Free The Swordmage Trilogy Bundle, Volumes 1-3 by Martin Hengst

The elf dropped his bow and arrows in the grass at Torus’ feet, looking up at him with those sad eyes.
    “You’re mad.” Torus’s voice had dropped to a hoarse whisper.
    “If only I were.”
    The elf moved to the side, slowly lifting the flap to the tent that was sagging there. Deep score marks marred the tent post. A footprint in the soft dirt was reminiscent of a dire-wolf, but far larger.
    “A wild animal,” Torus said, half-heartedly. The answering look the elf gave him was no longer sad, but disdainful.
    “What animal do you know of that walks on two legs, like man, and has such deadly claws?”
    Torus didn’t answer. He had nothing to say.
     
    * * *
     
    A mass of black shapes moved along the road toward the village. The pack was silent and only stood out from the night's blackness when the moonlight fell on sleek fur or reflected in luminescent blue eyes. They loped along easily, covering the distance between Aldstock and the sleeping town as fast as a man on horseback.
    The leader stood eight feet high, a full foot or so taller than the tallest of his closest kin. He loped along on powerful hind legs, thickly roped with muscle and designed for springing with terrible speed on unsuspecting prey. His arms were equally powerful, with huge hands and fingers tipped by razor sharp claws that slipped in and out of their sheaths with unconscious agitation.
    Glowing blue eyes were set above a narrow muzzle and strong jaw. The Xarundi's ears were erect and swiveled two and fro, alert for any sound that might indicate danger or detection. He smelled the stench of man and his nose twitched in hunger and anticipation.
    “Where?” growled one of the pack in the guttural tongue of the Xarundi. The language was harsh and sounded very similar to the dialect of their simpler lupine cousins. A series of growls, yips, and snarls served to convey the basics of language.
    “Close. Can't you smell the reek of them?” Zarfensis wrinkled his nose in distaste. The settlements of man were growing entirely too close to the ancient forest. They would need to be shown their proper place and made to respect their rightful masters. Snarling quietly, the High Priest called the clerics up from the rear ranks. Their magic would be needed. First to confuse and cause panic among the prey, second to heal any of the Chosen who might be injured in the struggle against the pink-skinned, hairless, vermin. The infestation spreading across the land like wildfire.
    They were near enough to the settlement now to make out the sentries as they patrolled on the high wooden wall that surrounded the little village. Zarfensis called the darters forward and snarled an order. Four Xarundi raised long, hollow tubes and, as one, fitted darts into the near end. Each feathered dart was tipped in a poison so potent that a mere drop would cause a sleep that lasted for days and might never end. The amount of poison on each dart was enough to kill a fully grown Xarundi. A human would have little protection against its effects.
    “Fire,” Zarfensis growled.
    There were muted thumps as each darter fired his weapon. Up on the wall, the human guards slumped over at their posts. One fell over the outer wall, hitting the ground below like a sack of vegetables collapsing in on itself.
    “Now,” the High Priest growled, dropping his jaw in a grin. “We eat well tonight.”
    The Xarundi closed the distance to the heavy wooden gates with a speed and ferocity that would have terrorized the people of the village, had they had any warning. Without the guards at the top of the wall, the only alert the village would have would be the splintering wood of the Xarundi pulling the gate apart. A feat which they performed with little resistance, as their sharp claws tore easily through wood and pitch.
    The gate fell, and the Xarundi poured into the village, pulling down lanterns and torches as they went, plunging the village into darkness. They crashed into doors, knocking them