James Wyatt - Dragon forge

The Orien coach dropped them near the center of town, took on a few new passengers, and started quickly back the way it had come, along the only road into or out of the capital of the Eldeen Reaches. The town center itself was not a marketplace or business district, but a lush green grove ringed with ancient pines. Hard-looking warriors stood guard among the pines-humans and shifters armed with bows and knives, much like Sevren Thorn. Kauth shot a glance at Sevren. Had he once stood as a guardian of Greenheart’s sacred grove?

There could be no doubt that this grove was sacred to the Reachers. Even with his limited knowledge of the Eldeen Reaches and their druids, Kauth knew that Greenheart was a center of religion, not politics. The druids of Greenheart supervised the activities of the Wardens of the Wood throughout the Reaches, and that supervision extended to matters of governance as well as spirituality, but this was no many-tiered, rigid hierarchy like Thrane’s. The Wardens served as spiritual advisors to their communities and arbitrators of disputes, and the druids of Greenheart offered them support and advice more than supervision or discipline.

“Ah, Greenheart,” Zandar sighed. “The only capital city of Khorvaire without a tavern.”

“The druids will give us shelter,” Sevren said. His voice was hushed, almost reverent, heightening Kauth’s suspicion that the shifter had some connection to the guardians of the grove.

“What about the Great Crag?” Vor said. “Is there a tavern in the court of the three sisters?”

The capital of Droaam, a nation of monsters just to the south of the Eldeen Reaches, was little more than a collection of goblin camps and gnoll barracks. Harpies nested in the cliffs of the city, and three hags-the three sisters-governed the fractious nation from a court built among the ruins of the ancient hobgoblin empire of Dhakaan.

“Have you ever seen an ogre drink?” Zandar said. “There must be taverns there to feed those appetites.”

“House Tharashk has an outpost there,” Kauth added. “I’m sure they maintain something like civilized facilities.” House Tharashk, made up of orcs and half-orcs as well as humans, had made enormous profits during the Last War by recruiting mercenaries from among the monsters of Droaam.

“What about Ashtakala?” Zandar said, grinning wolfishly at Vor.

“The city of demons is not the capital of the Demon Wastes,” the orc growled.

“Isn’t it a legend?” Sevren said. “I’ve never heard of anyone who’s actually been there.”

“It’s real,” Vor said.

Zandar smirked. “Or as real as a million-year-old city populated with masters of illusion can be.” He was clearly trying to nettle Vor, and it was working. “Maybe we’ll find it on our expedition.”

Vor stepped close to the warlock and stooped to look straight in his face. “You had better pray to whatever creatures you serve that we do not,” he said. “Or we’ll all be damned.”

Zandar backed down after that, and Sevren led them to a druid he said would help them stock up for their journey. But Kauth couldn’t get Vor’s words out of his mind.

Sevren proved to have useful contacts in Greenheart, and soon their packs were loaded with everything they would need for their journey-food, tents, rope, even extra clothes and weapons. Considering that none of the town’s buildings were crafted unless by druidic magic, the town was well supplied with the gear used by rangers and druids in the wild.

That evening, they set up their new tents near the edge of town, where the trees started coming closer together and the stone huts farther apart. They had agreed on two tents, each one large enough to hold two of them. Zandar and Sevren shared one, which left Kauth and Vor in the other. Kauth was relieved to see that Vor removed his plate armor to sleep-he had visions of the orc’s large shoulderplate jabbing into him as he tried to sleep. Even so, the tent was going to be crowded with the two larger members of the group together.

Kauth stayed awake outside the tent when the others retired for the night. For a while he sat and listened to the sounds of the forest-the chirping of frogs and crickets, the hoots of owls, and the soft, mournful songs of parents lulling their children to sleep. He could grow to like Greenheart, he decided-it had a peace and harmony about it that was sorely lacking in the other parts of his many lives.

With that thought, he began preparing his mind for the night ahead. He would be in close quarters with Vor, and he could not allow his identity to slip as it had on the airship with Gaven and Rienne. He began by reviewing the shape and features of his body, from his unruly hair and steel eyes down to his thick, crooked toes with their ugly nails. Cementing every detail in his mind as he had learned so many years ago.

She was jolted out of sleep by Kelas’s voice: “Who are you?”

She sat bolt upright and shouted her answer: “I am Faura Arann.”

“Stand for inspection.”

Kelas examined every detail of her face and body, measured the length of her hair, checked that her mole had not drifted while she slept. He stood behind her and weighed her breasts with his hands.

“Excellent. Go back to sleep.”

Kelas never paid enough attention to the eyes, she thought. It’s the eyes that will give you away.

Kauth shook the unwelcome memory from his mind, scowling at himself. He ran a hand over his face to make sure he hadn’t slipped.

“Focus,” he told himself. He repeated the exercise, from the top of his head to the leathery soles of his feet. Fixed each detail in his memory.

Who are you? he asked himself.

Kauth Dennar, he answered. A mercenary during the war, now a drifter, a thug, an adventurer. Born and raised in Storm-reach. I’m working for the Wardens of the Wood.

And leading my friends to their deaths.

“Listen well,” Kelas said, leaning over him. “You have no friends. You love nothing, care about nothing. Nothing is permanent-everything changes, everyone will die. If you love, if you care about anything, you will suffer. You will fail!” He punctuated his last words by striking Haunderk’s face with the back of his hand.

And what about hate, Kelas? Haunderk thought. Isn’t hate a form of caring? You can’t hate someone who’s irrelevant to you.

“Focus,” he whispered through clenched teeth. Once more, from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. And again, reining in his wandering mind.

Nothing is permanent. Everyone will die. I will not fail.

Gaven’s assessment of the dragon seemed correct. It circled above them-“like a vulture,” Jordhan observed-until they had cleared the sentinel pillars, then flew inland until they lost sight of it. Gaven cursed, but the crew was breathing easier.

Better to deal with the dragons when I’m risking only my own life, Gaven realized. And Rienne’s.

The wide channel’s waters were still and clear. Coral reefs teemed with life far below the surface, brightly colored fish darting in and out of their aquatic castles. They spotted some larger creatures as dark shadows in the distance-an enormous eel the size of the Sea Tiger, and what might have been a dragon turtle that dwarfed her-but those monsters kept clear of the ship.

Jordhan hugged the western edge of the channel as close as he dared, keeping an eye on the coral so it didn’t tear a hole in the hull. He stopped the ship when the daylight became too weak for him to see into the depths, but no one aboard slept except in fits, jerking awake at every strange sound or surge of the waves.

At daybreak, Gaven looked around and saw a crew on the brink of mutiny. Lack of sleep and abject terror had begun to overcome even this crew’s fierce loyalty to Jordhan. They wanted to sail back to familiar waters-it was written plainly on their haggard faces. He pulled Jordhan into the captain’s quarters.