James Wyatt: Storm dragon

This was the sort of place that catered to people who would rather not present themselves at a hostel run by House Ghallanda, where they’d be required to show identification papers. A glimmer of recognition flitted across the face of the desk clerk when the man saw Haldren, but he bowed his head to hide it, taking the money Senya held out and handing over two room keys without a word. Haldren took one key and handed the other to Darraun, and they climbed a narrow flight of stairs.

“Senya and I will be here,” he said as they reached the room whose number matched his key. “Darraun, you and Gaven have the one across the hall. This is not the safest hostel in Whitecliff. We’ve had a long night, so get some rest. Cart, stay nearby. We’ll eat in a few hours, gather some supplies we’ll need for the trip, and get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

He opened the door to his room and pulled Senya inside. Darraun rolled his eyes and turned to the door across the hall, unlocking it with the key Haldren had given him. He pushed it open and stood back for Gaven.

The room was tiny, and the furniture worn, but it was mostly clean. Gaven walked in and sat gingerly on one of the two narrow beds. It felt a bit like his cell in Dreadhold, but he wasn’t sure that was a bad thing.

Darraun was still standing outside the open door, urging Cart to join them inside. “I know you don’t need rest,” he said, “but doesn’t it feel good to get off your feet once in a while?”

“No,” said Cart, and shuffled into the room. With the great bulk of the warforged, the room seemed much smaller. Darraun came in, pulled the door closed behind him, and threw himself down on the bed with a contented sigh.

“That was a long night,” he said. “Are you tired, Gaven?”

Gaven shrugged. Fatigue pulled at his limbs, but he didn’t want to sleep. Not really. Sleep for him was torment as often as rest. He lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“Well, get some rest,” Darraun said, closing his eyes. “We’ve got a grand adventure ahead of us.”

Despite his best efforts, Gaven’s eyes would not stay open. Listening to Darraun’s steady breathing, Gaven was soon asleep, and the dreams came.

The rope bit into his waist, under his arms and between his legs. Uncomfortable, but not agonizing. He swung in blackness, the light of his glowstone too feeble to reach any surface on any side of him. He had no idea if his rope was long enough to reach any kind of floor beneath him, or how far it might be to another wall he could use to aid his descent. He lowered himself as slowly as he could, straining his eyes to see anything-anything at all.

Rienne’s voice called to him from above, where his rope slowly coiled out through a series of pulleys. Her words were swallowed in the open expanse around him.

Then the light of his glowstone fell on a roiling cloud of darkness, and the cloud engulfed him-a cloud of silent black wings. He lost his hold on his rope, and he fell. He called out to Rienne, but the rope kept spinning out, never slowing his fall.

He was flying, broad wings outstretched in a darkness that was somehow not so dark. A churning river flowed beneath him, and he followed its course farther and farther into Khyber’s depths. He came to a cascade and swooped over the edge, then alighted on the bank of a pool at the bottom. He watched a series of images dance across the swirling water of the pool, and he saw a face-a great reptilian snout topped with a massive horn. A dragon’s face. His face. Then he turned, his snaky tail splashing in the water, and he saw the nightshard. Almost perfectly clear, the enormous crystal held a vein of pure purple-black color, pulsing with dim light in its heart.

He groaned, every inch of his body aching, the hard stone beneath him pressing against his wounds. He had a vague sense that he had been unconscious for a long time, and he wondered vaguely why he wasn’t dead. The nightshard, though, was pulsing with violet light. He stretched out a hand, bruised and bloody, and touched it.

His mind exploded with thoughts and memories-his own and the other’s. He fell back to the rock floor, his eyes glued to the nightshard, and could no longer determine who he was or how he’d arrived there. A distant voice echoed in the vast cavern above him, but it no longer sounded like anyone he knew.

“Gaven?”

For a moment the hand that was gently shaking him belonged to Rienne. Her head was on his shoulder, her silky black hair spilling across the bed, and they were twenty-five again. Then he woke, and there was Cart, leaning over him like a mother. When the warforged saw Gaven’s eyes open, he straightened up.

“Time to eat.”

Gaven shook his head to clear the dream from his memory, and sat up on the bed. The door stood open, and Darraun was not in the room. Gaven thought he heard voices from across the hall.

“Were you here the whole time I slept?” he asked.

“I was. Your faithful hound,” the warforged said. There was a smile in his voice, though his face wouldn’t allow it.

“Did I say anything while I was sleeping?” Gaven tried to make the question sound casual.

“Who’s Mara?”

“What?”

“I’m joking,” Cart said. “During the war, I knew a man who talked in his sleep. Usually about whatever woman had most recently claimed his heart. We used to give him a hard time.”

Gaven tried hard to imagine the warforged as just one of the men and women in a squad of soldiers. For a moment he saw Cart in battle, an axe raised over his head, strange, cold light glinting on his adamantine plating.

“No, you didn’t say anything,” Cart said, gently hitting Gaven’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “You snore when you sleep on your back, though.”

“Sorry,” Gaven said. Dreadhold had taught him to avoid confrontation, back down, apologize.

“Doesn’t bother me. And Darraun snores louder. Come with me. Haldren’s waiting.” Cart stepped aside and waited for Gaven to get to his feet, then followed him out the door.

Darraun stood in the doorway to Haldren’s room, speaking quietly to the old sorcerer. Gaven could see Senya behind Haldren, buckling her sword belt at her hip. Haldren saw Gaven emerge from the room, and cut Darraun off.

“Ah, Gaven!” he said. “I hope you are well rested. Shall we eat?”

Without waiting for an answer, Haldren swept out of the room and down the stairs. Cart followed Gaven at the rear of their little procession.

Haldren was willing to settle for substandard accommodations for the sake of privacy, but he had extravagant taste in food. He led the way to Whitecliff’s finest restaurant and ordered for everyone.

“It has been almost two years since I have enjoyed a fine meal,” he said, “with all due respect for our friend Darraun’s expertise at the campfire. Gaven, I can barely imagine how starved you must be for such a repast.”

Starved was the wrong word-Gaven couldn’t remember what a fine meal tasted or smelled like. He remembered the smell of the fish on the campfire, though, and his mouth began to water.

When the food came, it was overwhelming. Half a dozen aromatic smells blended together to form something exquisite. He attacked his plate.

“I am pleased to see you enjoying your meal so much, Gaven,” Haldren said. “It is far better than the offerings at our last lodgings, is it not?”

Gaven nodded and took another bite of pheasant.

“Pheasant can be both dry and dull in the wrong hands,” Haldren said, addressing the table at large. “But when prepared by my good friend Marras, it is never either.” He gestured toward the kitchen. “So, Gaven, how was your sleep?”

Haldren clearly hoped that the good food would help to draw him out. Gaven chewed slowly, considering how to respond, then swallowed and said, “Not so different than Dreadhold.”