James Wyatt - Storm dragon

Gaven had become the storm. He was killing with his bare hands, a primal force of nature, and the sky met his savagery with equal fury. Unbound, no longer locked within the walls of Dreadhold, not restrained by convention or decorum, not confined by the limits of his flesh, Gaven’s fury flashed across the sky, making shadows dance across the forest.

Two beasts lunged for him, but he held them off, one with each hand. His muscles screamed in pain, but he exulted in the raw physicality of it. For the first time in years, he was completely in the moment, ancient memories and prophetic nightmares exorcised from his mind. An ear-splitting crash of thunder made one of the beasts flinch slightly, and he pressed the advantage, pushing it off him. Finally able to bring two hands to bear on the other beast, he grabbed it and swung it around him, crashing its hips into the snarling maw of the first creature. Darraun appeared at the edge of Gaven’s awareness, bringing his heavy mace down hard into the ribs of the beast he’d thrown.

A monstrous roar answered the thunderclap, and another beast crashed through the jungle to enter the fray. If the beasts they’d been fighting were the size of horses, this one was a small elephant, though it was as wiry and compact as the others. Trying to follow its movements made Gaven’s eyes ache.

Gaven’s eyes rolled skyward, and he lost himself in the storm. The dragonmark that covered his chest was a mirror of the thundercloud overhead, surging with power and flashing with lightning. The wind howled around him, and he let it hold him upright as he gave himself over to the tempest. The rain began to fall.

He was aware of shouts and bestial howls of pain, but if the downpour fell on him, he did not feel it. He opened his eyes, but he felt so far away, so high above the battle that he could barely make sense of it. Darraun stood in front of him, hefting his mace in both hands as if to protect Gaven from the great beast. Haldren was at the artificer’s shoulder, his magic searing flesh from the beast’s skull, and Cart drove his axe again and again into the creature. The beast’s tentacles thrashed through the air, but its roars of pain and rage were drowned out by the howling wind.

The wind lifted Gaven off the ground, and light exploded around him. Gaven felt rather than saw the location of each remaining beast, and bolts of lightning impaled each one, tying them briefly to each other, to the churning clouds above, to the burning dragonmark on his chest.

The world fell silent, and the wind set Gaven back on his feet. Small hailstones pelted him, but the storm’s power was spent. He shook his head, trying to make sense of the ground beneath his feet, the fire in his muscles, the frenetic movement around him. Haldren’s mouth was open wide as though he were shouting in Darraun’s ear, but there was no sound. Darraun nodded to Haldren and ran somewhere behind Gaven, just as Cart’s axe felled the great beast.

Then Haldren’s red face was inches away, apparently yelling at Gaven. The half-elf shrugged and tried to turn away, but Haldren grabbed his shoulders and continued his tirade. Gaven watched little flecks of saliva form around Haldren’s mouth, and he remembered all the times he’d seen that mouth through the shutters in their cell doors. Nausea gripped his stomach, and he curled around it. Haldren released his shoulders and let Gaven drop to the ground.

The silence was strange. With his eyes open, Gaven could perceive the chaos left in the wake of their battle, but when he closed his eyes it was gone. The jungle was silent, and he might have been alone. The earth was warm beneath him, and the ferns made him a soft bed. He felt himself start to drift, so he opened his eyes, and found himself embroiled in chaos again.

Darraun and Haldren stood over him, apparently bickering. Haldren no longer looked like he was yelling, which probably meant that he was getting angry. Darraun rummaged through a large pouch at his belt. Gaven had seen scrolls in there before, so he supposed that Darraun was looking for a spell that would restore his hearing. He closed his eyes again, relishing what might be his last taste of peace and quiet.

His ears started ringing, and Gaven looked up. Darraun was still rummaging, so he wasn’t responsible. Gaven rolled onto his hands and knees, letting his head hang between his arms for a moment, then he pushed himself shakily to his feet. Darraun said something.

“Just ringing,” Gaven said, pointing to one ear. He heard the sound of his voice, but it was muffled and strange.

Darraun frowned, and Haldren crossed his arms impatiently. Haldren said something-Gaven could hear his voice now-and stomped away. Gaven watched him help Senya to her feet while Darraun talked, a rapid stream of syllables that didn’t quite resolve themselves into language in Gaven’s ears.

Senya moved slowly, and Gaven noticed a lot of blood staining her clothes and armor. But something about her suggested that something besides her physical injuries slowed her down-she looked distant, almost vacant, as she got to her feet and looked around. Her eyes didn’t seem to linger on Haldren at all, almost as if she didn’t see him there. She turned slowly where she stood, as if she could see through the thick growth of trees to scan the horizon.

Gaven’s ears cleared enough that he could hear Haldren’s voice, coaxing her, almost pleading in its tone. Senya lifted an arm to point into the distance, and Gaven could clearly hear her words: “The City of the Dead awaits us.”

Gaven took an involuntary step backward as the weight of Senya’s words-the weight of what they were doing here-finally registered in his mind. He was no longer in his cell, dreaming of the Prophecy and remembering all the research he had done into its mysteries. No, he was in the jungle of Aerenal, outside the City of the Dead, waiting for the Eye of Siberys to fall in fulfillment of the Prophecy. He was helping to bring it about.

That was what had landed him in Dreadhold in the first place.

Haldren’s eyes narrowed and rested on him. “What is it, Gaven? Did you see something?”

“With respect, Haldren,” Darraun said, “I’m particularly interested in what Senya is seeing right now.” Senya took a few steps in the direction she had indicated, her eyes still fixed on some distant point.

“Senya will guide us to the City of the Dead,” Haldren said. “But the Prophecy-Gaven, what did you see?”

Gaven didn’t answer. Instead, he lifted his eyes skyward. The clouds of his unnatural storm had cleared, but the sky was beginning to darken. Even in the deepening blue, the Ring of Siberys was visible, glowing faintly. By the time the sun’s light faded, the ring would be as bright as the sun-turning the night into day.

Haldren followed Gaven’s gaze, and remembered the words Gaven had uttered before. “When Siberys turns night into day,” he muttered. “Yes, Gaven. The Time of the Dragon Above is here. All is coming to pass as the Prophecy declares.”

Gaven shuddered. Some part of him wished he were back in his cell with his nightmares. That seemed preferable to living them out.

Senya led them through the jungle as though following a distant call, and as they crested a hill, the forest cleared before them. The City of the Dead lay exposed to their wondering gazes. Wide streets ran straight and long between hulking buildings-sloping pyramids crowned with pillared temples, squat ziggurats decorated with elaborate skull motifs, graceful domes with chiseled arches, winged pillars, and flying buttresses. Great eldritch fires leaped skyward atop towering columns and danced inside the galleries of ancient temple-tombs.

Gaven saw no sign that the jungle encroached into the city-no trees adorned the streets, no vines clung to the ancient stones. No wall surrounded it, either, but the line between the vibrant life of the jungle and the calm stillness of the City of the Dead could not have been more clear. Where ferns and grasses ended, stone began. People walked the streets, though not in any great numbers-and Gaven couldn’t be certain whether those people were themselves alive. In the elven homeland, the spirits of long-dead ancestors still inhabited their desiccated corpses, speaking to the living within their ancient tombs. The City of the Dead was the center of the elves’ ancestor worship, where the Undying Court continued to guide the spiritual and political affairs of the elves, unhindered by the death of their mortal bodies. Even the guards at the gate might be undying soldiers conscripted to guard the elders’ rest.