PROTECT AND DEFEND THE HEIR OF FROSTMANTLE ONCE MORE …

Aggar was on the far side of the cell, his back to her. He was naked from the waist up and rust-colored hair clung in sweaty strands to the nape of his neck. Muscles rippled along his back and gold rings sparkled on his fingers as he went through the motions of swinging an imaginary axe against an equally insubstantial foe. The many beads and trinkets in his beard clattered and chimed with each practiced movement.

“Finally,” the Tordannon heir said without turning to look at her, not missing a step in a complicated pattern of slices and thrusts. “I’ve been asking for water since midnight.”

“I’m not here to bring you water. I’m here to haul your carcass out of the fire—again.”

At the sound of her voice, Aggar stopped so fast he almost stumbled and whipped about as though yanked by an invisible cord. The color fled from his normally rubicund face, and his green eyes stood out like crown gems.

“Saba? What in the name of Onatar’s huge hairy backside are you doing here?”

ALSO BY
MARSHEILA ROCKWELL

Legacy of the Wolves
Inquisitives Book 3

THE SHARD AXE
©2011 Wizards of the Coast LLC

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Eberron, D&D, Dungeons & Dragons Online, Eberron Unlimited, Wizards of the Coast, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

All Wizards of the Coast characters, and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

Cover art by: Michael Komarck

eISBN: 978-0-7869-5933-4

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v3.1

For generations, all the world of Eberron knew was war. The five nations—Aundair, Cyre, Breland, Karrnath, and Thrane—clashed long after the warring heirs of Galifar had died, allying and attacking as the tides of battle shifted. Then the Mourning—an atrocity no nation claimed—wiped Cyre from the face of Eberron.

THE TREATY OF GALIFAR
ENDED THE LAST WAR.

Though the war is over, the world abounds with reminders of a magical arms race, the spectacular technology born of magic and ambition. The influential dragonmarked houses ply their magical skills in trade instead of weapons. The warforged, a race of living constructs, strive to find a place in a world that resents them. The lightning rail and the elemental airships that once sped weapons across Khorvaire now haul goods and travelers.

THE TREATY OF GALIFAR REDREW BORDERS

Where once a sprawling empire claimed the continent, disparate nations now clutter the landscape. Only four of the Five Nations still stand. Warrior elves defend their ancestral lands in Valenar. Goblins and monsters have established kingdoms of their own and demand recognition. Rebels take old grievances to the streets, and the dragonmarked houses gather power in secret. And no one has forgotten the old hatreds.

THE TREATY OF GALIFAR SPURRED DIPLOMACY

In the shadows of the cities and on the frontiers of the fledgling nations, a new kind of hero arises. They are veterans of the Last War, looking for closure. They are spies tasked with protecting their realm from new threats and old. They are inquisitives investigating crimes, trying to make a living while avoiding the state’s attention. They all want to forget the Last War …

BUT THE LAST WAR

WON’T FORGET THEM.

THE NEXT WAR IS BREWING.

For my three wonderful sons, who put up with a lot of pizza, pleas for “Quiet!” and postponed Mommy time so that this book could be written: you guys make it all worthwhile.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This novel almost died more than once. The fact that it survived to sit on a bookshelf instead of languishing on my hard drive is due in no small part to the heroic efforts, staunch support, and spot-on advice of my wonderful editors, Erin Evans and Nina Hess. Thank you. The fact that it is so much better now than when I first typed the words “Chapter One” so long ago is due largely to the keen eyes, constructive criticism, and encouragement of a number of people, most notably Rebecca S. DeMoss, Erin M. Hartshorn, Stuart Etter, Steven Wilber, Jeff LaSala, Samantha Henderson, Joe Rixman, and Jaime Lee Moyer. Thank you. The fact that it even remotely resembles the world of Dungeons & Dragons Online: Eberron Unlimited is due both to the helpful folks at Turbine and the devoted players who posted detailed walkthroughs on YouTube for newbs like me, especially James Gessner. Thank you. And the fact that I survived to write it at all is due almost entirely to the love and long-suffering of my husband and children (and, of course, Catherine). Thank you, most of all.

I swear to uphold and defend the Code of Galifar, with heart, mind, soul, and steel, until Galifar is once more reunited and at peace. I swear to follow the Code and to administer it justly and impartially, without respect to wealth or position, throughout the Five Nations and beyond.

—Opening lines of the Sentinel
Marshal Oath

Contents

Cover

Other Books by This Author

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Epigraph

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Epilogue

CHAPTER ONE

Zor, Dravago 26, 998 YK
Korthos, Xen’drik.

Sabira Lyet d’Deneith toyed with the glass in her hand as she watched her quarry from the far end of the Wavecrest Tavern’s semicircular bar. The warm tang of ironspice drifted up to tickle her nose and she grimaced, wishing again that she were not here on business. She’d been nursing this same tumbler of Frostmantle Fire for almost an hour now, and she wanted nothing more than to toss it back and signal for the tavernkeep to bring her another, and leave the bottle this time. But even as diluted as it was—and watered down was the only way to get it this far from Khorvaire and the Mror Holds—the potent dwarven spirit still had a dangerous bite that she remembered well from her days on the Karrnathi border. She couldn’t afford to indulge now, but maybe later, after she’d arrested this latest piece of offal.

Her gray eyes narrowed as she studied him over the rim of her glass. Riv Caldamus—probably a spy, definitely a murderer, and also, apparently, a card shark. The changeling—who today was masquerading as a fair-haired human “artifact collector” from Sharn—sat at a table near the bar, dealing out another hand of Jarot’s Bluff. He’d already knocked two players out of the game, and he had a respectable pile of coins in front of him. The pile was half again the size of that of his nearest competitor—a florid, flour-coated man who could only be the village baker—one of the Storrs, judging from the bald pate and paunch. The other remaining player, whose stack was smaller still, was an elf she didn’t know—a ranger by the looks of him, and a frustrated one at that. From the way he chewed on the inside of his cheek, he obviously didn’t care any more for this hand than he had for the last half dozen Caldamus had dealt him. Whether the elf suspected he was being swindled or merely thought he was having a run of bad luck, Sabira couldn’t say, but she was convinced the changeling was cheating. She just couldn’t figure out how.

He wasn’t dealing from the bottom of the deck or using any holdout device she could detect, either hidden up one of his long sleeves or under the table. And other than the players, herself, and Prynn, her partner for this job, no one in the common room had been there throughout the entire game. So the changeling couldn’t be working with an associate. She didn’t bother counting the serving girls or the tavernkeep—there was no chance Sigmund Bauerson or his daughters would collude with an outsider to cheat the locals who were their main source of income. If anything, it would be the other way around. This also precluded the changeling using marked cards, since the deck belonged to the tavern.

Magic was always a possibility, but the reports she’d gotten from Stormreach’s Sentinels Tower hadn’t indicated Caldamus was a practitioner of anything more arcane than subterfuge and disguise. Of course, if the changeling were a spy, he’d have access to all sorts of artificer-wrought toys, any number of which could give him a definite edge in a card game.

Not that it mattered. Whatever clever gadgets Caldamus might be carrying, they’d be no match for a pair of determined Marshals.

Sabira’s latest partner had slipped in unnoticed a few moments ago and was waiting in the shadows by the tavern door, crossbow in hand. Without glancing over at him, Sabira laid a silver sovereign on the bar, their agreed-upon sign. Pushing her stool back, she reached down for the shard axe propped against the bar, her hand curving reflexively around the familiar leather-wrapped haft. The weapon—an adamantine urgrosh, part axe and part spear, with a sharpened Siberys dragonshard forming its spear tip—had been a gift from her days back in the Holds, the only thing she’d taken with her when she’d left that Hostforsaken place. With it in her grasp, she was blessed with the strength, stability, and endurance of the urgrosh’s dwarven makers, and the weapon had served her in good stead over the years.

As it would again today.

She hefted the shard axe onto her shoulder like a jovial woodcutter and then moved casually toward Caldamus’s table. She paused as the baker laid his cards on the table—three queens and two heirs, a configuration commonly known as the Hags. A good hand, but not an unbeatable one.

Caldamus winced. “Oh, tough luck,” he said sympathetically as he spread his own cards out in a fan before him. A United Galifar, five dragons. Now that was an unbeatable hand.

“Damn it!” the baker cried, slamming a meaty fist down on the table and making his single remaining stack of sovereigns jump. He looked like he might lose his breakfast all over the last of his coins. Sabira sympathized; she knew that gut-wrenching feeling all too well.

“Bad beat,” the elf murmured, even as Caldamus began raking in his winnings.

Sabira laughed softly as she shook her head, drawing the players’ attention.

“Something funny?” the baker asked angrily, glaring.

Sabira ignored him, directing her comments at the changeling whose hands had stilled on the coins.

“You know, if you’re going to cheat, you might not want to be so obvious about it. Even hacks like these will catch on eventually.”

The baker spluttered indignantly at that, while the ranger’s almond eyes became slits as Sabira confirmed his suspicions. The elf’s hand began inching toward his belt and the dagger he no doubt kept sheathed there.

“Lucky for you,” Sabira continued, keeping her eyes on Caldamus as she pulled her brooch out from beneath her shirt, where she wore it pinned to a leather cord, “the Sentinel Marshals aren’t interested in copper-ante gamblers.”

“Marshals?” the baker repeated, dumbfounded. He ogled the three enameled heads—lion, dragon, and goat—that made up the chimera of House Deneith and served as the Marshals’ badge of office. The elf wisely pushed back from the table; he wanted no part of what was about to happen. Caldamus’s placid expression remained unchanged as he regarded her and her makeshift pendant with cool blue eyes.

“We are, on the other hand, very interested in murderers, especially those who choose veteran members of the Defender’s Guild for their victims.” She hefted the shard axe off her shoulder, leveling its dragonshard tip at the changeling. “Riv Caldamus, by order of House Deneith, you are under arrest for the murder of Goren ir’Kados of Fairhaven. Stand up—slowly—and place your hands—”

Sabira didn’t get to finish the command. Caldamus moved faster than she’d anticipated, leaping up and sending his chair flying even as he heaved the table at her. Sabira dodged the cascade of cards and coins and sidestepped around the changeling’s impromptu shield just in time to see a crossbow bolt slam into the underside of the table, grazing his neck and nearly pinning his collar to the wood.

As Caldamus dove for cover behind another table, Sabira shouted at her partner.

“Damn it, Prynn, I want him alive! Aim for his hands, not his head!” As much as she’d like to see the changeling dead, he was worth more alive. And a bolt through the hand would make him less of a threat with those damnable daggers of his—

Sabira didn’t have time to complete the thought before one of those very blades came whizzing toward her face. With an oath, she flipped the urgrosh and brought the head of its axe up, knocking the dagger out of the air with a satisfying clang of metal.

“Oh no, you don’t,” she muttered. If that idiot she’d been assigned to work with got her injured—or worse, cost them their quarry—well, she might not kill him, but she’d make sure he was busted back down to a private riding patrol outside Fort Bones. Worse even than sewer patrol here in Stormreach, it was quite possibly the most miserable, degrading assignment a member of House Deneith could get. As she had good cause to know.

Another crossbow bolt slammed into the tavern floor between tables, flushing Caldamus out. Head down, he ran for the cover of the long wooden bar. Bauerson was there waiting for him with a spiked club, protecting the still and the myriad bottles of spirits lined up against the wall behind it.

Blocked by the tavernkeep, Caldamus balked for a moment, eyeing the distance to the kitchen door. Sabira, on the other hand, didn’t waver.

She ran forward, leaping from the seat of a long bench to the top of the table nearest Caldamus. Without breaking stride, she launched herself off the wooden platform at the changeling. Caldamus turned just in time to get his hands up before she hit him and bore him bodily to the floor, her shard axe caught ineffectually between them.

The changeling closed his hands over the haft on either side of her own, and their tumbling roll abruptly slowed as the urgrosh’s enchantment flowed through him, granting him the same rock-like stability she possessed. They fetched up hard against another long bench, Caldamus on top.

Sabira was momentarily nonplussed to find herself staring up at her own face; the changeling had assumed her features during their roll across the tavern floor. Prynn now had a tangle of limbs with two coppery-haired heads as a target, a tactic Caldamus obviously thought would take the other Marshal out of the picture.

Sabira almost laughed aloud at the thought. Prynn wouldn’t hesitate to put a bolt between her ribs if he thought he could take the changeling out as well. As far as the uncompromising lawman was concerned, she had just as much Defender blood on her hands as Caldamus did and deserved no better fate. An opinion the other Marshal would probably be surprised to learn Sabira shared.

But Prynn would have to wait to see her punished another day. Right now, she had a job to do.

Caldamus pushed the shard axe’s haft upward toward Sabira’s throat. She knew she was stronger than him, but she was also far shorter, a bare handful of inches taller than the average dwarf. Any advantage her wiry strength yielded would be negated once he was bestride her, and her options for extricating herself would diminish considerably. She had to act fast.

While her hands were effectively pinned, her legs were still free. Guessing that the changeling’s transformation had gone no further than his neckline, she brought one knee up between his thighs as hard as she could, simultaneously digging her fingernails deep into the tops of his hands.

Caldamus let out a yelp, releasing his hold on the shard axe as his body instinctively curled inward around the pain.

It was all the opening Sabira needed.

She rolled to the left, using the urgrosh as a lever to thrust the changeling off of her while drawing both knees up to her chest and kicking out at him forcefully. The blow sent him crashing into a nearby table. He bounced off its edge and fell, face-forward, onto the sticky tavern floor.

Sabira was on him in an instant, her knee in his spine to keep him down. She set the shard axe aside—well out of his reach—and yanked his arms behind his back. She then pulled a set of steel manacles out of her pouch and shackled his wrists. The magewrought metal would contract or expand with the size of its wearer, ensuring that the changeling would not be able to wriggle out of his bonds, no matter what form he took. Even so, she placed a set of matching manacles around his ankles; the Defender’s Guild was paying a handsome sum for the changeling’s apprehension, and she didn’t want to take any chances with that sort of money. Once he was trussed to her satisfaction, she climbed off and pulled him roughly to his feet.

She patted him down, removing two more daggers from sheaths strapped to his forearms and hidden by the bloused sleeves of his shirt, one from his belt and another from his boot. They were well-balanced blades and would fetch a good price in the Marketplace. She tossed them on the nearest table and nodded at Bauerson.

“For your trouble.”

As she waited for Prynn to join her, she surveyed the common room. Her offer of the daggers had been a bit premature, it seemed; aside from the upended table and several chairs lying on their sides, it had been a clean takedown. Nothing was even broken—a good thing, considering Greigur’s warning that the next time she destroyed a building trying to apprehend a criminal, she’d pay for the damages out of her own House Kundarak account, which was looking decidedly empty these days.

She pushed Caldamus toward the exit. “Move, changeling. And no games, or I’ll have Prynn, here, skewer you where you stand.”

Caldamus, who’d resumed his blond disguise, shuffled toward the door as quickly as the short chain between his ankles would allow, guided by the spear tip of her urgrosh hovering mere inches from his back.

As they crossed the threshold of the Wavecrest, the men that Korthos’s mayor had loaned to the Marshals tensed, weapons ready, and then relaxed again when they saw that the changeling was hobbled. Sabira had stationed two men outside each of the tavern’s exits, on the off chance that Caldamus got past her and Prynn.

She paused to speak to the mayor’s second in command, a middle-aged man with round cheeks who looked more like a farmer than a warrior, his broadsword notwithstanding.

“Good work,” she said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, with calluses to show he came by his position honestly. Despite appearances, his was the toughened palm of the swordsman, not the husbandman.

“Always a pleasure to help the Marshals,” he replied, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Sabira inclined her head in thanks and nudged Caldamus to keep moving with the pointed toe of her boot.

“Always a pleasure to help the Marshals,” the changeling mocked in a falsetto as he stumbled along. “I wonder if he’d feel the same if he knew you had ‘just as much Defender blood’ on your hands as I do?”

Sabira paused in midstride.

Damn it! The changeling was a Khyber-loving mind-reader! That’s how he’d been able to cheat at cards so easily.

She finished her step casually, shifting her urgrosh to her off hand. Then she reached up and grabbed a fistful of blond hair. Though the changeling had several inches on her, she yanked his head back until his ear was beside her mouth, eliciting a painful sounding pop from somewhere in his lower back as he contorted awkwardly to keep from falling.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asked, her tone cloyingly sweet as she twisted her fist and felt his hair begin to pull out at the root. “I’m afraid I didn’t quite hear you.”

The changeling wasn’t cowed, though his words were forced through clenched teeth.

“Another member of the Guild, wasn’t he? Congratulations. I’m sure that earned you a nice sum. But then, you didn’t do it for the money, did you?”

Sabira was acutely aware that Prynn and the mayor’s men were watching this exchange—the men with interest and the Marshal with something less pleasant. She let go of Caldamus’s hair and spun him around to face her.

That was a mistake. The changeling had delved deeper into her thoughts than she would have thought possible and now wore the visage of a dark-haired man with laughing brown eyes and a scar over his left eyebrow.

Leoned.

With a growl, Sabira cocked her arm back and drove her elbow up into that too-familiar face with such force that the changeling’s jaw shattered, spraying them both with warm blood. Caldamus stumbled, tripping over his fetters, and fell backward, slamming his head hard against the packed earth. He groaned once, then lay still, his face reverting to its natural, almost featureless state as he slipped into unconsciousness.

In the silence that followed, Sabira bent down to check his pulse, which was regrettably both strong and regular. She gingerly wiped her elbow clean on the front of his shirt and then stood and looked at Prynn.

“A little help here?”

The taciturn Marshal grabbed Caldamus’s limp body and slung the changeling over his shoulder. Though Prynn said nothing, his disapproval was obvious in every frown and glower he directed her way. Sabira ignored him. She’d done it all the way from Stormreach and she intended to do so all the way back, until she could finally be rid of him and his glaring condemnation, deserved or not.

As Sabira returned her shard axe to the quick-release harness she wore on her back, she looked over the crowd of villagers who had gathered. Most had probably never seen a Marshal in action before, but whatever tales the locals might have heard about the legendary keepers of law and order, Sabira was sure she didn’t live up to them.

“I do so love these nice, relaxing trips to the islands,” she quipped to no one in particular, giving the crowd a wave. Then she turned away and headed down the hill to the docks, not bothering to look to see if Prynn followed or if anyone waved back.

CHAPTER TWO

Zor, Dravago 26, 998 YK
Aboard the Sojourn, somewhere between Shargon’s Teeth and Stormreach.

Caldamus woke a few hours later, coughing up clotted blood and moaning loudly. Sabira looked up from the broadsheet she’d been reading as he writhed on his bunk, testing both his manacles and the wooden support they were secured to. Then he twisted his head around and glared at her.

“Ith thith how the vaunted Thentinel Marthalth treat prithonerth?” The demand was made comical by the changeling’s effort to force so many sibilants through a jaw swollen partially shut, and Sabira couldn’t help but laugh. She stopped short of mocking him in kind, catching the dark look Prynn cast down at her from his place atop the second bunk.

“Well, considering we had the option of bringing you in dead, I’m not sure I’d be complaining.”

“How noble,” Caldamus sneered, twisting his ruined lip into a smirk. He could speak almost normally if he avoided certain words.

Sabira ignored the gibe, turning her attention back to the broadsheet. But she continued to watch him from beneath long lashes. Though she knew his bonds would hold, she’d been tracking him for the better part of a month; it wouldn’t do to let her guard down now.

“Like you did with me?”

It was Leoned’s voice, albeit husky and halting. She knew she shouldn’t look, but she couldn’t help herself.

The changeling wore Leoned’s face again, and the sight of purpling flesh beneath those brown eyes that knew her so well was almost more than she could bear.

It’s not him. I didn’t break his jaw. I’d never do anything to hurt him.

Leoned’s bruised mouth barked an incredulous laugh.

“Oh, but you did, didn’t you, Thaba?”

It was the lisp that saved her, that allowed her to tear her gaze away from his, to remember that this wasn’t Leoned, just some damnable changeling who had no other weapons to fight with, so he was using her own against her.

“Very clever.”

Aggar’s voice this time, and the familiar, much-hated dwarven intonations surprised her so much she had to look again.

Green eyes glared out at her from a ruddy face, while hair far redder than her own sprouted from his chin in a long, multibraided beard that obscured all evidence of her handiwork.

“Enough!” Sabira growled angrily, rising from her seat and crossing the small cabin in two strides. She drew her fist back to strike the changeling again, and his features morphed once more, this time into those of another dark-haired man with the least Mark of Sentinel still visible beneath the bruising and the blood. The sight stayed her hand.

Elix?

What possible reason would Caldamus have for taking on his face? She hadn’t even been thinking of him.

Had she?

No, it was just another trick to buy the changeling a few more precious moments of consciousness. Which were going to end now.

“Don’t do it, Marshal.”

She looked up to see Prynn, his crossbow loaded and not quite aimed at her. She lowered her arm slowly, calculating the range, knowing there was no way she could dodge the bolt if he let it fly.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I know your reputation, and I’ve seen the truth of it with my own eyes. You’re not harming another unarmed prisoner on my watch.”

Sabira snorted at that. The longest two sentences the man had uttered since he’d come down from Fairhaven and they’d been assigned to work together, and they were in defense of a murderer. As Caldamus would say, how noble.

“Unarmed? A changeling who reads minds? Is that what passes for a joke in Aundair?”

The crossbow leveled out, and now there was no question as to where it was aimed.

“Fine.” Sabira gritted the word out between teeth clenched so tightly her head began to ache. “You deal with him. I’m heading topsides.”

She tossed the broadsheet aside and stormed out of the cabin. The changeling’s smug laughter followed her out the door and up the nearest ladder until she was out of earshot.

Sabira found a crate amidships and settled back against it so that she could watch the sun setting red over the Thunder Sea. If she’d stayed in that cabin any longer, with Caldamus dredging up faces from her past and Prynn basking in self-righteousness, she would have stuck the spear tip of her urgrosh through somebody’s eye. She knew she shouldn’t have left them alone—if Caldamus could stroll through her thoughts, there was no telling what he might do with Prynn’s, since she knew the other Marshal didn’t have the benefit of the same mental training that she did. She half hoped Caldamus was even now tormenting the stalwart lawman with lost opportunities and past loves.

Then again, as straitlaced as Prynn was, maybe he’d never done anything he regretted, and it was Caldamus who was burning with frustration as only the most virtuous and honorable of thoughts confronted him. Either way, one of them would be suffering, so she’d count it as a win.

No, she’d wait a bit before heading back belowdecks. Might as well enjoy the sunset while she could.

“You look like you could use some of this.”

Sabira looked up to see the Sojourn’s first mate, Valeria Sinderwind, lounging against the mast. The elf woman carried a fat brown bottle with a tan label.

“Tell me that’s not more of that pigswill Bauerson was trying to pass off as decent grog.”

Valeria laughed.

“Old Sully’s? Hardly. This is the good stuff—Aundairian—from Captain Rinar’s personal stock.”

Sabira didn’t need any more encouragement. She held out her hand and Valeria passed the bottle over. Sabira took a long, appreciative draught, letting the fruity vintage cascade over her tongue and down her throat in a torrent of sweetness. She closed her eyes and savored the lingering taste before handing the bottle back reluctantly.

“So, will you be heading back to Khorvaire now?”

Sabira didn’t answer immediately. She’d come to Xen’drik chasing another killer almost a year ago, found him already dead, and had never bothered to leave. The head of the local House Deneith enclave, Greigur d’Deneith, always seemed to have enough work to keep her in coin. Perhaps more important, he didn’t generally have the same problems with her heavy-handed tactics that her superiors back in Karrnath did.

But she’d met Valeria on that first job, and the two had struck up a conversation over drinks at the Leaky Dinghy. They’d been friends ever since, and the feisty sailor wasn’t likely to buy either of those excuses, when they both knew the real reason Sabira had stayed in Stormreach.

Because it was about as far away from Karrnath as it was possible to get and still have any authority as a Marshal. And being a Marshal was all Sabira had left.

“Not quite done with this job, yet,” she said at last, wishing Valeria would offer her another drink and knowing she’d have to refuse if the elf woman did. She was still technically on duty until they got Caldamus back to Sentinels Tower. And while Greigur might tolerate a lot of shortcomings in his Marshals, public drunkenness wasn’t one of them. “Speaking of which, I’d better get back down there.”

Valeria chuckled, shaking her head.

“Always hedge your bets, don’t you? You want us to drop you at the enclave?”

Sabira stood, brushing at the back of her pants.

“Not this time. Tyn’ll be there, and I still owe her money from the last fight at Hammersmith’s.”

“Say no more. The harbor it is.”

Sabira nodded her thanks and then turned and walked away from the sailor’s thoughtful gaze.

When Sabira entered the cabin, Prynn was standing over Caldamus, crossbow in hand. The Marshal was red from his collar to the tips of his over-large ears, and his face was murderous. A quick glance at Caldamus showed the changeling wearing a woman’s visage, a half-elf with hair the color of honey and wide violet eyes.

Prynn cocked his crossbow, heedless of Sabira’s entrance. Caldamus was speaking in a throaty whisper that echoed with longing.

“I would have repudiated my family for you, Dallen, given up the Medani name.…”

“Julanna!” Prynn’s voice was a broken sob, and his hands shook as he aimed his weapon.

Sabira reached out and grabbed his arm, forcing it down and forcing him to look at her, not at the changeling who wore the face of his forbidden love.

“Don’t do it, Marshal,” she said, giving him his own words back, but without rancor. “He’s not worth it.”

She held his gaze for a moment, waiting for the grief she saw there to clear. When it did, she released him and then stepped forward, blocking the changeling from the other Marshal’s vision. She bent to pick up her discarded broadsheet, wadding it into a tight ball as big as her fist as she regarded the changeling.

Predictably, he donned Leoned’s features again, but she was ready for it this time, and it was just another face. She leaned over and grabbed Caldamus roughly by his hair. When he opened his mouth to complain, she shoved the crumpled broadsheet in far enough to gag him. Then she let his head fall back, eliciting a muffled moan as his broken jaw slapped against the mattress.

She looked up at Prynn, who was regarding her warily.

“If I’d been alone, I’d have made sure he stayed unconscious for the whole trip.” She held up a hand to forestall any protest, though she wasn’t sure Prynn would offer one now. Or perhaps she should start calling him ‘Dallen.’ Since all Sentinel Marshals were sons and daughters of Deneith, they generally identified each other by family name as opposed to house name. Given names were reserved for clients and close intimates, though most Marshals had far more of the former than of the latter—theirs was a lonely job that carried them continuously across the Five Nations and beyond, leaving little time for building relationships. And more than that, it was dangerous, and often brought untimely and violent ends to the few relationships a Marshal was able to build.

Which made her think of Leoned, and nothing good could come of that. She forced a roguish grin as she pushed his laughing dark eyes out of her mind and focused on Prynn.

“Now I know you have this thing about harming unarmed prisoners, but I’m assuming you’ll at least consent to keeping him gagged?”

“And hooded,” the other Marshal replied having regained his composure. He pulled out an empty haversack from his pack and tossed it to her.

Sabira’s smile came free and quick this time as she caught the sack out of the air with one hand.

“You know, Prynn, it’s too bad we have to part ways after this job. I might have made a decent partner out of you, after all.”

Sul, Nymm 1, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

They came into the harbor a few hours before daybreak, guided by the Stormreach lighthouse and the gigantic statue of the Emperor that rose majestically over the black water, a great beam of light stabbing up into the sky from his outstretched hands. Beyond those beacons, the city itself blazed along the darkened cliffs of Xen’drik’s coastline like a web spun from fallen stars.

Rinar d’Thuranni maneuvered the Sojourn expertly through the crowded harbor and into its berth. The gangplank had barely slapped against the wood of the dock before Sabira and Prynn were on it, taking leave of Valeria and the rest of the crew as they shoved the recalcitrant Caldamus before them.

Even at this hour, the harbor was teeming with ships being loaded and unloaded, mercenaries and scholars readying themselves for dawn expeditions into the interior, and merchants and thieves galore—though it wasn’t always easy to tell the difference between those last two, if indeed there was any.

As the Marshals hurried their prisoner along the pier and up the nearest cliffside ramp to the city’s higher levels, Sabira saw a flash of yellow out of the corner of her eye.

Damn. That busybody, Mari Mosshand, with her loud voice and louder clothes, had seen them. Word of their arrival would travel quickly and reach many interested ears along the way. Maybe they should have gone straight to the House Deneith docks, after all. Well, there was nothing for it now, except to move as quickly as possible.

Sabira led Prynn and Caldamus through the Harbormaster’s Plaza, passing beneath the shadow of the Founder’s Commemorative Fountain, a towering statue of a sahuagin being either crushed or embraced by serpents, depending on who you asked. Even as they hurried toward the lights of the airship tower and the wooden suspension bridge that led to the Marketplace, Sabira was struck yet again by the oddities of Stormreach’s architecture.

Once a city of giants, Stormreach still bore the marks of its original settlers, even tens of thousands of years and countless occupying cultures later. The statue of the giant Emperor Cul’sir that watched over the harbor was only the most obvious of these, but ghosts of the past haunted every quarter of the sprawling city. Massive broken pillars and crumbling stone faces the size of boulders littered courtyards, and the city had grown up around the remnants of colossal walls that now served to divide its many districts. The ancient detritus was a constant reminder to the populace that, no matter how many generations had passed, they were still interlopers here and always would be.

But the people of Stormreach were nothing if not pragmatic. The giants who built the city were long gone, and their artifacts had been appropriated to form homes for the newcomers, with little thought or care for their original purpose.

And what a sight those homes were! While some could have been lifted whole from any of the nations of Khorvaire—a Thranish manor with Flamic curves here or a floating tower reminiscent of Sharn there—most were a mishmash of cultures, styles, and materials. The resourceful citizens had incorporated whatever was handy, including the hulls of shipwrecked vessels salvaged from the harbor and the trunks of the huge palm-like trees that grew all over the city like oversized weeds.

The overall effect was surprisingly cohesive and strangely beautiful, and Sabira feared that when she returned to Khorvaire, the architecture of even that continent’s greatest cities would seem bland in comparison.

If she returned.

Sabira shook the thought away as they passed through the Marketplace gates and entered the courtyard in front of the Market Barracks. A handful of new recruits for the Stormreach Guard were already there, training in the predawn light. They were a sorry sight—drunkards, ne’er-do-wells, and outright criminals who’d been turned away by House Deneith because their skills were lacking. Not to mention hygiene, rudimentary intelligence, and any concept of the word “honor.”

As they clattered down yet another set of carved stone stairs, Prynn moved into the lead, heading for the sprawling red tent that covered the Marketplace’s iconic bazaar.

“No, let’s go this way,” Sabira said, indicating a narrow alleyway behind a huge broken pipe. The sound of cascading water was loud in her ears; the pipe had once been part of Stormreach’s massive sewer system but was now the centerpiece of a waterfall and pool that were popular with bards and young lovers. “It’ll be faster.”

“Why the hurry? The captain won’t even be there to sign off on our fee until after the morning exercises.”

Sabira looked at him askance.

“I’m meeting someone,” she said shortly. She didn’t have any actual appointments scheduled, but with Mari’s big mouth leading the way, Sabira was sure she’d have a least one visitor this morning. Tyn wasn’t the only one she owed money to.

Prynn gave her a knowing grin but kept blessedly silent as he gestured for her to lead the way.

They took a right at the Statler brothers’ saloon and headed up the north branch of Silversmith Road to the Deneith enclave. As they approached the massive gates, Sabira wondered again at the purple symbol that adorned the gates, and indeed, all of the quarter claimed by House Deneith.

In all her time in Stormreach, she’d never gotten a satisfactory answer about what the symbol was supposed to represent. The most common response was that the mountainous-looking design was a stylized version of Sentinels Tower itself, with the jagged shoulders depicting the long stairways that wound up either side of the massive edifice. According to proponents of this theory, the purple color merely signified the stone from which the tower was carved. As a native of Karrnath, the birthplace of House Deneith, Sabira had always found this explanation lacking. Yellow and green were the traditional colors of her house, and the fact that they had not been used at all in the emblem that had come to symbolize Deneith to the rest of Stormreach lent credence to another theory whispered in the halls of Sentinels Tower. Namely, that the device was the embodiment of Captain Greigur’s monumental ego and the royal color a hint as to his far-reaching aspirations.

Once through the gates, they hurried past the crossed hammer and anvil spinning lazily in front of Hammersmith’s Inn, around the central fountain of Knight’s Watch—a Deneith chimera, almost as ubiquitous here as Greigur’s damson mountain—and right into the middle of Soroth’s latest batch of recruits.

“… in just a few days, we will face the enemy,” the grizzled soldier barked from his place at the top a set of nearby stairs. “We will face the enemy—and we will destroy them! Because no enemy, no matter how strong, can stand against House Deneith!”

Shoving her way through the crowd of eager youngsters, Sabira couldn’t help but feel her heart quicken in response to Soroth’s rousing speech.

“We fight for many reasons. We fight to protect this city. We fight because we are paid to. But there is one reason that stands above the rest.…”

As she and Prynn exited the Watch and propelled their prisoner up the long climb to Sentinels Tower, the climax of Soroth’s address to his troops echoed in her ears.

“… we fight for the glory of House Deneith!”

Sabira reflexively mouthed the words that she knew so well from countless similar speeches she’d heard throughout her career, but even as she did, she wondered if she really still believed them.

The public entrance to Sentinels Tower was a wide but defensible corridor that curved around to the right before opening up into a cavernous room that spanned two stories. In the middle of the room, a grand staircase wound its way up to the second floor, with a wide landing from which Greigur would often address those assembled below. Chandeliers hung from the high ceiling and stone balconies overlooked much of the room, which often hosted balls and elaborate military functions.

This morning, however, the room was empty, save for a few soldiers hurrying about their business. The Marshals eschewed the stairs, heading for a doorway on the left. After a few twists and turns through halls boasting statuary and many fine paintings, they entered the euphemistically named custody suite.

Once inside, they shoved Caldamus into a chair. Sabira paced the thick Brelish rug while Prynn—nominally the lead Marshal on this assignment, since Caldamus was wanted in his jurisdiction—spoke with a clerk half obscured by a tall, highly polished desk. Like all the public areas of Sentinels Tower, the displayed riches served as a not-so-subtle reminder to clients and criminals alike that House Deneith services did not come cheap and that they were worth every copper crown.

The walls were lined with magewrought wanted notices, complete with rotating portraits that showed the criminals in question from all angles. The posters were artistically arranged on the walls and sported ornate gilt frames, the smallest of which was worth enough to feed a family of halflings for a month.

Even more impressive than the lifelike notices were two large maps that dominated opposite walls, one showing all of Xen’drik and the other detailing Stormreach itself. Though not magewrought as far as Sabira could see, the maps had been inked with incredible skill; she was sure she could make out individual dunes in the Menechtarun Desert if she stood close enough, or count the number of pennants that flew from Lordsmarch Palace.

But as with anything Deneith, even the most opulent fixture served a practical purpose. Though she’d yet to see them in action herself, Sabira knew that the intricate carved dragon heads that overlooked this room and many others in the tower, along with most of its hallways, were more than mere decorations or shows of wealth. Hidden within the toothsome mouths were apertures that would rain down acid, alchemist’s fire, and other unpleasant substances in the event of an attack.

“So, who have you got for us, Marshal?”

Sabira found the notice she wanted on the wall and tore it out of its frame. She held it up next to Caldamus’s face.

“We’ve got this one. Riv Caldamus, wanted for the murder of Goren ir’Kados, late of Fairhaven.”

The clerk—Sorn, if she remembered right—glanced coolly at her. “Doesn’t look much like his picture.”

Sabira flashed him a coy smile. “Do they ever?”

“Not when you bring them in,” Sorn muttered, but Sabira continued on as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Poor thing ran into someone’s elbow while trying to evade arrest. It’s so hard to keep the prisoners safe when they insist on running.”

Sorn’s lips twisted, but Sabira wasn’t sure if he was trying to hide a frown or a smirk.

“So. Where do you want him?” Sabira asked, tucking the wanted notice into the collar of the changeling’s shirt like some fancy napkin.

“Holding,” the clerk answered and gestured over his shoulder to a wooden door inset with a small barred window. As Sabira propelled Caldamus toward the door, Prynn stepped forward.

“I’ll take him,” he said, and Sabira saw a hard glint in his eye that hadn’t been there back on Korthos. Fairly certain the dark look was meant for the changeling and not her, Sabira released her hold. If Prynn wanted to get in a last lick or two before Caldamus was handed over to the Defender’s Guild, far be it from her to stop him.

“I’ll take care of the paperwork, then,” she said, watching the other Marshal shove their prisoner across the threshold with a bit more force than was absolutely necessary. Turning back to the clerk, she couldn’t quite suppress an approving smile.

Sorn raised an eyebrow at her expression but kept his thoughts to himself. Probably a wise choice on his part.

He pushed a neat pile of forms across to her to sign. She didn’t bother reading them; they never changed. Yes, she (and, in this case, Prynn) had a contract to bring in this particular criminal, authorized by Baron Breven himself. As the patriarch of House Deneith and the titular head of the Sentinel Marshals, all contracts went through him first, though she’d be willing to bet the Baron paid those mountains of paper no more mind when adorning them with his signature than she was doing now, embossing this much smaller stack with her own.

Yes, the criminal had been advised of the charges against him before being taken into custody and no, no laws of the nation in which the apprehension had taken place had been violated in the process of said apprehension. Because answering yes to that one meant filling out a detailed report, and there was no way in Khyber that was going to happen. Sabira had places to be—or, rather, places not to be. She just wanted to collect her portion of the fee and get off the streets as quickly as possible.

“Sorry,” Sorn answered in response to her request, taking the proffered papers and tapping them back into an orderly pile. “I’m not authorized to release those funds yet. Captain Greigur has to approve the paperwork first. Come back in an hour. Everything should be ready by then.”

Sabira bit back an impatient sigh. She’d brought in enough bounties here to know she wasn’t going to be able to get them to move any faster, either with pleading or with threats. And graft was out of the question—everyone knew Sentinel Marshals could not be bribed; that and their avowed neutrality were what made them the most sought-after law enforcement agents in the Five Nations and beyond. And even if it were an option, if she had the kind of money it would take to influence a Marshal’s hand, she wouldn’t need this fee so badly in the first place.

She managed a smile that could only be mistaken for polite from a distance, and then only in dim lighting.

“Fine. I’ll be over at Hammersmith’s. If you finish early, send someone over to fetch me, would you?”

Sorn shrugged, and Sabira figured that was as close to an assent as she was likely to get out of him.

She left Sentinels Tower and headed back down to Knight’s Watch and Hammersmith’s, keeping her head down. She made it to the inn without anyone accosting her and, once inside, went straight to the bar and ordered a bottle of Frostmantle Fire. With any luck, she might even get to enjoy some of it before one of her creditors came calling.

While waiting for one of the serving women to bring a bottle out from the back, she turned on her stool to survey the common room. It was high-ceilinged, with wide darkwood beams arching over a large central space dotted with tables and chairs, most of which were still empty at this hour. Purple and green banners hung between the rafters, each depicting one of the three heads of the Deneith chimera—dragon, lion, or goat. Everbright lanterns designed to look like huge dragonshards dangled on long chains, and similarly shaped lanterns glowed from numerous wall sconces, bathing the room’s few patrons in a soft bluish light.

Morin Axelson was asleep facedown in a puddle of drool and ale at the table nearest her, while a warforged named Arcturon stood a few feet behind him, guarding the arched entrance to the fighting areas down below. Across from him, the bard, Colin Ziele, was busy playing for yet another of his string of female admirers. Sabira wasn’t sure why the man was so popular—it certainly couldn’t be because of his music.

The final tavern dweller was a large, hirsute man dressed in woodland colors. A mug rested on the table in front of him, but by the ring of moisture collected at its base, it was clear he wasn’t drinking from it.

He met her gaze over the top of the mug, and Sabira cursed inwardly as he shoved back from his table and made his way over to her, drink forgotten. Apparently he’d taken eye contact as an invitation. Just what she needed to make this morning perfect—the opportunity to fend off the advances of a soldier who, by the looks of him, had taken one too many jobs in the jungles.

She turned away as he approached, reaching for the full tumbler the server had left on the curved counter in front of her. She kept track of the man’s progress in the myriad reflections of the bottles lining the back of the bar; she wouldn’t turn her back on a potential adversary, even if his only attack was likely to be a bad pickup line.

The man sat on the stool next to her, undeterred. His eyes found hers again in the scarlet glass of a flask of Brelish redeye brandy. He nodded to the drink in her hand.

“Bad habit, Lyet. But, then, you have a lot of those, don’t you?”

Sabira narrowed her eyes, regarding him in the bottle.

“Do I know you?” The man looked more like he belonged to House Tharashk than to Deneith.

“I know you. Who wouldn’t? Even without that,” he said, gesturing toward her urgrosh. “You’re the only Marshal in Stormreach known for drowning her sorrows in dwarven whiskey.”

He smiled at her unpleasantly, and Sabira saw that he had more than a few broken teeth. “In fact, the only surer way to identify you than your taste for Mrorian liquor is by your tendency to lose badly at card games held in the backrooms of seedy dockside taverns. But I’m guessing even the boys at the Dinghy wouldn’t stake you at this point, now would they?”

Ah. Now she knew who he was. Or rather, what.

One of Sollego’s enforcers.

Apparently she wasn’t going to get to enjoy her drink after all.

CHAPTER THREE

Sul, Nymm 1, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

Even as she thought it, the enforcer reached out and grabbed her left arm. A skin-prickling wave washed over her and the common room began to spin and waver. Then it disappeared with a nauseating wrench.

Sabira squeezed her eyes shut to keep from vomiting and focused on the enforcer’s hand on her arm. As soon as she felt him relax, she knew the teleportation was complete. She didn’t have to open her eyes to guess where they were, especially once she’d gotten a good whiff of the rank air.

The sewers beneath the Marketplace. More specifically, the run-down area of the cloacal system claimed as a hideout by Hosha Sollego’s Quickfoot Gang. Judging from the faint echo and fainter breeze, they were in one of the many large rooms that could be found throughout the sewers, their original purpose lost in time and long forgotten.

Slitting her eyes open—the semidarkness would only disorient her further, something Sollego was probably counting on—Sabira grabbed the enforcer’s wrist with her right hand and twisted sharply, simultaneously driving her left elbow into the man’s prodigious gut. The blow had all her weight behind it, and it was enough to break the enforcer’s hold and drive the air out of him in a surprised whoosh.

Momentarily free, she thrust away from him, loosening her shard axe from its harness. She whirled around to face the others she knew must be there.

There was no one. Instead, a soft sound from above drew her eyes upward, just in time to see a thick net descending upon her from out of the gloom. She dived to the side, slashing at the heavy rope with the axe-blade of her urgrosh as she did so, but the net was too slack and too big for either maneuver to have any effect. As the weight settled on her and bore her to the damp floor, she heard an amused chuckle.

She twisted her head—the only part of her body that could do more than wriggle under the magical rope—toward the source of the laughter and found herself staring at Sollego himself. A smallish man who would pass unremarked in a crowd, the Quickfoot leader sat cross-legged on the floor across from her. With one hand, he absently stroked the head of an iron defender, as if the dog-like collection of iron plates, spikes, and bars were some sort of beloved pet instead of a construct whose sole purpose was to fight and kill for its master.

Sollego’s face was half hidden by the ridiculous eye masks his gang favored, but Sabira would recognize those rheumy blue eyes anywhere. She saw them often enough in her nightmares.

“Sabira. I can’t believe you’d come back to Stormreach without stopping to pay me a visit. And here I thought we were friends, you and I. I’m so very disappointed to learn otherwise.”

Sabira attempted a shrug beneath the pressing weight of the net, which seemed to be getting heavier with every breath. The combined odors of kobold scat and sun-spoiled fish were filling her nostrils, making breathing not only difficult, but decidedly unpleasant.

“Patience is a gambler’s best friend, Hosha. A stakeman’s, too. I would’ve had the money in another quarter-bell.”

Give or take.

Sollego’s smile widened.

“A song I never tire of hearing, my dear. Because it always ends with more money in my pocket.” He looked over her head at the enforcer. “How much did she owe before this latest disappointment, Heith?”

“The original loan amount was five platinum dragons. She was three months in arrears, so as of this morning, she owed eight dragons, two galifars, three sovereigns, and one crown.”

So, the muscle had a brain. If Heith was any indication of the sort of men Sollego surrounded himself with, Sabira was going to be forced to rethink her estimation of the gang leader. Perhaps his continued freedom was due to something more than the incompetence of the Stormreach Guard.

A possibility that did not bode well for her.

“And now?”

“Now her interest rate doubles. Assuming you’re kind enough to give her until Lharvion to pay her debt, she will then owe you … ten dragons, one galifar, and four crowns.”

A small groan escaped Sabira, not entirely due to the ever-increasing pressure of the net against her chest and lungs.

“I’m sorry, Heith, there was some noise—probably a rodent of some sort. How much did you say she’d be bringing me?”

“One …”

Though it shouldn’t have, the first kick took her by surprise, as the toe of Heith’s boot slammed into the vulnerable space between rib and hip.

“Two …”

Another kick to the same spot, and Sabira could not contain a sharp yelp as pain blossomed in her side and stars flashed momentarily before her eyes.

“Another rat? We really need to see about getting this placed cleaned up.” Sabira’s eyes were squeezed shut against the spreading fire in her kidney, but she could hear the smirk in the gang leader’s voice. “Too much noise always makes me lose count. Start again, please.”

Sabira tried to curl into a ball, to present as small a target as possible, but the heavy net made it impossible. It was all she could do to try and relax as she waited for the next blow—tensing up would only make it hurt worse later.

“One …”

He started at her feet this time, and Sabira clenched her teeth to keep from screaming as the small bones were mashed between his bulky boot and the slick stone floor.

By the time he’d started counting off crowns, she had at least one broken rib, several deep muscle bruises, and what was probably a ruptured spleen. She’d bitten through her lip in her effort to stay silent throughout the beating, and warm blood slid down her throat, threatening to choke her.

“Four …”

Even on the edge of consciousness, Sabira knew the last blow would be the worst, and she grasped her shard axe with all of her remaining strength, trying vainly to draw vitality from its leather-wrapped haft.

“… and one last …”

A kick to her throat, nearly crushing her windpipe.

“… copper …”

One to her cheek, shattering her jaw.

“… crown.”

The last kick hit her temple, and Sollego’s laughter mixed with a sound of rushing wind in her ears to follow her down into darkness.

Sabira woke to feel her head being lifted gently and someone carefully pouring a thick liquid that tasted like overripe Orla-un berries past her mangled lip and down her near-ruined throat.

As warmth spread through her, Sabira’s eyes fluttered open to see Heith bent over her. Her first reaction was to push away, but he was too strong and she was too weak.

“Relax,” he said, tightening his grip on the back of her neck. “It’s just a healing potion.”

He laughed at her quizzical look.

“Can’t very well pay back your debt if you’re dead.”

True enough. And here she’d actually entertained the thought that he might have been healing her out of the kindness of his heart.

She could feel a deep, aching throb as bones began to knit themselves back together and flesh scarred over, a month’s worth of healing occurring in a matter of moments. But despite being able to move again—a fact she ascertained by jerking out of Heith’s grasp and scrambling to her feet—the pain from her beating was still there, evident in every tender breath, every jagged step.

Heith laughed again as she glared at him.

“The pain will fade in a day or so. Just a little reminder to inspire you on to bigger and more profitable assignments. Sollego won’t be this generous again.”

He didn’t have to finish the thought, but it was clear enough. If this was the gang leader’s idea of generosity, she didn’t want to know what he was like when he was feeling uncharitable.

Sabira didn’t respond, merely brushed the dirt off her clothes and cast about for her shard axe. It seemed to have disappeared, along with Sollego, his iron defender, and his magical net of oppressing stench. She swallowed and nearly choked on a sharp, sinking sensation that had nothing to do with her injuries.

Surely he hadn’t taken the urgrosh as collateral? The value of the flawless Siberys shard alone was easily twice what she owed. But the weapon was worth far more to her than simple money, and if she’d lost it over some stupid gambling debt …

“Relax,” Heith said again, producing the shard axe from the shadows behind him and offering it to her. “He’s not stupid; he’d hardly take your only real means of repaying your debt, especially since it’s obvious you’ll never make the money you owe at the card table.”

She reached for the weapon, and he pulled it back, forcing her to take a step closer. As she did, he lunged forward and grabbed her left arm.

“Bit of advice, Marshal,” he said softly, his breath rancid on her cheek. He shoved her shard axe at her, and, as she took the proffered weapon, she toyed with the idea of using it to gut him. “You’re a good player—could be a great one—but you’ve got to learn to quit while you’re ahead.”

With that, Heith disappeared, but not before Sabira caught a glimpse of something like pity in his eyes. It occurred to her then to wonder what a man who could figure rates like a Kundarak accountant was doing working for someone like Sollego. And if his parting comment even had anything to do with cards.

Sabira dismissed the musing with an irritated shrug: Leave philosophy to the students at the University of Wynarn, where they had the luxury of time and funds to pursue it. Right now, she had to find her way out of these Hostforsaken tunnels before something even more unpleasant than the stench dogged her footsteps.

She surveyed the large room she was in, peering up toward the darkness that shrouded the ceiling. Whatever the giants had originally used these chambers for—maintenance of some sort, most likely—they were now a favorite haunt of enormous spiders, and she fully expected to see a garland of cocooned bodies suspended from a network of vast, sticky webs.

Surprisingly, what she could see of the ceiling appeared to be free of webbing, but for a moment the image of another, much larger chamber superimposed itself over this one. And in that phantom space—a cavern, far underground—a body did dangle from the heights, though it was wrapped in thick chains rather than silk.

Sabira cursed and shook the vision away. Damn Caldamus and his mental trespassing, dredging up memories she’d traveled so far and spent so much time—and coin—trying to suppress! Assuming she made it out of this rats’ warren before the changeling was shipped off to Khorvaire, she just might have to pay him one last visit and do to his mind what he’d done to hers. Of course, not being a telepath, her trek through his brain would be quite a bit bloodier.

A quick perusal of the room’s perimeter showed only one exit, so Sabira hefted her shard axe and headed for the opening, sidestepping an oily-looking puddle. Once in the corridor beyond, she scanned the floors and walls for anything not covered in grime or moss. The Quickfoot Gang had a well-known fondness for traps, but any mechanism they used would have to be retrofitted onto the giants’ preexisting architecture and so should look newer—or at least somewhat less filthy—than the area around it.

She almost didn’t see the first one in time. The sewers below Stormreach had all manner of seemingly pointless features, from valves that did nothing to stairs that went nowhere. Some of the most bizarre were the carved heads that dotted the walls at random intervals. Shaped like screaming mephits, the heads might once have been part of some ancient drainage system but now did nothing more than frighten unsuspecting explorers who came upon them in the dark.

Well, most of them did nothing. Some, like the pair she’d just triggered, sprayed acid from those gaping maws onto unobservant passersby.

Sabira jumped back before the vile green stream could make contact, though a few errant drops landed on one thigh and burned partway through the hardened leather cuisse she wore. As soon as she was outside the immediate vicinity of the trap, the nacreous spray ceased, leaving no sign of its passing save the steam rising from the murky water pooled on the stone floor below. An experimental step forward rewarded Sabira with another verdant burst and she scrambled back quickly to avoid the potent acid.

Sabira studied the traps and the rest of the hallway. She didn’t bother looking for any sort of control panel; even if she could find it, she was about as good at manipulating delicate machinery as she was at holding her temper. Any attempt she made to disarm or disable the traps would probably wind up bringing the whole Marketplace down on top of her.

She could just make out two additional sets of mephit heads farther down the corridor; she had to assume those were trapped, too. The heads were positioned a third of the way up the wall, so that the acid would strike the torso of anything humanoid that passed by—probably meant for the kobolds, then, who were shorter and would get the acid right in the eyes. She was short enough herself that she could probably go under the caustic spray, were it not for the effects of gravity. She might not take the worst of the corrosive attack, but she’d still come out the other side needing new armor, and probably a fair bit of new skin as well.

No, under was not an option. Over, on the other hand …

Sabira spent a moment judging angles and distances. With enough speed, and using her shard axe as leverage, she should be able to clear the first stream with no difficulty. Unfortunately, the way these sewer corridors twisted and turned, she wasn’t going to have much room for her initial approach, and even less for the following two. Good thing she had strong legs and was fairly flexible—a combination that Ned had once joked could easily have landed her in another profession entirely. When she’d innocently opined that she was a little too short—and a little too human—to be a Phiarlan player, he’d laughed all the harder.

But Leoned’s warm amusement was the last thing she needed to be thinking about now … or ever, really. It was a sound she’d never hear again this side of Dolurrh, and she’d made what peace she could with that a long time ago.

Or at least, she thought she had, before Caldamus came along.

Damn it, Sabira! This isn’t the first telepath you’ve dealt with, and you’re not some wet-behind-the-ears recruit. Focus!

Gritting her teeth, Sabira resolutely put all other thoughts out of her mind and concentrated on the jump she was about to make. She took several steps away from the acid trap, until her back was almost touching the curve in the damp stone wall. Next, she took a deep breath, held it for a minute, and let it out slowly. And then she ran.

She held her shard axe in one hand, horizontally, and counted off the steps backward.

Six. Five. Four.

On three, she quickened her pace, and on one, she planted the urgrosh axe-side down, grabbed the haft with her second hand and used it and her momentum to launch her body into the air, feet first.

Triggered by her proximity, the mephit heads spat their burning green bile across the corridor. Sabira arched her body and twisted in midair, her abused muscles screaming in protest. She cleared the acidic stream by a good half a foot, pulling the shard axe along after her. She landed on her feet with a splash, and came up in a semicrouch, her face mere inches from the caustic spray that sputtered and died out as she watched.

Well, her shard axe was a poor excuse for a street performer’s pole, and she was no Nat Gann, but she’d take it. One down, two to go.

She turned to face the next one, a scant three paces away. She’d have virtually no approach this time, and would have to rely almost entirely on her leg muscles to propel herself up and over.

Gathering her strength a second time, Sabira took the three steps, planted her urgrosh, and leaped. This time, her stomach skimmed the top edge of the fiery liquid, and only the armor she wore saved her from a nasty burn.

As she turned to consider the last trap, Sabira hesitated, reweighing her options. The likelihood of making the final jump without harm was slim, but she was guaranteed injury if she tried to simply roll beneath the twin mephit heads.

After a long moment, she decided that the ghost of a chance was better than none at all. That attitude had cost her at the card table more than once, but it had also seen her rake in some of her biggest pots. She muttered a brief prayer to Olladra, the Sovereign Goddess of Feast and Fortune, that the next few moments would be an example of the latter, not the former.

Then she ran for the last remaining trap and jumped.

The goddess of luck must have heard her entreaty, for she cleared the stream with inches to spare. But Olladra wasn’t entirely benevolent; when Sabira’s first foot came down, it slipped sideways on the slick floor. Sabira had to throw her left hand up to keep from falling face-first into the acid spray, and the caustic liquid splashed across the back of her right hand and the adamantine cheek of her shard axe before she could pull either out of harm’s way.

“Host damn it!” she cried, dropping to the wet floor in an attempt to wash the acidic residue off both blade and flesh. The ankle-high water was fetid and cold, and Sabira shuddered to think what she was bathing her wound in, but it had to be better than losing the whole hand.

The shard axe had fared better; once free of the viscous green liquid, the adamantine shone as if freshly forged and polished. Whatever else she might think of the Mrorians, they certainly knew how to make their weapons last.

Once the sting of the burns had faded and she saw that she’d only lost the top layer of skin, Sabira pulled her hand out of the water. She quickly tore a strip from the hem of her shirt and used it to pat the affected area dry. Then she wound the makeshift bandage around her hand several times, tucking the loose end between the layers of fabric lying across her palm.

She’d need to get the wound treated before infection set in, but it didn’t seem like there’d be any permanent damage. A good thing, considering she wouldn’t be able to afford any healing potions any time soon. Not if she wanted to pay Sollego off in time, anyway.

Sabira stood and stepped forward, hoping she wouldn’t have to navigate any more traps. As she did, her boot squelched into something that was definitely not sewer water.

She pulled her foot back quickly as a gray amorphous blob rose up from the dark water in front of her.

An ooze. Wonderful.

She wasn’t risking her shard axe, Mrorian-made or not, against this thing—its corrosive jelly-like innards could eat through most metals in a matter of minutes, not to mention wood, flesh, and bone.

As a pseudopod formed and the ooze took a wide swipe at her, Sabira dodged to the left, slapping her urgrosh into its harness on her back as she did so. The ooze’s blow missed, but it afforded Sabira a view of the area where the pod connected to the rest of the thing’s gelatinous bulk. The hilt of a sword jiggled there, just below the surface, with a skeletal hand and a jagged length of steel still attached.

Before she could think better of it, Sabira thrust her bandaged hand into the quivering mass and pulled the broken blade out, shaking off the previous owner’s death grip with a grimace. The ooze’s digestive juices burned her exposed skin, but the layered cloth protected her from the worst of it and, in any case, it wasn’t nearly as bad as the acid from the Quickfoot trap.

She used the flat of the sword to slap at the ooze as she worked her way around it, striking in quick succession so that the weapon wouldn’t be enveloped again. Even so, every blow damaged what was left of the blade even more, and she knew it wouldn’t last long.

As she circled the ash-colored blob, she searched the floor with eye and foot. Finally, just as the stressed metal of her ersatz weapon gave way and the blade snapped off at the guard, Sabira found what she was looking for.

Throwing the now-useless hilt at the ooze, she darted over to a portion of the wall that had caved in and picked up a length of fractured stonework. Then she spun back to the creature just as it leveled another blow at her. She blocked the pseudopod with the stopgap club and then proceeded to beat the thing about its highest protrusion, perversely imagining it served as the amorphous thing’s head.

The ooze’s acid had no effect on stone, and it wasn’t nearly as fast or as angry as she was. Sabira was able to make short work of the ooze, smashing it into a pulp and taking only one searing blow across her jaw. She soon stood panting over a mound of motionless goo peppered with slimy bones and rusted metal.

She was about to toss the club aside when she noticed movement to her left, and then more to her right. Two more gray blobs rose out of the water in tandem and began slithering purposefully toward her, followed quickly by a third. Whether these were part of the original ooze or were entirely new creatures, Sabira neither knew nor cared. It didn’t take a gambler to figure these odds. Hurling the piece of broken stonework at the closest mass, she made the high-percentage play.

She ran.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sul, Nymm 1, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

Sabira found a sewer access point quickly after her encounter with the ooze and scrambled up the dangling rope to the street above. She surfaced in the Marketplace across from the Shiny Shilling and made her way quickly back to the Deneith enclave and Hammersmith’s, ignoring the looks she got as she went.

Once inside, she crossed over to the bar and retook her seat. Her glass still sat there, untouched. Her return drew no more notice than her disappearance had, and Sabira had to wonder about the observational skills of her fellow patrons. Then again, if she’d come here to relax and have fun, she doubted she’d be up in arms over another customer vanishing before her eyes, either—unless, of course, he owed her money or a drink.

Speaking of which, it was far past time to finally have a swig of hers. Raising the tumbler to her lips, she watched a small army of Sabiras do the same in the myriad reflections cast in the bottles and flasks behind the bar. None of those Sabiras showed any sign of Heith’s loving ministrations, but a thousand bandaged hands throbbed as they lifted a corresponding number of glasses to a thousand red and blistered jaws. A thousand faces held back a wince as a thousand raw throats had to settle for a dainty, very un-Sabira-like sip.

“There you are!”

Sabira turned on her stool rather than watch the other Marshal approach in the curved glassware: One Prynn was more than enough.

“I’ve been looking for you since the last bell,” he exclaimed, annoyance writ in bold strokes on his broad face. The irritation morphed into puzzlement as he took in her disheveled appearance. “What in the name of the Flame happened to you? You take a turn downstairs in the fighting pits?”

“Something like that,” Sabira muttered, then quickly changed the subject. “You brought my half of the money?” Somehow, she doubted that was the case.

Prynn snorted. “No. I don’t even have my half.”

Ah. That explained his irritation. The bulk of it, anyway.

His next words explained the rest.

“Greigur wants to see you.”

Captain Greigur sat behind his desk, much as his underling, Sorn, had done a floor below. But where the walls of that office were covered in wanted notices and maps, Greigur’s office contained only a single tapestry on which was written the entire Code of Galifar, woven in archaic black letters on a silvercloth background. Ironic, considering his reputation for flaunting that code was at least as deserved as hers.

Greigur looked up as Sabira stepped through the open door. Seeing who it was, he carefully wiped his quill clean of ink and set it aside.

“Close the door behind you, Marshal.”

That wasn’t a good sign.

He gestured to one of two chairs facing his desk, and starting talking even before she was completely seated.

“I thought I told you when I partnered you with Prynn and sent you after Caldamus that I wouldn’t brook brutality on this job. We might have looser rules than in Karrnath, but Marshals here still follow the Code of Galifar.”

“I hit him,” she admitted, seeing no point in denying it. It wasn’t as if the changeling hadn’t deserved it. “He resisted arrest. It happens.”

“Well, when it happens on a job commissioned by the Defender’s Guild on behalf of Queen Aurala herself, we make sure we pour a healing potion or two down the suspect’s throat before we march him across the entire length of the city. Especially when both she and King Boranel will be sitting in on his trial.”

“Trial?” Sabira repeated, sure she had misheard him. And since when had the job been commissioned for Aurala? Prynn hadn’t told her that. “With all due respect, Captain, Caldamus practically admitted his guilt in Goren’s death. He—”

“I don’t care if he gave you a confession signed in his own blood, Marshal. It would have been better for all of us if you’d just brought him in dead, like you usually do. Now we’ve confirmed that he is a member of King Boranel’s Dark Lanterns, and that changes everything.”

The Lanterns. Of course. She’d known he was a suspected spy. She just hadn’t pegged him for one of Breland’s preeminent intelligence gatherers and assassins. No wonder Aurala wanted him unmarked: A bargaining chip was worth more when it wasn’t damaged.

“I didn’t know—” she began, only to be interrupted by Greigur’s fist slamming against his desk, nearly spilling his ink pot.

“Which is exactly why you follow the orders you’re given, Marshal. For the life of me, I don’t know why you haven’t been expelled from the House for your maverick ways, or at the very least demoted. I know what you did back in the Holds, but it in no way justifies—”

It was Sabira’s turn to interrupt, and she did so in a voice as flat and icy as Karrn Bay in the grip of midwinter.

“Again, with all due respect, Captain, you have no idea what I did in the Holds, and it’s not for you to question the Baron’s faith in me or in my work.”

Greigur just smirked.

“It seems he’s questioning it himself these days, Lyet,” he responded, handing her a folded missive that bore the Baron’s own seal. “This arrived yesterday by House Orien courier. Your vacation from Karrnath is over. You’re to report to the Vulyar outpost within one week’s time.”

Sabira couldn’t quite keep the tremor from her hand as she opened the letter, but she told herself it was just the pain from her burns. Not dread. Not anguish.

Even so, as she scanned the brief note, her heart scrabbled up her throat and threatened to burst from her mouth. Or maybe that was the Frostmantle Fire, scalding as much on the return trip as it had on the way down.

To the Sentinel Marshal Sabira Lyet d’Deneith

From the Office of Assignments

Sentinel Tower, Karrlakton, Karrnath

Sabira,

The House has need of your services back in Karrnath.

Report to the Vulyar office on or before the 8th of Nymm,

998 YK. Do not be late.

Baron Breven d’Deneith

Patriarch, House Deneith

“Is this—is this a joke?” Sabira asked when she could speak, not caring that her voice shook and almost broke.

It had to be, didn’t it? Breven couldn’t possibly be ordering her back to Vulyar, not when he’d personally sworn to her that she’d never have to return there again. He couldn’t really be breaking his word to her, could he? And forcing her to break her own, since she’d vowed never to venture within a thousand miles of the Holds again.

Greigur frowned, obviously nonplussed by her reaction.

“The Baron’s not one for humor.”

Sabira looked up from the paper, meeting his gray eyes numbly with her own.

“No. He’s not. And neither am I.”

She pulled the leather cord and brooch out from beneath her shirt and stared for a long moment at the three enameled heads that represented everything she had in this world. Everything she was.

With a growl, she yanked the cord so hard it broke with an audible snap. Then she tossed both cord and chimera on Greigur’s desk.

“I quit.”

She spun on her heel, squeezing her eyes shut against the hurt. The betrayal.

“Sabira, wait!”

She turned back to Greigur, who was on his feet now, her discarded brooch in his hand, his shock plain.

“Are you sure—?” He must have seen the answer in her face, for he didn’t finish the question. Instead, he asked another. “You realize that if you do this now, you’ll be forfeiting your half of the fee for bringing Caldamus in?”

The anger was gone from his voice, and he almost sounded fatherly. Of course, Breven had sounded that way, too, back when he was making promises he clearly never intended to keep.

“I don’t care. Prynn can have it. I’m done. With all of it.”

Not waiting for a response, she walked out of his office, turning her back on the only thing that had any meaning in her life since Ned’s death.

And now that was gone, too.

Host, but she needed a drink, and fast! Something stronger than dwarven whiskey this time, and there was only one place in Stormreach to go for that.

The Bogwater.

The Bogwater was the only open-air tavern in Stormreach. And with a waterfall, a pool, a fully equipped stage, three separate common “rooms,” and a multitude of trees, it was one of the jewels of the elven House Phiarlan enclave.

The tavern’s human owner, Borlan Corrigan, was a former client of Sabira’s who owed his life to her several times over. For her, he brought out his own special brew, Bor’s Bog, a spirit distilled from potatoes and beet sugar. The stuff was vile but potent, and it definitely got the job done. Sabira ordered a double.

“Be sleepin’ under my tables tonight, then?”

“Tonight and for the next few days, if I have my way,” Sabira answered, draining the small glass in one gulp and signaling for another. She planned to get good and drunk, in a way that she hadn’t been since the night of Leoned’s memorial. It wasn’t as if she had any reason not to, now.

Borlan nodded.

“I’ll make sure Hawrog knows not to trouble you.”

Sabira was almost disappointed at that. Hawrog Morr was the Bogwater’s ogre bouncer, and going a few rounds with the brute might be just the thing to dispel the building thunderheads of fury that threatened to overwhelm her.

Later, she decided, as Borlan poured out another two ounces. Her toes were already beginning to tingle and a pleasant fuzziness was clouding the edges of her vision. By her third glass, she was floating in a haze of lutesong and bird music and could no longer feel her legs. By the fourth, she slid spinelessly off her stool, cracked her head against the floor, and knew nothing more.

Mol, Nymm 9, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

Sabira sat at a table on the west side of the Bogwater, tapping her foot impatiently while she waited for Lille to arrive. She’d recovered from her three-day hangover and found a few jobs at the tavern to help replenish her dwindling store of sovereigns. But trollhunting for that arrogant Aratrix and laying Lady Nepenthe’s son to rest only paid so much. She was never going to have what she needed to pay Sollego back by Lharvion at this rate. She needed help, and Lille owed her for that business with the pirates. Sabira still had the scar to prove it, on the back of her leg where that wretched kobold had tried to hamstring her.

The fact that Lille was virtually the only person in House Deneith who was still speaking to her was completely beside the point.

When the Deneith sergeant did finally show up, though, she wasn’t alone. A white-bearded dwarf dressed in a purple shirt and a finely brocaded red vest accompanied her.

“Sergeant,” Sabira said, rising from her chair as the two approached.

“Mar—Sabira,” Lille replied, clearly uncomfortable. “This is Arach d’Kundarak. He might have some work for you, if you’re willing to leave Stormreach for a few days.”

Sabira gestured for them to sit before retaking her own seat.

“I’m listening.”

“I’ve got an airship leaving for Sharn tomorrow afternoon with a hold full of dragonshards. I’ve got my own guards, of course, but one of them suffered an unfortunate injury on the docks last night and I haven’t the time to find a suitable replacement. Lille, here, mentioned she knew someone who might fit the bill, but I wanted to see for myself.”

The dwarf looked her up and down, taking in her burnt armor, the fresh scars on her jaw and hand, and the tip of the shard axe peeking over her shoulder.

His blue eyes lingered on the weapon, first widening in surprise and then narrowing in suspicion.

“The sergeant didn’t tell me she was offering the services of the famed Shard Axe,” he said dubiously. By Dol Dorn’s rusted codpiece, how Sabira hated that name! And how it followed her wherever she went, even to the wilds of Xen’drik. Best end this before he demanded the whole Hostforsaken story behind it.

“Probably because she didn’t know she was. It’s not something I like to advertise. Better to be unknown, and underestimated, don’t you think?”

The dwarf grunted grudging assent.

“But I thought the Shard Axe was a Marshal …?”

Sabira’s chin lifted as she met his distrusting stare.

“Was being the operative word. I spent two years in the Blademarks, another four in the Defender’s Guild, and seven as a Sentinel Marshal, and you already know what I did to earn my brooch. I should think my credentials speak for themselves.”

“Indeed,” the dwarf answered, putting up a staying hand. “You are more than qualified for this task. Which then begs the question: Is it even worth your time?”

Sabira shrugged, feigning nonchalance. What wasn’t worth her time, at this point?

“Give me your terms, and I’ll let you know.”

“They’re simple enough. Five dragons to accompany the cargo to Sharn. Of course, you’ll have to find your own way back to Stormreach, but with that much platinum in your pocket, I don’t see that being a problem.”

Now it was Sabira’s turn to be suspicious. Five platinum dragons just to babysit an airship full of dragonshards? What wasn’t he telling her?

“You expecting an attack?”

“I always expect an attack. That way I’m never caught unprepared.”

The dwarf motioned at a passing serving girl, and it was then that Sabira caught sight of his fingers, which had been in his vest pockets while he walked and then hidden under the table in his lap. Until now.

Though unadorned, each finger showed indentations and a band of slight discoloration at its base.

By itself, it meant nothing. Many people wore rings on every finger, and many people chose not to wear them when they traveled inside the city. But Sabira had spent years in the Holds, and she knew better than most what those markings represented, at least on a wealthy dwarf trying to hire a guard at an unreasonably high price.

Arach was a member of the Aurum. Without the actual rings, there was no telling how high up the chain he was, but one thing was certain. If even half the things she’d heard about the ostensibly scholarly (but probably criminal) organization were true, he was someone she should be arresting, not working for.

Someone she would be arresting, if she were still a Marshal.

But she wasn’t. She was just a down-on-her-luck mercenary now, and she couldn’t afford to turn her nose up at the kind of money he was offering, regardless of the blood it was probably drenched in.

“All right. I’m in.”

“Excellent!” Arach declared, sticking out his hand toward her. “You can meet up with the rest of my crew at the airship tower in the Kundarak enclave. Be there by the fourth bell; the ship will depart soon after. You’ll get the first half of your payment once you’re in the air and the second half once the ship docks safely in Sharn.”

“How will I know which airship is yours?” Sabira asked, shaking the proffered hand.

Arach smiled, as if at some private joke.

“Oh, you’ll know.”

Then he looked past Lille and waved at someone. As he stood to excuse himself, Sabira turned to see to whom he’d been motioning. An aristocratic elf woman was approaching them, her bright red hair piled atop her head in a fashionable coif. She nodded at Arach, but did not stop to speak to him, instead moving past them to take a chair at another table, just out of earshot.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Arach said. “You’re not the only appointment I have today.”

“Of course,” Lille murmured, the first thing she’d said since introducing them.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Sabira added, standing. She watched the dwarf walk over to the redhead’s table, and then she turned back to grab Lille’s wrist just as the other woman was trying to slip away.

“Leaving so soon, Lille? We’ve barely had a chance to catch up.”

The Deneith woman jerked her hand away.

“Sabira, it’s bad enough I’m here at all, in the middle of the day, where anyone can see me! Greigur made it very clear that we’re not to help you in any way. I’m only here because of what you did for me in the Heights. I haven’t forgotten what I owe you—and I won’t—but do really you want to see me excoriated for it?”

Sabira had suspected as much. You didn’t turn your back on the highest honor House Deneith could bestow and expect there to be no repercussions for it. She was lucky Greigur hadn’t put a price on her head.

Yet.

“Go. I don’t want to get you in trouble. I just wanted to say … thank you.”

“Anything for the vaunted Shard Axe,” Lille replied with a quick, sardonic grin, and then she turned and hurried from the tavern, leaving Sabira well and truly alone.

Since Arach’s airship wasn’t leaving until tomorrow and she didn’t trust the dwarf farther than she could throw him, Sabira decided to do a little pre-mission reconnaissance. She headed for the House Kundarak stronghold on the opposite side of the Marketplace, taking care to steer clear of any place frequented by Deneith mercenaries. Someone trying to curry favor might easily take Greigur’s order not to help her as an invitation to actively hinder her, and she could do without that sort of trouble right now.

As she walked along Silversmith Road, the overcast sky finally delivered on its promise and cold gray rain sheeted down, soaking her through in moments. She didn’t bother seeking cover or even pulling up the hood of her cloak; the cloudburst would be over as quickly as it had begun, and in this oppressive heat, she’d be dry again in no time. Well, as dry as anyone ever got on this Hostforsaken jungle continent.

Dodging rushed market-goers whose purchases were too pressing to wait for more clement weather, Sabira felt a sudden tingling at the nape of her neck, so strong that she actually slapped at it, thinking she might have been bitten by something. When her hand came back clean, she knew that prickle had a more menacing source.

She purposely stepped into the path of a harried shopper and used the resulting exchange of insults as a distraction while she glanced surreptitiously behind her. There were many cloaked figures hurrying about, but none stood out as the cause of her unease.

Apologizing absently to the woman she’d bumped into, Sabira moved on, unable to shake the feeling that she was being watched and followed.

She snuck glances back at every corner, but saw nothing. Still, the itchy sensation at the back of her neck refused to go away.

On a hunch, she detoured into the Jester’s Haunt, taking a right at The Rusty Nail. The road curved and then dead-ended; very few people had business here and it was the perfect place for an ambush. She slipped into a recessed doorway and pulled her urgrosh off of her back, waiting to see if someone else would follow her into the blind alley or if she was just being needlessly paranoid.

Long moments passed, and she was just getting ready to step out of the doorway when a cloaked figure paused in front of the Nail. The gray sunlight filtering through the clouds did not reach here between the close-huddled buildings, and as the figure stepped into shadow, he—she, it? Sabira couldn’t tell from this distance, but she had a gut feeling her stalker was male—moved to the side, presumably so that his eyes could adjust to the gloom. Then he started cautiously down the street, avoiding puddles and loose cobblestones that would give away his position. He was on her side of the alley, which meant she’d have only one chance to surprise him.

As silently as she could, she inched her way up the doorstep until she was standing with her back pressed up against the wood of the door, knees slightly bent to pounce. A tiny splash followed by a dripping sound and a soft curse alerted Sabira to her pursuer’s nearness, and she tensed. Whoever he was, he was obviously not native to Stormreach or he’d have known to avoid walking too close to the buildings during a downpour. Most had no rain gutters to speak of, and the chance of getting doused by roof runoff was at least as high as that of getting drenched in the street, and far more random. As her stalker had just discovered.

Well, that ruled out one of Sollego’s men come to collect early, or anyone from the Deneith enclave. She had time to wonder if she was simply dealing with a footpad who’d picked a most unwise target. And then he stepped in front of her hiding place, and it was time to act.

Even as Sabira sprang soundlessly from the doorstep, she realized there was something wrong about her hunter. Her low-centered leap should have taken him square in the stomach, knocking him backward and away, but instead she rammed hard into his shoulder just as he turned and saw her. As they crashed together onto the rain-slicked cobblestones, the man’s hood fell back, revealing the long braided beard and ruddy features of a dwarf.

They scrambled apart and Sabira gained her feet first. She lashed out, kicking him in the same shoulder she’d collided with and slamming him back down so hard that his head hit the street with an audible crack.

She placed one foot on his heaving chest and rested the dragonshard tip of her urgrosh over his heart.

“Now, dwarf, you’re going to tell me why you’ve been following me, or—”

“No, Saba, wait! Don’t!”

Elix?

Sabira looked up disbelievingly to see the Karrnathi Sentinel Marshal running down the street toward her, panic plain on his face. The dragonmark on his jaw glowed blue, blindingly bright in the shadows.

She shook her head, thinking for a moment that she had finally lost her mind and fallen headlong into the refuge of delusion. Then Elix—who was surely no specter, for what otherworldly apparition would drip sweat with every step?—clearly misreading the gesture, shouted again, and she felt a sharp stinging in her foot as a magical shield came into being around the dwarf’s inert form.

“Saba! Stop!”

What was Elix doing here? And why was he using his Mark of Sentinel to protect the dwarf?

Elix reached her side, panting, and Sabira looked from him to the dwarf and back again, pulling back her shard axe a hair’s breadth and no more.

“What are you doing here, Elix? And why in the name of Khyber are you protecting this dwarf? He’s a common cutpurse at best—maybe even a spy for the Aurum. Why would—”

“No, Saba,” Elix said with the throaty laugh she remembered so well. “He’s not any of those things. He’s the Mrorian Envoy to Karrnath. And he’s your next client.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Mol, Nymm 9, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

This day just kept getting better and better.

Sabira stepped off the dwarf and held out a hand to help him up, which he pointedly ignored. Climbing to his feet, the dwarf attempted to clean the mud from his cloak, succeeding only in dirtying his hands in the process. With a growl, he finally gave up and wiped his be-ringed hands fastidiously on his pants. Only when they were dry did he turn to face Elix.

“Captain. Perhaps the Sentinel Marshals aren’t the best people for this job, after all.”

Captain? When had that happened?

“Please, Your Excellency. Let’s go to Sentinels Tower, dry off, and discuss this over a snifter of Onatar’s Blood, shall we?”

Sabira didn’t know whose manner put her off more—the dwarf’s, full of ire and contempt, or Elix’s, oozing suavity and placation. What had happened to him?

“Very well,” the dwarf sniffed after a moment, casting a dark look at Sabira.

“Good,” Elix replied, his relief almost palpable. “We’ll meet there at, say, the third bell?”

“Yes, yes, that’s fine,” the dwarf responded impatiently. “I will be there. Provided I am not attacked on the way to my rooms.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned on his heel and strode down the street and out of sight.

“What’s he got to be mad about?” Sabira muttered, returning her shard axe to its harness. “He’s the one who was following me.”

“Saba.” Elix put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. The sun chose that moment to break through the cloud cover, brightening the gloom and making his face shine. “Let me look at you! Host, but it’s been so long since I’ve seen you!”

He pulled her into a rough hug, burying his face in her wet hair. “Too long,” he murmured softly, before releasing her and stepping back.

“It’s good to see you, too,” Sabira said and meant it. And it was. Just not here. Not now. “So, do you want to tell me what a Mrorian Envoy is doing stalking me through the streets of Stormreach? Or what you’re doing here? Or, for that matter, when you got promoted to captain and what happened to Jayce?”

Elix’s laugh was rueful.

“I’ll explain everything back at the House enclave. For now, let’s just get out of this rain, shall we?”

“I don’t think so, Elix.”

He cocked an amused eyebrow at her.

“So you like being sopping wet? That’s new.”

“I’m serious.”

His easy smile faltered, replaced by a look of confused concern.

“What is it, Saba? What’s wrong?”

“I’m guessing you two have been following me since I left the Phiarlan enclave. If you found me there, then you know why I was there. Because I’m not welcome at our enclave.”

Elix frowned.

“What are you talking about?”

Sabira shook her head in exasperation.

“You mean they didn’t tell you?”

He gave her that apologetic shrug she used to find so annoying when she was his training officer, back when they were both still members of the Defender’s Guild. It didn’t bother her now; she’d changed too much. So had he, it seemed, in ways she couldn’t yet begin to fathom.

“Tell me what?”

Sabira took a deep breath, unable for a moment to form the words. It was one thing saying them to Greigur, whom she’d known for only a year and whose opinion was of little concern to her. It was another thing entirely to say them to Elix, who was not only her protégé but Leoned’s cousin. And a dear friend. She could only imagine his disappointment.

It might actually rival her own.

“Elix. I resigned my commission and gave up my brooch. I’m not a Marshal anymore.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m here.”

Sabira stared at him, openmouthed.

“What? Then why—?”

“Please, Saba. I told you I’d explain everything, and I will. Just not here, in the middle of the street, with Host knows who listening in.” He took her arm and guided her, unresisting, out of the alley and back into the light.

Sabira sat in a comfortable chair before the fire, her cloak drying on the hearth while she warmed her feet and sipped Onatar’s Blood from a short-stemmed glass. She and Elix were alone in one of the private sitting rooms in Sentinels Tower, waiting for the Mrorian Envoy to arrive. In addition to the two high-backed chairs by the fireplace, which were separated by a small table, the thickly carpeted chamber held another, much longer table surrounded by somewhat less comfortable seats. Bookcases filled with heavy tomes of law and military history lined one wall, and a crystal-fronted cabinet holding an array of decanters full of various potent libations rested against the opposite wall. Twin maps of Xen’drik and Khorvaire hung above it, and detailed depictions of each of the Five Nations graced the other two walls—though Cyre’s map was, of course, sadly outdated.

“So … when did you become captain?” she asked when it seemed clear Elix wasn’t inclined to talk, let alone explain what either of them was doing there.

He looked at her for a long moment over the rim of his glass, his expression unreadable. The smiling Elix from the Jester’s Haunt had disappeared—if, in fact, he had ever been more than a public mask put on for the envoy’s benefit.

“I sent you a letter,” he finally responded, his voice utterly without inflection.

She winced at that. He’d sent her several letters over the years, via other Marshals, Defenders, Blademarks, anyone who might be traveling west of the Brey River who’d have reason to stop by the nearest Marshal outpost. Sometimes she didn’t get them for months after they were sent—once it had even taken two years for his message to catch up with her. But he always seemed to have a general idea of where she was going to be, and when she least expected it, there’d be a letter waiting for her along with her fee when she brought someone in.

She’d stopped reading them years ago, soon after he’d made Marshal. It was just too painful watching him follow in the footsteps Leoned should have taken.

“I move around a lot,” she said by way of apology.

“Apparently.”

Then he shrugged, as if to say her years-long silence didn’t matter to him anymore—and maybe, after all this time, it really didn’t. The thought hurt more than she cared to admit.

“I became captain about the same time you left Khorvaire. A Lyrandar heir went missing in the Blade Desert—a member of the Raincaller’s Guild. Esravash, the House matriarch, wanted the Marshals on it. Since Vulyar has the closest outpost, it fell to me, Jayce, and another Marshal I don’t think you know, Tabeth d’Sark.” He paused for a moment, gazing into the fire, remembering. As she watched him, Sabira couldn’t help but notice how much he looked like his cousin. He had Leoned’s strong jaw and wavy hair, though his eyes were light where Ned’s had been dark. And of course there was the dragonmark; Leoned’s had been on his lower back, where few ever saw it.

“We lost Tabeth to a Valenar war party on the way down and Jayce … Jayce stayed behind to create a diversion so I could get the Lyrandar to safety.” He looked up at her then, his mouth twisted in an unexpectedly bitter smile. “They promoted me after that, thanks in no small part to Esravash’s … generosity. But, then, you know how that is.”

She did, indeed.

Sabira hesitated to offer her congratulations; she didn’t think he’d want them, all things considered. But she felt she should say something—let him know she was proud of him, at least. That Leoned would have been proud. But as she opened her mouth to speak, a knock sounded on the door.

“Ah. That must be our guest.”

They both stood and Elix crossed over to the doorway, glass still in hand.

“Envoy Mountainheart,” he said warmly as he opened the door. “Please come in. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The envoy strode past Elix in what was no doubt intended to be a dramatic huff, but Sabira thought it just made him look like a bit of a fop. The basket-hilted rapier he wore at his side only added to that image, but she knew better than to judge a fighter by his arms. She’d once seen a dwarf swordsman in Frostmantle use the needle-thin point of his rapier to pin a fly to a cutpurse’s eye with one hand while downing a mug of highale with the other. Any weapon was dangerous in the hands of a dwarf, even one as puffed up and self-important as this Mountainheart.

“Please be seated,” Elix said.

Sabira, who’d trailed him to the door, did so immediately, wishing she’d thought to fill her glass again before the envoy had entered. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

As if privy to her thoughts, Elix crossed over to the cabinet and set the decanter of Blood on a tray, along with his own glass and a second, larger snifter, the kind traditionally used to imbibe the potent drink back in the Holds. The snifter was larger than a typical wine glass, and was specially crafted to keep the liquid inside at the same temperature as actual blood, since dwarves preferred the spirit served warm.

While Elix readied their drinks, Mountainheart stood by his chair, unwilling to sit before the Marshal did. Sabira wasn’t surprised—it was a common dwarven diplomatic ploy. By being the last to sit, the dwarf ensured he would be, if only for a moment, the tallest person in the room. Since many races equated size with power, the shorter-statured dwarves thus subtly gave notice that they, too, were a race to be reckoned with. Just in case the axes on their backs weren’t convincing enough.

Sabira took the opportunity to scrutinize the dwarf a little more closely. Mountainheart wore reds and browns, but the earthy hues had little significance other than to show his own personal taste. While the various dwarven clans did have familial colors, just as the dragonmarked Houses did, any given dwarf had ties to so many clans and their affiliated families that wearing livery would be pointless.

Dwarves used other means to signal their loyalties, such as their beard regalia, though it was extremely rare to see them wearing the customary ornamentation outside of the Holds. Even here in the dwarven enclave—called Coasthold by some, in deference to the original thirteen Holds—use of the regalia was virtually unknown. Sabira had to wonder why Mountainheart had chosen to wear it now. It had to be for her benefit. She doubted Elix understood the significance.

The carved metal and gemstone beads woven into the braids of a dwarf’s beard served as a complete biography for anyone who knew how to read the signs. Mountainheart, for instance, wore symbols for both the Tordannon and Mroranon clans and House Kundarak, as well as for many of their affiliated families. Other beads were battle tokens, proving that he was just as capable with that rapier as Sabira had supposed. His beard also boasted a smattering of civic bibelots that could indicate anything from brokering a particularly lucrative business deal for his clan to finessing some delicate diplomatic situation—though, given his behavior thus far, Sabira somehow doubted he’d received many accolades for the latter.

And one bead, a faceted platinum bauble set dead center in the middle of his beard, indicated he’d recently been married, though the union had yet to produce any children. That surprised Sabira. The months—and sometimes years—following a dwarven wedding were usually spent trying to produce an heir, a practice that harkened back far into the dwarves’ history on the icy continent of Frostfell, where cold, predators, and tribal rivalries killed them off faster than they could be born. It was rare to see a newlywed outside of the Holds, unless some dire need drew him or her away from home.

Whatever else Mountainheart’s task for her might be, it was obviously extremely important to him. Which meant his comment about not using the Marshals for this job had been a bluff. Good to know.

Of course, since she wasn’t actually a Marshal anymore—a fact Elix evidently had not shared with him—she wasn’t sure how much good that knowledge would do her.

But she’d play along with Elix’s little charade, for the brandy, if nothing else. At least for now.

Elix returned and sat before refilling Sabira’s drink and passing Mountainheart’s snifter over to him. The tactic allowed the envoy his momentary height advantage and showed that the new captain was perhaps more familiar with dwarven idiosyncrasies than Sabira had given him credit for.

“Onatar’s Blood, Your Excellency? I could probably dig up some Frostmantle Fire, if you’d prefer, but they don’t seem to have any stocked.”

Mountainheart waved the suggestion away as he took his seat.

“Hate the stuff. The ironspice makes me break out in spots.”

Elix smiled politely and raised his glass.

“To rich veins, then,” he said, inclining his head to Mountainheart.

“And richer coffers,” the dwarf replied, completing the traditional dwarven toast for the start of a successful business venture. He raised his own snifter and looked expectantly at Sabira, who was momentarily riveted by the silver rings he wore on each finger.

She hadn’t dealt with the Aurum since leaving the Holds, and now she’d met two of its members in the span of a single day? That couldn’t be a coincidence.

After a pause long enough to be just shy of insulting, Sabira lifted her glass. The three drank in unison, though while Mountainheart and Elix only sipped their drinks, Sabira downed half of hers in two quick swallows.

The heady warmth tingled on her tongue and burned her throat, but it wasn’t even close to enough to get her intoxicated—not after her recent binge on Bor’s Bog. Thankfully, it was enough to loosen a knot or two in her neck, which was probably the most she could hope for, under the circumstances.

Elix began speaking as she set her glass on the table and watched the thick liquid slosh back and forth in tiny, ever-diminishing waves.

“Now that Sabira is here, perhaps you’d care to give us a little more detail about the job you have for her?” he prompted, surprising Sabira enough to make her look up from her drink. She’d assumed Elix knew what the job was, since he’d come all the way from Vulyar to make sure she took it, even knowing she’d already quit the Marshals. Why would Breven enlist his aid in getting her to return to Karrnath for this mission and then withhold the details from him? Sabira found her interest piquing in spite of herself.

Mountainheart regarded Elix for a moment, as if gauging how much he could say in front of the captain. Then he gave a small shrug.

“Very well,” he said, scratching his chin and toying with one of the battle beads in his beard as he spoke.

“Recently, there have been a number of murders of prominent dwarven citizens. Each was slain in a similar fashion, with no witnesses to the crime and no clues to be found at the scene.”

Sabira waited expectantly for the dwarf to resume his narrative, but all he did was to scratch his chin again and continue to play with that damnable bead.

“And?” she asked finally, letting her exasperation leak into her voice.

This was what Breven had broken his word for? To get her to play Inquisitive? It was a ridiculous thought. The Sentinel Marshals weren’t in the business of solving crimes; their task was to bring the criminals to justice, no matter where they might be hiding.

When Mountainheart continued to hesitate, Sabira leaned forward, ignoring Elix’s warning look and the quick shake of his head. Diplomacy wasn’t her game; she’d never played it well, and she wasn’t about to start now.

“In case you’re somehow confused, this is House Deneith. We,” she spat, the word acid on her tongue, but not nearly as caustic as the look she threw Elix, “do the following: fight wars, protect people, and apprehend criminals. If you’re looking for someone to solve a string of murders for you, then you’re in the wrong place. Try House Medani, or Tharashk—that’s their line of work, not ours.” Sabira had to fight to contain her ire. She’d given up her brooch for this?

She pushed back her chair and stood.

“If that’s all, then I think we’re done here. I have an actual job waiting for me, and you’ve wasted quite enough of my time.”

The dwarf’s own anger had been building during her tirade, and he snapped back at her with equal intensity.

“I don’t know who you think you are—”

“I’m a Sentinel Marshal,” Sabira interrupted, ignoring the voice in her head screaming was! was! “And I’ve had enough of this. If you are unable, or unwilling, to cooperate fully—and by fully, I mean disclosing all pertinent information, no matter how damning, or secret, or whatever it is that’s keeping you from revealing it—then I can’t help you, Baron’s orders or no Baron’s orders. And by can’t—”

“—she means won’t,” Elix finished for her, rising to stand himself. Sabira looked over at him, surprised and gratified by his support.

Mountainheart immediately stiffened in his seat.

“But you said Baron Breven—” he began, but Elix cut him off.

“—would never order a Marshal to commit suicide, which is exactly what Sabira would be doing if she went into this without sufficient, accurate information,” the captain finished smoothly, and Sabira marveled again at how much he’d changed. “So let’s either put aside the posturing and be honest with one another or let’s end this now.”

Mountainheart’s eyes narrowed as he looked from Elix to her, and back again.

“Yes, let’s do be honest with each other,” the dwarf finally replied after a moment, his voice thick with disgust as he eyed Elix darkly. Sabira had a feeling there was some undercurrent to this exchange that she was missing, and it was only confirmed by Mountainheart’s next words. “Would you like to begin, Captain, or shall I?”

Elix was unruffled, gesturing graciously to the dwarf to proceed as he resumed his seat and motioned for Sabira to do the same.

“Very well,” Mountainheart huffed, scratching his chin and twisting that same bead, an uncut bloodstone that signified his first kill. Sabira was beginning to think he had a nervous tic. Either that or his beard was infested with vermin.

“As I said, over the past few months, there has been a rash of unsolved murders in the Holds. The victims have all been wealthy scholars, and—”

“You mean members of the Aurum,” Sabira interjected. She wanted to see just how forthcoming the dwarf was willing to be.

Mountainheart’s nostrils flared, but he gave no other sign of his irritation at her interruption.

“Yes. Members of the Aurum. You’ve spent time in the Holds,” he said, addressing Sabira. “You know that we dwarves would not normally seek outside help in such a matter, and this is doubly true for the Aurum. However, there are a number of factors that make this situation … abnormal.”

“Such as?”

“The manner of their deaths, for one.”

When he seemed inclined to scratch his chin again, Sabira hurriedly prompted him to continue.

“So how did they die?”

Mountainheart took a sip of Onatar’s Blood before responding, almost as if he were fortifying himself against what he was about to say next.

“Their eyes had been plucked out—from all appearances, by their own hands—and then eaten; pieces that hadn’t yet been swallowed were found in two of the victims’ mouths. And after that, they were beheaded.”

He paused again, but this time Sabira had no urge to hurry him along. Because she knew what was coming next.

“It’s almost the exact method—”

“—used by Nightshard,” she finished flatly, her stomach suddenly lodged somewhere between her heart and her throat. “But he’s dead. I saw him die myself.” And she had; the assassin had taken Leoned with him.

“Yes,” Mountainheart agreed. “But the suspect in custody has intimate knowledge of those killings, which unfortunately is going to make it very hard to prove his innocence.”

What? They’d already arrested someone? Then what by Olladra’s golden purse strings did they need her for?

And perhaps more important, who had they arrested?

“Don’t make me drag it out of you, Mountainheart,” she warned, her voice tight with dread and danger. “Who’s the suspect?”

“My uncle,” the dwarf answered, hedging, and Sabira knew this was the crux of the matter—why Breven wanted her for this job and why the envoy was so reluctant to answer.

Sabira’s growl was audible.

“He’s also a member of the Aurum, which of course complicates—”

“Who?”

Mountainheart took a deep breath, and then just blurted it out.

“Aggar Tordannon.”

CHAPTER SIX

Mol, Nymm 9, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

No, Elix! I won’t do it! I won’t go back. Not for him.”

She’d stormed out of the room after Mountainheart’s revelation, Elix chasing after her. He caught up with her in the hallway and guided her into a nearby empty room, which turned out to be a library. She rounded on him in a fit of fury and grief.

“How can Breven even think of asking me to do this? How can Aggar?” She was as close to tears as she could remember being in years, and the realization only made her angrier.

“Saba, you know you’re the only logical choice—not just because of your past with Aggar but because the dwarves trust you. No other Marshal would get the access they’ll give you. You’re like some sort of folk hero to them.” His tone softened and turned playful as he tried to calm her. “What’s that song that Tordannon bard wrote about you?

Eyes of mithral

And skin of gold

Hair like fire

But heart so cold.”

“Silver,” Sabira corrected automatically. At any other time, she’d joke back with him—flirt, even, for she knew Elix had had feelings for her once. She’d argue that her eyes were closer to lowly pewter than to any of the more precious metals and wait for him to rebut her. But not now. She couldn’t joke about this.

“Look, Saba,” Elix said earnestly, no longer teasing, “I know this is bound to bring up some painful memories, and I’m sorry for that, but you have to deal with them sometime. You’re needed.”

“Oh, really?” Sabira bit back, incensed. “And have you taken any assignments down in the Talenta Plains since Jayce died there?”

Elix’s eyes went wide, as if she’d struck him, and she felt a momentary pang of regret. But it paled in comparison to the burden of guilt she carried, and she would not apologize.

“It’s only been one year, not seven. And if I were called there tomorrow, I would go. I’m a Marshal; it’s my job.”

“Going to the Holds is one thing, Elix, and I might consider it—might, eventually—but going there to help Aggar? He’s the one who got Leoned killed; if he’d just stayed where he was supposed to, and hadn’t followed me …” she couldn’t finish the thought; that well-trod path led only to pain. She glared up at him, Leoned’s cousin and closest friend, who’d loved him as much as she had. Or so she thought.

“It was Aggar’s fault!” she spat fiercely, but the last word came out sounding like a sob.

“It wasn’t his fault, Saba,” Elix chided gently, reaching out a hand to hold her chin up and force her gaze to meet his when she would have looked away. “And it wasn’t yours, either.”

She closed her eyes against the sympathy and concern she saw in his face. She wanted to believe him, needed to … but she just couldn’t. If she hadn’t left Leoned alone, Nightshard would never have been able to capture him. To torture him, in that horrible cave, with no one to hear his screams.

“Ned was a Defender. More than that, he was a Deneith, my aunt’s marriage into the ir’Thul family notwithstanding. He knew what it means to bear that name—knew the rewards and the risks. He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself for his death, and he’d never want you to refuse a request for aid because of him—especially not Aggar’s request. Ned cared about him. You both did, once.”

Which only makes it that much harder, Sabira thought. She didn’t think she’d ever be able to forgive the dwarf for the part he played in Leoned’s death. Any more than she could forgive herself.

She felt Elix’s hand, soft on her cheek, brushing away traitor wetness. When she opened her eyes, she saw an answering sparkle in his.

“Leoned wouldn’t hesitate to take this assignment if he were still alive, you know that. He’s not here anymore; he can’t do it. But you are, and you can. Do what he can’t, Saba. Not for Aggar, not for the Marshals, but for him. So he can finally rest in peace. So you both can.”

He held her gaze for a long moment, finally dropping his hand and taking a small step back, unsure of what he saw there.

“Saba?”

“I still can’t believe Breven would ask this of me. He made me a promise,” she whispered, her voice thick with suppressed rage and tears she would not, Host help her, shed.

“He didn’t ask you, Saba.” Elix said, his chin lifting and his jaw tightening, as though he were expecting a blow. “I did.”

“You …?”

“The letter was from me.”

Sabira felt as if she’d been hit square in the chest with a barbed quarrel—one that had been pulled back out the way it came in, rending flesh as it went. Only the last time that had happened, it hadn’t hurt this badly. And that wound had eventually healed, leaving a jagged two-inch scar. This one … this one would not.

She groped behind her for the nearest chair and lowered herself slowly into it, not trusting her knees to hold her. Her thoughts raced as she went over in her mind the letter she’d thought was from Breven. She would have sworn the phrasing and the signature were both his, but any Sentinel Marshal with more than a few years’ experience knew both so intimately, it would not be hard to mimic one and forge the other. The letter hadn’t borne the Baron’s personal seal; instead it had been the chimera of House Deneith. That wasn’t so unusual, in and of itself, but considering the nature of the assignment, the lack should have tipped her off. Would have, if she’d had any reason to suspect duplicity. But she hadn’t. Not from Breven; not about this.

Then again, she would never have expected it from Elix, either, and yet here they were. She stared up at him, at the once familiar and even cherished face that now looked as alien to her as that of any of the denizens of Xoriat.

“Why, Elix? Why would you do this to me?” she whispered at last, not even caring how broken and lost her words sounded.

“How else was I going to get you to come home?” he asked, looking pained.

When she didn’t respond, he sighed and dropped to one knee in front of her.

“If there were anyone else, don’t you think I would have gotten them? You’re the only one who can do this. Aggar needs you, and we need the Tordannons. And you’ve been gone so long, and you never answered any of my letters. I just needed to see y—”

But she’d stopped listening, having heard all she needed to.

So. He’d betrayed her trust to keep the Tordannons happy, to make sure their weapons kept pouring into Deneith’s armories.

She should have known. After all, building that relationship had been the main reason she and Leoned had originally been sent to the Holds to guard the Tordannon heir. And her killing of Aggar’s would-be assassin—along with Ned’s death—had cemented the partnership with mortar made of equal parts guilt and gratitude.

By rights, that ought to have been enough.

For seven years, it had been.

But now, the alliance built on Ned’s coffin was in danger, and so the House was calling her back, whether she would —whether she could—or no. Because the needs of the House always outweighed the needs of any of its individual members.

And Elix was, first and foremost, a Deneith, and he’d protect the House’s interests at all costs. He’d said it himself.

“I don’t know why I’m surprised. I mean, you gave me fair warning. ‘I’m a Marshal. It’s my job,’ ” she spat, viciously parroting his words back to him. “I didn’t know that job included lying to your friends and stabbing them in the back, but maybe they’ve changed the requirements since I earned my brooch.

“So I guess it’s a good thing that I don’t have it anymore.”

She cut off Elix’s protest before he could give it voice.

“Don’t. Just … don’t.”

She made her way to the library door and reached out to open it.

“Saba. Please. I’m sorry, but—”

Her hand stilled on the handle, but she didn’t turn.

“I don’t care. Find someone else to save the House’s trading partnership with the Tordannons. As of tomorrow, I’m gone. And you needn’t bother sending any letters after me this time, real or forged. I won’t be coming back to Karrnath. Ever.”

Then she stepped from the room without so much as a backward glance, slamming the door on Elix and on her life as a Marshal.

Mountainheart jumped up from his seat when she returned to the sitting room.

“Finally! I was beginning to think you’d completely forgotten the Tordannon hand signals.”

She’d just been going back to retrieve her cloak and had had no intention of even speaking to the dwarf. But his words brought her up short.

The hand signals. The chin scratching and bead twisting. Of course.

He’d been trying to tell her they needed to speak privately … either that, or that her beard needed trimming, which hardly seemed likely.

Not that it mattered.

“You’re too late. I’ve resigned my commission; I’m no longer a Marshal. I did it before you even got here—Elix probably forgot to mention that little detail, didn’t he? Seems he’s gotten pretty good at keeping secrets since I left,” she said as she reached down and retrieved her still-damp cloak from the hearth. “So whatever it is you wanted to say, save it. I’m not going back to the Holds with you, and neither Breven nor Elix can compel me to, now.”

She turned away from him and took two steps toward the door before his next words stopped her where she stood.

“I don’t need them. I have Sollego.”

Sabira turned back slowly to face the dwarf, who was regarding her with an unpleasant smirk.

“I’m actually a bit surprised,” he continued in a conversational tone, casually buffing his rings on his tunic. “My uncle told me you were a smart player; that you played like a dwarf. I guess that changed after you left the Holds, because no dwarf worth the name would be stupid enough to bet money they didn’t have.”

Sabira’s eyes narrowed.

“So I owe the gang a few galifars. So what?”

“Actually, you no longer owe Sollego anything. I purchased your debt from him—at a considerable markup, I might add.” The smirk became a full-fledged grin, the movement making the beads in his black beard clatter together. “Now, you owe me.”

Sabira swallowed. Owing a dwarf money was a deadly serious matter, even more so than owing a gang leader like Sollego. Sollego might rough her up, even maim her, but that’s as far as he would go, because his ultimate concern was getting his money back, and his ability to do so would be severely hampered if she were a corpse. A dwarf, on the other hand, had more at stake than mere money—his honor and very clan status were on the line. A dwarf who could not collect his debts was no dwarf at all.

You could tell a lot about what was important to a race by the words they used and the words they didn’t. Dwarves, for instance, had more than two hundred words for “family” and nearly as many for “wealth.” But the only word they had for someone who defaulted on a loan was “dead.”

Mountainheart watched her closely, gauging her reaction.

“So, unless you’re able to pay off your debt in full—all ten dragons of it, plus another two to cover my expenses in purchasing the note—then you are going to the Holds, where you will defend my uncle once again, only this time it will be in front of the Iron Council instead of in the depths of Korran’s Maw.”

Before she could respond, Elix entered the room, a small pouch clutched in one hand.

“Ah, Captain!” Mountainheart exclaimed, his smile expansive and more than a bit smug. “You’re just in time. Sabira has just agreed to return to Krona Peak with me. My uncle and the whole Tordannon clan will be very pleased.”

Elix’s brow creased and he looked from the dwarf’s satisfied expression to Sabira, taking in her set jaw and angry glower. For a moment, bewilderment warred with relief on his face as he tried to divine what Mountainheart could have possibly said or done to make her change her mind so quickly. But then, like any good politician, he shook it off with a slight shrug and crossed over to her.

“In that case, you’ll be needing this.” He pulled her brooch out of the silk bag and draped the leather cord around her neck so that the chimera brooch lay just above her heart, while she stood there, stiff and unyielding. As he moved her hair aside to knot the cord, his fingers brushed the nape of her neck. She could swear his hand was trembling; he was probably furious at her.

The feeling was definitely mutual.

Damn you, Elix, she thought. And Mountainheart and Aggar, too. Damn all your manipulating hides to the darkest depths of Khyber.

While she was at it, she might as well curse that gnome at the Wayward Lobster who’d beaten her Royal Family with a full complement of lowly Spears. Or the dealer who’d given him the hand, or Olladra, who’d turned a blind eye toward her in favor of that sniveling little tinkerer.

Or herself for raising, despite the fact the gnome was leaning back in his chair and clearly wanted her to call. Because, ultimately, she really had no one else to blame for her current predicament.

But that didn’t mean she had to be the only one who suffered for it.

“Yes, Envoy Mountainheart and I have come to an agreement on the matter,” she said, tossing her hair and smiling sweetly at the dwarf, whose eyes narrowed suspiciously. “He’s offered a most generous fee, which I simply could not refuse. He’ll be paying me five platinum dragons, and of course the House will get a cut, as well—another full dragon, I believe it was?”

Elix, who’d returned to the table and retrieved his glass, nearly choked on his drink, while Mountainheart’s ruddy face darkened with fury, and his lips compressed so tightly, they almost disappeared. Sabira kept smiling, batting her eyelashes at him, and daring the dwarf to contradict her.

For despite what he’d said about not needing the Marshals to compel her, he did still need their sanction for her to take this job. And if he gainsaid her, then the real reason he’d been able to convince her to return to the Holds would come out, and Elix would have no choice but to strip her of her brooch before she could so much as blink—permanently, this time. The Marshals did not brook criminal activity by their agents, and taking out a loan from one of Stormreach’s most notorious gangs could hardly be considered anything else.

So unless Mountainheart was willing to wager his uncle’s freedom on the likelihood that the Iron Council would listen to Sabira d’Deneith, the disgraced former Marshal, with the same attention they would give the famed Shard Axe, he had no choice but to agree to the outrageous sum she’d just named.

The dwarf’s deep-set brown eyes bored into Sabira’s own, and she matched him, gaze for gaze.

“Yes, that’s right,” he said, though it sounded as if he might have bitten off a piece of his tongue and was having difficulty swallowing it. He stuck a reluctant hand out and Sabira grasped it firmly.

Then he surprised her by chuckling.

“My uncle said you were as stubborn as a dwarf, with twice the bite. I think he may have understated the situation just a bit.”

Sabira smiled in spite of herself.

“I look forward to working with you, too.”

It only took Elix a few moments to draw up the contract, which he’d had conveniently tucked between two decanters on the cabinet. The compact consisted of a preprinted form outlining the terms of engagement, with blanks for names and fees and additional pages for noting any irregularities about the job. By rights, it should have taken Elix a day just to record all of those, but he simply jotted a brief note:

Assigned Marshal, Sabira Lyet d’Deneith (a.k.a., the Shard Axe) to assist in defense of client Aggar Tordannon (retained by proxy: Orin Mountainheart) only. Apprehension of any additional murder suspect(s) to be negotiated under separate contract as necessary.

Mountainheart grunted when he read it, but he initialed the addendum without comment and signed both copies of the contract. Sabira and Elix countersigned, as Assigned Marshal and Supervising Marshal, respectively, and that was that. Except for the small matter of the deposit.

“At an agreed-upon fee of five platinum dragons, a full third will be required to be kept in escrow until the job is complete,” Elix reminded the dwarf, who looked as though he might like to chew the captain’s head off and spit it out in disgust. “You can have the money deposited into the appropriate account at the local branch of the House Kundarak bank. If you need directions or require an escort, we’d be happy to provide either.”

Mountainheart sniffed in disdain. If he was anything like the other dwarves Sabira had met, he knew exactly where the Lordsmarch Branch was located, and could likely tell you precisely how long it would take to get there from any point in Stormreach. It was the first thing a dwarf learned about a city, along with the locations of all its guardhouses and taverns. It paid to be prepared, and dwarves loved few things more than getting paid.

“I’d be a fool to carry that kind of coin around with me,” Mountainheart replied haughtily. “I will have the required amount deposited, and then I will meet you at Falconer’s Spire at the ninth bell. The Inheritance departs for Vulyar at half past. Don’t be late.”

Sabira recognized the Tordannon hand signals easily this time—a tug on the right earlobe, smoothing the long beard just so and then an infinitesimal adjustment of the cloak clasp. She didn’t need the dwarf to translate: Don’t cross me; I still own your debt.

I still own you.

His point made, Mountainheart gave a curt nod in Elix’s direction and turned to leave.

“Actually, that’s not going to happen.”

“What?” He and Elix spoke in unison, though only one voice echoed with anger.

“I told you. I already have a job. Coincidentally enough, it’s for one of your Aurum buddies. Maybe you know him? Arach d’Kundarak?”

She didn’t know for certain that Arach was a member of the Aurum, but the sudden look of fear that flashed across Mountainheart’s face confirmed it. He tried to cover the slip with arrogance, drawing himself up to his full height and looking down his nose at her in the way only dwarves and very old and proper schoolmarms could manage.

“The Aurum is a vast, far-flung organization. There is no way any one member could possibly know all of the others. In fact—”

“Poached some artifacts from him, did you? Well, don’t worry. You can leave tonight and wait for me in Sharn. Arach’s ship leaves at the fourth bell tomorrow, so I’ll only be a day behind you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mountainheart retorted. “I didn’t come all this way just to leave without you. Tell Arach you’re no longer available for whatever frivolous quest he’s sending you on.”

“No.” To her surprise, it was Elix who answered. “Sabira entered into that agreement as a representative of House Deneith, even if not as a Marshal, and I won’t have the House’s reputation tarnished by her reneging on a contract. We’ll delay our departure to coincide with theirs, and detour to Sharn to pick Sabira up after they’ve dropped her off.”

“But Aggar’s trial—”

“—doesn’t start for another three weeks.” Elix finished smoothly, having donned his diplomat’s hat again. “We’ll have her back in Krona Peak in plenty of time, Your Excellency. You have my word on that.”

Mountainheart clearly wasn’t satisfied, but he was smart enough to realize it was the best he was going to get.

“Very well, Captain. Until tomorrow afternoon, then,” he huffed, taking his leave with only minimal theatrics this time.

Which left Sabira alone with Elix, a situation she meant to remedy as quickly as possible.

“Glad to see you use your actual signature this time,” she said as she turned and made to follow Mountainheart’s lead. “Of course, the contracts wouldn’t be legal otherwise, and you’d lose the House a trading partner and a pretty tip besides, so I can see why you refrained from practicing your new forging skills. I hope it wasn’t too difficult for you—”

She was too busy berating him to hear his quick approach, so she was utterly unprepared when his hand landed on her shoulder and he spun her around bodily to face him.

“Saba,” he began, his tone soft but his face as flushed with fury as she had ever seen it. But as her chin lifted in defiance, ready to give as good as she got, Sabira saw the fire bleed out of his eyes, replaced by an emotion she couldn’t name. Elix took a deep breath and released her shoulder, taking a step back.

“Go get cleaned up. I’ve been assigned the suite for visiting officers on the third floor; use that. I have to take care of your reinstatement papers with Greigur, so you needn’t worry about anyone disturbing you.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he cut her off with a sigh. “It’s an order, Marshal.”

Without bothering to wait for a reply, he turned and walked away, grabbing his half-full snifter off the table as he left the room.

And though Elix hadn’t so much as raised his voice, as the door closed behind him, Sabira couldn’t help but feel that she had just been quite thoroughly chastised.

The suite for visiting officers was a grandiose name for an oversized storage closet with a small fireplace, a scratched desk and mismatched chair, a sagging cot, and an attached privy. The so-called suite’s one boast to luxury was a large wooden tub that had, either by some clever artificer’s trick or else by some extremely fast coordination on Elix’s part, been filled with steaming water by the time she’d finished her own snifter of Onatar’s Blood and made her way up from the sitting room. A plate of still-warm vedbread and a bowl of brine sausage stew sat on a small side table near the tub, earning a grudging smile for the absent captain. He’d remembered her childhood favorites from Karrnath, though where he’d found either commodity in Stormreach was a mystery. Perhaps he’d brought his own private stock along. If so, she hoped it was because they were his favorites, too, and not some sort of subtle bribery.

For a moment she was paralyzed with indecision. Hot food or a hot bath? She needed both equally, but she found she wanted to be clean more than she wanted to assuage her grumbling stomach. Something about being forced to go back to Vulyar when she’d sworn never to return there left her feeling dirty, almost violated. She hoped a bath would wash the sensation away, but she had her doubts.

She didn’t have the time it would take to soak today’s events from her bones, so she settled for a vigorous scouring that left her skin pink and shiny. Then she climbed out of the tub and wrapped herself in one of the plush towels hanging on a nearby hook—Brelish, by the look, and expensive. Good to see there were at least some perks to being a captain.

A set of clean clothing to accompany the towels was apparently too much to hope for, and she didn’t exactly relish putting her own clothes back on, muddy as they were and still smelling vaguely of the sewers, so she set about scrubbing them in the still-warm bath water. She thought ruefully of the change of clothes sitting in the small pack she’d left with Borlan back at the Bogwater, but she’d actually paid to have those laundered and she was saving them for a special occasion. Like appearing before the Iron Council to defend an Aurum member from the accusations of other Aurum members.

Sabira could only shake her head at the thought. Marshals acting as counsel for criminals. That had to be the fulfillment of some minor part of the Draconic Prophecy, or something equally portentous and dire. Olladra’s luck that she’d be part of it.

After cleaning the clothes as best she could, she laid them out before the fire. She was effectively trapped here until they dried, so she took the opportunity to poke through Elix’s things and try to understand just when and how he had changed so much.

A small trunk of Karrnathi make sat at the foot of the cot. Sabira lifted it onto the cot frame and opened the lid. Two sets of tailored clothes in Deneith colors were folded neatly on top. They were wellmade but worn, and not the sort a man of means with a woman in his life would be allowed to wear, Sabira noted with unwonted satisfaction, a reaction she didn’t want to examine too closely.

As she set the clothing aside, she briefly considered appropriating one of Elix’s shirts to wear while her own dried, but decided against it. Standing naked save for her Marshal’s brooch and a towel in the room where Elix slept was uncomfortable enough; wearing his clothing would be asserting a level of intimacy she no longer had any claim to.

If she ever had.

Shrugging that thought off, Sabira continued her clandestine search, looking for more clues about Elix’s life and the years she’d so carelessly let pass between them. There were two books, their spines creased with use: The Complete Annotated History of Karrn the Conqueror by Plini and The Collected Verses of Theodon Dorn. Verses had a silk ribbon marking his spot, and Sabira flipped it open, curious to see what he’d been reading.

It was “The Marshal and the Maiden.” She’d always preferred the second in the series, “The Marshal and the Mistress,” in which the Marshal appeared to be having an illicit love affair with a nameless woman until the very last stanza, wherein Dorn gleefully revealed that the Marshal’s lady love was, in fact, his sword.

“The Maiden” was the more popular of the two, though, and like every Karrn ever born, Sabira knew it well.

The Marshal saw that time had fled

And though she pleaded and implored

Tears cutting worse than any sword

“Farewell, my heart,” was all he said

She knew then in her deepest core

He was Deneith, trueborn and bred

And even if they one day wed

He’d always love his duty more

Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Sabira closed the book and placed it with its companion on top of Elix’s clothes. If asked, she wouldn’t have pegged Elix for a devotee of epic romances, but the revelation didn’t really surprise her. For many in her House, love and duty were so intertwined that the concepts were almost synonymous. No wonder, then, that all the best tales of unrequited love involved a Deneith hero. Or heroine.

Sabira lifted the last item out of the trunk, a sheathed scimitar. The blade’s presence puzzled her; Elix’s weapon of choice had always been the broadsword. Drawing the curved sword, she realized that part of its hilt had been broken off in an odd way. It took her a moment to realize what was so strange about the damage, and why the sheath didn’t quite seem to fit.

This was no ordinary scimitar, but part of a much rarer and more lethal weapon—a Valenar double scimitar. Used to deadly effect by the elven cavalry of Valenar, it was unusual to see one north of the Blade Desert or south of Kraken Bay. When you did, it was invariably a war trophy.

Sabira wondered if this had been the weapon that killed Tabeth and what the other Marshal had meant to him that he would keep it. She pushed the thought away quickly. More likely, it had belonged to one of the elves Elix had himself killed while trying to escape with the Lyrandar heir. Either way, it had to serve as a constant—and deliberate—memory of what he’d lost in the desert.

She reached out to run her fingertips lightly along the blade’s edge. This change, at least, she understood.

The door opened suddenly, and she spun around too fast, slicing two of her fingers nearly to the bone on the still-sharp blade in her haste.

Elix paused in the doorway to take in the sight of her standing in front of his bed, clad only in a towel, startled eyes framed by a mess of coppery hair still in damp ringlets, and blood dripping from her hand onto the floor.

Without comment, he closed the door and crossed over to the desk, dumping the pile of papers he was holding and rummaging about in a drawer. When he straightened, he held a small vial made of cut blue glass. He tucked it into his shirt pocket, then came around the desk and walked to her side. There, he very gently took her injured hand in his and used the corner of the towel to absorb most of the welling blood. Then, still holding her hand, he fished in his pocket for the vial, pulled the stopper out with his teeth and poured it over the cuts before the bleeding could resume.

As the greenish liquid hit her skin and the exposed tissue beneath, there was a moment of blessed numbness, then a hot flash of agony as the flesh of her fingers regenerated and grew back together, like she’d thrust her hand in the hearth fire or in the icy waters of Karrn Bay.

She bit her tongue to keep from crying out, or flinching, but she couldn’t keep the pain from her face, and Elix looked at her sympathetically.

“I know it’s stronger than what you’re probably used to, but it’ll only hurt a moment, Saba,” he said, still holding her hand and beginning to stroke the inside of her wrist with his thumb. Sure enough, once Sabira focused on that rhythmic motion, the pain did begin to ease.

Only to be replaced by a sensation that was far more alarming. As a different sort of warmth began to spread through her, Sabira was assaulted with memories of her last night in Vulyar, seven years ago.

They’d had the remembrance service for Leoned at Elix’s father’s manor estate, and she’d polished off an entire bottle of Frostmantle Fire by herself. She’d been drunk enough to be an embarrassment, and Elix had taken her up to his rooms, intending to put her to bed so she could sleep it off while he went back down to the service. But somehow, they’d wound up in his bed together, limbs tangled and slick with sweat, her needing to drown her grief in something stronger than drink, and him needing …

Her.

She looked up now into his concerned hazel eyes and saw the same swirling maelstrom of emotions she still remembered from that night. If she were honest with herself, it had been that storm that she’d been fleeing from when she’d left Vulyar, as much as any memories of Leoned—the vortex created when her abiding guilt and anger met his deep longing and need to protect and defend. It was a tempest that threatened to swallow them both whole, then and now.

And it was why he’d lied to try to get her back there, when his letters and messages pleading with her to return had gone unanswered. Not to protect some mercantile alliance with the dwarves, but just to see her, to make sure for himself that she really was well, and to do whatever was in his power to fix it if she weren’t.

“Oh, Elix,” she whispered, brought to tears for the second time today.

It was too much for him. Her proximity, her warmth beneath the thick Brelish cotton, her pain and sudden tenderness. He groaned and wrapped his arms around her, his lips finding hers in a desperate, frenzied kiss.

It would have been so easy to lose herself in him. A quick tug and the towel would pool at her feet, and there would be nothing separating them.

Except for the job she’d just signed on for, and the debt she needed to pay. And Leoned’s ghost, still haunting them both because neither one of them truly knew how to let him go.

She allowed herself one long, sweet moment to return the kiss and luxuriate in the strength of his embrace. And then she pulled away as gently as she could.

“We can’t do this, Elix. Not now. Maybe … maybe when I come back from the Holds. Maybe I can stay in Vulyar awhile and we can … talk.”

It was the most she could offer him, but for a moment as his eyes swam with desire, frustration, and hurt, she thought he was going to refuse her.

“It’s because of the letter, isn’t it?” he said finally, releasing her and stepping back, needing to put some distance between them.

“No.” Not now. Not anymore. “Elix … no.”

He held her gaze for a few moments longer, disbelief plain on his face, then looked away with a sigh.

“You’d better get dressed. You wouldn’t want Greigur walking in on you like that.”

As he turned to walk away, she reached out to touch his shoulder, stopping him. When he looked back, she gave him a small, crooked smile.

“Thank you.”

He regarded her for a silent moment, then a mischievous and welcome glint began to grow in his eyes. Finally, he smiled back, roguish, his disappointment firmly relegated to the corners of his mouth.

“You can thank me properly when you come back home,” he said, capturing her hand in his for a quick kiss before releasing it and making his way to the door.

Once there, he turned back to look at her, his gaze intent, as if trying to etch her every feature into his mind and heart.

“Just make sure you make it back. That’s an order.”

He stepped out of the room before she could reply, perhaps not trusting himself to leave if she spoke again.

As she stared at the darkwood paneling of the closed door, she pondered his words, her hand moving almost unconsciously up to touch her aching lips.

Home, he’d said. Twice now. Karrnath hadn’t been that to her in a very long time, but so many things had changed since she’d left. Maybe, just maybe, that could change, too.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Zol, Nymm 10, 998 YK
Stormreach, Xen’drik.

Sabira stopped by Falconer’s Spire at half past the third bell, to find Elix waiting beside the Inheritance, a sleek Sparrow airship that bore the crest of the Tordannon clan on either side of the hull. The smallest of the Windspyre models, the ship nevertheless boasted an impressive deck more than a hundred feet in length, with sizeable control fins that had been fancifully shaped to resemble the wings of its namesake. More impressive still was the huge fiery ring that crackled and spat as it circled the vessel’s middle, the bound elemental inside serving as the propulsive power behind the legendary speed of any airship.

“What’s with all the security?” she asked as soon as she was within earshot. There were twice as many Deneith mercenaries milling about as usual, and she’d had to flash her brooch three times on her way up because she wasn’t on the passenger manifests of any of the waiting airships. “This can’t all be for a Mrorian Envoy.”

“Hardly. A delegation from Droaam is coming in early tomorrow.”

“I heard about that.” Indeed, she couldn’t have escaped hearing about it; it had been the buzz of the Bogwater for the past week. “But I thought they were coming by sea …?”

“They are.”

At her questioning look, Elix just shrugged.

“Greigur,” he said, as if that explained everything. And, given rumors of the Stormreach captain’s aspirations, it probably did.

“Where’s Mountainheart?” she asked, noticing for the first time that the dwarf wasn’t there.

“He remembered some urgent errand he had to run at the last minute.” His tone was even, but Sabira could see his irritation in the sudden tightening of his jaw.

“I wonder what her name is,” Sabira quipped, earning her a quick upward twitch of Elix’s lips, there and gone again. But the glimpse of a smile was more than enough to set her heart to doing uncomfortable things, so she was almost glad when Mountainheart’s voice sounded icily from somewhere behind her left shoulder.

“Gunnett. And she’s my wife.” As Sabira turned to face him, more grateful than sheepish, he added, “I promised her I’d send a message via speaking stone when we were about to leave. And I had to tell her about our little detour to Sharn.”

Ah, Sabira thought. Newlyweds.

But … wait. Her name was what?

“Doesn’t that mean …?”

“No, it does not,” the dwarf interrupted testily as he made his way toward the gangplank. “The word you’re thinking of is gunnegdh. My wife was named for the gunethe, a rare flower with white petals and black thorns that grows only in the caverns of Noldrunhold.”

She didn’t know how he could be so sure; the words sounded indistinguishable from one another to her ear. Still, it wasn’t likely that any parent in the Holds would name their child “black blade,” seeing as it was a common dwarven euphemism for traitor, so she’d take his word for it.

“Now, if we’re to follow your ship to Sharn, perhaps you’d best make sure you’re actually on it?” Mountainheart prompted, waving at Elix to precede him.

“Right. Well, until Sharn, then.” Her eyes met Elix’s over the dwarf’s head. “Stay safe.”

He held her gaze for a long, charged moment before replying, and though his words gave nothing away, his look burned with a promise she didn’t dare dwell on.

“Until Sharn,” he said, then mercifully turned away and started up the plank. Sabira followed suit, turning and heading for the stairs, firmly banishing the image of his hazel eyes from her thoughts; whatever might be happening between them, it would have to wait. She had a job to do, and she couldn’t afford to be distracted by her feelings. She’d let that happen once before, and the loss had been incalculable. It was a mistake she was not about to make again.

Sabira found Arach’s airship just as easily as he’d said she would; it was the only one at the House Kundarak docking tower with two elemental rings, one a vibrant red and the other a garish purple. Whatever the dwarf’s true business was, he certainly wasn’t afraid to be seen doing it.

Since she was actually on the manifest for the Dust Dancer, she had no difficulty getting to the ship, though the security here was just as tight as it had been at Falconer’s Spire.

“You Sabira?” asked a heavily tattooed dwarf with a clipboard who stood at the foot of the gangplank. A golden hoop pierced his lower lip and several matching circles glittered in both ears, as well as in the braids of his black beard.

At her nod, he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.

“Talk to the first mate, Thecla. He’s the bald one with the hook for a hand. He’ll get you squared away, tell you where to stow your gear and the like.”

Sabira made her way up the plank to the deck of the Dust Dancer. The airship, a modified Stormglory Typhoon, was three times as big as Mountainheart’s smaller Sparrow. It looked more like a floating parlor than a vessel that could choose to outfly a dragon or simply shoot it out of the sky, with no less than four massive ballistae—two atop the forecastle, just forward of the binding struts, and the other two astern of the rearmost elemental ring, attached to the main deck. Small potted trees and cushioned divans dotted the deck, complete with colorful awnings to shield their occupants from sun or rain. Even the soarwood life rings hanging on the walls of both the fore- and sterncastles shone in the afternoon sun, as though they’d been etched in gilt. Sabira got the impression that this ship didn’t make a lot of cargo runs, which made this mission all the more peculiar.

She spotted the first mate up near the helm, deep in conversation with the Lyrandar pilot. From the other dwarf’s description, she had expected Thecla to be some self-styled pirate out of an unimaginative bard’s tale, but when she reached the top of the sterncastle, she saw that the first mate was dressed in finery that probably cost more than she was getting for this job. With a tailored coat fashioned of glamerweave, silvercloth breeches, and high, glossy boots she could see her reflection in, Thecla would not have been out of place in a palace ballroom. An ornate sheath studded with huge cabochons and housing a sword that looked to be of even better make than her urgrosh completed the picture.

“Ah, you must be Sabira! The former,” his piercing blue eyes alighted briefly on the leather cord that disappeared beneath her shirt, “or, should I say, ‘newly reinstated’ Sentinel Marshal. It’s a pleasure to have you aboard!”

He stuck out his hook to her, then laughed at her momentary discomfiture as she tried to decide if she was actually supposed to shake it or not.

“I never get tired of that!” he chortled heartily, then withdrew the hook and offered his other, fleshy hand, which Sabira shook with somewhat less amusement. “Now, we’ve run into a bit of a delay—nothing you need to concern yourself with, of course—but we won’t be leaving until the fifth bell, so why don’t you spend the time getting acquainted with the ship? Hotch, here, will show you to your quarters and introduce you to the others.”

Hotch was a spindly legged kobold who seemed to have materialized beside her while Thecla had been entertaining himself at her expense, but Sabira quickly realized that the reason she hadn’t noticed the reptilian sailor was because, unlike most of his Stormreach brethren, he actually didn’t stink.

“This way. Come, come.” Sabira wrinkled her nose in distaste as she followed the kobold belowdecks, dodging his lashing tail. Hotch might not smell, but his yapping speech was every bit as annoying and much harder to ignore. “You sleep here. Own cabin, yes? Only girl.”

Hotch’s dog-like snout split into a big, toothy grin at that, though Sabira wasn’t sure if it was supposed to be a comforting smile or some sort of lecherous leer. She found both prospects equally disturbing.

“Galley there, engine room there, observation dome down there, cargo hold here.”

The cargo hold was a large space that stretched from the main deck to the Dust Dancer’s keel and could easily have fit a small house or two. It was empty, save for three crates firmly secured to the floor by thick netting.

Sabira wondered again what Arach was up to. Even if those crates were full of the largest, most flawless shards ever to fall from the Ring of Siberys, they still weren’t worth what this ship cost to man and to fly. Using the Dust Dancer to transport them was pure overkill.

Most likely the dragonshards were a cover for something either more valuable or less legal, or possibly both. She just hoped Arach wasn’t running dreamlily or absentia. She’d heard rumblings that Sharn’s Boromar clan was trying to expand into the Stormreach market, and they might well choose to partner with the Aurum rather than compete with them for business.

Maybe she should have backed out of her deal with Arach after all. Surely breaking a contract would do less harm to the House’s reputation than having one of their Marshals arrested for drug trafficking.

Well, as long as she didn’t actually look in the crates, she could always claim ignorance. It wouldn’t save her, of course, but it should spare the House—and Elix—too much embarrassment.

A sudden thrum moved through the soarwood hull and Hotch squeaked, “Time to go now! Topsides! Topsides!”

Sabira followed the muttering kobold as he scurried up the nearest ladder. She hadn’t heard the fifth bell, but she might not be able to over the constant soft hum of the bound elementals circling the ship. Or perhaps whatever delay Thecla had been referring to had been averted. She rather hoped the latter would prove to be the case; she could just imagine Mountainheart’s indignation at being forced to wait an extra hour for her to show up in Sharn. Whatever would he tell dear Gunnett-not-gunnegdh?

“Go now! Wizard here!”

Wizard?

She reached out to grab Hotch’s tail before he could scramble up the last few rungs to the main deck.

“We were waiting for a wizard? Why?”

“Big green birds cause problems for ship. So wizard cause problems for birds.”

Ah. He must be talking about yrthaks, though only a kobold would refer to the hideous flying reptiles as “birds.” The sightless creatures had been known to harry airships coming into and out of the Stormreach harbor; since the yrthaks were sensitive to both sound and vibration, all the activity associated with the Droaam contingent’s arrival had probably stirred them up in their aeries. Any ship was potential prey to the destructive sonic blasts the animals unleashed through their distinctive spiral horns. She had heard stories of a clutch of yrthaks that destroyed a Silver Flame monastery in the mountains of Thrane soon after it had been built. During the inaugural blessing ceremony, the priests had raised their voices in song, and the melody had attracted the yrthaks from miles away. Agitated by the sound echoing off the tall peaks, the yrthaks had used powerful lances of pure, cacophonous noise to bring the building down on top of the singers, silencing their music forever. The monastery had never been rebuilt.

She was glad Arach was taking precautions to ensure the Dust Dancer did not suffer a similar fate. She could only hope those aboard the Inheritance were taking comparable measures.

Once back on deck, Hotch hurried her over to where a group of dwarves stood listening to Thecla give the final instructions before takeoff.

“… and those of you assigned to protect our cargo will deploy as follows: Yven and Durgin, in the hold. Fasir and Eamon, take the foredeck. Sabira, you and Ears, here, will take the aft deck.” He looked up from his clipboard to find her in the crowd—not hard, since she stood a half a head higher than the tallest of them. “You can operate a ballista, I assume?”

“With my eyes closed and one hand fending off a drunken sailor,” she replied flippantly, which earned her some appreciative chuckles from the assembled crew. The question actually set her somewhat at ease. Sentinel Marshals were required to have at least a passing familiarity with any and all weapons they might be called upon to use during the course of their duties, and dwarven ballistae of the type used on the Dust Dancer were handcranked, something that would require both knowledge of the weapon and the strength to use it. Perhaps that was why Arach had wanted her on his ship; and not so that her connection to House Deneith might give this trip at least a veneer of legitimacy.

“Well, hopefully none of the boys will decide to make you prove that,” Thecla countered, which drew even more laughter. “All right, all right! To your stations, boys, and aweigh the anchor!”

There was a chorus of “aye aye,” and then a flurry of activity as the group of dwarves broke up and hurried off to follow the first mate’s instructions. No longer tethered to the docking tower, the Dust Dancer rose slowly into the air and was soon floating above the Kundarak enclave and the glowing yellow crystal atop the massive Bank of Kundarak, with the Tower of Kol Korran like a darker, more somber shadow behind it. As the ship turned northward and the Lyrandar pilot gradually released his hold on the bound elementals, the wonders of Stormreach faded into the distance, until all that could be seen was the Emperor’s beam of light shooting high into the sky, a shining beacon in the wilderness that was Xen’drik.

Sharn was almost fifteen hundred miles due north of Stormreach, a trip that would take three days via airship, assuming fair weather and no encounters with anything more dangerous than a flock of seagulls. Assumptions that Sabira knew were likely to prove grossly incorrect, for skies clear of cloud or creature were rare indeed on the Thunder Sea.

As if Olladra had heard her thoughts and wanted to prove the point, a shout rang out from the prow just as they were passing over Three Barrel Cove.

“Yrthak! Dead ahead!”

Sabira strained to see from her vantage point near the helm, but even if the forecastle hadn’t been blocking her view, the double rings of fire that encircled the ship made it impossible to do anything more than squint in that direction. She suddenly understood Arach’s wisdom in having as many ballistae as he did, stationed where they were.

“Where’s that damned wizard?” Thecla barked, coming up to stand by the pilot. “Get him and that horn of his over here! Now!”

Hotch appeared moments later with the wizard in tow. A warforged of indeterminate gender, the mage wore a simple white-hooded robe over its metal and wood fiber body, but its two-toed silver feet were visible beneath the hem and three-fingered hands poked out from under long, flowing sleeves. Its metal jaw worked in some arcane chant while the crystals that formed its eyes glowed orange.

“Hard to port!” Thecla ordered the Lyrandar half-elf, who complied with a small moue of concentration. As the airship came about, Sabira was at last able to see the cause of all the commotion.

A clutch of three yrthaks was attacking another airship a few miles ahead, out over the open water. As she watched, one of the yrthaks bore down on the ship, opening its improbably wide mouth. The starboard side control fin burst in a cloud of wooden debris and the airship began to list to that side. As it did so, Sabira could just make out a crest emblazoned on the side of its hull.

It was the Inheritance.

“That’s my—that’s a Sentinel Marshal ship! We’ve got to help them!”

“Ai! Quiet, quiet!” Hotch yapped, holding one clawed finger up to his snout. “Too noisy! Attract birds before wizard done with spell!”

Sabira looked over at the warforged to see it bringing a small golden horn to its lips. With an oath, she sprinted for the sterncastle, pulling her shard axe from its harness. Hotch was the only one who seemed to realize what she was up to, and he jumped in front of her, only to be backhanded out of the way without a second glance. She reached the warforged just as it was beginning to blow a silent note on the magical instrument and swung her urgrosh. The strike connected, sending the horn skittering across the wooden deck with a clatter.

Silence reigned for an instant as she darted over to retrieve the instrument, and then it sounded as if all the souls in Dolurrh had been let loose at once.

Thecla roared in fury, drawing his blade and yelling for his men to do the same. Hotch was whining and yelping at her from where he still lay on the deck, blood trickling out from a new gap in his teeth. The wizard, meanwhile, was waving its hands and shouting a new and terrible incantation.

And above it all, a voice shouting from the bow.

“Incoming!”

And then the sound of the two forward ballistae firing in quick succession, followed by a string of heartfelt and rather imaginative curses.

“Unless you want those things doing to the Dust Dancer what they just did to the Inheritance, you’d better do exactly as I say, and quickly.” As she spoke, Sabira edged closer to the wheel, the railing at her back. She held her urgrosh in one hand and dangled the horn from the other, out over the railing, where a quick toss would send it tumbling into the whitecaps far below. She knew there were at least two crossbows trained on her—maybe more—but the crew didn’t dare shoot while she held the horn that represented their only chance against the rapidly advancing yrthaks.

Thecla growled but nodded, lowering his weapon and motioning for the others to do the same. When the warforged seemed disinclined to cease his spellcasting, the first mate slapped the back of the wizard’s head with his hook, the sound of the impact ringing out across the deck like some alien bell tone.

“Cast your spell,” Sabira said, tossing the horn back to the wizard. As the warforged snatched it nimbly out of the air, Sabira dodged to the side, a crossbow bolt nearly catching her in the calf. And then she was behind the Lyrandar pilot, one forearm across his throat and the spear tip of her urgrosh held pressed up against the base of his skull.

The warforged looked from her to Thecla, who nodded again, his face red with barely contained rage. There was another incomprehensible shout from the bow, and then the wizard blew on the horn and there was nothing but silence.

“You make speak in normal tones. The sound will not carry, as long as it is not excessive,” the warforged intoned in its hollow voice.

Thecla looked over at her, a sly grin tickling the edges of his mouth.

“Give it up, Sabira. You don’t really expect me to believe that a Sentinel Marshal would stoop to murder, do you?”

Sabira tightened her hold on the pilot’s throat.

“I’m not going to stand by and do nothing while a member of my House—a friend—dies.” Not again. “Believe that.”

She leaned into the pilot, her urgrosh pressing into the soft flesh of the half-elf’s neck as she breathed into his pointed ear.

“What about you? Whoever is helming the Inheritance, he or she is a pilot like you. A Lyrandar like you. Is Arach really paying you so much that the life of a fellow Lyrandar is worthless by comparison? And the lives of all the other people on that ship?”

The half-elf didn’t hesitate.

“Yes.”

Sabira felt a momentary stab of jealousy. Apparently, she’d sold her services on the cheap. Fast on the heels of that mercenary regret was an equally strong urge to shove the spear tip of her shard axe into the pilot’s brain for his callousness, but she squelched it as quickly as it arose, recognizing the hypocrisy behind it. How could she blame him, when she herself only really cared about one person on the Inheritance herself, and it wasn’t the Lyrandar?

“Fine. Take the Dust Dancer up over the top of the Inheritance and then suppress the elementals.”

“But then we risk attracting the yrthaks again!” the pilot protested, before Sabira repositioned her arm forcefully across his larynx. He was right, of course; even if the Dust Dancer was silent, the air flowing around it as it moved could still be detected by the yrthaks.

“Not really seeing the problem with that, since you’ve got four ballistae here to the Inheritance’s one,” Sabira replied. “So how about you just do what I say before I get tired of holding my urgrosh and find somewhere to stick it, hmm?”

The pilot couldn’t reply, but Sabira felt him stiffen as he invoked the powers of his hidden Mark of Storm and the ship began to rise in response. With the warforged’s spell still in place, the ascent was eerily quiet, making it easy to hear the muffled sounds of the battle playing out somewhere below them.

The faint sound of a ballista being fired was followed by a weird, high-pitched scream. Had they scored a hit or just enraged the yrthak? Sabira strained to hear, but she couldn’t tell. There was shouting, but there was no way she could make out individual voices. No way to know who was still fighting and who had already fallen.

Then came the cry she’d been dreading, clear even through the dampening effects of the wizard’s spell.

“Man overboard!”

Host, no. In these waters, that meant almost certain death.

“Stop here!”

The pilot made a wheezing noise, and Sabira shifted her arm just enough so that he could speak.

“I don’t know if we’re in the right—”

“We’re close enough. Now suppress the elementals.”

“But—”

Sabira let the sharpened spike pierce flesh. “With ears that big, Lyrandar, I know you’re not deaf. Quit stalling and suppress the elementals.”

The half-elf did as he was bade, and the Dust Dancer came to a stop, floating serenely on the air currents.

“Now let’s move.”

Sabira urged him along, keeping his body between hers and the weapons of Thecla’s crew, more of whom had acquired crossbows in the interim.

The first mate, who hadn’t moved from his place by the wizard, crossed his arms and gave her a skeptical look.

“Just how far do you think you’re going to get, Marshal? The minute you let him go, my men are going to fill you so full of feathers you’ll be able to fly yourself. Maybe I’ll have them do it before you let him go. I’m sure we have enough healing potions on board to patch Irlen back up after the fact.”

Sabira didn’t bother to respond; if that were true, she’d already be a porcupine. A dead one.

She moved down the stairs to the main deck as quickly as she could, tightening her hold to make sure Irlen didn’t decide to fake a stumble. Thecla followed her, trailed by Hotch and the warforged. Ears was waiting for her at the bottom of the steps, but gave way at a word from Thecla.

“Grab a life ring,” she ordered the pilot while she threw a glance over her shoulder to make sure none of the crew had circled behind her yet. The path to the port-side railing was still clear.

Irlen pulled the wooden circle down from its mooring and it immediately floated up into a horizontal position at waist level.

“Pull it along, up at your chest,” Sabira said as she backed them toward the railing. When she felt the wooden balustrade at the back of her thighs, she shifted the urgrosh away from the half-elf’s neck. “Hang on tight!”

And then she threw her weight backward, wrapping her legs around Irlen’s torso as the two toppled over the side of the airship and plummeted toward the ocean at an alarming speed.

“What the—?”

Life rings were supposed to be able to bear the weight of four people with no problem, and to slow their descent to roughly a third of the normal rate of fall. This one was either malfunctioning or else Irlen was a lot heavier than he looked.

Well, first things first. Sabira released her hold on the half-elf’s neck and slapped her urgrosh into its harness. Then she reached over his shoulder to grab onto the edge of the life ring. Once she had a firm grip, she unwrapped her legs and began pulling herself painstakingly around to the other side, hand over hand.

Once their weight was more balanced, the ring began to descend at a more reasonable rate, but still faster than it should.

Not that it really mattered. She wasn’t planning on dangling from it for long.

“Over here! Hey, ugly! Over here!”

“What in the name of the Devourer are you doing?” Irlen hissed, eyes wide with alarm as he stared down at the yrthaks harrying the listing airship. “You’re going to—”

“Attract one? Yeah, that’s sort of the point.”

Irlen had stopped the Dust Dancer several hundred feet from the Inheritance’s position. There was no way she was going to be able to reach it unless a gale blew up suddenly out of the east, in which case she’d have a lot more things to worry about than just saving Elix. So she’d have to go with the next best option: taking a ride on the back of a yrthak.

And, lucky her, it looked like one had finally noticed her and Irlen and was about to oblige.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Zol, Nymm 10, 998 YK
Somewhere over the Thunder Sea.

If she’d thought the yrthaks were ugly from a distance, seeing one up close was nothing short of a nightmare out of Xoriat. The reptile swooped toward her, its impossibly huge mouth yawing open. She could clearly see the rows of jagged teeth, the protruding, bulbous tongue, and the blackness beyond that led to the creature’s gullet. Something fleshy was lodged there. Sabira didn’t want to think too hard about what it might be.

It was coming at her from the side and looked like it was more interested in taking a chunk out of her than blasting her with that Hostforsaken horn, so she kept yelling and kicking to make sure its focus remained on her legs. Sabira waited until the last moment, when it lowered its head and arched its neck for the bite, then pulled her legs up out of the way. The yrthak passed harmlessly beneath her in a rush of foul wind, mere inches from where Sabira hung from the life ring like a pig on a spit. Then she breathed a prayer to Olladra and let go.

She mis-timed her fall and landed on the back of the thing’s elongated head, almost where its eyes would be, if it had any. She’d hoped to use her urgrosh on the yrthak the same way she’d used her arm on the Lyrandar pilot, holding it across the creature’s neck, controlling where it went by controlling its air supply. She quickly realized the flaw in that plan, though, for where the half-elf could understand her instructions, the yrthak, while it responded to the sounds, did not seem to comprehend the meaning behind them. Either that or it was too incensed by the sheer audacity of the two-legged thing trying to use it as a mount to care what she was saying.

“Calm down, big guy. No one needs to get hurt here,” she said, trying to soothe it like a skittish horse, but to no avail. She gripped its head between her legs, hoping the pressure of her knees might induce the yrthak to go where she wanted it to, but that only seemed to anger it further. It whipped its massive head back and forth, trying to shake her off.

Fine. If the stinking reptile wanted to act like a headstrong stallion, well, she knew how to deal with one of those.

She pulled her urgrosh back out of its harness and leaned forward, swinging it around and catching the haft just below the axe-head in her other hand. Then she pulled back on it like a scared trainee sawing at the reins, snapping the yrthak’s jaw shut with a spray of slimy spittle.

She’d only thought the creature was mad before. Now it tossed its head in all directions, spinning in the air and diving and banking in an effort to dislodge her. It even tried to scrape her off on the hull of the Inheritance, but she leaned far to the side and all it succeeded in doing was taking off a layer of its own scaly skin. Through it all, Sabira held on doggedly, helped in no small part by the shard axe’s enchantment. There was an old saying, “Sooner move a mountain than a dwarf,” and the yrthak was learning the truth of that now, for with the urgrosh in her hands, she was as unyielding as any Mrorian ever born.

It seemed to take hours, but the yrthak finally tired and became compliant, banking right when she put pressure on the left side of its jaw and left when she put pressure on the right. She was likewise able to get it to descend or rise by exerting the appropriate force. She had the thing under control.

Now she just had to hope that neither of the airships’ crews would decide to shoot the yrthak out of the sky while she was on it.

Using the urgrosh as a makeshift bridle, she swooped low over the waves to find whoever had fallen from the Inheritance. A body floated face-down in the water, already being circled by fins. A flash of dark hair sent fear coursing through her, but then she saw the tip of a pointed ear poking out and felt a rush of guilty relief.

The unfortunate fellow was probably the Inheritance’s pilot, which was going to make things very interesting after they got rid of all these yrthaks.

If they got rid of them.

But it wasn’t Elix. Thank the Host, it wasn’t Elix.

She knew she couldn’t rejoice just yet. He might not have been the one who’d gone overboard, but he could still be dead somewhere up on that ship. She had to find out.

As she urged her reptilian mount upward, Sabira saw Irlen a hundred feet away, perched precariously on the life ring, which now floated less than a foot above the choppy surface of the sea. A few fins had gathered around his position, too, in anticipation.

Well, the half-elf was on his own for now. She’d save him later, if she could. Just as soon as she’d saved everyone else.

The yrthak climbed up through the air, and Sabira brought it around so she could survey the damage to the Inheritance. The second remaining control fin was half gone, and several holes gaped in the portside bow. One of the binding struts for the elemental ring looked to have been damaged, and flames danced along its length as the now-uncontrolled elemental tried to escape its bonds. A soldier wearing Deneith colors was manning the ballista, firing great harpoon-like bolts at the yrthak that continued to harry the ship from the air. The second yrthak had landed on the deck and was using its jaws to formidable effect while its great leathery wings swooped to and fro, batting its attackers away like chaff in the wind.

One of those attackers was Elix, his dragonmark glowing blue as he ducked the yrthak’s blow and countered with a slash of his sword. Mountainheart was beside him, stabbing out with his rapier, while three others came at the yrthak from the opposite side. Four more bodies lay crumpled about the deck, unmoving.

Sabira used her urgrosh bridle to steer her yrthak toward the ship. She considered leaping from its back to that of the yrthak on the deck, but discarded the idea immediately. The moment she released her hold on her mount’s jaw, she would be relinquishing her power over it, and it would attack. And since it couldn’t reach her, it would go for the next best thing: the Inheritance and her crew.

No, she needed to take this one out of the picture before she could help fight the other two. Positioned as she was on the back of its head, there was only one way to do that. But she was only going to get one shot, and if she missed, she’d be joining the Lyrandar pilot as food for the sharks.

Slackening her hold slightly, she inched her way up the yrthak’s head until she was at the juncture of horn and skull. Sparing a glance at the Inheritance, she saw that the yrthak was almost above the deck. It was now or never.

She loosened her grip even more so that she could bring her legs back up underneath her. Once she was in a crouch, she released the hand near the urgrosh’s axe-head and swung the weapon out and up with her opposite hand while simultaneously jumping to her feet. Then, before the yrthak could register the fact that it was free, she grabbed the shard axe in both hands and brought it down as hard as she could on the winged reptile’s horn, shearing it off at the base.

And then she jumped.

As she hit the Inheritance’s deck, she bent her knees and curled into a ball, rolling across the pitted wood until she fetched up against the side of the forecastle. The yrthak, meanwhile, opened its mouth wide and screamed in silent agony, thrashing about in midair. One wild wing flapped into the elemental ring, burning through the leathery skin and leaving it in blackened, smoking tatters.

Crazed with pain, the yrthak flew blindly, its tail lashing out and slamming into the ballista, breaking the mighty weapon in two and almost crushing its operator, who dived out of the way at the last moment. Then it careened straight into its airborne clutch-mate, mindlessly attacking it as the two fell toward the water in a snarl.

Sabira climbed to her feet as the deck lurched below her, still listing heavily to the right. She made her way over to where the others were battling the remaining yrthak, only to see Elix on the deck, flat on his back and weaponless beneath one of the thing’s clawed forelimbs. Mountainheart and the others hacked at its tough hide, trying to distract the thing from making Elix its next meal, with little success.

Suddenly, Sabira remembered the tale of the Flamer priests up in the Starpeaks. Promising half of her next three fees to the Temple of Olladra, she cleared her throat and began to sing the first thing that came to mind.

The Marshal saw that time had fled

And though she pleaded and implored

The yrthak’s head whipped around in her direction and its claw came up.

Tears cutting worse than any sword

“Farewell, my heart,” was all he said

Amazingly, the creature began to move toward her across the deck, ignoring the downed Marshal as if he no longer existed. And since he wasn’t moving or making any noise, maybe to the yrthak, he didn’t. Hopefully Elix would be smart enough to keep playing dead until the yrthak was well away from him.

She knew then in her deepest core

He was Deneith, trueborn and bred

As the beast neared, Sabira slowly raised her shard axe, readying her strike.

And even if they one day wed

He’d always love his duty.…

As she sang the final words of the stanza, she took a deep breath, shouted, “Now!” and swung. The edge of her axe-blade caught the yrthak’s lower mandible, sheering through a portion of bone and scattering bloody teeth all over the deck. On the right, Mountainheart, who’d been pacing the creature on that side, stabbed into the yrthak’s mouth, slicing off its bulbous tongue. Farther back, others landed blows on the creature’s body, smashing ribs and scoring flesh. On the left, Elix, broadsword back in hand, cut three feet off the yrthak’s trailing wing, then took off another two with his backstroke.

The yrthak bellowed soundlessly, slamming its massive head down at Sabira. She tried to dodge out of the way, but the tilting deck and fresh blood pool conspired to make her lose her footing and she went down, losing her grip on her shard axe as her elbow hit the wood with such force that her hand went momentarily numb.

The yrthak was on top of her in a flash, one clawed forelimb pinning her arms and chest while the other rushed down at her with inevitable speed.

Sabira bucked her hips and wrenched her head from side to side, but the yrthak was unshakeable. Time seemed to slow as one long, wicked-looking talon arrowed toward her throat. She was going to die here, on a disabled airship in the middle of nowhere, and there wasn’t a damned thing she could do about it.

She could imagine the overenthusiastic and largely fictional broadsheets now: Famous Sentinel Marshal Slain by Dragons over the Thunder Sea! Nation Mourns! Travel to Xen’drik Suspended Indefinitely While House Deneith Investigates!

Well, at least she’d cause as much trouble in death as she had in life; she supposed she couldn’t ask for a more fitting epitaph than that.

She wondered idly how long she would have after the yrthak impaled her. Would she bleed out in long, agonizing minutes, or would it all be over in an instant? While she was no stranger to pain, if she was going to die either way, she’d prefer for it to at least be quick. The only way to ensure that was to meet the creature halfway; it was certainly better than lying here like a bored courtesan, waiting for it all to end.

Sabira tensed her neck and shoulders, ready to dart her head forward as soon as the talon was in range. It would be her last act of defiance in a life that had been full of them. She had to make it count.

Almost there …

As the curved bone filled her vision and she readied herself for her final act, something bright flashed in front of her face and then warm, acrid blood splashed across her, filling her nose and mouth and making her gag.

Then the weight across her torso was gone and she rolled blindly away from the yrthak, not sure what had just happened, and not caring. She was still breathing. That was enough for now.

Wiping the yrthak’s blood from her eyes, she saw the others finishing the now-limbless creature off. All but one.

She looked up to see Mountainheart standing over her, her urgrosh in his hand. The dwarf was splattered with ichor and flushed with pleasure, looking for all the world as if he’d just flopped dragons up. As he cleaned the blood from the shard axe with a handkerchief, Sabira realized he must have used it to cut off the yrthak’s claw before the thing could impale her. She rose to her feet and then accepted the weapon back from him as he handed it over with a grin.

“Envoy Mountainheart. Thank y—” she began, grudging but sincere. He waved her gratitude away with a laugh.

“Please. Orin. I think saving your life officially puts us on a first-name basis, don’t you?” He grinned again, almost playful, and Sabira looked at him askance, wondering just how long he’d been holed up in the nuptial home with his new wife.

“Besides, you didn’t really think it would be that easy to get out of paying your debt to me, did you?”

Sabira blinked.

Had the dwarf actually just made a joke? He really had been cooped up too long.

“No, I suppose not,” she replied, with a small, sardonic grin of her own. “Though I suppose even if I had died, you would have just had me resurrected, then charged me for that, too.”

Mountainheart’s grin grew bigger, and he opened his mouth to laugh, though what came out was only a bloody gurgle as a shadow passed behind him and the tip of a spiral green horn burst suddenly from his chest like some sort of rampant, murderous weed.

The yrthak who’d been attacked by Sabira’s erstwhile mount lifted the dwarf up off the deck with its horn. It shook its great crocodile-like head to make sure its prey was firmly lodged. Then it flapped its wings once and rose into the air.

Sabira didn’t stop to think. She ran forward, pulling her shard axe back in a two-handed grip. Then she brought it down on the yrthak’s neck, the adamantine blade biting deep. The creature flopped back down, slamming into the forecastle, its sonic scream taking out a huge section of the forward deck and sending the corpse of its clutch-mate plunging into the hold, along with half of the Inheritance’s remaining crew.

She caught a glimpse of dark hair out of the corner of her eye, but she didn’t dare look to see who’d fallen; she couldn’t. She just kept hacking and hacking, until she was covered in the yrthak’s blood and it had long since stopped moving. She hacked until the thing’s head had been completely severed from its body and her arms ached from the exertion. She might have kept at it still if Elix hadn’t grabbed her arms and forced her to lower the weapon and look at him.

“Saba! You can stop now. It’s dead.”

She looked at him, wildeyed, not immediately recognizing him or registering his words. And then she dropped the urgrosh and threw her arms around him, crushing him to her.

“I saw—I thought …”

“It’s all right,” he said as she mumbled brokenly into his chest. He freed one arm from her embrace and reached up to stroke her hair. “It’s over now.”

“… of losing you, like I lost Ned …”

“Ned. Of course.” He stiffened in her arms, and pulled away, breaking the embrace and allowing her to regain her composure.

As he stepped back, she looked up into his hazel eyes, not sure what darkness she saw there. Anger? Disappointment?

Resignation?

Then she caught sight of the yrthak’s severed head over his shoulder, and remembered why she’d been assailing the hapless thing.

“Mountainheart?” The dwarf had saved her life. She had to see what she could do to save his.

Elix moved aside so she had a better view. The last two crew members had pulled the dwarf off the yrthak’s horn and were tending to his wounds. Sabira hurried to his side, but even from here, she could see how pale he was. He didn’t have long.

As she was about to kneel beside him, something glittered at the edge of her vision. Turning, she saw it was coming from the yrthak’s head. Moving nearer, she saw something dark shining in its reptilian skin, just to the side of its horn. It appeared to be a gem of some sort.

Curious, Sabira bent forward to get a closer look.

“Elix, hand me your dagger.” She knew he carried one in his left boot, because she was the one who had given it to him. The length of fine Reirdran steel had been her trainer’s gift to him when he completed his first year in the Defender’s Guild.

He walked over and handed her the blade without comment. She used the tip to dislodge the jagged crystal, then she wiped it clean on one of the few spots on her shirt not already covered in blood. She held it up to the sunlight, where it gleamed with a blue-black intensity.

A Khyber dragonshard.

How in the name of the Mockery had that gotten there?

“I hate to interrupt your looting,” Elix said brusquely, “but we have a problem.”

He pointed to the starboard binding strut. The burst of sound that had collapsed the forecastle had further weakened the supports, and the elemental was fighting to free itself.

“The strut’s not going to hold much longer. And once it goes, the elemental will destroy what’s left of the ship. And us with it, if we’re still here.”

Sabira pocketed the dragonshard and handed his dagger back to him as she straightened. Then she gave him a wry grin.

“That, at least, I think I can fix.”

Armed with one of the Inheritance’s life rings and several hundred feet of rope tied off to what was left of the helm, Sabira floated down to where Irlen still waited, surrounded by even more fins now that the sharks had finished off his fellow pilot.

“So … do you want to reconsider your contract with Arach, or should I just save these poor hungry sharks some time and push you in?”

“You would do that? Really?” the half-elf asked. His tone was skeptical, but his eyes were wary. She hadn’t bothered to clean off any of the yrthak’s blood and she knew she must look like some demon out of a bard’s tale, capable of anything.

“Irlen, I think I’ve already demonstrated that there’s very little I wouldn’t do for the right people. The question is, do you want to be someone I do things for, or someone I do things to?”

Whatever else he was, the half-elf was pragmatic, and they were soon back on the badly damaged deck of the Inheritance. They gathered up two more life rings—one for Elix and Mountainheart and one for the two surviving crew members—and then Irlen used the powers of his dragonmark to call up a wind that blew the buoyant rings up toward the Dust Dancer. Behind them, a horrendous crash sounded as the binding strut gave way at last and the elemental, in a frenzy of freedom, set about destroying the ship with crackling, inhuman delight.

Once back on board Arach’s ship, Sabira knew she’d have to do some quick talking to keep Thecla from slaying them all out of hand. And, indeed, they were greeted with a wall of dwarves all aiming crossbows at them, bolts cocked and ready to loose at the slightest provocation.

“Well, Sabira, that was surprisingly entertaining,” Thecla said, stepping through the ranks and slapping his hand lightly against his hook in polite applause. “I really must thank you—my crew hasn’t enjoyed a show like that since the time they spent their entire shore leave in Sharn holed up at the Glitterdust. But the fun has to end sometime, and since you were so kind as to bring our pilot back to us, it looks like that time is now. For you, at least.”

He raised his hand to signal his men to fire, but Sabira stopped him with an amused chuckle.

“I really don’t think you want to do that.”

One of the dwarf’s eyebrows quirked up curiously.

“And why would that be, pray tell?”

“Because this dwarf here is Arach’s nephew—another Aurum member, as I’m sure you can see from the rings. Arach didn’t trust you to get his shipment to Sharn intact,” she placed special emphasis on the word, “so he hired me to keep an eye on you, and ordered his nephew, here, to follow you, as insurance. Of course, you fouled that up by getting a late start out of Stormreach, but that pales in comparison to the mistake you’ll be making if you kill Arach’s own flesh and blood. Which is exactly what you’ll be doing if you don’t start pouring some of those healing potions you were bragging about down his throat pretty damned quickly.”

Thecla scoffed.

“Arach doesn’t have a nephew,” he said dismissively.

“He does since Orin, here, married his niece, Adora d’Kundarak. You can see the beads in his beard as plainly as I can, and I know you know how to read them.”

It was a stretch, but a believable one. Thecla himself had given her the idea when he talked about the Glitterdust Nightclub. Adora was a well-known dancer there, and the last time Sabira had seen her show, the dwarf woman had worn red and purple veils, the colors Arach so obviously favored. Coupled with the name of the ship, it wasn’t too hard to figure that the two had a connection of some sort. Sabira doubted Thecla knew what it was any more than she did, which only worked in her favor.

Thecla hesitated, but didn’t appear entirely convinced. It was time to play her hole card and hope to all the Host that she’d guessed right.

“Why do you suppose Arach hired a new crew member for this particular run? And for a paltry five dragons?”

The first mate’s face drew into a frown and Sabira knew she was losing him.

“Five dragons is a more than fair price for transporting dragonshards. And as delightful as your little run as ship’s bard has been, I’m afraid it’s time—”

“We both know it’s not the dragonshards I was hired to protect.” With that, she pivoted and brought the blade of her urgrosh down on the defective life ring she’d borrowed from the Dust Dancer. The soarwood circle broke in two, revealing a heavy lead inner ring that was itself hollowed out to hold an iridescent crystallized powder. The glittering particles poured out onto the deck amid several surprised gasps.

Sabira had suspected from the beginning that the Dust Dancer was carrying something more valuable than dragonshards. The shards and their accompanying guards were a ploy designed to keep any would-be pirates from finding the airship’s true cargo, which Arach had cleverly hidden in plain sight, inside the one thing that the crew would be sure to save in the event that something happened to the Dust Dancer—her life rings. Sabira had begun to wonder when the ring sank so much faster than it should have, as if it were weighted down by far more than just a small woman and a lithe half-elf. But she hadn’t known for sure until she saw the powder spilling out of the ruined wooden circle.

Crystallized essence of dreamlily was a new, far more potent form of the drug and was worth a literal fortune. The small amount that had trickled out onto the deck was probably worth what she owed Mountainheart and all her other creditors combined.

“Oh, dear,” she said, feigning concern to cover her relief. “Arach’s not going to be too happy that I had to do that. But don’t worry, Thecla. I’m sure he’ll take the difference out of your pay and not out of your hide.”

She paused dramatically, then added, “Well, reasonably sure.”

“Ears, get that cleaned up! And don’t spill a single speck of it or I’ll let Hotch eat a couple of your fingers this time!” Thecla turned his thunderous gaze on her.

“So what’s to stop me from killing you all and telling Arach that his nephew’s ship was sadly lost at sea and that you had an unfortunate but unpreventable accident?”

Sabira shrugged.

“Nothing, I suppose. Except for the fact that Orin contacted Arach before the Inheritance went down and let him know he was coming aboard the Dust Dancer. And Arach told him that he wanted the Dancer to change course and head for a different port. So, go ahead and kill us. It’s nothing compared to what Arach’s going to do to you when his ship doesn’t show up at the right place.”

Thecla actually laughed out loud.

“Now you’re not even trying. We were watching you the whole time. When did Orin manage to get this message off—before or after the yrthak ran him through?”

Sabira looked over at Elix, drawing him into her game. “I’m really surprised Arach hired someone so slow,” she said, shaking her head. “Aren’t you?”

Elix had been following the conversation and didn’t need any coaching to play his part.

“As you say.” He looked disdainfully at Thecla. “Orin was still conscious when I loaded him onto the life ring. He used one of his rings to contact his uncle. Then he whispered the new destination to me before he passed out.” That was a stroke of genius—Elix had leaned over Mountainheart at one point during the trip up from the Inheritance, but it had been to make sure the dwarf was still breathing, not to hear any whispered message. At Sabira’s curious look, he’d mouthed to her that Mountainheart was still alive—but there was no way anyone looking down from the Dust Dancer could know that was what he’d said.

Of course, Elix’s quick thinking would get them all killed if Thecla happened to have his own means of communicating with Arach. Since Sharn was only a three-day trip from Stormreach, Sabira was betting the dwarf hadn’t bothered with the expense.

A bet that turned out to be correct as Thecla looked over at the warforged, who nodded after a moment.

“The rings do indeed emit magical energies. I believe the male Marshal speaks truly.”

Sabira looked back at the first mate, not bothering to hide her smugness.

“So, what’s it going to be, Thecla? Trust me, or trust your own towering intellect? It’s only your life at stake—possibly your sanity. Nothing too terribly important. But you’d better decide quickly. I don’t think Orin, here, has much time left.”

The dwarf was clearly still suspicious, but despite Sabira’s taunting, he was no fool. He knew when to hedge his bets.

“Hotch! Get that healing kit up here.”

As the kobold scrambled off to do his bidding, Thecla looked over at Elix.

“So, tell me, Captain. What’s a Marshal like you doing working for the Aurum and protecting the interests of a drug runner like Arach?” He jerked his bald head in Sabira’s direction. “Her, I can understand; she has a reputation. But you? You don’t get to be a captain of the Sentinel Marshals by flaunting the law.”

Elix shrugged, that same apologetic shrug Sabira knew so well.

“What can I say? Men are fools when they’re in love.”

Thecla grunted.

“Isn’t that the truth?” he muttered. Then, seemingly satisfied, he motioned for his men to stand down. Hotch returned with a chest full of healing potions and other medicines, and Sabira knelt down to hold Mountainheart’s head while the kobold popped corks and poured. But her mind wasn’t on the dwarf; it was on Elix’s words. Try as she might, she just couldn’t tell. Had he meant what he said, or had he still been playing the game?

Once some color had returned to Mountainheart’s face and his breathing was somewhat less labored, Sabira allowed the crew members from the Inheritance to take him down to what was supposed to have been her cabin to rest, giving them strict instructions to take turns sleeping and not to leave him alone, even for a moment. Thecla might have bought her story for now, but she didn’t trust the dwarf not to try something, and she couldn’t be everywhere at once.

“So,” Irlen said, walking back up toward the wheel. “Where to?”

Sabira favored him with a pitying smile.

“What, tell you now so Thecla can just kill us all and claim some ‘unfortunate but unpreventable’ calamity? I don’t think so. For now, just head toward Taer Valaestas.”

“Valenar? There’s no market for dreamlily there!”

“Exactly.”

The next few days passed in a blur of paranoid exhaustion. Either she or Elix was always with Irlen at the helm, making sure the half-elf didn’t decide to take some unauthorized detour. They traded off in six-hour shifts, sleeping in the crowded cabin with Mountainheart and the others when they weren’t on deck. They ate out of their own stores, only supplementing with communal food and water that they’d seen the Dust Dancer’s crew consuming. It was a tense, boring trip, with no opportunity for anything resembling a real conversation between them, a fact that both relieved and vexed Sabira. Part of her wanted to question Elix about the truth of what he’d said to Thecla, and part of her just didn’t want to know.

When they were still a little less than a day out from the capital of Valenar, Sabira told Irlen to start bearing northward.

“Atur?” he guessed. “Krona Peak? You’re going to run out of viable cities sooner or later, and then we won’t have to guess where we’re headed. Then what?”

She just smiled in reply and shrugged.

“Wait and see.”

But the truth was that she had no idea.

That is, until Hotch handed her one on a wooden platter the very next day.

They’d been skirting the edge of the dead-gray mist that rose up from the Mournland and had just started out over the open water of Lake Cyre when Elix relieved her at the helm. She headed down to the galley in search of some food before trying to squeeze in a few hours of sleep. The kobold was there, serving up some sort of pungent soup to the crew. As she got closer, she recognized the distinctive aroma of ironspice.

“Give me four bowls,” she said. “And don’t spit in them this time, if you know what’s good for you.”

It was impossible to tell if the kobold blanched under that sickly green skin, but he hurried to comply, dishing up four bowls with nary a slosh and placing them on an ornate darkwood tray.

“As Lady say! Friend of Arach is friend of Hotch!”

Sabira just rolled her eyes. She took the platter and walked carefully back to the too-small cabin she shared with the others. By the time she got there, her eyes were watering from the strength of the spice and she had the glimmerings of an idea.

She passed out the bowls to the crewmen of the ill-fated Inheritance—Demos, the Deneith ballista operator, and Ari, a new recruit fresh out of Rekkenmark—then gulped down a few quick spoonfuls herself before setting her bowl aside and tending to Mountainheart.

The dwarf had yet to regain consciousness, though his color was good and his breathing even. Probably a good thing, considering what Sabira was about to do to him.

She held his head up with one arm and carefully spooned the ironspice soup into his mouth, stroking his throat after each bite to stimulate the swallowing reflex. She fed him about half the bowl that way, then laid him carefully back down on the cot and returned to her own soup, waiting.

She’d just finished the last mouthful when the spots began to appear, first around his mouth and then spreading rapidly to the rest of his body. His skin turned flush and he began to sweat profusely. She said nothing, waiting for one of the others to notice.

Ari was the first to see it.

“What’s wrong with Orin?” he asked in alarm, setting down his bowl and hurrying over to the dwarf’s side.

Sabira made a show of coming over to examine him then turned to look at the others gravely.

“You’d better go get Thecla. Tell him Mountainheart’s been poisoned.”

The first mate was, predictably, not happy about being summoned away from his own meal.

“What is it now? Has Arach now decided we need to fly up to Dravago or one of the other twelve moons to deliver his cargo?”

Sabira bit her lip to keep from snorting. If she broke character now, the dwarf would weight them down and toss them overboard, cheering along with his whole crew when they sank forever beneath the dark lake waters.

“Funny. No, we need to stop at the nearest city. Orin’s been poisoned, and he needs the antidote soon or his death is going to be on your hands.”

Thecla scoffed. “Poison? Dragon Above, woman, but you’ve got an imagination! Why would I bother poisoning him when I could just have the lot of you thrown over the rail and let the carvers and the threehorns take care of you?”

“I didn’t say it was you who poisoned him. It could have been anybody on this ship. It could even have happened back in Stormreach for all I know—the poison could have been magically altered not to activate for a certain number of days to throw off suspicion. I don’t know how, or who, or why, but I do know dwarfbane when I see it, and I know he’ll be dead within a day if we don’t get him help.”

Thecla goggled, taking an involuntary step backward. “Dwarfbane?” One of the few poisons that could fell a dwarf in his tracks, the lethal substance was as rare as a Flamer with a sense of humor. “How do you—?”

“I was working as a Defender in the Holds during the Last War, Thecla. Believe me, I’ve handled enough poison to make a living as an assassin if I really wanted to. I know what the last stage of dwarfbane poisoning looks like, and this is it.”

Well, minus the spots and the flush, and add in a fever, but close enough.

“We’re near Gatherhold—”

“I said ‘city.’ Gatherhold’s nothing but a House Ghallanda inn and a bunch of tents. They’re not going to know how to handle dwarfbane.” She surreptitiously jabbed a finger into Mountainheart’s gut, eliciting a small moan from the unconscious dwarf. “No. It has to be Vulyar. And soon.”

Thecla frowned, obviously displeased by this new development but unable to see a way out of stopping.

“Very well. I’ll let Irlen know.”

It was laughably easy after that. They docked in Vulyar early the next morning and she and Elix carried Mountainheart off the ship on one of the Dust Dancer’s life rings, just to make sure Thecla didn’t get any crazy ideas about leaving while they saw to the envoy’s healing. After making sure Mountainheart got to the House Jorasco enclave, she and Elix returned to the Dancer with two dozen House Deneith soldiers and placed the entire crew under arrest, confiscating the dreamlily and the dragonshards in the name of Baron Breven.

As Thecla was led down the gangplank in manacles, he stopped to spit at Sabira’s feet. “I knew you were lying. I should have gutted you when I had the chance.”

“A lot of people make that mistake.”

“Arach will have you hunted to the farthest corners of Eberron for this.”

Sabira gave him her fakest look of sympathy. “Oh, and you really believe that, too, don’t you? I guess it is easier than admitting your employer betrayed you.”

She leaned close, as if to whisper in his ear, but she made no effort to keep his crew from overhearing her next words.

“Just some advice: The next time you decide to stick your hook in your boss’s coffers, try to leave the rest of the boys out of it, hmm? No reason they should have to suffer for your greed.”

Angry murmurs came from the prisoners as Sabira’s words were passed down the line, undeterred by the dwarf’s loud protestations of innocence.

Sabira motioned for the guards to keep them moving, then turned to Elix, who was regarding her with an odd look of disapproval and admiration.

“What? I’d been lying to him the whole trip. Why start being honest now?”

CHAPTER NINE

Sul, Nymm 15, 998 YK
Vulyar, Karrnath.

Back at Vulyar’s Sentinel Marshal headquarters, the first thing Sabira did was commandeer a room and ask for a bath to be drawn. Only after she’d scrubbed the last traces of yrthak blood out of her hair and changed into the clothes she’d been saving for Krona Peak did she wander back down to the captain’s office.

Elix’s office.

Even empty, the room was warm and inviting in a way Greigur’s hadn’t been, with a small fireplace and two high-backed chairs holding court before it. Between them sat a table that bore an ornate Conqueror board. Beside the hearth was a small door that likely led to a bedchamber, but after what had happened in Stormreach, she wasn’t about to try and confirm that guess. The mantle and the walls on either side of the chimney were adorned with souvenirs from the places he’d traveled. A pirate flag won from some ship in the Lhazaar Principalities, a set of matched Talenta boomerangs, an obsidian dagger she imagined came from Q’barra, even an old Cyran spyglass, though whether it was from pre- or post-Mourning Cyre, she couldn’t say.

A round window took up most of one wall, giving a view of the Deneith enclave across the wide cobbles of Conqueror’s Road. Sabira could see the familiar yellow and green pennants flapping in the stiff wind. That sight, more than any other, brought home the fact that she was back in Vulyar, in Karrnath, where she had sworn never to return. She looked away quickly before the thought could make her sick.

A large, cluttered desk with a third, purely utilitarian chair dominated the rest of the room. Behind it stood a set of shelves that held more dust than books. A quick perusal showed no volumes of poetry; that was a side of himself Elix liked to keep private, it seemed. Probably a wise choice, considering his position.

And given pride of place on the wall opposite his desk, where he could not help but see it hundreds of times a day, was Ned’s naked sword, polished to a brightness that bespoke daily attention.

Sabira stared at the weapon, thrust suddenly back to the last day she’d seen it, unable, here in this mausoleum of memory, to deny the past she’d been trying so very hard to forget.…

Zor, Sypheros 26, 991 YK
Frostmantle, Mror Holds.

She and Leoned sat on a bench outside the heavily warded and isolated cottage where they were hiding Aggar. They’d moved him here after two of Toldorath’s scions were murdered in their own heavily guarded family home and another was killed inside a Deneith safehouse. Aggar was the sole heir to a large portion of Tordannonhold, and the clan was taking no chances with his safety.

They’d been sent to the Holds almost a year ago to protect the young dwarf. It wasn’t an unusual assignment for the neutral Defender’s Guild; throughout the Last War, kidnappings and assassination attempts on members of the dwarven Iron Council and their families had become commonplace. Usually the bodyguard stint only lasted a few months, until either the threat was removed or the assassination was successfully carried out, which happened with far more regularity than House Deneith cared to admit. But it was a difficult and thankless task; the dwarves wanted the aid of the Defender’s Guild but still considered the Deneith warriors outsiders and were frequently as much of a hindrance as a help. Sabira and Leoned had been more fortunate than most in that regard. They’d been in the Holds long enough that they were starting to gain acceptance, which made watching over their charge that much easier. “Easier” being relative, of course, considering that Aggar didn’t particularly want to be guarded.

The wily dwarf spent as much time dodging her and Leoned as he did avoiding his clan’s enemies—or he had, anyway, until Nightshard showed up. An assassin of unknown affiliation who seemed to be targeting the families of influential clan members within the southern holds, Nightshard had slain more than a dozen dwarves since midsummer. Sporting two dragonshard rings, the assassin had been dubbed “Nightshard” by the one Defender who’d actually gotten close enough to attack him, and the name had stuck. He had so far defeated everything they’d thrown against him, including the combined protections of Houses Deneith and Kundarak. Even this cottage, which had more security than some palaces she’d seen, might not be enough to stop him.

“Olarune is full tonight,” Leoned remarked, looking up into the dark velvet sky to see the pale orange moon rising over the Hoarfrost Mountains. “Good omen.”

To the naked eye, Olarune—the moon known as the Sentinel—appeared to have a sort of fringe around its edges when full, which gave it the appearance of a round shield defending the heavens against attack. As such, the moon was considered auspicious by wielders of the Mark of Sentinel. As far as Sabira was concerned, it was only lucky if it gave you light by which to see your enemies.

She glanced over at her partner, studying him as he sat leaning up against the trellis, the brown and gold ivy leaves crackling with his every movement. The orange light gave his features a warm glow, like he’d just spent a pleasant evening in his lover’s bed. Or so she imagined; in the four years they’d been together, a bed was probably the only thing they hadn’t shared.

They’d grown close over the years, so much so that when they fought, they anticipated each other’s moves perfectly. If she feinted to draw an opponent in, he’d flank and attack. If she went low, he’d go high, and vice versa, all without speaking a word. They shared a synchronicity of purpose that made their partnership something greater than just the two of them working together. And it had only grown more intense here in the Holds, where they were outsiders in an insular and sometimes hostile society, with only each other to rely on and confide in.

Sabira gave him a coy look through her lashes. “The only omen I consider good is when the guy across from me re-raises after I’ve just flopped a fourth dragon.”

Leoned laughed.

“So young, and yet so cynical. You’re going to make a great Marshal when the time comes.”

Sabira was glad to see him smile; he’d done it seldom enough since this Nightshard business began. But it faded quickly, replaced by worry lines on his forehead that made the small scar over his left eyebrow stand out in sharp relief.

“Me? With my penchant for annoying the wrong clients, the only way they’ll give me a brooch is if I agree to get on a ship to Xen’drik and never come back. You, on the other hand—you’ve received more accolades than half the teachers at Rekkenmark. I’m surprised you haven’t made Marshal already.”

He laughed again at that, the left corner of his mouth twitching upward.

“They tell me my partner is holding me back.”

Sabira punched him in the arm, hard enough she knew it would bruise.

“Very funny.” Though she wouldn’t be surprised if he had been told that. She knew her aggressive style was an acquired taste—one her superiors had not yet developed a predilection for, though Leoned seemed to like it just fine. And that was all that really mattered to her.

Leoned took a deep breath and turned to look at her.

“Saba, I’m never going to be a Marshal.”

“What?” she asked, perplexed. Saying Leoned wouldn’t become a Sentinel Marshal was like saying that dwarves would give up mining come daybreak: You could utter the words, but no one in their right mind would believe them. “Why? Because your mother gave up the Deneith name? No one cares about that, Ned. As far as the House is concerned, you’re still one of ours.”

“No. Nothing like that.” He leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Saba, I’m quitting the Guild. When this mission is over, I’m going back to Vulyar to marry Rhania. Her father is going to give me a job overseeing security for his breweries.”

Another of his jokes. She played along.

“You’re never going to make it into a Dorn song that way.”

His laugh this time was short, almost bitter.

“Maybe not, but at least I’ll be happy.”

Sabira’s smile faded.

“You’re serious?”

He looked up into her eyes earnestly, his tone almost pleading. “It’s not so different from what I do now, except I’ll be guarding kegs of Nightwood Ale instead of people. Hopefully, they won’t argue as much, and it’ll definitely pay better.”

It was a weak attempt at humor, but neither of them was laughing now.

“You’re leaving the Defender’s Guild?” Sabira repeated, hearing the words but certain she must be misunderstanding them. “Leaving … me?”

“Oh, Saba, don’t think of it like that. I know we’ve been partners for a long time, but you’ll get another soon enough. Maybe even Elix—you know he worships you.”

Sabira shook her head.

“No, Ned. He worships you. He envies me—because I get to be with you.” But Elix wouldn’t be jealous of her for much longer, because Leoned wouldn’t be with her anymore. He’d be with Rhania, that simpering blonde with eyes like a bug, so thin she made saplings look plump. What could she possibly offer Leoned that he couldn’t get from Sabira? The woman couldn’t even lift a sword, for Dol Dorn’s sake!

She pulled her hands away from his, feeling her anger start to build. Wanting it to, so it would drown out the grief.

“So, that’s it? I have no say in this?”

“Saba,” Leoned said, his expression hardening. “I don’t need your permission. You’re my partner, not my wife. I—”

“Yes, I’m your partner,” Sabira answered fiercely. “The same partner who took a barbed bolt to the gut for you down in Irontown, and nearly drowned trying to fish you out of Lake Dark. The same partner who took the blame for you when you let that jewel thief trick you into letting her go. The same partner who’s been there for you in ways no wife ever could be—or would be willing to be—for four long years. Four years, Ned. I thought that meant something to you. I thought I meant something to you.”

“Saba, I—”

“Apparently, I was wrong.” She jumped up from the bench. “I’m going to go patrol the grounds.”

She turned away from him and began to jog down the long path to the river, afraid that he might call her back—and even more afraid that she would go back to him if he did. But Leoned said nothing, and the only sounds that broke the silence of the late autumn night were the distant bleating of sheep, the crunch of her footsteps on gravel, and what might have been a long, regretful sigh but was probably just the wind.

A breeze as cold as the lump in her throat greeted her as she reached the banks of the Mirror River. That wasn’t its actual name, of course—the only watercourse in the Mror Holds, and one that cut the dwarven homeland almost in half, to them it was just The River. But as trade expanded and the dwarves began allowing other races into the Holds, that appellation would not suffice, and so they’d taken to calling it the Mirror, after the lake of the same name that filled the valley between the Ironroots and the Hoarfrost Mountains.

Sheep huddled together in small bunches, dotting the thinning grass like misshapen boulders. One of them caught Sabira’s eye as she was about to step out onto the small dock and check the skiff tied there.

The sheep was limping through the grass toward her, bleating softly. As it neared, she saw deep claw marks scored across its flank, the blood on its wool black and still glistening in the moonlight.

Sabira was on her guard instantly. She drew her bastard sword and scanned the area for predators.

Nothing moved save the sheep, the horizontal slits of its pupils wide as it looked up at her helplessly.

She knelt down to check its wounds. They were most likely the work of a marauding wolf that had been frightened off from the kill by her approach, but she needed to be sure there wasn’t something more dangerous lurking this close to the cottage.

Up close, she could see that the injury on the sheep’s flank was the least of its wounds. Something with three claws had nearly gutted the creature, slicing its underbelly like paper. Loops of intestine hung loose from the open wound, still dripping blood and ichor.

“Poor thing,” Sabira murmured, patting its head and knowing she was going to have to put it out of its misery. “Someone tried to rip your heart out, eh? Seems to be a lot of that going around tonight.”

The sheep just looked at her, its eyes glazed over and unblinking.

“Khyber!” Sabira breathed, “You should be dead.…”

Even as the realization struck her that the sheep was dead, a sickening crack sounded from behind its eyes, and before Sabira could do more than blink, its skull shattered, showering her with warm blood, bits of pulpy flesh, and fragments of thick ovine bone.

Sabira fell back as something leaped out at her from the ruins of the sheep’s head. The size of a small dog, it resembled nothing more than a moist, pulsing brain on four legs, each of which ended in three long claws.

Though she’d never met such a loathsome creature before, she recognized it from part of the training she’d gone through as a member of the Blademarks. An intellect devourer—or body thief, as it was more commonly known—was an evil aberration that preferred sentient prey, consuming its victim’s brain and then animating the dead body. The body thief would then masquerade as its host in order to stalk more prey or even to spy for some more powerful master.

Nightshard.

Did the assassin think to have his pet inhabit her body to get past the cottage wards? How could he have known she’d even be here by the river? Unless the killer had been spying on her and Leoned from afar, and was using their argument and subsequent separation—her doing—to get to Aggar.

Which meant Leoned was also in danger, and it was her fault.

The body thief landed lightly on all fours and immediately charged, swiping at her with its powerful claws. Sabira twisted out of the way, feeling the preternaturally quick creature’s blow gouge deeply into her leather armor as it rushed past, just missing the skin beneath.

Sabira used her momentum to bring her sword down, the blade catching the body thief across one of its back legs, drawing blood. The thing had no mouth, but Sabira nevertheless heard a piercing shriek in her mind, so high it made her wince in pain.

Then the creature was facing her again, a few paces off, shuffling back and forth on its legs as if studying her, though it had no eyes with which to do so.

It was so awful to look at. Sabira had to resist the impulse to avert her eyes. How could she fight such a thing by herself? She’d barely scratched it with her blade, despite putting all her strength behind the blow. She wasn’t a skilled enough warrior to defeat the body thief on her own; she needed Leoned. He’d known all along, of course, that she wasn’t good enough. That’s why he was choosing Rhania over her.

No! Sabira thought sharply, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood. The pain helped her to focus, to realize that this self-doubt was not her own. It was one of the intellect devourer’s tricks, to make her hesitate and make a mistake.

That wasn’t going to happen.

She’d already made one error tonight—leaving her partner alone. She wasn’t about to make another.

Keeping her teeth clamped down on her lip, she advanced on the body thief, sword in a two-handed grip. The thing’s brain-like body seemed to pulse faster as she approached, and she found the rhythm almost hypnotic. Before she knew it, her pace had slowed to a stop and she was lowering her blade.

What was she doing here? Why had she drawn her weapon?

An anxious bleat caught her attention. A small lamb was sniffing at the nearly headless body of another sheep—probably its mother.

Sabira’s eyes narrowed. This was her true enemy, a creature of unspeakable depravity posing as an innocent suckling to lure her close enough to attack. But she would not be fooled!

Sabira raised her sword once more and rushed at the terrified animal, who ran away from its mother’s corpse on wobbly legs. She caught up with it in only a few strides and was bringing her blade down on the lamb’s unprotected spine when something hit her full in the back, sending her flying forward almost on top of the bleating sheep and trapping her sword beneath her.

As the lamb scampered away, three lines of fire carved themselves across Sabira’s left shoulder and down her back, slicing into her flesh as if her armor were made of water. With a howl, Sabira rolled hard to her right, away from the pain, throwing the thing that had attacked her off her back in the process.

She scrambled to regain her feet, snatching up her sword just as the creature charged her again. The body thief, she remembered belatedly, the agony in her shoulder erasing the last vestiges of the confusion it had cast over her.

With her muscles screaming in pain, it was all she could do to hold her blade out and up like a spear, its hilt lodged beneath her ribs. As the body thief rushed at her, she dropped to her knees at the last possible moment and braced herself. The aberration was moving too fast; it ran headlong onto her weapon, impaling itself with another of its soundless screams, its wet body sliding up the length of her blade until it she could see the blood-coated tip protruding from between its hind legs. The impact forced the hilt deep into her gut, and she vomited hot bile all over the thing’s still-quivering corpse.

Wiping gall from her bloody mouth, Sabira climbed unsteadily to her feet. Planting her foot where the body thief’s right front leg met its overlarge brain, she pulled her sword out of the carcass with a sucking squelch. Then she turned and ran for the cottage as fast as she could.

It was too late; she knew it even before she got there.

Leoned was gone. Blood spattered the bench where he’d been sitting and dry leaves littered the ground in front of it, crushed by the dance of two pairs of feet. And there, poking out from under the bench, something flashed in Olarune’s orange light.

Sabira bent to pick it up.

Ned’s sword, its blade mockingly clean.

Nightshard had been here. And he’d taken Leoned.

The door cracked open and Aggar’s face appeared, strikingly pale against the darkness of his beard.

“I’m so sorry, Saba! Nightshard found us. He wanted the password to get past the wards, but Leoned wouldn’t give it to him, so Nightshard attacked him. I wanted to help, but Ned ordered me to stay inside, so all I could do was watch from the window. I saw him stab Leoned with a black blade. Then he said, if he couldn’t have me, he’d take my Defender, and they both disappeared.” Grief rang in his every word like a death knell. “It’s all my fault, Saba! I should have done something!”

Sabira just shook her head, but she couldn’t answer the broken-hearted young dwarf. She was too busy fighting off a black wave of despair that threatened to crush the life from her at any moment.

She’d lost Leoned. And she had no one to blame but herself.

CHAPTER TEN

Sul, Nymm 15, 998 YK
Vulyar, Karrnath.

Sabira shook the memories away, looking vainly about the room for something stronger than her willpower to drown them out, but this was Elix’s office, and he’d always been better at facing his feelings than she was at facing hers. Her eyes alighted again on the Conqueror board, and she moved to sit before the checkered board with determination. It wasn’t as good as a cold drink, but no true Karrn could help but find the national game of strategy a soothing balm for whatever troubled the soul.

She sat in one of the chairs, leaning her shard axe up against the arm while she positioned the red and black pieces into the familiar opening known as Jaron’s Gambit, followed by Moranna’s Countergambit. From there she went through the complicated middlegame of the Queen’s Attack. In recent years, this series of combinations had come to be called Etrigani’s Assault, after the Aereni wife of King Kaius III. But old-timers still referred to it as Moranna’s Bite, not so subtly signaling who many in Karrnath believed held the true power in Crownhome. She was just moving into the endgame when the office door opened. Assuming it was Elix, she kept her attention on the board, sliding her queen in for the kill.

“Have you tried the Dragonshard Defense?” a female voice asked suddenly. “I understand it’s particularly effective against that last combination.”

Sabira looked up, surprised.

A dwarf woman with black hair and blacker eyes stood a few feet away from the board, regarding her curiously.

“You play?” Though the game seemed perfectly suited for a people who could spend a full day faceting a single diamond, she’d known very few dwarves who’d ever bothered to learn.

“A little. My husband taught me.” She stuck out a hand. “Forgive my rudeness. I’m Gunnett Mountainheart. And you are …?”

Sabira stood, the motion causing her urgrosh to slide forward, threatening to fall to the floor. She reached down to right it with one hand while she accepted Gunnett’s handclasp with the other.

“I’m—”

“The Shard Axe,” Gunnett breathed as she caught sight of the weapon, her eyes going wide. “But … I thought your airship had been destroyed?”

Sabira frowned, a bit put-out by the dwarf woman’s reaction. Not that she really liked the fawning that usually followed someone from the Holds realizing who she was, but it was certainly preferable to them seeming disappointed to find out that she was still alive.

“No, actually that was Orin’s ship,” she replied, wondering where exactly Gunnett was getting her information. “He ran into a little trouble with some yrthaks, but luckily my ship wasn’t far behind and we were able to rescue him before things got too bad.”

“He’s all right, then?” Gunnett’s voice was taut, as though she were afraid of the answer she might receive.

“He’s fine,” Sabira hastened to reassure her. “Ate something that disagreed with him, so we’re having him looked at by some Jorasco healers, but I’m sure he’ll be ready to go back to Krona Peak in a day or so.”

“Well, thank Olladra for that.”

“And the captain and I escaped relatively unscathed as well,” Sabira added pointedly, still a bit miffed by the dwarf’s attitude.

“That did sound rather scurrilous, didn’t it? Let me start again.” Gunnett gave her an apologetic smile. “I’m very glad to hear you and your captain were not harmed in the attack. It’s just that, when Orin contacted me via speaking stone from Stormreach, he told me he’d be following your ship to Sharn, then picking you up and bringing you here. So when reports came in of two airships out of Stormreach running into trouble not far from Three Barrel Cove, and the first one going down, I naturally assumed it was your ship, not his.”

“Wait. Reports from whom? We didn’t stop anywhere in between Stormreach and here, so it couldn’t have come from us, and there was no one else out there.” Or was there? Sabira hadn’t exactly been scanning the skies for spectators.

Gunnett shrugged. “Apparently, there’s some sort of lookout point there on the island where the locals from Three Barrel Cove keep an eye on the shipping routes into and out of Xen’drik, both aerial and marine. I imagine it’s so they can claim salvage rights on any ships that go down; reporting the wrecks to the authorities later is just an afterthought to give their scavenging some semblance of respectability.”

Sabira found herself nodding. The dwarf woman’s assessment sounded on the money to her.

“I’m not sure how the Marshals here—the ones who told me about it—learned of the attack. Perhaps when your captain and my husband were so long overdue, they sent word to the coast for any reports of airship crashes and found out that way. You’ll have to ask your captain for more details, I’m afraid.”

“You haven’t spoken to him?”

“No. When I came in today to see if there’d been any word yet of your arrival, they directed me up here and said he’d be along shortly.” Gunnett motioned toward the seat Sabira had just vacated. “Please, sit. We may be waiting awhile; there’s no reason to stand on formality, if you’ll forgive the phrasing.”

Sabira gave the dwarf woman a sidelong glance as she retook her seat. How in the name of Boldrei, the Sovereign Goddess of Hearth and Hall, had Mountainheart ended up with a wife like her? They seemed about as likely a pair as her and Greigur, and Host knew, it would be a cold day on Fernia before that happened.

“So, you said Orin taught you to play?”

Gunnett settled into the other chair and nodded. “Yes. He said he learned from his uncle … who I assume learned from you?”

Not just from her. Leoned had been a player of no mean skill himself, and they’d whiled away many cold evenings in Frostmantle over an imported board while Aggar had watched every move intently.

“He did.” Sabira said, resetting the pieces. “And since it looks like we have the time, let’s see if he was as good a teacher as he was a student.”

Sabira gave the dwarf woman her choice of colors. Gunnett chose black, giving Sabira the first move. She began by moving out her archer, the opening sally in Thaurum’s Offense.

Gunnett quickly mirrored the move with her own black archer, and then again when Sabira brought out her siege engine.

Sabira hid a smile. Like cards, Conqueror was as much about playing your opponent as it was about playing the pieces. Gunnett’s imitative play indicated someone unsure of her game. A fact Sabira planned to use to her advantage.

Four moves into Thaurum and Sabira could already see her endgame. Either Aggar had forgotten most of what she and Ned had taught him, or Orin hadn’t been paying attention.

As Gunnett lifted one of her footmen, her elbow bumped the table. Sabira had to grab at her tower to keep it from falling, and managed to smack her own elbow into the urgrosh in the process. She ducked down and caught the weapon before it hit the floor, and when she came back up, she noticed Gunnett’s lips drawn into a thin frown, which disappeared almost as soon as she saw it.

Sabira had seen that look before; Gunnett would be far from the first of her kind to think a shard axe did not belong in the hands of a human.

“You disapprove?” Sabira asked, keeping her tone even. Though such contempt rankled, Gunnett would be right to doubt the wisdom of the gift. Sabira had wanted to refuse the offer, but even she knew to do so would have been an unforgiveable insult to the Tordannon clan chiefs who had awarded it to her. But the enchanted urgrosh was too valuable a reward for what had, essentially, been a failed mission, because while she’d saved Aggar, she’d lost Leoned, and it was nowhere near a fair trade.

The dwarf placed her footman without responding.

“I suppose you think no human can wield a shard axe properly,” Sabira prodded, countering with one of her own footmen.

“Not at all,” Gunnett replied at last, studying the board. “By all accounts, you’ve demonstrated you can use the urgrosh quite ably.”

“And yet you’ve clearly got an issue with my having it.”

Gunnett looked up from her pieces then, her black eyes glittering as she regarded Sabira for long moments. Weighing her words, Sabira thought.

Finally, the dwarf woman shrugged.

“Some might question whether your actions were truly worthy of the honor,” she said at last, moving her own siege engine opposite Sabira’s without taking her eyes off the board. Sabira recognized Sor’s Sacrifice, an intricate series of moves that would end in Gunnett losing her queen in order to take Sabira’s tower. It was a combination seldom used in play—the gain was not typically thought to be worth the loss. Wherever Gunnett had learned it, it hadn’t been from Aggar, because it wasn’t a move Sabira or Ned would have taught him.

“Hmm,” Sabira replied noncommittally as she considered her options. She’d obviously undervalued Gunnett’s skills as a Conqueror player. She wondered what else about the woman she might have overlooked.

Sor’s Sacrifice didn’t actually force a move. It only worked because it required a greater sacrifice to escape it, which most players were unwilling to make. In this case, Sabira would have to offer her up her siege engine, leaving her priest momentarily unprotected. In other words, bait.

She made the move casually, as if it were of no consequence.

“Most people would think ridding the Holds of Nightshard’s evil was worth the gift of a shard axe.”

“Evil,” Gunnett repeated, laughing. “Such a simplistic concept, really. People are rarely ever ‘good’ or ‘evil,’ despite what the bards and the priests tell us. Most are simply self-absorbed, and whether their actions fall into one category or the other depends entirely on who benefits from them, don’t you think?” She swooped her tower in, taking Sabira’s priest with a quick smile.

Sabira just stared, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“I’m sorry. Are you actually saying you don’t think Nightshard was evil? He killed more than a dozen people, including two children, whom he made claw out and eat their own eyes. And you don’t think that qualifies as evil?”

“That’s not what I’m saying at all, Marshal,” Gunnett replied calmly. “I just think it would be interesting, from an academic standpoint, to understand why Nightshard did what he did. If we’d bothered to find that out, perhaps we could have prevented this latest series of tragic deaths, and Aggar wouldn’t be in the situation he’s in now. And you wouldn’t have had to come back here.” The dwarf woman smiled again, this time sympathetically. “Orin told me you left a lot of bad memories in the Holds.”

Sabira almost snorted at that. Memories were the one thing she hadn’t been able to leave behind, and the one thing she most wished she could.

Turning her attention back to the game, Sabira pretended to ponder for a moment, then moved her remaining priest into a cluster of footmen.

“I don’t care why he did it. He killed my partner. He deserved what he got, and worse.” Much, much worse, if only Sabira could have given it to him.

“Did he, though?” Gunnett asked, moving one of her footmen to intercept the priest, exposing her archer in the process. “Kill your partner, I mean?”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s just that I’ve heard different versions of the story. For instance, I’ve heard that you let your partner die so that you could keep the whole fee for saving Aggar for yourself, probably because you needed to pay off some gambling debt. I’ve also heard that you knew there was a position in the Marshals opening up, and you knew Leoned was far more likely to get promoted than you were, so you used the cave-in as a way to get rid of your competition and cover your tracks. I’m not saying I believe those versions, mind you,” Gunnett added, “but it does go to prove my point—who the villain is depends largely on who’s telling the story.…”

But Sabira had stopped listening. As if Gunnett’s words had opened a portal in time, she found herself back in Korran’s Maw, her vision filled with images of that terrible day. A bruised and bloody Leoned suspended upside-down over one of the cave’s many magma pools, his head close enough to the molten rock that she feared his hair might catch fire at any moment. Aggar, who’d followed her instead of waiting for help from Frostmantle, coming across the cavern and heading straight for a trap that would surely kill him. And Nightshard, twin rings sparkling in the fiery light as he taunted her with the knowledge that she couldn’t possibly save them both.

“No,” Sabira said vehemently, shaking the memories away, denying them as she denied Gunnett’s preposterous theories. “That murderous bastard was the only villain, believe me. All the rest of us were just his victims.”

Then she slid her forgotten paladin out from his place in the back rank and captured Gunnett’s archer, the only piece protecting the black king.

“That’s mate,” she said, holding out her hand to the stunned dwarf. “Good game.”

As Gunnett slowly took her hand, still staring in disbelief at the board, the office door opened and Elix hurried in, a grave look on his face.

“Lady Mountainheart, Sabira. I need you to come with me. Now.”

Sabira stood quickly, responding to the urgency in his tone as much as to his words. She slapped her urgrosh into its harness and strode toward the door.

“What is it? What’s happened?” she asked. Had Mountainheart taken a turn for the worse? Olladra forbid, had her trick with the ironspice actually killed him?

“I just received word from Krona Peak. They’ve moved Aggar’s trial up. It starts tomorrow.”

It was raining when they exited the building, the sky cold and gray, and Sabira realized she’d left her cloak back in Elix’s office. There’d be no going back for it; Elix was in too much of a hurry. He strode briskly through the wet streets, avoiding cloaked pedestrians and puddles and explaining as they went.

“The Deneith airship isn’t ready to go—some sort of issue with a control fin, they tell me. But I was able to get you seats on an airship that’s leaving right now—they’re holding the gangplank for you. It’s a passenger run, since the lightning rail’s out of service, so it will be crowded, but it should get you to Krona Peak by daybreak. We’ll cut through here.”

Elix turned a corner and led them into a wide courtyard filled with carts and vendors who hid beneath drenched awnings and hastily erected tarps, unwilling to close up shop even in this foul weather. There were more cloaked figures here, darting from cart to cart, likely hapless servants who needed to procure some vital bauble for their lords and ladies, rain or no rain.

This was not an official marketplace but rather one of those that tended to spring up in any available space whenever shipments came in from Irontown and the Mror Holds, where prospectors, artisans, and hunters could peddle wares the dwarves either wouldn’t take or didn’t want. The items—usually animal hides or horns, chunks of raw ore and uncut gems, or jewelry and weapons made from them—were deemed inferior by the dwarves, though Sabira had often seen them fetch high prices in Khorvaire’s larger, more cosmopolitan cities. She had herself purchased trinkets at similar markets that she later sold in Aundair or Breland for twice what she had paid.

That had been a long time ago, though. She’d managed to avoid Karrnath completely for going on three years, and hadn’t set foot in Vulyar for more than seven.

But if the market was a testament to all the things she’d lost when she’d run from this place so many years ago, it was also a reminder that there were some things she’d simply let go, and not all of those had been bad.

She glanced over at Elix, with the rain sparkling in his dark hair like diamonds and his dragonmark curling across his jaw like a lover’s caress.

She just hoped, when all of this was over, that the good things could still be salvaged.

Gunnett paused at the base of the docking tower.

“I’d like to go with you to Krona Peak,” she said, squeezing the rain out of her hair as she stood in the relative dryness of the tower’s shadow, “but there’s no way I can leave without checking on my husband first, and I know time is of the essence.”

“With Orin unable to attend the trial, it really would be best if you could be there,” Elix replied, frowning.

“How long will it take to get that fin fixed?” Sabira asked. “Maybe she can just follow me when it’s ready? I can’t imagine the trial is going to be over in half a day.” Not unless she turned out to be the world’s worst advocate, which was, unfortunately, a very real possibility.

Elix looked questioningly at Gunnett, who considered for a moment, then nodded.

“I’m not sure what good my presence will do you,” Gunnett said, “but if I can help, I will.”

She held her hand out first to Elix, and then to Sabira.

“I enjoyed our game, Marshal. Perhaps we’ll get another opportunity to play when this is all over,” Gunnett said as Sabira returned her handclasp. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Sabira and Elix watched until the dwarf woman disappeared into the rain and then they turned and entered the tower. Elix didn’t need to flash his chimera brooch; the guards here all recognized and seemed to genuinely like him, greeting him with smiles and sharp salutes. He made a good Marshal, Sabira thought, and a better captain. Host knew, there was no way she’d ever have that kind of heartfelt respect from her fellows, unless they were under the influence of some powerful mind control spell. She supposed she could always pass out helmets embedded with Khyber shards attuned to her will.…

“Elix, wait!”

He was at the top of the docking tower, just about to step back out into the rain.

Sabira rooted around in her pocket for a moment before coming up with the dragonshard that she’d dug out of the yrthak’s head. She handed it to him.

“Can you have Tilde take a look at this? It’s been bothering me ever since we left the Dust Dancer, and I just want to make sure it’s nothing we should be worried about.”

“Tilde?” Elix repeated, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. Donathilde ir’Thul was the Vulyar office’s resident sorceress, formerly an instructor at Arcanix. She’d retired early when one of her favorite students died in the Maze of Shadowy Terror, a test she personally administered to graduating wizards as part of their final exams. Her protégé—and some said he was more than that—had snuck into the maze on his own the night before the test was scheduled. Whether he’d done it on a dare or was trying to prove himself, no one really knew. There were even rumors that he’d been trying to set up some sort of elaborate class prank, but whatever the reason, the end result was not in debate: He’d fallen prey to one of the magical creatures inside. Tilde had found him too late and had held what was left of him in her arms as he died.

The experience probably should have made her and Sabira fast friends, considering. Except that Tilde also happened to be Leoned’s older sister, and the only surviving ir’Thul sibling. And she hated Sabira with a passion, convinced that Ned would never have died if he’d only had a better partner. An accusation Sabira was sadly unable to refute.

“You think the yrthak attack was deliberate?”

“I’d like to rule out the possibility, for my own peace of mind.”

Elix shrugged and secreted the shard inside his shirt. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”

She followed him out onto the deck of the docking tower, where a Stormglory Bolt ironically named Lightning waited. At the gangplank, he introduced her to the ship’s first mate, then turned to leave with the barest of goodbyes.

Sabira grabbed his arm. She wasn’t sure when—or if—she’d see him again once she boarded the airship to Krona Peak, and she needed to know something.

“Back on the Dancer—”

“That was some nice singing, by the way. Though I’m not so sure about your choice of songs.…”

“Elix, I’m serious. What you said to Thecla. Did you mean that? ‘Men are fools when they’re in love.’ ”

“We both told a lot of lies onboard that ship, Saba,” he replied, his eyes shuttered and his face offering her nothing. “Why start being honest now?”

And with that, he turned and ran for the cover of the stairs as the downpour began in earnest.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Mol, Nymm 16, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

The Lightning reached Krona Peak just after sunrise the next day. It stormed the entire way, forcing the passengers to remain belowdecks. Sabira had been stuck in steerage, since Elix had only been able to secure her a seat, not a private cabin, which had all been reserved for paying customers. Not by her choice, she was crammed onto a bench in the middle of the cabin between two unsavory passengers. One was a warforged who sported a lute and a grand, feathered hat whose plumes kept getting in her face. And the other was an old man who kept bumping up against her and whom she was certain was either a lecher or was trying to steal her money pouch. By Balinor’s twisted horns, if he did it again, she was going to smack him over the head with the warforged’s lute, and then arrest them both for disturbing her peace.

An appreciative murmur went up from those closest to the portholes as the airship finally descended out of the cloud cover and the city was revealed in all its austere splendor below them.

The first glimpse of the dwarven stronghold never failed to impress, but it was most spectacular in the evening. Great stone ramparts rose up out of the mountainside, their sheer vertical faces reflecting the western sun so brilliantly that they seemed to be made of gold. The surfaces of the walls had been revetted with volcanic glass, quarried and transported from the ancient lava fields surrounding the Fist of Onatar, more than five hundred miles away. The effect was always startling, regardless of the time of day—the walls still shone even in this weak morning light, but like black ice instead of molten ore, and under the shadowless light of the noonday sun, they looked as though rivers of silver had rushed down their sides, only to be frozen in time by some legendary mage.

While many visitors assumed from the mass of the ramparts that they, along with most of the city, had been carved out of the mountain itself, the truth, as with most things dwarven in nature, was actually both simpler and far more complex. The walls had indeed been chiseled from the side of Krona Peak, but they were no longer attached to the mountain, at least not directly. Sabira didn’t pretend to understand the mechanics of it, though Aggar had tried several times to explain it to her. The ramparts had been excavated out of the mountainside to form a sort of bowl in which the city proper rested. If they remained connected to the mountain, in the absence of all the earth that had once been where the city now stood, they would be in danger of sheering off at their bases and collapsing during the area’s not infrequent earthquakes. To neutralize this threat, the dwarves had isolated the bases of each section of the walls, deep below ground level. It seemed entirely counterintuitive to her that the dwarves could keep the huge blocks of stone from moving by allowing their bases to do so, but Aggar had assured her that it worked, muttering something incomprehensible about energy absorbance and transference. And Sabira had no cause to doubt him: During the one temblor she herself had experienced while in Krona Peak, she’d been knocked from her feet and some of the buildings around her had swayed, even deformed. But the ramparts had not seemed to move at all, and not even the tiniest crack could be seen in the glossy black expanse of their seamless veneers. They remained unchanged.

As did everything about the city. Sabira was too far away from any of the portholes to get a good look at the dwarven capital, but she remembered the sight well and imagined she could reconstruct it in exact detail from memory alone. Unlike the human cities where she spent the bulk of her time, nothing here would have changed—the same clans ran the same businesses out of the same buildings that they’d used for generations. Even if an establishment had changed hands in the relatively short amount of time that she’d been gone—short to a dwarf, anyway—the name on the placard would remain the same, because one of the virtues dwarves valued most was constancy. Thus, the little weapons shop on the Street of Songs was still Frin’s Fine Arms, even though Frin Soranath had died sixty years ago, leaving no heirs, and the business had been operated by the Mroranons ever since. And the bakery two blocks over on Delver’s Way still served the same eponymous sugar and sourfruit cakes that had made it famous across Khorvaire for half a century; while the bakers might change, the recipes never did.

Just then, the old man leaned across her chest, craning his neck as if to get one last look at the great black bulwark before the airship docked with the tower just outside the city gates.

The only problem with that, of course, was that if Sabira couldn’t see from where she sat, there was no way the oldster next to her—who was even farther from the porthole than she was—could, either.

Sabira grabbed the back of the man’s collar with one hand while pulling her Marshal’s brooch out from beneath her shirt with the other. Then she pulled him close, so the Deneith chimera filled his vision.

“Is this what you’re looking for, old man?” she asked, pitching her voice low and dangerous. On the other side of her, the warforged noticed, and tried to discreetly inch away, much to the vocal dismay of the passengers caught between him and the hull.

“Eh, what? I say now, unhand me, you young cluck!” the man demanded, his words breathy and high-pitched, and for a moment Sabira felt a pang for treating him so harshly. Then she felt him shift, just slightly, looking for all of Eberron as if he were simply trying to lessen the pressure on the back of his neck. But she noticed the change in the weight of her boot immediately.

Yanking his head back, she reached down and caught his wrist just as the second pouch she’d hidden in her boot was disappearing into his shirt.

“Well, now, how did that get there?” the old man asked, feigning surprise. Then he glared up at her, his voice rising in protest. “What are you, some sort of marauding wizard, riding the skies in search of harmless old men to harass?”

Sabira actually laughed at that.

“Not quite. Though I am going to perform a bit of magic. I’m going to make you disappear into a cell for a very long time.” She smiled at him, feigning concern to match his false astonishment. “Or didn’t you know that interfering with a Sentinel Marshal on official business is punishable by a jail term in Sentinel Tower commensurate with the seriousness of the mission you impeded? And I have to tell you—my business? Very serious.”

“Problem, Marshal?”

It was a Defender Sabira didn’t know, finally summoned by both the complaint of the people still being squished up against the hull and the dwindling flow of traffic up the companionway, where he’d been stationed. House Lyrandar sometimes hired members of the Defender’s Guild to watch over the steerage cabins whenever their ships were forced to act as passenger transports, to prevent theft and violence.

“Not really. Just a pickpocket—not a very good one, I might add—choosing the wrong target.”

The Defender, an attractive man with brown hair and eyes almost as gray as her own, cocked his head to the side.

“Hardly seems worth the paperwork.”

Well, he was right about that. Much as she’d like to see her threat through, she had no idea exactly when Aggar’s trial was slated to begin, and she needed to get to Ferrous House. The building, which resembled nothing so much as a giant lockbox, was located just below the entrance to the Mroranon estate and housed the meeting chambers of the Iron Council. It was going to take her a half bell of fast walking just to get there; she really didn’t have time to mess with the pickpocket, who hadn’t actually succeeded in doing anything more than annoying her.

“No. But he might have had other targets before me. I’d detain him and search him, just to be sure. Wouldn’t want any passengers complaining to the Lyrandars.”

The Defender waved the warforged and the other passengers by before answering.

“True,” he said as she handed the old man off to him. The would-be thief whined a bit when the Deneith man got a handful of hair along with his collar, prompting the Defender to tighten his grip. The pickpocket was wise enough to keep his indignation to himself after that.

“Galifar’s Peace, Defender,” Sabira said, nodding to the man as she went to move past him and exit the cart. It was a traditional salutation among Defenders and the Sentinel Marshals most of them aspired to become; it referenced the opening phrases of their respective oaths: “I swear to uphold and defend the Code of Galifar, with heart, mind, soul, and steel, until Galifar is once more reunited, and at peace.”

The Defender didn’t immediately respond; he’d caught a glimpse of her urgrosh when she stood.

“You’re Lyet, aren’t you?”

Sabira paused, taking a moment to examine his features more carefully. She was sure she didn’t know him, but it wasn’t really a surprise to find he knew her. Most Defenders working this close to the Holds did, one way or another.

“I am,” she confirmed, on her guard. She hoped he wasn’t one of those distant cousins of Ned’s—Tilde’s friends—who thought she should have been excoriated from the House when he died rather than being rewarded with the badge of the Marshals.

“I’m Tobin d’Sark. My sister and I trained with Jayce and Elix for a year back in ’93, before she made Marshal. They both spoke very highly of you. It’s an honor.” He held out his free hand to her.

She took it, glad there was no one else around. She’d never been comfortable with the accolades heaped on her after she returned from the Maw with Aggar. She may have fulfilled her duty there, but she’d failed a friend, and being congratulated for her actions only made her feel the loss that much more deeply.

“With training like that, you’ll have a brooch of your own in no time,” she said, not unkindly, but Tobin shook his head.

“No. My parents have already lost one child to the Marshals. I’m happy here.”

d’Sark. Of course. His sister must have been Tabeth, the Marshal Elix mentioned they’d lost in the Blade Desert during their ill-fated rescue of the Lyrandar heir. For a moment, looking at Tobin’s curly hair and sculpted features, Sabira imagined what his sister must have looked like and felt an entirely unexpected stab of jealousy.

“Nothing wrong with that,” Sabira replied, nodding in understanding. “We all serve; we all bring honor to the House.” She curled her hand into a fist and brought it up to her chest, twice in quick succession.

Tobin repeated the gesture with his free hand.

“Galifar’s Peace, Marshal.”

It wasn’t until she was exiting the docking tower that she realized that the money pouch on her belt was missing.

Twelve bloody moons! The old man had had a partner; going after the pouch in her boot had been a ruse to distract her while the other thief—probably the warforged, who was long gone by now—divested her of the larger pouch.

Luckily, she’d expected something of the sort, and had carried only copper crowns in the pouch at her waist; all the coins of real worth were stashed in her boot-pouch. But having planned for this contingency didn’t make it any less annoying.

She was debating going back to Tobin and having the oldster arrested after all—a few well-placed kicks might just convince the thief to give up his accomplice—but then she noticed a cluster of dwarves standing outside the city gates. They were all staring at her and murmuring among themselves. She couldn’t make out their words, but she didn’t have to.

It had started already.

At the gates, when she showed the guard her travel papers, he took longer than necessary examining them before handing them back and deferentially waving her through. She could hear him talking about her to the other guards as she passed under the great black ramparts and into the city. It was only a matter of time now.

Though she hurried down Mror’s Walk, still word traveled faster, and soon she could see dwarves ahead of her in the crowd turning back to look in her direction. The murmurs and whispers started getting louder.

“… saved Aggar Tordannon from Nightshard …”

“… never expected to see her here again …”

“… must have come back for the Tordannon trial …”

And, finally, the phrase she’d dreaded hearing since the moment she knew she’d be returning here.

“The Shard Axe! The Shard Axe has returned!”

It became a chant as dwarves began falling in line behind her. Members of other races moved back out of the way, confused and curious, as the procession swelled. By the time she arrived at Ferrous House, there were hundreds of dwarves in her wake and the buildings rang with her name.

“Sabira! The Shard Axe! Sabira! The Shard Axe!”

She hadn’t acknowledged the growing crowd up until now, but as she walked up the stairs to the huge iron doors, she turned and held up a hand for silence. Amazingly, the throng quieted in an instant. Then Sabira turned and pulled her travel papers out, handing them over to the Iron Council guards.

“I’m here for the trial of Aggar Tordannon,” she said, loud enough she knew her voice would carry to the listening mob. If she were going to be leading a parade everywhere she went while she was here, she might as well take advantage of it.

The whispering behind her began again.

The guards perused her papers. One of them, a surly looking Mroranon with an urgrosh like her own—minus the Siberys shard—eyed the crowd warily before responding.

“The council’s in closed session. You’ll have to come back when they’re in open session, three days from—”

He didn’t get any further. The murmuring got louder, and started to turn ugly.

“… the idiot Mroranon’s not letting her in …”

“… that’s ridiculous; they can’t keep her out …”

“… the Council wouldn’t be that foolish …”

Sabira let the noise build for a bit before turning and raising her hand once more. The crowd settled again, more restlessly this time.

She looked back at the Mroranon, whose jaw was set stubbornly beneath his well-beaded beard.

“I am the Sentinel Marshal Sabira Lyet d’Deneith,” she said, raising her voice and ignoring a cry of “Shard Axe!” from behind her. “I am here on official Marshal business, and I demand that you let me in to see my client.” She lowered her voice to a stage whisper. “And I’m really not sure how long I can control them,” she added, jerking her head toward the crowd.

She could see the guard calculating how much trouble he might get in for starting a riot and just how many people he’d be able to finish off before he was overwhelmed.

The crowd was just starting to get unruly again when the doors suddenly swung open of their own accord.

A female dwarf dressed in long gray robes stood just beyond the threshold.

“Sabira d’Deneith of the Marshals, welcome. We’ve been expecting you.”

Flashing the Mroranon guard a smug smile as she collected her papers from him, Sabira turned to wave her thanks to the crowd, who responded with a cheer and a roar.

“Shard Axe! Shard Axe!”

Then she turned and walked into Ferrous House, holding her breath until the doors closed behind her and shut out the last echoes of the horrible, hated name.

Sabira had only been inside the Iron Council’s meeting chambers once before, and found the outside of the utilitarian building far more interesting than the inside. The exterior of Ferrous House, though plain and functional from a distance, was actually a work of extraordinary beauty when viewed up close. From its wide base to near its slightly tapered top, the building was inscribed with delicate interlocking runes no more than a fingertip in either height or width. The runes spiraled up the ironwork façade—which had been spelled against the elements—and recounted the entirety of dwarven history. The lowest loops of the spiral told vague stories of the race’s murky beginnings in either the depths of Khyber or the icy expanses of Frostfell—not even the dwarves themselves were completely certain on that count. Their emergence in Khorvaire and the names of the thirteen great clan leaders began roughly at the knees, and ten thousand years of feuds and feats wound their way up to well past the third story. The subjugation of the dwarves under the rule of Karrn the Conqueror and their declaration of independence during the century-long Last War followed, taking up another story and a half. A thin band of purple mournlode, invisible from the ground, marked the destruction of Cyre and the enactment of the Treaty of Thronehold, which had effectively ended the great war. The spiral made a few more loops after that, and ended a good ten feet short of the roof, leaving the walls a blank canvas for all the history yet to be written.

It was something of a rite of passage for young dwarves to come here and trace their clan’s achievements in the finely wrought iron. For several hours on Sar and Sul, members of the Iron Council’s staff would staff miniature soarsleds, one for each wall. Dwarves could pay a fee and use the crystalline disks to fly slowly upward in pairs—usually a parent and child—and examine the spiraling runes for names from their own family lines.

Sabira had been told that Nightshard’s brief reign of terror had been included in one of the final loops, but there was no mention of her name, or Leoned’s. Which was fine by her. She already had more than enough fame in the Holds.

Although the exterior of Ferrous House was remarkable, the interior was anything but. Once beyond the huge iron doors, the structure could have been any of a hundred other government buildings located anywhere in Khorvaire, save that the statues and tapestries all had dwarf subjects, and the overall level of craftsmanship was, of course, just that much better.

The one exception was the Iron Council’s meeting chamber.

Located beneath the building, the main audience chamber had been hewn from solid rock, with no attempt made to finish the stonework. Thirteen stone chairs, reminiscent of thrones, sat in a raised semicircle against the easternmost wall, with the associated clan banners hanging behind them. A large circular area separated these seats from the gallery where spectators and those waiting to address the Council sat on curved benches that had likewise been carved from stone. Set within the floor of the speaking circle was a large eye of Aureon. The Sovereign God of Law and Lore, Aureon’s sigil adorned the face of the mithral seal, and anyone standing upon it was compelled to answer the Council’s questions truthfully.

Aside from the seal and the banners, there was nothing in the room to suggest that this was arguably the wealthiest nation on Khorvaire. Instead, it was stark, cold, and downright uncomfortable. Aggar had told her that the audience chamber served as an object lesson to all who entered: It harkened back to the dwarves’ uncivilized past and was an unsubtle reminder that the only thing that kept the dwarves from returning to that state was the authority of the Iron Council.

“It must be difficult to perform your duties as a Marshal with such a large entourage,” the gray-robed dwarf remarked as she led the way to a wide marble staircase. Sabira thought she detected a note of disapproval in the comment, and bristled.

“I didn’t ask for the escort,” she replied sharply, then gave a sardonic chuckle. “Besides, if you think that was bad, you should see it when I visit Frostmantle. Your guards got off easy.”

The dwarf woman frowned at that, apparently not sharing Sabira’s amusement.

“We assume you are here for the Tordannon trial?” she asked as they walked down a flight of stairs to the level of the audience chamber. Sabira looked at her askance, wondering why the dwarf woman insisted on referring to herself in the plural. Then she saw the black-and-white Octogram the dwarf wore on her left hand and realized the woman was a priestess of Aureon. So she was either referring to herself and her staff or herself and her god. Either way, it was irritating.

“Yes. My services have been retained on behalf of Aggar Tordannon.”

“This is the first we’ve heard of it,” the priestess said, and Sabira wondered suddenly if she were actually speaking on behalf of the Council and not as some divine mouthpiece.

“There was some question as to my … availability,” Sabira replied, unwilling to give the dwarf more information than was absolutely necessary. If the Council members wanted answers from her, they’d have to ask her themselves—though preferably not while she was standing on Aureon’s sigil.

“We wonder that news of the trial reached as far away as Karrnath.”

Definitely fishing.

“Word of injustice always reaches the ears of the Marshals,” Sabira answered, her tone mild but her words acerbic. The priestess frowned again, but thankfully made no further attempt to question her after that.

They came to a set of iron doors, not much smaller than those on the front of Ferrous House. These doors, Sabira knew, opened onto the main audience chamber. But instead of entering, the dwarf woman bypassed them and turned down a side hallway lined with more doors, though these were made of plain, rough wood. Sabira guessed they led to waiting rooms—or cells—where the accused were stowed until it was their turn to address the Council. The priestess led her to the only door boasting a guard—an urgrosh-carrying Narathun whose blond, beaded beard flowed past his waist, where he wore a matching long-handled knife. Sabira wasn’t surprised at the choice of jailor: The Tordannons and Narathuns had a long-standing blood feud that spanned centuries. Who better to ensure a prisoner didn’t escape than his worst enemy? Though now that Aggar was involved with the Aurum, the Narathuns were probably the least of his concerns; they were certainly no longer his deadliest adversaries.

The priestess nodded to the other dwarf, who stood aside to allow Sabira entry.

“We will leave you with your client, then, Marshal. But know this: If there have been any injustices committed in this case, it has not been by us.”

Well, not yet, Sabira thought, but she held her tongue. She’d already pushed the priestess as far as she dared, especially if the dwarf woman was the one who’d be in charge of ascertaining the truth of Aggar’s statements before the Council.

So she just nodded at the priestess and grabbed the handle of the door. Taking a deep breath, she turned the handle and stepped into the room.

Aggar was on the far side of the cell, his back to her. He was naked from the waist up and rust-colored hair clung in sweaty strands to the nape of his neck. Muscles rippled along his back and gold rings sparkled on his fingers as he went through the motions of swinging an imaginary axe against an equally insubstantial foe. The many beads and trinkets in his beard clattered and chimed with each practiced movement.

“Finally,” the Tordannon heir said without turning to look at her, not missing a step in a complicated pattern of slices and thrusts. “I’ve been asking for water since midnight.”

“I’m not here to bring you water. I’m here to haul your carcass out of the fire—again.”

At the sound of her voice, Aggar stopped so fast he almost stumbled and whipped about as though yanked by an invisible cord. The color fled from his normally rubicund face, and his green eyes stood out like crown gems.

“Saba? What in the name of Onatar’s huge hairy backside are you doing here?”

CHAPTER TWELVE

Mol, Nymm 16, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

Sabira narrowed her eyes.

“What am I doing here? Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

But Aggar didn’t answer. Instead he rushed toward her, and from the manic look in his eyes, Sabira wasn’t sure if he was intent on hugging her or killing her. She also wasn’t entirely certain which of those two eventualities she found less appealing.

The dwarf held up at the last moment, regaining a modicum of his proper dwarven composure. Or perhaps he’d simply realized that he would probably knock her on her backside if he didn’t slow down. Either way, he came to a stop just in front of her and reached out to clasp her hands in his own, smiling hugely.

“Onatar’s ale-filled gut!” he swore again softly, looking at her in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

Sabira wrinkled her nose, pulling her hands away from his and taking a step back.

“Host, Aggar! When was the last time you bothered to bathe?” She was only partly jesting; the dwarf was ripe, and Sabira couldn’t help but wonder just how long he’d been waiting in the tiny, sparse room.

“Why do you think I was asking for water?” Aggar quipped, lowering his hands. Then his smile faded, and his expression grew earnest. “In all seriousness, Saba—as happy as I am to see you, why am I seeing you? Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”

“Am I in trouble?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “You’re the one on trial for murder. And why are you so surprised to see me? You sent for me. Or did you really think I hated you so much that I wouldn’t come?”

Aggar was shaking his head, frowning, and Sabira realized with a start that it wasn’t in response to her rapid interrogation.

“You didn’t send for me.” It wasn’t a question.

Mountainheart. That dirty, conniving son of a Jhorash’tar.

“So let me get this straight. You’re saying you didn’t ask your nephew and fellow Concordian to go to Elix and basically threaten to end the trading partnership between the Tordannon clan and House Deneith if I didn’t come here to defend you from some trumped-up murder charges?”

Aggar’s thick brows made a V above the bridge of his nose, its vertex getting sharper and sharper as she spoke.

“No, no, no, no, and, most emphatically, no,” he replied, his expression growing darker with each denial. “That is, assuming that you’re talking about Orin?”

“You have more than one nephew?” Since Aggar had no siblings, the existence of even one nephew had been a bit of a surprise, but given the multifarious nature of family ties in the Holds, Sabira supposed anything was possible.

“I have five now, actually, and a niece. My father finally remarried four years ago—in part, I think, because he was hoping it would spur me on to do the same. His wife, the Baroness Meridella Deepspring Mountainheart, has three older brothers, and they’ve all been abundantly blessed with children and grandchildren, as Meridella herself has not.”

Which was probably exactly why Kiruk Tordannon had married her. Childless, she posed no threat to Aggar’s inheritance, but with several grandchildren, there was no risk of that inheritance going to someone outside the clan, should Aggar not produce an heir of his own.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Kiruk and Meridella had simply fallen in love, and her lack of direct heirs was mere happenstance, but marriage was rarely such a straightforward affair among the dwarves. Most of the time, it involved contracts whose long negotiations served the same function that the courtship period did for other races. Affection, or the lack thereof, was seldom a factor.

Though, to be fair, Kiruk had loved Aggar’s mother, and deeply. When she had died in childbirth, the dwarf patriarch had been devastated, and the entire crushing bulk of his devotion had then been transferred to the only thing Kiruk had left of her: her sickly, flame-haired son.

“But Orin’s the only one of them who’d pull a stunt like this. And the only one with the authority, since he was appointed envoy. Plus he’s been missing since shortly after his wedding to Gunnett Stoneblood, and I know he wouldn’t have left without a very good reason.” He didn’t look so angry now, but there was still a shadow behind his eyes. “So where is he?”

Sabira briefly recounted how Orin had stalked her to Stormreach, threatened her, then gotten skewered by one yrthak while saving her life from another on the way back to Khorvaire. She left out the part about feeding him the ironspice, though, since she still wasn’t sure just how sick that had actually made him. Aggar relaxed visibly when Sabira told him Orin was in the care of House Jorasco.

“And he told you he was a member of the Aurum?” Aggar asked when she was finished.

“Silver Concord,” Sabira affirmed, though in truth Orin had only displayed the rings; he’d never actually claimed to be a Concordian. One of the few things he hadn’t lied about, apparently.

“So that’s where my old rings went,” Aggar muttered to himself, and suddenly Orin’s reaction to hearing that Sabira had taken a job for Arach d’Kundarak—an actual Concordian—back in Stormreach made much more sense. To Sabira, he said, “And you believed him?”

“As much as I’d believe anyone who told me you were a member of the Aurum—a Gold Concordian, no less—and that you’d gotten yourself arrested for murdering, what, half of them?” Which was to say, yes. She’d swallowed it all whole, because believing Aggar had become a criminal made it that much easier to sustain her anger toward him and toward herself. After all, she thought bitterly, what better tool for self-flagellation could she have than knowing the dwarf she’d let Leoned die to save had gone on to commit more than a dozen murders?

“You believed I’d actually ask you to come back here, after … everything that happened? You honestly thought I would do that to you?” Neither his tone nor his face betrayed his hurt, but she knew her doubt had cut him to the quick.

But he wasn’t the only one to take a knife to the heart over this whole Hostforsaken situation, and she wasn’t inclined to feel sympathetic.

“Elix did. Why not you, as well?”

That silenced him. He knew how close she and Leoned and Elix had all been. If Elix—someone she’d cared for and admired—could deceive her so thoroughly with that damnable letter, was it really any wonder she’d doubt him, someone she’d left the Holds practically hating?

“So Orin left his new wife, masqueraded as a member of the Aurum, and lied to the Sentinel Marshals, all on your behalf? Seems like you’ve really learned how to inspire loyalty since I’ve been gone. That, or stupidity, since his actions are likely to earn him a cell next to yours.”

“Orin believes I’m innocent,” Aggar replied, unruffled by her gibes. He crossed over to the room’s lone piece of furniture—a long wooden bench—and bent to pick up a small folded towel from atop a stack of clothing, using it to mop the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck.

“Are you?”

The dwarf didn’t answer immediately. He pulled a white shirt on over his head, then a sleeveless tunic in several startling shades of green and emblazoned with the Tordannon crest over that. He finished the ensemble off with an orange cloak that he clasped at his neck with a gold hand clenched in a fist.

“Are you?” he countered sardonically, straightening his collar. “Is anyone?”

She opened her mouth to explain, in explicit detail, just what she thought of his attempt to play the philosopher, but he held up his hand to forestall her.

“If, on the other hand, you’re asking if I killed my fellow Concordians, the answer to that question is far simpler. No, I did not. And I have no idea who did.”

“Obviously someone who hates you,” Sabira rejoined tartly.

Aggar chuckled mirthlessly.

“Well, my dear old friend, then that would put you at the top of a very long list of suspects.”

“Undoubtedly. But seeing as this is the first time I’ve set foot in the Holds since …,” she trailed off, not quite able to bring herself to say it, here, in front of him. “Well, I think it’s safe to cross me off that list. But maybe if you tell me exactly who was murdered, and what relationship each of the victims had to you, we might be able to narrow it down to a few hundred other suspects, hmm?”

“Only a few hundred?” Aggar laughed, with real amusement this time. “Why, Saba, I do believe you’ve mellowed during your time away.”

Sabira’s answering smile was brittle.

“Don’t count on it. Just tell me what happened, and leave all the fancy embellishments and philosophical musings for someone they might actually impress. The trial does start today, after all. And I need as much information as possible, as quickly as possible, if I’m going to have any hope of defending you.”

Aggar sat on the bench and motioned for Sabira to do the same. “Well, you might as well sit, then. This is going to take a while.”

Honoring Sabira’s request, the dwarf kept his story succinct and factual. Most of the thirteen victims had been rival members of the Aurum, and they’d all been seen arguing with Aggar in the days and hours preceding their deaths. In fact, except for the first murder, Aggar seemed to have been the last person to see many of the victims alive. Aside from the real killer, of course.

The first victim, Haddrin Goldglove, had been a lowly Copper Concordian from Frostmantle, obsessed with the Fist of Onatar and the great cache of Siberys dragonshards that legend placed deep within the bowels of the volcano. He’d come to Aggar—a member of the Frostmantle Four, the city’s governing body—with concerns about a recent increase in hot spring activity in the caverns below the mountaintop city, fearing a dangerous magma chamber might be developing there. But considering that the Fist was almost two hundred miles away, Aggar had dismissed Goldglove as a doomsayer, and not entirely stable—rightfully so, in Sabira’s estimation—and sent him on his hand-wringing way. Goldglove had stopped to see his mother before descending to the lower levels of the city, where he hoped to find proof to convince Aggar that he wasn’t crazy. His body had been found beside one of the hot springs a week later, his logbook still clutched in one bloody hand.

As with all the subsequent victims, Goldglove had been conveniently beheaded, so questioning his corpse had not been an option. At the time, his death had been considered an isolated event, so there’d been no reason to have him resurrected to try and learn more about the manner of his passing—not that his mother could have afforded it, even if there had been reason. Instead, she’d had his body put to the flame, a practice common among worshippers of Onatar, the Sovereign God of Fire and Forge.

And while Sabira was certain that most of the other Aurum members who’d been slain could have afforded to be resurrected, none of their heirs had seen fit to authorize that exorbitantly expensive procedure—probably because they had other uses for their newly acquired wealth. A fact that would normally have made each of them suspects as well, but unless they’d all conspired together to kill their respective family members and frame Aggar for it—a scenario that, while possible, was not at all probable—the chances of any of them actually being guilty were very slim.

The second and third murders had occurred in Krona Peak while Aggar was there seeing to family business. Though the method of killing was identical to Goldglove’s, these deaths had not been linked to his until after the fourth murder, which happened back in Frostmantle and coincided with Aggar’s return there.

At that point, local Inquisitives had been called in to examine the various crime scenes, but they’d found few clues. Inquisitives from Houses Medani or Tharashk would likely have had more success, but the dwarves had been understandably reluctant to call in outsiders. The only reason her own presence was being tolerated was because of her past service to the dwarves—the Iron Council had extended an open invitation to her after Nightshard’s death, and they could not rescind it now without looking churlish, frightened, or weak.

It took four more murders before Aggar came under suspicion. The Inquisitives actually brought him in for questioning in the deaths of the ninth and tenth victims, which occurred back in Krona Peak. Aggar had been there attending Orin and Gunnett’s wedding, an ostentatious affair that had been held in Kol Korran’s Throne, the largest temple dedicated to the Sovereign God of World and Wealth in all of Khorvaire. But the Inquisitives didn’t have enough evidence to incriminate Aggar, so they had to let him go both times.

It hadn’t been until the thirteenth and final death—also in Krona Peak—that Aggar had been apprehended, when they’d found the murder weapon in his possession. The sword had still been slick with the blood of the last victim, and a fair amount of Aggar’s own.

It didn’t matter that his preferred weapon was a greataxe, or that he handled a longer blade about as well as he coordinated his clothing. Nor did it matter that he had been attacked and wounded that very night himself, by a cloaked figure wielding an identical—if not the very same—sword.

The bulk of the evidence against him was too strong; if not for his position as a leader of Frostmantle and the heir to the majority of the Tordannon clan holdings, he’d have been arrested much sooner. But the Inquisitives had needed concrete proof of his guilt. How opportune that they should find it lying in the open in his rooms while he was being treated for the injury he’d likely received from that self-same weapon, at the hands of the actual murderer.

“Well, whoever framed you went to a lot of trouble,” Sabira mused when the dwarf was done talking. “A plot this complex had to have taken a great deal of planning—it wasn’t hatched in a day, or even a month. That indicates someone with a long-standing grudge. Not to mention the resources and skill to circumvent the protection of some highly placed figures. Silvervein was related to Queen Diani of Thrane’s bodyguard, wasn’t she?”

“His youngest sister,” Aggar answered, nodding.

“Oh,” Sabira said, wincing. That wasn’t good.

“And Mikos Deepshaft was Tiadanna’s favorite cousin,” Aggar offered, somewhat apologetically.

“Tiadanna Mroranon? Wife of Torlan Mroranon, the Iron Council’s arbiter? That Tiadanna?”

Aggar at least had the grace to look sheepish as he nodded.

“It gets worse.”

Sabira suppressed a groan as something that felt suspiciously like dread crawled down her spine and curled into a ball in the pit of her stomach.

“Just tell me.”

“Deepshaft was the last victim. He was also the chief priest at the Temple of Kol Korran.”

Sabira’s groan escaped this time, though in truth she didn’t do much to try to hold it in.

Mrorians revered their priests, viewing them as selfless heroes who willingly sacrificed the standing they held in their individual clans to serve the most important clan of all—the dwarven people.

“Host, Aggar!” Sabira swore, shaking her head in disbelief. “A priest? This person doesn’t just want you dead, he wants you destroyed! I’m surprised they’re even giving you the courtesy of a trial.”

“My father’s also on the Council,” Aggar reminded her, “And Torlan wasn’t particularly fond of his wife’s cousin, not after Deepshaft spoke out against the new tax on ‘excessive’ religious offerings.”

Sabira scoffed at that. “Even if he secretly wanted Mikos dead, he’s not likely to publicly congratulate you for doing the deed for him. He’ll be expected to want revenge, and appearances will require that he live up to that expectation.”

Then a thought struck her.

“Wait. Deepshaft was a member of the Aurum?” Though it wasn’t a requirement of the calling as far as she knew, most dwarf priests of Kol Korran gave up all claims to personal property when they entered into the service of the Sovereign, exchanging tangible wealth for spiritual, the better to serve his Vassals. For such a priest to be involved with the acquisitive and power-hungry Aurum would be highly irregular, to say the least.

“Actually, no. And the only time I ever met him was at Orin’s wedding. He doesn’t fit the pattern, but he was killed the same way as all the others, so of course I’m getting credit for it.”

“Whoever framed you got impatient, then. Good to know, but it doesn’t help us now.”

Quite the contrary. While Sabira had never been on this side of a trial before, she had testified in a couple of high-profile cases back in Sharn. She’d learned then that, when the verdict rested with a jury—in this case, the Council—the best bet for acquittal was having either a well-loved defendant or a well-known barrister.

Even if Aggar had been a popular figure before these charges, the death of the priest would have effectively obliterated any support he might have had on the Council, other than that of his own father and those members who might owe Kiruk favors. Big favors.

That left the barrister.

“Who’s your advocate for the trial?”

“It was supposed to be Barrut Blackiron.”

Good. Kiruk had spared no expense for his son. Blackiron was the best advocate in the Mror Holds. And a good barrister mattered more to a case like this than mere facts.

“But …?”

Aggar hesitated, his expression that of a student who knows he’s about to be severely chastised by his teacher.

“He’s dead.”

“What?” Sabira exclaimed. Olladra’s empty purse! Aggar must have done something to seriously offend the goddess of luck to have so many turns of fortune go the wrong way. “Please tell me he wasn’t forced to eat his own eyes before being beheaded.”

“That wouldn’t make much sense, would it—me killing my own defender? Why would the real murderer bother to frame me for that?” Aggar shook his head, and the beads in his beard responded with a musical tinkling, a sound incongruous and alien in this stark setting, in the midst of this grim conversation. “No. He drowned in Mirror Lake a little over two weeks ago. Fishing accident.”

Well, that was a relief, at least. Still, given the level of machinations within machinations they seemed to be dealing with, she felt compelled to ask.

“Are you certain it was an accident?”

“My father was with him at the time. Though I suppose there’s always the possibility he thought Blackiron’s retainer was too high.…”

Leave it to Aggar to find something to joke about in the middle of this ever-burgeoning debacle.

“So who will be taking Blackiron’s place?”

“One of his apprentices. Rockfist, I think his name is. Supposedly very smart, but doesn’t have a lot of trial experience—none, at this level. He’s actually supposed to be here right now. Hopefully he’s just running late and didn’t walk through any dark alleys or shadowy hallways on the way to see me.”

Wonderful. A defendant everyone would hate on principle and a barrister no one had ever heard of. The chances of winning this case had just shrunk from highly unlikely to virtually impossible.

But, then, that’s why she was here. Mountainheart had clearly intended to broker her fame for Aggar’s pardon. He should have just told her that back in Stormreach—she could have saved them both the trip.

Just then, the door opened and a short, harried-looking dwarf hurried in, carrying a sheaf of papers and pushing up violet-lensed spectacles that kept sliding down what, for a dwarf, was a very small nose. He couldn’t have been more than forty years old. Sabira and Aggar exchanged skeptical glances and stood.

“So sorry I’m late!” The newcomer exclaimed, sticking out a hand first to Aggar then, a little less enthusiastically, to Sabira. “I had to fight my way through an awful crowd outside Ferrous House. They’ve even called in the city guard! Apparently there’s some other murderer here called ‘Shard Axe’ that they’re demanding to see released. Ridiculous! And what sort of self-respecting criminal would name themselves after an urgrosh, anyway …?” The dwarf trailed off as he caught sight of the shard axe strapped to Sabira’s back. “Oh.”

“Other mur—” Sabira repeated incredulously, ignoring the barrister’s chagrined look. Aggar cut her off with a quick shake of his head.

“No, it’s fine, Saba. A good advocate always presumes his client’s guilt, because that’s what his opponent is going to do—you’ve got to think like your enemy if you want to defeat him. Isn’t that right, Rockfist?”

“Exactly so,” the junior barrister replied, nodding vigorously. Evidently he thought his slip of the tongue had somehow won Aggar’s approval, and he was obviously relieved to have done so.

Aggar just grinned at the advocate’s undue enthusiasm, looking a bit like a cat that had eaten his owner’s beloved but annoying songbird. “By the way, Rockfist, meet Sentinel Marshal Sabira Lyet d’Deneith. She’s the ridiculously named ‘Shard Axe.’ And she’s going to be my lead defender, and your new boss.”

“Aggar, you can’t be serious—” Sabira began, only to be drowned out by Rockfist’s own angry protests.

“What do you mean, lead defender? She’s not even a barrister, let alone a dwarf! You can’t do that! And the Council will never—”

“She’s the Shard Axe. If you’d bothered to study recent history instead of just ancient law, you’d know she’s as close as you can get to a dwarf without being born one, or formally adopted into a clan. The Council will hear her, and they’ll give far more credence to what she has to say than they will to whatever arguments you might come up with. You tell her the right words to use, she says them, and maybe I might actually get out of this thing alive.” Then Aggar, who’d been walking toward the barrister as he spoke, stopped in front of the other dwarf and lowered his voice. His hand shot out to grab a fistful of Rockfist’s short beard, his gold Aurum rings gleaming in the light of the room’s single everbright lantern. “And don’t you ever presume to tell me that I can’t do something. As long as I’m paying your bill, I can do whatever I want, and you’ll keep your opinions about it to yourself. Understand?”

“Y—yes,” Rockfist spluttered weakly before Aggar released him.

“Now,” the Tordannon heir continued, as if nothing untoward had happened, “I’ve already briefed Sabira, so why don’t you two go over Blackiron’s notes and figure out how you’re going to keep me from hanging?”

Blackiron apparently hadn’t had a great deal of time to review Aggar’s case before his ill-fated fishing trip, because his notes consisted of little more than the details of the murders, including the times of death, and Aggar’s relationship to each of the victims, as well as his whereabouts during their deaths. In short, nothing she didn’t already know, and nothing that was going to help.

Something did strike her as odd as she went over the dwarven characters, and she asked Aggar about it, not trusting in either her translation or Rockfist’s helpfulness.

“Is this right? All of the bodies were found within a day or two of the victims’ deaths, and the latest victims were found the fastest?”

“Yes, that’s right.” It was Rockfist, clearly perturbed that she was ignoring him. He pushed up his spectacles officiously. “Ag—that is, the murderer—took less care hiding the bodies as time went on. Almost as if he wanted to be caught.” He said that last dramatically, like it was some sort of brilliant deduction, and Sabira snorted.

“Or as if he wanted someone else to get caught—which, by the way, is the crux of Aggar’s defense. Namely, that he was framed. Try to keep that in mind, hmm?”

Turning back to Aggar, she continued, “Except for Goldglove, right? His body wasn’t discovered for a week.”

“That’s right,” Aggar replied, the crease in his brow showing that he wasn’t quite following her admittedly circuitous line of reasoning.

“So, when someone dies and their body is found quickly, it’s relatively easy to determine exactly when they died. But when a body sits for a while, it becomes much harder—predators, weather, and rot all take a toll. So how do they know exactly when Goldglove died?”

“His logbook,” Rockfist answered before Aggar could, grabbing some of the papers out of Sabira’s hands and leafing through until he found what he was looking for. “Here.”

Sabira took the proffered sheet back and skimmed it quickly. The journal was mentioned halfway down, where Blackiron had apparently jotted down notes from an official report that listed the items found on or near each of the victims.

Goldglove’s body had been found on the 9th of Eyre, a little over a week after he’d met with Aggar, an appointment that was mentioned in the logbook. Subsequent entries dealt with the hot springs he’d been examining and continued up until five days before his corpse had been discovered, and presumably the day he’d died. The final entry was short, cryptic, and unfinished.

New hot spring found, approximately a quarter-mile from the last and deviating from the postulated straight-line progression by only four hundred fifty feet. See map in D.’s Tombs report. Evidence suggests spring is not natural, including …

But whatever evidence Goldglove had been referring to had never made it from his head to the page.

“What’s this report the last entry refers to?” she asked Rockfist. If the barrister wanted to prove his usefulness so badly, he could start by giving her the information that wasn’t in Blackiron’s notes.

“I don’t know,” the dwarf admitted. “We don’t have a copy of the logbook, only the entries spanning the time from Goldglove’s meeting with Aggar up to his death. But I can’t see how it’s relevant—unless you’re suggesting he was killed to cover up this business with the hot springs, and every murder since then has simply been an effort to divert attention from it?”

Sabira glared at the bespectacled barrister. He was really starting to get on her nerves. But she’d seen enough of the bureaucrat now to know how to deal with him.

“I’m not suggesting anything. But there could be a link, and we owe it to our client to pursue any avenue that leads away from him as the main suspect, don’t you think?”

As Sabira had hoped, Rockfist fairly preened at her use of the words “we” and “our.” Like anyone working in the shadow of a legend—and Blackiron had been that, and more—Rockfist wanted to know his work had value on its own merit. Sabira had seen little thus far to suggest that was the case, but if Rockfist thought she was putting stock in his opinion, he’d fall all over himself to prove he was worthy of that trust.

“I’ll request a copy of the journal be made available to us,” he said, scribbling a note on one of the many papers he still held. “The original is most likely still in Frostmantle, either with the authorities there or already released to his mother.”

Before Sabira could respond, the door opened again and the Narathun guard stuck his head in.

“Time to go, Tordannon,” he said gruffly. “You’re up next.”

As Rockfist gathered up the rest of his papers, Aggar pulled Sabira aside.

“Before we go out there, I need to know something.”

At her quizzical look, his gaze sharpened.

“Why are you going through with this, Saba? Orin entered into his contract with you under false pretenses. You can’t be bound by it under those circumstances. And we both know you couldn’t care less if the Iron Council had me drawn and quartered—Dolurrh, you’d probably ask for a box seat! So what else is going on here?”

Sabira regarded him for a moment, biting back her first impulsive response, which was to call him an ungrateful orc and question his ancestry.

It was a valid question. By rights, since Orin had lied about the terms of the contract, she was under no obligation to honor it. But the fact was that her being here no longer had anything to do with her contract. She wasn’t sure when the shift had occurred, or what had caused it. Maybe it had been Elix’s admonitions that Ned would have wanted her to do this, or Orin saving her life aboard the Dust Dancer. Maybe it had been the sight of Ned’s sword on Elix’s wall, or just being in Vulyar—being home—again after so many years.

Call it duty, or guilt, or stubborn pride. Call it stupidity, for it most surely was that. Call it all of those things, or none. Ultimately, the motivation mattered far less than the action itself, for she had committed to facing up to the ghosts of her past, and her course, at least, was clear.

She was going to defend Aggar, and hopefully lay Ned’s spirit to rest in the process, once and for all. Host help her.

Of course, there was no way she was going to tell Aggar all that. But he was a shrewd businessman with a nose for deception; he’d know if she lied to him outright. So she’d have to settle for telling him a partial truth, or they’d never get out of this room, which seemed smaller and more stifling by the moment.

“Voiding the contract also negates my fee. And, frankly, I find myself in a bit of debt at the moment and Orin offered me extremely generous terms. There was really no way I could reasonably refuse.” That was probably the easiest answer, for both of them.

Aggar stared at her hard for a long moment.

“So, you’re doing it for the money?” He grinned at that, though she couldn’t tell whether he actually believed her or not. “Now that’s the Saba I remember! Welcome back!”

He clapped her on the back, harder than was strictly necessary, using the jovial gesture to nudge her toward the door where Rockfist and the Narathun waited impatiently.

“Now let’s go find a way to pull my hide out of Onatar’s fire, shall we?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Mol, Nymm 16, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

Back in the main audience chamber, the Narathun led them to one of the curved benches three rows back from the edge of the circular area that housed the eye of Aureon. Eleven of the thirteen thrones were now occupied—all save that of the Noldrun clan, which hadn’t been used in more than four centuries, and the Kundarak seat, which had been vacant since that clan became House Kundarak. The eye itself was also occupied by a male dwarf with black hair and eyes, who had been stripped down to his breeches, a tactic used both to ensure that those testifying were hiding nothing physical on their persons and to make them feel as if they could hide nothing—physical or otherwise—from the watchful eyes of Aureon and the Iron Council.

The dark-eyed dwarf was in the middle of reciting his lineage, an exercise that could take days if done correctly. Luckily, it seemed the Council was only interested in the dwarf’s maternal side, so they might only have to endure a few hours of the monotonous litany of begats and begottens.

Aside from the three newcomers and their guard, who stood behind Aggar caressing the cheek of his urgrosh’s axe-head, the gallery was mostly empty. Two well-armed dwarves stood on either side of the double doors, a matched set to those on the other side, and another pair stood at either end of the Council dais. Other guards stood at intervals along the walls—ten in all—their stony faces and rigid stances making them appear to be statues. The priestess of Aureon was there as well, sitting in a plain wooden chair to the right of the dais. Another priestess stood at her left hand—probably the perceptor, who would be monitoring the chamber for anyone using magic to either disrupt the proceedings or circumvent the eye’s power. A female gnome sat scribbling in the front row, either a court scribe or a chronicler. And a dwarf woman wearing black mourning veils sat across the aisle from the gnome, her hands hidden in the deep folds of an ermine-trimmed robe. Probably the widow or mother of one of Aggar’s alleged victims, hoping her grief would sway the Council’s verdict against the Tordannon heir. A wish that was, unfortunately, almost certain to be granted.

“That’s Hrun Noldrun,” Rockfist whispered, pitching his voice low and gesturing toward the dwarf standing on the eye. “He arrived in Krona Peak back in Therendor, badly burned and raving. He claims to be the last heir of the Noldruns, and they say he can correctly recite all the key lineages. Torlan himself supported his petition to speak in front of the Council.”

To Aggar’s disbelieving expression, the barrister replied with a plaintive, “What?”

“You know about the latest pretender to Noldrunhold, but you don’t know who the Shard Axe is?”

Rockfist shrugged. “Barrut liked to read the Krona Peak broadsheets. Sometimes I’d sneak a look at them when I was supposed to be studying.”

“Well, good. I’m sure your mastery of all the most recent local gossip will come in handy when we’re addressing the Council,” Sabira snapped, disgusted. She hoped Kiruk had significantly reduced the retainer when Rockfist took over Aggar’s case. When the gnome threw a dark glance over her shoulder at them, Sabira lowered her voice and directed her next words at Aggar. “Didn’t you once tell me about another Noldrun who addressed the Council? A few months after Ned and I arrived in the Holds?”

“Ah, yes,” Aggar said, stroking his beard in thought. “What was her name … Eddartha? No, Eddarga. She was half-duergar, they said, and looked it: bald, gray skin, black eyes. Her appearance even gave some credence to the widely dismissed theory that Noldrunhold was wiped out by a gray dwarf uprising. Like our newest aspirant here, she knew all the right lineages. Her petition was actually sponsored by Gunnett’s family, the Stonebloods. They’re affiliated with the Toldoraths, and their lands border Noldrunhold on the north. Gunnett’s father was the one who got the Council to agree to hear her, but he never showed up to speak on her behalf—remember, they found him dead later? He was the first of Nightshard’s victims. Anyway, without him to speak for her, they ultimately rejected her claim. My own father and Garrek Soldorak were the ones who spoke out most strongly against her ‘tainted’ blood. Though personally, I imagine their objections stemmed more from the fact that, as the only other clans with lands bordering Noldrunhold, they had the most to lose if that hold became active again.” Aggar didn’t look particularly distressed either by the thought of his father’s prejudice or by the idea that Kiruk might have had more avaricious motives. “Eddarga left the audience chamber in disgrace, but not before she vowed to reclaim Noldrunthrone and the vacant Noldrun Council seat. Oh, and to punish her detractors, too, of course—wouldn’t make a good story without that.”

“Well, I’d guess by Hrun’s appearance, she didn’t follow through on any of those threats,” Sabira commented.

“It would seem not.”

The conversation lulled after that, with Rockfist diligently scribbling his own comments on top of Blackiron’s notes and Aggar surreptitiously tugging on various beads and braids in his beard. No doubt getting some inside information from Kiruk, who sat across from them on the Tordannon seat and had likewise developed a number of inexplicable facial itches and tics. Their movements were too quick and subtle for Sabira to follow, so she contented herself with a brief, nonspecific prayer of gratitude that Aggar’s scratching was due to his wordless conversation with his father and not his long, unwashed wait to address the Council. Though she supposed she ought to be thanking Rockfist as well, since it was his talisman that had removed Aggar’s objectionable odor—an old trick of Blackiron’s, since juries tended to look more favorably on defendants they couldn’t actually smell.

Sabira quickly grew bored with listening to Hrun Noldrun’s long catalog of ancestors, so she spent the rest of her time observing the members of the Iron Council, trying to get a read on whether or not they would accept this new claimant to Noldrunthrone. Kiruk was too busy feeding information to his son to pay more than cursory attention to Hrun’s litany, but Sabira doubted his opinion would be any different this time than last—without irrefutable proof, he wasn’t going to vote to open up a hold that might ultimately challenge his clan’s supremacy in the south. Soldorak and Toldorath would no doubt vote against the self-proclaimed Noldrun as well, and for the same reasons. Narathun would probably vote for accepting Hrun’s claim, partly because the reopening of Noldrunhold would have no economic impact on her clan and partly because both Tordannon and Toldorath would vote against it. Droranath hated Tordannon, Toldorath, and Narathun equally, so it was anyone’s guess which way he would vote. He was probably one of the few who’d actually base his decision on the merits of Hrun’s claims and not on old clan alliances and hostilities.

Soranath and Soldorak most often voted together on the Council, and since Torlan Mroranon was likely to support the claim and clans Soranath and Mroranon had feuded since ancient times, Sabira felt sure the clean-shaven dwarf would vote against Noldrun. Laranak and Londurak were too intent on their own personal war to pay much attention to how the other clans voted, but if one voted to accept Hrun’s claim, the other would surely vote against it, effectively canceling out each other’s choices. Doldarun kept his own counsel, as did Kolkarun, but there was recent bad blood between the two, so it was a fair bet that if one accepted the new Noldrun, the other would reject him out of spite. Since clan Kundarak had no voice on the Council, that meant that the outcome of the vote was most likely already determined, and had been before Hrun ever began speaking. It would be six to five against.

Sabira could only hope that same breakdown of votes would hold true when it came time to hear Aggar’s case, but even ancient clan rivalries might dissolve in the face of a murdered priest.

Finally, an indeterminate amount of time later, Hrun finished recounting his genealogy.

“… who, in the heart of the Endworld Mountains, begat Chamette Steepslope, who was my mother.”

Sabira had never heard of many of the families mentioned, but from what she’d gathered by intermittently listening to Hrun’s litany, a small group of Noldruns had escaped the still-unnamed cataclysm that destroyed the clan four hundred years ago by fleeing south through the depths of Khyber and resettling in the mountain chain just north of Q’barra. They’d intermarried with the dwarves already living there, who were themselves the descendants of criminals and outcasts long-exiled from the Holds.

“Thank you, Hrun,” Torlan said from his throne. He then turned to look at the seated priestess, who stood to address him.

“He speaks the truth as he understands it, my Lord.”

“Very good. Our thanks, Jhuddona.”

As the priestess inclined her head to him, the arbiter surveyed the other members of the Council.

“Does anyone have any additional questions for Hrun?”

“I do.” It was Kiruk, who’d apparently been paying closer attention to the Noldrun’s recitation than Sabira had at first thought.

“The Council recognizes Kiruk Tordannon,” Torlan replied, nodding at the other dwarf.

Kiruk stood and addressed Hrun.

“You’ve mentioned several families unfamiliar to us in your lineage, which we must assume are not affiliated with any Mrorian clan—the Steepslopes, the Firewrights, the Coldforges, and a handful of others. While breaking from your family and clan to start anew is not unheard of, you’ve listed far too many for that to be the explanation in every case. So that begs the question: If they’re not Mrorian, what are they?”

Sabira wasn’t at all surprised to hear Kiruk use the word “what,” and not “who”—to a Mrorian, any dwarf who wasn’t from the Holds was, almost by definition, something lesser.

“And you are familiar with every family in the Holds?” Hrun asked, his mild tone doing little to temper the impertinence of the question.

Even from where she sat, Sabira could see Kiruk’s green eyes narrow. “I know every family ever associated with my clan, now and in all of our illustrious past,” the councilor said coldly, “as I’m sure my colleagues do, also. If we haven’t heard of them, they’re not Mrorian.” He looked to his fellow Council members for support.

“Actually, I believe the Coldforges may once have been related to our clan,” Viggo Laranak offered after a moment, casting a dark glance at his counterpart from the hated Londurak clan. “The whole family was exiled from our hold after their matriarch, Yelen, entered into a forbidden marriage with a Londurak.”

“As were the Steepslopes, from our hold, for Roddri’s indiscretion,” Londurak replied, returning Viggo’s look, glare for glare.

Another perfect example of why dwarven matrimony was usually contracted—marrying for love could be the downfall not only of the individual couple but also of both of their entire families.

“Which leaves the Firewrights, and four others, who are not from the Holds,” Kiruk continued, turning his sharp gaze back to Hrun. “Are they duergar? Are you? You’ve got those black eyes, after all. Have you come here before us to claim the throne of Noldrunhold with the blood of the gray dwarves tainting your veins?”

As soon as Aggar had mentioned that Eddarga had had black eyes, Sabira had wondered how long it would take Kiruk to bring up the fact that Hrun shared that same eye color. Personally, she thought it was a bit of a stretch. Though rare, dwarves with black eyes were no more uncommon than humans with green eyes. Even Gunnett had them, and if Kiruk tried to suggest the Stonebloods—a family affiliated with his closest allied clan, the Toldoraths—were part duergar, he would get laughed off the Council.

Hrun apparently didn’t see it that way. He’d already been standing tall, but now he straightened, his spine going stiff and his chin lifting. He’d obviously taken umbrage at Kiruk’s question, but whether the insult came from being called part duergar or from having that duergar heritage disparaged remained to be seen.

“If there is duergar blood running through my veins, I do not know of it. Though I have lived my whole life outside their boundaries, I was raised as a child of the Holds, and that is what—and who—I am. First and last, always and only, a Noldrun.”

Jhuddona opened her mouth to verify the statement, but Kiruk waved her words away.

“Just because he doesn’t know, doesn’t mean it isn’t so,” the Tordannon clan leader quipped. “And just because he can spout a barely remembered clan motto doesn’t mean he’s part of that clan, or that he has any idea what those words even mean.”

He sat back in his seat without waiting for a response from either priestess or claimant. He didn’t need to pursue the line of questioning any further; he’d already done what he’d set out to do: sow suspicion.

Sabira didn’t pretend to understand the Mrorian hatred for duergars. She knew little about the so-called “gray dwarves.” To her, they were just dwarves, albeit usually smaller and less likely to be found aboveground—and possessing the distinctive physical characteristics that Aggar had mentioned and with which Kiruk was so obsessed. Sabira had even heard rumors that the duergar possessed mental powers on par with the likes of mind flayers, their own minds having been twisted and changed by long servitude to the daelkyr in ancient times. She doubted those tales had more than a grain or two of truth to them, though—it was far more likely that the Mrorians despised the duergar simply because they were different.

Some of the other Council members asked questions of Hrun, as well—Hilgg Narathun asked him to expound on several branches of his genealogy, apparently looking for a connection to her own clan, while Garrek Soldorak asked what his plans were for retaking Noldrunthrone, should his claim be accepted. Sabira soon grew bored of this discussion as well, and she amused herself by counting beads in the male dwarves’ beards and trying to determine who had the most. The female dwarves had as much prowess on the battlefield as their male counterparts, of course, but they wore their war tokens in their ears, on their fingers, and about their necks, making the pricy baubles much harder to tally.

She’d just about decided that Kolkarun was the unlikely winner when Torlan stood, signaling the end of Hrun’s interview. The Noldrun aspirant dressed quickly and donned a gray cloak. Then another guard appeared from a side entrance to lead him back to his waiting room while the Council tabled further discussions on his claim in favor of Aggar’s trial.

“Aggar Tordannon, step forward and take your place on the eye of Aureon, please.”

Aggar rose and walked to the front row, gesturing for Sabira and Rockfist to follow him. The Narathun guard trailed them, still fondling his urgrosh. Once in the front, they retook their seats, with the guard standing in the second row just behind Aggar. As soon as the Tordannon heir stepped onto the eye, he’d become the problem of the chamber guards and the Narathun could either leave or sit and be just another spectator to what promised to be an entertaining trial, especially for someone who hated the Tordannons. Sabira had a feeling he’d be staying.

Aggar slowly stripped down to his breeches, taking care to fold his garments and place them in a painstakingly neat pile on the bench. As he divested himself of his multicolored clothing at a near-glacial pace, he spoke to his defenders in a low, urgent whisper.

“Once I’m on the eye, they can ask me questions about anything, not just the murders, and I’m obliged to answer. You’ve got to keep the questioning confined to the case at hand. There are things I know that it would be better if they didn’t.”

Sabira had no doubt of that. Even before Aggar had become a member of the Aurum, there’d been things in his past that, for the sake of his clan, shouldn’t be aired before the Council. But with him joining the Aurum and rising through their ranks so quickly, he had to have left a wake behind him, one that probably included many shady deals and possibly even a body or two. The Iron Council would have no choice but to prosecute him for any crimes uncovered during the course of their interrogation, even if the bodies in question weren’t the ones for which they were originally seeking justice.

“We’ll do our best to keep them focused,” Rockfist promised, as Aggar removed his gold Aurum rings and handed them to the barrister for safekeeping. Rockfist’s eyes widened behind his spectacles and he pocketed the jewelry almost reverently. Sabira wondered, then, if the advocate didn’t aspire to join the ranks of the powerful organization himself.

Then the perceptor was standing next to them and all conversation ceased as Aggar held his arms out to his sides while she examined him for any trace of lingering magic.

She clutched an amulet of some sort that she wore beneath her robes, and a look of concentration creased her face. After a moment, she frowned and pointed to Aggar’s beard.

It was the charm Rockfist had given him, a small gold bead that he’d added to a string of similar bibelots on one of his braids. Reddening, Aggar quickly removed the shiny sphere and handed it over. The perceptor examined it for a moment, then turned to address the Council and Jhuddona.

“It’s a cantrip to disguise odor.”

Torlan said, “We have no objection to him keeping that one, Dorro.” A small ripple of laughter descended from the dais at that, and Dorro returned the charm to Aggar with a shrug. She continued her examination as he replaced the bead on his braid. When she was satisfied, she nodded to Jhuddona, who stood and reactivated the eye with a few whispered words. Once the mithral sigil was glowing again, the perceptor gestured for Aggar to take his place on it. He did so, and the trial began.

Unlike most of the trials Sabira had witnessed or been involved with in the past, cases adjudicated by the Iron Council only involved a single barrister who acted on behalf of the accused. After a summary of the crimes committed, including the presentation of any evidence or witnesses, Aggar would be allowed to tell his side of the story. The Council members would question him, and once they were satisfied they had enough information, they would confer and make a ruling. Their decisions were always final and irrevocable. If the Council decreed death, the accused’s heirs could begin mourning—or celebrating, as the case might be—the instant the sentence was uttered, for there would be no appeals.

Torlan began by addressing the Council.

“I know we are all familiar with this case, and since we have no witness statements to hear, I’d like to waive reading the charges and skip right to questioning the accused, if that’s agreeable to everyone?” Though the arbiter’s words were ostensibly meant for the entire Council, his gaze strayed to Kiruk, and Sabira understood he was extending the older dwarf the courtesy of asking for his permission. The other members understood Torlan’s intent, as well, and none of them signaled their agreement until Aggar’s father had nodded his own.

“Very good.” He gestured to the priestess of Aureon. “Jhuddona, if you please?”

Jhuddona stepped forward, taking the perceptor’s place.

“Aggar Tordannon, did you kill, or cause to be killed, Haddrin Goldglove?”

Aggar’s voice rang out, strong and utterly confident. “No.”

“Did you kill, or cause to be killed, Cerese Silvervein?”

“No.”

The questions droned on as the priestess listed all thirteen murder victims, ending with Mikos Deepshaft. When Aggar’s final denial came, firm and resolute, Sabira thought she heard the veiled woman stir restlessly, but a quick glance in that direction showed nothing amiss, at least as far as Sabira could tell. Who knew what the woman might be doing beneath those veils, though? Best to keep one eye on her and the other on Aggar. A Defender’s habits die hard.

“He believes what he says to be true, my Lord,” Jhuddona said, much as she had with Hrun Noldrun. But while the priestess had offered nothing further with the would-be heir to Noldrunhold, this time she continued. “Certitude is not, however, a guarantee of accuracy.”

“Meaning?” It was Kiruk, and he clearly wasn’t happy that the priestess was overstepping her bounds.

“Meaning that just because he believes his words to be true, it doesn’t necessarily follow that they are true. Those suffering under the affliction of insanity often believe themselves or their surroundings to be other than what they actually are. And a very skilled and disciplined deceiver can train himself to believe his deceptions, for as long as necessary, to fool those who seek the truth.”

Sabira had to suppress a snort at that last suggestion. While Aggar was a canny businessman and strategist with a head for both numbers and tactics, the idea that he was some sort of master of the mental arts was simply ludicrous. Kiruk apparently agreed, for he made no effort to address that veiled accusation. The implication that his son might be crazy, however, was an insult that the Tordannon chief simply could not abide.

“So you’re suggesting that my—that the accused is … insane?” Though weapons were not, as a matter of pride, forbidden in the audience chamber, by tradition, none of the Council members wore them. And seeing Kiruk’s face darken and the way his hand curled reflexively around an axe-haft that wasn’t there, Sabira thought that was probably a very good thing, at least for Jhuddona.

“I am merely offering an alternative explanation for what Aureon’s eye has revealed.”

“You mean an explanation you like better,” Kiruk snapped, his anger getting the better of him. But before the elder Tordannon could say or do anything that might jeopardize his son’s case, Rockfist jumped to his feet.

“Your pardon, my Lord,” he said, addressing Torlan, “But the priestess needs to decide what role she’s playing here—servant of the Sovereign or prosecuting barrister. If it’s to be the latter, then the trial should be moved from this venue and opened to the public. If it’s the former, then she should confine her remarks to fact and leave the theorizing to professionals.”

“And you are one of those professionals, I assume?” Torlan asked evenly.

“Perrin Rockfist and Sabira Lyet d’Deneith, counsel for the defense, my Lord.”

At the mention of Sabira’s name as one of Aggar’s defenders, there was some muttering among the Council members, not all of it welcoming.

“Ah, yes. The Iron Council is pleased that the Shard Axe has chosen to grace the halls of Ferrous House once again,” Torlan said, ignoring the murmurs. “And though it is highly irregular, in light of your past service to the Holds, Sabira, I will allow you to speak on Aggar’s behalf. Defending him is one of the things you do best, it seems.”

Sabira summoned up a brittle smile and nodded her head in what she hoped was a gracious manner, but she didn’t care for Torlan’s condescending tone. It didn’t speak well for his objectivity in this case. Not that she’d expected him to champion Aggar’s innocence—not with his wife’s cousin one of the victims—but she was concerned that his unsubtle bias might affect the votes of other Council members who had no vested interest in the trial’s outcome. If there were any—with thirteen victims, the odds that there was one tied to each clan were much higher than she’d like.

Torlan continued, addressing first Rockfist and then the priestess. “And while I’m not sure a change of venue would benefit your client, I must agree that Jhuddona’s elaborations are out of line. Jhuddona, please limit your future remarks to whether or not the defendant’s statements are true. The Council will do the work of ascertaining if his truth is the same one that the rest of us subscribe to.”

The priestess bowed her head in acquiescence, but not before casting a murderous glare that encompassed both Aggar and Rockfist.

Wonderful. Now Sabira would have to keep an eye on her, too. She hoped that was the extent of the possible threats in the room, because she’d just run out of eyes with which to watch them all.

“Did you have a grudge against any of the murder victims, or a reason for wanting to see them dead?”

Aggar paused, considering. When he finally spoke, it was clear he was choosing his words carefully.

“I had disputes with several of the victims; I believe that’s a matter of record. There were even some whose deaths, under normal circumstance, I would not have mourned. But, no, I didn’t hate any of them enough to kill them.”

Sabira thought she detected the slightest emphasis on the word “I” the last time Aggar used it—almost as if he were subtly suggesting that, while he himself didn’t despise any of the victims enough to have murdered them, he knew of someone who did.

Someone in this very room, perhaps.

“He speaks truly, my Lord.”

“Does he?” Torlan asked, raising a bushy brow in mock astonishment. “Then perhaps you can clarify for me, Aggar, the nature of your last conversation with one of the victims, Mikos Deepshaft?”

The veiled woman moved again, but she was not alone this time. Everyone in the room shifted uncomfortably as the arbiter dived straight into what was arguably the most heinous of the murders. Sabira frowned. She’d hoped the Council would work their way up to the priest’s death a bit more slowly, but it seemed the killer wasn’t the only one getting impatient.

“We argued.”

Aggar hadn’t mentioned that.

“About what?”

“My nephew’s wedding.” Where Aggar had been willing to expound on his answers previously, now he was being positively terse.

“Your nephew, Orin Mountainheart?”

“That’s correct.”

“And he was marrying Gunnett Stoneblood?”

“Yes.”

“And you disapproved of the match, isn’t that right?”

Aggar didn’t answer immediately. If he admitted that he’d been against the marriage, his disapproval would constitute a grave insult to the Toldoraths, the Tordannons’ oldest allies, and would have repercussions far beyond this room and this trial.

“I had hoped Orin might marry into a family with roots a little closer to home. He is my favorite nephew, after all. I like having him around.” Aggar’s attempt to inject some levity into the proceedings was met with cold silence, and the grin that had been playing halfheartedly about the corners of his lips fled in disgrace.

“Ah, yes. Your favorite. He’s also your heir, is he not? Whom you formally designated in the Ceremony of Steel and Stone?”

All traces of humor vanished from Aggar’s face.

“He is,” the red-haired dwarf replied tightly.

Once a dwarf had formally designated an heir—one step short of full adoption into a clan—he could never revoke the bequest, regardless of whether or not he later had a child of his own. And regardless of what the heir so designated chose to do with that bequest—like allowing it to fall into the hands of another clan by marrying outside of his own.

It was a choice few dwarves made, unless they were trying to keep their legacy out of the hands of an existing heir with a stronger claim. Since Aggar had no children, and was still young enough for that not to be a concern to anyone except Kiruk, his designation of an heir was exceedingly strange and was bound to invite unwanted questions.

As if reading Sabira’s mind, Anneka Soldorak piped up.

“Why would an unmarried dwarf in his prime take the unusual step of designating an heir?”

But Sabira was ready for the dwarf woman. Before Aggar could answer, she stood, purposefully noisy, drawing all eyes to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rockfist’s face go purple as he began scribbling furiously on his papers—no doubt trying to warn her of some sacred barrister’s protocol she was about to break. Sabira ignored him; she knew how to handle Anneka.

“With all due respect, Councilor Soldorak, I must ask that you limit your questioning to matters that directly pertain to the charges at hand. Since Aggar’s choice of an heir has no bearing on this trial, we’ll need to save any speculation we might have as to his reasons for the drawing room.”

Sabira’s intimation that the dwarf woman was a gossip aroused by the prospect of a juicy new rumor was not lost on either her or the rest of the Council, and a titter sounded from the Doldarun end of the dais. Anneka’s broad nose crinkled in response and her lips—never generous to begin with—pursed into a tight moue.

“Speaking of heirs, though,” Sabira said casually, “how are the twins?”

Anneka’s twin daughters were widely thought to have been the next on Nightshard’s list of targets, after Aggar. Sabira’s killing of the assassin had almost certainly spared the girls’ lives, and accordingly, Anneka owed the Marshal more than just her thanks—a fact she had no qualms about reminding the dwarf woman of now.

“They’re fine,” Anneka replied shortly, sitting back in her seat and crossing her arms in front of her, trying not to look petulant and failing miserably. When it was clear she had nothing more to say, Torlan cleared his throat.

“Well, my questions do have a bearing on this case, so, if you’ll allow me …?” the arbiter asked with exaggerated courtesy. Sabira gestured for him to continue and retook her seat.

Torlan stroked his beard for a moment, feigning deep thought, and Sabira wondered if the dwarf had trained at some point to be a bard. He certainly had a talent for acting.

“Now, where were we? Oh, yes. For whatever reason, you’ve designated Orin Mountainheart as your heir. So, if—Kol Korran forbid!—anything were to happen to you, he would inherit the bulk of your holdings,” Torlan mused, tapping his finger against his lips. “And then, if anything were to happen to him, your holdings would transfer to his wife. Whose family is affiliated with the Toldoraths. That would change the balance of power in the south quite a bit, I imagine.”

Sabira was on her feet again in an instant.

“Was there a question in there somewhere?” she asked sharply, though Aggar appeared unruffled. But appearances aside, he had to know how damaging Torlan’s line of questioning was.

The arbiter smiled indulgently at her.

“Patience, Shard Axe. I’m getting to it.”

He turned back to Aggar.

“In fact, I would think you would do anything in your power to prevent that from happening. You’d want to stop the wedding, but you couldn’t risk doing anything that might alienate your designee. So you’d approach the priest who was slated to officiate the wedding and try to convince him not to go through with it. And when he refused, you would … do what? Threaten him? Injure him?” Torlan paused for the briefest moment before bringing the argument home with devastating effect. “Maybe even … kill him?”

Aggar responded before the muttering from the Council could rise to an audible level.

“I might do those things,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, “but I didn’t. Orin and Gunnett were married, and Deepshaft was the celebrant. His death did nothing to stop the wedding from taking place. Killing him after the fact would have been pointless.”

“Revenge often is.”

Before Aggar could answer, several things happened at once. A commotion sounded behind the double doors—Sabira could barely make out any words, but she was certain she heard her name and Aggar’s. At the same time, Dorro stepped forward, her face tense with alarm.

“The woman—” she began, pointing, but it was too late.

The veiled dwarf had risen from her seat, unnoticed, and drawn a handheld crossbow from within her ermine-trimmed robes. As she flung the mourning veils out of her face, Sabira finally got a look at her, and, by the gasps that rang through the chamber, she wasn’t the only one surprised by the woman’s identity.

It was Tiadanna Mroranon, Torlan’s wife.

“Your revenge might have been pointless, Tordannon, but mine won’t be!” she snarled as she took aim at Aggar and pulled back the trigger.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Mol, Nymm 16, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

Sabira reacted without thinking. She spun, snatched the long-handled knife off the stunned Narathun’s belt, and threw.

She wasn’t aiming for Tiadanna but rather for the compact crossbow in the dwarf woman’s hand. If she could just knock the weapon from Tiadanna’s grip, the bolt would go wide, shattering harmlessly against the stone wall.

But she wasn’t fast enough. Tiadanna loosed the bolt an instant before the knife sank deep into the back of her hand, passing through flesh and muscle to pin the stock of the crossbow to her palm.

Twin screams reverberated through the chamber then, one Tiadanna’s, and the other Dorro’s.

The perceptor, the only one close enough to reach Aggar, had flung herself at the Tordannon heir, knocking him out of the way of the missile. Unfortunately, the heroic act placed her squarely within the bolt’s path. It struck her in the side of the head, and she was dead before she hit the floor, her echoing scream lingering long after she’d drawn her last breath.

“Dorro!” Jhuddona shouted, rushing to the other priestess’s side, while Torlan leaped from his throne and raced to his wife, followed closely by Kiruk and the two dais guards.

Just then, one of the doors swung open and Gunnett hurried in, trailing water from her gray rain-cloak. She surveyed the room, taking in the chaotic scene: Two women on the floor, the Council members on their feet, and the guards along the walls with their weapons drawn. Then her eyes alighted on Sabira and she strode quickly down the aisle to where the Marshal stood next to Aggar and Rockfist, just outside the circle of Aureon’s sigil. On her way, she sidestepped the gnome—who must be a court recorder and not a chronicler, after all, or else she’d be in the thick of things, scribbling madly instead of cowering behind the dubious cover of a stone bench.

“Sabira,” she said, handing the Marshal a letter sealed with the Deneith chimera. “Your captain asked me to give you this.”

Sabira broke the seal on the letter and scanned it quickly. Written in Elix’s familiar script, the letter was vague and seemingly innocuous, but it still managed to fill her with a pervading dread.

T. says the shard is identical to the one from N.’s ring. N. may not have been working alone, and his accomplice may be closer than you think.

Be careful.

E.

PS—I wasn’t lying.

“What does it say?” Aggar asked when he was done introducing his niece-by-marriage to Rockfist and filling her in with a succinct and carefully edited version of what had just happened.

“Nightshard … had an accomplice,” Sabira whispered, unable for a moment to manage anything louder. “This changes everything.”

She looked up from the note, meeting Aggar’s shocked gaze with one of her own.

“We need to talk to Torlan.”

Getting close to the arbiter was easier said than done, however. Torlan was yelling at Jhuddona to come heal his wife; Kiruk was shouting for the guards to arrest her; and the guards themselves, along with the remaining Council members, milled about uncertainly. Sabira started to elbow her way through the small crowd surrounding the Mroranons, only to be stopped by Rockfist.

“Wait a moment,” he cautioned. “I don’t think you want to be in the middle of this.”

Sabira paused, annoyed. The barrister was the one who was getting in the middle of something he didn’t fully understand, and she was about to tell him so in the most scathing terms possible when the volume of noise at the center of the crowd suddenly rose dramatically.

“… a priestess is dead, at her hand! If the mere suspicion of that crime is enough to imprison my son for days on end, how can you possibly justify allowing her to go free? When we all saw her loose the bolt that killed Dorro?” Kiruk’s voice had taken on a thunderous timbre as he railed against Tiadanna. “A bolt, I might add, that was meant for my son! And for what? Because her lover is dead? Is that why you’re so eager to see my son hang for his murder? To mollify her? Or to divert suspicion from yourself? Because if anyone in this room had a reason for wanting that priest dead, it was you!”

Stunned silence followed the Tordannon chief’s outburst, and Sabira turned to look at Rockfist.

“I thought Deepshaft was her cousin …?” she whispered, leaning close so her words wouldn’t carry.

“By marriage,” the barrister murmured back. “They’d been having an affair for the past year. At least according to all that ‘local gossip’ you hold in such disdain,” he added with a self-satisfied smile.

Sabira probably deserved that. She might even owe him an apology, but it would have to wait. She’d get no better opening to speak to Torlan than this.

“Your pardon, Councilor Mroranon,” she said loudly into the silence, pushing her way past a gaggle of guards. The other Council members parted to let her through—no doubt unwilling to risk being in close proximity when Torlan unleashed his wrath on her and the target she so conveniently presented. Except that the arbiter wasn’t going to want her head on a pike after he heard what she had to say. Quite the contrary.

“I realize the timing is inopportune, but I’ve just received word from Sentinel Marshal headquarters in Vulyar. We have another suspect for the murders, and you’ll be relieved to know it isn’t you.”

Torlan’s face was a mask of fury and for a moment Sabira thought she might have overplayed her hand. The arbiter looked angry enough to strangle someone with his bare hands, and her death might well have fewer repercussions for him than Kiruk’s. Then Sabira’s words seemed to register, and his anger gradually cooled, though it never quite left the corners of his eyes or the curve of his mouth. There would be bad blood between Mroranon and Tordannon from this day forward, Sabira knew, but she couldn’t save the whole clan. She wasn’t even sure she could save Aggar, though the information Tilde had uncovered should help with that.

The arbiter put his arm around his wife, who was still bleeding from the knife wound in her hand. Sabira did her best to focus on Torlan and ignore the look of pure hatred on the dwarf woman’s face. When neither of the Mroranons spoke, Sabira took that as tacit permission to continue.

“These murders bear the same signature as those committed by Nightshard seven years ago. Since there was never any indication back then that the assassin had a partner, then it was logical to assume that whoever was doing the killing this time around must have had intimate knowledge of those previous murders, since the exact manner of death was never released to the chroniclers—only the investigators and members of the victims’ families had that information. That yielded a very small suspect pool, which the Inquisitives assigned to the case were further able to whittle down when it became clear that only one person in that group had had contact with all the victims: Aggar Tordannon. But the only reason he ever came under suspicion in the first place was because we all assumed Nightshard had been working alone. We now have reason to believe that assumption was wrong.”

She had the entire Council’s attention now. Though the assassinations had ultimately been limited to only the southern holds, they all remembered the fear they had felt during Nightshard’s reign of terror, wondering if their clan, their children, would be next.

Surprisingly, it was a calm Kiruk who answered her.

“You said the Marshals have another suspect, aside from my son? Who is it?”

“We don’t have a name yet, but we believe he is hiding out in the vicinity of Frostmantle.” She had nothing on which to base that assumption, save for the fact that it was where the first and most anomalous of this new rash of murders had occurred. But she’d been involved in a handful of serial murderer cases before, and often the first victim yielded the most clues to the killer’s identity. And, unfounded or not, it was the best lead she had at the moment. She had to give them something besides a dragonshard imbedded in a yrthak’s skull. “That’s why I need to get there as soon as possible and track him down. If he is the real killer, who’s to say he’ll be satisfied with stopping at thirteen victims?”

“But wasn’t your whole defense going to be predicated on the argument that Aggar was framed?” It was Anneka this time; Torlan remained inexplicably silent. “If Nightshard did have an accomplice, why would he suddenly be more interested in setting up Tordannon than in simply finishing the job he and Nightshard started?”

“To have you do his dirty work for him,” Sabira answered, warming to her theory. “Aggar was the victim that got away. If Nightshard’s accomplice has been obsessing over that failure all this time, he wouldn’t just want to kill Aggar, he’d want to see him humiliated first. What better way than to have him tried by this court and found guilty? Maybe even declared clanless?” Sabira didn’t really think Kiruk would go that far of his own accord, but there was more than his son’s reputation at stake here. If he had to choose between protecting his beloved son and protecting the honor of his clan, what choice would he really have? Much as in her own House, the whole mattered more than any of its individual parts. Better to declare Aggar clanless than to have him take the entire clan down with him.

“But framing Aggar for thirteen murders … that seems like a lot of work just to sully the Tordannon name,” Anneka said dubiously. “Why not just kill him and be done with it?”

“I doubt he intended to have to kill so many others; it just took that long—and the murder of a priest—before Aggar was apprehended. As for why—I think you’re underestimating the allure of inflicting so much damage on the Tordannons; a murder conviction for Aggar would cripple them. And, frankly, it’s no further than, say, Londurak would go to bring Laranak down a notch.” Before either of those two clan leaders could protest, Sabira moved on.

“It’s possible Aggar isn’t even the ultimate target of all these machinations. We thought, back then, that Nightshard was choosing his victims not for themselves but to get at their parents and their families. What better way to destroy Kiruk than to kill his only child and weaken his clan, with one terrible blow?”

“So now we’re to believe these murders are actually some sort of elaborate attack against Kiruk?” Hilgg Narathun asked, her tone skeptical and impatient. “Make up your mind, Marshal.”

“Why now?” Torlan asked, finally breaking his silence. “Why wait so long to exact revenge, if that’s what this is?”

“I don’t know,” Sabira admitted. “Maybe he was there in the cave with Nightshard, and somehow escaped, albeit injured? Perhaps it’s taken him this long to regroup? Or maybe there’s something we don’t yet know about that happened to trigger this rampage. I’m not sure it matters at this point. What does matter is finding him. That’s why I need you to delay this trial—if you still insist on going through with it—for at least another week or two. To give me time to go to Tordannonhold and track him down.”

“No!”

Even Torlan was startled by Tiadanna’s outburst. He dropped his arm from her shoulders and took her uninjured hand, stepping back so he could see her face more clearly.

“Tia, you really shouldn’t—” he began, but she cut him off.

“No, Torlan, you can’t!” she cried, pulling away. “You have no proof that this so-called accomplice even exists! It’s just a ploy to give them more time to come up with a way to get that accursed Tordannon scum out of this. That orc-spawn killed Mikos! You can’t let him get away with it!”

“And you killed Dorro!”

Sabira had been too focused on trying to convince the Council of the accomplice’s existence or she would have noticed Jhuddona making her way from the dead perceptor’s side to the knot of people around the Mroranons. As it was, she was as surprised as anybody when the priestess darted forward to tap Tiadanna on the forehead, muttering some words Sabira couldn’t quite hear.

Tiadanna’s eyes widened, first in shock, and then in panic. She looked like she was trying to say something, but her mouth wouldn’t work. Nothing would: Jhuddona had paralyzed her. Then the priestess snatched up the hand pinned to the crossbow and jerked the Narathun’s knife out, twisting the blade as she did so and ripping open the clots that had begun forming at the edges of the wound. The crossbow tumbled to the floor and blood gushed anew from the gaping, ragged hole. Unable to move or make a sound, Tiadanna’s eyes still managed to convey her agony as her pupils constricted and tears fell from lids that could not blink to stop them. If she hadn’t been under the priestess’s spell, she would be screaming.

But Jhuddona wasn’t done. She drew the knife back and then lunged at Tiadanna, her intent clear.

Sabira and Torlan reached her at the same time, the dwarf tackling her about the waist and Sabira grabbing her weapon arm, trying to wrest the blade away. The three of them went down in a heap amid the renewed shouts of Council members and guards.

Sabira wound up on top of the priestess and face-to-face with Torlan, whose hands were trapped beneath both her and Jhuddona. He couldn’t move until she got up. Sabira decided to take advantage of the situation.

“I need you to delay the trial until I can go to Frostmantle and track down Nightshard’s accomplice,” she said, shaking strands of his beard out of her face.

“So you’ve said,” he replied shortly. “I’m not convinced. And now’s not the time—”

“Actually, now’s the perfect time. Or I’ll suggest to our little floormat here that she call in the Sentinel Marshals to arrest your wife for the murder of one of her junior priestesses. Since service to the Sovereigns knows no boundaries, it wouldn’t be hard to argue that protection of those servants falls under our jurisdiction. And we would make sure Tiadanna got a fair trial, not one whose outcome is decided on curried Mroranon favor.” She smiled brightly at him, and their faces were so close that she saw the hatred scurry across his features before he was able to hide it. “Do you really want to risk that?”

“Fine. You have two weeks. But Tordannon remains here, in custody.”

“Works for me,” Sabira said as she rolled off the priestess’s body. She quickly cleaned the knife off on Jhuddona’s already-bloodied robes and scrambled to her feet before tossing the weapon back to the startled Narathun who was still dogging Aggar’s steps. Torlan extricated himself and then climbed to his own feet, motioning for the guards to take the priestess into custody. Jhuddona stiffened her body and refused to rise, so, after stuffing a bit of cloth in her mouth to gag her, three of the guards hoisted her into the air as respectfully as possible and carted her off through the same door Hrun had used earlier.

Torlan returned to his wife’s side just as the effects of Jhuddona’s spell began to wear off. He helped her over to the nearest bench while directing another of the guards to fetch a healer. Then he used Tiadanna’s discarded veils to bandage her hand.

Sabira was somewhat confounded by the arbiter’s behavior toward his wife, given the fact that she’d just tried to attack the person she thought had murdered her lover. She must come from a powerful family Torlan couldn’t risk alienating by punishing her for her infidelity. Either that, or his was one of the rare dwarven marriages that had begun as a contract but had blossomed into love—even if it was decidedly one-sided.

As she watched him gently wind the diaphanous black silk around Tiadanna’s wound, Sabira decided it was probably the latter, and felt a sudden pang of empathy.

To offset it, she casually remarked, “You know, you might want to rethink allowing weapons in here.”

Torlan’s look would have burned the hair off a gnoll.

“Your two weeks have already started, Shard Axe. I’d suggest you leave. Now.”

Sabira flashed a grin.

“Best idea I’ve heard all day.”

Sabira walked with Aggar, Gunnett, and Rockfist back to where the Tordannon heir had left his clothing, his faithful Narathun shadow not far behind. Before getting dressed, Aggar took his cloak and walked over to the perceptor’s body, lying forgotten on the eye of Aureon. He stooped low and spread the rich orange cloth over her corpse, pausing to reverently close her eyes before covering her face. Then he stood and addressed his guard.

“She was one of yours, wasn’t she? Why don’t you see about getting someone to take care of her, since the Council seems … otherwise occupied at the moment.” He looked sidelong at the clustered Council members, who had fallen back into arguing over whether or not Tiadanna should be arrested. Then he looked back at the Narathun. “Don’t worry. I won’t be going anywhere.”

The blond-bearded guard hesitated for a moment, his eyes straying to the orange shroud. Then he nodded his agreement and headed for the wide double doors, presumably to get one of his counterparts there to summon someone from the Temple of Aureon across town.

As Aggar buttoned his shirt and Rockfist stood by, waiting to return his client’s Gold Concordian rings to him, Sabira and Gunnett moved a little bit apart.

“You didn’t have a lot to say back there.”

Gunnett raised a black brow at her. “Everything had already been said; I had nothing pertinent to add,” she said with a shrug. “And I did tell you I wasn’t sure what good my presence here would do.”

“You also didn’t seem all that surprised to hear Nightshard had an accomplice.” Indeed, the black-haired woman had barely reacted to the news, seeming more interested in how the Council members responded. Sabira wondered if the dwarf had somehow managed to read Elix’s letter on the way over from Vulyar.

“I’m not.”

“Why is that? Because it fits into your theory that evil is just a point of view? If Nightshard had an accomplice, then that means there’s at least one other person out there to whom he wasn’t the villain of the story but the hero, right?”

“Essentially. But—”

“Wrong,” Sabira said heatedly, speaking over the other woman in her indignation. “Nightshard was no hero. He was nothing but a cowardly, murdering, evil bastard, and that’s all his accomplice is—just another criminal. And he’s going to be brought to justice, just like Nightshard was.”

“If you call that justice.”

“Excuse me?”

The two women left off their glaring to turn at the interruption. Anneka Soldorak had left the other Council members and crossed the room to speak with Sabira.

“If I may have a word, Marshal?”

Sabira shot one last disgusted look at Gunnett, then she nodded and took a few steps away, gesturing for the Soldorak woman to follow her as Gunnett rejoined the others.

Anneka got right to the point.

“I still think this whole business with an accomplice is just a little too convenient, but, if you’re right … if there is an accomplice and if he’s intent on continuing Nightshard’s work, then my daughters could be in danger.”

“A lot of ‘ifs,’ there,” Sabira commented, but went no further. It was obvious from Anneka’s halting speech that she was still undecided as to her course of action, and Sabira wasn’t going to make it any easier for her.

“More than I’m comfortable with,” Anneka replied, “but I will not take chances with the lives of my children.”

Sabira had heard the tale from Aggar. Anneka had been thought barren and the twins were conceived when she was well past her child-bearing years. Her husband, Veddar, had been on his way back from Korunda’s Gate to attend the much-anticipated birth when he’d been waylaid by Jhorash’tar orcs. The story went that the first twin had been born at the precise moment Veddar died, and an old dwarven superstition held that she carried some of his spirit within her as a result. Unfortunately, the girls were identical in every respect, and the midwife—now deceased—had been drinking. Once she’d placed the two girls side by side, she couldn’t remember which had been born first, and Anneka never knew which one bore pieces of her husband’s soul. So she’d coddled them both from birth, and her protectiveness was legendary. If she perceived a threat to her children, Anneka would go to any length to neutralize it.

Including, Sabira hoped, defying Torlan Mroranon and the edicts of the Iron Council.

“What is it you’re trying to say, Anneka?” Sabira asked, prodding the dwarf woman along.

“I want you to make sure my daughters stay safe,” the Soldorak clan chief said at last, though it looked as if she’d swallowed a mouthful of rancid goat’s milk as she did.

Perfect.

“The best way to do that is to keep Aggar safe,” Sabira replied, careful to show neither her eagerness nor her relief. Anneka needed to believe Sabira was doing her a favor, not the other way around. “As long as the killer has Aggar to focus on, he won’t move on to other targets.”

“But you’re going to Frostmantle!” Anneka protested, finally getting an inkling of what Sabira was trying to do.

“You’re not.”

Anneka looked at her for a moment, brief anger fading quickly to resignation as she saw how she’d been manipulated.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked at last.

“We all know Tiadanna’s not going to be arrested for Dorro’s death, and if she tried to kill Aggar once, there’s every chance she’ll try again. Keep her from succeeding. And make sure the Council doesn’t continue the trial in my absence—because Aggar will be found guilty if I don’t come back with hard evidence, and if that happens … well, then your daughters could be next.

“And you need to put Jhuddona under your protection as well. The only reason Torlan agreed to an extension is because he’s afraid the Sentinel Marshals will come after Tiadanna—but the only way that will happen is if Jhuddona brings formal charges against her. He and Tiadanna already have the death of one priestess on their hands, and murder is so much easier the second time around.”

Anneka nodded, the strands of her long gold earrings clashing together disharmoniously with the abrupt movement.

“I’ll do it,” she said, turning to leave. “Just make sure you bring that proof. If it turns out Aggar really is guilty, I’ll kill him myself.”

“If that happens, you’ll have to get in line,” Sabira said under her breath as the Soldorak woman walked away. Then she hurried back over to where the others waited impatiently for her.

“You’ll need help in Frostmantle,” Aggar said as she approached. “I’ll send word for Orin to meet you there. He should be fully healed by then, and he’s the only one I trust with this.”

Gunnett opened her mouth as if to protest, but Aggar silenced her with a look.

“You’ve both already avoided your marital obligations this long—another two weeks isn’t going to hurt any.”

“That’s hardly been by choice—” the dwarf woman began angrily, her face reddening, but Aggar continued on, as if she hadn’t spoken.

“Speaking of obligations, the Mountainhearts have been neglecting the clan’s mining operations in Irontown for far too long, especially in light of the recent robbery attempts on the lightning rail run from there to Vulyar. Since Orin is going to be otherwise engaged, I would suggest you get down there and find out exactly what’s going on and how to best protect our interests.”

For a moment, Sabira thought there might be yet another attempted murder in the Council chambers today. Gunnett’s lips compressed so tightly they lost all color and her hands balled into fists at her sides. Then she seemed to get hold of herself, and her face smoothed into a brittle smile, though Sabira saw that her knuckles were still an angry white. The dwarf woman inclined her head ever so slightly to Aggar and then she whirled and stormed from the room without another word.

“I swear I don’t know what that boy sees in her,” Aggar commented drily after she had gone. Sabira wondered the same thing herself. She also wondered, again, what had caused Aggar to name Mountainheart his heir. She doubted he’d tell her, but maybe she could get it out of his nephew.

But there would time for that later. Right now, she needed to make a quick stop before she left for the capital of Tordannonhold. A visit neither of the dwarves was going to like.

“I’ll leave for Frostmantle in the morning, then. But for now, I need a favor.” As the dwarves looked at her—Rockfist surprised and Aggar leery—she lowered her voice and leaned closer. If any of the other dwarves in the chamber heard her, she’d be sitting in a cell in between Jhuddona and Aggar, if they didn’t just execute her outright. She wasn’t entirely sure the barrister and the Tordannon heir wouldn’t react the same way, but she couldn’t get where she needed to go without them.

“I need you to get me into the Tombs.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Mol, Nymm 16, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

You need us to do what?” Aggar asked, incredulous, but Rockfist, surprisingly, took the request in stride.

“I can do that,” he said calmly, not quite able to keep the smugness from his tone.

“What?” Aggar repeated, appalled. “No, you can’t!”

“The Caretaker was an old client of Blackiron’s—how do you think he got that position in the first place? It’s supposed to be hereditary,” Rockfist replied, looking at the other dwarf over the top of his spectacles. “And I’ve read his file. I imagine he’ll do pretty much anything I ask.”

“But … it’s the Tombs!” Aggar protested, not sharing the barrister’s lack of qualms.

The Tombs was the colloquial name the dwarves had given to their Hall of Records, a vast underground library below Ferrous House that was off limits to all save the Iron Council and other high-ranking officials in the Holds. A dwarf who entered the Tombs without permission would be thrown into a small, dark cell for the rest of his or her life. A non-dwarf who did so would be killed on the spot, no questions asked.

Even the Shard Axe, who, as Aggar liked to say, was as close to being a dwarf as it was possible to get without being born one.

Sabira shrugged.

“It’s the Tombs or your tomb,” she said bluntly.

When Aggar didn’t reply, Rockfist spoke up.

“Not that I’m questioning the need, but I am curious. What is it you’re looking for there?”

“Goldglove’s journal entry mentioned a Tombs report,” she answered. “His was the first murder, and the one that makes the least sense. If you want to frame someone for murder, you don’t leave the body where there’s a good chance it won’t be found anytime soon, if ever. It’s almost as if setting up Aggar was an afterthought. If that’s the case, then figuring out why Goldglove was murdered might give me a clue to the identity of his killer. Since he was killed in the vicinity of the hot springs, it’s reasonable to assume his death may have had something to do with them, and if that’s the case, that report he referenced from the Tombs might hold valuable information.”

Taking material out of the record hall was forbidden, and visitors were required to log whatever documents they examined, so if anything was damaged, the Caretaker would know where to place the blame. So she should be able to find the report easily enough—once she actually got in to the Tombs.

“That’s a long, thin chain you’ve forged there, Saba,” Aggar said, frowning. “One I wouldn’t hang a pendant from, let alone my life.”

“It’s all we have to go on, Agg,” she replied. The old nickname caught him off-guard, as she’d hoped it would. Maybe it would convince him of her earnestness—she really did think this was her best chance for clearing his name. Probably her only chance.

“But the Tombs, Saba? If you’re caught there …” he trailed off for a moment, then finished in a barely audible whisper, his face a mask of anguish he didn’t bother to try to conceal. “I don’t want you to die here, too.”

“I won’t be caught,” she assured him quickly, pretending not to have heard his last words. Wishing she really hadn’t. She’d somehow managed to keep Ned from the forefront of her thoughts thus far, but Aggar’s words threatened to bring memories of her old partner bubbling back up to the surface like gas escaping from a drowned corpse.

“I’ll get her in during the dark hours, after midnight,” Rockfist chimed in, the idea of being part of the clandestine mission bringing color to cheeks washed pale by too many hours spent studying law books. The sordid lives of the clients he’d inherited from Blackiron notwithstanding, this was probably the most exciting thing he’d done since before he’d decided to become a barrister. Which, upon reflection, might actually be a pleasant way to live—only reading about the dirt on paper and not having to wallow in it every day. Not that Sabira knew anything about that, or likely ever would.

“There won’t be anybody around at that time of night besides the Caretaker,” the barrister continued. “A quick in and out, with no one the wiser.”

“Are you set on this?”

Sabira looked Aggar straight in the eyes, gray to green.

“I am.”

Aggar sighed.

“Well, in that case, I want you to take this.” He pulled off one of the Gold Concordian rings he’d retrieved from Rockfist. The plain gold band was a pinky ring for him, but on Sabira it fit snugly around her middle finger.

“What’s it do?” Sabira asked curiously. “Let someone know where to return me if I get lost?”

Aggar chuckled at that. “Not quite. It’s one of my old friend Greddark’s little inventions. I think I mentioned him to you before.”

“He’s the one who got kicked out of the Tower of the Twelve? And who taught you how to cheat—badly, I might add—at Jarot’s Bluff?”

“The same,” Aggar confirmed. “He made this before they expelled him from the Twelve. It’s the only one of its kind in existence—I think ‘Ring of Calling’ was the name he ultimately decided on for it. A bit boring, but serviceable enough, I suppose.”

“Never mind what he called it. What does it do?”

“Twist it three times clockwise while saying my name, and it will summon me from anywhere in the Holds.”

“So you can die with me? That’s helpful,” Sabira said. “Will it also summon a priest to say the death rites over us? Because that would be really useful.”

“So I can keep you from dying, hopefully,” Aggar replied, giving her a mildly reproving look. “Besides,” he added, suddenly impish, “Greddark’s isn’t the only ‘useful’ ring I’ve got, so I wouldn’t say your impending death is a foregone conclusion.”

“And the Aurum hands that kind of equipment out to all its members?” Sabira asked, a bit surprised. She’d already realized that most of what she thought she knew about the organization was little better than tavern gossip, but if Concordian rings doubled as magical artifacts as a matter of course, then the Aurum was far more powerful than even rumor had given it credit for. Not a particularly reassuring thought.

Aggar laughed.

“No, of course not. They’re supposed to be just ordinary metal bands. But what would be the fun in that?”

What, indeed.

Aggar’s mirth faded as the Narathun guard returned with a pair of Aureon priests in tow. As the two robed dwarves went to Dorro’s body, the Narathun stopped next to Aggar.

“Time to go, Tordannon.”

“Yes, I believe it is,” Aggar said with a meaningful look at Sabira and Rockfist. “Olladra’s luck, Marshal.”

As Sabira watched the Narathun lead him away, she replied, “And to you, as well, old friend. I have a feeling we’re both going to need it.”

Zol, Nymm 17, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

Sabira met Rockfist several hours later in the darkened halls outside of the entrance to the Tombs. The barrister, playing his role of infiltrator to the hilt, had changed into dark gray clothing with a black woolen robe. Sabira didn’t have the heart to tell him that his choice of wardrobe was actually far more likely to draw attention than to avert it. Fortunately, it was well past the twelfth bell, and there were few people out and about in the underbelly of Krona Peak, especially here, where an unauthorized presence could have such dire consequences.

Like most dwarven metropolises, Krona Peak was a city in two parts—the City Above and the City Below. Few people who were not either dwarves or residents of the Peak ever set foot in the underground byways of the city, known affectionately to the locals as the Warrens. The streets in the Warrens did not parallel the rigidly ordered avenues above, and getting lost in the labyrinthine passages was a virtual certainty without a guide. Luckily, the entrance to the Tombs was directly below the great iron doors of Ferrous House, and a winding stairway leading to the Warrens was situated just across the courtyard from the Iron Council’s headquarters.

She’d been far less worried about getting lost on the way than she had been about making it here on time. After Aggar had been escorted away, Kiruk had caught up with her and insisted on taking her to dinner at one of Krona Peak’s finest restaurants, ironically located a mere stone’s throw from the sprawling Golden Vault, the Aurum’s oldest and most ostentatious chapterhouse. The eatery had been, not surprisingly, filled with Concordians of every level—Copper, Silver, and Gold. Sabira was even half-convinced she’d seen a member of the Platinum Concord whisked from the front door to a private room in the back. The woman—a gnome with a penchant for purple—moved too quickly for Sabira to get more than a glimpse of the rings on her fingers, but judging from the envious and awed looks the woman got from the Silver Concordians in the room, Sabira had her suspicions.

It took them some time to get served, and when they did, the food was lukewarm, a bit too rare, and oversalted. Obviously, some of the murder victims had had friends on the wait staff. Sabira had to wonder at Kiruk’s choice—the dwarf was too smart not to realize they’d be dining in enemy territory. But she quickly realized that was the point—the discovery of another suspect for the crimes his son was accused of committing had renewed the old dwarf’s spirit, giving him hope for the first time that Aggar might actually live through this ordeal. So the Tordannon chief was flaunting her in front of his son’s enemies, letting them know that Aggar had powerful friends on his side as well and that he wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

Sabira doubted any of them would be worried if they were privy to just how little she actually knew, but she wasn’t going to deprive Kiruk of what might wind up being the only thing he had to celebrate when this was all said and done.

Afterward, on the walk back, she’d pretended a chill, and Kiruk, expansive in his triumph, had offered her his cloak before they parted ways. She wore it now, hood up, and consciously changed her walk so it was a little heavier and carried a little more swagger. In the darkness, she could pass on first glance for a dwarf, albeit a tall and slender one. And one glance was all anyone would get.

But she saw no one on her way down to the Warrens and found Rockfist where he’d said he would be, in a small, unused alcove boasting a statue of Boldrei in her dragon form.

“Were you seen?” he asked, peering over her shoulder dramatically.

“Only by the entire dining room of the Crown and Scepter,” Sabira replied airily. At the barrister’s glare, she added, “Relax. Even if I was seen, I certainly wasn’t followed, which I imagine is what you’re actually worried about.”

The dwarf harrumphed, his spectacles momentarily reflecting the light from a distant everbright lantern, turning his eyes into golden disks. “Well, I hope you’re right. Now, let me give you a quick idea of the layout of the Tombs. The sooner you find what you’re looking for and get out again, the better.”

“You’ve been inside?” Sabira asked, surprised.

“Blackiron had privileges—most high-profile barristers do. Since I was his apprentice, he’d occasionally send me inside on errands he didn’t have time to complete himself.”

“Well, then, why didn’t we just pretend I was your apprentice? Then we wouldn’t have to be sneaking around in the middle of the night when no one is even supposed to be here.” Sabira couldn’t believe there’d been another option that the barrister had conveniently neglected to mention. Though, on second thought, she probably shouldn’t be all that surprised—Rockfist was clearly enjoying skulking around in the darkness like a burglar, and seemed to all appearances to be regretting the fact that he’d joined the bar and not the local thieves’ guild.

“The Caretaker isn’t the only security we have to circumvent to get inside—he’s just the only one we can influence.”

At Sabira’s cocked brow, he continued.

“The Tombs are warded against entry by any means other than the front door. Any breach—including teleportation—sets off alarms both here and at the nearest guard stations, and triggers a second set of wards that make exiting the building impossible. A very powerful mage might possibly be able to manage it, especially if they had some sort of focus already in place inside, but someone that skilled could probably get access to whatever they needed through other, less risky means in the first place. And those are just the security measures that are publicly known. I imagine there are all sorts of other nasty little traps for intruders that no one but the Caretaker knows about. No, all things considered, this is probably the only way to get you inside that won’t result in an immediate and agonizing death.”

When Sabira didn’t respond immediately—and what could she say to that, really?—the barrister continued. “Now, the Tombs are made up of thirteen levels, one for each clan. Each level has a series of rooms named for a gemstone or a metal, and not only is that the motif, that’s also usually how the rooms are referenced—’the Sapphire Room,’ as opposed to ‘the room on the Doldarun floor containing mining claims for the northern Hoarfrost Mountains.’ When you ask the Caretaker about the document you’re looking for, that’s how he’ll describe its location, and you’ll either need to already know what floor it’s on yourself or else have someone with you who does.”

“Someone like you?” Sabira asked, not happy about feeding the dwarf’s burgeoning ego, but she saw no way around it, at least not until she was safely back outside the Tombs with the information she needed.

“Exactly. Although there are some floors I’ve never been to, so if the report you’re looking for happens to be on one of those levels, I won’t be able to tell you much more than that.”

“So how does the Caretaker know? Does he look it up in some great master index or something? Can’t we just use that?”

“No one knows. Or at least, if they do, they’re not telling. But somehow, once the Caretaker is appointed, he—or she—automatically gains knowledge not only of the entire inventory of the Tombs but also of the exact location of each scrap of paper therein. But he won’t tell you more than the room that it’s in, because ‘enlightenment must be earned; it cannot be given away.’ Or something like that, anyway.” Rockfist shrugged. “The clan chiefs all have maps, of course, but the Caretaker frowns on their use. If we’d had more time, I probably could have procured a copy. I guess I’ll save that for next time you want to break into the most sacred site in Krona Peak.”

That’s one thing Sabira certainly didn’t miss about the Holds. At least out in wider Khorvaire, most dwarves stifled their sense of humor, to the point where the average citizen of the world probably didn’t think such a thing existed. But here in the Holds, the dwarves let their mirth run free, and jokes were common. Actual humor, on the other hand, was a much rarer commodity.

“Clever. But if you’re done with the history lesson, perhaps we should get started? Kiruk booked passage for me on a caravan headed to Lake Home, and it leaves exactly at the fifth bell.”

“You’re taking a barge up the coast of Mirror Lake?” Rockfist asked, wrinkling his nose in distaste. Given the way his recently deceased boss had died, she supposed she couldn’t blame him.

“It’s quicker than going overland,” Sabira said. And cheaper, and undoubtedly safer, as long as you could swim.

“If you say so,” Rockfist replied, shuddering. “But you’re right about one thing: We do need to hurry. The dark hours only last for two bells, and we’ve already used up half of one. Let’s go.”

Rockfist led the way out of the alcove toward a large wooden door that looked like it could have led to a storeroom or a block of cells. On closer inspection, however, it was clear that this was no ordinary portal. Where a handle would have been on a regular door, there was instead a silver plate bearing the imprint of a hand. And while the wooden planks were pristine, the iron battens were blackened, as if by fire, as was the stone wall around the door frame.

Pausing in front of the door, Rockfist withdrew something wrapped in wool from beneath his cloak and handed it over to Sabira. Whatever was inside the fabric was warm and pliable and filled Sabira with a sudden unease. Unwrapping it carefully, she wasn’t completely shocked to see it was a severed hand—dwarven, from the stoutness of the fingers and the calluses on the palm, and still sticky with congealing blood.

“What in the name of—”

“Save it. The only way to get past the front door is by placing your hand on that plate, and if the hand doesn’t belong to a dwarf—well, you can see for yourself it doesn’t end pleasantly,” Rockfist said, indicating the char marks.

“But where did you get—”

“Are you sure you really want to know?”

He had her there. Suppose he told her it was from some cutpurse, who’d lost the hand as part of his sentence? She wouldn’t have a problem with that. But what if, instead, it was from some poor beggar woman, who’d traded the appendage for food? How could she abide that? And yet, she needed to get inside to save Aggar, and she was already skirting the law to do so. Would she really object if Rockfist told her the hand had come from some innocent? If the alternative meant not getting inside?

No, the dwarf was right. It was better if she just didn’t know.

“Now watch what I do, and then you do the same when it’s your turn.”

So saying, the dwarf stepped up to the door and placed his left palm in the hand-shaped imprint there. As far as Sabira could tell, nothing happened, but a moment later, Rockfist pulled his hand away and the door swung open to admit him. She thought she caught a glimpse of blood on the dwarf’s hand as he swept across the threshold. That would explain the need for the severed appendage. If the door was magically keyed to open only for dwarves, blood was probably the quickest way to make that determination.

As the door closed silently behind the barrister, Sabira stepped forward to take his place. With a quick prayer to Olladra—for somehow she was sure Dol Dorn would not approve of this particular adventure—she grasped the severed wrist, placed the still-warm hand on the plate, and waited to be struck down for her impertinence.

As with Rockfist, nothing seemed to happen, though she thought she felt the slightest pressure against the counterfeit hand. Then the door swung open and she stepped quickly through, before the ruse was discovered.

Rockfist waited inside the vestibule, surreptitiously wiping the blood from his palm off on the underside of his cloak.

“Oh, good,” he said when he saw her. “It worked.”

“You mean, you didn’t know for sure that it would?” she asked, stunned by the dwarf’s nonchalance.

“Well, there was always a chance that the blood wasn’t fresh enough, or that the hand actually came from a changeling masquerading as a dwarf, or that—”

“Never mind,” Sabira interrupted him, haphazardly rewrapping the severed hand and thrusting it back at him. “Let’s just get on with it.”

Rockfist replaced the appendage beneath his cloak and then led her out into a small, high-ceilinged lobby whose focal points were twin spiral staircases leading downward and a wide balcony between. A darkwood desk sat just to the left of the entrance, its only adornment a thick, leather-bound ledger.

And behind the desk stood what was probably the oldest dwarf Sabira had ever seen.

His face was a map scarred with deep ravines and canyons; his back was humped and twisted with the weight of years; and his thick, gray beard extended far below the desktop—probably brushing the floor.

“Most Honored Caretaker,” Rockfist began, bowing at the waist and motioning for Sabira to do the same. As she did, he continued, “We have come—”

“I know why you’re here, Rockfist, and I hope to Onatar that you rot in Khyber for it.” The Caretaker’s words were spoken in a strong, furious voice that was not at all what Sabira would have expected to hear coming from such an ancient throat. Then she remembered Rockfist’s comment about the Caretaker having been a client of Blackiron’s, and his implication that the famous barrister had been instrumental in the Caretaker’s selection for this post.

His age, she guessed, was not a result of the actual years he’d lived but of some sort of spell that bound him to this sacred trust.

She could certainly understand his anger at Rockfist. For someone who’d given up his very youth for this position, anything that might jeopardize it would be anathema. And the person who asked him to do it would be the most hated being on the face of Eberron, or below it.

“Well, at least I’ll have you to keep me company there,” the barrister retorted. “Now, just tell her where her report is, and we’ll leave you in peace.”

The Caretaker looked at Sabira. She wondered belatedly if he knew her identity. Not that she supposed it really mattered at this point—the severed hand had already put her far over the line—but she decided to keep her hood up and pulled forward, just in case. Disguising her voice and speech patterns probably wouldn’t hurt, either.

“I know not the name of the document I seek, Most Honored One,” she said, imitating the lilting cadence and high diction of the half-elves of Sharn’s Skyway district, whose august company she’d had occasion to keep during one particularly memorable mission. It was a vocal distortion she’d used more than once, usually to good effect. “I know only this—that the document was authored by an esteemed dwarf whose name begins with the letter ‘D.’ ”

The Caretaker didn’t bat an eye.

“There are one million, eight hundred twenty-three thousand, nine hundred and six documents in the Tombs written by dwarves whose names begin with ‘D,’ and those are only surnames. Either be more specific or quit wasting my time.”

Well, she hadn’t really thought it would be that easy.

“The document was also viewed at least once by a dwarf named Haddrin Goldglove, late of Frostmantle, if that information is of any use, Most Honored One?”

The Caretaker grunted and moved over to the ledger. There, he unerringly turned over a stack of pages almost an inch thick and, without looking, pointed to the third name in the leftmost column. Sabira read the entry silently:

Haddrin Goldglove, Research Fellow, Morgrave University

On the Nature of Magmatic Fissures Associated with the Fist of Onatar, Illustrated and Annotated

by Birggid Darkore (published posthumously in 986 YK, 1 copy extant)

Opal Room

Below that was a scribbled signature that she assumed was Goldglove’s, written in a reddish ink that she further assumed was not actually blood.

So he’d been a Research Fellow at Morgrave, had he? That certainly explained how a lowly Copper Concordian could get access to the Tombs.

Then she noticed the next entry on the list.

Haddrin Goldglove, Research Fellow, Morgrave University

Mining Rights Along the Noldrunhold Border: A Perspective on the Deepspring, Mountainheart, and Stoneblood Families

by Baron Juri Deepspring (published in 990 YK, 1 copy extant)

Opal Room

Curious. What was Goldglove’s interest in Noldrunhold, she wondered? And why did that accursed place keep cropping up?

“Yes, Most Honored One,” Sabira replied diffidently in her newly acquired singsong voice. “That is the document I seek.”

“Opal Room. You have until just before the third morning bell to find it and get what you need from it. I can’t protect you once the Tombs reopen.” What he really meant, of course, was that he couldn’t protect himself, but Sabira had no intention of staying that long in any case.

“Many thanks, Most Honored—”

“Just go.”

Sabira inclined her head to the Caretaker and then turned expectantly to Rockfist.

“It’s on the Soldorak level—that’s where all the writings pertaining to the Fist are, since it’s in Soldorakhold. I’ve never been to that particular room, but I know where it is. Follow me.”

“No,” the Caretaker said firmly. “Just her. One fool traipsing about my halls is more than enough.”

Rockfist opened his mouth to argue, took a good look at the hard set of the Caretaker’s wrinkled face, and thought better of it.

“Fine. I’ll just walk her to the stairs, then.” To Sabira, he repeated, “Follow me.”

Sabira did as she was bade, trailing behind the dwarf as he walked to the staircase on the right. As they neared the balcony, she couldn’t help but sneak a glance through the carved marble railing. The balcony opened onto a wide stairwell that plunged thirteen levels, with identical balconies on each landing. The twin staircases curved along their respective walls and then came in again toward the center, hanging in the air with no visible means of support. Fortunately, the stairs had high balustrades to keep those who used them from stepping off into the open stairwell and reaching their destination quite a bit more quickly than intended. From where she stood, she couldn’t see all the way to the bottom, but even the look she did get was enough to trigger a brief spell of vertigo. She hoped the Soldorak floor was toward the top.

“The Soldorak level is the tenth one down,” Rockfist offered, as if reading her mind. “Go to your right once you reach the bottom of the stairs. The Opal Room should be the third one on the left. If you hit Obsidian, you’ve gone too far.”

“What if someone else comes in while I’m down there?”

“I can’t see that happening—the Tombs are officially closed right now. But if it does … hmm.” Rockfist frowned, casting about for an answer. Then his eyes found the dangling chain beside the entrance to the vestibule. “If someone comes in, I’ll find a way to ring the Fire Bell. You’ll be able to hear it on every level, in every room. Unfortunately, so will the Fire Teams. It will take them some time to organize, but once you hear the bells, you’d better drop what you’re doing and get back up the stairs as fast as you can. Take the left staircase; anyone coming down will use the right one, since it’s closer to the Opal Room. If we can’t get out before they arrive, we’ll have to hide out in the Caretaker’s rooms until the Fire Teams clear the building.”

“Oh, he’s going to love that.”

“No doubt. Now you’d better get going. It’s a long walk.”

Sabira hurried down the worn marble treads as they curved along the wall, staying toward the inside as they swung out over empty space. Somebody really should talk the Caretaker into investing in a few soarsleds. Somebody besides her or Rockfist, that was.

As she passed each landing, she noticed the eponymous clan crest carved into the same wall where the vestibule was on the first level. Mroranon, not surprisingly, was first, followed by Doldarun and Droranath. Sabira couldn’t help but wonder what sort of tomes would fill that floor—the Droranath could not be considered scholars by anyone’s measure. Though it didn’t seem that the books and documents housed on a particular floor necessarily had much to do with the clan for which that level had been named. The family perspective written by Baron Deepspring was a good example—it was shelved on the Soldorak floor, but none of the families mentioned were affiliated with that clan.

The Kundarak floor was fifth, and showed the old clan crest, not the newer one they’d adopted as House Kundarak. Noldrun was ninth, and again Sabira wondered what volumes might be housed in its rooms. Would she find treatises on Korran’s Maw, the ancient Noldrun clan mine, there? Could the tale of Nightshard’s death—and Ned’s—in the depths of that mine be sitting on a dusty shelf somewhere in the Agate Room, or the Bloodstone Room? A part of her wished she had more time to explore and satisfy her morbid curiosity, but a larger part was glad that she did not. That was a book better left unopened.

At last she reached the Soldorak level. As Rockfist had directed, she turned right and walked down the wide corridor, counting off archways as she did so. To the left of each arch was a small placard printed with the room’s name and either a corresponding gemstone or nugget of ore. She passed the Silver and Amber Rooms on the right and the Turquoise and Iron Rooms on the left before reaching Opal.

As she entered the room, the first thing she noticed was the floor. In the light of the hovering everbright lanterns, the tiles sparkled with a rainbow of iridescent colors, almost bright enough to make her eyes hurt. On closer inspection, she saw that what she had thought were tiles were actually thousands of inlaid opals, each one perfectly round and breathtakingly flawless. Sabira estimated that the floor in this room alone was worth several hundred thousand platinum dragons. If each of the other rooms had floors inlaid with their respective gemstone or metal, the Tombs was easily one of the richest treasures in all of Khorvaire, and that was before taking into account the wealth of knowledge contained in its many books and documents. She could see now why the Caretaker—and, by extension, the whole dwarven nation—guarded it so jealously.

Once she got past the marvel of the opal floor, she saw that the walls of the room were covered floor to ceiling in shelves that had been hollowed out of stone. Rolling ladders were spaced evenly throughout to allow access to the upper shelves. Several freestanding shelves jutted up from the floor, forming a loose octagon around three stone tables that browsers could use to read through their selected documents. Rockfist had informed her that nothing could be removed from the Tombs, so any information she found would have to be copied down or remembered. Luckily, he’d also provided her with a stylus and one of his many notebooks, so Aggar’s case wouldn’t wind up hinging on her own memory, which might prove a bit unreliable, especially with as much effort as she’d put into suppressing it over the years.

From the barrister’s earlier comments, Sabira had expected to find the filing system to be arcane and incomprehensible, so she was pleasantly surprised to discover that the books were arranged in alphabetical order. She quickly located the D’s and easily found Darkore’s report, a thin booklet bound in white leather. Since she couldn’t be certain which “D” book Goldglove had been referring to in his log, she browsed a bit further in the section until she found Deepspring’s book, as well. Then she took both documents to one of the stone tables, moved a stack of much heavier unshelved books to an adjacent table to free up space, and sat down to read.

Darkore’s work was full of jargon that was no doubt quite informative to other students of volcanoes but was utterly incomprehensible to Sabira. Her eyes glazed over before she’d read through the first page. Then she recalled that Goldglove’s journal entry had mentioned a map, and so she confined her search to the illustrations. Though the back of the report consisted of several pages of maps, Sabira located the one Goldglove had referenced with relative ease, considering it looked like he had drawn on it. It was probably a good thing he was already dead; Sabira couldn’t imagine the Caretaker letting a transgression like that go unpunished.

The original map showed the Fist of Onatar, located near the western border of Soldorakhold. Jagged red lines—what the map legend informed her indicated the titular magmatic fissures—radiated out from the Fist to the east and south. Small black x’s showed the locations of hot springs along those fissures.

Goldglove had added a fissure to the map, this one a perfectly straight line leading from the volcano and crossing both Soldorakhold and Noldrunhold before ending at Frostmantle, in Tordannonhold. Red tick marks divided the line, but not uniformly, and each mark had a number written beside it in parentheses. 993, 995, 997, 998 … after a moment, Sabira realized they must be dates. As with the others, small x’s had been added to show where hot springs had appeared along the route of the new fissure.

Without seeing Goldglove’s journal—another reason to travel to Frostmantle, since Rockfist hadn’t been able to acquire a copy of it—Sabira couldn’t be completely sure what the map was showing, but even her uneducated eye could tell that the fissure leading to the Tordannon capitol could not be natural.

Was this why the researcher had been murdered? Rockfist’s offhand comment from the Iron Council’s audience chamber came back to her then with the force of prophecy.

“… unless you’re suggesting he was killed to cover up this business with the hot springs, and every murder since then has simply been an effort to divert attention from it?”

More determined now than ever to get to Frostmantle, Sabira hurriedly sketched the basics of the map out in her borrowed notebook. She glanced quickly at the other maps in Darkore’s report to see if Goldglove had embellished any more of them, but didn’t find anything. So she set the booklet aside and picked up the thicker volume written by Deepspring.

Again, Goldglove left his trail for her to follow, this time dog-earing the page he’d been interested in. Sabira opened to it quickly.

It was a map of Noldrunhold and the holds bordering it, showing the boundaries of various mining claims and the owners of each. The names of the Mountainheart and Deepspring families were written in bold black print, while the Stoneblood name was a faded gray, as were the other, smaller family names inside Noldrunhold itself and most of those along the border in the surrounding holds, as well. A note at the bottom of the map revealed that the black print was for families with active mines, while the gray print was for those whose mines had either been tapped out or were no longer in service.

Glancing at her sketch, Sabira judged that the straight line Goldglove had drawn went through both the Mountainheart and Deepspring claims. Were their continuing mining operations somehow connected to the unnatural fissure?

Sabira jotted down a few notes and was about to close the book when a diagram on the facing page caught her eye.

It was an abbreviated genealogy for the Stoneblood family, used to trace the pedigree of their mining claim. It showed that Gunnett—the last of the Stoneblood line—currently held the rights to the claim, which had come to her from her mother and from her grandmother before that. There were also two symbols not defined in the text, a circle circumscribing an x beside Gunnett’s mother’s name and two unequal circles separated by a vertical line next to Gunnett’s.

Sabira was about to sketch out the family tree when she heard a soft noise behind her, like a slippered footfall on plush carpet or the whisper of a cloak hem against a table. On her guard instantly, Sabira reached for her shard axe and turned.

Just in time to see a gray-cloaked figure bringing a massive book down on her head. As the book slammed into her temple and the room exploded into a shower of stars, Sabira got the briefest look at the top half of her attacker’s hooded face. Black eyes glared out at her malevolently from a pale face as the room spun around her. She had time to wonder fuzzily what Hrun Noldrun was doing in the Tombs, and then the opal-encrusted floor was rushing up at her and she knew no more.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Zol, Nymm 17, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

Sabira awoke moments later to the awful sound of bells reverberating through the vast stone halls. Her attacker was nowhere to be seen. Neither were the documents she’d been examining nor the notebook she’d been writing in.

Before she had time to wonder what the Caretaker was going to have to say about that, another sound echoed through the room, louder and more sinister than that of the bells.

Stone grinding against stone.

Sabira looked toward the entrance to see a granite slab descending to fill the archway.

Of course. If there really was a fire, they’d want to seal off all the rooms to keep it from spreading. And they’d want to extinguish it as quickly as possible, in a way that would preserve the documents from harm. And that meant …

There. Beneath the strident bells and the teeth-jarring scrape of stone. A faint hissing coming from the ceiling, where Sabira could just make out several small vents.

The air was being sucked from the room.

If she didn’t get out now, she’d be trapped here, and she would suffocate long before the Fire Teams made it down to this level and found her.

Shaking the vestiges of stars from her eyes, Sabira jumped up and raced toward the entryway, her booted feet pounding heedlessly across a fortune’s worth of opals.

Though the slab had at first seemed to be dropping slowly, either she had misjudged or it was moving faster the farther down it slid, for it already filled three quarters of the archway before she cleared the final bookshelf. Lengthening her stride, Sabira hurtled forward, throwing herself to the floor at the last moment and rolling underneath the heavy slab just before it crashed into place with a thunderous echo, magnified a hundredfold throughout every level of the Tombs.

She lay there panting for half a heartbeat, then sat up, only to realize that the hem of her cloak—of Kiruk’s cloak—was caught beneath the massive stone.

Freeing the cloak would take time she just didn’t have, but if she left it, not only would it confirm that there had been an intruder but it could very well lead the authorities right to Aggar’s door. Or worse, to his father’s. That was all she needed: two Tordannons to defend.

With an impatient sigh, she used the sharp edge of her urgrosh’s axe to saw away at the fabric, wincing at having to utilize such a fine blade for such a pedestrian task. She cut as close to the slab as she could; with any luck, the scrap of gray would go unnoticed by anyone investigating the commotion. At the very least, the small bit of wool should be harder to analyze than the entire cloak would be, and might make the process of identifying its owner take longer.

Whether it would be long enough remained to be seen, and she couldn’t worry about it now. She had to get out of here.

Freed from the grasp of the slab, Sabira leaped to her feet. Then she was on the run, headed for the leftmost staircase as fast as she could go.

She didn’t worry about stealth at this point; her rhythmic footsteps would not be heard over the sound of the bells. But once she got to the landing between staircases, she hugged the crest-adorned wall, worried she might be seen by someone leaning over the balcony on one of the higher levels. Once she’d cleared the landing, she took the stairs two at a time until she reached the part of the spiral that hung, open, over the stairwell. There, she paused. She would have no cover here. Anyone looking down from above would be able to see her.

She peered upward, trying vainly to determine if there was any activity at the topmost balcony, but the distance was simply too great. She could see nothing.

Well, she thought, when in doubt, do it quick and hope you don’t get caught.

She dashed up the stairs to the Noldrun landing and back into the covered portion of the staircase. As she reached the next open segment of stairway, she paused again, scanning the higher balconies, which remained blessedly deserted.

She repeated this process six more times, and then, in between the Droranath and Doldarun levels, she finally saw movement at the ground floor balcony. A lone figure stood peering down. It took her a moment to realize it was Rockfist.

She stepped out of hiding and waved up at him cautiously.

“Hurry!” the barrister called down once he’d spotted her. “They’ll be here any moment!”

Now that she no longer had to worry about being observed, Sabira covered the distance in half the time, though she was perspiring lightly and breathing hard when she reached Rockfist’s side.

“What happened? How did you set off the alarms?”

“I didn’t,” Sabira said, bristling at the barrister’s accusing tone. She pointed to the bruise already forming on the side of her face. “The guy who gave me this did. I think it might have been … Hrun Noldrun?”

Though she was hardly certain of that. It could have been anyone; all she’d actually seen had been black eyes, a gray cloak, and a really heavy book. Host, she thought to herself. Now I sound just like Kiruk.

“Noldrun?” Rockfist exclaimed, surprised. “He’s no mage. How did he get in without setting off the alarms, let alone back out again? Never mind, we’ll sort that out later. We’ve got to get to the Caretaker’s rooms, and quickly! He says there’s an exit there we can use to get past the guards.”

So the old dwarf had a secret bolt hole. Well, not so secret, now. No doubt he was furious at having to reveal its existence, especially to them. But Rockfist’s words had confirmed what she’d already guessed when she’d first heard the bells: It wasn’t just the Fire Teams responding, because Rockfist hadn’t set off the alarm. Her attacker had, when he’d teleported out of the Tombs, taking two of its sacrosanct documents with him. Accordingly, once the Fire Teams cleared the building, the guards would swarm in, looking in every crack and crevice to find the intruder, not knowing that he was already long gone.

The old dwarf, leaning heavily on a carved ebony walking stick, ushered them through a door behind his desk and into his small suite of rooms. They passed through a cozy sitting area and into the Caretaker’s bedroom. A darkwood wardrobe stood against one wall, and Sabira headed for it, assuming that’s where the entrance to the tunnel would be.

“In here,” the Caretaker snapped, motioning for her and Rockfist to follow him into the tiny bathroom, which boasted a clawfoot tub and a privy. He tapped one of the claws with the end of his stick and the entire bath swung silently outward to reveal a set of steps leading down into darkness.

“Follow the wall. Lights will appear in front of you after you’ve walked about a hundred feet, and they’ll disappear behind you after you’ve passed. You will want to go as quietly as possible—the guards will be listening for movement within the earth, in case the intruder got in that way. The tunnel ends in an alley behind the Sharpsword’s Bordello. If anyone sees you leaving, they’ll just assume you were too cheap to pay for a room.”

Sabira nodded her thanks and headed down the stairs, but the Caretaker wasn’t quite finished.

“And as for you, barrister,” he said, spitting out Rockfist’s title like it was poison, “we are more than even. And I’m revoking your privileges here. I don’t ever want to see you here again—either of you.”

“Don’t worry,” Sabira said, grabbing Rockfist by the arm and pulling him down the stairs after her before he could protest. “You won’t.”

Then the bathtub pivoted back into place above them, and they were left to find their way, at least for the moment, in total darkness.

And as Sabira began feeling her way blindly down the tunnel, she hoped it wasn’t some sort of divine metaphor for the state of Aggar’s case thus far, or a portent for its future.

Far, Nymm 20, 998 YK
Frostmantle, Mror Holds.

Kiruk’s caravan turned out to be his private covered earth sled, and Sabira its only passenger. Piloted by a dragonmarked member of House Orien, the land barge carved its way through Krona Pass and down to Lake Home in a little under a day and a half. However, it took Sabira another full day—and a letter of credit Kiruk had given her before she left—to convince a Lyrandar skipper to take her up to Frostmantle in his soarwood galleon, and to do the entire four-hundred-and-fifty-mile trip in one day. But this was the Holds, and coin was king, even to non-dwarves. Promising a price she hoped Kiruk wouldn’t take out of her hide, Sabira and the skipper came to an agreement and she arrived safely at the docks downslope of Frostmantle on the afternoon of Far, three days after she’d left Krona Peak.

Mountainheart had been there ahead of her and left word for her to meet him at the Tankard whenever she arrived. A popular but pricy inn located in the upper levels of Frostmantle, the Tankard was known for its high-quality spirits, including her own personal favorite, the eponymous Frostmantle Fire. It was also one of the many places in the underground city where Aggar kept rooms to hide out in when he needed to escape from the pressures of being Kiruk’s son.

If Sabira had to hazard a bet, she’d place good money on it also being the destination for a teleportation spell linked to one of the Silver Concordian rings Mountainheart had stolen from his uncle. That was the only way he could have come all the way from Vulyar and still beaten her to Frostmantle.

With all of his extra time, Mountainheart had apparently also arranged for a horse to be readied for her when she arrived. As she waited for the hostler to saddle up a thick-coated bay, Sabira listened to the rush of the river behind her and tried not to think of the last time she’d stood on the banks of this waterway, when she’d been at the safehouse with Aggar and Leoned.

When Ned had been taken from her.

When she’d left him to be taken, a little niggling voice in the back of her mind whispered, but she suppressed it with an impatient stamp of her foot.

Where was that damned hostler, anyway?

Finally the dwarf led her borrowed mount out of the dockside stables, and she took the placid creature’s reins with a nod of thanks. She hoped the hostler wasn’t looking for more than that, as she had precious little coin left in her pouch. Hopefully she could find Nightshard’s accomplice quickly and wrap this mission up before the bag went completely slack. Though it wasn’t just money that had her itching for this to be over; while she’d been happily absent from Vulyar for seven years, her brief return there had ignited a spark of homesickness she thought she’d extinguished long ago. She found herself wanting to return, though she also found she didn’t want to examine the reasons why too closely.

Sabira shook the thought away along with a few drops of the light summer rain that was beginning to fall. If it lasted, the soft drizzle would eventually turn to feathery flakes the higher up she went, even at this time of year.

She put a boot in the stirrup and swung up into the saddle, pulling up the hood of Kiruk’s cloak against the rain. Then, with a sharp flick of the reins, she headed through the small cluster of buildings that huddled around the docks and out into the greensward beyond.

The approach to Frostmantle was an unusual one. Consisting of a wide cobbled path just big enough for two carts abreast, it led up into the foothills of the Ironroot Mountains. The path then seemingly dead-ended at the northern face of the mountain also known as Frostmantle, at the base of a sheer cliff, in between two huge piles of boulders. Nearer to the escarpment, however, it became clear that the rock face was not an actual cliff but rather a pair of massive gates deliberately designed to blend in with their surroundings. Likewise, the boulders were in fact guardhouses.

Whereas Krona Peak had been carved out of the side of a mountain, Frostmantle was the mountain. Back when the Holds were originally settled, the ancient Tordannons had either chosen or been ceded—depending on which clan was telling the story—land that included some of the highest peaks in the Ironroot range. And it was the tallest of those peaks, and the closest to the Mirror River, which the clan chief had selected for his seat of power. But rather than build upon or excavate their city out of the mountain’s flanks, as the ancient Mroranons had done, the Tordannons had chosen instead to hollow the mountain out and live within it. Aside from the fortified main entrance, the only thing distinguishing Frostmantle from the peaks on either side of it was its summit, which housed the Tordannon palace, Frostspire, and had been carved on all four sides with the likenesses of the clan’s greatest heroes.

When Sabira had been here before, the stone gates had been shut tight in response to the threat posed by Nightshard, and travel in and out of the city had been closely monitored. During those dark days, the job of lighting the city, from highest reach to lowest, had fallen to the ubiquitous everbright lanterns that floated through its many byways and tunnels like gigantic, slumbering fireflies. But now, with the gates flung open wide, the early afternoon sunlight spilled onto the main thoroughfare and, through a clever system of thousands of hidden mirrors, filled the underground city with the soft light of the sun’s rays, if not with its warmth.

Dwarf guards were stationed outside their rocky outposts, enjoying the summer weather now that the tepid drizzle had stopped. As Sabira approached, one of them, a woman with a greataxe strapped to her back, stepped forward and asked for her papers. But before Sabira could reach into her pack and retrieve them, another of the guards hurried forward.

“I’ve got this one, Guddrun,” he said, tugging a sapphire bead and scratching his right ear quickly before the other guard could notice.

Guddrun looked from Sabira to the second guard for a moment, then shrugged, turned on her heel, and walked back to the guardhouse.

The new guard had signaled, “Just follow my lead.”

Surprised, Sabira took a closer look at the dwarf, wondering if she knew him. His hair and beard were jet black, and he had a thick scar bisecting his right cheek horizontally and puckering the skin. With such distinctive features, Sabira should be able to place him, but she couldn’t. Someone Mountainheart had told to look for her, then? She didn’t think Aggar’s nephew had that much sway in Frostmantle, especially since he’d chosen to make his home with Gunnett in Krona Peak, but perhaps the title of envoy carried more weight than she thought. Or perhaps the fact that Mountainheart was Aggar’s designated heir was not as great a secret as the Tordannons would like to think.

The guard held out his hand for her papers and Sabira passed them down. As the black-haired dwarf made a show of looking at them, he said in a low voice, “Best to keep your hood up inside, and keep off the main ways. Kiruk thinks it’s better if the whole city doesn’t know you’re back.”

Ah. That explained it. The Tordannon chief would, of course, have loyal followers within the guard who’d be willing to get someone inside the city incognito, based solely on a message sent via speaking stone or courier.

Louder, and more gruffly, he said, “Mute, eh? Well, let me see inside that hood! How am I supposed to verify your identity if I can’t see your face?”

Sabira bent over in the saddle so the dwarf could better see her face, wondering what his and Kiruk’s game was.

The dwarf winked at her, then contorted his face and drew back dramatically in disgust.

“Onatar’s stubble, woman! That’s even worse than your picture! You keep that hood up while you’re inside my city—I don’t want you frightening the citizens!”

Clever, Sabira thought as she took her papers back and replaced them in her pack. If the guards circulated a description of a deformed mute visiting the city, she’d be less likely to be accosted by the watches inside, and her true identity would stay hidden longer. Given how she’d been received in Krona Peak, that was definitely a good thing. The last thing she needed was a series of spontaneous parades in her honor. And if Nightshard’s accomplice didn’t realize she was here, it might just be easier to find him.

The guard stepped back and waved her through, but Sabira didn’t respond immediately. The last time she’d entered through this gate, Leoned had been at her side, laughing at some jest she’d made. The memory hit her with such force that, for a moment, she couldn’t breathe.

Now that she was actually here, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to go inside. Leoned’s face swam before her vision, then Aggar’s, and Kiruk’s, his eyes forlorn and desperate. Then Anneka’s, Gunnett’s, and Mountainheart’s, in quick succession. The last face was Elix’s, flushed and earnest in his borrowed office in Stormreach, ordering her to come back home safely.

To come back to him.

And the only way to do that was to enter the city, find Nightshard’s accomplice, and clear Aggar’s name.

After the briefest of hesitations, Sabira drew in a deep, resolute breath, flicked the reins, and crossed over the threshold into Frostmantle.

Mountainheart was waiting for her at a secluded back table in the Tankard’s common room, near a fireplace that blazed cheerily with illusory fire. He was sipping on an oversized snifter of Onatar’s Blood and making eyes at one of the serving women, whose ample bosom was displayed to good effect by her low-cut bodice.

“So what did Gunnett think of you running off to do your uncle’s bidding yet again?” Sabira asked as she slid into a chair across from him, one that gave her a full view of the room’s occupants and the door.

Mountainheart glared at her for a moment.

“I love my wife and would do anything to please her,” he said at last, as if by rote.

“That’s obvious,” Sabira remarked, looking askance at the barmaid, who slunk away without getting her order. “But I think maybe you want to please your uncle more—or maybe you just owe him more, for making you his heir. How did that happen, anyway? It’s not as if he’s too old to have children of his own.”

“If he wanted you to know, he would have told you,” the dwarf responded sourly.

“Well, he and I didn’t exactly have time for that, did we? You and I do, and we’re not leaving this table until you tell me what exactly it is you’re holding over Aggar’s head that would make him take such a drastic step.”

She hadn’t actually been sure that was the case, but Mountainheart’s surprised look told her she was on the right track. He covered it quickly with a drink from his snifter, but Sabira had seen enough.

“Maybe he just sees potential in me,” the dwarf replied flippantly, and Sabira almost laughed.

“Oh, I’ve no doubt he sees potential in you for something, but not for ruling Frostmantle in the event of his death. And marrying Gunnett, that was a stroke of genius, because there’s no way Kiruk would risk Frostmantle going to the Toldoraths. She virtually guarantees no one will be hiding beneath your bed to slit your throat after Aggar dies.”

Sabira leaned forward, pinning the dwarf to his seat with the ferocity of her stare. “Which he will, unless I can find what I need here to clear his name. And that gives you more than enough motive to have orchestrated these events, either yourself or in league with the true killer. So unless you want me to arrest you on suspicion of murder, you’d better start talking. Now.”

“Please,” Mountainheart scoffed. “If I’d wanted him found guilty, why would I have bothered procuring your services to help free him?”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I should have said it gives your wife more than enough motive. As I recall, there’s a House Sivis station with a speaking stone down one level on Dragonbane Way,” she said, pushing her chair back. “I’ll just send word over to Kiruk and have her arrested. Then maybe you’ll be more inclined to talk.”

She stood, and Mountainheart’s hand shot out to grab her arm in an iron grip.

“You wouldn’t.”

Sabira looked at him pityingly.

“I would think you’d know me better than that by now. Not only will I do it, I’ll enjoy doing it.”

“Fine,” Mountainheart growled, releasing her arm and motioning for her to sit. “I’ll tell you what I know.”

Sabira sat, rubbing her arm under the table. Mountainheart’s ire would be visible to everyone come tomorrow; he’d gripped her hard enough to bruise.

“It’s not nearly as dramatic as you make it out to be,” he continued, toying with his glass as he spoke. “Aggar sired a bastard in Krona Peak. The woman—a server at one of Aggar’s favorite haunts—came to me when she learned she was with child, knowing I was his nephew. I suppose she hoped to gain either money or status, but I hid her away until the birth. I was not going to allow her to extort my uncle if the child wasn’t even his. When she was in labor, I summoned my uncle and he saw her give birth to the child. A red-haired little boy who was born with no eyes. Naturally, he was devastated. The mother experienced some complications during childbirth, and we were unable to save her. The child died soon after, and Aggar swore he’d never risk siring another again. He’s been celibate ever since.”

It was a simple enough story, and believable, though Sabira was certain Mountainheart was glossing over some of the details. What sort of complications? And had they been unable to save the mother, or simply unwilling? For that matter, why had the child died? Blindness wasn’t fatal; starvation, on the other hand, was. Had they simply failed to get a wet nurse for the little boy, and let him die? Could Aggar really be that coldhearted?

Then again, Mountainheart had kept the woman’s pregnancy from Aggar until the last possible moment. It was no great leap to imagine he’d told his uncle he’d find a nurse for the child while doing nothing of the sort, in a misguided attempt to save Aggar’s honor. Never mind that killing a bastard child was a far worse crime than siring one.

Sabira couldn’t help thinking there was more to the tale, and as Mountainheart began talking again, she learned the rest. As the dwarf spoke effusively of his uncle’s grief, his fingers painted another, even darker picture with the tugs, twists, and twitches of the Tordannon’s secret sign language, for he wouldn’t risk putting the story to words in such a public place.

Aggar had poured out the whole sordid saga while drowning his sorrows in a case of vintage brandy. The blind child, it seemed, had not been the first. Before that, Aggar had sired twin girls with a d’Kundarak banker. The girls came months early and were born fused together from throat to hip. One girl took a single breath before dying, while the other never even opened her eyes. The mother had killed herself soon after, unable to deal with either the deformity or the loss. And before that, he’d gotten another girl pregnant, but she’d been lost in an avalanche during the harsh winter of ’93, months before she was due to give birth.

After this last child, Aggar had become convinced he was cursed by the Sovereigns for some unknown sin and would never father a normal child, or one who would live. He’d decided to name Mountainheart his heir—with no small amount of urging from Mountainheart himself, Sabira was sure. Though Mountainheart didn’t say as much, Sabira imagined the inheritance was the price of his silence. If word got out that Aggar could sire only monstrous children, the rest of the clan could easily turn on both him and his father, leaving the Tordannons open to a war of succession that would weaken them and make them easy prey for their enemies.

And all of this had happened before Mountainheart had even met Gunnett. Furthermore, he was quick to inform her, fingers working furiously, he had not revealed his status as heir designee to Gunnett until after their wedding—when he’d informed her that he was leaving Krona Peak to go find the legendary Shard Axe. Which did nothing in Sabira’s book to eliminate either of them as suspects, since they’d still had not only motive, but means and opportunity.

But she just couldn’t see Mountainheart as Nightshard’s accomplice. Aggar’s nephew might be petty—even cruel, considering what he’d just revealed—but he didn’t have the kind of evil in him to countenance the things the assassin had done. Not to mention, as he’d correctly pointed out, if he’d wanted Aggar dead, there was no reason for him to have come to her for help in the first place.

And Gunnett’s own father had been Nightshard’s first victim, so there was no way she could be in league with the assassin’s accomplice.

No, Mountainheart’s first instinct had been right; she’d been bluffing. She’d only come to Frostmantle to arrest one person, and it wasn’t Mountainheart or his wife.

But the ruse had gotten her the information she wanted, so it wasn’t a wasted effort. Whether that information would prove to have any bearing on Aggar’s case remained to be seen.

“Nicely done, Mountainheart. You’ve convinced me not to arrest your blushing bride. So let’s focus on our other suspect. I assume Aggar let you know that we do have another suspect?”

“Yes,” Mountainheart replied shortly, his eyes narrowing as he realized how she’d manipulated him yet again. “He said you wanted Goldglove’s journal. I was able to confirm that it’s in his mother Tysane’s keeping, but I was waiting until you arrived to approach her.”

“Excellent,” Sabira said, reaching across the table to snatch his snifter and drain the last of the warm, salty Blood. “So, what are we waiting for? Let’s go approach her.”

Tysane Goldglove’s Genealogical Services was located in her home on the city’s first sublevel. The two-story building was set back from the street behind a gate and an improbable garden filled with a fantastic mix of fungi and flowers, a small fountain, and dozens of chimes that rang sweetly from the colonnaded porch without the urging of any breeze.

Sabira and Mountainheart strode down the well-kept path to the front door. A wooden sign hung above the door, emblazoned with a simple golden hand grasping a quill from which red ink dripped.

Sabira raised an eyebrow at Mountainheart, who shrugged.

“Genealogist’s joke, I suppose—their work is writ in blood?”

Accurate enough, Sabira supposed, if a bit morbid. She wondered how much business the motto brought in. Hopefully not much; it would be best if Tysane was alone when they spoke to her, so there would be no interruptions.

Sabira knocked on the door, then stood back and to the side as she waited for someone to answer.

When several moments had passed with nothing but silence on the other side of the door, she looked at Mountainheart in irritation.

“Please tell me you confirmed she was actually home before we came all the way down here?”

“Where else would she be? The annual Society of Genealogist’s meeting isn’t until next month,” the dwarf rejoined bitingly, obviously still smarting from her earlier ruse.

Sabira was about to respond with a splash of sarcasm of her own when the door suddenly creaked open and an elderly dwarf woman dressed in scarlet, lavender, and chartreuse poked her head out.

“A Peaker and a Karrn, from the accents. I can probably help you,” she cackled, jabbing her cane toward Mountainheart. Then she turned milky eyes toward Sabira. “But you, my dear, are out of luck. I can refer you to my counterpart in Atur, if you don’t mind working with a Blood of Vol cultist. With the understanding that I get a percentage of whatever he charges you, of course. Finder’s fee.”

“That won’t be necessary, grandmother,” Sabira replied with a polite smile that she realized belatedly the woman could not see. “We’re simply here to ask you a few questions about your son.”

The woman’s friendliness evaporated in an instant.

“I’ve already spoken to the authorities, for all the good that did. What justice exists in Frostmantle for a boy killed by her favorite son?”

As she moved to shut the door, Sabira stepped forward, grabbing the blind woman’s wrist.

“Please, grandmother. We’ve good reason to believe that the real killer is the confederate of one who stalked these halls, sowing terror, almost a decade ago.”

Tysane’s face paled. Nightshard’s name was never spoken aloud here, out of superstitious dread and respect for his many victims, but Sabira knew it didn’t need to be.

“Come in, then, and quickly,” the old dwarf said, spinning in a cloud of clashing colors and leading them, cane tap-tapping, into the dark maze of her home.

They sat in a small parlor lit dimly by oil lamps. Bookcases lined the walls, but instead of being filled with genealogy tomes and family histories as Sabira had expected, the shelves were crammed with books and reports on the Fist of Onatar, volcanoes in general, the melting point of dragonshards, prayers to the Sovereign of Fire and Forge, spelunking, and mining, and those were just the spines she could read from where she sat. There even seemed to be an entire section dedicated to poetry inspired by those subjects.

“You have a lovely home,” Sabira said when the blind woman didn’t seem inclined to speak once they were all seated. “With such an … eclectic library.”

“You’re wondering why all the books here are my son’s?” Tysane asked, cocking her head to the side as if listening. The old woman grinned, showing gaps in her teeth. She rapped her temple sharply with a bony knuckle. “Because I don’t need books when I’ve got this. Everything I need to know is in here. What good would books be to me, anyway? I can’t say as I’m much of a reader.”

Sabira could only hope Tysane’s son didn’t take after her in that regard; if his logbook didn’t have the information she needed—whatever that might turn out to be—because he kept the bulk of it in his head, then Aggar was doomed. Though, if the obsession evinced by his book collection was any indication, her problem might actually lie in the opposite direction: too much information, and too technical for her to readily understand it.

Once she and Mountainheart had filled Goldglove’s mother in on the likelihood of Nightshard’s having had an accomplice who was actually behind not only the murder of her son but also of all the other recent victims, Tysane had been more than willing to turn the journal over to them. In the space of those few words, Aggar went in her estimation from pampered killer to persecuted victim, and her maternal instinct came raging to the fore. Anywhere else, the swift change of heart would have been unusual, even suspicious. But not here in Frostmantle, where wayward children were still warned against mischief with threats of Nightshard’s resurrection.

“Here’s Haddrin’s work journal. I’ve marked the last entry with a ribbon.” Sensing Sabira’s surprise, Tysane offered another toothy smile. “It’s not magic, dear. Quills leave indentations in paper. I may not be able to see the entries or tell you what they say, but I can certainly tell you where they end.”

“Thank you,” Sabira said, taking the logbook from Tysane and opening it to the marked place. There, she read the final entry she’d seen copied in Blackiron’s notes, then she skimmed the earlier entries until she found the one that referenced Goldglove’s meeting with Aggar, at the top of the previous page.

Met with Tordannon. Laughed me out of his office, and said I’d regret it if I went to the rest of the Four with my findings.

Need more proof.

No wonder Aggar had come under suspicion. A written record of him threatening someone who wound up dead a few days later would be enough for most courts to find him guilty without ever going to trial. If he hadn’t had the power of the Tordannon clan behind him, this case would likely never have seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone the Iron Council’s chambers. And at least half of the murder victims would probably still be alive. Sabira didn’t particularly appreciate the irony.

Blackiron’s records hadn’t referenced any earlier entries, so she began reading them in reverse order. If Goldglove said he needed more proof, this meant he already had some before he went to see Aggar. She needed to know what it was.

As she read, she began to understand the magnitude of the threat Goldglove had been trying to warn Aggar about. Coupled with what she remembered of Darkore’s map, a disturbing image was emerging.

Over the past five years, a magmatic fissure had formed on the northern side of the Fist of Onatar and had extended rapidly in an unnaturally straight line toward Frostmantle. Goldglove had become aware of the fissure on one of his many expeditions to the Fist, and he’d been tracking it ever since. He hadn’t been sure if the fissure would change direction at some point, perhaps heading for either Korran’s Maw or Noldrunthrone, or maybe even Goradra Gap. But when he’d begun seeing hot springs form beneath the city, as well as tree-kill in the mountains directly to the south, he’d realized that the fissure’s point of termination had to be Frostmantle.

Someone was trying to channel magma from the Fist of Onatar to the caverns below the capital city of Tordannonhold. But who, and why? Somehow Sabira doubted it was some enterprising innkeeper hoping to capitalize on the supposed healing properties of the accompanying hot springs.

Then she found it. An offhand entry, made almost four months earlier.

Goldglove had been mapping the fissure south of Frostmantle, on the Noldrun side of where it crossed from that hold into Tordannonhold. He’d been down in the newly formed caverns when he’d been attacked by a hooded dwarf who’d chased him away from the fissure, raving madly.

 … as if I had any interest in the fool’s stash of Khyber shards! Yelling at me like that: “Mine! First! Last! Always! Only!” Obviously completely unhinged. Lucky to have escaped unharmed. Must start carrying a weapon of some sort …

Of course.

It was circumstantial, Sabira knew, and would never stand up to the Council’s questioning without more proof, but she was certain she had the answer now. Rockfist would be pleased to know he’d been right all along. So would Kiruk.

“What?” Mountainheart asked, leaning over to read the entry himself and not understanding what about it was making Sabira smile like a feral cat.

“I know who did it, and I think I know why. Now all we have to do is prove it.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Far, Nymm 20, 998 YK
Frostmantle, Mror Holds.

Hrun Noldrun? Who is he?”

Sabira quickly explained about the latest pretender to Noldrunhold.

“He arrived in Krona Peak not long after the encounter Haddrin wrote about. Rockfist said he’d been badly burned at some point—maybe it happened in the cave-in. Maybe he was there, maybe he survived … what Ned and Nightshard didn’t.”

The words came in a raw whisper as she saw it all happen again, playing out before her like a show at the Livewood. In her haste to save Aggar, she’d triggered a deadfall, and the portion of the cavern roof that Ned’s chain was connected to had collapsed. Her devastated scream was drowned out by the thunder of falling rock as she watched Leoned’s body disappear into the magma moments before both the pool itself and Nightshard were buried beneath a small mountain of earth and stone. She and Aggar dug in vain, but all they uncovered was a hand gray with dust. On it, a Khyber shard ring gleamed, even through its coating of dirt. Of Ned, they found nothing. He was gone.

Nightshard had claimed his last victim.

Sabira blinked fiercely, struggling to keep sudden tears at bay. She cleared her throat and continued, hoping Mountainheart hadn’t noticed.

“Maybe it took him this long to find his way back.”

“To Krona Peak?” Mountainheart asked disbelievingly.

“To sanity. Or some semblance of it, anyway.” Host knew it had taken her that long … if she was even there yet. “We never really understood what he was doing back then, or why, but I think I do now. Haddrin gave me the clue. It was in one of the books he was looking at in … the library,” she said, glancing at Tysane. “One on mining claims in and around Noldrunhold. The names of most of the families had been grayed out—either their mines had been played out or the family lines themselves had. Several of those names seemed familiar to me at the time, but I was more interested in the material on magmatic fissures, so I didn’t stop to think about what that meant. But now that I understand that Noldrunhold’s been the key to this all along, it makes perfect sense.”

Sabira paused expectantly, waiting for Mountainheart to catch up with her, but he just gave her a confused look and shook his head. Tysane said nothing.

“The family names were familiar to me because I’d seen them before. Because they were all names of Nightsh—of the Stalker’s victims.”

“Wait. You’re saying the Stalker killed all those people … over mining claims?” Mountainheart couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the prospect.

“I think so, yes. To make sure the area in and around Noldrunhold was completely abandoned.”

“But why? Nobody lives there anymore. Nobody wants to live there. Who would, with Korran’s Maw on one side and Noldrunthrone on the other?”

It was a fair question. Noldrunthrone was believed by all to be haunted, and the Maw was possibly the most feared and shunned location in the entirety of the Holds. Though it was commonly known that the mine still bore rich lodes of ore, so great was the power of the legends surrounding it that those veins remained untapped, even four centuries after they were first deserted. Even so, there was one person who would not be deterred by shades and stories.

It was Tysane who provided the answer.

“A Noldrun.”

“At least one—remember, Hrun is just the accomplice. The Stalker who set all this in motion was probably a Noldrun, too.”

“So, what’s he doing now?” Mountainheart asked, frowning into his beard. “These new victims don’t fit the same pattern. Aside from Goldglove, most of them aren’t even from the southern holds.”

“You’re right, they’re not,” Sabira agreed. “They’re all people whose deaths would be easy to lay at Aggar’s feet for one reason or another, but other than that, they’re not important to Hrun’s greater plan. Not like the first victims were.

“I thought he just wanted to finish the job that I interrupted back in ’91—killing Aggar. But I realize now that was never his goal. Or at least, it wasn’t his only one.

“Haddrin stumbled onto the true plot when he discovered the fissure. Hrun wasn’t going to be content with just killing the Tordannon heir this time—he was going to destroy the heir and the inheritance.”

“Frostmantle?” Tysane asked, horrified. Tysane quickly curved her first two fingers into a fang shape—the sign of the Keeper, the Sovereign of Death and Decay, meant to ward off evil.

“Exactly. Hrun must have remembered Haddrin from his crazed wanderings and realized the threat your son posed. It would have been easy enough for Hrun to track him down at the hot springs, since he knew where to look. Then, when he read the logbook entries and saw that Aggar had threatened Haddrin, the idea to frame Aggar for the murder must have seemed like a gift sent directly from the Mockery. Only the authorities took too long to figure it out; Hrun had to help them along by laying even more murders at Aggar’s feet. But now that Aggar’s been arrested, Hrun can carry on with his true work undisturbed.”

“So how do we stop him?”

“I haven’t figured that one out just yet. But I do know where we can find him.” She grinned at Mountainheart, unaccountably relieved to finally have a sure course of action. “Care to visit some hot springs?”

As they were taking their leave of Tysane, Sabira reminded the old woman not to speak of what she’d heard and then thanked her again for letting them have Haddrin’s logbook.

“Your generosity today will save many lives, grandmother—” Sabira began, only to have Tysane smack her on the shin with her cane.

“Stop calling me that, girl. I’m no one’s grandmother—and won’t ever be, now. The Goldglove line ends with me.”

“I’m sorry,” Sabira said perfunctorily, and then the old dwarf’s words reminded her of something she’d read. Ah, yes. Gunnett was likewise the last of her line.

“Speaking of which, grand—sorry, Tysane. Can you tell me what some symbols on a family pedigree mean?”

“Most likely,” the genealogist replied with alacrity. “Describe them.”

When she had, Tysane nodded.

“Hmm. The circle with the x in it is a fairly common one. It means the woman has been proven to be barren. The other symbol—two circles separated by a line, with one circle being larger—that one’s quite a bit rarer, at least in modern genealogies. It’s the sign of the fortunate twin.”

Sabira, unfamiliar with the term, looked at Mountainheart, who shrugged and shook his head. A response he was getting a little too much practice making of late.

“The fortunate twin?” she prompted Tysane.

“Yes. It refers to an old custom no longer considered acceptable by civilized dwarves. Twin births are generally more difficult than singletons, and one or both children are often born with abnormalities. In older, darker days, the ‘imperfect’ twin was usually cast out.” Tysane’s wrinkled face creased into a grimace. “Can’t say as I’m sorry the custom’s been abandoned, seeing as I was a twin myself, and my life hasn’t turned out half bad.”

Sabira resisted the urge to give Mountainheart a pointed glare at that, thinking of another blind child that never got the chance to find out what his life would have been like.

“So, if the mother was barren, and the daughter was a fortunate twin …?”

“Then the normal daughter was adopted via the Ceremony of Blood, Steel, and Stone, while her twisted twin was most likely left to die in the depths of the Ironroots,” Tysane finished. “If that’s the case, the size of the circles can also indicate the age at which the adoption took place.”

Sabira thought back.

“The smaller circle was about the same size as the one indicating barrenness, and the larger was probably twice that.”

“Not an infant, then. Anywhere from five to ten years old, I’d guess. Old enough to remember it, poor child.” But whether Tysane was referring to the fortunate twin or the cast-off, Sabira couldn’t tell.

“Why are you wasting time asking about this?” Mountainheart demanded with an impatient frown. “What does the barbaric practice of some obscure family have to do with finding Hrun or helping my uncle? Who are you even talking about?”

Sabira looked at him for a moment, considering. He didn’t have any of the usual tells of someone who was bluffing; he must honestly not know that Gunnett had not been born a Stoneblood.

“It’s not important,” she said at last. She wasn’t sure what to make of this new information, but she did know telling Mountainheart about it now was only going to distract him from the task at hand, and she had a feeling she was going to need him at his sharpest. Their foe was turning out to be far cleverer than she’d imagined.

“Something from an old case,” she added when the dwarf didn’t seem convinced. “Remind me to tell you about it later, after this one is closed. For now, we need to get down to the lowest levels of the city as soon as possible. From what I read in Haddrin’s journal, the fissure had almost reached Frostmantle. It must be even closer now, maybe even beneath the city already, so whatever Hrun has planned, it’s going to happen soon. And we need to be there to stop it.”

It took them more than two hours to wend their way down through the lower levels of Frostmantle until they reached Maintenance. This level housed great pumps and a labyrinthine system of pipes that delivered clean water to every home in the mountain and took the soiled water away again to be purified. Trash and debris were likewise delivered to this level via an intricate system of chutes, where it was separated for either composting or burning. If an item could be melted down or somehow reused, it was; otherwise, it went into a vast central furnace that provided heat for much of the city. The operation was not without disadvantages, however: While most of the smoke was vented away, the lingering odor rivaled that of Stormreach’s sewers.

Since neither of them was familiar with Maintenance, it took them some time to find one of what the locals called “rat tunnels”—passages made by various entities in various ways over the years that led from the city’s lowest inhabited level to the natural caverns beneath Frostmantle. Whenever the watch found such openings, they would board them over or collapse them, but new ones were always cropping up. The caverns were too valuable a hiding spot for thieves and thugs, not to mention being a handy escape route for pampered nobles fleeing the rules and responsibilities of their parents. Sabira had no doubt that if Aggar were here, he could lead them blindfolded to half a dozen of his own favorite bolt holes.

Dodging the watch, they finally located a tunnel behind a guardhouse that had apparently been crushed when one of the large-diameter pipes above exploded. From the looks of it, whatever disaster had caused the accident had happened long ago, for the piping above the small building had been replaced and was once again showing signs of wear. Sabira hoped the Maintenance crews had figured out the cause of the explosion and fixed the problem when they fixed the pipe. It was all too easy to imagine a section of the heavy metal slamming down on them from above as they climbed over the rusted remains of its predecessor.

The tunnel was lit with fluorescent fungi that lived off minerals in the rock. The walls were only wide enough for them to proceed single file, so Sabira pulled back her hood, unharnessed her shard axe, and took the lead.

They followed the tunnel for a short distance before it opened up into a small cavern. Like the tunnel, the cavern was lit by patches of the glowing fungi, giving everything a nacreous hue. By the pale green light, they could see what their ears had already told them: no hot springs. Not that Sabira had expected their quest to end that quickly or easily. She was actually glad there was no telltale hint of sulfur in the air. They might still have time to thwart Hrun’s plan.

The cavern had two exits, not including the one through which they’d entered. When Sabira hesitated, Mountainheart stepped around her and took the lead.

“This way,” he said, heading for the closer of the two new tunnels. At Sabira’s quizzical look, he added, “The Fist is south of here, so if we head in that direction, we should eventually find the caverns with the hot springs in them.”

“But how do you know that’s south?” Sabira normally had a good sense of direction, but not when there were several hundred feet of solid rock between her and the sun.

Mountainheart looked at her like she’d sprouted purple fangs, a bushy tail, and a third eye.

“That’s like asking a ranger how he can tell which way west is when he’s staring at the setting sun. I’m a dwarf, underground. I just know.”

Fair enough.

“Lead on, then,” she replied, following him through four more caverns, each one bearing in the same general direction—south, Sabira presumed—and trending downward. As they were about to enter the fifth, Sabira caught a hint of rotten eggs on the air. She reached out to grab Mountainheart’s shoulder.

“We’re getting close,” she whispered. “Be ready.”

Mountainheart nodded, holding the tip of his rapier up higher. They entered the fifth cavern and were immediately engulfed in clouds of sulfurous steam. Sabira shifted her urgrosh to one hand and used the other to pull a fold of Kiruk’s cloak up over her nose, blocking out the worst of the odor, though her eyes still burned. Mountainheart refused to be so hampered, soldiering on through the hot stench, his face red from his effort to breathe in as little of the rank steam as possible.

As they made their way across the stalagmite-ridden cavern floor toward the cluster of sulfuric springs, Sabira couldn’t help but admire their alien beauty. Far from being basins of clear blue water, as she had expected, the pools were instead filled to their multicolored rims with bubbling mud in a dizzying array of colors—aquamarine, vermillion, ochre, and a blindingly bright yellow. Several small algae-covered boulders hunched near the edges of the mudpots, adding their own rich hues of green and brown. Sabira wondered idly if Haddrin’s body had been found by some daring painter who’d braved the rat tunnels for the chance to commit such a rare and vibrant mix to canvas.

Mountainheart paused a few feet away from the nearest spring, one of a group of five large mudpots surrounded by several smaller outliers. Sabira stepped up to join him.

“There’s no one here, and no sign anyone’s been here recently. So what’s our next move?” the dwarf asked, keeping his voice low despite his assertion that they were alone. Or perhaps it was merely the caustic fumes adding the deep rasp to his words.

“Well, assuming these are the springs Goldglove was talking about, he said the fissure was four hundred feet or so away,” Sabira replied, looking around. She couldn’t see that far through the wafting curtain of steam, but she pointed the way they’d been headed. “If we’re in the right place, the fissure should be over there somewhere. That’s probably where we want to start our hunt.”

Mountainheart nodded, but didn’t speak. Sabira doubted he really wanted to open his mouth and risk swallowing more of the pungent air. He wiped water from his eyes with the back of his free hand and started off in the direction Sabira had indicated.

As they moved away from the larger pools of boiling mud and toward the smaller ones, it got a little cooler and a little easier to breathe. Sabira dropped the edge of her cloak and resumed her two-handed grip on the shard axe as she scanned the ground in front of them. She was fairly certain they’d gone at least four hundred feet, but she knew from experience how being underground could confound perspective: Everything seemed alternately smaller and more closed in, and then too vast to be comprehended. She tried to shake the feeling off, knowing it for what it was—a haunted remnant of her time in the Maw, when she’d searched for, and found, Leoned.

Refocusing, Sabira peered ahead, searching in vain for Goldglove’s fissure. But she didn’t see anything on the cavern floor other than two bathtub-sized mudpots, one on either side of them, the ubiquitous stalagmites, and more of the brown boulders. Certainly nothing that looked like a channel—artificial or otherwise—diverting magma from the Fist of Onatar.

Were they in the wrong cavern? Were these new springs that had erupted in the time since Goldglove made his journal entry?

Sabira was about to tell Mountainheart they needed to move farther south and deeper into the network of caves when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. A rock the size of her head was sailing across the cavern from the direction of the larger mudpots, and it was about to hit Mountainheart square in the back.

“Orin! Left knee, hard!”

The dwarf didn’t miss a beat, falling to one knee as the stone missile flew harmlessly over his head.

Sabira whirled to face this new enemy, shard axe at the ready.

There was nothing behind them but stone and steam. Unless their foe was invisible—a dangerous proposition here, where even the slightest movement would leave a trail of super-heated mist—or was small enough to fit behind one of the boulders, she and Mountainheart were alone.

Another movement, on the edges of her vision.

There, on the other side of the small spring to her left. Had that boulder been there before?

Mountainheart had regained his feet and moved up to stand on her right, a step or two in front of her.

“Where?” he asked simply, eyes scanning the cavern behind them, hands white on his weapons.

“Left,” Sabira said, but then she saw more movement on the other side of him. “And right!” she called as their enemies finally showed themselves.

Their opponents were the boulders themselves, unfurling from fetal positions to reveal blocky stone bodies and stubby appendages that served as rocky arms and legs.

Mountainheart swore. “Duhr!”

“What are you talking about?” Sabira asked as she dodged one flying rock and swatted another away with the cheek of her shard axe.

“Galeb duhr disguise themselves as boulders. But boulders are surface features, formed by water and wind erosion. You hardly ever see them underground, except for in the beds of large subterranean rivers.” He shook his head in disgust. “I should have suspected when I saw them grouped around the hot springs, but I was too focused on finding Goldglove’s fissure.”

As he spoke, he ducked to avoid one rock and took another, smaller one in his left thigh.

“Great, so how do we fight them?” Sabira asked as more of the duhr advanced. She counted half a dozen standing now, and nearly the same number still rolling toward them from their former places around the larger springs.

“Our weapons,” Mountainheart replied with a shrug. “Unless you’ve got a fireball up your sleeve.”

“You’re the one with the magic rings,” Sabira reminded him, casting a quick look over her shoulder to the south to make sure they weren’t being flanked. If there were any duhr on that side of the cavern, they were keeping themselves hidden.

She briefly considered retreating in that direction, but quickly dismissed the idea. Without knowing what was over there, they were safer where they were. There could be more duhr. Or the fissure might actually be there, farther away than Goldglove had calculated, and Sabira didn’t particularly relish the idea of stumbling into it while fighting off animated boulders. At least here, between two of the smaller mudpots, the approaches from the east and west were cut off, leaving the duhr only one avenue of attack. Well, Sabira amended as a rock the size of her fist bounced off the knuckles of her right hand, make that two avenues.

“I guess I could teleport back to Aggar’s rooms at the Tankard, track down some scrolls or WANDS, and come back, but I’m not sure how well you’d fare in the meantime,” Mountainheart replied, reaching up to snatch one of the rocks whizzing past. As he hurled it back at one of the closer galeb duhr, he added, “Because other than that, I don’t know what these rings do, if anything.”

Sabira didn’t bother to reply. She was too busy trying to keep her footing as the ground began to heave and she came perilously close to being dumped headfirst into the mudpot on her left.

Then she realized the floor of the cavern wasn’t just rolling beneath her feet, it was growing up around them!

“Orin!” she shouted as the ground rose up to engulf her legs in a ghastly parody of a hand.

“I see it!” he called back, dancing from foot to foot to keep from being caught in the same trap. “Keep your arms up, out of the way!”

Sabira did as Mountainheart instructed, keeping her shard axe clear. The fist of stone reached her waist but came no higher.

And then it began to squeeze.

She didn’t need the dwarf to tell her what to do next. As the crushing grip inexorably tightened, Sabira swung her adamantine urgrosh down at the stone “wrist.” Again and again she slammed the axe-blade into the rock, and with every blow it sank deeper, until she’d created a deep, bloodless gash that cut halfway through the false appendage. Meanwhile, a muted crack and a burning pain in her side signaled a broken rib, if not a punctured lung. If she didn’t get out of this now, her pelvis would be next, but it wouldn’t just snap—it would shatter, and she’d be as good as dead.

Fighting against the earthen grasp, she threw all of her weight back and forth, again and again. Finally, her painful struggles were rewarded by another crack, this one sharp and reverberating. Next she was falling to the right as the force of her oscillation broke the rock hand from its weakened wrist. As she toppled, the stone encasing her fell apart, and by the time she hit the ground, she was free.

She quickly clambered to her feet and then kept moving, dancing from side to side, making sure neither foot stayed in the same place too long. If she had to be a target, she would at least be a moving one, for the duhrs and the ground both.

She watched as the duhrs tried the same tactic on Mountainheart. The ground roiled beneath him but, forewarned, he was able to leap away whenever the fist started to form, and if his feet were not in contact with the earth, it seemed the grasping hand could not clutch him.

Too late, Sabira saw that the stone fist was just a distraction. One of the duhrs was hoisting up a boulder easily its own size. She called out a warning as the duhr heaved the huge rock at Mountainheart. The dwarf looked up, saw it, and nimbly danced out of its path.

If it had been just an ordinary rock, Mountainheart would have avoided it easily. But as it flew over his head, a stone leg shot out and kicked him square in the jaw, sending him sailing backward.

Right into the other pool of boiling mud.

Sabira could only watch helplessly as the dwarf’s back hit the far rim of the mudpot and the full length of both legs splashed down into the thick liquid, sending up globs of scalding mud to splatter his chest and arms.

Mountainheart’s scream was the most horrible thing Sabira had ever heard, a guttural sound of pure, primal pain wrenched uncontrollably from the depths of his lungs and expelled outward by the sheer magnitude of his agony. It echoed throughout the cavern, the fungi-covered walls sending it reverberating back to them for long moments after Mountainheart was too far gone in torment to hear it.

Sabira, heedless of her own safety, sprinted around the edge of the small hot spring to where Mountainheart lay, his hands beating weakly against the cavern floor as he tried to pull his legs out of the boiling mud with muscles that had already been burned away.

Dropping her shard axe, Sabira grabbed the dwarf under his arms and yanked him away from the pool. The sudden movement was too much for Mountainheart, and he lost consciousness, his head lolling against her chest as she struggled to pull him clear. As his legs came free with a wet squelch and Sabira got a good look at the ruin, it was all she could do not to vomit bile mixed with Onatar’s Blood all over him.

His clothes had been almost completely burned away from the waist down, and small flames licked the edges of what was left of his shirt before Sabira swatted them out. The exposed skin of his torso was a livid red, and covered in huge, oozing blisters. His thighs were a morass of melted flesh, muscle, and bone, and there was nothing left of his legs past the knee joint.

Sabira was amazed he was even still breathing, though those breaths came in shallow, panting gasps. And if she didn’t get him out of here soon, he wouldn’t be doing even that much.

She looked briefly at the rings he wore, but didn’t know which one would send him back to the Tankard, or how to activate its magic even if she could identify the right ring. And without her there with him to get help, all teleporting him would do is change the location of his final resting place.

Sabira grabbed the gold ring on the middle finger of her left hand and twisted it three times, clockwise.

“Aggar! Aggar Tordannon! I need you!”

Aggar appeared beside her, shirtless and just finishing lacing up his breeches. He looked up, startled.

“What the …?” he began, almost reflexively, but he took in the situation in an instant—his nephew dying at his feet, Sabira’s shard axe the only thing standing between them and a dozen galeb duhrs advancing on them in stony silence. With a curse, he twisted one of the gold rings on his fingers and said, “Wind!”

The sound of a thousand rushing whispers filled the cavern, and Sabira felt her hair and clothing pulled toward the duhrs with invisible, greedy fingers as gale-force winds streamed by on their way to encircling the walking boulders. In moments, a small tornado had formed around the duhrs, tearing them from the cavern floor and sending them spinning through the air in madcap cartwheels. At Aggar’s direction, the improbable cyclone skipped across the ground, picking up stray duhrs, then wound its way back to the largest of the bubbling mudpots.

As the whirlwind crossed the surface of the spring, multicolored mud and steam were sucked into its vortex, creating a conical rainbow wall and obscuring the airborne duhrs from view. When the wall had climbed halfway to the ceiling of the cavern, draining the deep basin almost to its bottom, Aggar released the wind.

The entire cone of mud, steam, and duhrs collapsed back into the basin with the same hissing whoosh the lightning rail made when it passed through a tunnel. Mud splashed high across the cavern floor, some small globs traveling far enough to hit her and Aggar, causing several small burns on his bare chest and one on her cheek. If any of the globs hit Mountainheart, Sabira couldn’t tell; he was already so covered in burns that one or two more would hardly be noticeable.

When the cavern was once more filled with only the sounds of popping bubbles and whistling steam, Aggar knelt beside his nephew, touching his forehead lightly, then placing a gentle hand on Mountainheart’s chest, trying to detect even the slightest rise and fall there, the smallest breath.

There was nothing.

When Aggar looked up at Sabira, his green eyes sparkled with a grief she knew all too well.

“I came too late,” he said in a small voice.

“It was already too late when I called you,” she said softly, her own voice catching with unanticipated sadness. While she’d found the envoy annoying at times—well, most of the time—he’d still been a decent partner. She imagined he would have made an even better friend. But she would never know now.

“So what do you want to do?” she asked Aggar after a few moments of respectful silence. She expected he’d want to take Mountainheart—Orin, she owed him that much—back to Krona Peak.

“This is my fault,” the dwarf said brokenly, looking away. “He would never have been down here if it weren’t for me.”

Aggar’s words rang with an unexpected resonance, sending chills down Sabira’s spine—they were the same accusing words she’d thrown at him after the cave-in, when the walls were coming down around them and he’d forced her to leave. Forced her to live.

“He was here because he wanted to be,” Sabira replied. “Because he cared about you and wanted to help you.” Though she was suddenly unsure if she was talking about Orin or Leoned.

“Don’t cheapen his devotion—his sacrifice—by saying he had no choice in the matter, because he did.” Sabira saw Ned, dangling from that chain, urging her to make her own right choice with earnest, accepting eyes.

“Don’t take that away from him, Agg. Honor it.”

After a moment, Aggar nodded.

“You’re right,” he said, with no trace of rancor or irony. Which Sabira had half-expected, considering Aggar had given her a similar speech right before she’d stormed out of Frostmantle, proclaiming her undying hatred for him and vowing never to return. He held out his hand to her. “May I have the ring back, please?”

Surprised, Sabira removed the ring and passed it over to him. Aggar removed his silver rings carefully from Orin’s hands, then placed Greddark’s golden one tenderly on Orin’s little finger. He pocketed the Silver Concordian rings, then reached up and gently closed his nephew’s sightless eyes.

“Go in peace,” he said simply, then twisted the gold ring three times counterclockwise around Orin’s finger. Orin’s body disappeared soundlessly and Aggar stood.

At her questioning look, he said, “I sent him back to the Peak. They’ll take care of him there, and inform Gunnett and Meridella.”

“What about the Council and Torlan?”

“To Khyber with them,” Aggar spat, toying with another of his rings. A rune-inscribed greataxe appeared in his hand and he hefted it appreciatively. Then he gave her a fierce, feral grin.

“Let’s finish this.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Far, Nymm 20, 998 YK
Somewhere beneath Frostmantle, Mror Holds.

As they continued slowly across the cavern, Sabira still scanning the ground for signs of the elusive magmatic fissure, she began to fill Aggar in on everything she and Orin had learned from Goldglove’s logbook. By the time she’d finished, they’d left the springs behind and had reached the center of the cavern, where they could see the far wall and the two tunnels it boasted, both leading south.

When she was done, Aggar reached out a hand to stop her from moving on. When she turned to look at him questioningly, his expression was grim.

“Saba, it’s not Hrun Noldrun.”

“What?” She frowned, not quite sure she’d heard him correctly. “What do you mean, it’s not him? It has to be.”

“No, Saba. He’s dead. They found his body not far from the Tombs the day after you left for Frostmantle. He’d been beheaded, but his eyes were still intact. He was wearing a tattered gray cloak, so they assumed he was the one who breached security there the night before, since they’d found a scrap of similar material at the scene.” She must have looked at him uncomprehendingly, because he stopped and repeated, very slowly, “Sabira. He’s dead.”

She felt suddenly like she was in one of those cheap tavern shows where the so-called mage would come around trying to earn coin by pulling the tablecloth out from under all the place settings without disturbing them. Only it never really worked that way, and all the glasses and dishes would go tumbling to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces, while the charlatan slipped off into the shadows, unnoticed.

“But … the motto? The attack in the Tombs? If not him, then who?” And, hard on the heels of that, “Did I bring Orin down here to die for nothing?”

“No. You didn’t,” Aggar answered, cocking his head to the side. Then he went down on one knee and placed his hand on the cavern floor, much as he had done with Orin earlier. He bent forward and placed his ear to the ground.

“What are you doing?” Sabira asked, nonplussed. Her eyes darted from stalagmite to stalagmite and she wondered what fresh horror the cavern had in store for them.

“Listening,” the dwarf replied shortly, holding up a hand to keep her from speaking when she would have continued. “And feeling.”

After several long moments, he lifted his head up, brushed dirt out of his beard, and stood.

“Your fissure. It’s here, you just can’t see it. Maybe thirty feet below us, judging from the sound and the heat of the ground here.”

“How can you—” Sabira began, but stopped herself. “Never mind. It’s a dwarf thing, I know. So can you tell how far it extends?”

“No, but—”

Aggar was interrupted by a sudden deep rumbling. The cavern shook and the ground rocked beneath them.

“Earthquake?” Sabira asked as she widened her stance and tried to keep her feet. “More duhrs?”

Aggar shook his head, his own legs planted shoulder-width apart.

“Worse,” he said as the shaking subsided into an ominous quiet. He grabbed the haft of his greataxe in a two-handed grip and turned to face the northeast. “It’s what’s controlling them.”

“What?” Sabira asked, looking in the direction he was facing, but not seeing what he was talking about.

And then the ground exploded, not a hundred feet from where they stood, showering them with rocks and dirt. A huge, vaguely humanoid creature formed out of the earth itself stood there, its cave-like maw open in a great roar like the sound of an avalanche bearing inexorably down on them.

“That.”

That was an earth elemental, one of the largest Sabira had ever seen, let alone fought. It left a gaping hole as it strode toward them on massive legs, and Sabira could just glimpse the flickering orange glow of molten rock behind it.

The elemental was the one channeling magma from the Fist of Onatar, no doubt at the command of Nightshard’s accomplice—whoever he was. Why else would the creature be carving out a conduit for molten rock hot enough to destroy it?

“Use your ring!” she said urgently to Aggar, knowing that even her adamantine urgrosh would be no match for the towering elemental. But it wouldn’t matter if Aggar could summon his whirlwind to bear the creature back and drop it into the fissure it had created.

“I can’t!” he replied, her own fear mirrored on his face. “The magic has to recharge. I’ve got nothing that would be of any help against this thing.”

As if that weren’t bad enough, the cavern floor over the fissure was collapsing in both directions with every lumbering step the creature took. And they were about to be on the wrong side of the forming chasm.

“We need to—” she began, but too late. The ground shuddered and started to sink, and she and Aggar had to backpedal furiously to keep clear of the fissure’s crumbling edge. When they finally regained relatively solid footing, they were on the far side of a deep gorge that spanned the width of the cavern.

They were trapped.

And the elemental was still advancing.

Chunks of ore shone throughout its body, along with hairy roots, bits of fossilized bone, and what looked like half of a giant centipede, torn asunder when the elemental was formed out of the side of some mountain—presumably, the Fist itself. As it neared, Sabira could see the two golden gems that served as its eyes blazing with inhuman fury.

And just above and between them, a pulsing, blue-black Khyber shard.

“We can’t beat it while it’s in contact with the ground, and we can’t use your ring to lift it, so how are we going to get it into the air?” she wondered aloud as she and Aggar slowly backed away from the approaching elemental. She hadn’t really been talking to the dwarf, so she was surprised when he ventured a response.

“Trip it?”

Sabira stopped and looked at him, agog. Trip an earth elemental? Was he serious?

But then she turned back to watch the elemental’s approach. Earth elementals could glide through the earth like a fish through water, but this one was walking, lifting up one ponderous leg at a time and taking slow, plodding steps. Why?

The answer lay in the channel it had been creating. If it traveled as it normally would, leaving no tunnel or hole and displacing no material as it moved beneath the ground, it would be unable to form the conduit the magma needed. So, just as it was being commanded to bore out a path for the molten rock, it was also being directed to suppress its innate abilities in order to carry out that task.

Which did, in fact, leave it vulnerable to something as simple as being tripped.

She saw no effective way of snagging the elemental’s foot as it passed, but she thought with the aid of her urgrosh’s enchantment, she might just be able to act as an effective stumbling block for the creature. But that was going to require getting the thing to move faster than a glacier, and she could think of only one way to do that.

“You want me to do what?” Aggar asked incredulously after she’d briefly sketched out her plan.

“Let it hit you. Then—”

“Let it hit me,” he repeated, interrupting her. “Has it, perhaps, escaped your notice that I’m not wearing any armor?”

“Well, it doesn’t have to hit you hard—just enough to whet its appetite for more, and get it moving. Then it will follow you, and you can lead it close to the edge, allowing me to sneak up and get in front of one of its feet without it noticing. Then with any luck, it will trip over me, topple over into the fissure, and we’ll be out of this mess, at least.”

“With any luck,” Aggar parroted the words back to her sarcastically. “Says the woman not being used as a training dummy by a gigantic walking boulder.”

“If you’ve got a better idea …?”

Aggar gave her a sour look.

“That’s what I thought. Besides, are you honestly going to tell me that one of those rings of yours doesn’t have some spell to harden your skin? That used to be a favorite trick of yours during sparring sessions back at the safehouse.”

“Of course I have one that does that, but it’s meant for use against opponents who are roughly my same size—not ones that are ten times bigger. What good is it going to do against that?” he asked as the elemental, who’d moved closer while they argued, slammed a massive fist down on the cavern floor mere feet from where they stood, shaking the ground and leaving a crater big enough to swallow both of them whole.

“It’s better than nothing,” Sabira answered as they scrambled backward yet again. “Now, are we going to do this or not? We’re running out of chasm, here.”

“Well, if I’d known I was going to die today, I would have at least worn a shirt,” the dwarf muttered, mostly to himself. Then to Sabira he said, more loudly, “Let’s do it.”

He didn’t wait for her to reply. Instead, he touched one of his rings and said, “Stone.” Then he hefted his greataxe and ran nimbly back toward the elemental. When he was almost in range of the creature’s fists, he stopped, waving the weapon over his head and yelling.

“Over here, you gutless brute! You want to smash something? Smash this!”

Aggar darted forward and sliced at one of the elemental’s legs, his enruned greataxe leaving a bloodless gash where an ankle would normally be. Then he jumped back again before the cumbersome creature could bring its fists to bear. The earth elemental let out another thunderous roar like the echoes of a subterranean cataract and slammed a massive forearm down, nearly catching Aggar across the back. As the dwarf tumbled away and leaped to his feet again, Sabira dashed around the elemental, giving it a wide berth as Aggar continued to taunt the dim-witted monstrosity.

When she was behind the elemental, she waved her own weapon high, her signal to Aggar to begin implementing his part of the plan.

“Khoot! Khoot!” he yelled, giving Sabira’s old Karrnathi battle cry to show he’d seen the motion. “Come on, you mass of mud! Impress me!”

As the elemental swung at him again, Aggar ducked and twisted out of the way, just enough to let the blow clip him on the shoulder. Even so, it sent him flying, almost to the edge of the precipice overlooking the river of magma.

The elemental closed in, intent on finishing its prey, and Sabira seized her chance. She darted in between its legs as it went after Aggar, waiting until its airborne foot had nearly descended and driving her shard axe in the ground in front of the foot that would be moving next. She hunched over, grasped the haft firmly with both hands, and braced herself for the impact.

The elemental’s other foot hit the ground and it raised the one she was planted in front of. But even with the urgrosh enhancing her stability, she just wasn’t big or heavy enough to stop it. Instead, the creature’s foot caught her mid-thigh and sent her and her shard axe arcing through the air to land several feet ahead of its advance.

Right in the path of that same foot, now plummeting toward her at an alarming rate.

Sabira rolled out of the way just in time, narrowly avoiding having her legs smashed by a toe nearly as large as she was.

She lay there for a moment, still stunned by the force of her landing. As she watched, the elemental’s foot slammed down again, this time on a thick stalagmite. The sharp formation was not crushed beneath the creature’s weight; it was too massive. Instead, it pierced the thing’s foot like a needle. And when the elemental went to take another step, its foot stuck on the stalagmite for just an instant before the thrusting formation broke off under the power of the creature’s stride.

The elemental slammed a fist down again, trying to squash Aggar, who was still hurling insults the creature could only dimly comprehend, like some persistent, buzzing gnat. She could see the dwarf leap to the side, but he was out of room. The elemental would be on him in just another step or two.

Well, if it worked for the stalagmite …

Sabira jumped up and ran for the elemental, dodging the deep hollows it left in its wake. She reached the creature just as it was about to take the final step that would bring Aggar into range of both fists, with nowhere for the dwarf to run.

She stationed herself in front of the thing’s earthbound foot and plunged the Siberys shard-tip of her urgrosh through it with all her might. She felt it lodge into something hard and firm. Bedrock.

As the elemental went to raise its foot, it caught on Sabira’s shard axe, just as it had on the stalagmite. But where the stalagmite had barely fazed the creature, the urgrosh, planted deep in unyielding stone, was not so easily dislodged.

With its weight already moving forward on that side, and no leg to support it, the elemental hitched and began to fall. Its heavy arms hit the edge of the chasm, and the ground crumbled beneath them. Aggar scrambled away in time, but Sabira, still pinned to the elemental’s foot with her shard axe, had no place to go.

She struggled to retract the urgrosh from the underlying stone, working it furiously back and forth, fearful for a moment that she might somehow break either the dragonshard tip or the leather-wrapped haft, but better either of those things than her. The shard axe came loose from the bedrock, but would not come free from the creature itself. Sabira had only moments to choose: give up the weapon or go to her death still vainly clinging to it.

Then Aggar was there, adding his strength to hers, and together they worked the tip free and jumped clear as the last of the elemental’s footing disappeared from under it, and it pitched headlong into the eager magma below, roaring wordlessly. Moments later, a resounding splash echoed through the cavern, and the ground rumbled in reply.

Aggar regained his feet first and went to the edge of the chasm, peering over to make sure their foe was really gone, swallowed whole by the river of molten rock below.

He watched for a moment, frowning, then turned back to her.

“We’d better find what we’re looking for quickly. I think the magma’s starting to rise. I had the engineers in Maintenance working on something to stop it, just in case Goldglove’s fantasies proved real, but we’ll have to get to their main station on that level to activate it, and well before the magma gets there, or it won’t work.”

Sabira nodded and started to rise, but her ankle had been twisted beneath her during her fall, and it was slow going. Aggar moved back to help her, holding out his hand.

“Careful, I think I broke a rib. It’s a good thing my spell didn’t wear off until after that jump—”

His words were cut short by a gasp of mingled surprise and pain as the tip of a pulsing black blade burst from his stomach in a foul parody of birth, with what looked like a stunted third arm emerging instead of a child.

As Aggar fell forward, sliding off the short sword and barely missing her, Sabira saw the blade’s owner—a cloaked and hooded figure that had literally appeared out of nowhere.

“A good thing, indeed,” the figure said, drawing back his blade for another blow.

And that’s when Sabira saw the ring.

Gold, set with a large black stone with a glowing blue heart. A Khyber shard.

A nightshard.

Sabira had seen the twin of that ring once before.

On Nightshard’s bloody hand, protruding from a pile of rubble that had crushed both the assassin and Leoned.

Or so she had thought.

She’d taken that ring, and she knew the assassin would never have willingly given up the one remaining, even to an accomplice. Which could only mean one thing.

There was no accomplice. There never had been. Because, despite what everyone believed—what Sabira herself had believed all this time—the assassin had not died in the cave-in.

Nightshard was alive.

Alive, and standing right in front of her, about to finish the task he’d begun so many years ago: killing Aggar.

Acting almost without thinking, Sabira reached down and grabbed a fist-sized rock, throwing it at the assassin without bothering to aim. She knew he’d be too fast for the projectile to do any real damage, even if it did manage to hit him. The attack was simply a distraction, meant to give her time to get up and get her urgrosh into position before he could deliver the killing blow.

The ploy worked; Nightshard batted the stone away with his sword, the black blade humming as it connected. Then he was swinging at Aggar’s unprotected back as the dwarf struggled to crawl away.

But Sabira was up now, her own weapon moving. As Nightshard’s arm came down, Sabira’s shard axe met it. But she hadn’t been aiming for his weapon. The blade of her axe cleaved flesh and bone, and the be-ringed hand holding the black blade separated cleanly from the assassin’s wrist, leaving nothing but a spurting stump.

Though the sword—a mindblade, Sabira realized—simply reappeared in Nightshard’s other hand, the assassin fell back with an agonized howl, and his hood slipped. Sabira now looked at the bald head, disfigured gray face, and glittering black eyes of a duergar.

A female duergar.

Sabira pulled Aggar up and away from the assassin even as Nightshard leaped forward to reclaim her severed hand. As the assassin placed her dragonshard ring on her good hand and used it to cauterize her bleeding wrist, Aggar used one of his own rings to heal the damage from her mindblade. On a hunch, Sabira tried the same motion and whispered word on the corresponding silver ring she wore, and felt a burning sensation spread through her ankle as torn ligaments reattached themselves in a mere fraction of the time they would normally have taken to heal. Too late, she realized she might have just used up the last of their restorative magic on what was essentially a glorified sprain, but she’d had no other choice. If she couldn’t walk, she couldn’t fight, especially not an opponent who could turn invisible, seemingly at will.

“I know her,” Aggar said suddenly, bringing Sabira’s attention back to him as he climbed to his feet. The dwarf winced in pain as the wound in his abdomen knit itself back together with the same speed Sabira’s own injury had shown. “Remember, I told you about her back in the Iron Council’s audience chamber? That’s the woman I was talking about. That’s Eddarga Noldrun.

“You were right all along. You just had the wrong Noldrun.”

“Clever,” the duergar woman replied with a nasty smile. “How unfortunate that none of the brilliant minds on your vaunted Iron Council figured it out sooner. Think of all the lives that could have been saved.”

Before either Sabira or Aggar could respond, Nightshard—Eddarga—took a step back and frowned in concentration. A moment later, she began … to grow.

Sabira watched in stunned fascination as the duergar doubled in size before her eyes. And not only the duergar herself, but everything she wore and everything she carried. The dragonshard on her finger was now the size of an egg and the pulsing mindblade was a virtual greatsword.

“Damnable duergar sargh,” Aggar spat, hefting his greataxe and advancing. “I’ll take the right.”

Sabira ducked around a broken stalagmite and approached Eddarga from the left as Aggar began to harry the enlarged duergar with his axe on the right. But instead of having to divide her attention between her two attackers, the soulknife assassin simply split her mindblade into two identical swords, holding one in her hand and directing the other with the power of her mind alone.

Aggar battled the disembodied blade while Sabira fought with Eddarga. Even with her additional size, the duergar woman was still only as tall as an average gnoll, and just about as attractive. Though she may have escaped the cave-in, the explosion had left its mark on her, in the form of deep scars over virtually every inch of exposed dull, gray skin. It must have taken the assassin months, if not years, to fully recover.

Something Leoned never got a chance to do.

Had Sabira been wrong not to go back for him, despite the threat to Aggar’s safety and her own? If Eddarga survived, who was to say Ned might not have as well, if he’d been found and unearthed in time?

But no. Leoned had been dead even before the cave-in, or as good as. He had to have been. Sabira had seen him fall into that pool of magma just as the cave started to collapse. He’d have burned to death in moments, and would have felt pain only for the first few instants. Whereas Eddarga must have lain in agony for days, digging herself out with nails worn down to the bloody quick.

It hardly seemed punishment enough for all the grief the gray dwarf had caused, but Sabira was about to rectify that. The duergar would not escape alive again. Sabira would make damned sure of that this time, even if it meant holding the assassin down while rising molten rock engulfed them both.

Sabira let her anger add force to her blows, bringing her urgrosh down in fierce swings that would have snapped a more corporeal blade. But Eddarga, bigger and stronger now, was able to parry every blow with her semisolid mindblade, and laugh while she did so.

“We never did get the chance to spar the last time, did we, Marshal?” the assassin asked, smirking. “I regretted it at the time, but I see now that was an error on my part. You’re not even as good as your partner was, and he didn’t last long against my blade. Not long at all.”

Sabira knew the duergar was just trying to rile her, to get her to lose focus and make a mistake. Unfortunately, knowing the danger and being able to avoid it were two vastly different things.

“Ned was twice the fighter you’ll ever be,” she retorted, knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to stop herself. “He didn’t have to use filthy duergar mind tricks to overcome his opponents. His skill alone was enough.”

“Yes, and I’m living proof of that, aren’t I?”

Sabira’s vision went scarlet. With an inarticulate cry, she launched herself at the duergar, heedless of her exposed midsection as she whirled her shard axe around for an overhead blow.

The strength of her fury was enough to beat back Eddarga’s blade, allowing Sabira to bring the spear-end of her urgrosh up on the backswing. She scored a long gash along the assassin’s forearm, even as she took Eddarga’s riposte in her own shoulder.

Eddarga yanked her blade free, and Sabira stumbled backward, her free hand going up to her shoulder and coming away bloody.

“You’re wasting my time, Marshal,” Eddarga said, and then Sabira was facing only the duergar’s dancing mindblade as the gray dwarf turned to engage Aggar.

“Perhaps you’ll prove more entertaining, Tordannon. Though I must say watching you try to convince the masses of your innocence—and failing miserably at it—has already provided me with endless hours of amusement. I only wish I could have been in the Council chamber to witness your farce of a trial.”

As Sabira blocked a disembodied jab at her ribs with the haft of her urgrosh, she heard Aggar’s reply.

“It was almost as amusing as watching your temper tantrum in that same Council chamber. Is that what this is, duergar? My father took away your toy, so now you want to take away mine?”

Sabira cringed as she swatted another thrust away with the head of her shard axe. Aggar was using the Noldrun woman’s ploy against her, to even better effect than the assassin had used it herself.

“It wasn’t a toy, you arrogant whoreson! It was my inheritance!”

Sabira saw Eddarga’s stance shift forward suddenly and knew she was stabbing her blade at Aggar’s gut, leaving her flank unprotected in the process. But the Marshal couldn’t get past the assassin’s second mindblade to take advantage of the opening.

“As Frostmantle is mine,” Aggar returned, his own axe flashing orange as he sidestepped Eddarga’s lunge and swung low, aiming for her legs.

An icy lump formed in Sabira’s stomach at the sight, and she risked a glance toward the fissure, only to have her fears confirmed. As they had battled Eddarga, she’d thought she’d noticed it getting warmer. And now she saw why. The magma had continued to rise, far more quickly than she had expected. It was now only a few feet from the lip of the chasm, and would soon be spilling over onto the very ground upon which they now stood.

As if somehow sensing her distraction, the mindblade darted forward, slicing a fine line along her jaw before she could wrench her head away. Then, as Sabira brought her urgrosh up to parry another blow, the blade simply winked out of existence.

“You’re starting to bore me,” Eddarga commented idly, and suddenly she was shrinking back down to her regular size and once again wielded only a single blade. She stepped back, her mindblade weaving a defensive black wall in front of her as the dragonshard on her ring began to glow. “Let’s try something new.”

Aggar jerked to attention abruptly, like a marionette on too-short strings.

“Yes, Aggar? You had something to say?” Eddarga taunted.

Aggar’s voice, when it came, was halting and unnatural.

“I love my mistress and would do anything to please her.”

Eddarga’s hideous face split into a cruel smile.

“So. Please me,” she said and then laughed as Aggar rushed at Sabira with a ferocious roar, axe swinging and death gleaming in his eyes.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Far, Nymm 20, 998 YK
Somewhere beneath Frostmantle, Mror Holds.

Sabira settled into an easy stance, awaiting Aggar’s attack. The last time she and the assassin had crossed paths, in a cavern very similar to this one, Sabira had followed her sworn duty to protect her charge at all costs—and the cost had been very high, indeed. Eddarga undoubtedly expected her to do the same now. But Sabira wasn’t going to hold back. Not this time. This was bigger than Aggar, and keeping him safe was no longer her chief priority. It couldn’t be, not with the entire population of Frostmantle going about their daily business somewhere far above her, unaware of the danger that was even now topping the lip of the fissure and oozing purposefully toward her.

If she had to kill Aggar to stop the assassin, she was prepared to do it.

And knowing how dogged the Tordannon heir was, she just might have to.

Aggar ran at her, but instead of attacking head-on, when he was just a few feet away, he catapulted into the air. The leap took him far higher than should have been possible under his own power. As he soared over her head, his greataxe whooshing down at her from above, Sabira realized that he must have used yet another of his rings.

She brought her urgrosh up to block the swing. Their axe-heads met with a metallic clash, and as Aggar’s trajectory took him out of range, the bit of his axe slid down the cheek of hers and across the haft of the urgrosh, slicing the back of her left hand to the bone. Then he was past her, and she was spinning around to face him while still trying to keep the Noldrun woman in her sight.

Luckily, the duergar assassin seemed content to watch her puppet at work and showed no sign of launching her own attack. Or perhaps she simply couldn’t control both Aggar and her mindblade at the same time. Whatever the reason, she remained where she’d climbed, atop a broken-off stalagmite ten feet away, and Sabira was grateful not to have to battle on two fronts at once. Especially since Aggar was proving to be a far better fighter than he’d been the last time she’d had occasion to cross blades with him, seven long years ago.

Twisting in the air and landing with almost feline grace, the red-bearded dwarf had barely touched down when he was rushing at her again, the haft of his greataxe held parallel to the cavern floor as he ran. She knew that grip. It was the one Aggar used when he wanted to get up close and personal with an opponent. For, unlike a normal axe, a greataxe was double-headed and double-edged, making it an effective and deadly weapon both at arm’s length and in close quarters.

She couldn’t let him get inside her guard. Not unless she wanted her last sight to be of him eating his own eyes at Eddarga’s command before the assassin finished them both off. And before she then moved on to do the same to Frostmantle.

With her shoulder throbbing, her hand on fire and dripping, and her grasp on her weapon made slippery by warm blood, Sabira went on the offensive. She charged forward to meet Aggar, her shard axe singing as it whizzed through the air toward the dwarf’s knees. With her superior reach, her best hope was to try and harry him with attacks he had to either parry or dodge, and to keep him too busy to get close.

But she’d forgotten about Aggar’s preternatural jumps. He leaped up, over her blow, and landed within arm’s reach. As she struggled to arrest her swing and bring the shard axe’s spear-tip to bear, Aggar punched her in the gut with the spike that separated the blades of his axe. The sharpened metal tip stabbed into her flesh, not nearly far enough to puncture anything vital, but still drawing blood and an oof of pain from her.

Then he yanked the haft of his greataxe to the left, intending to disembowel her with the axe-blade on the right. She threw her hips backward, arching her back, and the edge of the blade skimmed along her stomach, scoring her armor. Before he could reverse his momentum, Sabira completed her own backswing, catching him behind the knee with the butt of her shard axe. Aggar’s leg folded and he went down with a surprised grunt.

Sabira stamped down on his wrists until he let go of his weapon, then she planted the toe of her boot under his ribs. As the air rushed out of him and he was momentarily stunned, Sabira kicked his axe away, sending it skittering across the uneven ground and right into the leading edge of the advancing magma flow.

She stood over him, the tip of her urgrosh nestled at the base of his throat. As she leaned into him, the Siberys shard broke skin. The power inherent in the golden dragonshard seemed to momentarily counteract that of the darker one on Eddarga’s finger, for Aggar’s eyes cleared of the mad rage that had filled them and then widened in horrified realization. But Eddarga would not be so easily denied her prey, and the hatred bled back into his face as the duergar attempted to reestablish her influence over him. Aggar fought the assassin’s mental onslaught valiantly—Sabira could see it in the sweat beaded on his upper lip and the deep lines of effort creasing his brow—but he wasn’t strong enough. As Eddarga’s mind once more took hold of his, Aggar was able to whisper a single, urgent entreaty.

“Forget about me, Saba. Save Frostmantle.”

Then all recognition was gone from his eyes, and Sabira had the space between two ragged heartbeats to make her choice, the same awful choice she’d been faced with seven years ago, triggered by the same awful words.

Leoned’s voice rang out of the past, calm and unafraid. Accepting.

“Forget about me, Saba. Save Aggar.”

Sabira stared down at the dwarf, his green eyes at once alien and too familiar, and, remembering, made her choice.

She pulled the spear-end of her shard axe away from his throat, then quickly pivoted and thrust it deep into the meat of his thigh. Aggar howled in agony, but Sabira was already moving away. Even if the pain didn’t sever Eddarga’s hold on him for good, the injury would at least guarantee that he couldn’t get up and follow her as she charged his manipulating mistress.

The Noldrun, her mind still entangled with Aggar’s, was caught off guard by Sabira’s sudden rush. She was barely able to muster her mindblade and bring it to bear against Sabira’s furious onslaught in time. As it was, Sabira forced the duergar to abandon her high ground and landed a good hit to Eddarga’s midsection as well, smiling when her axe came away satisfyingly bloody.

But the assassin recovered quickly, and soon the two were battling back and forth across the cavern floor, trading blows and taunts, neither of them able to gain the advantage over the other.

“You should have seen your face when you realized that you triggered the trap that wound up killing your partner. That memory has kept me warm on many a long, cold night in the years since,” Eddarga said as she feinted toward Sabira’s thigh, only to change direction at the last minute and jab at the wound in the Marshal’s shoulder.

“No doubt it was the only thing,” Sabira retorted, twisting out of the way and getting in a jab of her own, the Siberys shard of her urgrosh grazing the Noldrun woman’s hip.

“Perhaps. But that’s still better than having no one to share my bed with all these years except the ghost of a man who turned his back on me. Don’t you think?”

Eddarga accompanied the verbal barb with a quick lunge to Sabira’s chest that slid off the haft of her urgrosh and nicked her under the arm. But neither the insult nor the wound caused Sabira any real pain, for she knew what Eddarga could not—that she had shared her bed with someone, a man who was definitely not a ghost and who did, in fact, love her. Probably more than she deserved.

“I wasn’t lying,” he had written.

Someone, she realized, whom she loved in turn.

That knowledge spurred her on as anger or vengeance could not. It gave renewed strength to her blows and purpose to her attack. Slowly she forced the assassin back, toward the advancing magma, the air around them shimmering with heat.

The gray dwarf risked a glance behind her and saw where Sabira was guiding her. Panic poured into her eyes and she launched herself at Sabira, her mindblade a black blur as she landed a flurry of blows. But Sabira, with a calmness that bordered on serenity, parried every strike with haft and axe and pushed the duergar back, inexorable and implacable as death itself.

“What are you doing?” Eddarga asked, alarm making her voice high and childlike. “You’ll kill us both!”

“If that’s what it takes,” Sabira agreed amiably.

“You’re mad!”

“Aren’t we all?”

Eddarga thrust at her again, with flashy footwork designed to hide the fact that she’d angled her steps so that she would be moving mostly parallel to the magma’s edge instead of toward it as Sabira advanced on her. Sabira let her think the ploy had worked and didn’t immediately try to correct the duergar’s path. Instead, she intensified her attack, bringing her shard axe down in powerful, sweeping blows that Eddarga could not counter. And when she had the assassin in position, she pretended to tire, taking too long to recover from one wide swing.

Eddarga saw the opening and took it, jumping forward to skewer Sabira through the shoulder, her mindblade creating a second deep wound mere inches from the first.

Sabira dropped her own weapon and lunged forward, gritting her teeth against the pain as Eddarga’s blade slid through her and erupted out her back. She grabbed the duergar’s wrists with both hands, planted her feet, bent her knees, and heaved.

The assassin had been so focused on the threat of the magma, she hadn’t noticed when Sabira led her into a field of thin, needle-sharp stalagmites. So when Sabira half-lifted, half-threw her, not toward the molten rock but away from it, for an instant, she didn’t resist.

That instant was all Sabira needed to get the duergar airborne. As she left the ground, Eddarga lost her grip on her mindblade and it winked out of existence, leaving a gaping hole in Sabira’s shoulder. The assassin’s flight was shortlived and ended badly as she came down in the middle of the stalagmites, breaking several of them beneath her as she fell. But not enough of them.

One protruded from her shoulder, a mirror image of Sabira’s own wound. Another pierced her thigh, and a third, the largest, sprouted from her stomach like some obscene subterranean plant.

Satisfied that Eddarga would not be going anywhere, Sabira retrieved her shard axe, then strode over to where the Noldrun woman lay pinned to the cavern floor, a ghastly insect on display for the curious. Blood trickled from the gray dwarf’s mouth as she glared balefully up at Sabira.

Sabira felt a tickling at the back of her mind and was momentarily overcome with a strange urge to dig at her eyes. But Eddarga was too weak to sustain the mental attack and Sabira shook it off without difficulty.

“I’ll take that,” she said, reaching over to pull the dragonshard ring off Eddarga’s finger. “Just in case you decide you want to try that little trick again.”

“This isn’t over,” Eddarga wheezed.

“It is for you,” Sabira replied, raising her urgrosh above her head, ignoring the fire that lanced through her arm as she did. “I’m going to make sure you stay dead this time.”

And then Sabira brought the axe-blade down on Eddarga’s neck, a clean blow. The bald and scarred head bounced across the floor twice before landing with a small plop in the advancing magma. Sabira watched as the head caught fire and sank into the molten rock, flesh melting around black eyes that were still open and staring, sightless, into oblivion.

Sabira hurried over to where Aggar had managed to prop himself up against the base of a thick pillar, a rock feature formed when a stalactite reaching down from the roof of the cavern and a stalagmite reaching up from its floor joined in the middle. Most of their side of the cavern was filled with magma by now and all the exits had been cut off. She helped Aggar to his feet and, supporting him with her good shoulder while he limped along, they made their way to the last bit of high ground.

Once there, Sabira turned to survey the lake of molten rock that was slowly encroaching on their little island.

“Well, I guess this is it, Agg. It’s over. There’s nowhere left to go.”

Aggar, leaning heavily against her, laughed.

“Yes, there is.”

“Dolurrh?” Sabira scoffed. “That thought almost makes me wish I believed in the Silver Flame.”

“Not there,” Aggar said, twisting the last of his golden rings, one that looked newer than the rest. “Maintenance.”

Sabira’s stomach dropped into her feet like it was made of cold iron and a wave of nausea threatened to drown her. And then they were standing in the middle of a room filled with all manner of pipes, machinery, and dials.

Aggar reached over to pull a white lever marked “Risia.”

At her questioning look, he explained that he’d had the engineers construct dozens of portals to Risia, the Plane of Ice, in the tunnels and caverns below Maintenance. When the magma reached those planar doorways, it would be channeled away and never reach the city.

“Now it’s over,” he said.

Yes, thought Sabira, I think it finally is.

And then she sank to the floor, her back against the wall. Aggar levered himself down beside her and the two, too exhausted to go any farther, settled in to wait for one of the engineers to find them.

EPILOGUE

Sar, Nymm 28, 998 YK
Krona Peak, Mror Holds.

It is clear that the sole perpetrator of these murders was Eddarga Noldrun, also known as the assassin ‘Nightshard.’ Therefore, this Council finds Aggar Tordannon innocent of all charges. Aggar, you are free to go, with our apologies to you and the entire Tordannon clan.”

When Torlan Mroranon had finished speaking, Aggar, standing fully clothed in front of the semicircle of thrones, nodded his head graciously. The small matter of his having disappeared while in custody had been deliberately overlooked once Sabira had testified about her experiences beneath Frostmantle and had shown Nightshard’s ring as proof. If the Council had needed additional evidence of the truth of her statements, the teams of engineers working to clear out the cooled and hardened magma beneath the city and diverting what remained of the active magma flow back to the Fist of Onatar had provided more than enough.

Sabira, watching from her seat beside Elix, expected Aggar to accept the Council’s apologies and put an end to the trial that had already taken up far too much of both her time and his. But instead of responding, she saw him tug at his beard, and noticed Kiruk doing the same.

What was he up to now?

“On behalf of the Tordannon clan,” Aggar said after a quick, silent exchange with his father, “I accept the Council’s apology. But I fear my clan’s business before this august body is not yet concluded.”

Torlan looked surprised, and Kiruk stood.

“If I may?”

Nonplussed, the Mroranon ceded the floor to his fellow Councilor.

As Aggar stepped back, his father spoke.

“Marshal, please come forward.”

Frowning, Sabira looked at Elix, who motioned for her to stand with a barely suppressed smile. Clearly he had no questions about which Marshal Kiruk meant.

She walked forward, giving Aggar a suspicious look as she passed him, but he just grinned in reply.

“Sabira d’Deneith,” Kiruk said when she’d taken Aggar’s place before the Council, “for your past service to Clan Tordannon, we have previously rewarded you with our clan’s most prized weapon, the shard axe. However, we find that in light of your recent actions, this reward is no longer appropriate.”

Sabira fought the sudden urge to grab the urgrosh from its harness on her back and hold it protectively before her. Were they going to take it away from her? Why? Because Orin had died on her watch? Or because she’d attacked and nearly maimed Aggar, who still bore a slight limp as a result?

But, no. Kiruk was fighting to suppress a grin now, as well.

What in Dol Dorn’s name was going on here?

“No mere weapon, no matter how priceless, can adequately repay your loyalty and sacrifice for this clan,” Kiruk continued. “You have acted in all respects as only a member of this clan would. Accordingly, we have chosen to bestow upon you the highest honor any non-dwarf can attain—to welcome you into our clan as a hearthdaughter, through the Ceremony of Blood, Steel, and Stone. Will you accept this honor and this responsibility?”

Murmuring had broken out among the Council at his words, and Sabira saw many of the members nodding and smiling, Anneka chief among them.

She wasn’t sure what her superiors were going to think about this new development, though Elix was clearly in on it and approved. It would make her, in essence, a Deneith dwarf. But how could she possibly refuse without damaging the very relationship she’d been tasked with coming here to salvage?

“Insomuch as I am worthy of such a gift, I do humbly accept both the honor and the responsibility,” Sabira replied, the same words she had used when she’d been given her shard axe. But where her utterance of the phrase had been riddled with guilt before, now she spoke the words with simple gratitude. She’d made her choice willingly this time.

“Aggar?”

The Tordannon heir stepped up to face her, followed by Rockfist, who held a wooden box inscribed with the clan crest. Aggar opened the box to reveal two daggers, likewise emblazoned with the Tordannon crest, one made of stone and the other of steel. He took one in each hand, his former cheer hidden now behind a mask of solemnity.

“Hold your right hand out, palm up,” he instructed her, as serious as she had ever seen him.

When she had done so, he raised the daggers.

“Sabira Lyet d’Deneith, I welcome you into Clan Tordannon. By blood …”

He drove the points of both daggers into the soft flesh of her palm.

“… steel …”

He drew the steel dagger across her palm, drawing a red line that welled blood for a moment, then healed over, leaving a fresh pink scar.

“… and stone.”

Aggar drew the stone dagger down as he’d done with the steel one, creating a second red line that bled and scarred over as quickly as the first had. Then he returned the daggers, neither showing any trace of blood, back to their velvet-lined box, and the barrister took them away.

“You shall henceforth be known as Sabira Lyet d’Deneith Tordannon,” he said formally. Then he let the mask drop and his grin returned, even bigger than before.

“Welcome to the family, sis!” he said, grabbing her up into a fierce embrace while the Iron Council looked on, many of them cheering.

Later, the five of them walked over to the Crown and Scepter, where Kiruk had reserved a private dining room for them to celebrate. The Tordannon patriarch led the small group, followed by Aggar and Rockfist, who were arguing over the barrister’s fee. Sabira and Elix took up the rear, walking in companionable silence.

Outside the restaurant, Sabira paused, her hand on Elix’s arm. When Aggar turned to see why they weren’t following him through the door, she waved him inside.

“We’ll be there in a moment. You can start without us.”

Aggar raised one red eyebrow and looked from her to Elix, then back again, taking in the way her hand lingered on the other Marshal’s arm.

“So it’s like that, is it?” he asked with a surprised smile.

“Yes, it’s like that.”

At least I hope it is, she thought.

Aggar’s grin widened and he gave Elix a quick salute before heading into the restaurant and leaving them alone on the street.

Sabira turned to look up at the dark-haired captain, searching the depths of his hazel eyes. There was so much she wanted to say to him, about Ned, about herself, about them. She didn’t know where to begin.

“Elix, I …,” she began, faltered, then started again. “Aboard the Dancer …”

“Saba, it’s fine—”

“No, it’s not. What I said about Ned … I didn’t mean …”

“Saba—”

“… and then in your message, when you said you hadn’t lied …”

“Sabira,” he said forcefully, taking her face in his hands. “Shut up. That’s an order.”

And then his lips met hers and, for the first time, there was no shade of the past to come between them and leech away the warmth of their embrace.

Sabira pulled away first, breathless.

“We’d better get inside before Kiruk sends out a search party.”

“Let him,” Elix murmured, his gaze traveling up from her mouth, lips still slightly parted, to meet her longing look with one of his own.

She laughed softly at that, then stood on her toes to press one last, quick kiss against the blue skin of his dragonmark before whispering in his ear.

“Later.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” he said, his voice rough.

“You’d better,” she replied, taking his hand and leading him through the door with a smile.

Inside, they found Kiruk’s room and sat down to a hearty dinner that would have had the members of House Ghallanda turning green with envy. The conversation and spirits flowed easily, as did the questions.

“So Eddarga did all this to get revenge on the clans who’d spoken out against her when she petitioned the Council for recognition as the heir to Noldrunhold?”

“That was only part of it,” Aggar answered. He and Sabira had tried to piece the puzzle together on the journey back from Frostmantle. “Sabira was the one who figured out the rest. The families of several of Eddarga’s original victims controlled land bordering Noldrunhold, and with their deaths that land was left largely vacant. We think she intended to claim the hold, with or without the Council’s blessing, and she wanted to make sure there were no prying eyes to report back on her activities until it was too late to do anything about them. Turning Frostmantle into another Noldrunthrone would only aid her in that.”

“The only ones actively mining along that border are the Mountainhearts,” Kiruk commented regretfully. “Though that may change now, depending on what Gunnett decides to do.”

At the Mountainheart name, Sabira raised her glass of Frostmantle Fire in Orin’s memory. The others did the same, and they all drank in silence for a moment.

“So is that why she had the yrthaks attack you on the way back from Stormreach?” Rockfist asked into the lull. “To try and get rid of Orin?”

“Have we confirmed that she was behind that?” Aggar asked, looking at Elix as he took another sip from his drink. Sabira knew he was still somewhat annoyed about the loss of the Inheritance. Like his Silver Concordian rings, Orin had borrowed the airship without asking. But Aggar was already having another one built. He was going to have it christened the Rapier, in his nephew’s honor.

Elix moved forward in his seat next to Sabira’s.

“Tilde confirmed that the Khyber shard Sabira found in the yrthak was from the same stone as the one in Nightshard’s ring. And since you saw a similar shard in the elemental Eddarga was controlling, I don’t think there’s any question that she was directing both attacks.”

“Why wait until he was all the way down in Xen’drik, though? Wouldn’t it have been easier to attack him while he was still here, in the Holds?”

That question had been bothering Sabira, too.

“She probably wanted Sabira dead, too, after what happened in the Maw. So she was trying to strike two veins of ore with one shaft,” Aggar answered. Then he grinned. “Plus, she knew the Shard Axe’s reputation. If anyone could spare me from the gallows, it would be Sabira, and she wasn’t going to risk that happening again,” he joked, punching his adopted sibling lightly in the shoulder.

“But how did she even know Orin was coming down to Stormreach to get me? And how was she able to direct the yrthaks from so far away?” Sabira asked, surreptitiously rubbing the arm where Aggar had struck her. Though the wound had healed over, the flesh there was still tender and a little sore. A lot sore, now.

“Well, Orin’s mission wasn’t exactly a big secret—to anyone except me, that is,” Aggar ventured after a moment.

“Or maybe she had an accomp—” Rockfist began, only to be cut off by Aggar.

“Don’t say it! One Noldrun running amok is quite enough, thank you.”

The others laughed while the barrister looked mildly affronted.

“Well, what about Hrun, then?” he huffed. “Was Eddarga the one who killed him?”

“Probably,” Sabira answered. “He was a rival claimant, after all.”

“Why didn’t she make him eat his own eyes, though, I wonder?” Rockfist asked, choosing a particularly plump iceberry from his plate. He seemed oblivious to the irony as he crushed the round, black fruit between his teeth.

“Maybe she couldn’t. Can one duergar control another that way?”

“Father, we don’t know that he was—”

“He had black eyes, didn’t he?”

No one could argue with that.

“She must have been controlling him, though,” Elix said suddenly. “How else could she have gotten him to break into the Tombs for her and steal those books?”

Sabira pursed her lips, thoughtful. Something about Hrun’s death was nagging at her, and it wasn’t his eyes.

“Are they sure it even was him in the Tombs?” she asked. She couldn’t say for sure, and she’d been there. “Maybe Eddarga killed him there to make it look that way. You said yourself he was no mage,” she added, looking at Rockfist, “and only a powerful mage would have been able to get through those wards.”

The rest of the barrister’s words came back to her in an abrupt, sickening rush.

“… especially if they had some sort of focus already in place inside …”

Whoever had teleported into the Tombs had known right where she was, so she had to have been that focus. Or she had to have brought it in with her.

But she’d had nothing on her that she didn’t normally carry, except Kiruk’s cloak and Elix’s letter.

The one that Gunnett had brought with her from Vulyar.

Before she could voice her sudden suspicion, a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter.”

A young, comely dwarf girl with blonde ringlets and bright blue eyes entered the room, a long, plain box held in her arms.

“Your pardon, lords, lady, but this was left at the front for the Shard Axe. No one saw who put it there.”

“A gift from the Council?” Kiruk mused, taking the box and handing it over to Sabira before giving the girl a galifar and dismissing her.

Sabira wasn’t so sure. Somehow she expected any gift from the Council would be quite a bit more ostentatious.

She opened the box to reveal a bouquet of sickly white blooms whose stems boasted long, wicked-looking black thorns.

“Are those gunethes?” she asked, while Aggar, at the same moment, spat, “Eddarghes!”

She looked at him in confusion, and he quickly explained, “Gunethe is the duergar word for the flowers; eddarghe is the Dwarven one.”

Sabira groaned. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

Gunnett, the fortunate twin.

And Eddarga, the unfortunate one.

“It was Gunnett.”

“What?” Aggar and Kiruk gasped at her in unison, while Elix nodded slowly.

“She was the only one who knew we were going to Sharn first after we left Stormreach,” he said. “The only one who could have known where to send the yrthaks.”

“And if she was a strong enough mage to get into the Tombs, controlling the yrthaks remotely would have posed no problem for her. She could even have been there, watching from a distance,” Sabira added, shaking her head in disgust. The clues had been there, down to Gunnett’s philosophical defense of Nightshard—of her sister. Sabira just hadn’t been able to put them together.

“Don’t, Saba.” It was Aggar. “None of us saw it. None of us had any reason to.”

“I’ll send guards—” Kiruk began, but Sabira stopped him.

“She’ll be long gone before they get there, if she isn’t already.”

“What do you think it means, that she sent you these flowers?” Elix asked, concern shadowing his eyes as he looked at her.

“That it’s not over,” Sabira answered, meeting his gaze. “That she’ll be back.”

Then she looked over at Aggar, and her next words were a dark promise, to him and to herself.

“And so will I.”

THE ABYSSAL PLAGUE

From the molten core of a dead universe

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