James Wyatt - Storm dragon

“What would the Valaes Tairn think of me?” Senya muttered. The warrior elves of Valenar revered their horses almost as much as they did their ancestors, and they frowned on attacking an opponent’s horse. Senya’s mind leaped back to Shae Mordai, and she was off guard when the marshal charged her again, this time on foot.

“Die,” the marshal snarled. His sword arced toward her neck, and she lifted her left arm just in time to prevent the blade from cutting deep where her neck and shoulder met. As it was, the sword cut through the leather and flesh of her arm, struck and broke bone, and lodged between the two bones of her forearm before the marshal wrenched it free. Senya felt blood spatter her face and blinked hard to clear her eyes.

“Not yet,” Senya gasped.

Her opponent reeled backward with the momentum of pulling his sword back, and she drove her own blade into his belly. He collapsed on the ground, staring blankly up at her, his face contorted in pain. She stabbed him again, in the throat, then rolled him over to stare at the ground. Dropping into a crouch beside him, she took stock of the battlefield again.

Cart and two of his men, still on horseback, ran down a Sentinel Marshal who was trying to flee on foot. Two other men in Thrane colors fought on foot against a second marshal. Otherwise, the battle was over. Senya ripped the midnight-blue cloak off the marshal she’d killed and, using her teeth and one hand, tried to rip it into bandages she could use to bind her arm. The wound was excruciating, and her right hand shook violently as she worked.

Her trembling hand slipped as she tried knotting the first bandage around her arm, sending a fresh jolt of pain from the wound. Her head grew light, and she put her right hand on the ground and lowered her head to steady herself. Just as her vision cleared, a weight settled on the back of her neck, accompanied by the gentle bite of a blade resting against her skin.

“I lost four good soldiers for you.” Cart’s voice was heavy, and his axe blade on Senya’s neck shifted as he spoke.

“You call those good soldiers?” Senya said. “They had the Sentinel Marshals outnumbered two to one, and I took out two marshals by myself.”

“I said they were good soldiers.” Cart lifted his blade off Senya’s neck, and she pushed herself to her feet and faced him. “Not champions. It’s good to see you again, Senya.”

Senya smiled, but she had stood too quickly, and she slumped to the ground in a dead faint.

The streets of Stormhome were choked with people, most of them staring into the sky. Bordan had been right: it had not rained within the city walls in the memory of any living resident, though the rolling hills of the island enjoyed mild showers from time to time. The people of the city acted as though the world were about to end.

Let them, Gaven thought. Let it rain. Let the world stop. Arnoth d’Lyrandar is dead.

In front of Gaven walked two dwarves, trying to remain calm and gentle while they nudged people aside to clear a path. Another walked behind him, a hand on his manacles and an axe at the ready. Ossa and the dwarf spellcaster guided Rienne. The last time Gaven had stolen a look backward, the tip of Ossa’s dagger was still pressed into the skin of Rienne’s neck. Bordan brought up the rear of the strange procession, seeming nearly as disconcerted by the rain as the residents of the city were.

Rienne was manacled and walking under her own power, so the paralyzing spell had ended. He briefly toyed with plans for an escape. He tested the strength of the manacles, trying not to alert the dwarf holding them. He didn’t think they would give-they were probably reinforced with magic-and he thought they might even be dampening his own magic. With his hands free and alert to the threat of the spellcaster, Gaven was sure that he could handle the five dwarves and Bordan by himself. With Rienne, he might be able to handle them with his hands still bound. But as long as Ossa’s dagger was pressed into Rienne’s neck, he couldn’t take the chance.

Gaven didn’t know where the dwarves were taking them. He had assumed at first that they’d bring him to Stormhome’s jail, to hold him until they could arrange transport back to Dreadhold. But the jail was near the center of the city-unless it had relocated during Gaven’s imprisonment-and they were headed toward the northern neighborhoods. A few dragonmarked houses had enclaves in the northern district of Six Corners, but neither the dwarves’ House Kundarak nor Bordan’s House Tharashk were among them. House Deneith’s Sentinel Marshals also occupied a large tower in the city center, not far from the jail. The docks were situated to the southeast, but Gaven realized that he didn’t know where in the city airship mooring towers might be concentrated. That became his working assumption: The dwarves and Bordan would load him on an airship for immediate transport back to Dreadhold.

The rain fell harder as they walked, and the mood of the people in the streets grew worse. When lightning flashed in the sky, Gaven heard a woman scream, and he suddenly realized the flaw in his theory. Bordan and Ossa were not stupid enough to put him on an airship-they had both been aboard the Morning Zephyr when storms forced her to the ground.

The dwarf behind Gaven yanked on his manacles, and he stopped walking. The leaders of their cavalcade were embroiled in an argument with a group of men who had apparently objected to being pushed aside. The dwarves kept their voices calm, but the men yelled and waved their arms.

“Gaven, listen to me.” The dwarf behind him still had a hand on his manacles, and he whispered up to Gaven. Gaven moved his head in the slightest nod.

“It’s Darraun,” the dwarf said. Gaven almost whirled around to face him. “Don’t move. Listen. If we ever get out of these crowds, I’ll release your manacles. As soon as you feel them loosened, you need to run, and fast-the way you did in Aerenal. I’ll take care of Rienne-just get out of here.”

Gaven nodded again, almost imperceptibly. The dwarves in front managed to force an opening into the crowd, and the dwarf who claimed to be Darraun nudged him to start walking again. As they made their way through the crowd, a hundred questions arose in Gaven’s mind. In the forefront was what possible reason there could be for him to trust the dwarf of House Kundarak who said he was a human artificer named Darraun.

So Darraun was a changeling-rather, a disguise adopted by a changeling. Gaven had known there was more to the artificer than he let on, and Senya had suggested that Darraun might have connections in the Royal Eyes of Aundair. It fit. But it left open some much larger questions. Why had Darraun been working with Haldren? And why had he infiltrated Ossa’s group of dwarves? Was he helping Gaven now in order to return him to Haldren or for some other purpose? Did Gaven want his help, or would it come with a cost he would be unwilling to pay?

The crowds grew thinner but more serious as they entered the Six Corners neighborhood, named for the junction of three roads in an elegant plaza outside the House Orien enclave. The people glowering at the sky there were heirs and functionaries of the dragonmarked houses, speculating at what failure House Lyrandar, their colleague and competitor, might be experiencing. Gaven kept his arms tense, straining against the manacles to be sure he’d know as soon as-

The manacles clattered to the ground.

Gaven roared, and lightning flashed in the sky. He whirled and thrust his arms out in front of him, and a gust of wind followed his arms in a mighty blast. Bordan, Rienne, Ossa, and the dwarf spellcaster were knocked to the ground, and Ossa’s dagger clattered to the cobblestones. Darraun was already running to Rienne, and the blast of air knocked him forward, into a somersault, and back up into his run.