Dragons - Worlds Afire

Principles of Fire Keith Baker

“Tolar!” Zaehr rolled to her feet, her burned lips drawn hack across her fangs.

The dragon flung the corpse to the side, a casual gesture that sent the broken body skidding across the cobblestones. It turned toward Zaehr and fixed her with its luminous gaze. Pure, unreasoning terror gripped her—the raw panic a predator instills in its prey.

“Tolar had no place in such a battle,” the dragon said. Its voice was thunder and steam, at rumbling hiss that Zaehr felt in her bones. Its crimson scales glittered in the torchlight, as if painted in fresh blood. Black ivory punctuated this ruddy armor—two dark horns stretching back over its massive head and ebon talons longer than any of Zaehr’s blades. Even its teeth were dark, as if burned black by the flames that licked around its jaws. But the true fire was in its eyes: The blazing orange orbs consumed her thoughts, reducing her to a frightened child. It took all her strength of will to tear her gaze away, to wrap one hand around the hilt of a curved dagger.

How had it come to this?

“This ends now.”

The rumbling voice tore Zaehr back to the present. The knife slid into her hand. Her wounds burned, and she fell into a defensive crouch, ready to leap. The dragon towered above her, rearing back on its hind legs, jaws wide. Time slowed to a crawl, and Zaehr could see the light rising in the gullet of the beast.

Fire, she thought. It had begun with fire.

The sky above Sharn was on fire. The shockwave swept across them. A dwarf woman standing nearby was thrown off the edge of the bridge and tumbled howling to the streets below. Dozens of others smashed against the cobblestones, Tolar along with them. Only Zaehr kept her footing; she let the force throw her back and turned the motion into a spinning leap, landing smoothly on her feet. Throughout the twisting roll she kept her eyes on the sky, watching the terrifying spectacle above.

Pride of the Storm was coming apart.

The airship was the largest she had ever seen, the pride of House Lyrandar, a glorious yacht held aloft by twin rings of elemental power. The kraken was on the seal of House Lyrandar, and the ship was designed so that a mighty kraken appeared to be clutching the rear of the boat, four darkwood tentacles stretching out to grip the two massive rings of elemental energy surrounding the vessel.

At least, that was the design.

Zaehr loved airships, and she watched the skies when business brought her and Tolar to the vicinity of Lyrandar Tower. She had been watching when a skycoach rammed into the ship and exploded, leaving a gaping hole in the side of Pride and shattering two of the four supports. The ring of elemental fire collapsed, and a moment later there was a second explosion, greater than the first. Fire flooded the sky, accompanied by a roar that shook the towers and a wave of force that threw Zaehr’s companions to the stones. While flame engulfed the ship, the stabilizing ring of elemental air was still holding her aloft—at least for now. But even as Zaehr reached down to help Tolar to his feet, she could see that the ring was losing its integrity. Zaehr knew what would happen next. The ring would collapse, and the burning ship would plummet to the depths of Sharn, smashing against bridges and towers until she finally reached the distant streets. It was inevitable.

The cloudbelt buckled, and the blazing vessel tilted crazily in the sky, charred corpses skidding off the deck and into the air. It was just what Zaehr had seen in her mind.

Except for the dragon.

The ring of air flickered, died, and the ship fell. A new force ripped through the stern, scattering shards of burning wood across the sky. This was no explosion. It was a dragon, a massive creature covered with mirror-bright silver scales—and it was growing. With every second the dragon increased in size and the ship splintered around it.

There was no time to waste.

Zaehr reached deep inside, calling on the natural power within her. Zaehr was a shifter, a blend of human and animal. Many said that the shifters were the thin-blooded children of werewolves, but Tolar swore there was rat and hound in her ancestry. Her senses were sharper than those of any human, and she was swift and strong. When she called upon her animal spirit, her speed became super-human, matching any horse.

She snatched Tolar and lifted him off his feet. The old man was over six feet in height, but he was bone-thin, and the shifter had no trouble carrying him. She charged forward, plowing into people on the bridge as she moved. She heard curses and cries. and a few angry feet and fists lashed at her. People were frightened and confused, and Zaehr knew humans often found her to be an intimidating sight. Her eyes were gleaming red, her skin snow-white, her hair a ghostly silver-white mane, and when she was drawing on her inner spirit as she was now, her mouth was a distended snout filled with razor-sharp teeth. The people were dazed from the explosion, and now this fearsome shifter was ramming into them. But there was no time to explain.

“Get off the bridge!” she snarled. She slammed into a small child, sending him reeling back toward Stonebridge Tower.

A massive chunk of burning wood crashed into the space where she had been standing. This was followed by a flash of silver—a dragon’s tail?—and a thunderous impact that shattered the bridge. Chunks of stone joined the cascade of wood, fire, and flesh tumbling to the streets far below. There was a moment of silence. Zaehr had just saved these peoples lives, but terror and confusion outweighed any sense of gratitude.

“Put me down.” Tolar’s voice was cool and calm. Zaehr had never seen the old man lose his composure. She set him down, and he walked over to the jagged edge of the bridge and stared down at the path of destruction, thoughtfully running a finger across his red-and-white beard.

Zaehr stepped up beside him. She released her hold on the animal spirit and felt her teeth and jaws retract to their natural shape. Looking down, she could see flames where fragments of the burning hull had lodged along bridges and tower walls. She could see a greater light below, where the ship had finally struck ground.

“Get down there,” Tolar said. He’d produced a silver disk from one of his belt pouches, and he pressed it into her hand without looking at her. “The flames will soon consume what the impact left behind. Study the point of collision and any bodies you can find—especially the dragon.”

“Right.” Zaehr looked at the disk, bright metal embossed with the image of a single feather. A wind token, designed to protect people who fell from towers or bridges by slowing the descent at the last minute. “And you?”

“There are other matters I must attend to,” Tolar said. The breeze snapped at his long burgundy overcoat. He looked up at the sky, studying the shattered moorings on Lyrandar tower.

“Right,” Zaehr said. “To work, then. And thanks for, you know, saving my life.”

Tolar ignored the sarcasm. “Go.”

Zaehr sighed. She’d done this before, but it wasn’t something you soon grew used to. Taking a deep breath, she wrapped her fingers tightly around the wind token and dived off the edge of the broken bridge. How did I get into this? she thought.

It was a rhetorical question. Tolar had found her in the sewers of Sharn. Most likely she’d been born to one of the bands of shifters that lurked in the undercity, surviving by scavenging the midden heaps and sifting through the garbage of the world above. Tolar believed that her family had abandoned her because of the strange color of her skin and eyes, most likely leaving her to die—but she’d proven to be a survivor. Tolar had been an old man even then, facing a young and feral shifter who could only speak a few words. Tolar Velderan was an inquisitive. He made his livelihood through investigation. He’d never said what task had brought him to the depths that day, but he’d chosen to solve her mystery. He’d calmed her and convinced her to follow him to the surface. In the months and years that followed, he taught her to speak, to read, to follow the pulse of information as it flowed through the streets. She’d saved him a dozen times. But he’d given her life. Without him, Zaehr would still be hunting rats in the dark. He was the only father she’d ever had.

The streets of Sharn rushed up to meet her. She could feel the heat rising from the burning yacht. The magic of the medallion took hold, slowing her descent, and she twisted in the air, adjusting her weight so that she’d drift to the side instead of landing in the wreckage. A crowd had gathered around the shattered ship, and she wondered how many had been crushed beneath her.

The destruction of a Lyrandar airship was a remarkable event. But the dragon? That was something else entirely. A dragon was a thing of legend. It was said that the world itself was formed from a battle between three celestial dragons. The first age of Eberron was a time of terror when fiends and demons ruled the world—until the dragons had risen up and imprisoned these dark spirits in the depths of the underworld. Since then there were stories of the occasional dragon sighting. A drunken explorer once told Zaehr that he’d encountered a dragon with scales the color of midnight in an ancient ruin in the jungles of Q’barra, but he’d also claimed to have found a diamond the size of his head and then dropped it from his airship. Zaehr had always thought that both tales were simply in his imagination.

What lay before her was no adventurer’s tale. The silver dragon was tangled in the wreckage of the ship, its head still hidden inside the shattered vessel. It was crumpled and twisted, but Zaehr guessed that it was over eighty feet long from the tip of its muscular tail to the hidden jaws. Its hind legs had been shattered by the impact, and Zaehr noticed that even its blood looked like liquid silver, leaking out from between the armored scales and hissing against the flames. She touched down on the cobblestones next to the dragon’s left hind foot. Even its toes were larger than she was.

It’s just another victim, Zaehr thought, and it’s time to get to work.

A dozen different blades were tucked along the black leather harness Zaehr wore, and she selected one—a thin stiletto she liked to use as a probe. Stepping up to the dragon’s foot she fought to shut out the screams and yammering of the surrounding crowd, focusing her attention on the sight of the corpse, and more importantly, on the smell—the world of scent that humans couldn’t begin to understand. Fire, blood, wood, heat, and dozens of shattered lives—all of these stories stretched out before her, painted in the language of scent. Strongest of all was the smell of fresh rain—a smell that soon she realized was the odor of the dragon’s blood.

Silver rain battled burning wood as Zaehr grew closer to the ship. The vessel was still burning, but Zaehr had no fear of fire. Tolar had told her to trace the corpses, and it was possible there were survivors. Besides, she wanted to see the creature’s head. Ignoring the crowd, Zaehr leaped onto the side of the stricken dragon and climbed along its chest, pulling herself to an opening in the hull of the shattered ship.

She’d wanted to see the dragon’s head. But the legends, her expectations… nothing had prepared her for what she found inside.

The smell of blood and smoke filled Zaehr’s nostrils—the coppery tang of human blood blended with the thick rain-scent of the silver dragon. The floor was at a sharp angle, but Zaehr was a talented climber. Her fingernails and toenails were thicker and stronger than those of a human, coming to a natural point, and they helped her maintain a grip on the wooden surface. Absently, she brushed the back of her hand against the steel studs embedded in her black leather jerkin, activating the enchantment held within the armor—a spell that helped to hide her from prying eyes and to disperse any sounds she might make. Zaehr didn’t know what she might find in the ship, but she was a hunter by nature—and she’d decide whether or not to reveal herself.

She was standing in a small stateroom. The eastern wall had been shattered by the expanding dragon, but she caught the scent of human blood within the rubble and saw a finger protruding from under a plank. Carefully sifting through the wood, she found the body of a young male half-elf wearing the bloodstained livery of House Lyrandar—a servant from the look of him, lacking the rough hands of a sailor or the clothing of a House noble. The fire hadn’t killed him. From the looks of the corpse, the explosion hadn’t reached him. But the damage was terrible. Both his lungs had collapsed, and he had at least a dozen broken bones. Blood was still flowing from his mouth.

As powerful as the explosion had been, much of its force had blasted away from the ship; it might have knocked this boy off his feet, but it hadn’t killed him. The dragon had done that. Its body had expanded, smashing through walls and finally through the hull itself, crushing everything in its way in an inexorable tide of armored flesh. Glancing around and tasting the air, Zaehr identified another dozen corpses buried in the rubble. A few carried the scent of burned flesh, no doubt drawn from deeper in the ship and closer to the explosions. The others had been caught in the path of the dragon and crushed like ants beneath a child’s foot.

As Tolar had commanded, Zaehr paused to take a quick trace item from each of the corpses she could reach—a scrap of cloth, a lock of hair. She carried a few strips of fresh linen in her pouch; she dabbed one on the silver blood of the dragon and rubbed another against a thick scale.

She pressed forward, working her way deeper into the ruined ship. She could hear voices shouting outside the vessel—officers of the Sharn Watch, a Lyrandar salvage team, healers from House Jorasco. The watch was working to push the public back while the House forces extinguished the fires and brought their own teams into the ship. There wouldn’t be much work for the Jorasco healers. Between the impact of the crash, the two explosions, and the crushing bulk of the dragon itself, Zaehr had yet to find anyone who could possibly be revived. During her childhood in the depths and her time with Tolar, Zaehr had seen many horrible things, but finding three young girls crushed against a doorframe… what sort of person would set such horror in motion?

She found the center of the first blast—a large dining hall. The walls were covered with ash, and a number of the blackened corpses had been blown apart before being crushed by the dragon. Zaehr found the remnants of a giant owl, most likely a merchant from Dura or a windchasing champion; she plucked a few feathers from one scorched wing. After searching for trace objects on the other corpses, she scoured the room for remnants of the airship that had struck it, then turned her attention to the dragon. Only the muscular neck remained, rammed through the wall leading to the bow of the ship. Zaehr pulled herself along the serpentine neck, squeezing through the smashed gap.

She had a strong stomach. She had spent her first years in filth and had just examined a score of corpses, but what she saw next brought bile to her throat, and it took all her will to keep from retching.

Soon enough the ship was crawling with Lyrandar salvagers, and Zaehr made her way back to the square. She planned to disappear into the shadows, but a skycoach was waiting for her, the steersman carrying a parchment with Tolar’s crest. Normally Zaehr loved riding in the air, but after the fall of the Pride, she felt a momentary trepidation at stepping aboard the flying boat. But it wasn’t in her nature to argue with Tolar. Once she was aboard, the skycoach rose into the air, winding through the massive towers of Sharn and finally bringing Zaehr to the luxurious residential district of Oak Towers. The buildings on this level of Sharn were inspired by elven architecture, with rounded, curving walls and intricate engraving. Most were built from densewood—a form of lumber with the strength and durability of stone.

Tolar was waiting in a small park filled with bloodvines and gray oaks, and Zaehr quickly relayed the highlights of her investigation. Tolar led her down a road cobbled with disks of densewood as they spoke.

“Precisely what I expected,” Tolar said when Zaehr told him the story.

“You expected the head to be missing?” Climbing along the neck, Zaehr had actually dug one hand into the charred flesh of the beast’s stump.

“Missing or at least severely damaged,” Tolar said. He was favoring his left leg and placing much of his weight on a gnarled cane. Apparently the morning’s excitement had taken its toll, but Zaehr had other concerns.

“Explain,” she said. Finding the seared stump of the neck had sent a chill through her. The dragon’s head must have been ten feet long. How could something like that simply vanish? She’d half-expected to find some sort of terrible head-eating beast lurking in the wreckage, but she’d seen nothing of the sort.

“When the dragon burst through the hull of the ship, there was no sign of motion in its limbs that could not be explained by the wind and fall. Such an experience would be extremely uncomfortable for the creature in any case. The logical explanation was that the dragon had been concealed on the ship in the form of a smaller creature and that this magical effect was broken upon its death… as is typical of such transformations.”

“But—” Zaehr knew it was a mistake the moment she opened her mouth. Tolar hated interruptions, and she could sense his frustration in a half-dozen ways—the tightlipped scowl, the lines on his forehead, the sour smell no human would have noticed. She bit her lip even as Tolar silenced her with a sharp wave of his hand.

“I had an excellent view of the creature during those first moments, and there were no signs of mortal injury that I could see—minor burns and scrapes most likely caused by bursting through the hull of the ship. Therefore, the killing blow had to have struck an area of the body that was hidden from view.” He paused, glancing back at her for the first time in the conversation. “Now, I believe you had a question?”

“Yes, but… the, head was gone. How does something so large just vanish?”

“You’re not thinking on the proper scale,” Tolar replied. She could sense his slight disappointment and felt a touch of shame. “When the attack came, the dragon was in the form of another creature—most likely, a human, elf, or half-elf. The injury came while she was in this shape.”

Zaehr opened her mouth to speak but bit back the question. One interruption was bad enough.

“I suspect that she was standing close to the breach in the hull during first explosion,” Tolar said. “I already mentioned the minor burns. However, her head—barely the size of yours, I imagine—must have been exposed to the full force of the blast. You said the stump of the neck was charred.”

Zaehr nodded.

“So the head was blown apart. Most likely pieces remain, but they would have been scattered during the expansion of the rest of the body—I suspect a few curious children will go home with dragon’s teeth tonight.”

“You said she.”

“Yes?” Tolar said. “You didn’t notice?”

Zaehr blinked. “Well, I…” She shook her head. “It was a dragon! A myth! How am I supposed to tell the difference between girls and boys?”

“Dragons are living creatures, Zaehr. And that means that they eat, sleep—and breed.”

Zaehr held up her hands “Until today, I thought dragons were just something cartographers put on maps to justify the regions they were too lazy to explore. I’ve never considered the idea of where little dragons come from. And you’re not the least bit surprised to find a dragon in Sharn?”

“Of course not. Sharn is the largest city in Khorvaire—possibly the largest in the modern age. It’s a center for trade, diplomacy, and all manner of intrigue. If a dragon is going to move among humanity, do you suppose it would live on a farm? Clearly the creature was here to monitor events in Sharn.”

“But why?”

Tolar rubbed his short beard, fingering the streaks of red. “The Library of Korranberg has an excellent draconic studies department. The latest research indicates that while dragons are mortal, they can live for thousands of years. Now look at the last five thousand years of history. Humanity has gone from a state of savagery to dominating two continents. Your race didn’t even exist back then. The younger races must move very quickly from the perspective of a dragon. It’s hardly surprising that they should wish to study events from within… or, I suppose, to control them.”

“But… if power is what they want, why not just use force? You didn’t get as close to that thing as I did, but I wouldn’t try fighting it if it was alive!”

Tolar stopped walking. He turned to her and put a hand on her shoulder, staring down into her eyes. Whenever he looked at her that way, Zaehr always remembered their first meeting in the sewers so many years ago—that absolute confidence that had caused her to hold her attack, the determination that had drawn her up into the civilized world.

“Look beyond the obvious, child. If the tales are true, the civilization of the dragons is over a hundred thousand years old. These creatures… they are the children of Eberron and Siberys, the earth and sky. Magic is in their blood. Now look at us, with our short lives and the narrow-mindedness that accompanies such frailty. Weak but arrogant, always pressing forward, shattering walls and breaking barriers, heedless of what might be on the other side. The great Houses always striving for more gold. The nations going to war for pride and ambition—and these last few years have shown us the price of such arrogance.”

He was referring to the Mourning, the disaster that had destroyed the nation of Cyre and brought an end to the Last War… at least for now. No one knew the cause of the Mourning, but most assumed it was tied to the war—either a new weapon that spun out of control or the combined result of the magical forces used during the war.

“What would the dragons have to gain from conquering us?” Tolar continued. “Even if they had the power, why would they want such short-sighted subjects?”

“To keep things like the Mourning from happening again.”

Tolar nodded, and Zaehr could sense his satisfaction in the minute shift of his mouth and the faintest change to his scent. “A good answer. But perhaps they wish to help us find that path for ourselves instead of forcing us on it. Where are the gods?”

“What?”

“The gods. The Sovereign Host. People revere them, believe that they guide and protect, but you never see them. If the gods exist, why wouldn’t they conquer the world to enforce proper behavior?”

“That’s why I’ve never believed in gods,” Zaehr said.

Tolar smiled. “Ah, yes. The eternal pragmatist.” He dismissed the conversation with a wave of his hand and began walking again. “We’re wasting time. Tell me what else you found. I want to know everything before we arrive at Stormwind Keep.”

“Stormwind Keep?”

“Home to Lord Dantian d’Lyrandar, the owner of Pride of the Storm.” He smiled ever so slightly and tapped his cane against the densewood cobble. “It seems we have a mystery to solve.”

“Here’s a mystery,” Zaehr said. “Why do people build things like this?”

Dantian d’Lyrandar was a dragonmarked lord of the House of Storm, heir to the Lyrandar line’s mystical power to control wind and water. House Lyrandar had built a vast mercantile empire around this magical ability. Their raincallers provided “insurance” against drought to the farmers of Galifar, a policy some called extortion. Lyrandar merchantmen had long dominated the seas, and now their airships were carving new trade routes across the sky. Only half-elves could carry the mark, and for many people Lyrandar defined the race. Certainly it had transformed them from a race of outcasts to a proud folk who stood on equal ground with both humans and elves.

Dantian’s abode spoke to that pride. A densewood funnel stained in black and silver, shaped like a tornado rising up to the sky, formed the base of the tower. This was topped by a massive kraken, whose long tentacles wrapped around the tower. The beast was carved from densewood, but it was remarkably realistic; the blue paint covering its skin glistened as if wet. The eyes of the kraken were octagonal windows, and golden light burned behind the panes.

“The kraken is the sigil of House Lyrandar,” Tolar said.

“He’s got his kraken boat and his kraken house. Does he wear a big golden kraken with tentacles wrapped around his chin?”

“It is his gold, Zaehr, to dispose of as he will.”

Zaehr growled. Her childhood had been a constant struggle for survival, and she still felt an instinctive disdain for the wealthy.

“Where’s the door?” she said as they drew closer to the tower. While a broad stairway rose up from the street, it came to a stop at the junction of two tentacles.

“I’m sure it will appear, in due time,” Tolar said. He paused at the base of the steps. “What can you tell me?”

Zaehr studied the labyrinth of sounds and smells around her. Following scents was like gazing into the past, and city streets were always overwhelmingly chaotic, flowing with the traces of hundreds of people. It was as difficult to pluck a scent from this mass as it would be to listen to a whispered conversation in a noisy crowd, yet the task had its own satisfaction, much like piecing together a complex puzzle.

“A gargoyle has been here within the last hour,” she said, closing her eyes to better taste the wind. “Been and gone, staying only for a few moments. A gnome came later—ink and leather, still within. Many half-elves. Perfume and silk in the past, but the recent smells are soot and rain.” She breathed in again. “Unless it rained in the last hour and I didn’t notice, I think it’s the blood of the dragon.”

“As expected,” Tolar said. “You said Lyrandar salvagers were at the scene. Naturally one or more would arrive to inform Lord Dantian of the disaster.” He started up the flight of stairs and was halfway up when a voice rang out.

“Who approaches?” It was deep and inhuman, the sound of a storm at sea.

“Tolar Velderan, from the Globe Agency of House Tharashk,” Tolar replied. “And my associate Zaehr. We are expected.”

“You were not called for.”

“Nonetheless, we are expected. Lord Dantian received a message from Lady Solia d’Lyrandar within the last hour, delivered by gargoyle courier. Surely Lord Dantian will respect his aunt’s wishes on the matter.”

No response. The only sound was the faint wind blowing through the densewood spires.

“We’re working for Globe?” Zaehr whispered. “How did that happen?” The dragonmarked House Tharashk used its Mark of Finding to dominate the field of private investigation. Tolar was bound to the house by blood, but he did not bear the dragonmark, and there was a rift between the old man and a few of his more successful relatives—especially Lady Kava of the Globe.

“I still have connections in the house, child,” Tolar murmured. “And it’s not every day we see something like this. Now hush.”

A moment later, the wooden tentacles before them burst into animate life, pulling back to reveal a massive doorway. The door split down the center and creaked inwards.

“Enter.”

Zaehr stepped in front of Tolar. She did not draw any of her knives, but her hands were poised by her favorite blades, and every muscle was tensed and ready for action. Cautiously, she stepped into the hall.

Fresh rain.

The smell of mist and water filled the hall—the scent she had judged to be the blood of the dragon outside. It overpowered all lesser odors and had to be generated by magic. But to what end? Did Dantian d’Lyrandar enjoy the smell of the storm, or was there some stench he wished to conceal?

“Welcome to Stormwind Keep!” a voice boomed.

As a race, half-elves were not known for their girth. Whether it was cultural or the result of their fey heritage, the half-elves were usually slender and delicate. The speaker shattered these expectations. Zaehr and Tolar could have both fit beneath the man’s silk robes and had room to spare.

“I am Kestal Haladan, and it is my honor to manage Lord Dantian’s affairs.” His eyes twinkled beneath deep rolls of flesh. He mopped his brow with a heavily scented kerchief, and Zaehr wrinkled her nose at the sweet smell. “You, good man?” he said to Tolar, “You are the representative of the Globe Agency? My humblest apologies for the delay at the gate. We were of the impression that our inquisitive would have a little more… gray blood in his veins.”

“Gray” was a polite way of saying “orcish.” House Tharashk had emerged from the mingling of human refugees with orcs in the western swamps known as the Shadow Marches. Most people associated House Tharashk with orcs and half-orcs, but there were just as many humans in the house as orcs.

“I assure you, we are quite capable of handling the task at hand,” Tolar said.

“No.” A new voice rang through the hall. A man, young and arrogant. “We can handle this task. Your services will not be required.”

“Lord Dantian!” Kestal Haladan made a surprisingly graceful bow considering his girth. “My lord, I was going to bring your guests to the lower hall….”

“No.” Lord Dantian d’Lyrandar was dressed for battle. Four silver lightning bolts adorned a jerkin of oiled leather, and a dark blue cloak flowed across his shoulders. His pale white hair was held back by a narrow circlet of gold, adorned with a writhing kraken. His right hand clenched the gilded hilt of a fine longsword. “I have no intention of granting my hospitality to these… people.”

“Lord Lyrandar,” Tolar replied, “it is not your decision to make.”

Zaehr stepped between the two men before Dantian’s blade was fully drawn. She caught the half-elf’s wrist and showed him her teeth. “Don’t,” she said, and she could see her blood-red eyes reflected in his furious gaze.

“Guards!” cried Haladan.

Zaehr could feel Dantian’s surging emotions in the tension of his wrist, the flicker of his eyes, the shifting scent that rose over the smell of rain. “We were sent for,” she whispered, tightening her grip until he released his sword. “We just want to talk, but if you start a fight…” As Zaehr spoke, her jaws extended, fangs stretching down in a vicious wolf-like snout. “I’ll rip your face off.”

A half-dozen guards had responded to the alarm, and they surrounded Zaehr and Dantian, iron-shod clubs at the ready. Zaehr knew that if she harmed the Lyrandar lord, it probably would be the last thing she did, but she kept her gaze on his, holding the promise of bloodshed in her eyes.

“Well?” she said.

She knew his answer before he spoke, and she let go of his hand even as he opened his mouth.

“Fine,” he said, taking a step back. “I suppose I should indulge Aunt Solia. Haladan, I’ll receive them in the garden.” He turned and walked down the hall, gingerly rubbing his right wrist.

“Very well, my lord.” The servant scowled at Zaehr, his beady eyes dark points in his flabby face. “If you’ll follow me….”

Lord Dantian proved as good as his word. He might have set the guards upon Zaehr the moment he was safely out of reach of her fangs. Although he sought no vengeance for the blow to his pride, Dantian was no fool. A squad of guards remained with Zaehr and Tolar as they traveled deeper into the keep, and these soldiers watched Zaehr’s every movement.

Dantian’s garden was another toy, a chance for the young lord to show off his wealth and power. The circular chamber lay at the center of the tower, but for all appearances it was an open-air park, the ceiling masked by cunning illusion. A paved path wove between dark grass, well-groomed trees, and displays of exotic wildflowers.

It was raining.

Rain in Sharn was a common occurrence. Tolar’s long coat was oiled cloth, and he drew his hood up over his face. Zaehr liked the rain. She had spent her first years around water, and while it was hard to be truly nostalgic for a life in the sewers, she had never minded getting wet.

Still, she guessed that the rain wasn’t intended as a gift, and this seemed to be confirmed when the drizzle faded away just before Lord Dantian returned. The illusory clouds evaporated, leaving blue sky and bright sun—though it did not escape Zaehr’s notice that the sunlight provided no heat.

“I apologize for my brusque behavior.” Dantian had changed his clothes and was wearing blue and black robes in place of his armor. “Baroness Solia has instructed that I assist you within reason, and it is not my place to question my aunt.”

“Don’t you want to know who destroyed your ship?” Zaehr said.

“I do know.” He jabbed a slender finger at Tolar. “You. Your kind.”

“Old men?” Zaehr said. She could still sense Dantian’s rage. It didn’t seem to be an act.

Tolar said nothing.

“Tharashk!” Dantian roared. “You foul graybloods with your druids and your dragons!”

Zaehr glanced at Tolar, nonplussed.

“I assure you, Lord Dantian, we have no idea what you are talking about,” Tolar said. “My own ties to the House are—”

“Don’t try to deny it. I know all about your kind. And yours.” A glare at Zaehr. “Do you think this is the first airship we’ve lost? I’ve done my research. Wretched druids, trying to stop progress. Druids. And who were the first druids? Orcs. And shifters. And who taught the first druids? Dragons. It all comes together, doesn’t it? You’re still working with these hidden dragons. You destroy our ships. And who gets called in to investigate? You do. At least this time your damned dragon was caught in the blast.”

“Lord Dantian,” Tolar said, “while your theories are most intriguing, I have my own paths of inquiry I should like to pursue. And Lady Solia has ordered you to—”

“I know what my aunt requires,” Dantian growled. “Just as I know she’s wasting her time. And mine. So what is it you want?”

“A list of all those aboard Pride of the Storm at the time of the explosion, making note of those who lived and died. As I was unaware of any similar incidents, I should like a list of those as well, along with any organizations or individuals you might have quarreled with recently.”

Dantian glared at Tolar but said nothing.

“I will also need to speak with the surviving elemental heart of the Pride.”

This meant nothing to Zaehr, but it certainly produced a violent reaction from Dantian. “How do you know about that?” he said, clenching his fists. The wind rose, and Zaehr guessed that the brewing storm might be the accidental child of the Lyrandar lord’s fury.

“Anyone can study the most basic principles of elemental binding, Lord Dantian,” Tolar said. “And the second explosion aboard Pride of the Storm was the result of the detonation of the fire heart. There was no similar release of air. Therefore the elemental that empowered the ring of air is still contained. I’m sure such an artifact would be the first thing your salvage teams would recover, and I imagine you’d get a gnome translator to come and transcribe the spirit’s memories of the events. Perhaps the gnome who arrived just before we did? While I’m sure the report will be most informative, I wish to speak to the elemental myself.”

Dantian’s fury had given way to sheer surprise. For a moment he stood in silence. Finally, he grimaced and gave a curt nod.

“And the other information?” Tolar asked.

Dantian glanced at the portly servant. “Haladan will take care of it for you.” He looked back at Tolar. His gaze was hard. “I warn you, grayblood, my aunt will hear of this, and now. If anything happens to the heart, I’ll put you and your dog in the ground.”

“Of course,” Tolar said, unmoved. “Now, if you can show us the way? There’s work to be done.”

Lord Dantian took his leave. Another six guards took his place, and Zaehr could smell their hostility. Clearly Dantian was prepared to make good on his threat. Zaehr hoped that the old man knew what he was doing with this elemental heart.

“So did your family have anything to do with it?” she whispered to Tolar, as they made their way up a spiral staircase.

He said nothing, but the disappointment in his expression was answer enough.

“Just asking,” she said, keeping her voice low and an eye on the nearest guard. “We’ve had troubles with your cousins in the past. If there’s something I need to know—”

He cut her off with a curt shake of the head. “Lord Dantian’s delusions are just that. There are no ties between my family and the druids of the west, especially the more violent sects. Though it is curious that he has formed a link in his mind between dragons and druids.”

“They don’t mix?”

“Not now. It’s said that it was a dragon who first brought the secrets of natural magic to the orcs, who later shared it with humanity. But that was thousands of years ago—and a legend at that, not a tale I’d expect a rather spoiled Lyrandar lord to have heard.”

“So you’re not planning on destroying this magic heart?”

His eyes widened in fractional surprise. “Even if I possessed the means to do such a thing, why would I?”

Zaehr shrugged. “You say that as if you’ve never sprung a surprise on me before. If it does come to a fight, I think I can bring down six of these sentries, but I’m leaving the rest to you.”

“Then I suppose I’ll have to be on my best behavior,” he said, with a faint smile. “But I must say I’m disappointed. A year ago I would have expected eight. Are you finally learning restraint?”

Zaehr grinned. “Ask again tomorrow,” she said.

Kestal Haladan led them to a small chamber high in the tower. Zaehr stepped in first to examine the room. The western wall was dominated by a massive octagonal window, and she realized that this was one of the eyes of the sculpted kraken atop the tower. This room was a sharp contrast to the luxurious appointments they had seen so far. The walls and floor were completely bare, and there were only three pieces of furniture in the room: a sturdy densewood table and two stone pedestals. One of these pedestals was currently empty. The other held a steel sphere roughly the same size as a human head. Drawing closer, Zaehr saw that it was actually a complex metal latticework laid atop a large chunk of crystal. The table was empty, but the scents told a tale. Two half-elves wearing leather and steel had brought the sphere into the chamber within the last two hours. A gnome had followed—male, young, accompanied by scents of ink and paper. He’d sat on the table, no doubt scribbling notes. Moments ago, one of the original guards had returned and approached the gnome, and the two had left together.

Zaehr turned to explain this to Tolar, but he stepped across the threshold and into the room.

The wind howled.

It was a mighty gale… or so it seemed. The sound was that of a hurricane wailing through a canyon, a storm that could flay flesh from bone.

But there was no wind. Just sound.

Zaehr and the guards had drawn their weapons, but Tolar was as calm as ever. He opened his mouth and produced an astonishing noise—a loud hissing and spitting not unlike the sound of the storm itself. The wailing dropped in volume. Tolar continued his choking diatribe, and soon the storm faded completely.

Zaehr and the guards stared.

“Auran,” the old man said. “Difficult on the throat and agony to learn but rewarding in its way.”

Zaehr glanced around the room, sliding her daggers back into their sheaths. “That was a conversation?”

“Of course.” Tolar gestured at the sphere of crystal and steel. “Normally the spirit is dormant, barely aware of its surroundings. But between the recent disaster and being separated from its ship, it’s frustrated and awake.”

“What’s it got against you?”

“Nothing. I suspect it was just the number of people in the room at once that disturbed it. It doesn’t perceive the world in the same way that we do, and it doesn’t understand our reality. As far as it’s concerned, we are small masses of water. It’s uncomfortable around any element except air.” He turned to look at Haladan. “I need those lists your lord promised me, as quickly as possible.”

Haladan frowned but gave a short bow. “I’ll see to it. Captain…” He glanced at the commander of the guards, a half-elf woman who might have been beautiful if not for a ghastly scar gouged down the left side of her face. “You heard Lord Dantian. If our guests do anything to threaten you or the heart… act decisively.”

The woman smiled. Half of her smile was a wall of gold. She’d lost a few teeth when she bought her scar. Zaehr smiled back, drawing her own lips away from her long canine fangs.

As Haladan turned to go, Zaehr caught the faintest trace of a familiar scent. “Were you onboard the Pride today?” she asked.

Haladan shook his head. “Not at all,” he said, mopping his brow with perfumed silk. “I’m embarrassed to say I am quite afraid of heights. I stay indoors whenever possible. Why do you ask?”

“It’s not important,“ Zaehr said. Surely it was the scent of rain, confusing her senses.

Tolar had already turned his attention back to the crystal orb, and now he spoke again in the strange language of the winds. The sphere howled in response, and Zaehr saw faint arcs of lightning crackling around the steel cage.

The conversation continued for a few minutes before Zaehr’s patience wore thin. “What is it saying?” she asked.

Tolar was annoyed, as she’d expected, but he indulged her curiosity. “It’s frustrated. It doesn’t understand the nature of the binding, but it hates not being in the air. When it was part of the ship, it was still in motion and that kept it content. I’m trying to learn about the people on the ship, but as I expected it simply thinks the ship was full of water.”

He proceeded with a new series of rasps and wheezes, and the caged wind responded with moans. “Ah!” he said with a note of triumph. But instead of explaining, he launched into another throat-rending exchange, brushing aside Zaehr’s inquiries. Finally, both Tolar and the sphere fell silent. The old man blinked and rubbed his throat. “Could I get a goblet of water, fair lady?” he said to the guard. “And you can inform Master Haladan that our business here is done.”

“So?”

They were back on the streets of Oak Towers. It had taken a little longer for Haladan to provide Tolar with the information the old man had required, but they had eventually made their way out of Stormwind Keep and back into the sunlit streets of upper Sharn. Tolar had refused to discuss his conversation with the elemental while they were in the building, but Zaehr wasn’t about to give up now.

“So…?” Tolar echoed.

“What did it say? I know that ‘ah.’ That was a ‘just as I expected’ ah.”

Tolar smiled. “I suppose it was. I told you it thought the ship was full of water. But there were a few exceptions. It could sense the presence of the other elemental—the ring of fire. It told me that there was an ‘older fire’ that frequently came and went and that it was this older fire that destroyed the ring of flame… that ordered it to explode, apparently. The skycoach that crashed into the Pride held ‘sparks’—most likely some sort of lesser fire elemental.”

“But the dragon?”

Tolar stroked his beard. “Dragons have strong elemental ties themselves. They were among the first creatures born on this world, and they are creatures of primal energy—magic and nature, fire and water. The elemental said that it felt a powerful wind close by… before the skycoach struck.”

“So the dragon didn’t destroy the ship?”

“Quite the opposite,” Tolar said. “I suspect the ship was destroyed because of the dragon. Elementals have little sense of time, but the ‘powerful wind’ was new on the ship, unlike the water and the ‘old fire.’ So I suspect it was a guest. Someone who had recently arrived.”

“That’s still not much to work with,” Zaehr said. She’d been studying the scroll Haladan had given them, the list of those on Pride at the time of the fall. “There were over a dozen guests onboard.”

“Which is why I went to the trouble to obtain this.” Tolar produced a second roll of parchment from one deep pocket. Zaehr could see the Lyrandar seal, but there was no trace of the rain-smell of Stormwind Keep. “When I spoke with Lady Solia, I asked her for a list of passengers. Compare the two, if you will. I suspect you’ll find Lord Lyrandar’s list comes up short.”

Zaehr unrolled both scrolls and set them down on the pavement, quickly checking names. “You think Dantian lied? Why?”

“Dantian’s motives—if they are indeed his—are not yet clear. But if this ship was destroyed because of the dragon, identifying her is the first step in finding the answer.”

“Adaila Lantain,” Zaehr said. “Both lists are identical except for that one name. A Visitor from Morgrave University.”

“Good. If she lived in Sharn, we should be able to find more at her abode.”

“And now I suppose you expect me to track her down.”

Tolar spread his hands. “If it’s too much bother, Zaehr, we can always hire an inquisitive.”

Zaehr slipped through the crowded streets of the University district. Dusk was falling, and the streets were full of laughing students and somber scholars discussing the lessons of the day, drowning academic concerns in wine and song. Zaehr barely noticed the antics of the revelers. She was on the hunt, and every sense was focused on her prey.

The search had begun in Morgrave University, where a handful of coins had established the path and a picture of her prey. Adaila was a respected historian and attended all gatherings of the sages, but she rarely taught and did not maintain an office at the university. Aside from lectures concerning history and expeditions others intended to make into Xen’drik, Adaila was almost a hermit. But a favored student recalled seeing her at the Kavallah Concert Hall the previous night, and it was there that Zaehr caught the faintest trace of her in the air—rain and sweet mist, the same odor Zaehr had wiped off the scale. It was marred and masked by the smells of brocade and human flesh, but Zaehr was confident nonetheless.

Is this the smell of the dragon’s sweat? Zaehr wondered as she pressed down the streets.

For Zaehr, there was no greater thrill than the urban hunt, tracing a path through the past. Her only regret was that her prey was already dead, denying any chance of a battle at the end of the trail.

The path led back to a book bindery, where Adaila had left three manuscripts for binding—copies of a treatise about the various myths of the legendary conflict between dragons and demons at the dawn of creation. The lady had left her address with the proprietor, and he was willing to exchange the address for three pieces of silver.

Silver coins, silver blood, Zaehr thought. The man clearly had no concept of his client’s true nature. Why should he? Who would have thought a mythical creature would try to have a book published by the university?

She was writing a book of myths. Was she writing what she knew to be true or spreading lies to cover the trail? All Zaehr knew of dragons came from legend. If those stories were shaped by the dragons themselves, what could be trusted?

It was a thorny path to walk, but at the end of the day Zaehr was a hunter, not a philosopher. She had found the home of her prey. If there were answers to be found, Tolar would surely dredge them from the dragon’s lair. Spotting a stonebeak thrush, Zaehr rubbed the medallion she wore around her neck, whistling an undulating tune. The amulet was a gift from Tolar, and it allowed Zaehr to compel the assistance of small creatures. A moment later the thrush fluttered down and landed on her wrist. Zaehr bound a scrap of parchment to the bird’s leg. She whispered to it, impressing the image of the home she shared with Tolar in its mind. A moment later the thrush took to the air, carrying the message down the towers toward her partner.

Even without the bookbinder’s help, it would have been a simple matter for Zaehr to find the dragon’s lair. By now she had latched onto the human scent that accompanied that faint smell of spring, the odor that had to belong to Adaila’s human disguise. As Zaehr followed the scent into the nearby residential district, it began to join up with other trails—faint and ghostly images of Adaila’s movements over the past day. All of them came to an end at the door of a small, unpretentious apartment. The door was locked, and Zaehr could smell no other scents leading up to it. Adaila was apparently just as reclusive as reports claimed. There was no garden, and the shades were drawn across the windows. Zaehr ran one sharp fingernail across the lock. Part of her yearned to open the door. The hunt wasn’t finished, and there were still mysteries to solve. But her impatience had caused enough problems in the past, and Tolar’s instructions were clear: She should wait for him to arrive. Running a hand across the studs on her armor to activate the concealing charm, she slipped into the shadows of a nearby alley and dropped into a comfortable crouch, keeping her eyes on the dragon’s door.

It was instinct that had caused her to hide, and instinct served her well. Only minutes passed before three people approached Adaila’s home. They were squat, muscular folk shrouded in dark hooded cloaks. They wore black scarves under the hoods, concealing their features. One carried a short spear that seemed to be made from a single piece of brass. The others kept their hands hidden beneath their cloaks, but the bulges spoke of weapons hidden below. At first Zaehr took them for dwarves, but then the wind carried their scent to her hiding place, causing her to wrinkle her nose in surprise.

Fire.

The scent was hot and acrid, the sharp smells of ash and molten metal. These were no dwarves.

The leader reached out and touched the lock. Night had fallen, and there was a flash of light that dispelled the gathering gloom—a spell, or was it simply the creature’s skin? Whatever the answer, the lock gave way and the door opened. The three strangers disappeared inside.

Zaehr only waited a moment before following. The ashen stench was familiar—she’d smelled it in the dining hall of Pride of the Storm, though at the time it didn’t occur to her that it could be tied to a living creature. Tolar be damned, she thought. If these things are involved in this, they can tell me what’s going on.

Reaching the doorway, Zaehr saw that the lock had been burned away. A small round hole surrounded by charred wood was all that was left. She drew her two favorite blades—heavy knives of orc design, each sharpened on the inner edge of the curved blade. Folding the knives back against her forearms, she slipped silently through the doorway.

The first thing she smelled was smoke, and her ears quickly confirmed it—a fire was growing in the depths of the house. Whatever the creatures were, they had wasted no time. Zaehr moved cautiously down the hall, and in the next room she saw it.

One of the creatures had thrown aside its black cloak. Though it had the muscular build of a dwarf, it was like no dwarf she had ever seen. Its skin was the brilliant orange of a hot coal, and flames licked around its chin in a bizarre parody of a beard. Its eyes were points of blazing light, but they looked right past her. Between her skill and the enchantment woven into her armor, she was still shielded by the shadows. The carpet beneath the creature’s feet was burning, and when he turned and laid a hand on a richly upholstered couch, it burst into flames.

Zaehr wanted to know what these creatures were and what their connection was to the Pride—but she needed to even the odds before she could start a conversation. She slid up behind the stocky figure, her stealthy motion further masked by the sound of the fire. As the creature reached for a desk covered with papers, she struck, slamming the steel pommels of her blades into the back of her enemy’s head. The man staggered, howling in a strange inhuman tongue, filled with pops and hisses. Zaehr had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out herself. The creature’s skin was hot, searing her skin where she’d brushed against him. Hardly unexpected—but this was not a foe she’d plan to bite.

The sound was sure to summon the creature’s companions, and time was of the essence. He turned toward her, a long brass knife in his hands, and made a wild thrust in her direction. Zaehr easily avoided the blow, but the intent was clear—Zaehr might have struck with the pommel, but he was using the blade.

So be it, she thought.

She swept the burning man’s blade to the side with one sharp blow, following up with a gash on his wrist. Dark blood pooled along the wound, steaming in the warm air. Before her enemy could recover, she lashed out with twin arcs of deadly steel, digging deeply into both sides of his neck. If he’d been human, the blow would have decapitated him. As it was, he fell to the burning carpet without a sound. Steaming blood poured out of the wounds. An instant later, his body simply dissolved into ash.

With her opponent down, Zaehr studied the room. It was too late to stop the fire—the flames were already spreading to bookshelves and the timbers of the floor, and the smoke was stinging her eyes and burning her throat. She glanced around, trying to see something that stood out, something that might be worth this destruction.

The fire was almost her undoing. Her keen senses were dulled by the smoke and the crackling flames, and she almost didn’t hear the creature approaching from behind. The flash of motion in her peripheral vision, the heat from the burning spear—she recognized the danger just in time to fling herself forward, rolling and spinning to face her foes. The two remaining fire-folk were there: the squat man with his brass spear and a heavyset woman, the one who had melted the lock with her touch.

Zaehr let fury and instinct take over. Adrenaline surged through her as she flung both knives at the spearman. The first caught him directly in the forehead, cracking the skull and lodging in whatever lay beneath. The second sunk deep in his throat. He let go of his spear, dropped to his knees, and clutched at the handle of the lower knife. Even as he pried it out, his body disintegrated into ash and embers.

Zaehr already had another pair of knives in her hands. “Out on the street!” she snarled at the burning woman, squinting against the smoke. There was no saving the house, but Tolar knew the art of truthtelling, and he could force the stranger to tell them everything.

The glowing creature said nothing. She smiled.

“Don’t you understand?” Zaehr said. She raised her knives. “Out now or you join your friends!”

“You join us all,” the woman said, in a voice like a roaring bonfire. “We serve the first fire, and we will return.”

Zaehr leaped, both knives raised, but she wasn’t fast enough.

The woman exploded in a brilliant burst of fire. The shockwave slammed into Zaehr and flung her into a burning bookshelf. Fire swallowed the world.

“You’re lucky to be alive.”

Recognition of Tolar’s voice—the realization that she was alive—was drowned out by the agony that had been dulled by unconsciousness. Each breath brought a wave of pain, the air tearing at her burned lungs.

“Drink.”

She didn’t want to open her mouth, but the first drop of thick fluid brought a wonderful cooling sensation. She could feel it healing her blackened tongue. She let the potion flow down her throat. The pain slowly receded, and she felt her strength returning.

Zaehr opened her eyes.

She was lying on hard stone. She could see the burns fading from her snow-white skin as the healing potion worked its magic, but she was covered with ash. The smell of smoke clung to her clothes and made it difficult to tell what other scents were in the air, but she saw a black column of smoke rising to the east.

“Is that—?” Her throat was still parched, and her voice cracked.

“Yes,” Tolar said. He was sitting on the ground next to her, sifting through a leather satchel. He produced a skin of water and held it to Zaehr’s lips. “The building was beyond salvation.”

“So she’s talking now, is she?” The voice was cold and hard, for all its high timbre. The speaker was barely three feet tall, and Zaehr had the immediate sense that he enjoyed being able to look down at someone. Despite his size, he was no child. He was a gnome, with sharp features and a carefully waxed black heard. “I do so look forward to hearing her explanation.”

“If your guards had responded more swiftly, you might have caught the arsonists and saved the building, lieutenant.” Tolar said.

Zaehr squinted at the gnome, taking in his green-and-black uniform and the presence of a few larger members of the Sharn Watch standing nearby.

“Yes, well. At least we’ve done one of those things, yes?”

“You caught them?” Zaehr said. Her thoughts were still thick and muddled, her head filled with wet sand.

“Well, that’s original,” the gnome said. “I suppose you had nothing to do with this? You happened to break in and were prowling around the professor’s house when a passing wizard flung a fireball through an open window?”

“Lieutenant,” Tolar said quietly, “both my associate and myself are professional inquisitives, fully bonded by House Tharashk. I sent her here in pursuit of an investigation. If you wish, I can establish a truthtelling zone to prove her innocence in this matter.”

“Or you’ll say you’re truthtelling,” the gnome said with a sneer, “and let her lie to her heart’s content.”

“Of course not. I’ll establish a zone of veracity, which forces all those within its bounds to speak the truth. If you stand next to her, we can easily prove the power of the spell with a few questions about your recent income and commitment to the cause of justice. But perhaps there are more pleasant ways to test the truth of that.” He produced a small pouch, which clinked as he flexed his fingers.

The gnome smiled. “When you put it that way…” He took the pouch and glanced inside. “Far be it from me to interfere with the work of House Tharashk, though the fire wardens may make their own investigation.”

“If they don’t trouble us, you’ll have as much again at the end of the week.”

The lieutenant nodded. “Good luck with your work then. Always a pleasure.” He inclined his head and turned away, rejoining the troops who were examining the burned out building.

“I hope we’re getting well paid for this job,” Zaehr grumbled.

Tolar helped her to her feet. “Well enough,” he replied. “I trust you didn’t burn down the building this time?”

“You’ll never let me forget that, will you?” Zaehr said, scowling. “No, this one wasn’t me. I think it was the same people who attacked the Pride.”

“And they escaped?” Tolar said. “The damage was quite extensive by the time I reached you, but I saw no other bodies.”

Zaehr forced herself to sit up. “They just… disintegrated. The one who exploded said, ‘We will return again.’ ”

Tolar frowned. “Tell me everything. Quickly.”

Zaehr recounted the tale as best as she could. Tolar interrupted with questions.

“When the man dissolved, what happened to his robe and weapons?”

“When you struck him, did the heat of his body damage your blade?”

At last he was satisfied.

“Azers,” he said. “Lesser denizens of Fernia, the plane of fire. The ‘sparks’ the heart mentioned, I am certain. But they could not come here on their own. Some greater power is drawing them to this world.”

“The woman said they served the ‘first flame.’ ”

Zaehr knew Tolar as well as anyone. She could read his emotions as easily as a book… easier, since she’d never cared much for reading. He tried to conceal his emotions, and a stranger might not have noticed the change, but to Zaehr his surprise and fear were as clear as the peal of the bell that rang the hours.

“What?” she said. “What does it mean?”

“This is no time for discussion,“ he said, eyes hard. “Did they leave a trail you can follow?”

Zaehr tasted the air. The lingering stench of smoke made it difficult, but the path was there—the threefold trail of molten metal muffled under cloth. Traveling away from the dragon’s door and disappearing down and alley.

“Yes,” she said, brushing the soot off her clothes and looking back at the ruined cottage. “But first, I need my knives.”

Zaehr expected the trail to lead them across the city, to a dark hole in the lower wards where such creatures might hide from common scrutiny. The truth was a disappointment. The alley was a labyrinth that wound behind spires and cottages, but they’d traveled less than a thousand feet when the trail came to end.

“Nothing,” she said, studying the surroundings. They were at a juncture of three paths with high walls all around. “It’s strong and recent, but it stops dead here.” She studied the ground. “It’s not just the scent. The physical trail stops too. Could they have teleported?”

“Close,” Tolar replied, glancing around. “I suspect they were summoned here, pulled through the planar barriers that separate this world from the endless fires of Fernia. He would have done the same thing when he attacked the Pride—prepared the skycoach, summoned the azers to fly it, somehow prepared the fire elemental within the heart to explode when the attack came. There’s no sinister headquarters to be found. These henchmen appear when needed and vanish the moment the task is done.”

“But who?”

“Someone familiar with House Lyrandar. Someone who knew when Adaila Lantain would be onboard and when she would be speaking in the lower hall. Search the area again. If few people have been through here… surely our culprit has left a clue.”

Zaehr studied the surroundings, reaching out with her senses. She’d been so focused on the burning scent of the azers that she’d completely ignored the other smells and colors of the alley. Rot and mold, the trails of a dozen rats, the usual scents of the city. But one thing stood out—an overwhelming burst in the barren landscape.

Bending down, she lifted a square of muddy silk off the ground with one long fingernail. It still reeked of perfume and the familiar scent of rain.

“House Lyrandar it is,” she said.

Tolar nodded. “Yes. It would be. Go back to our office. I’ll meet you there in an hour.”

“No, you won’t.” The fear was still there, clouding his countenance. Tolar had often kept secrets from her, but she’d rarely seen him afraid. “What is this?”

“This is no time for discussion,“ he said, heading toward the main streets. “You will do as I say. You’re lucky to be alive, and you will go back to the office and rest. I’ll join you soon.

They emerged on a major thoroughfare. Two skycoaches were hovering over the mooring platform. Tolar helped Zaehr into one and placed two silver coins in the hand of the coachman.

“Take her to Dragon Towers,” he said.

The coach rose off the platform and began to dip down toward the middle wards. But Zaehr had already produced another silver sovereign, which she flashed before the coachman’s eyes. “I’ve got a better idea,” she said, watching as Tolar climbed aboard the other coach and sailed off to the north. “Follow that coach.”

It came as no surprise when Tolar returned to Stormwind Keep. Night had fallen, and the streets were almost empty. Zaehr clung to the shadows as she kept pace with the old man. She didn’t know how she’d get past the kraken doors, but in the end it wasn’t an issue. The wooden tentacles slid aside the moment Tolar approached with no challenge from the guardian. Once the old man was inside, the tendrils began to descend. Zaehr sprinted forward, and her burst of speed carried her under the massive wooden arms before the portal closed.

Slipping through the gates, she nearly ran into Tolar. The hall was dark, and the old man had paused in the antechamber. He was kneeling over something—a body, stretched out along the floor. The sentry who had been guarding the door when they arrived before.

“Zaehr,” he said quietly. “I believe I made my wishes clear.”

The gates closed with a solid thud. Zaehr and Tolar might have been allowed in, but it appeared that leaving would be a greater challenge.

Zaehr shrugged. “I’m wild and unpredictable. It’s endearing.”

Tolar sighed, and she could feel his regret.

“What is it?” she said. “And what happened to him?” She nodded at the guard on the ground. She couldn’t see any sign of blood, burns, or bruises, but even in the dim light she could see that he was dead.

“Magic,” Tolar said. “We’re dealing with something ancient and powerful, and I fear it may have anticipated our arrival. But it has already expended a great deal of power today—if we are lucky, more than it can afford.” He stood up. “Quiet and careful, now. Do nothing without my permission.”

“Why is it so dark?” Zaehr whispered. “And where are the rest of the guards?”

“Asleep, mostly,” The voice was jovial, amused. It was Kestal Haladan. “Don’t worry, I’ll see to it that you’re blamed for their unnatural slumber… and the deaths of those who don’t survive the evening.”

The odor of perfume was strong in the air, but Haladan had left his handkerchief behind. Zaehr could smell the odor that had been so faint in their earlier encounter—ash and burning iron. “It’s him,” she whispered.

Tolar nodded. If he was surprised, he gave no sign of it. “You can surrender now, Haladan. It will be much simpler if you explain this to Dantian yourself.”

“I will be explaining everything to Dantian,” Haladan said, “but we can finish our business right here.” He gestured, his fingers flickering in an arcane pattern.

Zaehr tried to charge forward, to grapple with him, but even as she started to move she felt a wave of mystical energy flow over her. She froze. Every muscle was rigid. She couldn’t even turn her head to look at Tolar.

“I do wish they’d sent a half-orc,” Haladan said. “The common people just don’t think of House Tharashk when they see a human. And if your house is to take the blame for the shipping attacks and this ill-conceived attempt to assassinate Lord Dantian… well, a killer with orc blood would have looked much better on the front page of the Korranberg Chronicle. Still…” He walked over to Zaehr and stroked her chin with one bejeweled finger. “You’re something of a monster yourself. Some sort of sewer beast, aren’t you? We’re lucky the house defenses stopped you long enough for the guards to put you down.”

A short sword lay on a nearby shelf. Haladan picked it up and drew it from its sheath. The steel gleamed in the torchlight, and Zaehr guessed it had never seen use in battle. She struggled to break the spell, but her will was no match for this magic. She could only stand helplessly as Haladan returned with the blade. He put the point to her throat, and Zaehr felt the cold sting of steel pressing through the skin. Then he paused.

“Of course, I suppose it would make a better story if you’d fought me first—the helpless servant showing just how deadly the beast can be.” He smiled, and as he did a long, bloody cut stretched down across his cheek. Teeth-marks appeared on his shoulder and right wrist, and bloodstained slits spread across his clothes. “That should do.”

“I think we can do better.”

Zaehr had been watching Haladan, and for all her remarkable senses she hadn’t seen Tolar move; she’d never have guessed the old man was capable of such stealth. But the surprise was far worse for Haladan. Zaehr saw a glint of dark steel in Tolar’s hand, and she heard the sound of a blade piercing flesh.

The servant’s scream drowned out all other sounds. The howl was deep, undulating, more beast than a man. Spinning around, he grabbed Tolar by the throat and lifted him into the air, displaying an inhuman strength that Zaehr would never have guessed was hidden beneath his flabby flesh. Dark fire flickered around Haladan’s fist. Tolar gasped and turned pale. The bloody wound on Haladan’s back was quickly healing, as if he was drawing the lifeforce from the old man and using it to rejuvenate himself. With a final curse, Haladan flung Tolar across the hall. The old man slammed into the far wall and slid to the floor.

Zaehr called on every ounce of strength she possessed. She felt her jaws distend as her fangs slid out, but she needed more than the strength of the beast. She reached back to her childhood, calling on the feral monster that had haunted the sewers of Sharn. Back then she’d been more animal than human, driven by pure, primal emotions—fear, hunger, anger. It was that rage that she drew on now, a terrible fury that burned away all thought. The mystical bonds that had held her paralyzed shattered, and she flew forward.

She was upon Haladan in a storm of tooth and steel. She felt a raw visceral thrill as one of her curved blades traced a red streak across her enemy’s back. Lunging, she sank her teeth into his neck.

Pain washed over her, a whitehhot flash of agony. It was as if she’d bitten a burning log. Haladan’s blood was fire, searing her lips and mouth. Pain blinded her, and in that instant Haladan struck.

“You worm!” he roared.

Zaehr ducked back, but she wasn’t quick enough. The tip of Haladan’s blade pierced her leather harness and dug a bloody furrow along her ribs. Blood and pain fogged Zaehr’s eyes, but her animal spirit was still with her. Beneath the streets of Sharn, she’d often had to fight her prey in utter darkness, and she let those instincts guide her now. Scent and sound painted a picture that was almost as clear as sight, and she could feel her enemy charging her, giving her just enough insight to block his blow. She lashed out with her twin blades, tearing into Haladan’s arm.

But something was wrong.

There wasn’t enough blood. Her sense of smell painted a picture, and for all the blows Zaehr had landed, Haladan wasn’t bleeding. Other smells filled the room—a powerful odor of smoke, of sulphur, threatening to overwhelm her keen senses.

Her vision cleared. She parried a blow from Haladan’s blade and lashed at his neck… and nearly dropped her blade in surprise.

Haladan was gone.

The portly servant had been replaced by a new figure—a lean, muscular male who held the shortsword with obvious confidence and skill. This stranger was anything but human. He had the head of a fierce jungle cat, and his fangs were larger and longer than Zaehr’s. Thick fur covered his body—glossy black fur streaked by bands of rippling fire. These same flames danced in his inhuman eyes. He was beautiful and terrible, a hunter from Zaehr’s deepest nightmares. Yet her nose told her that he was also Haladan. His scent was masked by fire and musk, and his old robes had vanished completely—but the traces were still there, ghostly wisps of scent clinging to him like mist.

“What are you?” she said, stumbling back and crossing her blades before her.

The stranger laughed, and his voice was like bubbling oil. “I am the darkness. I am fear and I am fire. My kind ruled this world in its infancy, and we—”

“Love the sound of your own voice?” Zaehr hurled both her knives, drawing new blades the instant they left her hands. One of the daggers struck between the monster’s eyes. The other sank into his gut.

Whatever this thing was, he didn’t have the weaknesses of a man. With a rumbling, oily laugh, he tore the blades from his flesh and flung them back at her. Zaehr spun to the side, but she wasn’t fast enough and one of the knives carved a deep gash along her forearm. The monster’s wounds began healing the instant he plucked out the knives.

“Fool!” he rumbled. “You cannot harm me with mortal steel. While I can end this with but a touch.” Black fire crackled around his fingers, and he strode toward her.

Fear filled Zaehr’s mind. But reason fought back. She was no longer the savage child. “She was faster than the fiend, and she used her speed, retreating as her mind raced. She remembered her lessons, as Tolar taught her the ways of logic and reason. Every problem has a solution. Every mystery has an answer.

Mortal steel.

The dagger Tolar had used—that had certainly caused the creature pain. Whether it was magical or forged of some unearthly metal, it was what she needed. She leaped to the side as the feline monstrosity charged at her, staying inches ahead of his touch. She scoured the room, searching as best as she could while staying in constant motion.

There!

Zaehr pounced, leaping past the fiend and snatching the dagger off the floor. It was made of a dark metal with a reddish sheen, and it felt warm to the touch. She caught sight of some sort of engraving on the blade, but there was no time to study the inscription. Haladan was upon her, and even as she turned she could feel a terrible chill as the dark aura around his hands grazed her shoulder.

“We’re all mortal,” she said, burying the blade in his heart.

Haladan howled, a cry of agony that echoed the one she’d heard before. Zaehr yanked the blade free, and a fountain of darkness flowed from the wound. The demon dropped to one knee, clutching at his chest with his left hand.

“No!” he cried, his voice losing strength with each second. “You… destroyed me, creature of dirt.”

Zaehr was astonished. One blow? She looked down at the knife.

She knew it was a mistake the instant she took her eyes off Haladan. He dived forward, his blade rising in a steel arc. Fool! She cursed herself—too late. She started to move back, but he struck with inhuman precision. His blade smashed into—

The crimson dagger.

Fire flashed and thunder rolled. When the smoke cleared both blades had shattered, leaving only blackened shards and twisted hilts. And Haladan’s hand was around Zaehr’s throat.

“You pathetic creature,” he said, lifting her off the ground. “You think to match wits with me?”

Zaehr kicked him hard, aiming her blow for a place most men would find difficult to ignore. Haladan simply laughed and tightened his grip on her neck.

“I was there at the dawn of creation. I have played games with your kind since you were rooting in the mud, before you even knew how to make fire. You are a pawn on a board so vast you cannot even see the squares.” Cold flames flowed around his hand, and Zaehr felt her strength being drawn away. “There was only one creature in this city that I feared, and she—”

“Was not alone.” The voice was a thunderclap, and the blow that accompanied it smashed the demon to the ground.

Zaehr fell back against the floor, dazed and weakened by the fiend’s touch. She heard terrible sounds, and the smell of sulphur and molten steel swept over her, threatening to drown her senses. She forced herself to her elbows. What she saw made her doubt her reason.

There was a dragon in the chamber, filling the hall behind her.

It was smaller than the massive silver beast that had died in Pride of the Storm, but it was still one of the most majestic and terrifying creatures she’d ever seen. About thirty feet from nose to tail, its thick scales were the color of wet blood. Long black horns swept back across its head, and its eyes were pools of flickering light. Vast jaws yawned wide, and fire filled the hall.

Zaehr lay just beneath the dragon’s head, and the flames passed over her. This was no natural fire, and the heat was dizzying. Where the flames touched stone the walls melted, liquefying and flowing away from the terrible heat. When the light faded, the gates of the Stormwind Keep were gone, melted by the dragon’s breath.

The demon was still alive, kneeling amid the cooling stone. The flames had burned away patches of fur and skin, revealing blackened muscle and steaming blood, but he rose to his feet, bearing his fangs in a fierce snarl.

The dragon flowed over Zaehr in a blur of scarlet scales. It smashed into Haladan, hurling the fiend into the empty streets of Oak Towers. The dragon followed, seeming to double in size as it emerged from the blasted entrance and spread its wings.

Whatever Haladan’s motives, he had courage. He hurled himself at his foe, lashing out with his dark fists. It was an act of desperation—and futility. Even as Haladan charged, the dragon lashed out with its powerful tail. The blow sent the fiend reeling. The dragon gestured with one claw, and Haladan froze in place. Zaehr could see a rippling field of energy surrounding the fiend, a nearly invisible fist, and as she watched in stunned silence she could hear ribs cracking one by one.

“You… you cannot… defeat us,” Haladan said, burning blood leaking from his mouth. “You are still… only mortal. I… cannot die.”

“Perhaps,” the dragon rumbled. “We have held you at bay for a hundred thousand years. The humans, the elves, the shifters… they live and prosper, in spite of your games.“ The dragon clenched its claw, and the fiend hissed in agony. “What are you? You are nothing. A worthless memory of a time long gone. A lord of dust and nothing more. You can kill us, but there will be others waiting to put an end to you. And someday, the younger races will be ready to face you on their own.”

“You—” Haladan began, but the dragon was done with conversation. It reached out, and its long black claws sank into the chest of the fiend. The demon’s eyes grew wide, and the burning stripes along his fur flared into brilliant light. But the dragon showed no signs of pain, and an instant later Haladan shuddered and was still. The flames along his fur slowly faded.

“Tolar!” Zaehr rolled to her feet, her burned lips drawn back across her fangs. Her companion was nowhere to be seen.

The dragon flung the corpse to the side, a casual gesture that sent the broken body skidding across the cobblestones. It turned to Zaehr, and as it fixed her with its luminous gaze she was gripped by pure, unreasoning terror—the raw panic a mighty predator instills in its prey.

“Tolar had no place in such a battle,” the dragon said. Its voice was thunder and steam, a rumbling hiss that Zaehr felt in her bones. Its crimson scales glittered in the torchlight, as if it was painted in fresh blood. This ruddy armor was punctuated by black ivory—two dark horns stretching back of its massive head, and ebon talons longer than any of Zaehr’s blades. Even its teeth were dark, as if burned black by the flames that licked around its jaws. But the true fire was in its eyes. The blazing orange orbs consumed her thoughts, reducing her to a frightened child. It took all her strength of will to tear her gaze away, to wrap one hand around the hilt of a curved dagger.

How had it come to this?

“This ends now!”

The rumbling voice tore Zaehr back into the present. The knife slid into her hand. Her wounds burned as she fell into a defensive crouch, ready to leap. The dragon towered above her, rearing back on its hind legs, jaws thrown wide. Time slowed to a crawl, and Zaehr could see the light rising in the gullet of the beast.

Fire, she thought. It had begun with fire.

Zaehr woke with a start. The image was still etched in her brain. A second torrent of fire bursting from the lips of the dragon, engulfing the body of the fiend and burning it to ash. The great beast turning to face her, and—

“Feeling better?”

“No.” Zaehr sat up and turned to face the speaker. “I don’t know why you won’t get me another healing potion.” Her wounds itched, and it was all she could do to keep from tearing them open.

“Do you know what Jorasco charges for such salves?” Tolar said, setting a cup of steaming tal by the side of the bed. “If I paid for mystical healing every time you hurt yourself, we’d be on the streets within a week.”

“I thought dragons slept on mountains of gold.”

Tolar’s face froze. “The dream again?”

“Yes.” She watched him carefully. He hid it well, but she could sense his discomfort every time she brought it up.

The truth was far less exciting than the dream. Her injuries had been worse than she’d thought, and she passed out before reaching the gates of Stormwind Keep. Inside, Tolar had managed to lure Haladan before Lord Dantian and tricked him into confessing before his master. Haladan had used magic to escape, but for the moment Dantian was satisfied. Haladan had been the one seeding his master’s thoughts with suspicions of House Tharashk. Now it seemed clear that it was Haladan and his cult that were responsible for the disaster. The danger to Lyrandar shipping might not be over—but at least Lyrandar had a better idea of who was responsible. As for the dead dragon, it remained a mystery. Dantian maintained that it must have been working with his treacherous chief servant, and at the moment, there was no reason to believe otherwise.

But somehow, it still felt… wrong. Tolar had taught her to follow patterns, to make sense of the jumble of facts. This seemed too simple, too convenient. After Tolar had left, she found herself lying in bed and thinking about her dream. The images were faint, already fading away, but she could piece together a trail from the faintest hints of scent, and memories were no different. She thought about an old man with a red beard and coat, a friend who didn’t want her to follow him. She pulled together fragments of sound and thought, reconstructing the words the dragon might have said when it turned toward her….

“You should not have come here.” The luminous eyes were fixed on her, but she could see that there was no anger in their gaze. This creature might be the world’s deadliest predator… but she was not its prey.

She lowered her knives. “Tolar?” she said.

“At times.”

“Why? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There are only a few of us out in the world, sentinels watching for creatures like Haladan. It will be difficult to repair the damage he has done. My brethren will do what they can to normalize relations between Lyrandar and Tharashk—and to prevent the fiends from destroying more ships. But our role in this cannot be known.”

“What am I supposed to believe now? Is King Boranel a dragon? Or just one of his advisors?”

“Power is not what we seek, child. There are ancient nations of my kind, hidden in the land of Argonnessen. If conquest was our goal, your people would never have spread across the land.” He let his breath out in a long hiss. “You will stand on your own, one day. But the Lord of the First Flame and the other ancient fiends will always be out there, always seeking vengeance for their defeat. They do not seek power either—just chaos and destruction. Even we are not safe from their evil, as Adaixaliantha’s murder shows. So we must work from the shadows. Strike with surprise. Secrecy is our shield and our greatest weapon.”

“So what does that mean for me?” Zaehr said.

A long hiss. “By the laws of our kind, you should be killed. You have seen my true face, and I have told you more than you should know.”

“You could have told me that part first.”

“You should not have followed me. But I have no wish to kill you, child. You… you have been a faithful friend, and I have enjoyed our time together. I am not without talents of my own. I can twist a few minutes of memory—difficult magic to work, but within my power. It is what I must do to resolve this matter with Lord Dantian.” Fire flashed in the orange eyes. “And if you wish to live, it is what I must do with you.”

Zaehr considered. “What do I need to do?”

“It will be best if I render you unconscious, I think. You will wake on the steps of the keep, with the new memories in place. You should never know what truly happened.”

Zaehr raised an eyebrow. “Is this the first time you’ve done this to me?”

“Do you truly wish to know the answer?”

“I suppose not.” Zaehr took a deep breath. “If you’re going to make all of this go away, I’ve got one more question.”

“Anything.”

“You say you’re here to protect us. But are there… bad dragons out there? Dragons with other ideas about what we need?”

The dragon stared down at her, smoke trailing from his nostrils.

And that was where the dream ended.