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

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “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 a
round 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.”