A ruby light flared to life in the heart of the crystal, and he opened his eyes to see Nara’s face form in the glow. She looked tired and angry-she had probably been waiting up for his report.
“It’s about time, ir’Darran,” she snapped.
“My apologies. I only just received word from the canyon.”
“Tell me.”
“All appears to be going as we planned, except for the speed. Haldren ir’Brassek has secured the canyon. Baron d’Cannith is ready to send her aid, and Arcanist Wheldren has won the commitment of the Arcane Congress to our cause. Reports from the west indicate that the Carrion Tribes are already on the move.”
“What about the changeling?”
“I have heard nothing from him, but that is not unusual. He might well be dead, but he’s very resourceful.”
“And the mark?”
Kelas smiled, quite pleased with himself. “I received a messenger a few weeks ago who promised to deliver a Siberys heir with the Mark of Storm to me. I’m not positive it’s the same man, but I don’t think it matters.”
“Who sent the messenger?”
That was the question he wanted her to ask. “A dragon from Argonnessen.”
“Another dragon.” Nara did not seem as pleased as he’d hoped. “Of course. We can’t build the Dragon Forge without dragons. And we’ll have dragons-the messenger promised that as well.”
“Then all is ready.”
“Yes,” Kelas said. “All is ready.”
PART III
Two spirits share one prison beneath the wastes, secrets kept and revelation granted. They bind and are bound, but their unbound whispers rise to the Dragon Between, calling to those who would hear. Their whispers turn to flame, the scouring flame, the refiner’s fire, to purify the touch of Siberys’s hand.
CHAPTER 25
Aric drifted through the Labyrinth. The maze of twisting canyons swallowed him, consuming his thoughts and senses. Nightmarish apparitions flitted at the edge of his awareness, some combination of the demonic spirits said to haunt the Wastes and his memories of the warlord, Kathrik Mel-a demonic spirit incarnate. When the wind whistled through the canyons, he heard the tormented screams of Zandar and Sevren. Nothing materialized to threaten him, as though the Labyrinth were content to let him torture himself. It was a much slower and more painful death than anything the demons could create.
The Labyrinth drove any thought of the future from his mind-there was no future, only the Labyrinth. He no longer thought he could escape the maze, so he gave no thought to what he would do if he did. Day wore into night and back to day, and he wandered. He didn’t eat, he barely slept, and by the fourth day his water was gone. After that, he stopped counting days. All his thoughts melted away except one: Abandon all hope for your body or your soul.
His stomach had stopped complaining, but his throat screamed for water. All he knew was his most primitive need. He fell, gravel pressing into his cheek. He didn’t think he could stand up again. Abandon all hope.
He heard the gravel crunch, and again. Twice more, a pair of boots appeared before his eyes, and he realized the sound had been footfalls.
“Who are you?” he murmured, anticipating the Traveler’s inevitable question.
A booted foot rolled him over, and his vision became a field of reddish sky, framed on two sides by canyon walls. A shadow appeared and blocked the sky-a pair of eyes, a face looking into his. This time, the Traveler had adopted the face of a different fallen paladin, Vor. Light shot out in rays from behind his head, a nimbus of silver.
“He’s alive,” the Traveler said.
“Kill him.” The other voice had no body, and it was almost too far away to hear.
“Not until he’s heard the challenge.” The Traveler’s orc-face bent nearer to his. “You lie on cursed ground. You may proceed no farther into this place of evil, and you may not leave to spread its taint. I offer you a choice: Commit your life to the service of Kalok Shash and the holy calling of the Ghaash’kala, or die where you stand-where you lie.”
A word died on his lips, an echo of the Traveler’s words-“Shash.”
Darkness swallowed the Traveler’s face and the ruddy sky, and lastly the silver halo.
There was no pain. His first experience was absence-no pain. No light. No ground beneath him, no red sky above him. He floated in a void.
He couldn’t move, and panic seized him. He tried to shout, but no sound would come from his mouth. He couldn’t draw breath.
The first sense to return was touch-there was something beneath him after all, a hard bed supporting him in the void. And something heavy weighed on his chest, squeezing the breath out of him and keeping him immobile.
Suddenly air poured into his lungs in a shuddering gasp, and dim light nudged at his vision. His eyes shot open, and all his senses came back to him in a flood. He lay in a windowless room lit by a guttering oil lamp. Except for the lamp, it was bare as a prison cell. The thin door was slightly ajar.
One hand flew to his face to feel his features. Who was he supposed to be?
Scarred cheeks, a thin nose, wide jaw-Aric’s face, he remembered. It seemed he had kept the proper face while he was unconscious. He wondered how long he had been there.
He remembered becoming Aric, taking the face of a barbarian foe. He remembered running with the horde, and shuddered as he remembered Kathrik Mel. Then grief clutched at his heart as he saw the agony of Zandar and Sevren-the torture he’d brought on them. He had stumbled into the Labyrinth, but the rest was a blur. He had no memory of where he was or how he got there, but unless he had somehow escaped the Labyrinth, he reasoned, he must be in one of the cities of the Ghaash’kala.
Which means I’m safe, he thought. For now.
He drifted back into a less troubled sleep.
The door swung open with a creak, jolting Aric awake. An orc leaned through the doorway, and seeing he was awake, came to stand at the foot of his bed. He looked a little like Vor, with an almost triangular face, wider at the jaw than at the brow. Two prominent teeth jutted up over his upper lip, suggesting a young boar’s tusks.
“You are in Maruk Dar,” the orc said, “refuge and capital of the Maruk Ghaash’kala. You are here, rather than being dead where we found you, because I thought you might have uttered the holy name of Kalok Shash before you completely lost consciousness. Tell me clearly now. Will you commit your life to the service of Kalok Shash and the holy calling of the Ghaash’kala?”
The alternative, Aric knew, was death. The Maruk Ghaash’kala would not hesitate to kill him, even after making the effort to nurse him back to health.
“I will,” he said. What was another broken oath? He felt sick.
The orc smiled, revealing the full row of crooked teeth between the tusks. “Then you have heard the call of Kalok Shash, the beacon of hope in the Demon Wastes?”
Aric nodded.
“You are most welcome in Maruk Dar. I am Farren Dorashka. What is your name?”
“Aric.”
“From what tribe do you come?”
Aric cast his mind back over his brief time among the barbarians. Had he heard a tribal name mentioned? He couldn’t remember one-but then he recalled what Kelas had told him.
“Kathrik Mel bound my tribe into his horde. My tribe no longer exists.”
Kathrik Mel-speaking the name brought his face clearly to Aric’s mind, and he shuddered. The brick red skin and lashing tail, the clawed hand tracing a line of blood across Zandar’s neck.