Dragon Forge: The Draconic Prophecies - Book Two (46 page)

When he tried to turn the questions back on them, they gave evasive answers and shot back new questions of their own. They had him outnumbered, so every time he finished an answer another eladrin asked a new question, keeping him on the defensive, never allowing him an opening.

Dawn’s approach brought the feast to an end. The globes of light drifted off and vanished among the trees, and the eladrin followed, one by one. Sadness gripped Aunn’s heart as he watched them go, and the journey ahead of him seemed long and hard. If they would let him, he thought he might stay among them forever.

As the last of his dinner companions said farewell and drifted away, Aunn looked up to find the raven-haired woman standing over him. “Walk with me,” she said, and she offered a perfect hand to help him stand.

Her touch was cool, exhilarating as autumn dawn. Her beauty took his breath away, but her touch restored it, washing away the fatigue of the long night and the long journey behind him. When she withdrew her hand, he thought he might never be able to draw enough breath.

“Wh-what is …” he stammered. “May I ask your name?”

Her laugh was the stirring of dry leaves on the ground. “Marelle,” she said, and she walked on in silence.

“Your people—are you related to the elves of Aerenal?”

“Distant cousins, you might say.”

A panic seized him as he remembered his mission. “Kathrik Mel—you should flee, you can’t hope to stand against him!”

She stopped then, turned to him with the slightest smile, and put a hand on his cheek. “Listen,” she said, and he could hear
nothing but her voice. “The barbarians can not harm us. But there is more here than the barbarians. More than our people and your nation. The
Harath-Vadrema
—the Secret-Keeper calls, and his people answer. His power flows into the world. If not stopped, soon he will be free. Go. Warn your nation. Raise their armies to fight the barbarians. But be careful that they don’t use weapons more terrible than their foe.”

Aunn blinked, utterly uncomprehending. His cheek burned when she pulled her cool hand away, but her cryptic words were inscribed in his memory.

“Farewell,” she said. “You stand at the edge of the Eldritch Grove. Lake Galifar is to the west, the Blackcaps to the south.”

Aunn gaped. “I’m in Aundair?” That was impossible—the Eldritch Grove was over a month’s journey from the Shadowcrags.

Marelle shook her head. “There is more here than your nation, Aunn.” She took two steps backward, and with the third step she was gone.

C
ome in, Kelas.”

Kelas pushed open the door and strode into the warm room. After weeks encamped in the miserable canyon, he was glad to be back in Fairhaven. He had teleported away from the Dragon Forge the day before, then spent the night in a soft bed, washed in hot water in the morning, and put on new clothes. He felt like himself again, prepared to play his part in the unfolding plot.

Thuel Racannoch sat in a comfortable chair, half turned away from the door, before a crackling fire. Kelas knew the appearance of comfort was an illusion—though he didn’t look at the door as Kelas entered, Thuel was perfectly aware of his movements and warded against any attack. The Spy Master of Aundair’s Royal Eyes did not take security lightly.

Kelas settled himself into a chair beside Thuel, enjoying the warmth of the fire, and waited for Thuel to speak first. He cast a few sidelong glances at his superior, trying to assess the Spy Master’s mood.

Thuel was the picture of Aundairian nobility—though his birth among the merchant class, his freedom from noble entanglement, had been one of the reasons he’d been selected to fill the position left vacant by Nara ir’Galanatyr’s removal. He held himself erect in the chair, feet flat on the floor and fingers laced casually at his waist. His chin was high and his eyes closed, savoring the warmth of the fire. Kelas imagined him as a lizard resting in the sun, warming his cold blood.

Thuel was known as a great lover of music, so the slow turning and bobbing of his head might indicate that he was listening to a
symphony playing only in his mind. To Kelas, that suggested a pleasant mood, which would make his task difficult. It was much easier to turn an agitated Thuel into a fearful and anxious man.

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.

“Thank you,” Phaine said. He darted to one side, and his blade was at Gaven’s throat. “I wish I could say I held you in such high esteem.”

Cart cursed himself. He’d been careless, oblivious to the field of battle while he focused on his enemy. He let the head of his axe droop to the ground. He’d hoped to be a hero, but proven himself a fool.

Gaven’s hand shot up and grabbed Phaine’s wrist, pulling the blade away from his throat. With a grunt, Gaven heaved Phaine forward, dragging the elf over his lap and slamming a fist into his gut while he passed over. Phaine landed in a crumpled heap on the ground.

“Give me the sword,” Gaven said. Cart saw that he’d worked his hands free, but his feet were still bound to the legs of the chair.

As Cart stooped to retrieve the sword, he saw Phaine vanish, and an instant later he felt Phaine’s blade slide between his armored plates. Strange lights danced in the darkness at the edge of his vision, and his thoughts clouded. With a final surge of effort, he lifted the sword and swung it and his axe together. It was a solid blow—he felt both blades hit flesh. Phaine’s body dissipated into wisps of shadow, and then he was gone.