James Wyatt - Dragon forge

At last the Spy Master opened his eyes and turned a hard gaze on Kelas. “You have news?”

Kelas was taken aback by his tone, not at all indicative of a pleasant mood. Was it possible that Thuel had some inkling of Kelas’s recent activities?

“I do.”

“News that will concern the queen?”

“Yes.”

Thuel sighed. “Let’s hear it, then.”

Kelas chose his words carefully. “First, Haldren ir’Brassek is dead.” Thuel’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Our agents discovered him encamped in the foothills of the Blackcaps. He resisted arrest, and they were forced to kill him.”

Thuel did not look away from the fire. “Just like Yeven.”

“Exactly.” And now that both of the men supposedly responsible for the debacle at Starcrag Plain were dead, Aurala would appear to be absolved of responsibility.

“And his body?” Thuel asked. The queen would want to display it publicly, of course. As she had with Yeven’s.

“Our agents are transporting it here now.”

“Excellent. And second?” Thuel was quick, efficient. He liked to get the information he needed and move along. Despite his relaxed appearance, he was in constant motion.

“Our concerns about the western border have proven justified.”

Now Thuel turned to look Kelas square in the face. “The barbarians?”

Kelas nodded. “Several of the Carrion Tribes have joined under one chieftain’s banner, and they have already started eastward.”

Thuel brought his hands up, putting one finger to his lips in thought. “Several tribes,” he said. “How many tribesmen are there in this army?”

“They number in the tens of thousands.”

That provoked the reaction Kelas was looking for-Thuel clutched the arms of his chair and leaned toward him, eyes wide. “They’ll annihilate the Reaches!”

“Yes,” Kelas said. He would let Thuel reach his own conclusion. There was only one possible conclusion.

“And they won’t stop there. They’ll be at our border in no time.”

“Without doubt.”

Thuel sat back in his chair. His eyes darted around the room, chasing his thoughts. Kelas could guess at those thoughts. The logical course was to send aid to the Reachers, reinforcing their border so the barbarians never got close to Aundair. But so soon after the debacle at Starcrag Plain, the Reachers weren’t likely to welcome Aundairian troops into their lands-they would suspect Aundair of trying to reannex the Reaches. It was no secret that Aundair still considered the Eldeen Reaches its western province.

But the Reachers’ attention would be focused on the west. They had been mollified by Queen Aurala’s assurances that the attempted invasion of Thrane had occurred without her knowledge or approval, and the public execution of the general responsible, Jad Yeven. The Aundairian border would be poorly defended by little more than a token force. With the full support of the queen, Aundair could strike with enough force to sweep through the Reaches and meet the barbarian horde in full strength.

“The chieftain who leads them,” Thuel asked, “what do we know of him?”

“His name is Kathrik Mel. He inspires tremendous loyalty in the barbarians, an almost religious fervor.”

“He’s a demon?”

“I don’t think so. The Ghaash’kala call him a sak’vanarrak-it translates as something like ‘fiend-touched.’ A Karrn scholar coined the word tiefling. I think he’s some mixture of fiend and mortal, more like a savior than a god.”

Thuel frowned. “Their savior, our damnation.”

Damnation-that was a strong word. But then, Thuel had been very vocal in his support of the Treaty of Thronehold, very eager to stop the hostility between Aundair and its neighbors. Outspoken in his condemnation of Haldren, who attacked the Reaches after the signing of the treaty. It made sense for him to describe a return to war in such stark terms. “Is there anything else?” Thuel asked.

There was so much more. But the time would come for that. “No,” Kelas said.

“I’ll advise the queen. Thank you.”

Kelas rose and left the room. The hall felt cold after warming his blood by the fire.

Cart had never been particularly good at sneaking. The adamantine plating of his body tended to clank, if only slightly, when he moved in certain ways, and it made crouching behind cover hard for him. More than that, it ran counter to his training and his attitude toward battle. Enemies were to be faced and slain.

But practical concerns sometimes forced him into unfamiliar ways. He was the lone warforged in a camp full of soldiers. He was known as a traitor and thought to be dead. If anyone saw him, there would be fighting, and he didn’t want to fight the soldiers who blindly followed Kelas’s orders. There was at least the possibility they might overwhelm him with sheer numbers, and in any event there would be a large number of needless deaths.

So he draped himself in a voluminous cloak, trying to hide his nature, and moved as quietly as he could through the camp to Phaine’s tent. The elf had chosen a spot near the Dragon Forge to pitch his tent, far closer to the crystal prison than Cart would have wanted to be. It was also, apparently, closer than anyone else in camp was willing to sleep. No other tents stood within fifty yards of Phaine’s. Also to Cart’s advantage, once he reached the wall of the forge and started creeping along it, the hissing steam and occasional bursts of flame covered any noise he might have been making.

Ashara had an easier task, given her prominent position in the camp. First, she ensured that Cart was armed, and found a sword for him to give Gaven and a shirt of chainmail she would bring for him to wear later. Then she left the camp, promising to provide an escape route for Cart and Gaven-a way to scale the cliff near Phaine’s tent. From the top of the cliff, it would be a simple matter of evading or disabling a handful of guards and disappearing into the foothills.

A growl of pain from the tent ahead of him told Cart that Gaven was still alive, at least. He felt a surge of anger, on Gaven’s behalf as well as his own. The blow had been quick and precise, and Cart had been only vaguely aware that Phaine’s hand held the blade that had nearly killed him. He would repay that strike.

Gaven yelled again, and Cart sprang into action. He seized the pole supporting the nearer end of the tent and heaved it upward, ripping two pegs from the ground. The canvas billowed up, and in a flash he saw Phaine standing over Gaven, a blood-tipped dagger in his hand. Cart swung the pole into the elf’s gut, doubling him over and tangling him in canvas and rope.

With the sword in his other hand, he hacked at the ropes holding Gaven to the chair, careful not to cut into flesh. The tent flew free, and Phaine wasn’t there.

“Look out,” Gaven said. His voice was weak and his throat raw from shouting.

Cart whirled and brought the sword with him, cutting a wide arc through the air. Phaine leaped back, almost out of reach, but the point of the sword still sliced into his upper arm and across the leather armor that covered his chest.

The weight of the sword pulled Cart off-balance, and Phaine sprang into the gap in his defenses. The elf’s blade found the softer substance between the metal plates of Cart’s arm, making him nearly lose his grip on the sword. Cart pushed Phaine off him and dropped the unwieldy weapon, yanking his own axe from his belt. Fury nearly blinded him, shutting out Gaven and the rest of the camp. He saw only Phaine.

The elf circled warily, wearing a smirk that only intensified Cart’s rage. “I don’t know how I failed to kill you before, war-forged,” he said. “But I never repeat my mistakes.”

“In all my years, I’ve never encountered a more loathsome, honorless, traitorous scum.” Cart swung carefully, sizing the elf’s reactions without leaving himself open. Phaine was amazingly quick on his feet, his movements a shadowy blur.