James Wyatt - Dragon forge

Once again Kelas stepped up to the crystal. He put both hands on the hilt of the Ramethene Sword, drew a deep breath, and shoved it through the circle of the silver torc.

There was a sound like the plucking of an enormous string, almost too low to hear, but making the air thrum with its vibration. Gaven felt a wave of nausea pass through him, and his muscles felt even weaker. The soldiers supporting him staggered as well, and his knees buckled. Everyone standing around the crystal clearly felt it-they lowered their heads, staggered backward, or fell to their knees. The dragon-king and Cart alone seemed unaffected.

The canyon was hardly vibrant with life, but something was happening to it-the thin patches of grass dissolved into ash, bare rock blackened, the dry shrubs that grew here and there on the canyon walls shriveled and died. Desolation spread out in a wave from the crystal. Gaven looked in sheer terror at the shadow, expecting to see it burst forth from its azure prison.

Both the silver serpent and the dark fiend were agitated, moving quickly, almost frantically. The Ramethene Sword glowed so brightly it hurt his eyes to look at it. The inlaid tracery pulsed with light as well, and gemstones came to life on the surface of the cylinders, glowing in a mosaic of different colors. The liquid in the glass tubes began to bubble and churn.

Then fire burst from the earth to fill the trench that surrounded the Dragon Forge.

Rienne awoke, and Gaven was not there. She frowned at the place where he’d lain-usually she awoke long before he did and had time to exercise and meditate before she roused him for the day’s journey. Something was wrong.

She sprang up with Maelstrom in her hand and rushed out of the small shrine. The dragonborn city was only starting to come alive with the first light of dawn. She saw dragonets flapping at open windows where dragonborn placed scraps of meat in tiny houses. She heard strange singing, low droning chords and high chanted melodies, that might have been a form of morning prayer. But she couldn’t see Gaven.

“Gaven?” she called. Several pairs of eyes turned her way and quickly turned back. Louder-“Gaven!” He did not appear or call an answer.

The sky was cloudless, which gave her an odd reassurance that he was not in serious trouble. If he were fighting somewhere, certainly a storm would be brewing. At the same time, it was disappointing-if nothing else, she could have found him by heading to the heart of the storm.

“Gaven!” She heard the desperation in her own voice.

“Rienne!” The voice was not his, and she barely recognized her own name. A dragonborn was running toward her-the one who had led them to this city and shown them the shrine. Lissa.

As the dragonborn drew nearer, Rienne clenched the hilt of Maelstrom more tightly and called out. “Where is he?” Even as she said it, she realized the stupidity of it-Lissa didn’t understand Common, and Rienne knew only a few words of Draconic, mostly words related to obscure aspects of the Prophecy that resisted translation.

Lissa’s axe was slung at her belt and her shield at her back, so Rienne sheathed Maelstrom out of courtesy. The blade could be back in her hand in an instant if she needed it. When the dragonborn reached her, spewing a torrent of Draconic babble, she put a hand on Rienne’s shoulder and tried to guide her back into the shrine. She seemed anxious, so Rienne followed.

When they were in the shrine and safely out of view, Lissa slumped against the wall beside the archway. Rienne could read the fear on her face, but couldn’t determine the cause of it-was she being pursued? She should, perhaps, not be here with Rienne.

“Gaven?” Rienne asked desperately. Could Lissa give an answer she could understand?

Another gush of Draconic, but Rienne heard Gaven’s name. She stared blankly at the dragonborn, and Lissa started again, slowly as if talking to an imbecile, but accompanying her words with pantomime, watching to make sure that Rienne understood each concept.

“Gaven,” she said… hands bound together-a prisoner. Lissa pointed at Rienne… go, go quickly, Lissa wiggled her fingers like legs at top speed. Run. Run away. Lissa shook the axe at her belt and then pointed again at Rienne.

Flee or die.

“Not without Gaven,” she said, more to herself than Lissa. She took the dragonborn’s hands and put the wrists together, as Lissa had done to show Gaven’s imprisonment. Pointing at Lissa, she said, “Gaven.” Then she pointed at herself, and chopped her hand between Lissa’s wrists. “I must free him.”

Lissa’s eyes went wide with fear, and she shook her head. Rienne guessed that meant the same thing to the dragonborn that it did to her.

“I can’t leave him here,” she said, her voice pleading. Lissa’s eyes softened-she recognized the tone, at least. Rienne held up one fist-“Rienne”-and the other, “Gaven.” She brought the two hands together, entwined the fingers. “Together.” Hands still together, she moved them in imitation of the gesture Lissa had used to mean go away. “We have to leave together.”

Lissa’s face mirrored her own sadness. She took Rienne’s wrists gently in her big, clawed hands and slowly pulled away the hand that was Gaven, lowering it back into Rienne’s lap. “Rienne.” Rienne alone.

Tears welled in Rienne’s eyes, and she shook her head. “How can I leave without him?”

Lissa took the Gaven hand back in hers and led Rienne to the back of the shrine. High on the wall behind the stone tablet of the Prophecy, a mural depicted a dragon’s skeleton, proud and erect, its eyes burning with purple flame and its entire form surrounded by a nimbus of deep violet. The dragon’s bones were carefully marked with writing-perhaps another fragment of the Prophecy, Rienne couldn’t tell.

Still holding Rienne’s wrist, Lissa pointed at the undead dragon and said a single word, “Drakamakk.” Then she lifted Rienne’s hand up toward the dragon. Rienne understood. Gaven was a prisoner of this undead dragon, who was perhaps the ruler of this city. Lissa shook her head slowly, sorrow in her eyes. There was no hope of freeing him.

Rienne wrenched her hand away from Lissa and drew Maelstrom. She swung the blade high, toward the image of the undead dragon. Lissa caught her wrist again, stopping Maelstrom a hand’s width from the mural image. Her eyes had hardened, just slightly. So Lissa was willing to help Rienne flee, but not to help her fight the dragon-king.

Thoughts racing, Rienne turned away from the dragonborn. What could she do? She couldn’t hope to be inconspicuous in a city where she was the only half-elf-the only one these people had ever seen, as far as she knew. She couldn’t secure help, couldn’t bluff her way past the guards, couldn’t exert the influence of her noble birth-she couldn’t interact in any meaningful way with the dragonborn without speaking a word of their language. She wasn’t sure the money she carried would buy her food or assistance. And if Lissa wouldn’t help her against the undead dragon, how could she expect anyone else to?

She blinked back tears. “I can’t leave him, I just can’t,” she said. “All those years he was in Dreadhold, I died without him.” Lissa laid a hand on her shoulder, and Rienne was surprised at the tenderness of the gesture. The dragonborn seemed so large, so strong-so inhuman.

Rienne looked down at her feet, at the fine silver chain wrapped several times around her ankle. With barely a thought, it would take her home. Gaven had one, too, unless they took it from him. She could look for him, even in the palace of the dragon-king, and break the chain if she found herself in trouble. But using it would seem so final. If she fled at the first sign of danger, she would never have the chance to return.