Storm Dragon: The Draconic Prophecies - Book One Read online

  CHAPTER

  2

  The Lord Warden scowled, his rage written plain across his face. Of course, Bordan thought—so brazen an attack on Dreadhold was unheard of, even during the chaos of the Last War. The fact that the dragon had been able to penetrate the tower walls was astonishing. Two prisoners escaping before the guards could respond … well, that was simply embarrassing.

  Bordan settled back in his chair and stroked his neat beard, watching the other two people in the briefing. One was a Sentinel Marshal, who had introduced himself as Evlan d’Deneith. He was frowning, which Bordan could tell had become a habitual expression for him. Evlan wore his age and his station well. The gray at his temples made him look distinguished, and he had the body of a much younger man beneath his mithral mail and black surcoat. Above the collar of his mail on his neck, the Mark of Sentinel was just visible, an abstract tracing of color on his skin that resembled the head of a dragon with long spines trailing behind the neck. Like Bordan’s own dragonmark, Evlan’s was an intricate weaving of blue—more a part of his skin than a tattoo, and far more elaborate than any birthmark. The skin that bore the mark was slightly raised, and Bordan knew that the ‘mark gave Evlan powers similar to those of a wizard. The bodyguards of House Deneith used the powers of the Mark of Sentinel to protect their charges from harm, and the Sentinel Marshals used the same powers to protect themselves as they pursued dangerous criminals across Khorvaire.

  Seated beside Evlan was another dwarf of House Kundarak, much calmer than the blustering warden. The warden had introduced her as Ossa d’Kundarak. She had not yet spoken a word. A scarlet shirt of fine silk stood out against her black skin. She sat with her hands folded on her lap, studying Bordan as carefully as Bordan examined her. Bordan had heard that House Kundarak maintained a small force of soldier-assassins called the Manticore’s Tail—or Ghorad’din in the Dwarven language—and he suspected Ossa represented that organization. Ossa’s dragonmark wasn’t visible, but her surname indicated that she carried the Mark of Warding, which the heirs of House Kundarak used to protect banks and vaults in every city of Khorvaire, as well as the prison of Dreadhold.

  The Lord Warden, Zaxon d’Kundarak, wore his red-brown beard long, with braids hanging down on either side of his mouth. He was clearly struggling to keep his emotions under control, and that spoke volumes. For a dwarf nicknamed “the Old Rock,” any trace of emotion that leaked onto his face demonstrated the true extent of his fury. The clearest sign of his emotional state was an angry flush of red on his bald pate, and he compulsively ran his hands across the top of his head as if trying to hide it. Each time he did, Evlan could see the tracery of the Mark of Warding across the back of his left hand, resembling rays of light emanating from a shape that some thought resembled an eye and others identified as a coiled dragon.

  “Where’s the damned elf?” the Lord Warden said, starting to pace again. “I have no intention of giving this briefing twice.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Lord Warden.” The elf slipped through the door, his movements making no sound, his black garb seeming to meld with the shadows. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said. “I am Phaine d’Thuranni.” He sat in the empty chair and did not move again, except to let his gaze rest on each of the others in the room. His dragonmark, the angular Mark of Shadow, started on his cheek and ran down his neck. Deception and illusion were the powers of the Mark of Shadow, as well as espionage.

  “Glad you could join us, Thuranni,” the Lord Warden said. He swept his gaze across the four dragonmark heirs. “I am grateful to your houses for offering your services to help us handle this … situation.”

  The Lord Warden’s eyes lingered on Ossa as he said this; the honor of House Kundarak would recover more quickly from this blow if a Kundarak managed to retrieve the fugitives. Dreadhold was operated by House Kundarak, whose Mark of Warding and expertise with security made it well suited to keeping prisoners confined and the prison secure. But all the dragonmarked houses had an interest in the great prison, since it held many of their most dangerous secrets.

  “The first prisoner is Haldren ir’Brassek, a noble of Aundair.” Speaking seemed to help the Lord Warden bring his emotions back under control, and his face slowly set into a stony mask. “He was a general during the war—a hero in some circles and a villain in others. He recaptured the city of Cragwar twice, but he was also responsible for the massacres of civilians at Twilight Creek and Telthun. He led troop movements in violation of the Treaty of Thronehold before he was finally captured and brought to trial for his war crimes. He was sentenced to Dreadhold rather than face execution because many officers in Aundair’s military remain loyal to him, and Aundair feared what would happen if Haldren were martyred almost as much as they feared his escape. I have already received communication from Queen Aurala to the effect that Aundair will be most distressed if ir’Brassek returns to his homeland.” A thick hand ran over his bald head again, and the Lord Warden took a deep breath, staring at the floor.

  “I am not familiar with the ir’Brassek family,” Evlan said.

  “It was once a prominent line in Aundair,” the Lord Warden said, “but it has diminished. The fugitive has a few cousins, I believe, who maintain the appearance of luxury despite the loss of their ancestral holdings. The general sense in Aundair’s military was that ir’Brassek wanted to restore his family name to prominence. He had some success in that regard, but obviously took it too far. I think it unlikely that he will make contact with the cousins.”

  “And the other prisoner?” Bordan asked.

  “Gaven, formerly of House Lyrandar. A strange case. He worked for his house during the war, prospecting for Khyber dragonshards for use in their galleons. All that time crawling around the depths of Khyber must’ve driven him mad.” The Lord Warden glanced at Phaine. “House Phiarlan claims he was involved in the Paelion affair.”

  Bordan nodded. The Paelion family had been a part of House Phiarlan, an elf house that bore the Mark of Shadow. Phaine’s house, Thuranni, had also been one of the Phiarlan families. Some thirty years ago, the leader of the Thurannis had led his family in a brutal slaughter of the Paelions, claiming to have evidence that the Paelions plotted against the rest of the dragonmarked houses. If Gaven had been involved, then he was part of the reason that House Thuranni was no longer a part of House Phiarlan.

  “During his trial,” the Lord Warden continued, “Gaven swung between incoherent muttering and murderous rage. He’s a strong man, and it was difficult to keep him restrained long enough to pass judgment. There was a suggestion that he was possessed, but an exorcist examined him and found no evidence of that. He was convicted, and House Lyrandar declared him excoriate.”

  That explains the “formerly,” Bordan thought. Gaven wouldn’t be recognized as a Lyrandar any more, and other members of the family would be forbidden to give him aid. That would make him easier to find.

  “Why Dreadhold?” Bordan asked. “Why not execute him?”

  “Two reasons,” Zaxon said. “His betrothed made a rather impassioned plea for his life, asking that he be imprisoned in case some day he recovered his senses. Also, his house expressed an interest in the content of his lunatic ravings and requested that he be kept alive. When they learned that he was writing in his cell, they requested a report of what he wrote. I don’t know whether they considered it useful or not.”

  “What did he rave about?”

  “They say he always had an interest in the Prophecy of the dragons, and it’s all he’s talked about for the last twenty-six years. Half his speech is prophetic mutterings—perhaps it makes sense to him, but to everyone else it’s nonsense. Just about every inch of wall and floor in his cell was covered with bits and pieces of the Prophecy.” Bordan saw Phaine shift slightly—the first disruption of his unnatural stillness.

  “How did he write them?” Evlan asked.

  “We gave him a small metal stylus so he could scratch his writings on the walls.” The Lord War
den’s eyebrows bristled as he glared at Evlan. “Before that, he demonstrated that he would resort to writing in blood given no other means. In twenty-six years, he never used the stylus for anything but scrawling on his walls, and we’re quite confident that it had nothing to do with his escape.”

  “I assume that you kept a copy of all information sent to House Lyrandar,” Bordan said. “I would like to see it.”

  The Lord Warden nodded. “I think you’re wasting your time. It’s nonsense, and there’s a great deal of it. But I’ll let you sort it out.”

  “Is he marked?” Evlan asked.

  “Ah,” Zaxon said, and the hand went over the bald head again. Bordan’s eyes narrowed. “He failed the Test of Siberys in his youth, and he did not carry a dragonmark before his imprisonment. However, he manifested a Siberys mark five years ago.”

  Bordan saw the surprise register on the other three faces in the small room. The Siberys Mark of Storm meant that Gaven had significant power—power that House Lyrandar would much rather have under its control than loose in the world. Bordan smiled behind his folded hands. That might make the chase more interesting.

  Ossa changed the subject, speaking for the first time. “He was to be married.” Her voice was gruff, and she tugged at one of her thick braids as she spoke.

  “Yes,” the Lord Warden said. “Rienne ir’Alastra was his betrothed. She was actually the first to suggest that he was possessed, and she helped the Sentinel Marshals find him and bring him into custody.” He nodded at Evlan, acknowledging his order’s role in Gaven’s arrest.

  “Did she marry someone else?” Bordan asked.

  Zaxon was starting to look exasperated. “I have no further information about her, as she is not and never has been a prisoner of House Kundarak. Now, our guards have reported communication between ir’Brassek and Gaven—their cells were across the hall from each other. As far as we know, these conversations were typical for Gaven: he’d report his dreams or recite bits of the Prophecy, but ir’Brassek seemed eager to hear all that.”

  “Is it possible they used a code to plan the escape?” Evlan said.

  “Anything is possible,” the Lord Warden said, “but I believe it highly unlikely. The conversations always occurred in the middle of the night and seemed to be precipitated by Gaven starting from sleep, awakened by a dream. After telling ir’Brassek about the dream, Gaven would write it down. It’s all recorded on the walls of his cell.”

  “They weren’t confined to their cells at all times, were they?” Bordan asked.

  “Of course not. Gaven occasionally had to be confined for long stretches, when he’d go into a violent phase. But ir’Brassek wasn’t considered particularly dangerous or an escape risk. They both worked in the mines. They walked the courtyard when Gaven was able. And they had access to the library.”

  Evlan leaned forward in his chair. “Did they speak together at those times?”

  “Gaven rarely spoke at all outside his cell, except to rant. Ir’Brassek approached him a few times, but Gaven either ignored him or flew into a rage, and he gave up after a while. Gaven never read, barely walked, and worked only because we forced him to.”

  “He was here a long time,” Bordan said.

  “Twenty-six years, yes.”

  “Was he any different before his mark appeared?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Was there any change in him after Haldren arrived?”

  The Lord Warden shook his head. “None. He gives the sense that he’s not quite present, like his mind’s off in the Realm of Madness while his body’s trapped here.”

  “What are we up against, Lord Warden?” Evlan asked. “Besides the Siberys mark, what can we expect of these two?”

  “Haldren ir’Brassek is a sorcerer, hence his lodging in the Spellward Tower. He likes fire, burning things down. He could, of course, be anywhere by now.” A trace of Zaxon’s seething rage returned to his face.

  “And the Lyrandar?” Phaine said.

  “Gaven no longer has the privilege of carrying the name of his house. He is … accomplished. He had a reputation for great physical strength, perhaps a result of clambering around in the caves of Khyber for years. He favors a greatsword in combat, taking advantage of that strength. And he also has some facility with magic beyond what his dragonmark grants him. Although the full extent of the power of his dragonmark has never been seen.”

  “Was there any manifestation when the mark first appeared?” Bordan asked.

  “Yes,” Zaxon admitted. “We had to move all prisoners and guards underground for an hour to wait out the storm.”

  Bordan enjoyed watching the others’ eyebrows rise. He got to his feet.

  “Lord Warden, House Tharashk thanks you for your confidence in us and the detailed information you have provided. On the honor of my house, I swear that I will not rest until these two prisoners are safely returned to your custody.”

  The others scrambled to their feet as well. “Lord Warden,” Evlan d’Deneith blurted, “House Deneith promises a tireless effort to recover these fugitives. I will personally select a team of the finest Sentinel Marshals to assist me in bringing them to justice.” He gave a small bow.

  Phaine d’Thuranni was the next to speak, in his whispery voice. “The finest of House Thuranni are also at your service, Lord Warden.”

  “For the honor of House Kundarak,” Ossa d’Kundarak said, “the Ghorad’din will hunt them to the depths of Khyber.”

  The Lord Warden stared at them. Bordan hid a smirk behind his hand as the Old Rock searched for a response to all these oaths and boasts. Finally, his eyebrows bristling again, he blurted, “Well, what are you waiting for? They’re probably in the Demon Wastes by now!”

  Bordan was the first out the door.

  * * * * *

  Bordan paced the courtyard of Dreadhold, ignoring the drizzle of rain that heralded a larger storm. Stark stone walls loomed over him, windowless and forbidding. Stout dwarf guards watched him from ledges on all sides, crossbows in their hands and axes at their belts. One archway led back into the prison interior, blocked by a heavy portcullis backed by iron-banded doors. When he was ready to leave, he could signal to the guards, and the gate would open. He tried to imagine being a prisoner—to spend all his days surrounded by those walls, those watchful guards, iron and stone on every side. Even the sky was granite.

  Shaking his head to dispel those thoughts, he replayed the Lord Warden’s briefing in his mind, sifting his memory for details that might be important in his coming search. He had a pretty good idea of what the others would do. Evlan would assemble a troop of Sentinel Marshals that would march across Khorvaire like overblown city guards. They’d probably question Gaven’s family, find the Aundairian officers loyal to Haldren, follow up on people mentioned in the briefing. Phaine would pull together a small team of Thuranni elves more suited to assassination than investigation. They would probably pick up the trail first, and it might just be a question of whether the fugitives stayed alive until their hunters could return them to Dreadhold. Bordan wasn’t sure about the other dwarf, Ossa. He didn’t know much about the Ghorad’din, but he thought it was more of a covert military force than a group of trained inquisitives. It was possible that they were brought in just to make sure House Kundarak had a hand in retrieving the prisoners that had been in its care, but Bordan had no real reason to doubt their effectiveness. He just wished he had a better idea how they would go about the task.

  For his part, he would start with the documents Zaxon had promised—copies of the reports sent to House Lyrandar describing Gaven’s ravings.

  CHAPTER

  3

  Gaven stared at the emerald orbs of the dragon’s eyes, overwhelmed at the size and majesty of the great bronze beast. Behind those eyes, bony ridges swept back to form a crest around the back of his head, crowned with a pair of curving horns. Smaller horns jutted out along the edge of the crest, at the lower joint of his jaw, and on the chin of his beaked snout. Th
ick scales overlapped to form an armored plating over the front of his neck and his belly, while smaller interlaced scales covered the rest of his body. Above the muscles of his shoulders, a pair of membranous wings stretched upward and fanned the sea air. Spiked frills adorned the back of his neck down to his wings, stretched between his forelimbs and his flanks, and extended up from his long, heavy tail. Vaskar was larger than any creature Gaven had ever seen. Gaven focused on the emerald eyes and tried to listen to the words coming from the dragon’s mouth.

  “Listen to me, Gaven.” The dragon’s voice was surprisingly soft, coming from such a large creature, and it was as clear and low as the ringing of a huge bronze gong. “The Prophecy is finding its fulfillment. The Storm Dragon is ready to claim what has been set aside for him. But you have a part to play. You must—”

  Haldren cut the dragon off. “We need your help, Gaven.”

  Vaskar drew his head back on his long neck, lifting it high. Clearly, the dragon would not lower himself to asking for help, but Haldren had no such qualms.

  “You know the Prophecy better than any dragon or mortal alive.” Haldren leaned forward, letting the light of the campfire dance on his face. “I’ve been listening to you for three years, and it’s clear I haven’t heard a tenth of what you know about the Prophecy. Vaskar has been studying it in Argonnessen for six human lifetimes, and there are gaps in his understanding—gaps only you can fill. Please, Gaven—please help us.”

  Vaskar snorted, and a bright yellow spark flared at his nostrils. Gaven started, staring up at the dragon. The Storm Dragon, he thought. He wants the Prophecy, so he can be the Storm Dragon.

  Gaven looked around their little camp. They had flown through the night, and the first glow of dawn was beginning to spread across the edge of the sea to the east. The rocky cliffs of Cape Far loomed dark in the west, blocking his view of the Ring of Siberys. Cart had built a small campfire on the rocky beach between the cliffs and the sea, and Darraun was cooking some fish that he and the warforged had caught. Gaven had not been starving in Dreadhold, but the fish smelled better than anything he’d tasted in over twenty years.