The Shard Axe: An Eberron Novel (Dungeons & Dragons)

by Marsheila Rockwell

  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 th
e 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.