Dave Gross: Lord of Stormweather

Pietro must have used Tamlin's interest in art to strike at Thamalon. What little he'd gleaned about the past year's attacks on Talbot led him to believe that some members of House Malveen still held him to blame for the fall of their family. Because Aldimar had trafficked with them freely, some of the Malveens held it as a betrayal for Thamalon to turn his back on his father's former partners in crime.

Even this theory struck Thamalon as improbable. Laskar Malveen had always appeared to be Thamalon's sort of fellow, an honest man striving to repair the failings of the previous generation. Perhaps he was a consummate actor, as were many of the Old Chauncel. Foxes and weasels, most of them were, and far better at feigning their emotions than any of the players at Talbot's Wide Realms playhouse. Thamalon preferred to think of himself as a lion among the jackals, fearsome to his enemies while defending his pride.

Thamalon filed investigation and revenge in the library of his memory and looked away from the woods, across a rolling plain interrupted here and there by thick copses and blankets of wildflowers where the morning light grazed the hilltops. The nearest flowers seemed even more foreign than the trees, for they were large and heavy upon their stems. Their yellow, pink, and orange skins seemed less plantlike than fleshy.

Another thought to file for later, Thamalon decided, mostly because it gave him the shivers. He enjoyed exotic flora, but he would have preferred to examine it in the safe confines of the solar back home.

The blue creatures he'd surprised upon his arrival floated nearby. He had briefly hoped they were a trauma-induced delusion, but he saw that they were far from the only strange wildlife. Large, birdlike creatures wheeled in the distance, likely circling above some unseen carrion on the ground, and the whistles and deep hoots from the forest indicated a teeming population.

Far above the carrion eaters, a bank of huge clouds drifted slowly from the east. They were uniformly lozenge-shaped, like finless porpoises, and their advance was so regimented that they held his attention until Thamalon realized they weren't clouds but enormous creatures. Judging from their gradual motion, they must have been miles distant. If so, they had to be at least the size of war galleys. The distance made them ethereal, or perhaps their skins were gossamer thin, like those of the jellyfish creatures he'd seen earlier.

Whatever they were, their strange beauty delighted his heart.

Thamalon slapped his hip and realized he hadn't so much as a dagger with him. He also realized he'd better not slap that hip again soon. It was still limber, but it would have a deep bruise soon.

From where the sun breached the horizon, he oriented himself: forest north, plains south. He briefly wished he'd snatched up the astrolabe from his new collection just before he was swept away from home. While the Uskevren had avoided direct dealings with the shipping business since old Aldimar had been brought down for piracy, Thamalon remembered a few lessons on navigation from his childhood. When night returned, he could tell by the constellations whether he was anywhere near Selgaunt, Sembia, or even Faerun for that matter.

A distant clamor of voices from the woods jolted Thamalon from his thoughts. Before he could identify the language, a burst of red flame erupted amid the trees, smothering all other sound.

Thamalon crouched low and ran along the forest's edge, looking for a spot that served both as vantage and shelter. His hip complained, but he ignored the pain.

From behind a rotting deadfall, Thamalon spied the source of the fire.

Teams of six-legged reptiles led a pair of armored wagons through the forest. Thamalon briefly feared they were basilisks but then realized the creatures' eyes were not hooded, and the drivers were not harmed by their gaze.

The wagons were massive cylindrical vehicles supported by wide, ironclad wheels. Along each side hung a pair of hooded, armored baskets fitted with cross-shaped archery slots. From the openings, bolts flew up toward the trees at such a rate that Thamalon guessed each cramped shelter must contain at least two archers.

Three stout figures stood in the driver's basket of each wagon, neither of them more than five feet tall. One goaded the beasts forward, while his companions fired heavy crossbows at unseen assailants in the trees. On the broad back of each wagon, an armored figure aimed a sort of metal ballista at the trees. Their faces were concealed behind full helms with bulging glass hemispheres over the eyes, but judging by the thick beards curling beneath their visors, Thamalon presumed they were dwarves.

Arrows rained down from the trees, glancing off the dwarves' armor and the heavy plates of their vehicle. The drivers goaded and shouted at their mounts, but the coldblooded beasts plodded steadily forward, seemingly oblivious to their peril. The lead team suddenly veered from the path, despite the frantic yells of its driver.

As Thamalon watched, the weapon atop the second wagon belched forth another gout of flame. The guards in the driver's basket fired into the flaming boughs, and one was rewarded by the fall of a slender burning figure from the high branches.

Beating the lead lizard's head with the goad, the driver of the errant wagon finally forced the beasts to return to the path. They were less than thirty yards away from the edge of the forest.

They didn't see the mass of choke creeper that awaited them.

Thamalon had studied the dangerous plant the previous summer, when the elves of Tangled Trees and the armies of Sembia teetered on the brink of war. The elves had used the vines as a weapon against human trade caravans.

Thamalon stood to reveal himself. He regretted knowing so few words in Dwarvish.

"Beware!" he shouted, pointing to the treacherous patch. The vines had already begun reaching out toward the reptiles' legs. "Bad there!"

A flurry of arrows shot toward him. Thamalon dropped behind the hollow log. An arrow had pierced his robe and hung there just under his left armpit. He felt the burning edge of the arrowhead against his ribs and hoped it was only a light graze.

"Do you speak the trade tongue?" called a gruff voice from the wagons.

The dwarf's Common was far better than Thamalon's six or eight words of the dwarven language. Moreover, the sound of his native tongue gave Thamalon hope that he wasn't so far from Sembia as he'd first feared.

Two more arrows pierced the rotting bark of his shelter and sank into the ground near Thamalon's feet. He shouted back without rising, "There's choke creeper between you and the clearing! Your front wagon is nearly in the stuff!"

The dwarves shouted in their own language, and Thamalon heard another great whoosh from their flame projector. It sounded like thunder amid the downpour of arrows striking the armored dwarves and their wagons.

He dared another glance above the log. Luckily, the unseen attackers concentrated all their fire on the draft beasts.

Fortunately for the caravan, the lizards' hide was as tough as the dwarves' armor. Only a few arrows stuck in their skin, and those sank only an inch or two into their targets.

Unfortunately for the lizards, the tough green vines had already slithered up and around their short, elephantine legs. Thamalon knew how tenacious the creeper was. It could strangle a strong man to death in a matter of minutes.

The two guards in the lead wagon dropped their crossbows in favor of sharp axes and leaped to the ground. There they hewed like harvesters, chopping the lively vines as near to their beasts' feet as they dared.

The reptilian creatures plodded forward against the vines, the only indication of their panic a steady, lowering moan.

The fire-throwers covered their companions' actions with a series of short bursts. Despite the dwarves' restraint, the boughs above them crackled with flame. Blackened limbs began to droop precipitously over the wagons.