Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (34 page)

With dawn’s light, Cart looked down at a row of six bodies. It could have been worse, he told himself, but that was little comfort.

What was supposed to have been work to busy idle hands had become a costly engagement.

By the time the soldiers had constructed and lit a pyre for their fallen comrades, Mirra arrived with her two squads of soldiers, a platoon of miners, and Ashara, who insisted on inspecting the crystal and supervising the collapse of the tunnel.

Cart took one of Mirra’s squads into the shaft first, to ensure that no worgs remained inside. At the shoulder, the worgs were taller even than Cart, so the height of the ceiling gave plenty of room. It was the width that made Cart nervous—if they did find any worgs, it would be a series of one-on-one fights in the narrow tunnel, and the soldiers would have trouble swinging their weapons at full strength. They made it only a short way inside before Cart called a halt and withdrew to replace his axe with a spear more suited to fighting in close quarters. So armed, he advanced into the tunnel alone, holding a sunrod before him to light his way. If only one soldier could face a worg at a time, he wanted that soldier to be him.

The shaft was straight, with no branches, and ran deep into the rock of the ridge. To his surprise, he found the tunnel shored up with wooden beams. How could the worgs have brought the beams into the tunnel? To imagine them digging into the rock like dogs burying a bone was one thing—but the idea of them carrying lumber into the shaft to support the ceiling seemed absurd. He resolved to have a miner examine the construction after he had scouted to the end.

As he expected, the light from his sunrod soon sparkled blue against what seemed like a doorway cut into the rock, outlining a crystal wall. A few paces farther in, he realized that the shaft widened and rose higher before the blue rectangle, as though the worgs had built a subterranean temple to replace their scattered labyrinth in the canyon.

Steeling himself for an ambush, he advanced slowly and as quietly as he could to the end of the shaft. He found himself in the entry to an impressive chamber carved from the stone. The walls were polished smooth except around the blue doorway, where a demonic figure was chiseled into the rock. Its feline head snarled
in rage, and its clawed hands held the limp form of a winged serpent. The blue crystal gleamed between its legs, framed by pillars and a lintel that were also carved from the stone. The sculpture, more than the shores, convinced him that the worgs had not built this temple.

No worgs lurked in the chamber, but as he looked around, something moved within the crystal. First he saw a silver swirl—the serpent swimming through the mineral sea. Its movements had a sense of urgency that drew Cart a little closer. Other feelings surfaced in his mind, awe and wonder, respect and compassion for the sacrifice the spirit had made, giving its own freedom to bind the evil here in the earth. Cart wanted to honor that sacrifice.

Then a shadow moved behind the serpent. Two claws took form within the shadow and tore at the serpent, pushing through the barrier it had tried to make. He felt a flash of the serpent’s fear, then an overwhelming sense of anger. The shadow pressed against the surface of the crystal, and Cart stared into the incarnate face of evil.

A tool of war, like a sword or a siege engine. Is that what you are?

Cart was trapped in shadow floating in a sea of blue. He heard a whispered voice, not in his ear, but in his mind.

What god cares about the warforged? I will be that god, and you will be my champion
.

The owner of the voice had plumbed the deepest reaches of his mind and soul, the heart of his desire.

You will lift my banner, and the warforged of all the world will rally to it. And there will be war, glorious war, the glory of battle and conquest. Khorvaire will be yours
.

I was made for war, Cart thought.

And what is a warforged to do in a world without war? They built you for war and then abandoned you. But you will show them what they have done. They have brought war on themselves. War now has a mind and a will of its own
.

It’s true, he thought. When the humans built war machines with minds, free-willed beings whose sole purpose was war, they
condemned themselves to perpetual war. Until the last warforged lies dead and broken on a battlefield, there will always be war.

There will always be war. But these humans—Kelas, Haldren, Ashara and the rest—they try to use war as a tool, an instrument of their politics. You will bring war for war’s sake, war without pretense. War with no goal can have no end, for it will never attain its goal
.

The mention of Ashara’s name stirred something in Cart that seemed to drive back the shadow just the slightest bit. To her, he was not a tool. In her eyes, he was something more than a machine built to be a soldier.

Of course you are more than a mere soldier—so much more. You are a hero, and you will be my champion
.

To be a hero and to be your champion seem like two different things, he thought.

You will be whatever you desire. At my right hand, your destiny will be yours to choose
.

Destiny. That word brought different memories to mind, memories of Gaven at the gates of Khyber, seizing his destiny and the Prophecy by the horns and wrenching them to his own will. Gaven had convinced Cart that his thoughts of godhood were illusions, that the path to greater good did not lie with the acquisition of greater power. Gaven had forsworn the power of divinity.

Gaven cannot be the Storm Dragon. He didn’t fulfill the Prophecy of the Storm Dragon. The Storm Dragon is yet to come
.

No, Cart thought.

A flash of silver drove the shadow back still farther, and Cart found himself standing before the crystal doorway, both hands pressed to its surface and his forehead leaning against it. He heaved himself backward, sprawled on the floor, and the darkness was gone.

Ashara was the first to reach him, rushing from the chamber’s entrance to kneel beside him while two soldiers behind her gawked at the carvings around the crystal door.

“Stay back from it,” Cart groaned. “Ashara, take a look, but be careful. We need to bring this temple down as soon as possible.”

Ashara ran a hand over the blue crystal, and a shadow fell over her face. She seemed to shake it off quickly, and she pulled away. Glancing around the rest of the chamber, she nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Bring it down,” she said.

V
aneshtra has sent word,” the dragon-king’s rasping voice said. “All is prepared for our arrival.” Gaven managed to raise his head and look around. This was a different chamber than the other one, darker and a little smaller, though still larger than most cathedrals. High windows let in little light, and Gaven saw storm clouds churning the sky. The dragon-king stood at the edge of a gigantic circle inscribed into the stone floor and inlaid with crushed gemstones of various colors, combining abstract patterns with Draconic characters. Four other dragons stood around the circle. One was a deep forest green, its head pronged with vicious-looking spikes and its mouth dripping with venom. The next was black, shining in the dim light as though it had just emerged from water, its horns curving forward like the dragon-king’s and its face suggesting the skeletal appearance of the undead dragon. The third was red as autumn leaves, with great horns swept back from its proud head. The smallest of the four enormous dragons was a gleaming red-brown, with the fainest hint of a green patina as though its scales were cast from copper.

Phaine d’Thuranni knocked his face back to the ground and Gaven groaned. They had given him water, trusting that his weakness would prevent him from attacking guards who opened his cell door long enough to throw him a waterskin. He still had not eaten, and he felt stretched, like cotton being spun into yarn. A rumble of thunder from the clouds overhead reminded him, though, that he was still the Storm Dragon—there was still power in his blood and in his dragonmark, if only he could marshal the strength of will he needed to channel it.

“Step now into the circle,” the dragon-king said.

Gaven felt all the dragons move closer, as though each one exuded an aura that pressed against him, squeezing him from all sides. Then the dragon-king began a chant, its words already burned into Gaven’s memory.

Thunder is his harbinger and lightning his spear, Gaven thought—that was the Storm Dragon, described in the Prophecy. Wind is his steed and rain his cloak.

Another rumble of thunder made Gaven smile.

Without a pause, the dragons launched into a different chant, formed not of words but of syllables of power. Almost as soon as it began, Gaven felt the engraved circle spring to life beneath him, energy coursing along its channels and magic stirring the air.

Lightning struck the roof of the chamber, and he heard one dragon’s voice falter, then pick up the chant.

Gaven felt a surge of elation that began to overpower his fatigue. I am the storm, he thought. I am the Storm Dragon!

Another lightning strike shook the building, and a shower of gravel fell from one of the windows. Rain drove against the roof and walls, and wind swirled inside the chamber. Gaven lifted his head again, and Phaine did not push it down. The elf had his sword in his hand as if to menace Gaven with it, but his eyes were on the roof and walls. Another strike made the copper dragon falter again, and the red growled a warning even as it continued the chant. Gaven saw cracks start to form across the roof, and the swirling air lifted him to his feet.

I am the Storm Dragon. You cannot contain me!

He began to rise into the air on a column of wind, power surging through his body, giving life to his muscles. He could feel the incantation building to its conclusion, and he lifted his arms to the
sky to summon the full power of the storm. Lightning hit the roof again, and it began to crumble. Had someone called his name?

The copper dragon pounced and brought Gaven to the ground beneath its claws. Flat on his back, he saw a huge stone slab break off from the roof and fall. The dragons uttered the last syllable of their ritual chant, and magic flared in a shimmering aurora along the lines of the circle.

Before the falling roof reached the ground, they were gone.

Gaven lay on broken ground, looking up at a clear blue sky that framed the angry face of the copper dragon. Its horns were similar to the red’s, but their bases met between the dragon’s eyes to form a V shape atop its skull. Its eyes were smooth pools of liquid turquoise, burning with fury.

“You thought to escape us, meat?” the dragon growled. “You think your power is a match for ours?”