James Wyatt - Dragon forge

He broke, panting, out of the forest and onto the road in front of the Orien coach. Vor stood directly in front of the coach, the ground around him littered with the shattered carapaces of enormous spiders and insects of every description-as well as one crumpled gray-cloaked human form. Two more of the hooded figures dodged the sweeping strikes of his greataxe, trying to slash through his armor with their curved blades. A wasp the size of a horse darted around him, lunging at him and then flying back out of his axe’s reach, the droning of its wings drowning out the sounds of the battle.

Two men and a woman, all wearing the unicorn symbol of House Orien on their shoulders, stood behind Vor with lightweight blades in their hands. They jabbed at the hooded Children of Winter and the pack of scorpions and spiders at their feet, but it was clear that if the defense of the coach had rested in the hands of these warriors alone, it would already be overrun. The horrorstruck faces of the other passengers peered out the windows at chittering swarms and gigantic vermin crawling over the carriage’s sides and windows.

Sevren and Zandar ranged back and forth at the edge of the forest to line up clear shots against the Children of Winter and their many-legged minions. Sevren kept his bow in his left hand, but he alternated between pulling it back to loose an arrow and yanking out his knife to cut down a foe that came too close. His arrows feathered several corpses littered over the road, and a few more lay along his path at the side of the road.

Zandar held no weapon, but he fired blasts of shadow from his hands, like the one he’d used to shatter Vor’s mug back in Varna. When an enemy got too close, he lashed out with a hand curled into a claw, drawing streaks of shadow and blood across the chest or face of his foe. He had evidently reached the scene before Sevren-without the distraction of the giant mantis, it was easy to imagine how-and his body count was higher.

A clump of four gray-robed women kept their distance from the melee, standing back to back in the midst of a swarm of red-hued wasps that buzzed constantly around them but evidently caused them no discomfort. They had thrown back their hoods to reveal long, wild hair. Two were withered crones, but one looked more like a plump baker or farmer than a sinister priestess, and the fourth was no more than twenty. The women chanted a constant stream of ritual prayers, pointing here and there around the field of battle. Wherever one pointed, vines and roots sprang out of the forest to grab at one of Kauth’s allies, a blast of wind made someone stagger backward, or another giant vermin skittered out of the forest. Kauth had found his place in the battle. Dropping his crossbow and sliding his mace out of its loop at his belt, he ran at the knot of women.

As soon as he reached them, he wished he hadn’t. The swarm of wasps descended on him, stinging every bit of skin they could find. Their stings burned like fire, and they buzzed in his ears, crawled to his eyes and mouth, and began working their way under his armor. He managed a swing of his mace at one of the crones, knocking her back against her comrades, then he staggered out of the swirling, droning cloud.

The crone he had hit spoke a word, and a ball of flame appeared in her outstretched palm. Snarling at Kauth, she hurled the fire at him. He sprang out of its path, but another dancing flame appeared in the druid’s hand.

“Sea of Fire,” Kauth muttered. “That’s not a bad idea.”

He backed away, stopping short at a chittering sound behind him. He swung his mace as he turned and was rewarded by a crunching sound of chitin and the squelch of a spider’s soft body beneath. Jumping across the wolf-sized spider’s corpse, he ran another ten yards or so, fumbling around in the quiver at his belt to find the right wand.

He drew out a slender length of cherry wood topped with a fire opal, turning it over in his hands to feel the magic inside it. A weaving pattern of fiery lines took shape in his mind. Pointing the red gemstone at the cluster of druids and their living shield, he loosed the knot of magic in the wand, letting the fire burst forth.

It shot like a glowing ember toward the druids, then blossomed into an enormous sphere of roaring flame. The women shrieked in pain as the fire seared their flesh. The magical flames dissolved into the air, leaving the druids scorched but standing-but the swarming cloud of wasps was gone. The cinders of a hundred thousand tiny wasp bodies littered the ground.

“Well done!” Zandar called to him, loosing a blast of shadow at the nearest druid. She fell on the ground and lay still. Kauth jammed the wand back into his pouch, shifted his mace back into his right hand, and charged at the remaining three.

Just as he reached them, an arrow thudded into the one on his left, then two more in rapid succession, and she followed her sister to the ground. He shot a glance at Sevren and realized that the battle was winding down. No more vermin harried the shifter or Zandar, and Vor was charging at the remaining women from the opposite side. Kauth sighed his relief, and at that moment a blast of lightning shot out of the sky, knocking him off his feet.

“Gaven?” he murmured, then the world went black.

During the Last War, while he served in Aundair’s army, Cart had often marveled at the muscles of the human face. So many small bits of flesh moved the skin, the eyebrows, and the eyes-all combining to form such a bewildering variety of expressions. Humans and the other races like them wore their emotions on their faces, though the dwarves were better at steeling their faces than the others. But to him it was as though they spoke a foreign language he understood imperfectly. When they died, their faces all seemed to freeze in a mask of their horror. Sometimes they looked down at the wound where his axe had slashed them open. Other times they looked at his face.

A mask-that was his face. A smooth plate of metal, incapable of any expression except opening and closing his mouth. A single rune on his forehead marked the place of his forging and an identifying number. His face was quite effective at striking fear into an enemy’s heart. It also made it surprisingly easy for him pass lies as truth. But at times, Cart wished for the simplicity of a scowl or a frown to express his displeasure.

Haldren was trying to explain Kelas’s plans, the complex machinations the spy had set in motion. Kelas’s goal was the same as Haldren’s had been, when he first escaped from Dreadhold: seizing the throne of Aundair. But Haldren had relied solely on military power to achieve what he wanted, making no more than a half-hearted attempt to secure allies beyond his contacts in the army. Kelas, on the other hand, not only relied on Haldren’s military contacts-those that had survived the last ill-fated excursion, anyway-but also spent most of his effort negotiating, wheedling, manipulating the wizards of Arcanix, the artificers of House Cannith, and his own allies and underlings among the Royal Eyes of Aundair. It was a world of diplomacy and compromise that was completely alien to Cart’s way of thinking.

“Try to understand it as a military campaign,” Haldren tried to explain. “Each of these potential allies is like a key strategic objective. Kelas marshals his forces to take each one, mindful of how he distributes them, sometimes giving way at one battlefield in order to win another.”

Cart shrugged-one means he did have to express emotion, and one that he found effective. “That’s your expertise, Lord General, not mine. I’m a soldier, not a general, not a diplomat. And not an assassin.”

Haldren threw up his hands. “Forget it, then. I’ll work with Kelas. You just do what you’re told.”