Wulf Ratbane
Adventurer
Here's my entry. I like to think I hit their three C's without even having to be told. (I also think I hewed pretty close to "Write what you know," hence the dwarven protagonist.) 
Synopsis
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In post-war Eberron, it’s often hard to tell what is more disconcerting: the lies—or the truth.
Dreadhold: Daring Daylight Escape! screams the headline of the Korranberg Chronicle. Throughout the book we catch glimpses of the story through the “eyes” of the Chronicle and realize that what is seen by the public—or at least, what is reported to the public—is often a far cry from the truth. We learn of House Cannith magewrights, gnomish shipwrights of Zilargo, Thuranni spies, Aurum conspirators, pirate prince Ryger’s claim to the throne, and other ‘unfinished business’ from the War—but these ‘truths’ we learn are mere shadows on the wall, cast by a reality we dare not turn to face.
We are introduced to the dwarf protagonist Halrik Losthammer and his warforged companion Steele as they ride an airship from Dreadhold to Krona Peak in pursuit of their quarry, one of the escapees from Dreadhold. Though not a blood member of House Kundarak, Hal has served them for over 100 years, performing admirably—if rather unsubtly. When the war ended, Halrik was “rewarded” with a guard post on Dreadhold—too valuable a vassal to dispose of, and too dangerous to lose track of. It is a fate shared by many veterans of Last War. Halrik is out of place in the intrigue and political landscape of Khorvaire’s peace, and he slips easily back into violence. It fits him as comfortably as old leather, and like Steele, Hal constantly struggles to redefine his role in the new “peace” that has settled over Khorvaire. For now, he has simply sworn to recover his prisoner, even if it takes him all the way across the continent.
Sil d’Sivis rides the lightning rail, escorted by a humorless spy of House Thuranni. The two begin a game, each plying the other for information: Sil wants to know who was responsible for springing him from Dreadhold, while the spy cannot figure out why anyone would bother. They agree that Sil must flee to Zilargo, and they settle on a 1000-mile, 2-day rail trip to the security of Gatherhold; there, they hope to hide out long enough to find an Orien agent to teleport the remaining 1500 miles to Korranberg.
Sil dreams, and in his brief jaunt to Dal’Quor, we see past, present, and potential future. The larger picture is revealed to us here: During the War, Merrix d’Cannith created a pattern for a submersible war vessel, powered by a bound water elemental, shooting silently and squid-like beneath the waves with a jet of water. During the War, the pattern was divided into three schemas, one of which is now carried within the mind of Sil d’Sivis himself. Playing all sides at various times, Sil allied with Zorlan d’Cannith, who wants the pattern for his own ends. In the confusion of the war, Sil was hidden away in Dreadhold, and the pattern was never completed. Sil hopes to get to Zilargo, where the pattern will be completed and the submarine sailed to Korth for delivery. In his dreams, however, Sil senses another figure working behind Zorlan. Is it the pirate prince Ryger, hoping to capture the ship as it passes through the Lhazaar Principalities? It is no secret that Ryger hopes to build a navy powerful enough to assert his claim of ascendancy. A fleet of submarines—indeed, even a single such war vessel—could command the shipping lanes.
Sil’s dreams turn to nightmare reality as he wakes to find Emerald Claw agents storming through the coach, locked in battle with Halrik and Steele. The heroes hammer through the agents, but Sil and the Thuranni agent give them the slip, jumping from the coach into the wilds of the Talenta plains. Without hesitation Halrik follows—only to realize that he’s been duped with a clever Thuranni illusion. Hal staggers painfully to his feet, watching Sil speed away safely on the lightning rail. Halrik and Steele are left on the borders of the Mournland with a long walk to Gatherhold. By the time they catch up to d’Sivis, the schema is delivered, the pattern completed by magewrights, and the prototype vessel is on its way to Korth.
Halrik catches Sil in Zilargo, but Sil and Steele persuade him to the greater cause of stopping the vessel. They pursue the vessel just north of the Pirate Isles, where the delicate weave of intrigue begins to unravel at Halrik’s clumsy and violent touch. Sil stays in contact with the Thuranni spy, who infiltrates and sabotages the sub, forcing it to surface. Right on cue, Ryger’s privateers swoop in, but his captains are betrayed by mutinous minions of Vol—who has been behind the intrigue from the start. Adding to the chaos, Steele, who had been loyal to Merrix d’Cannith all along, betrays Halrik, compelled by a mysterious docent component he has carried unwittingly since his creation. Steele is knocked overboard; Sil escapes again; and Halrik is left to take out his considerable frustration on the pirates. Hal finally realizes that Fate cares not what you are asked to do, nor even what you are forced to do; it is only how well you do the job. Halrik leaps to the sub to stave in the hull, determined at least to see this last task through to the end. Hal follows the sub into the depths for the last time—at least, so reads the report from the Korranberg Chronicle.
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Writing Sample
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Halrik grit his teeth, tears streaming from his eyes, his forked beard flapping wildly behind him as their sled zipped along the lightning rail. He’d heard tales of thrill-seekers who rode like this for fun, balanced precariously on after-market conductor stones that bobbed wildly over the powerful Orien system. Blue sparks flashed incessantly; Hal imagined that from a distance they looked like a glow-worm racing a lightning bolt.
Were Hal not in constant fear for his life, the constant thud-thud-thud of Steele’s hands might almost put him to sleep. The warforged held his massive fists over the side of their sled to steady them as they raced along. The sled was constantly threatening to flip over against the conductor stones, each time forcing Steele to stretch his arms wide and dig his fingers into the dirt to keep them on the track.
“Yer got it?” Halrik said.
“I have it,” Steele answered impassively.
“She’s like a magebred pony determined to have a roll in the sand mid-race!” The sled tipped again, and again Steele steadied their ride. “Yer gettin’ tired, or what?”
“I tire only of that question, Hal.”
“Well, yer slowin’ us down every time yer do that.”
“And yet keeping us among the quick. If you would stop shifting your weight from side to side, the task would be made easier.”
Halrik grunted and dug his thick fingers deeper under the armor plates on Steele’s shoulders. His boot was braced hard against the iron stirrup bolted onto the back of Steele’s thigh.
“How much farther yer figure?”
“Look ahead.”
The gray mists had retreated to the Mournland, and they could see her now: the Orien coach, bathed in a blue light. Halrik’s eyes flashed with equal determination. “We’ve got to move faster,” he said.
“Then hold tight and lean forward on the sled.”
Halrik slowly and carefully brought his knees up closer to his chest, trying to steady his heels against Steele’s hips, and leaned forward. Almost as soon as their center of gravity shifted, the sled bolted like a rabbit out of a thicket.
They watched the lightning rail looming larger as they sped along, but it wasn’t until their sled finally pounced upon the last coach that Halrik realized how fast they were moving. He reflexively rocked back on his heels, pulling his head away from the front of the sled just as it threatened to rear-end the coach. The lightning rail pulled away for a moment but Hal quickly leaned forward again to increase their speed.
“This is gonna be tricky,” Hal said, “but I think I can grab the rail there...”
“Without your weight to tip the sled forward, I do not think I can catch the coach. The sled will fall behind as soon as you climb aboard.”
Hal grimaced. “I won’t leave yer behind. Yer just gonna have to make a grab for it when I go. Yer ready?”
“Ready,” said Steele.
Hal’s fingers had been knotted under Steele’s armor for several hundred miles and his knuckles cracked when he loosened his grip. With his arm outstretched he leaned towards the railing on the coach. The sled responded by lurching forward violently, slamming into the back of the coach. Hal gripped the rail and started to pull himself up. Almost immediately the sled flipped over, spinning first onto its back before bouncing off the conductor stones into the plains, churning up sod and shale.
It happened too fast for Hal—but not for Steele. The warforged had locked his fingers around Hal’s ankle. The leather girding around his iron-shod heel squeaked and shifted under Steele’s grip, but Hal had two good hands on the rail. As long as the rail held, and his boot held—and his ankle-bone held—Hal could haul them both aboard.
But the warforged weighed several hundred pounds, and neither rail nor boot nor ankle-bone seemed much inclined to hold for long.
“By the Five!” Hal swore through gritted teeth. Hal had clambered over his warforged companion’s back enough times, but it was a different story when the roles were reversed. Hal didn’t have armor plating or an iron stirrup to help Steele along, and when Steele’s hand fell across his left shoulder, pulling him up, digging through muscle and bone, Hal felt as if his whole body would be torn apart. The iron railing groaned loudly before giving way with a screech, but somehow Steele had clambered aboard.
Now it was Hal’s turn to be dragged along. His fingers were still locked in a death-grip on the railing, but it had peeled away from the coach and was giving way inch by inch. First his steel-tipped toes were dragging in the dirt; in seconds, his knees.
With an inhuman speed and smoothness that never ceased to amaze the dwarf, the warforged dropped to one knee and punched the fingers of his right hand through the iron plated floor of the coach landing. His left hand grabbed the railing at its base.
“Hold tight.” Steele’s eyes were locked on Hal’s.
“Don’t worry!” Hal said.
Steele lifted the railing straight up, with his arm at full extension like a lever. It was a feat of strength only a warforged could accomplish. Hal was heaved straight up, and the railing slammed back into place with a deafening clang. Momentum flipped Hal right over and onto the platform, finally wrenching his fingers free of the railing. It wreaked havoc on his already strained muscles.
Steele gave Hal’s arm a tug and a little shake to loosen it up. “Can you fight?”
Hal looped the thong of his axe loosely around his left hand, then reached across his belt and drew his short, thick blade with his right hand. “Here’s hopin’ as long as I look like I can fight, we won’t have to. Let’s go.”
Steele pushed aside the door to the coach and Hal stepped through.
Sil woke with a start, surprised to find the Thuranni spy awake and staring back at him with unsettlingly dark eyes. The spy’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly across the coach. Sil followed his gaze to the man seated across the aisle from them. Did the stranger’s eyes suspiciously dart away from his gaze? Dreams and nightmares melted away with a rush of adrenaline and Sil suddenly became startlingly aware of his surroundings.
Their coach was full. A few strangers chatted in the aisles or congregated at the landings. As he watched, Sil noticed a pattern to the occasional off-hand gesture, the odd glance, the particular way that woman batted her eyes. Sil flushed hotly. Did they really think that they could communicate secretly before a full-blooded member of House Sivis?
They were watching him!
Sil tried to stand suddenly, but the Thuranni spy stood first, forcing Sil down with a masterfully applied touch that was light, but far from gentle. Pain shot through Sil’s shoulder and neck, slithered down his spine, and seemed to drain out of his legs, taking the life right out of him. The Thuranni looked almost casual, but his unblinking eyes stared reproachfully at Sil, and his mouth was set in a thin line.
“Let... me... up!” Sil squirmed helplessly under the Thuranni’s grip.
“Not now,” the spy hissed.
Suddenly the men at the tail end of the coach turned and headed for them. Sil peered at them under the Thuranni’s arm. Their long travelling coats flared as they turned and yelled to their companions as the front of the coach. There was no mistaking the emblem on their breastplates, though it was just the merest hint of texture that pressed through their tabards: The Emerald Claw!
The car seemed suddenly full of enemies as agents at both ends of the coach and all through the aisles drew their weapons. Sil’s eyes widened at the sound of blades hissing out of leather, and the clink of metal links as wicked flails unfurled from hidden recesses.
The Thuranni’s eyes narrowed.
“Ok, now.” His grip changed, hauling Sil to his feet and sending him sprawling towards the front of the coach. Sil looked up as the Thuranni leapt over him, directly into the midst of the Emerald Claw agents heading towards them. The Emerald Claw agents swarmed around him, but the Thuranni moved among them like a leaf caught in a whirlwind—a graceful dance that seemed almost random, if not for its practiced perfection. Long, lithe fingers snaked out, probing for soft flesh and pressure points. Agents fell back from his touch—some screaming, some in stunned silence. Sil recalled the Thuranni’s grip on his shoulder only moments ago and shuddered to think what the spy could do when his intent was to kill rather than simply to control.
“Come on!” growled a voice behind him. Coarse fingers grabbed Sil’s leg, hauling him back and turning him over. Sil stared into the nearly toothless grin of an Emerald Claw agent, a grizzled Karrnath veteran. Sil was hauled to his feet again and shoved towards the back of the coach.
Just then, the back door of the coach exploded inwards, sending splinters flying in all directions. Steele stood in the doorframe. The fingers of his left hand were knotted seamlessly into a perfect hammer-shaped fist, while his right hand was clutching the limp body of an Emerald Claw agent. From the looks of the body, he’d just been used to batter down the door. Steele hurled the body full-force over Sil’s head and into the agent behind him.
Halrik ducked into the room through Steele’s wide-legged stance.
“How yer doin’, Sil?” he grinned. Hal seemed genuinely glad to see the little gnome, but there was no time for an extended greeting. Sil was jerked backwards by a snarling Emerald Claw agent, while several more rushed past, some climbing recklessly over the seats, to get to Hal and Steele. Hal ducked a cruel-looking blade and parried the backswing with his own thick blade, driving it sideways and wedging it down into the seats. There was a second clang of metal on metal as Steele reached out to intercept a heavy flail just before it came crashing down on Hal’s helm. The flail wrapped once around Steele’s thick arm and he caught it fast, hauling the enemy warrior in close for a deadly counter-punch.
Even without the use of his axe, still held idly at his left side, Hal carved his way through the enemy. Three wide strokes with his sword and two more agents fell aside. The floor of the coach was already slick with blood; but then, the spikes on the soles of Halrik’s boots weren’t for mountain climbing. The smile on Hal’s face grew ever wider as he nonchalantly stepped over the bodies and stalked towards Sil.
“You’re a monster!” Sil said.
“Yer didn’t think I spent my whole life sittin’ a guard post, playin’ naughts and crosses, did yer?” Hal shrugged. “I think yer bein’ a little harsh, all the same; yer safe enough with me. Now, come on. Time to get yer back.” Hal stared down the Emerald Claw agent. “Let him go.”
The agent opened his mouth to protest, but could only manage a gurgling sound. He staggered to one side and slumped into the seats. The Thuranni spy emerged from behind him, and in one swift motion he swept his long arm around Sil, circling forward with the gnome held protectively behind him.
“Leave,” he said.
Sil wasn’t sure if that was his cue or not, but he wasn’t wasting any time. He slipped through the forward door of the coach, now clear of Emerald Claw agents.
Hal sighed and stepped forward, slowly bringing his axe up. Quick as a cat, the Thuranni’s fist darted out, striking Hal solidly on the left wrist. Just as quickly—and twice as clever, Hal thought to himself—he flicked his sword up and across, scoring a deep cut across the Thuranni’s forearm. Both warriors scowled at the other, eyes narrowed.
The Thuranni looked at Hal’s shoulder and arm, and at the axe hanging limply by its thick cord. “You weren’t really using that arm, were you?”
“Right,” Hal admitted, as soon as he heard Steele lumbering up behind him.
“Right.” The Thuranni spy was suddenly dancing a black pearl along his fingers, and when it reached his thumb and forefinger, he crushed the gem and cast it down. Magical darkness sprung up around them, and Hal heard the whisper of silk as the spy slipped through the door into the next coach.
“Follow me!” Hal shouted. “We’ll come out of the darkness in just a few steps.” He raced forward, his senses alert, but he could hear Steele having difficulty behind him.
Hal hesitated. He wasn’t at all sure he could take the Thuranni without Steele’s help. He turned back and reached out in the darkness until he felt Steele bump into him.
“I’m here, come on.” Hal grabbed Steele’s hand and together they groped along. It seemed to take forever before they passed through the door into the next coach and finally emerged into the light. Just ahead, at the junction of the next coach, Hal could see Sil and the Thuranni agent struggling to open the side door. The Thuranni kicked the door open, grabbed the gnome, and dove off the moving coach.
Hal reacted quickly, grabbing Steele and shoving him towards the side door on their end of the coach. “Jump! Off! Now!”
“Wait...” Steele protested, but Hal dropped his shoulder and rushed the warforged off the coach. Hal followed right after, and though his skills were a bit rusty, he managed to roll and tumble without breaking anything. He staggered to his feet and looked off into the plains for his quarry.
“Come on!” he said, heading off into the tall grass.
Steele caught his shoulder and spun him around to look at the train dwindling in the distance. The warforged jabbed a finger at the silhouettes of two figures standing on the platform. The gnome was waving as the train sped away.
“Thuranni illusion!” Hal cursed. “Sons of...”
Hal bellowed in frustration.
“Hal,” Steele said softly, “the Mournland is perhaps fifty miles to our west, and though I doubt that trouble can quite hear you there, I would rather not bring a bladetooth—or worse—out of the eastern plains to greet us. It is a long walk to Gatherhold.”
Hal hung his head and started walking south, dragging his axe behind him.
“Sorry,” he said. “How yer holdin’ up?”
“I could use some repairs, I admit,” said Steele.
Hal grinned over at him. “Aye, I reckon. Did yer see the size of the divot yer left back there?”
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Synopsis
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In post-war Eberron, it’s often hard to tell what is more disconcerting: the lies—or the truth.
Dreadhold: Daring Daylight Escape! screams the headline of the Korranberg Chronicle. Throughout the book we catch glimpses of the story through the “eyes” of the Chronicle and realize that what is seen by the public—or at least, what is reported to the public—is often a far cry from the truth. We learn of House Cannith magewrights, gnomish shipwrights of Zilargo, Thuranni spies, Aurum conspirators, pirate prince Ryger’s claim to the throne, and other ‘unfinished business’ from the War—but these ‘truths’ we learn are mere shadows on the wall, cast by a reality we dare not turn to face.
We are introduced to the dwarf protagonist Halrik Losthammer and his warforged companion Steele as they ride an airship from Dreadhold to Krona Peak in pursuit of their quarry, one of the escapees from Dreadhold. Though not a blood member of House Kundarak, Hal has served them for over 100 years, performing admirably—if rather unsubtly. When the war ended, Halrik was “rewarded” with a guard post on Dreadhold—too valuable a vassal to dispose of, and too dangerous to lose track of. It is a fate shared by many veterans of Last War. Halrik is out of place in the intrigue and political landscape of Khorvaire’s peace, and he slips easily back into violence. It fits him as comfortably as old leather, and like Steele, Hal constantly struggles to redefine his role in the new “peace” that has settled over Khorvaire. For now, he has simply sworn to recover his prisoner, even if it takes him all the way across the continent.
Sil d’Sivis rides the lightning rail, escorted by a humorless spy of House Thuranni. The two begin a game, each plying the other for information: Sil wants to know who was responsible for springing him from Dreadhold, while the spy cannot figure out why anyone would bother. They agree that Sil must flee to Zilargo, and they settle on a 1000-mile, 2-day rail trip to the security of Gatherhold; there, they hope to hide out long enough to find an Orien agent to teleport the remaining 1500 miles to Korranberg.
Sil dreams, and in his brief jaunt to Dal’Quor, we see past, present, and potential future. The larger picture is revealed to us here: During the War, Merrix d’Cannith created a pattern for a submersible war vessel, powered by a bound water elemental, shooting silently and squid-like beneath the waves with a jet of water. During the War, the pattern was divided into three schemas, one of which is now carried within the mind of Sil d’Sivis himself. Playing all sides at various times, Sil allied with Zorlan d’Cannith, who wants the pattern for his own ends. In the confusion of the war, Sil was hidden away in Dreadhold, and the pattern was never completed. Sil hopes to get to Zilargo, where the pattern will be completed and the submarine sailed to Korth for delivery. In his dreams, however, Sil senses another figure working behind Zorlan. Is it the pirate prince Ryger, hoping to capture the ship as it passes through the Lhazaar Principalities? It is no secret that Ryger hopes to build a navy powerful enough to assert his claim of ascendancy. A fleet of submarines—indeed, even a single such war vessel—could command the shipping lanes.
Sil’s dreams turn to nightmare reality as he wakes to find Emerald Claw agents storming through the coach, locked in battle with Halrik and Steele. The heroes hammer through the agents, but Sil and the Thuranni agent give them the slip, jumping from the coach into the wilds of the Talenta plains. Without hesitation Halrik follows—only to realize that he’s been duped with a clever Thuranni illusion. Hal staggers painfully to his feet, watching Sil speed away safely on the lightning rail. Halrik and Steele are left on the borders of the Mournland with a long walk to Gatherhold. By the time they catch up to d’Sivis, the schema is delivered, the pattern completed by magewrights, and the prototype vessel is on its way to Korth.
Halrik catches Sil in Zilargo, but Sil and Steele persuade him to the greater cause of stopping the vessel. They pursue the vessel just north of the Pirate Isles, where the delicate weave of intrigue begins to unravel at Halrik’s clumsy and violent touch. Sil stays in contact with the Thuranni spy, who infiltrates and sabotages the sub, forcing it to surface. Right on cue, Ryger’s privateers swoop in, but his captains are betrayed by mutinous minions of Vol—who has been behind the intrigue from the start. Adding to the chaos, Steele, who had been loyal to Merrix d’Cannith all along, betrays Halrik, compelled by a mysterious docent component he has carried unwittingly since his creation. Steele is knocked overboard; Sil escapes again; and Halrik is left to take out his considerable frustration on the pirates. Hal finally realizes that Fate cares not what you are asked to do, nor even what you are forced to do; it is only how well you do the job. Halrik leaps to the sub to stave in the hull, determined at least to see this last task through to the end. Hal follows the sub into the depths for the last time—at least, so reads the report from the Korranberg Chronicle.
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Writing Sample
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Halrik grit his teeth, tears streaming from his eyes, his forked beard flapping wildly behind him as their sled zipped along the lightning rail. He’d heard tales of thrill-seekers who rode like this for fun, balanced precariously on after-market conductor stones that bobbed wildly over the powerful Orien system. Blue sparks flashed incessantly; Hal imagined that from a distance they looked like a glow-worm racing a lightning bolt.
Were Hal not in constant fear for his life, the constant thud-thud-thud of Steele’s hands might almost put him to sleep. The warforged held his massive fists over the side of their sled to steady them as they raced along. The sled was constantly threatening to flip over against the conductor stones, each time forcing Steele to stretch his arms wide and dig his fingers into the dirt to keep them on the track.
“Yer got it?” Halrik said.
“I have it,” Steele answered impassively.
“She’s like a magebred pony determined to have a roll in the sand mid-race!” The sled tipped again, and again Steele steadied their ride. “Yer gettin’ tired, or what?”
“I tire only of that question, Hal.”
“Well, yer slowin’ us down every time yer do that.”
“And yet keeping us among the quick. If you would stop shifting your weight from side to side, the task would be made easier.”
Halrik grunted and dug his thick fingers deeper under the armor plates on Steele’s shoulders. His boot was braced hard against the iron stirrup bolted onto the back of Steele’s thigh.
“How much farther yer figure?”
“Look ahead.”
The gray mists had retreated to the Mournland, and they could see her now: the Orien coach, bathed in a blue light. Halrik’s eyes flashed with equal determination. “We’ve got to move faster,” he said.
“Then hold tight and lean forward on the sled.”
Halrik slowly and carefully brought his knees up closer to his chest, trying to steady his heels against Steele’s hips, and leaned forward. Almost as soon as their center of gravity shifted, the sled bolted like a rabbit out of a thicket.
They watched the lightning rail looming larger as they sped along, but it wasn’t until their sled finally pounced upon the last coach that Halrik realized how fast they were moving. He reflexively rocked back on his heels, pulling his head away from the front of the sled just as it threatened to rear-end the coach. The lightning rail pulled away for a moment but Hal quickly leaned forward again to increase their speed.
“This is gonna be tricky,” Hal said, “but I think I can grab the rail there...”
“Without your weight to tip the sled forward, I do not think I can catch the coach. The sled will fall behind as soon as you climb aboard.”
Hal grimaced. “I won’t leave yer behind. Yer just gonna have to make a grab for it when I go. Yer ready?”
“Ready,” said Steele.
Hal’s fingers had been knotted under Steele’s armor for several hundred miles and his knuckles cracked when he loosened his grip. With his arm outstretched he leaned towards the railing on the coach. The sled responded by lurching forward violently, slamming into the back of the coach. Hal gripped the rail and started to pull himself up. Almost immediately the sled flipped over, spinning first onto its back before bouncing off the conductor stones into the plains, churning up sod and shale.
It happened too fast for Hal—but not for Steele. The warforged had locked his fingers around Hal’s ankle. The leather girding around his iron-shod heel squeaked and shifted under Steele’s grip, but Hal had two good hands on the rail. As long as the rail held, and his boot held—and his ankle-bone held—Hal could haul them both aboard.
But the warforged weighed several hundred pounds, and neither rail nor boot nor ankle-bone seemed much inclined to hold for long.
“By the Five!” Hal swore through gritted teeth. Hal had clambered over his warforged companion’s back enough times, but it was a different story when the roles were reversed. Hal didn’t have armor plating or an iron stirrup to help Steele along, and when Steele’s hand fell across his left shoulder, pulling him up, digging through muscle and bone, Hal felt as if his whole body would be torn apart. The iron railing groaned loudly before giving way with a screech, but somehow Steele had clambered aboard.
Now it was Hal’s turn to be dragged along. His fingers were still locked in a death-grip on the railing, but it had peeled away from the coach and was giving way inch by inch. First his steel-tipped toes were dragging in the dirt; in seconds, his knees.
With an inhuman speed and smoothness that never ceased to amaze the dwarf, the warforged dropped to one knee and punched the fingers of his right hand through the iron plated floor of the coach landing. His left hand grabbed the railing at its base.
“Hold tight.” Steele’s eyes were locked on Hal’s.
“Don’t worry!” Hal said.
Steele lifted the railing straight up, with his arm at full extension like a lever. It was a feat of strength only a warforged could accomplish. Hal was heaved straight up, and the railing slammed back into place with a deafening clang. Momentum flipped Hal right over and onto the platform, finally wrenching his fingers free of the railing. It wreaked havoc on his already strained muscles.
Steele gave Hal’s arm a tug and a little shake to loosen it up. “Can you fight?”
Hal looped the thong of his axe loosely around his left hand, then reached across his belt and drew his short, thick blade with his right hand. “Here’s hopin’ as long as I look like I can fight, we won’t have to. Let’s go.”
Steele pushed aside the door to the coach and Hal stepped through.
Sil woke with a start, surprised to find the Thuranni spy awake and staring back at him with unsettlingly dark eyes. The spy’s eyes flicked almost imperceptibly across the coach. Sil followed his gaze to the man seated across the aisle from them. Did the stranger’s eyes suspiciously dart away from his gaze? Dreams and nightmares melted away with a rush of adrenaline and Sil suddenly became startlingly aware of his surroundings.
Their coach was full. A few strangers chatted in the aisles or congregated at the landings. As he watched, Sil noticed a pattern to the occasional off-hand gesture, the odd glance, the particular way that woman batted her eyes. Sil flushed hotly. Did they really think that they could communicate secretly before a full-blooded member of House Sivis?
They were watching him!
Sil tried to stand suddenly, but the Thuranni spy stood first, forcing Sil down with a masterfully applied touch that was light, but far from gentle. Pain shot through Sil’s shoulder and neck, slithered down his spine, and seemed to drain out of his legs, taking the life right out of him. The Thuranni looked almost casual, but his unblinking eyes stared reproachfully at Sil, and his mouth was set in a thin line.
“Let... me... up!” Sil squirmed helplessly under the Thuranni’s grip.
“Not now,” the spy hissed.
Suddenly the men at the tail end of the coach turned and headed for them. Sil peered at them under the Thuranni’s arm. Their long travelling coats flared as they turned and yelled to their companions as the front of the coach. There was no mistaking the emblem on their breastplates, though it was just the merest hint of texture that pressed through their tabards: The Emerald Claw!
The car seemed suddenly full of enemies as agents at both ends of the coach and all through the aisles drew their weapons. Sil’s eyes widened at the sound of blades hissing out of leather, and the clink of metal links as wicked flails unfurled from hidden recesses.
The Thuranni’s eyes narrowed.
“Ok, now.” His grip changed, hauling Sil to his feet and sending him sprawling towards the front of the coach. Sil looked up as the Thuranni leapt over him, directly into the midst of the Emerald Claw agents heading towards them. The Emerald Claw agents swarmed around him, but the Thuranni moved among them like a leaf caught in a whirlwind—a graceful dance that seemed almost random, if not for its practiced perfection. Long, lithe fingers snaked out, probing for soft flesh and pressure points. Agents fell back from his touch—some screaming, some in stunned silence. Sil recalled the Thuranni’s grip on his shoulder only moments ago and shuddered to think what the spy could do when his intent was to kill rather than simply to control.
“Come on!” growled a voice behind him. Coarse fingers grabbed Sil’s leg, hauling him back and turning him over. Sil stared into the nearly toothless grin of an Emerald Claw agent, a grizzled Karrnath veteran. Sil was hauled to his feet again and shoved towards the back of the coach.
Just then, the back door of the coach exploded inwards, sending splinters flying in all directions. Steele stood in the doorframe. The fingers of his left hand were knotted seamlessly into a perfect hammer-shaped fist, while his right hand was clutching the limp body of an Emerald Claw agent. From the looks of the body, he’d just been used to batter down the door. Steele hurled the body full-force over Sil’s head and into the agent behind him.
Halrik ducked into the room through Steele’s wide-legged stance.
“How yer doin’, Sil?” he grinned. Hal seemed genuinely glad to see the little gnome, but there was no time for an extended greeting. Sil was jerked backwards by a snarling Emerald Claw agent, while several more rushed past, some climbing recklessly over the seats, to get to Hal and Steele. Hal ducked a cruel-looking blade and parried the backswing with his own thick blade, driving it sideways and wedging it down into the seats. There was a second clang of metal on metal as Steele reached out to intercept a heavy flail just before it came crashing down on Hal’s helm. The flail wrapped once around Steele’s thick arm and he caught it fast, hauling the enemy warrior in close for a deadly counter-punch.
Even without the use of his axe, still held idly at his left side, Hal carved his way through the enemy. Three wide strokes with his sword and two more agents fell aside. The floor of the coach was already slick with blood; but then, the spikes on the soles of Halrik’s boots weren’t for mountain climbing. The smile on Hal’s face grew ever wider as he nonchalantly stepped over the bodies and stalked towards Sil.
“You’re a monster!” Sil said.
“Yer didn’t think I spent my whole life sittin’ a guard post, playin’ naughts and crosses, did yer?” Hal shrugged. “I think yer bein’ a little harsh, all the same; yer safe enough with me. Now, come on. Time to get yer back.” Hal stared down the Emerald Claw agent. “Let him go.”
The agent opened his mouth to protest, but could only manage a gurgling sound. He staggered to one side and slumped into the seats. The Thuranni spy emerged from behind him, and in one swift motion he swept his long arm around Sil, circling forward with the gnome held protectively behind him.
“Leave,” he said.
Sil wasn’t sure if that was his cue or not, but he wasn’t wasting any time. He slipped through the forward door of the coach, now clear of Emerald Claw agents.
Hal sighed and stepped forward, slowly bringing his axe up. Quick as a cat, the Thuranni’s fist darted out, striking Hal solidly on the left wrist. Just as quickly—and twice as clever, Hal thought to himself—he flicked his sword up and across, scoring a deep cut across the Thuranni’s forearm. Both warriors scowled at the other, eyes narrowed.
The Thuranni looked at Hal’s shoulder and arm, and at the axe hanging limply by its thick cord. “You weren’t really using that arm, were you?”
“Right,” Hal admitted, as soon as he heard Steele lumbering up behind him.
“Right.” The Thuranni spy was suddenly dancing a black pearl along his fingers, and when it reached his thumb and forefinger, he crushed the gem and cast it down. Magical darkness sprung up around them, and Hal heard the whisper of silk as the spy slipped through the door into the next coach.
“Follow me!” Hal shouted. “We’ll come out of the darkness in just a few steps.” He raced forward, his senses alert, but he could hear Steele having difficulty behind him.
Hal hesitated. He wasn’t at all sure he could take the Thuranni without Steele’s help. He turned back and reached out in the darkness until he felt Steele bump into him.
“I’m here, come on.” Hal grabbed Steele’s hand and together they groped along. It seemed to take forever before they passed through the door into the next coach and finally emerged into the light. Just ahead, at the junction of the next coach, Hal could see Sil and the Thuranni agent struggling to open the side door. The Thuranni kicked the door open, grabbed the gnome, and dove off the moving coach.
Hal reacted quickly, grabbing Steele and shoving him towards the side door on their end of the coach. “Jump! Off! Now!”
“Wait...” Steele protested, but Hal dropped his shoulder and rushed the warforged off the coach. Hal followed right after, and though his skills were a bit rusty, he managed to roll and tumble without breaking anything. He staggered to his feet and looked off into the plains for his quarry.
“Come on!” he said, heading off into the tall grass.
Steele caught his shoulder and spun him around to look at the train dwindling in the distance. The warforged jabbed a finger at the silhouettes of two figures standing on the platform. The gnome was waving as the train sped away.
“Thuranni illusion!” Hal cursed. “Sons of...”
Hal bellowed in frustration.
“Hal,” Steele said softly, “the Mournland is perhaps fifty miles to our west, and though I doubt that trouble can quite hear you there, I would rather not bring a bladetooth—or worse—out of the eastern plains to greet us. It is a long walk to Gatherhold.”
Hal hung his head and started walking south, dragging his axe behind him.
“Sorry,” he said. “How yer holdin’ up?”
“I could use some repairs, I admit,” said Steele.
Hal grinned over at him. “Aye, I reckon. Did yer see the size of the divot yer left back there?”
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