrakas d’Deneith. You are under arrest. Stop trying to fight.”

  “Why?” Senya demanded. “So you can give me a quick and painless death?”

  “The murder of a Sentinel Marshal is serious business, Senya. But frankly, I’m more interested in finding Gaven and Haldren than in punishing you for your part in it. If you cooperate, I can make sure your sentence is light.”

  “Hm. A very considerate offer.” She shifted almost imperceptibly closer to where her sword lay on the floor, but Arrakas raised his sword as he stepped between Senya and the blade.

  He jerked his head toward the halfling in the doorway, without taking his eyes off Senya. “Pick up the lady’s sword, will you?”

  The halfling scurried into the room and snatched Senya’s sword off the floor, clutching it to his chest as if he were afraid she might leap at him and try to wrest it from his grip.

  Senya smiled and started toying with the top of her bodice. She might not have her sword, but she’d found in the past that her body was often a more powerful weapon. “Well
, Arrakas,” she said, her voice low and breathy, “it seems you’ve bested me. Now I’m yours.”

  She saw the blood rise to his face, and noticed that even the halfling seemed to be having some trouble swallowing. She stepped closer to Arrakas, letting her coat fall to the ground and trail behind her. His eyes locked onto hers, which was not where she wanted them. She reached up to brush her hair back from her face, and slowly trailed her hand down the side of her face to her neck, her bare shoulder, her collarbone. To her satisfaction, his eyes followed her hand downward, and she stepped closer again, close enough to feel the warmth of his body.

  She cupped his face in her hand, felt the flush in his cheek. Men were so easy to manipulate. She let her fingers slip softly down his chin, tracing the thin line of his beard, then down his neck, and she smiled slightly as his eyes closed. She ran her fingers along his shoulder, which he probably couldn’t feel through his armor, and squeezed his upper arm to make sure his attention stayed on her hand.

  The halfling watched her with undisguised excitement in his eyes, which made her slightly sick, but suited her purposes. She dropped her hand to stroke the back of his, and saw him shiver slightly from the light touch.

  This is it, she thought. Last chance.

  She stepped forward again, pressing the softness of her body against his armored chest and letting her breath brush his neck. At the same moment, she deftly slipped the sword out of his hand and started bringing it up to strike.

  Arrakas’s other hand was behind her, though. Before she could bring the sword to bear, something hard came down on her head, and she crumpled to the floor.

  CHAPTER

  29

  What do we do now?” Jenns looked at Caura with wide eyes and bit his lip as he waited for her answer. He might be nervous, but so far he’d proven more than willing to follow Caura’s lead.

  “Act like sentries,” Caura said. “We’ll walk the perimeter, insert ourselves between two real patrols.”

  “Then what?”

  “Did you have a plan at all before I found you? Or were you just going to make a break for it?”

  “I hadn’t really thought it through,” Jenns admitted with a smile.

  “Good thing I found you, then.” Caura returned the smile. He might have been young and naive, but he was endearing. “At the right spot, we’ll alter our course and slip out. I think I know a place where we’ll be out of sight and mostly avoid the dragons.”

  “Can I ask you something, Caura?”

  “You can ask, but I won’t promise you an answer.”

  “How do you know so much about the camp and things?”

  “I pay attention.”

  “Sure, but they keep us on a pretty tight leash. Like they want to make sure we don’t figure out too much.”

  “I’d say that’s a pretty accurate assessment.” Caura had heard Haldren give instructions to the commanders who followed him, a long list of rules to make sure that the rank and file didn’t learn too much.

  “You’re not really just a private, are you?”

  Caura smiled at him again, chastising herself. She shouldn’t have answered the innocent questions—her answers clearly led right up to a question she didn’t want to answer.

  They walked in silence for a moment, then Caura guided Jenns into an excellent imitation of a sentry patrol around the perimeter.

  “Want to hear my crazy thought?” Jenns said.

  “Can I stop you?”

  “I think you’re the spy that sentry was talking about.”

  “What on earth makes you say that?” Caura carefully modulated the tone of her voice, making sure that her face did not flush. A perfect lie.

  He shrugged. “I told you it was a crazy thought.”

  “How do I know you’re not the spy? Why are you running out of here?”

  “Me?” Jenns chuckled. “You saw me back there. I’d be a pretty pathetic spy.”

  True, Caura thought. But you’ll do for now.

  “So why the daring escape?” she said.

  “Do I have to answer that?”

  “I guess not. Fair is fair.”

  Caura entertained herself trying to imagine the reason this innocent young soldier would desert his post and flee the camp. A romantic entanglement struck her as the most likely reason, although abject terror seemed like another strong possibility. She wouldn’t ask again, mostly because she didn’t want to put herself in a position of feeling obligated to reveal anything more to him.

  The western side of the camp was bounded by cliffs overlooking the stormy Eldeen Bay. Their path took them alongside the cliffs briefly, and Jenns gasped when he saw the dragons wheeling in the air over the water and perching on the cliffs. He walked in silence, wide-eyed, until they turned their backs on the bay and the dragons, heading along the northern perimeter.

  The sun appeared over the horizon, shining in their eyes as they walked, and the camp was coming alive. Bugle calls roused soldiers from their tents, and the shouts of sergeants assembled them into formations for inspection.

  “You’ll be missed soon,” Caura observed.

  Jenns raised an eyebrow. “What about you?”

  “Me too,” she said. “We’d better get moving.” She pointed to the line of trees in front of them, blocking part of the rising sun. “That’s the Whisper Woods up ahead. Our best chance of getting out of here.” Alive, she added silently.

  Caura kept their pace slow and steady until they got within bowshot of the trees. At that point, instead of continuing southward around the perimeter, they veered toward the woods and picked up the pace. They had only covered half the distance when a shout arose behind them.

  “What did he say?” Jenns said, a panicked look in his eyes.

  Caura turned to run. “Not sure, but it sounded a lot like ‘Halt!’” she yelled. “Come on!”

  “We’re going to die,” Jenns groaned as he hurried behind her.

  A few arrows flew lazily overhead, then a few more thunked into the ground near their feet as the archers found their range. More shouts erupted from the camp, and Caura thought she heard the tromp of pursuing feet far behind, but she didn’t dare slow down to look backward. Jenns had caught up his initial lag and kept pace with her. A quick glance confirmed the terror she expected to see on his face.

  “We’ll make it,” she gasped.

  But the trees didn’t seem to be getting any closer, and they weren’t dense enough to guarantee cover from their pursuers. She started to feel guilty for leading Jenns to his death, then she reminded herself that she’d already saved his life once. So she hadn’t caused his death, merely delayed it.

  The arrows started falling short, the shouts faded in the distance, and no one seemed to be gaining on them. Caura saw a look of hope begin to dawn on Jenns’s face as they came closer to the sheltering trees. She shot him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, but he wasn’t looking at her. As she watched, the color and the hope drained from his face, and his steps faltered.

  “Sweet Sovereigns, protect us,” he breathed, stopping his headlong run and falling backward onto the ground.

  Caura slowed her pace but didn’t stop, searching the forest ahead for a sign of what had terrified him. The forest’s edge was thinly scattered with trees, but a covering of ferns and bushes promised more cover, and just a few yards in the trees grew more closely together. Everything was lush with spring growth, and a gentle breeze stirred the branches in a soft susurrus.

  Then she saw it: a dragon snaked among the trees. Its green scales helped it blend in among the leaves and ferns, but its eyes were fixed on her. It was one of the smaller dragons she had seen around the camp, but that still meant it was roughly horse sized. And it looked hungry.

  Caura stopped dead. She cast a glance over her shoulder. Jenns was still on the ground, looking desperately back and forth between her and the dragon. Far behind him, a clump of soldiers from the camp had stopped to watch—they had evidently spotted the dragon before Jenns a
nd didn’t want to approach it any more than he did.

  “Caught between the Kraken and the Hydra,” she muttered. The expression made her think of the two rocky islands that marked the entrance to the dangerous straits of Shargon’s Teeth, poised like twin monsters waiting to devour ships passing between them. “Well, that’s nothing new.”

  “What do we do?” Jenns shouted.

  “Follow me!”

  Caura ran, turning her course just to the right, aiming for a spot a little south of where the dragon waited. She saw the dragon whip around, keeping even with her, but after a moment it disappeared into the heavier trees. She glanced back and saw the soldiers move again, ready to catch them if they circled back toward the camp.

  Caura and Jenns reached the woods, charging into the undergrowth with a clamor of rustling leaves and branches. When they were out of sight of the camp and the pursuing soldiers, Caura put up a hand to stop Jenns. The forest settled around them. She listened. Birds fluttered, a few squirrels or chipmunks scurried at their feet, and something large stalked nearby. Too near. It stopped when it couldn’t hear them moving anymore.

  Caura was painfully aware of how loud she and Jenns were breathing after running so hard. She held a finger to her lips and tried to catch her breath. After a moment, though, she heard the dragon resume its stealthy movement toward them.

  She realized the flaw in her thinking. She’d been treating this dragon as a strange reptilian leopard or something, a big predatory animal stalking them through the woods. This was not an animal—not any more than Vaskar was.

  “All right, dragon, you’ve got us,” she said.

  Jenns goggled at her, but she held out a reassuring hand. If dragons could argue with each other over the Prophecy, then certainly they could talk to her before eating her. Maybe this one could be talked out of eating her.

  The rustle of its approach grew louder. It wasn’t trying as hard to sneak up on them. Getting closer. Caura saw branches bending and swishing back into place as it passed—thirty paces, then twenty, fifteen. It must have been crawling along the ground to remain so well hidden, and it used the trees for cover as much as possible. But at ten paces it couldn’t possibly keep out of sight any longer, and it reared up on its hind legs like a bucking horse, revealing itself in its terrible majesty.