Storm dragon dp-1

by James Wyatt

  Gaven sighed and lowered himself back to the ground. “You startled me.”

  Senya spun around, surprised by Gaven’s voice. Her startled look dissolved into a laugh. “I didn’t hear you move. Sorry I disturbed your sleep.”

  “That’s all right. We should get a start on the day.”

  Senya sat on the ground, stretching her legs out in front of her and leaning back on her hands. Her wet hair clung to her cheeks and neck. She had washed the pigment off her eyelids and lips, which to Gaven’s eyes enhanced her beauty. Gaven was painfully aware of the smooth, bare skin of her shoulders, the gentle curve of her collarbones, the graceful arc of her throat. She teased one corner of her mouth with her tongue and smiled. “It’s still early.”

  Gaven turned away. “You never give up, do you?” He pulled his boots on.

  “Not when I know what I want.”

  He stood and shouldered his pack and his sword. “Get dressed. It’s going to take days to get to Korranberg.” Without waiting for a response, he started walking downstream.

  Subdued by his rebuff, Senya trailed behind him in silence, and he lost himself in the monotonous rhythm of walking. Step after step, mile after mile-the scenery changed little, and nothing distracted him from the thoughts that surfaced and subsided in his mind. It was a bit like sleep, especially when the nightmares began-

  Enormous wings beat the air, and the morning sun gleamed on scales of every color-red and black and blue; silver, gold, and copper. Dragons wheeled and dived, grappled each other, furies of claws and teeth. Raw elemental power spewed from their mouths-fire and lightning, searing acid, virulent poison, and bitter cold.

  He felt the earth tremble beneath his feet and saw a column of blinding light spill up from the ground, casting sickly shadows on the dragons fighting overhead. And he knew what was coming: the hordes of the Soul Reaver.

  “Gaven!” Senya’s voice jolted him back to the present, and he caught himself just before he slipped over the edge of a low cliff. Off balance, he fell backward and sat on the rocky ground. Beside him, the stream tumbled over the cliff and began to broaden, forming a wide, slow river as it left the valley and wound among the foothills of the Seawalls.

  “Are you all right?” Senya clutched his shoulder.

  He didn’t feel all right. His skin was clammy, and his stomach churned. He dropped his chin to his chest, trying to keep his head from swimming. He cursed under his breath. The Eye of Siberys had given him clarity, but it was slipping away.

  “What is it?” Worry creased Senya’s face.

  “It’s nothing,” he croaked, but Senya was clearly not convinced.

  “Here, why don’t you lie down for a moment?” She wrapped an arm around his shoulder, trying to guide him into a more comfortable position.

  “It’s nothing!” he repeated, pushing her away. “Don’t mother me.” Rienne had mothered him from time to time, and he’d accepted it from her. Not from Senya.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked hurt, so much that Gaven almost regretted his words.

  He stood, slowly, with Senya hovering nearby. He was a little unsteady on his feet, and Senya put a hand on his arm as if to steady him. He decided against brushing her hand away, and let her help him down the little cliff. Then they continued, side by side, along the river.

  Darraun gazed at the brightening sky as Haldren finished his spell. He blinked, and the ruined city disappeared around him, replaced by the churning waters of Lake Brey. The sun, no longer hidden behind the surrounding mountains, shone in his eyes and glared off the lake so that he had to look away.

  Darraun shivered as he surveyed the near shore. They stood on a rocky bluff overlooking the lake. To the north, the land sloped down to the water, and in the distance he could see a small fishing village. Shielding his eyes against the sun, he looked to the south, where the shore curved off to the east. Darraun figured that the city of Starilaskur, one of the larger cities in the north of Breland, stood in that direction, not too far beyond the lake. That meant they were probably not far from Hatheril, a tiny hamlet that was only important because of its position at the intersection of a caravan route stretching west from Starilaskur and a lightning rail line heading north to Aundair.

  A gateway to anywhere I want to go, he thought. He shook his head. Maybe when this is over.

  Haldren shielded his eyes and looked out over the lake as Cart stood watching, impassive.

  “What are we looking for?” Darraun said.

  “Vaskar, you fool.”

  Darraun looked back over the lake, squinting into the glare. The sky was light blue and clear of clouds. A flock of gulls swarmed near the village to the north, stealing from the fishers’ morning catch, and what might have been pelicans soared over the waters to the southeast. Nothing in the sky was large enough to be a dragon. Then something in the water caught Darraun’s eye.

  A moment later, the shape rose up from the water, leaping into the air and beating its wings fiercely to stay aloft. The sun gleamed on Vaskar’s bronze scales and shimmered in the drops of water cascading off his body and spraying from his wings. He caught the air under his wings and glided over to the bluff where they stood, alighting gently near Haldren.

  Haldren smiled, though it seemed to require an unusual effort. “Hail, Storm Dragon!”

  “Show me the Eye of Siberys,” Vaskar said.

  The smile fell from Haldren’s face, and he reached into a pouch. He produced the Eye of Siberys but held it close to his chest as he displayed it to the dragon.

  “Here is the Eye,” he said. “We found it outside the City of the Dead, as Gaven predicted.”

  “Excellent.” Vaskar hissed. “And Paluur Draal? Did you find what you sought there?”

  Haldren winced at the mention of the city, as if its name was enough to remind him of what he had left behind there. “I did.”

  Sure you did, Darraun thought, I was just along for the ride.

  “The map, Darraun.” Haldren held a hand out to him without taking his eyes off Vaskar, still clutching the dragonshard to his chest.

  Darraun slid the map he had copied from the ruins out of its case and handed it to Haldren. The sorcerer fumbled to unroll it while keeping a grip on the Eye of Siberys. He pointed to the map as Vaskar lowered his enormous head to see it.

  “We found a map carved in the pavement of a plaza in the city,” Haldren explained. “The outline of Kraken Bay was very clear. Naturally, the locations on the map were marked with their ancient Dhakaani names, when they were labeled at all. But certain geographical features are unmistakable.” He shifted his grip on the map and traced his finger over it. Darraun noticed that the Eye of Siberys disappeared at some point in that process, and he wondered if Vaskar noticed it too. “The Seawall Mountains run parallel to the western edge of Kraken Bay. They turn to the east here, at Marguul Pass, then there’s the gap where Kennrun stands now-a Brelish fort on the border of Darguun. Then more mountains rise up from the plain-and that’s where the Mournland begins now. If you continue following the line of the mountains, you hit Lake Cyre, here. But the map indicates the Sky Caves here, to the southeast of the mountains.” With a flourish, he indicated the strange symbol Darraun had transcribed on the map.

  “You seem reluctant to deliver the Eye as we agreed, Haldren,” Vaskar said. “Why is that?”

  “What? Reluctant?” Haldren stammered. “Not at all!”

  “Where is it, then?”

  “Well, I returned it to its pouch so I could more easily hold the map.”

  “Give it to me.”

  Haldren drew it out but cradled it to his chest again. “I will deliver it as I promised, Vaskar. I’m a man of my word. But-”

  “Give it to me now.”

  Darraun could see Haldren struggling against the command, which must have carried a magical weight. In the end, his resistance failed, and he extended the Eye to Vaskar. The dragon plucked it from Haldren’s outstretched hand with a gigantic claw. Darraun couldn
’t see what Vaskar did with it.

  “What about your end of the bargain?” Haldren said. “The aid you promised me?”

  “Don’t worry, Haldren,” the dragon said. “My promises are as good as yours. A flight of dragons is on its way to Aundair as we speak, ready to do battle at your command.”

  Haldren’s face lit up. “A flight? How many dragons?”

  “More than enough for your purposes. No army in Khorvaire will stand against you.”

  “Tell me about the Prophecy.”

  The Ring of Siberys was bright enough to shine through a thin layer of clouds. Gaven and Senya had laid out their bedrolls in a bend of the river, so their camp was surrounded by water on three sides. Gaven was exhausted from the day’s march, but so far he’d been unable to sleep. Apparently Senya had the same problem.

  “What about it?”

  He heard Senya’s bedroll rustling, and glanced over to see her propping herself up on her elbows. “Well, how does it work? I mean, does it describe events that are sure to happen? Is the path of my life spelled out in advance? Am I just following a story that’s already been written, like… like a stage actor or something? Is that what life is?”

  Gaven laughed. “An actor trying to follow a script you’ve never read, fumbling your way through lines you’re making up as you go? That feels about right.”

  “But you can read the script.”

  “No. I see bits and pieces of the script, as if it’s been transcribed by a madman. Unconnected scenes. Lines here and there, with no idea who’s supposed to be speaking.”

  Senya put her head back down and was silent for a long time. Just as he began to think she’d fallen asleep, she said, “I don’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t believe there is a script.”

  “But you believe in destiny. You seem set on making sure I fulfill mine.”

  “That’s different. Destiny is… it’s like the highest hopes the universe has for you. Like-like my mother wanted the best for me. And you can either fulfill your destiny, or you-” Her voice became strangled, and she stopped trying to speak.

  A wave of thicker clouds drifted across the sky, and the night grew darker. Gaven brought his hand up to his neck and traced the lines of his dragonmark. Suddenly he was an adolescent again, adrift at sea at the mouth of Eldeen Bay. This was his Test of Siberys, a rite of passage of the dragonmarked houses, a trial meant to force his dragonmark to manifest, if he was to bear one. Heirs of the houses usually developed their marks in times of great stress in their adolescent years, so the Test of Siberys had been developed to create just the right stress.

  Most children spent the Test straining in the desperate hope of forcing a mark to manifest on their skin. Gaven saw himself on his knees, pouring out desperate prayers to each god of the Sovereign Host that no mark would appear on him. The sea was calm, under the command of a Lyrandar windwright, and he drifted for days, pouring out his prayers. Some dragonmark heirs would call up a wind to move their little boats, while others would develop a protective mark that would inure their bodies to the burning sun. Still others would call up great billowing banks of fog to shield themselves from the heat. Gaven did not. Day after day he knelt in prayer under the sun’s unblinking gaze, and his prayers were answered.

  At the end of the test, an elemental galleon came to his rescue. Some strong cousin lifted his body, weak and weathered from the scorching sun, and carried him aboard. He was feverish, and most of the faces surrounding him were blurred together, indistinct. But one face was clear in his memory-his father’s, trying to smile at him but unable to hide the disappointment etched into every line.

  At least there could be no doubt that this memory was his and not the other’s.

  CHAPTER 17

  Noon sunlight glittered on the domes and spires of Korranberg, the oldest and one of the most important cities in the gnome nation of Zilargo, nestled among the foot-hills of the Seawall Mountains. From his perch at the edge of a cliff, Gaven could see the whole city spread out before him, and miles of fields stretching out to the sea. The city was a fascinating mix of old and new; the ancient buildings of the city’s great library pressed between the more recent construction of shops and markets. He was struck by how green the city looked from his vantage point-ivy clung to gracefully arched walls, gardens sprawled over spacious courtyards, and flowers burst in a rainbow of colors to celebrate spring’s height.

  Behind him, Senya snorted. “Gnomes,” she said. “How do they defend this place? It’s right next to Darguun, and these mountains are full of kobolds.”

  “I suspect the city isn’t as defenseless as it looks,” Gaven answered. He pointed at the city wall nearest their position. “Look at the holes along the top edge of the wall. I’d be willing to bet there’s some kind of mechanism that will pump boiling oil or acidic fire out of those holes in case of an attack. In fact, I’ll bet the jets shoot out far enough that the ivy is unharmed.”

  Senya snorted again, adjusted her pack on her shoulders, and started along the winding path that would take them down the cliff and into the city. Gaven took a last look at the city and the sea then followed her down.

  Gaven was glad he had taken the time to admire the city from a distance. From inside, the elegant spires and sprawling gardens were lost in the bustle-much of which occurred at waist level. He was not the tallest of men, but in Korranberg, making his way along streets crowded with gnomes, he felt like a giant-and he attracted about as much attention as a real giant would have. Senya only reached Gaven’s breastbone, but the majority of the people on the streets only reached her chest. Gaven noticed that she kept her arms in front of her chest as they moved through the city, and he couldn’t blame her. He kept his hands at waist level, making sure to maintain a space between himself and any nearby gnomes.

  They were not the only “tallfolk,” as the gnomes referred to them, walking the streets of the city, but there were few enough that Gaven felt acutely self-conscious. As he had in Whitecliff, he found himself constantly wondering who might be watching him, ready to turn him in. Considering the Zil reputation for trafficking in secrets, he felt sure that word of his escape had reached even distant Korranberg. It was probably just a matter of time until someone identified him and summoned the authorities, so he decided to give them as little time as possible.

  Trying not to attract any more attention than absolutely necessary, he seized Senya’s hand and pulled her through the streets toward the lightning rail station he’d spotted from his vantage point above the city. He would get them on a carriage and out of Korranberg before any wheels could be put in motion to stop him.

  Unfortunately, their great height relative to the natives didn’t help them part the crowds on the streets. It was midday, and many people seemed to be taking a respite from the day’s work to eat, socialize, and shop. Gaven and Senya’s progress was painfully slow, but no one tried to arrest them or actively hinder their progress. The lightning rail station came into view as they rounded a corner, and Gaven let out a long sigh.

  The sight of armored guards at the station sent a jolt of panic through him. He pulled Senya to a sheltered spot on the side of the street and stopped his headlong rush.

  Senya fell into a ready stance, dropped a hand to her sword hilt, and stared around looking for enemies. “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Relax. You’re drawing stares.”

  She straightened and leaned close to him, transforming their appearance from nervous fugitives to amorous lovers. She brought her lips close and murmured, “What’s going on?”

  Gaven felt his face flush, but passersby were averting their gaze, so he went along. He lowered his head to speak right in her ear. “It just occurred to me-what if Haldren gave up on finding us in Paluur Draal and came here instead? What if he had Cart or Darraun alert the authorities here? There could be Sentinel Marshals waiting for us in there. I don’t want to just stroll in.”

  Senya reached beh
ind his neck and started twirling her fingers in his hair, which seemed to him to be taking the ruse too far. “It’s not Haldren’s style,” she whispered. Her lips touched his ear, and her warm breath sent a tingle down his neck. “He’ll want to find us himself. I can’t see him relying on the Marshals or anyone else to do it for him. Besides, we know too much. If we’re captured, we could tell them about his plans and make his life very difficult. He doesn’t want us caught.”

  “That makes sense. Let’s go, then.” He started to pull away.

  She held him, keeping him close. “Not before you kiss me.”

  “Senya.” He put his hands on her waist and pushed her back, a little less gently than before.

  Her mouth was half pout, half smile as she followed him into the station.

  “I’m sorry, master, but I can’t sell you a ticket without seeing your papers. If you’ve lost your papers, House Sivis has an outpost in the upper story where they will gladly help you replace them.”

  The agent at the ticket counter was a human woman attached to the Transportation Guild, a branch of House Orien. The scions of House Orien carried the Mark of Passage, which enabled some to transport themselves instantaneously across great distances, making them ideally suited for courier work. The Transportation Guild operated caravan lines as well as the lightning rail, competing fiercely with House Lyrandar’s overseas shipping lines.

  The woman was cheerful enough, but Gaven could tell that she was already calculating how to deal with him if the situation got ugly. It wasn’t until Senya produced her papers to buy her passage that Gaven had even considered this possibility, which irked him most of all. Securing new papers would be impossible. The gnomes of House Sivis, whose Notaries’ Guild issued important documents like identification papers, would send him back to Dreadhold in a heartbeat.