Storm Dragon: The Draconic Prophecies - Book One

by James Wyatt

  “The fugitive I seek is in Aundair,” Arrakas said, “and if I find him quickly then Aundairian forces will not enter this plain.”

  “So you seek General ir’Brassek,” the knight replied.

  Senya raised an eyebrow. Could she be imagining that his voice sounded familiar? And why would a Thrane even know who led the Aundairian army, let alone call him General?

  “Your scouts and spies are to be commended,” Arrakas said.

  Senya could see that the Sentinel Marshal was as surprised as she was. She glanced at the knights on either side—their lances were still lowered, and one horse pawed the ground impatiently. This meeting would not end well.

  “Six Sentinel Marshals,” the knight observed, “and one elf. Who is that, a captured fugitive?”

  Arrakas shot Senya a quick glance over his shoulder. “Yes,” he answered. “She is an associate of ir’Brassek, an accomplice to his escape.”

  “Did you capture her in Thrane?”

  Arrakas took a deep breath before answering. “No.”

  “Where, then? In Breland?”

  “Yes. Vathirond.” Arrakas’s voice betrayed his frustration.

  “So you have already transported her across one national border and are about to bring her across another? Has she yet stood trial?”

  Arrakas drew himself to his full height, still a head shorter than the towering Thrane leader, and his horse pranced in place. His face was crimson, and Senya tried unsuccessfully to suppress a grin. The knight had caught Arrakas in an act that was questionable at best, possibly illegal even under the broad authority granted by the Treaty of Thronehold. That explained Arrakas’s nervousness at the knights’ approach, as well as his command for Senya to remain silent.

  “Sir, you have detained us long enough. There is a great deal at stake here—as you yourself observed, the Treaty of Thronehold and the peace it established may soon lie in ruins. I must demand that you allow us to continue on our way.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t allow that, Sentinel Marshal.”

  Arrakas drew his sword, and the swords of his six marshals sprang to their hands at once. “Thrane will hear of this.”

  Something about the knight’s voice as he responded jolted Senya. “I certainly hope so,” he said, and she suddenly knew where she’d heard his voice before. She threw her head back and laughed, spurring the knights flanking her to wheel on her again, and she kicked herself for not realizing sooner. What appeared to be plate armor under the tabard of the knight leader was actually the armored plating of a warforged soldier. And not just any warforged.

  It was Cart.

  As the surrounding knights charged, Senya leaned over and grabbed the reins of the rider on her left, pulling his horse closer. Too close for him to swing his sword. He turned in his saddle to face her, trying to free his sword arm. She brought her left hand, clenched around his reins, up into his throat. His horse reared, and Senya leaned over to grab his sword hand. She yanked the sword from his hand as the rider toppled backward out of his saddle.

  Senya yanked the reins farther back, keeping the horse off balance, and it finished her work—one of its hoofs crushed the fallen man’s chest. Releasing the reins, she brought the dead man’s sword around in a wide arc to her right, just in time to block the other marshal’s sword as it sliced down toward her leg. As she found her balance in her saddle, she kicked the other horse’s flank, sending it prancing forward, carrying the rider out of reach. She sat up, wrapped her reins firmly around her hand and wrist, and took stock of the battlefield.

  The Sentinel Marshals were terribly outnumbered—there had been at least two foes for each Sentinel Marshal before Senya made herself part of the equation. Still, they were hardened warriors, and they had so far acquitted themselves well against Cart’s soldiers. Four soldiers in Thrane colors lay dead or dying, one of them crushed beneath his bloodied horse. Cart was locked horse-to-horse with Arrakas: she saw him raise his axe high over his head as he pushed Arrakas away with his shield. The man Senya had unhorsed lay motionless on the ground, but he was the only Sentinel Marshal who had fallen.

  The other Sentinel Marshal brought his mount under control and wheeled it around to charge her. Senya braced herself in her stirrups and kicked her horse forward to meet the charge head-on. Both horses shied at the last moment, rebelling against their riders’ evident desire to bring them into collision. Senya was thrown from her saddle and hit the ground rolling. She somersaulted away from the stamping hooves and stood again, relieved to have solid earth beneath her feet again. She was no more used to mounted combat than her horse was, bred as it was for speed and not war.

  The Sentinel Marshal kept his seat and held his sword low as he charged. Senya settled into a relaxed, balanced stance and watched him come, looking for the perfect place to strike. The marshal drew his sword back as he came nearer. She waited as long as possible, then dropped to the ground, slicing her slender blade along the horse’s flank. The sword’s point traced a line of blood along the charging horse’s skin, then caught the saddle strap and cut through it. The horse screamed and bucked, sending rider and saddle flying through the air.

  “What would the Valaes Tairn think of me?” Senya muttered. The warrior elves of Valenar revered their horses almost as much as they did their ancestors, and they frowned on attacking an opponent’s horse. Senya’s mind leaped back to Shae Mordai, and she was off guard when the marshal charged her again, this time on foot.

  “Die,” the marshal snarled. His sword arced toward her neck, and she lifted her left arm just in time to prevent the blade from cutting deep where her neck and shoulder met. As it was, the sword cut through the leather and flesh of her arm, struck and broke bone, and lodged between the two bones of her forearm before the marshal wrenched it free. Senya felt blood spatter her face and blinked hard to clear her eyes.

  “Not yet,” Senya gasped.

  Her opponent reeled backward with the momentum of pulling his sword back, and she drove her own blade into his belly. He collapsed on the ground, staring blankly up at her, his face contorted in pain. She stabbed him again, in the throat, then rolled him over to stare at the ground. Dropping into a crouch beside him, she took stock of the battlefield again.

  Cart and two of his men, still on horseback, ran down a Sentinel Marshal who was trying to flee on foot. Two other men in Thrane colors fought on foot against a second marshal. Otherwise, the battle was over. Senya ripped the midnight-blue cloak off the marshal she’d killed and, using her teeth and one hand, tried to rip it into bandages she could use to bind her arm. The wound was excruciating, and her right hand shook violently as she worked.

  Her trembling hand slipped as she tried knotting the first bandage around her arm, sending a fresh jolt of pain from the wound. Her head grew light, and she put her right hand on the ground and lowered her head to steady herself. Just as her vision cleared, a weight settled on the back of her neck, accompanied by the gentle bite of a blade resting against her skin.

  “I lost four good soldiers for you.” Cart’s voice was heavy, and his axe blade on Senya’s neck shifted as he spoke.

  “You call those good soldiers?” Senya said. “They had the Sentinel Marshals outnumbered two to one, and I took out two marshals by myself.”

  “I said they were good soldiers.” Cart lifted his blade off Senya’s neck, and she pushed herself to her feet and faced him. “Not champions. It’s good to see you again, Senya.”

  Senya smiled, but she had stood too quickly, and she slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

  CHAPTER

  42

  The streets of Stormhome were choked with people, most of them staring into the sky. Bordan had been right: it had not rained within the city walls in the memory of any living resident, though the rolling hills of the island enjoyed mild showers from time to time. The people of the city acted as though the world were about to end.

  Let them, Gaven thought. Let it rain. Let the world stop. Arnoth d’Lyrandar
is dead.

  In front of Gaven walked two dwarves, trying to remain calm and gentle while they nudged people aside to clear a path. Another walked behind him, a hand on his manacles and an axe at the ready. Ossa and the dwarf spellcaster guided Rienne. The last time Gaven had stolen a look backward, the tip of Ossa’s dagger was still pressed into the skin of Rienne’s neck. Bordan brought up the rear of the strange procession, seeming nearly as disconcerted by the rain as the residents of the city were.

  Rienne was manacled and walking under her own power, so the paralyzing spell had ended. He briefly toyed with plans for an escape. He tested the strength of the manacles, trying not to alert the dwarf holding them. He didn’t think they would give—they were probably reinforced with magic—and he thought they might even be dampening his own magic. With his hands free and alert to the threat of the spellcaster, Gaven was sure that he could handle the five dwarves and Bordan by himself. With Rienne, he might be able to handle them with his hands still bound. But as long as Ossa’s dagger was pressed into Rienne’s neck, he couldn’t take the chance.

  Gaven didn’t know where the dwarves were taking them. He had assumed at first that they’d bring him to Stormhome’s jail, to hold him until they could arrange transport back to Dreadhold. But the jail was near the center of the city—unless it had relocated during Gaven’s imprisonment—and they were headed toward the northern neighborhoods. A few dragonmarked houses had enclaves in the northern district of Six Corners, but neither the dwarves’ House Kundarak nor Bordan’s House Tharashk were among them. House Deneith’s Sentinel Marshals also occupied a large tower in the city center, not far from the jail. The docks were situated to the southeast, but Gaven realized that he didn’t know where in the city airship mooring towers might be concentrated. That became his working assumption: The dwarves and Bordan would load him on an airship for immediate transport back to Dreadhold.

  The rain fell harder as they walked, and the mood of the people in the streets grew worse. When lightning flashed in the sky, Gaven heard a woman scream, and he suddenly realized the flaw in his theory. Bordan and Ossa were not stupid enough to put him on an airship—they had both been aboard the Morning Zephyr when storms forced her to the ground.

  The dwarf behind Gaven yanked on his manacles, and he stopped walking. The leaders of their cavalcade were embroiled in an argument with a group of men who had apparently objected to being pushed aside. The dwarves kept their voices calm, but the men yelled and waved their arms.

  “Gaven, listen to me.” The dwarf behind him still had a hand on his manacles, and he whispered up to Gaven. Gaven moved his head in the slightest nod.

  “It’s Darraun,” the dwarf said. Gaven almost whirled around to face him. “Don’t move. Listen. If we ever get out of these crowds, I’ll release your manacles. As soon as you feel them loosened, you need to run, and fast—the way you did in Aerenal. I’ll take care of Rienne—just get out of here.”

  Gaven nodded again, almost imperceptibly. The dwarves in front managed to force an opening into the crowd, and the dwarf who claimed to be Darraun nudged him to start walking again. As they made their way through the crowd, a hundred questions arose in Gaven’s mind. In the forefront was what possible reason there could be for him to trust the dwarf of House Kundarak who said he was a human artificer named Darraun.

  So Darraun was a changeling—rather, a disguise adopted by a changeling. Gaven had known there was more to the artificer than he let on, and Senya had suggested that Darraun might have connections in the Royal Eyes of Aundair. It fit. But it left open some much larger questions. Why had Darraun been working with Haldren? And why had he infiltrated Ossa’s group of dwarves? Was he helping Gaven now in order to return him to Haldren or for some other purpose? Did Gaven want his help, or would it come with a cost he would be unwilling to pay?

  The crowds grew thinner but more serious as they entered the Six Corners neighborhood, named for the junction of three roads in an elegant plaza outside the House Orien enclave. The people glowering at the sky there were heirs and functionaries of the dragonmarked houses, speculating at what failure House Lyrandar, their colleague and competitor, might be experiencing. Gaven kept his arms tense, straining against the manacles to be sure he’d know as soon as—

  The manacles clattered to the ground.

  Gaven roared, and lightning flashed in the sky. He whirled and thrust his arms out in front of him, and a gust of wind followed his arms in a mighty blast. Bordan, Rienne, Ossa, and the dwarf spellcaster were knocked to the ground, and Ossa’s dagger clattered to the cobblestones. Darraun was already running to Rienne, and the blast of air knocked him forward, into a somersault, and back up into his run.

  Gaven ran, the wind howling at his back.

  He hadn’t even thought about where he would run—he’d been too busy thinking and worrying about Darraun. He knew Six Corners well from his childhood, but he wouldn’t rely again on a mental map of streets and alleys that was years old. He looked over his shoulder. The Darraun-changeling was locked in battle with Ossa and one other dwarf, and Rienne fought beside him, using mostly her feet since the manacles still bound her hands. Bordan and the other two dwarves ran behind him. As he slowed to look behind, they gained several paces on him.

  He had no choice. He had to trust Darraun to get Rienne safely out of there—if the changeling could free her hands, they’d be fine. So without any other plan in mind, he did as Darraun had told him: he ran like he had in Aerenal.

  The wind blew like ragged wings at his back, speeding him through Six Corners and beyond, outside the city to the rain-spattered beach. He swept along the sand, leaving only the faintest of footprints. Waves rose up to drench him in their spray, and lightning flashed across the water. Rage and fear and grief overwhelmed him—they took shape around him like forces of nature as powerful as the storm, and he howled with the voice of the wind.

  Sandy beach gave way to sharp rocks that cut his feet as he ran across them, but he felt no pain. His pursuers were lost in the distance, Stormhome had been swallowed in the mist and rain behind him, and even Rienne and Darraun were all but forgotten. Storm clouds blotted out the sunset and swallowed the stars. Soon he climbed above the tumultuous waves as the rocky beach rose toward the jagged cliffs at the far end of the island.

  He ran, buoyed and buffeted by the wind, until he reached the highest bluff. Part of him imagined running off the point and either plunging down onto the rocks or somehow running onward, upward, becoming one with the storm. He stood at the precipice for a moment, suspended in the air, his eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the jagged rocks below, and then he sank to his knees, lifting his gaze to the storm clouds that brooded over the cliffs.

  “Father!” he howled to the sky, and the wind howled along the cliffs and blew itself out.

  Gaven slumped to the ground.

  The rain pounded his back, stinging his skin, and the waves thundered as they crashed against the cliffs. His body clenched like a fist around a knot of grief in his belly, and he pounded his hands against the rock. The storm began to wane and the knot in his gut loosened, and his breathing went from shallow gasps to a slower, deeper flow of air.

  He drew one last, long, shuddering breath and uncurled his body, lifting his head to a sky that began to show patches of blue. He saw ships navigating the bay and imagined their crews’ relief at the passing of the freak storm. The waves started to quiet, and gulls took to the air again, calling to each other with keening cries.

  Arnoth d’Lyrandar is dead, he thought, but life will go on. It must.

  He stood, taking another deep breath, and looked behind him for any sign of his pursuers. The beach was still deserted, but a ring of fire flickered in the sky, growing quickly larger as the airship it propelled drew nearer. He watched it warily, feeling power welling up within him while hoping he would not have to use it again—he was so tired. Finally he saw a figure in the prow, arms waving in the air—Rienne. The airship was the Eye of th
e Storm, his brother’s vessel.

  Gaven turned back to the sea and thought of Thordren, and his father, until Rienne called down from the airship above him. “Gaven! Are you all right?”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw a rope ladder hanging over the ship’s bulwarks, dangling just outside of his reach. Rienne leaned out over the top of the ladder, a look of worry on her face.

  “I’m fine,” he called. He walked slowly to stand just below the end of the ladder, and carelessly jumped up to grab the lowest rung. “Don’t worry about me,” he said as he started to climb.

  The airship jerked in the air, nearly throwing Gaven off the ladder. He saw Rienne clutching the bulwarks, her eyes wide. “I’m not worried about you,” she hollered back. “I’m worried about how long Darraun can fly this thing. Hurry!”

  Gaven clambered up the ladder as fast as he could, even as it writhed and jerked in his hands. Rienne helped him over the edge, and shoved him aft, where Darraun clutched the wheel—and wore Darraun’s face again. That face was chalk white, and his eyes were wide. He didn’t give any sign of recognition as Gaven approached him.

  “He’s been trying to convince the elemental that he has the Mark of Storm,” Rienne explained, “but it’s a losing battle.”

  Gaven saw a pattern on the changeling’s skin that suggested a Lyrandar dragonmark, but it wouldn’t fool even a casual observer, let alone grant Darraun the magical ability to control the airship.

  Gaven moved to stand behind Darraun and reached his arms around the smaller man to clutch the wheel.

  Be still, he told the elemental, channeling his will into the helm and into the conduits that bound the elemental to the ship. A true heir of Storm commands you now.

  The ship stopped bucking, and Darraun slumped to the deck in front of Gaven. Rienne took his hand and led him out of Gaven’s way. Pulling Darraun’s arm around her shoulder, she led him below decks. Gaven stepped closer to the wheel and settled into a comfortable stance. A smile blossomed on his face as the ship responded to his every thought, soaring smoothly away from the island and into the clearing sky.