Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (45 page)

This time he climbed and kept climbing, continuing higher and higher until the Demon Wastes lay spread out behind him like the slowly fading memory of a nightmare. The rising ground led him at last into a narrow cut through the mountains, chilly rather than cold, only a faint dusting of snow on the rock above him. The bushes grew thicker and greener, and he could see trees ahead and above him. The air tasted sweet after the acrid fumes of the Demon Wastes, and he drank it in like water.

Before the sun even reached the horizon—still too far to his right, not at his back—he decided to stop, desperate for rest and certain he’d sleep better on higher ground. He spread out the bedroll Farren had given him, wrapped himself in the warm wool, and stared up at a sky that was beginning to clear of clouds. Three of the smaller moons were rising nearly full in the east, and two bright crescents shone high overhead. As the sky darkened, the gleaming Ring of Siberys took shape, a golden band linking the moons. When the sky reached its perfect blue, within a hair’s breadth of black, Aunn smiled and closed his eyes.

A high, distant shriek jolted him awake. He sat up, looking around for the source of the sound. A hint of shadow on the ground made him look up—just in time to roll away from the talons of a griffon as they raked across his back. He fumbled with his bedroll and onto his feet, scooping his mace into his hand on the way up. Another beast swooped at him, its vicious beak open wide and its front talons stretched forward as its leonine rear legs kicked at the empty air.

Aunn threw himself aside as it reached him, swinging his mace into its ribs. He could only see two griffons—a dangerous threat, but manageable, as long as there weren’t more he hadn’t seen yet. It would help, he thought, if they were the sort of predator that fled from prey that could defend itself.

The griffon he’d hit, knocked off balance by the blow, made a clumsy landing and emitted a sound that combined a high screech and a rumbling growl as it turned back to face him. So they were not that kind of predator.

A strange calm settled over him, even as he hit the other griffon in the wing, knocking it out of its dive. He still didn’t fully understand what had happened when he wrestled the fiend in the Labyrinth, but whatever it was, it was staying with him—the supporting presence of Kalok Shash, perhaps, the spirits of the dead Ghaash’kala warriors fighting beside him.

The grounded griffons circled warily, on opposite sides of him, watching for an opening. He turned with them, keeping them at either edge of his vision, ready for them to pounce. But then the one on his left slowed its pace slightly, dropping out of his field of vision.

Damn, he thought, these things are smart.

He ran forward and whirled to face them as they sprang in unison toward him. He used the momentum of his turn to swing his mace in a wide arc across his body, knocking one griffon into the other and keeping both their claws away from his body. A feathered shoulder slammed into his exposed chest, knocking him to the ground. The griffon landed on him, squeezing the breath out of him.

Its rear claws scratched at his legs as it scrambled to its feet, and its mate lunged in to bite at his weapon arm. Its beak tore flesh, and his mace tumbled out of his hand. Shouting in pain, he kicked the griffon off him and rolled to grab his weapon with his other hand. Talons bit into his back.

A manageable threat? he thought. What was I thinking? And why aren’t the dead warriors of the Ghaash’kala covering my back?

He heard Zandar’s voice in his thoughts, the warlock’s cynical wit, and it shamed him. As much as he had liked the warlock, it was Vor’s faith he wanted to emulate, Vor’s confidence and strength.

Aric, today you die. As a ghost, you will fight … You will fight until at last you have proved yourself worthy of joining Kalok Shash. Are you ready?

His initiation into the Ghaash’kala had not been complete—until he faced the fiend in the Labyrinth, he realized. In that battle, he had died. He was already a ghost, fighting to prove himself worthy.

“Make me worthy,” he breathed.

Biting back the pain, he found his feet again. A beak already washed with his blood lunged at him again, but his weapon came down on the griffon’s skull and crushed it. The other beast shrieked in fury and jumped forward. One swing knocked its head to one side, and a second smashed it the other way, breaking the creature’s neck.

Silence, except his own breathing and the pulse of blood in his ears. A gentle chill seized him and he closed his eyes to savor it—a presence that defied all names, holding him up and soothing him. His breath stopped and his pulse no longer pounded, all sound was shut out in that moment. When the moment began to fade, he clutched at it, tried to hold the presence near, but then it was gone, and he heard the movement of breath and blood, the stirring of a gentle wind coming down from the mountains.

The corpses would attract scavengers. He slung his pack, threw his bedroll over his shoulder, and made his way farther up the pass to find a new resting place.

Aunn lost track of the days he spent climbing the pass, but before long he stood overlooking the Towering Wood once again. The sky was clear but pale. Here and there, orange and gold were scattered among the leaves of the forest, hinting at the winter to come. Soon, the trees would shed their leaves, standing bare and dark between the snow-covered ground and white sky.

An image flashed into his mind of bare trees burning, snow melting into steaming blood, a sky shrouded with smoke. He tried to believe that his imagination was poisoned by the taint of the Demon Wastes, but even so, the vision spurred him on, through the pass and down toward the forest. Aundair and the Eldeen Reaches had to be warned, or Greenheart and Varna and soon Fairhaven itself might face the same fate as Maruk Dar.

The forest covered the foothills and reached up the sides of the mountains, and soon Aunn walked among smooth-skinned trees that stretched to the sky, every leaf and branch straining toward the sun. The ground was a twilight world of shade and silence, only thin beams of sunlight filtering down through the canopy screen. The musty scent of fallen leaves hung thick in the air. Colorless fungus jutted from gray and brown tree trunks, and dead leaves covered the ground. But when he looked up, the trees lifted him up with them—he felt he was soaring among their highest branches, enveloped in green, glorying in the sun above. Even the air smelled cleaner, clearer. Many times he stumbled over a root or stone because he was watching the sky instead of the ground where he walked.

More days passed as if in a dream. If predators stalked these woods, they never showed themselves. Even birds and squirrels were sparse. He saw a single leopard hare, its mottled pelt helping it hide on the leafy forest floor. Insects crawled on the ground, but none buzzed around his ears or tickled his skin. He used the sun to keep to a roughly southeastward course, toward where he imagined Greenheart would be. From dawn to sunset he walked with few stops to rest. He slept peacefully, untroubled by hungry beasts—or haunting dreams.

Slowly the forest became greener—moss clung to the sides of trees, willowy saplings with bright new leaves sprouted between ancient trunks, shocks of grass emerged from the fallen leaves. Then one night as twilight descended, the forest lit up with fireflies, flashing to each other from the sides of trees and hovering in the air. The forest seemed to come alive at their signal—a nightingale began its anthem, squirrels chased each other along high branches, a rabbit dashed past.

Aunn felt himself drawn forward, toward the flashing fireflies, along the path of the hare. A soft glow arose before him, pulsing gently yellow-green, as though gigantic fireflies were lighting their lamps on the other side of the tree trunks ahead. As he walked on, globes of light appeared among the trees, swaying in a dance to the music of singing birds and chirping insects. Then he heard soft flutes join the melody, the gentle strum of harp strings, and distant
voices singing high and clear. Only then did he realize he was no longer alone.

Tall figures emerged from among the trees all around, slender and lithe, beautiful but somehow terrifying, like the splendor of a firestorm or a whirlwind. They walked like royalty, slow and stately, but he saw swords, spears, and wands in their hands, caution etched on their faces. Their eyes were pearly orbs of swirling colors, unmarked by pupil or iris, seeming to glow in the twilight.

“Valatharanni, usharan, ka halatha na-dravanni kelos dar ben.”
It was a woman’s voice, right at his shoulder, soft as silk but clear in its threat. The language sounded similar to the tongue of the Aereni, but his knowledge of Elven was fragmentary, and this was beyond him. He spread his empty hands away from his body and shook his head.

“Your name,” the voice at his shoulder demanded, now in heavily accented Common. “And why you are here. Tell us.”

“Aunn—my name is Aunn.” He felt clumsy beside these graceful folk, and his voice was rough from disuse, grating against their melody. “I’m trying to reach Greenheart.”

“Why?” Her voice was a dagger held at his throat.

“To warn them—I should warn you. Barbarians are massed in the Demon Wastes, ready to spill over the mountains and raze the forest.”

He saw no surprise on the faces of the people around him, though their expressions were grim.

“Travelers are not our enemies, Aunn,” the woman behind him said. “We are just …
dravan
… cautious. Join our feast, as our guest.”

Aunn ate—sweet fruit, salted nuts, greens, roots, and roasted mushrooms, all of it delicious. Some part of him suspected it only tasted so good because he’d eaten nothing but journeybread and the rough food of the Ghaash’kala for so long, because he could never have imagined that a meal free of meat and grains could be so flavorful. He drank their ethereal wine, like drinking pure air
that made his head swim. The eladrin, as they called themselves, welcomed him into their midst.

The woman who had stood behind him and invited him to the feast stayed distant throughout the meal. She was stunning—every time his gaze fell on her, her beauty struck him like a gust of wind, drawing the breath out of his lungs. She alone of all the eladrin had black hair, like the wings of a raven, and her eyes were smooth mirrors of pearl and green. As the night stretched on, she took in the radiance of the fey lamps and shed it from her skin, glowing in a nimbus of light.

The other eladrin who reclined on soft couches around Aunn were fair-skinned—pale was not the right word, he thought, for skin that seemed so healthy and alive. Their hair was various shades of silver, gold, and white, though a few were a more humanlike blond or very light brown. Their eyes shone blue, violet, and green, milk white, or liquid gold.

In choosing his new persona’s appearance, Aunn had strived for an aura of nobility—but among the eladrin, he felt like a baboon. They held cups made of leaves in their slender hands, and it was all he could do to keep from crushing his own cup. They reclined languorously on their couches, and he could not get comfortable. He felt all angles and rough edges compared to their smooth and graceful curves.

He would have been content to lie back and watch these folk and listen to their melodious voices, slipping freely between speech and song, but they plied him with questions, some of them speaking in fluent Common, others stumbling over the unfamiliar words. He told them he came from Aundair, that he worked for the queen—tantamount to admitting he was a Royal Eye—and he thought later that he might have admitted he was a changeling. They showed no surprise, and their attitude toward him didn’t change. He told them all he could about Kathrik Mel and his horde, and he wept as he spoke of Maruk Dar’s fall. He described Vor’s death, and then Durrnak’s, and he confessed his guilt and described what he thought might be his redemption. He told them of his dreams, his battle with the fiend in the Labyrinth, his surrender to … to Dania, in his
vision, to Kalok Shash or the Silver Flame or the Traveler, he wasn’t sure.

He had never spoken so freely or felt so deeply. The eladrin could move from laughter to tears in a moment’s time. Their anger was almost palpable, like a charge in the air, and their joy made the lights shine brighter. In their midst, Aunn’s passions and emotions took hold of him, carrying him in their currents, surging strong to break free of the tight reins of his control. All his discipline, his lifetime of training under Kelas’s firm hand, came to nothing.