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

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “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 the
y 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 gr
imace. 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