James Wyatt - Dragon forge

He wasn’t alone in feeling perturbed by the crystal. Arguments broke out more often among the workers and soldiers, sometimes escalating into violence. As Cart broke up the fights, he had to keep a tight rein on his own anger to make sure he didn’t injure the people he was trying to calm. Energy flagged, work on the excavation slowed dramatically, and the night was filled with the moans and whimpers of tortured dreams.

“Do you feel it, too, Cart?” Ashara asked. They stood together, looking up at the crystal from the greatest distance possible as the crimson sun of another day sank below the horizon.

“Anger, unease. At least I’m spared the nightmares.”

“Be grateful.”

“What is it?” he asked. “What’s going on?”

“It’s them.” She pointed to the crystal. “The Secret Keeper and the Messenger.”

“The imprisoned fiend?” Cart said.

“And the spirit that binds it. They’re both angry. The Messenger fears that we’ll release the fiend, and the Secret Keeper is furious that we haven’t done so yet. I think it also suspects what we actually plan to do.”

“Which is what?”

“You don’t know?”

“Haldren only tells me what he needs me to know.”

“They’re going to power the Dragon Forge. They’re the enormous knot of magical power our artificers will tap. And we think we can do it without breaking the bonds that hold them.”

“You think? What if you’re wrong?”

“If we’re wrong, it will be disastrous. So we can’t be wrong.”

Cart felt tired. Not in his body-muscle fatigue was alien to his construct body. But his mind was weary, sick of the schemes and plans and ambition. He shook his head.

“I hope you’re right,” he said.

The situation grew bad enough that Haldren got involved. He put his own force of personality to work to counteract the influence of the imprisoned spirits and even used magic to soothe the emotions of the soldiers and workers. The pace of the work increased again and fewer fights broke out, but the nights still seemed disturbed. Cart circled the camp while the soldiers slept in shifts, and the things he heard made him jump at shadows in the dark-fevered whispers and fearful whimpers, soft groans and sudden shouts.

Cart walked in his own nightmare, though his body needed no sleep. Shadows seemed to stalk at the edges of his vision, shapeless figures lurking behind corners or flitting across the sky. At times he wheeled to confront an approaching attacker, sure he’d seen the flash of steel in the darkness, but he found nothing. Whispered voices nagged at the limit of his hearing, wordless murmurs that seemed to threaten pain and destruction. All the soldiers, miners, and artificers he passed on his patrols looked suspicious or actively hostile until Cart fixed his eyes on their faces.

Disaster struck on the ninth day after Kelas’s arrival. A miner’s pick struck exactly the wrong place, as far as Cart could determine afterward, and a sheet of rock split away from the crystal beneath. Its collapsing weight caused a landslide that swept away the scaffolding and buried a dozen workers under a cairn of boulders. Cart felt the earth rumble, saw the rock begin to crumble, watched workers fall and then disappear beneath the rocks, but before he crossed three paces toward the scaffold it was over. A cloud of dust hung like a stormcloud over the ruin left behind.

He was thunderstruck. As he stared at the wreckage, though, a movement in the crystal caught his eye-the black smear within seemed to grow, or to surge to the surface. For a moment he thought he saw the shape of enormous hands pressed against the glass of the crystal column. He heard a sound like the beat of a muffled drum, quiet but clear, and a howl arose in answer-then another, then a chorus of faraway howls, as though the worgs were responding to a distant call. There could not have been many worgs left in the canyon, but they must have all joined that sinister choir.

Cart saw soldiers he knew as brave and battle-hardened fall to their knees and cover their heads, crying out in prayer or despair. Others just sank to their knees in silence, overwhelmed by the combination of grievous loss and the possibility of a renewed assault. He knew he should take command, get the soldiers doing something-anything-to get their mind off the cries of the wolves and dealing with the disaster at hand. But he was as frozen as the others.

Kelas emerged, took stock of the situation, and began giving orders. He sent soldiers to the palisade, to prepare for another worg attack. Miners and more soldiers started picking through the rubble, hoping against hope to find any survivors, and others carried the rubble away to fortify the palisade.

Kelas was no more forgiving than Haldren when a soldier, overwhelmed with grief and horror, walked away from her work for a moment or fell to his knees at the discovery of a comrade’s crushed body. There was work to be done-work that would take their minds off the horror.

The dragons came one at a time into the presence of Malathar the Damned, dragon-king of Rav Magar. Copper Aggrand flew to a high window in the audience chamber and perched there like a dragonet, and black Surrun wormed his way in through a small back passage. A red dragon, Yavvaran, strode through the main entrance like nobility, shoving the dragonborn guards aside. Green Forrenel, last to arrive, came along a higher passage to appear at an arch ten feet above the floor.

When they were all present, Malathar turned his skeletal head to let his gaze fall over each in turn.

“I sent Vaneshtra ahead to prepare our way,” he said. The silver dragon had been his messenger to Kelas ir’Darran, the human who dared build the Dragon Forge.

“The bronze is dead,” Yavvaran announced. He was too bold. His tone was a challenge.

“Yes.” Vaskar had been a fool.

“The Time of the Dragon Above draws to a close.” The high voice was Aggrand.

“Our time has already begun,” Malathar said. He stretched his wings, fingers of bone linked by tatters of desiccated skin. “The first blood is shed.”

All the dragons showed their surprise, except Yavvaran-too proud by far. Aggrand even gasped.

“Three drops of blood mark the passing of the Time Between,” Malathar whispered.

Forrenel was first to pick up the chant. “The three dragons are joined together in the blood.”

Aggrand joined in as well. “And the blood contains the power of creation.” Yavvaran grumbled the last four words.

Malathar silenced them all with a hiss. “One drop is shed where the Dragon Above pierces the Dragon Below, the Eye stabs at the Heart.”

“What has happened?” Aggrand asked. “What blood was shed?”

“The Storm Dragon found the Eye of Siberys and used it to pierce the heart of the Soul Reaver, the Heart of Khyber.”

“But the blood-what about the blood?” Aggrand was so enthusiastic, so excitable. A useful trait at times, but more often irksome.

“The Eye passed through the Storm Dragon’s hand when it pierced the Heart,” Malathar said.

Forrenel repeated the Prophecy. “One drop is shed where the Dragon Above pierces the Dragon Below, the Eye stabs at the Heart.”

Even Yavvaran spoke the next words with the others-“Blood joins them, and so begins the Time Between.”

“One drop unites Eberron with the Dragon Below,” Malathar said. The others waited in breathless expectation. “Blood is drawn from a serpent binding the spawn of Khyber and the fiend that is bound. Bound they remain, but their power flows forth in the blood.”

“The Dragon Forge,” Forrenel said.

“One drop unites Eberron with the Dragon Above. The touch of Siberys’s hand passes from flesh to stone, held within the drop of Eberron’s blood.”