James Wyatt - Dragon forge

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.

Haccra approached the black pavilion, fear gripping her stomach. She hated approaching the chieftain, hated what she endured every time she entered his presence. But it was her duty.

She looked up at the banners as she passed, bone white with the chieftain’s rune painted in blood. They made her heart beat faster-with excitement at the conquest they promised, and with fear.

Two guards stepped forward and seized her arms. She did not struggle.

“Do you bring news the chieftain wishes to hear?”

“I do.”

“What tribe are you from?”

“I have no tribe. I serve only Kathrik Mel.”

Not releasing her arms, they shuffled her forward into the pavilion, forcing her head down as they entered, then pushing her face to the ground. Only when she was prostrate did they release her.

“Haccra.” His voice glided over her skin, smooth and exciting. “You may lift your head.”

Slowly she did, and he grew into her vision-first his armor-clad feet and the twitching tip of his fleshy tail, the bloodstained plate armor he wore and his strangely delicate hands, fingers tipped with razor-sharp claws. She shivered at the memory of those claws tracing lines of blood in her skin. She could not look at his face.

“What news do you bring me?” Tingles ran down her spine.

“Our scouts found the stronghold of the Maruk.”

“At last.” He stepped closer. “This is excellent news, Haccra. What reward would you choose?”

“Pain.” Pain hurt so much less than the pleasure he offered.

Someone sat beside Aric where he lay, and he was surprised to realize that it was not the Traveler, Dania, Rienne, Vor, or any of the bizarre figures that had haunted his dreams. It was Farren, laying a cool hand on his head and driving away the last of his fever.

“How do you feel?” Farren asked. There was concern in his voice, but his eyes didn’t meet Aric’s. “Am I still dreaming?”