When Dragons Rage
Michael A. Stackpole
To the memory of Austin H. Kerin
(If not for his book, I’d not be a writer today.)
Acknowledgments
Anne Lesley Groell has the patience of a saint and was quite kind with me as this book groaned along well past deadline. The errors herein are mine, and the dearth of them is all her doing. The author would also like to thank all of those readers who made good their promise to read some fantasy while awaiting their next BattleMech or lightsaber fix.
The Norrington Prophecy
1
A misty blue curtain descended over Princess Alexia of Okrannel, obscuring her surroundings. Save that something felt solid beneath her feet, she would have had no way of discerning up from down. Not that there really is any ground here—or up or down.
She lifted her head and gazed forward, trying to see the mountain she knew loomed afar. In accord with her thought, the cerulean mist swirled and parted, bleeding down and away into low fog that tugged at the hem of her gown. In the distance she did see the sharp-peaked mountain blotting out a wedge of starry night sky.
Though the mountaintop lay miles away, she reached it in three long-legged strides. She smiled, for melting of both the mist and the miles were not the only changes wrought as she moved forward. She had arrived in the mist in a simple white gown with a short cape, but by the time she reached the mountain and the arched mouth of the cavern near its top, her clothing had shifted to a warrior’s tunic, simple trousers, and a good pair of boots.
She recognized her clothes as those she had last seen Crow wearing. This surprised her because though she was operating in a magickal realm where her whim could shape reality, she had not consciously chosen Crow’s raiment. Either her mind was betraying her, or other forces held a certain sway in the Communion’s domain.
Alyx glanced up at the stone arch defining the cave’s mouth, and gathered her long, white-blonde hair over her shoulder. Unconsciously plaiting it, she read, “The secrets within are secret without, for the good of all the world.” While hardly lyrical or powerful, the words described what would happen to discussions held beyond the arch. Nothing she said or heard could be shared in the waking world.
She shivered and set her shoulders. In Yslin—mere months previous, though it seemed like years—she had been invited to join the world’s eldest and most elite secret society: the Great Communion of Dragons. Any Communicant could access their enchanted meeting place in a trance that would appear to be simple sleep to observers. Alexia had tucked herself into bed at the Scarlet Mask Inn before she traveled here. This was her first conscious journey to the Communion, so a touch of fear fluttered in her belly.
Still braiding her hair, she entered the cavern, occasionally ducking her head around low-hanging stalactites. She threaded her way along a dimly glowing curved path that led down to a vast arch that bridged a crevasse. She could not see the bottom of it and suspected it had none. The span linking one side to the other was narrow, and try as she might she could not make it appear any broader. On the other side, the cavern closed into a twisting, serpentine tunnel that worked its way down, and finally opened into a vast chamber filled with moist air and the gentle ripple of water washing up on a shore.
A boat waited at the end of a pier that jutted into the dark underground lake. The boat had no masts and had been styled after a dragon, with a fearsome head curving up from the bow. Back on the wheeldeck stood a steel construct, animated by magick, that appeared to be the marriage of human and dragon forms. Its massive, clawed hands rested on the wheel. Its dark eyes did not show any light, nor did it acknowledge her as she boarded amidships.
She glanced at it. “Maroth, take me forth.”
The ship lurched slightly, then began to move across the lake. Alexia strode to the bow. Water flowed noisily by under the keel, and some splashed up to sprinkle coldly on her face. She felt the rush of the passage in the breeze upon her face, but the ship sped into a starless void that provided few visual clues as to movement. Glancing back she saw nothing of the pier, but when she turned to look forward again, an island had appeared, towering over the boat as it moved to a small quay.
The boat glided to rest, bumping only slightly, and Alexia leaped effortlessly to the granite quay. She turned and tossed the pilot a salute. “Thank you, Maroth.”
The mechanical creature made no response.
Alexia mounted the steps and slowly began to recognize the places from which bits and pieces of the island had been drawn. The steps reminded her of the seaside entry into Fortress Draconis, though she saw none of the dragonel ports that had defended its “small harbor. And the island still boasted the soaring cylindrical towers typical of strongholds predating Chytrine’s creation of weapons that could raze them. The island also bore no scars of battle, and though Fortress Draconis had yet to fall the last time she saw it, she imagined Chytrine’s assault had by now reduced it to smoking, corpse-ridden ruins.
Up the steps she went, then crested the island’s rim and began a steep descent to its interior. A lush garden greeted her, rich with blossoms that bloomed despite the twilight. The scented symphony of their nocturnal perfume exceeded their beauty. Some of the trees bore fruit and her mouth began to water.
Alyx smiled, wondering if her mouth was watering in this illusion, or back in the tavern. Could I pluck some of the fruit? Would it taste delicious when I bit into it?
“It would, in fact, daughter.”
She spun, dropping into a combat stance, then relaxed and straightened. “You surprised me.”
“My apologies.” The rough figure of a man materialized from a shadowed grove. Thickly and powerfully built, he wore a black surcoat worked with a scale pattern reminiscent of dragon flesh. His gauntlets and boots—both of which were armored and ended in talons—continued that theme. The elaborate helm he wore fully hid his face, but the golden eyes glowed and moved as if they were real, and even the ears seemed to function.
Alyx knew the man chose to wear that form here, and had enough ease with his surroundings to look however he chose. What she was able to do with clothing, he could do with his whole person. And more.
The Black Dragon reached up and plucked a ripe, red apple from the tree above him. “It will provide no nutrition, but will be pleasing nonetheless.”
Alyx straightened up and pressed a hand to her stomach. “I am not certain I could keep food down at the moment.”
The Black’s eyes narrowed. “What news of the world, then? What has happened?”
Alexia rubbed a hand over her forehead before she graced him with a violet-eyed glance. “After last I spoke with you, much, very much. Because of your warning, Adrogans sent some of us to Wruona to wrest the Jeranese fragment of the DragonCrown from the pirates. We got it and got away. What little remained of their fleet after the raid on Vilwan was laid to waste by Kerrigan.”
“I knew you had met with some success, but I don’t know Kerrigan.”
She hesitated for a moment. “Kerrigan Reese. He is from Vilwan, and not more than seventeen. He’s tall, but a suet-ball that could easily be dismissed as some overindulged noble’s child. He’s smart, however, and has incredible power. He can command spells that no human has ever mastered, and yet others that have not been employed since the time of Yrulph Kirun.”
The Black nodded solemnly. “He who was Chytrine’s mentor. So young a man wielding such power could be dangerous. He’s mature beyond his years, is he?”