Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (37 page)

“Gaven!” she cried, but the wind swallowed her voice.

A flash of copper broke the whirlwind and brought Gaven to the ground. A shimmer of white light filled the chamber. She was
almost there—in a moment she would be with Gaven again.

An enormous slab of stone fell from the roof of the chamber and crashed to the ground. The wind died, and she peered through a cloud of dust to the empty chamber beyond.

A
ric spent the remainder of the afternoon in the only form of meditation he knew—concentrating on every part of his body in turn, top of the head to soles of the feet, fixing the details in his mind. Seeking perfect focus, but constantly struggling to banish memories of Kelas, thoughts of his companions on this journey, and worries about the ceremony ahead. “Who are you?” he asked himself.

“Aric,” he answered, unsure what else to say. “From the Carrion Tribes, but I don’t know the name of my tribe. I’m about to join the Ghaash’kala, because the alternative is death. I’m a coward, a soft-hearted fool, and a travesty of a spy.”

Once more, head to toe. “Who are you?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I care anymore. I’m dead.”

His head felt light. He realized he’d been speaking aloud—pathetic. He closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, find his focus. Instead, he fell asleep, eventually slumping to the floor.

“Deep in meditation, I see.” Farren’s voice jolted Aric from sleep.

Aric scrambled to his feet, but Farren seemed more amused than angry.

“Are you ready?” the paladin said, clapping him on the shoulder.

He nodded, too tired to speak, and shuffled behind Farren down the tower steps to the plaza.

Just like the night before, orcs of the Ghaash’kala crowded the plaza, but this time there were humans scattered through the
crowd in small clumps as well. The Carrion Tribe converts apparently participated in the recommitment ceremonies, but not the memorials. Aric wondered whether they had their own ways of honoring the dead.

A clear path opened up before him, leading to the center of the plaza where the same orc priestess stood waiting, though today her robes were yellow. There was one other person waiting to take his vows, an orc boy of perhaps twelve or fourteen—ready, among the Ghaash’kala, to pick up a sword and fight the evils of the Labyrinth.

As he stood before the priestess, he felt the eyes of the crowd on him, and he felt naked. His heart pounded, and his eyes darted around as if he could somehow find a way to escape. He had never been more trapped or more exposed. How could everyone present not recognize him for a sham, even as a spy?

“Maruk Ghaash’kala,” the priestess said, her arms lifted and spread wide. “On this third night of gathering, we come as a tribe to witness the vows of these two men and welcome them among our ranks, warriors who will fight beside us. Hearing their vows, we will remember our own—our promise to serve Kalok Shash and participate in its work. Many of our tribe have fallen, but tonight we celebrate the replenishment of our numbers.”

Replenishment? Aric thought. How many names were lifted up the night before? How many of the Maruk had died in the past three months? Farren alone had listed a dozen. And now two men came to fill their places. The Maruk Ghaash’kala were dying out.

“Ghaarat,” the priestess said, standing before the boy and looking solemnly into his eyes, “today you die. As a ghost, you will fight the demons of the Wastes and their human servants, the foul beasts and mighty warlords. You will fight until at last you have proved yourself worthy of joining Kalok Shash. Are you ready?”

“I am,” young Ghaarat said, no hint of fear or hesitation in his voice.

“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to fight against evil in all its forms?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to permit nothing, living or dead, to pass through the Labyrinth, either to leave the Wastes or to enter them?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to fight without fear, to fight until your foes are dead or you join Kalok Shash?”

“I do.”

The priestess turned, and a warrior stepped forward from the encircling crowd, a sword clutched in both hands.

“Ash Ghaal,” the priestess said to this man, “do you swear to guide Ghaarat in the ways of the Maruk Ghaash’kala, so that he might be found worthy to join Kalok Shash?”

“I do,” the man said, his voice choked with emotion.

The priestess turned back to the boy. “Ghaarat, you die this day.” She nodded to the man.

Ash Ghaal stepped forward and swung his sword at Ghaarat’s neck. The boy didn’t flinch, and the sword stopped a finger’s breadth from his flesh.

“Ghost of Ghaarat, join the Maruk Ghaash’kala.”

The man embraced Ghaarat—his son, Aric realized with a start—and drew him back into the encircling crowd. Aric stood alone before the priestess. She came and looked into his eyes. Her eyes were rich brown, and he lost himself in them, aware of nothing else. Her brow furrowed for a moment, as though she were troubled by what she saw in his eyes, but she continued with barely a pause.

“Aric, today you die. As a ghost, you will fight the demons of the Wastes and their human servants, the foul beasts and mighty warlords. You will fight until at last you have proved yourself worthy of joining Kalok Shash. Are you ready?”

Am I ready? Aric wondered. Will I ever be worthy of joining Kalok Shash?

“I am,” he said, but he did not believe it. His voice was a croak, and he cleared his throat.

“Do you swear, before Kalok Shash and all the Maruk Ghaash’kala, to fight against evil in all its forms?”

Aric opened his mouth, but he could not speak. He could see only the priestess’s brown eyes, darkness closing in around them. “I—” he managed, but then the darkness swallowed him.

He was running, leaves lashing his face, thin branches grabbing at him as he passed. He was hunched, looking for something on the ground, and he had no face. He caught a glimpse of her—a doe rabbit bounding through the brush—and then she was gone.

Then he was a rabbit, fleeing a hungry fox. He ran as fast as he could, but the fox was faster, and no matter how many times he darted in a different direction, the fox always seemed to be drawing nearer. With one great pounce, it hit him, its claws pressing against his skin, its great fanged muzzle staring down into his face that was not a face.

“Why do you run?” the fox asked.

He was pinned beneath a boulder, part of an avalanche, and he stood at the top of a sheer slope and knew he had caused the rocks to tumble. He saw the swallow he’d been chasing swoop and swerve as it flew away, forever beyond his reach.

A gust of wind came up the slope and lifted him into the air, and he was in a whirlwind, lightning flashing all around him. An airship circled with the wind, and Gaven stood on the deck, reaching an arm out to him. Rienne walked to him, straight across the whirlwind, smiling. As she drew near, she extended her arms to embrace him.

Her two arms became four, and then six, and she grinned cruelly as her legs became a long, snaky tail. There were swords in her hands, and they whirled and flashed like the storm, they cut and cut and cut and he screamed—

“Plaguebearers,” said a voice whose source he could not see. “They were trying to infect him, and he lifted one of their weapons.”

The demonic figure fell on top of him, and her face was no longer Rienne’s face but Dania’s. Her six arms were two again, and her legs straddled him. Her body moved against his, and she
smiled down at him, her short red hair falling into her face. She reached up to push it back, and said, “Why do you resist me?”

Then she was the Plaguebearer lying on top of him, leering at him, infecting him, and he pushed the body off and stood in a deserted cathedral, like the one in Fairhaven but larger, and dozens of doors lined the walls of the enormous sanctuary. He walked across the mosaic floor, leaving footprints in the dust, and grabbed a door handle at random. The door swung open and a skeleton tumbled toward him. He stepped over it to enter the dark hallway beyond.

He walked in darkness, sure that his destination lay at the end of the hall. There was no light, nothing leading him onward except his certainty that the object of all his desire lay ahead. He couldn’t even imagine what it might be, but the thought of finding it at last filled him with joy and excited anticipation. On and on through the darkness he walked, untiring. The hall began to slope upward, and he walked, and he climbed, and then he saw light, but it was overhead, and the hall was too steep to climb. The floor was smooth, then slick with blood, but he clawed for purchase, he refused to let it slide him back.

A coolness spread through him, quenching the fires that burned in his veins, and the darkness dissolved into soft red light. He floated, warm and comfortable. He couldn’t see his body, he tried to lift a hand to his face but saw nothing—he was no longer sure that he was in his body.

“Aric,” came another voice. “Or whatever your name is. Can you hear me?”

He could not answer, couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe.

“Who are you?”

The water pressed in around him, squeezing the breath and life from him, and he kicked furiously to reach the surface. His lungs screamed for air, but the water was so deep, so dark, he was no longer sure he swam in the right direction. Was there a hint of light above him, a faint glow in the blue? He kicked harder, but something tangled his legs, seaweed or—

He drew a great gasping breath, but the tentacles still held him, drew him in, then he was looking into a single great staring eye.

“Why do you struggle?”

A mace appeared in his hand and he swung it over and over, beating back the tentacles. Vor stood over him, hacking at tentacles as they appeared through the portal. “I’ll hold them back,” Vor said. “You seal it.”

He kneeled beside the portal and laid a hand on it, trying to feel the knot of magic inside. It was too complex. His mind couldn’t fathom its intricacies. It was a labyrinth—

And he was walking it, smooth crystal walls stretching as high above him as he could see. Straight corridors crossed and branched, and again he knew that everything he wanted was waiting for him at the exit from this maze. He wandered and wandered, then the maze was the Labyrinth, and he stumbled along, weak from hunger and thirst, half-blind from sun.

He fell, gravel pressing into his cheek. He didn’t think he could stand again. Feet crunched the gravel and rolled him over. A field of blood red sky, framed by canyon walls.

“Who are you?” the Traveler asked him, her face shadowed by a brilliant sun behind her.

“Kalok Shash,” he said through parched lips, and the Traveler withdrew from him.

“He changes constantly, a new face every few moments. Is he possessed?”

A hand on his forehead, and again coolness washed through him. “No.”

“What, then? A demon? Should we not kill him now, before he regains his strength?”

“He is no demon, and no warrior kills a man while he is helpless. And he is a man, though he is obviously a man of many faces. He is ill, and we will care for him until he recovers.”

“He deceived us.”

“He didn’t deceive me. I’ve seen his heart, and I know both the goodness and the evil there. Has anyone else seen what you saw?”

“No.”

“Good. Then no one but you is to care for him, and you will admit no one but me to his presence. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

The Traveler withdrew from him, and he chased after.