Tesh was a good soldier. Cart saw the way he drew his sword and held it, the determination he hammered out of his fear. Caylen, though, was not a soldier at all. As soon as the foremost worg stepped forward, Caylen yelped a word of arcane power and sent a bolt of flame hurtling toward the creature. It yowled in pain as fire licked across its hide, and then all three worgs sprang to attack.
Cart stepped in front of Caylen to meet the charge of the fire-seared worg. Holding his axe back, he thrust his shield at the leaping beast and deflected it to his left, away from the wizard. As the worg hit the ground, Cart’s axe sliced down and bit into its armored hindquarters. Not a serious wound, but Cart hoped it would at least keep the worg’s attention away from Caylen.
With a rumbling growl, another worg slammed into Cart’s shield and shoulder, knocking him back and scrabbling to pull him to the ground. As he brought his axe around to swing at that one, still another one nipped at his right arm, trying to hold back the blow. With all his strength, he wrenched his shield around, smashing its top edge into the jaw of the worg on his left and hurling it off him. He used that momentum to pull his axe-hand away from the worg on his right and bring it around to cleave into the skull of the one he’d just thrown to the ground.
Keep them alive, Cart thought grimly.
He couldn’t see Tesh, and Caylen was circling nervously around him, trying to keep Cart between himself and any worg. That game would end soon-two worgs were stalking toward him from both sides.
The worg he’d nicked on the flank took advantage of his distraction. Its jaws clenched around his right shoulder and its weight knocked him to the ground. A blaze of agony seared through his chest and arm as the worg bit and tore. His shield arm was pinned beneath him, and his axe was between his body and the worg’s. He tried rolling the creature over, but it was too heavy.
Panic welled in his mind-fear without discipline, a burning and impotent need to run away. Rational thought was no longer possible, and he no longer gave a damn whether the others survived. Flailing his legs in search of leverage, he managed to roll the worg’s weight off, but he still couldn’t free his pinned arm with the shield attached. The worg rewarded his efforts by twisting its teeth in his shoulder, and he heard as well as felt crushing metal and splintering wood. The pain and fear burst from his mouth in an agonized howl.
Three yelps of pain answered Cart’s, and the weight of the worg suddenly lifted off him. His panic got him to his feet before he had any idea what had happened, then his eyes fell on Caylen. The wizard stood in the burning center of a swirling galaxy of tiny stars, his mouth moving in a silent incantation. His tome floated on a column of fire before him, its pages fluttering as light danced across them. Threads of fiery radiance ran from him to three of the worgs and held them suspended in cages formed of searing flame.
Cart glanced around. Tesh was on his knees, shakily getting to his feet next to one of the imprisoned worgs. One worg lay dead where Cart had cleaved its skull, and three were hanging in the air. That left one It sprang at Caylen with a growl, yelped as it passed through the motes of light surrounding the wizard, then slammed into him. The three worgs dropped to the ground as Caylen fell. Cart leaped over the one that had pinned him, swinging his axe at the one on Caylen. In the instant before his blow connected, the worg sank its teeth into Caylen’s throat.
Cart buried his axe in the worg’s skull and sent the creature rolling on the ground away from the wizard, where it lay still. Caylen’s tome fell to the ground, its pages rustling as they settled into place.
CHAPTER 21
Despite the fury of their uncontrolled rush down the canyon wall, the barbarians were disciplined fighters. Without Vor, Kauth and his allies were crippled-they couldn’t coordinate their attacks or cover each other’s defenses. They were hedged in, unable to maneuver into favorable positions, slowly forced apart until each was an island in a sea of enemies. Kauth fought fiercely, mustering all the magic he could to ward himself from the barbarians’ attacks and to make his own weapon strike harder, but he knew it was a futile effort. Zandar was the nexus of a storm of eldritch energy, but Kauth saw the storm drift farther and farther away from him and slowly wane in fury. Sevren growled and roared as he cut around him, tearing flesh and splintering bone, but he soon disappeared under the raging sea.
Kauth saw the Traveler leering at him from the faces of the enemies surrounding him, mocking the foolish convictions that had turned him back from his mission. It was what many people would call the perfect gift of the Traveler-a sudden attack of conscience, an attempt to do the right thing, that immediately ended in disaster. By deciding to save his friends, he somehow led them to their deaths.
His body and his will were flagging. His mace was a heavy weight in his hands, blood ran from a dozen small cuts, and drawing breath wracked his chest with the pain of broken ribs. Using a wand to restore his strength would mean dropping his guard and inviting a killing blow from one of the barbarians pressing in on him. If he didn’t keep his weapon in constant motion, he felt, he would die.
He had one last, desperate hope-a trick worthy of the Traveler herself. Smashing his mace into the nearest barbarian, he changed. He didn’t have time for more than a quick sketch-paler skin, longer hair, scarred cheeks in place of his beard, a thinner nose, a bit shorter and slimmer. He tore off his cloak, threw off his leather cap, and dropped his mace, then scooped up the club of a fallen foe. Kauth died in that instant, and the Carrion Tribes gained a new member.
The barbarians who saw him transform shouted and lunged at him. He barreled into the midst of his foes, let the chaos swallow him, and then completed his transformation. He was one of them-shouting his alarm at the apparent disappearance of his enemy, staring at every nearby face to find the imposter.
“There he is!” The barbarian who had been Kauth pointed at a man about his height and build, and watched as the other barbarians bludgeoned him to death. As he watched, he changed his features again, making his face an exact duplicate of the dying man’s. While his new allies stared at the corpse and struggled to make sense of what had happened, he stooped to pick up another dead man’s heavy iron helm and put it on his head.
A name-he needed a name. What sort of names did the Carrion Tribes give their children?
“Aric, look.” A man next to him hit his arm and pointed. Aric, then-that would be his name.
Aric’s stomach sank as he saw a long pole rise erect in the midst of the barbarians. An iron ring at the top of the pole held a heavy chain, and Zandar hung by his wrists from the chain. A cheer went up from the barbarians, and Aric joined in, celebrating the death or capture of the warlock who had been his friend-in a different life, under a different name. He wanted to vomit.
A second pole went up beside the first, and Aric saw Sevren’s broken body hanging from the chain at its end. Another cheer. Aric remembered riding the Orien coach to Varna and spotting the shifter for the first time.
No, he told himself, that was Kauth, not me.
Both men were still alive, as far as Aric could tell. The gift of the Traveler was complete-in addition to leading his friends to their deaths, the changeling would complete his mission as soon as he decided to abandon it. He cursed the goddess’s ten thousand names.