James Wyatt - Dragon forge

Storm Dragon! The dragon-king recognized him as the figure of Prophecy, and still thought to face him in battle? Wind whipped around Gaven as he drew breath for another lightning blast.

Malathar breathed first, crackling black flame engulfing Gaven, searing his skin and sapping his strength still more. It was the excruciating pain of his dream, wracking his body and bringing him to his knees. Suddenly Gaven saw the dragon-king for what he was-one of the most ancient creatures in the world, preserved beyond even the tremendous natural lifespan of a dragon for what might have been hundreds or even thousands of years. Inconceivable power was bound to his blackened bones.

The pain ebbed, and Gaven somehow found strength to regain his feet. He glanced back at Cart Just in time to see Phaine d’Thuranni slide his blade out of Cart’s back. Cart dropped to his knees, his eyes on Gaven, but the spark had already gone out of him. He fell forward, onto his face, and was still.

In Gaven’s moment of shock, a bony claw coiled around him again, pinning his arms to his sides and lifting him off the floor. The dragon’s touch was icy cold, and Gaven’s strength and will drained out of him as Malathar carried him back to the far side of the forge.

Thunder is his harbinger and lightning his spear. Wind is his steed and rain his cloak. The words of creation are in his ears and on his tongue. The secrets of the first of sixteen are his. At the dawn of the Dragon Above he rises, and lays claim to what belongs to him. The blood of the evening sky is his, joining day to night, what is above to what is below. In twilight he becomes a pilgrim, seeking what he has lost, what lies beyond his grasp. His storm flies wild, unbound and pure in devastation, going before the traitor’s army to break upon the city by the lake of kings. In the darkest night of the Dragon Below, storm and dragon are reunited, and they break together upon the legions of the Blasphemer. The maelstrom swirls around him. He is the storm and the eye of the storm. His is the new dawn. In him the storm cannot die.

Aunn. He decided to use his real name, even if he wasn’t prepared to show his true face or admit his nature. It felt strange-like his name alone was a secret and revealing it would make him vulnerable. But he was willing to expose that one weakness, at least, as a sign of the new life he intended to begin.

He emerged from the tunnel and felt a strange air in the Labyrinth. There was… an expectancy about it, a sense that the Labyrinth itself was waiting for the hordes of Kathrik Mel to pass through it. It did not feel malevolent but eager, welcoming. It took Aunn hungrily in and wanted more. He couldn’t help hurrying along, stumbling as though the ground were pushing him onward.

Left at every branch.

Farren’s instructions were easy enough. Still, as Aunn wound his way through the canyons, he felt like he was going around in circles, though it might have been an ever-widening spiral. Always left. Farren had not said how far he would have to travel-the vague word “soon” might have meant a few hours, but as he spiraled always to the left he suspected it might have meant a day, maybe two. There could be no sense of progress, no idea that the mountains might be nearby or that he was getting at all closer.

He rounded a bend, chose another left branch, and came up short. Rubble blocked his way, the result of a landslide-a recent one, it seemed, for smaller rocks still tumbled down the pile. Panic seized him. If he couldn’t follow Farren’s directions, he wasn’t sure he could find his way out of the Labyrinth. Perhaps he could scramble over the rubble and continue on the other side? He hurried forward, but the ground seemed to buckle beneath him, sending him sprawling on his face.

When he looked up, he saw a pair of booted feet before him. There had been no warning sound of crunching gravel-the figure must have just appeared. Half-expecting another visitation of the Traveler, he scrambled back and looked up at the man’s face.

The man was tall, and he held himself proud and strong like a nobleman. His dark hair was cut short and sprinkled with gray at the temples. His warm brown eyes looked at Aunn, and Aunn realized that he was looking at his own new face. He had never seen it in a mirror, but the eyes The eyes were wrong, or at least they were not as Aunn had envisioned them when he sketched them in. Had he done them wrong? There was a hardness to them, an edge of cruelty. No, that would have to change.

“Who are you?” the vision asked-the Traveler’s eternal question of him.

This time he had an answer, one he would stand by. “I am Aunn.”

The man’s warmth vanished into anger as he took in Aunn’s face. “You’ve stolen my face! You’re a fiend of the Wastes!”

This was no vision of the Traveler. Was it possible Aunn had given himself a copy of this man’s face without ever having seen him? Or had he seen this man before? His thoughts felt muddy. He couldn’t remember. Even the strange man’s clothes and armor were identical to his-it didn’t make sense.

The strange man roared in fury and ran at Aunn, his hands raised like claws before him. A vision flashed into Aunn’s mind-a monster like a horned bear, fire in its eyes, a gaze that was fixed on him as it rushed toward him. He felt again the freezing cold of Frostburn Cut, the icy grip of fear he’d felt when he saw this monster before.

“We are in the Demon Wastes now,” Vor said. “Do not trust your senses.”

The man had become the bear-thing, massive claws raised to tear Aunn to shreds. An instant before those claws reached his throat, he brought his mace up and smashed it into the monster’s face, knocking it aside. It sprawled against the canyon wall, changing back into a human form as it fell and rolled. Aunn followed it, raising his weapon.

The man chuckled and turned his face to Aunn. It was Vor’s face now. “Well done, Kauth,” he said. “You penetrated my disguises.”

Aunn stopped short and nearly dropped his mace. It couldn’t be Vor, but how did it know Kauth’s name? How did it recognize him as Kauth? Was this the Traveler after all?

“You tried to lead me to my death,” Vor said, his chuckle turning into a snarl. “If you had but known the extent of my power…”

“No,” Aunn said. “I saw you dead. You’re not Vor.”

“You’re right,” Vor said, and his face melted away. Dania stood before him.

It was a nightmare, just like the fevered dreams of his illness, but Aunn was sure he was not sleeping. “What are you? Kalok Shash-the Silver Flame? Incarnate in the paladins-”

Dania roared, and the beast’s massive paw slashed across Aunn’s face, knocking him to the ground. “Paladins? Me and Vor? Not at all, Auftane, not at all.”

“There was holiness in you both. So much good.”

“Evil can wear the guise of good when the need arises.”

“Evil-you-you’re the fiend of the Wastes… You’re dredging my memories!”

“Perhaps I am a fiend,” Kelas said, “but does it follow that I am not also Dania, and Vor, and Kelas? Think about it, Haunderk. I’ve been with you all this time. I have guided you all your life. I’ve made you what you are.”

Aunn cowered on the ground, terrified that what Kelas said might be true. Kelas could be an incarnation of evil. He was capable of such cruelty. But could he have been Dania? Vor? No, it couldn’t be “Where did I fail, Haunderk?” Kelas loomed over him, powerful and intimidating. Aunn cringed, awaiting the inevitable slap or kick. “What flaw in your education allowed this… this conscience to take root in you?”

Conscience.

Kelas said the word like it was the name of the most loathsome, despicable creature he could imagine. And Aunn remembered exactly how it had come about. He stood up, face to face with Kelas.