James Wyatt - Dragon forge

The voice grew closer. “Let me see his mark.”

Lissa stood and lifted Gaven to his knees, and he looked for the first time on the dragon-king of Rav Magar. No flesh covered the bones of the enormous dragon, except for tatters of leathery skin between the bones of its wings. Its bones were blackened as though by fire, but deep violet light shone in the grooves of arcane lettering carved into nearly every surface. Purple fire danced in its eye sockets, set deep between two long horns curving forward around its tooth-filled snout.

The skeletal head came close and the burning eyes peered at his neck, his bare chest, and his arm. Gaven’s dragonmark tingled, a faint memory of his agonizing dream. He remembered Rienne’s finger tracing the lines of his mark and the glimpse of his destiny he’d seen.

“Why does the Prophecy mock us so, writing itself on the flesh of these creatures? Is it not defiled when it is written on meat?”

The dragon-king stretched out a bony claw and scratched a bloody line down Gaven’s chest. “No matter,” the dragon said. “The Dragon Forge will purify it.”

Farren led the Ghaash’kala back to Maruk Dar, unerringly choosing a path through the twisted and branching canyons of the Labyrinth. When they neared the city, Aric was surprised to see another band approaching the city from the opposite direction and still another group already inside the walls.

Reading his face, Farren explained. “Four times a year, the Maruk Ghaash’kala return as one to Maruk Dar. We celebrate the victories of the past season, mourn the fallen, and renew our vows. You will make your formal vow at a ceremony two days hence.”

My formal vow? Aric thought. That’s right-the one where I commit my life to Kalok Shash and the calling of the Ghaash’kala. The one I’ll break as soon as I think I can find my way out of here.

He wondered if he could escape the city before two days had passed.

The mood in the city was celebratory-friends and relatives from different warbands were coming together again for the first time in three months, embracing and laughing and trading stories. Children, dressed like warriors in uniforms of leather armor, ran through the streets to find their parents. Food appeared, such as it was-ground squirrels and rabbits caught near the Shadowcrags, the scant produce of dry gardens within the city walls, all heavily spiced and salted. Aric wandered the streets and squares for a while, enjoying the vicarious experience of community and fellowship. Then fatigue crept into his legs and a dull ache gnawed at his heart, and he tried to find the barracks he had briefly called home before setting out with Farren’s band.

Just as he thought he’d spotted the right place, he found himself encircled by humans-black haired, scar-faced barbarians like… like himself, he remembered. They wore grim expressions but spoke words of welcome, inviting him to join them at their table, half-dragging him when he tried to refuse. They pressed a wooden cup into his hand, and the evident leader of the gang, a tall and wiry man with his face so covered with scars that it was barely recognizable as human, put an arm around Aric’s shoulders.

“I’m Dakar,” he said. “I keep an eye on this lot.”

“Aric.”

“What’s your story, then?” His face was too close to Aric’s, and his breath reeked of whatever strong liquor they were drinking. “How’d you hear the call?”

Aric stared into his drink, trying to identify the viscous liquid. How did one hear the call of Kalok Shash? He decided to tell a story that was close to the truth-such lies were usually easiest to maintain.

“Pangs of conscience,” he said, shaking his head. That was all too true, and he still wasn’t sure how it had happened. “My tribe was torturing some men they captured in the Labyrinth, and it made me sick. I wandered off and into the Labyrinth.” He paused to gauge his audience’s reaction. He needed a touch more. “I must have heard the call of Kalok Shash, even if I didn’t recognize it at the time. Or why would I flee into the Labyrinth?”

Several of the others nodded, staring into their own drinks.

The woman on his left leaned in close as well, her black hair streaked with red and her face half-covered by a blotchy red birthmark. “What happened?” she said.

“I wandered for days, and finally I collapsed-hunger and thirst, exhaustion, maybe despair. And that’s when Kalok Shash lifted me up.” He saw a few eyebrows rise, and he wondered if he’d made the sacred flame sound too human, too physical. “Farren found me. He issued the challenge, and I just had strength to call on Kalok Shash. So he brought me here.”

“That’s it?” the woman asked. Her S was slightly slurred from her liquor.

Aric shrugged. He had no idea what further elements a conversion story should contain, at least among these people. “There might have been more,” he offered. “I was half-dead for quite a while.”

The woman laughed. “For me,” she said, “Kalok Shash came as I was fighting against the Ghaash’kala. My companions were dead. I had killed fourteen orcs myself, and only three were left. They offered me mercy and I promised them a swift death like their fellows.” She wore a savage grin, and as she looked around the table most of her companions returned it. This was the warrior pride of the Carrion Tribes, Aric realized. Probably no more than half true.

The grin dropped from the woman’s face as she continued. “Then all the dead ones, they got up and surrounded me. Or at least their spirits did. They closed in on me, and started blowing around like a whirlwind of fire. I couldn’t move, and my skin burned. I fell, and Kalok Shash burned the evil out of me.”

“And the Ghaash’kala spared you,” Aric said.

“No. I was forced to kill them. I did my penance when I took my vows.”

“When was that?”

“This past Highsun, the last gathering.”

Aric turned to Dakar, whose arm was still casually draped around his shoulder. “What about you?”

Dakar’s scarred face twisted into what might have been a grin-Aric was reminded for a moment of Zandar. “My conversion happened when he took over my tribe,” he said.

He-that could only mean Kathrik Mel.

“I was advisor to the chieftain,” the man continued, “so encountering Kalok Shash seemed like a good idea.”

That explained the sardonic smile. Dakar’s “conversion” was a sham, and his oath was pretense. Aric wondered how many of the others here had similar stories. Most of them looked disappointed, and the woman on his left shook her head in disgust. But they tolerated this pretender as their leader.

“How long have you been here?” Aric asked.

“The longest of any of us. This is my third gathering.”

Aric looked around the table. “You’ve all been here less than two seasons?” The half-dozen other barbarians nodded, looking perplexed by Aric’s amazement.

“We don’t last long here,” Dakar said. “This will probably be my last gathering.”

“But you’ve already survived one excursion,” the woman said to Aric. “That’s a good start.”

“See any action?” the man asked.

“Some. We killed a band of Plaguebearers.”

Dakar withdrew his arm from Aric’s shoulder, to his relief, and everyone else at the table seemed to shrink away from him. Aric took advantage of the moment of stunned silence to choke down the foul-tasting liquor they’d given him.

“You were lucky,” the woman said. “Sooner or later, they get us all. You can never really leave the Carrion Tribes.”

After his mention of Plaguebearers, none of the barbarians were willing to touch him, so he managed to escape and make his way to the building he’d identified as his barracks. He slept heavily and woke feeling groggy. His body ached from too many days and nights in the Labyrinth, and he lay in his hard bed for a long time, hoping in vain to fall back asleep.