Dragon War: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Three (7 page)

Terror coursed through Rienne’s body as she looked up at the dragon. It dwarfed the ones she had faced before—if it had stretched its legs and arched its back, she could have walked under its belly without stooping. Its scales were gleaming black, resembling polished jet, though its wings were like great cloaks of utter darkness draped across its flanks. Two ridged horns curved forward around a face that seemed almost skeletal, with leathery black skin stretched over its skull. Its tail lashed behind it, tipped with a serrated blade that scratched long cuts into the airship’s deck. Its mouth opened and emitted a long, low hiss that only slowly registered on Rienne’s mind as a series of changing sounds, presumably Draconic words she couldn’t understand.

This story would be better, she thought, if I could report on the witty banter I exchanged with the dragon. Sorry, Gaven.

The thought of Gaven seemed to soothe her fear, and she spotted Maelstrom beneath the dragon’s hind foot. The dragon’s yellow eyes were on hers, and its mouth opened and closed quickly in what seemed almost like a laugh. It believed Rienne was at its mercy, she realized—helpless without her sword.

Well, let it think so, she thought.

Slowly, keeping her eyes fixed on the dragon’s, she got to her feet. It watched her intently, its eyes gleaming, as if eager to see how she would try to extract herself from this situation. She heard Jordhan’s stifled breathing, trying not to be noticed. Had the dragon noticed him at the helm? That might affect how it would respond to her movements. She decided to test it.

Crouching low, ready to dive away from any attack, she shifted a few steps to her left, toward the prow. It countered with a few shuffling steps to its left, toward Jordhan, dragging Maelstrom along beneath its clawed foot. The airship creaked and rocked, and Rienne heard branches snap. The dragon’s movement suggested it didn’t know Jordhan was there, or it didn’t care about being trapped between two foes it considered insignificant. Mostly, it was trying to keep the bulk of its body between Rienne and Maelstrom.

Its mouth flapped open and closed again, and it spat a jet of acid at her—just to keep her moving, it seemed. She sidestepped the spurt of black slime, circling back to her right, toward the wheelhouse. The dragon countered her move again, and for just an instant one foot scrabbled on the slanting deck. The dragon’s wings spread slightly as it fought for its balance, and Rienne used that moment to strike.

She threw herself directly between the dragon’s front legs, at the space below its plated belly. It reared in surprise, throwing its wings wide and flailing at her with its claws. One claw raked across her back, but the blow had no strength behind it. Rienne rolled beneath the dragon, braced herself with her arms, and kicked with all her strength at the leg that pinned Maelstrom to the deck.

With a roar of fury, the dragon slid toward the prow. It kicked off from the airship and flapped wildly to get itself aloft, spraying acid across the deck. Rienne snatched Maelstrom up and leaped into the nearest tree, dodging the worst of the spray, then hopped through its branches to the ground.

Solid earth beneath her feet and Maelstrom in her hand again, Rienne fell easily into a ready stance and waited for the dragon to follow her, trusting that its rage would make it come to her without lingering to destroy Jordhan’s airship—or Jordhan himself.

She wasn’t disappointed. Shrieking its frustration, the dragon hurtled down at her, fangs and claws bared. It snaked between the trees more easily than she had thought possible, folding its wings close and falling more than flying. Terror seized her again, and she rolled beneath its onslaught. She shouted as its claws raked her, but answered their bite with an upward thrust that drove Maelstrom deep between two of the heavy plates that protected the dragon’s belly. Black blood spurted out over her hand, stinging like the acid of its breath, and the dragon crashed into the ground behind her.

She rolled to her feet and leaped to where the dragon had landed, swinging Maelstrom in whirling arcs around her. The dragon kept its feet despite its wound, and its head darted forward to bite at her as she came within reach. Its teeth closed around her arm, and pain seared through her as acidic spittle ate into the wound. Her other arm brought Maelstrom to slash into the dragon’s neck, just behind its jaw. The jaws opened and Rienne tumbled to the ground, then darkness swallowed her again.

She could still hear the dragon beside her and feel the heat of its body. Biting back the pain, she swung Maelstrom in a relentless dance of arcs and jabs, driving the dragon away from her assault. She followed its retreat, and after a few steps found herself outside the dragon’s magical orb of darkness. The dragon looked nearly beaten, its wings pulled close to protect it, its head drooping and bloody, its belly still oozing thick blood that sizzled in puddles on the ground.

She advanced a few more steps, and the dragon backed away. Its head swung to one side, and Rienne saw what had attracted its attention: Jordhan, holding an axe with both hands in front of him, stepping toward Rienne and the dragon. She seized the moment of distraction and leaped at the dragon.

“Get down!” she screamed, as a gout of black acid sprayed from the dragon’s mouth. Maelstrom bit deep into the dragon’s throat, cutting off the spray of its breath and nearly taking the head off its long neck. The dragon fell to the ground, and Rienne ran to where Jordhan lay.

“Sovereign Host,” she said, “let him be—”

“I’m alive,” Jordhan said. His voice was strained, though, and he drew a shuddering breath.

Rienne dropped to the ground beside him. He lay on his side, his axe forgotten a few feet away. Rienne pulled off the silk cloth that was wrapped around her waist and dabbed at a few splashes of viscous acid still burning into his chest and neck. The spray had hit him full on, and his body was covered with welts and open wounds.

“What were you thinking?” she said, taking his hand.

“I couldn’t let you face it alone.” He smiled, but it changed to a grimace as he tried to sit up. He gave up and fell back to the ground.

“That was noble of you. And foolish. You’re a dear friend, and the best pilot in House Lyrandar, but you’re not a warrior.”

“A few more steps and that dragon would’ve had my axe buried in its shoulder.”

Rienne smiled, squeezed his hand, and decided not to point out that, the way he was holding the axe, he would have been lucky to get enough power in his swing to nick the dragon’s scales.

A
knock at the door jolted Aunn out of a doze. Make it solid, he thought. I’m Kelas ir’Darren, and this is my office.

He ran a hand over his face to make sure he was who he thought he was. He cast his eyes around the office. Gaven’s eyes were open again—perhaps awakened by the knock—but still vacant, staring at something other than the blank wall aross from him.

“Come in,” he said. Kelas was warm and polite, most of the time.

The door swung open and Cart’s massive body filled the frame. The warforged hesitated for a moment, swinging his head to look at Aunn and Gaven as if making sure he’d found the right room.

“Come in, Cart,” Aunn said, standing up behind the desk.

Cart stepped into the room, which suddenly seemed much smaller, and gestured to a tall, handsome man behind him. “This is Havrakhad,” Cart said. “And this is—”

“Kelas ir’Darren,” Aunn said, stepping around the desk and extending his hand to the newcomer, who clasped it and bowed slightly.

Havrakhad was human, though he carried himself with a graceful elegance that reminded Aunn of the eladrin he’d met in the Towering Wood. His black hair was very long, cascading over his broad shoulders with a small topknot held in place by a silver ring. He wore a heavy, midnight blue cloak that hung almost to the floor, and beneath it a sky-blue shirt of gleaming silk, open in front to reveal a muscular, hairless chest. Breeches the color of his cloak were tucked into the tops of his boots. No weapon hung at his belt.

“I am honored to meet you,” he said to Aunn. His words had an accent Aunn couldn’t place.

“Likewise,” Aunn said, uncertain how to respond. But Kelas was confident, assertive. “Cart explained the nature of our problem?”

“Somewhat,” Havrakhad said, turning to face Gaven. “I take it this is our patient?”

“Yes. And what techniques will you use to heal him?”

Havrakhad didn’t look like a healer—more like a noble in exile, from some indeterminate foreign land.

“I will enter his mind and attempt to lead him out.”

“Havrakhad is a kalashtar,” Ashara said, squeezing into the little room behind him and closing the door. Havrakhad shifted away from her, though there wasn’t much space for him.

A kalashtar. That explained a great deal, though Aunn’s knowledge of the kalashtar was limited. They were a distinct race, not quite human, native to the distant continent of Sarlona. Their reputation painted them as beautiful mystics who had mastered the powers of their minds, able to communicate telepathically, move objects from afar, and perform other feats of what might as well be magic. It was a magic, though, that Aunn’s artifice couldn’t mimic or even fully comprehend.

“I see,” Aunn said. “Well, are you ready to get started? Would you like my chair?”

A knock at the door cut off Havrakhad’s answer. Aunn froze. It was late in the evening. Who would be looking for Kelas in his office at this hour?

“Excuse me,” he said.

Havrakhad, Ashara, and Cart shifted around to let him through to the door. He pulled it open.

“You’re here late, Kelas.” It was a man Aunn didn’t recognize.

“Yes.” Kelas hated to be interrupted when he had people in his office. He jerked his head back toward the crowded office. “Important meeting. Can it wait?”

The man’s face changed. The dark hair became sandy, tanned skin turned pasty white, eyes lightened to hazel. It was a face Aunn knew quite well, though the eyes were wrong. It was one of his own faces. It was Haunderk’s face, the one Aunn used most often when talking to Kelas.

Aunn fought to keep his pulse and breathing under control, but rage and fear fought against him. What other changeling was using his face? Did he expect Kelas to be fooled? Was he trying to discredit Haunderk somehow? Or was he sending a subtle message that he saw through Aunn’s disguise?

“It’s not urgent,” the changeling said, smirking. His eyes were everywhere but on Aunn, trying to see past him into the study. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, Aunn thought, I already have an appointment with Jorlanna. I think I’ll be out.

The changeling strode off down the hall without another word, and Aunn retreated back into Kelas’s study, closing the door. Ashara shot him a quizzical glance, but he shook his head and followed Cart’s gaze. Havrakhad was kneeling in front of Gaven, looking into his eyes.

Hearing the door close, Havrakhad stood and looked at Aunn. “It would be best if there were no more interruptions.”

“There shouldn’t be any more. Please begin when you’re ready.”

The kalashtar kneeled again, put one hand on Gaven’s shoulder, and gazed into his eyes.

*  *  *  *  *

Two ogres held Shakravar’s arms, the meat that was his body now, and a dwarf stood behind him with a bludgeon. But the dragon would not be restrained. If only he could emerge from this body, revert to his true form, fill the room with lightning and spatter it with the blood of his enemies …

The judges of the tribunal stared down at him from their high seats. They called a witness to give testimony—an elf, the head of the Thuranni family.

“Lord Elar Thuranni d’Phiarlan,” one of the judges intoned, prompting shouts of protest from both the witness and another elf in the great hall.

“He’s no Phiarlan!” came a woman’s voice. “He is excoriate!”

“I am Baron Elar d’Thuranni,” the witness said.

“The status of the Thuranni family is yet to be settled in the eyes of this tribunal,” another judge said. “For now, we shall address you as Lord Elar and move on with the proceedings.”

“Very well.” Lord Elar bowed his head in deference to the judges.

“Lord Elar, please state your claim against the defendant, Gaven Lyrandar.”

Hearing his name, Gaven woke from what felt like sleep, and found himself in the firm grasp of two ogres, rage and violence churning in his heart. What was going on?

A dark-eyed elf was speaking, pointing an accusing finger at Gaven. Rienne was there, tears streaming down her face, avoiding his eyes. Judges glared down at him.

They had to understand, had to know, had to be prepared. “When the Eternal Day draws near,” he cried, “when its moon shines full in the night, and the day is at its brightest, the Time of the Dragon Above begins.”

“Silence!” one of the judges shouted.

He couldn’t be silent. He had to warn them. “Showers of light fall upon the City of the Dead, and the Storm Dragon emerges after twice thirteen years.”

“Silence him,” another judge commanded.

“Tumult and tribulation swirl in his wake!” Gaven shouted. “The Blasphemer rises, the Pretender falls, and armies march once more across the land!”

“That’s enough,” the dwarf behind him said, and the club came down on his head. Darkness swallowed him.

“Arnoth d’Lyrandar,” a judge’s voice intoned in the darkness, “please state your claim against the defendant.”

“My son,” Gaven’s father said, “he is my firstborn, my heir. But he has failed me. He failed the Test of Siberys. He refused to assist me in my business and chose instead the life of a dragonshard prospector.” Light slowly grew in the darkness, outlining Arnoth’s body. “I waited twenty-six years for him to return to me, until I couldn’t wait any longer. Finally he came to me, but too late. I died that morning.” The light shone full now on Arnoth’s face, showing Gaven the flesh rotting away from his skull.

“Guilty!” came a voice from the tribunal.

A chorus answered, “Guilty as charged!”

Darkness again.

“Rienne ir’Alastra, please state your claim against the defendant.”