Skein of Shadows

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  With a roar, the dragon tossed its head, trying to dislodge the quarrel and the pain it brought. The movement tore the camel’s corpse from its harness and overturned the gnomes’ wagon, sending it tumbling toward the one Sabira rode in. Only some quick maneuvering on Xujil’s part saved them from a similar fate. The drow pulled on two levers while simultaneous kicking a third forward with his left foot, and the mechanical wagon scuttled sideways and forward, just ahead of where the wreckage of the other wagon landed in a cloud of sand and splintered wood.

  Sabira had been reaching for a second green-fletched bolt, but the unexpected movement knocked the quarrels from her lap as she struggled to maintain her seat. Two landed in the sand outside the wagon and one fell to the bottom of the driver’s platform, got wedged between control levers, and was promptly bent when Xujil forced those levers in opposite directions. That left one on the seat between her and the drow. As she snatched it up and began to fit it into the groove, Xujil shoved her aside, just as the dragon’s tail went whizzing over the platform where her head had been a half a heartbeat ago.

  The drow’s touch was oddly cool, and she couldn’t stop herself from shrugging it off as quickly as possible. She tempered the action with a muttered “thanks”—the elf had probably just saved her life, after all—then sat back up, aiming and letting her last quarrel fly. It skimmed off the scales on the dragon’s left hind leg just as the creature disappeared in a crater of sand that quickly closed over the burrowing reptile again and then lay ominously still.

  “Damn it!”

  “Not your fault.”

  Sabira looked up in surprise to see Skraad perched atop the wagon’s front opening. The orc must have climbed out of the back of the wagon and made his way across the ribbed canvas to get in on the action. She caught a flash of green from the hand crossbow he carried—apparently Brannan had found a few more enchanted bolts. A good thing, considering she’d lost or wasted most of hers.

  “Should have hit it; your aim was perfect. Must be more of that mixed-up magic the Wayfinder was talking about. Looks like it doesn’t just affect spells, but spelled items too.”

  The orc’s hair was billowing about his face in the wind, so she couldn’t see his expression, but she knew he wasn’t trying to placate her—that would imply a concern for her ego she was quite sure the orc didn’t feel. Still, it was good to know the failure hadn’t been hers.

  Not that it changed the outcome any. The dragon was still out there, and it hadn’t had a chance to finish feeding. It would be back.

  She’d barely finished forming the thought when the ground directly in front of their wagon exploded, showering them with sand and warm chunks of what she realized belatedly were masticated camel and gnome flesh.

  Out of ammunition, she tossed the crossbow aside and reached back to remove her shard axe from its quick-release harness. She leaped off the driver’s seat just as Xujil brought one of the wagon’s mechanical legs down on the dragon’s neck, trying to pin it to the ground and keep it from burrowing back into the sand or flying away. The dragon turned its head so the metal limb slid off its scales, ripping through the membranes of its left wing on the way down. With a roar of pain and anger, the dragon drew its head back and slammed forward, knocking the wagon off its legs as easily as Sabira would swat a spider. Skraad leaped free, but Sabira couldn’t see what happened to any of the others inside. And she didn’t have time to worry about it, because the dragon had finally noticed her scrambling to her feet on the ground in front of it.

  With a snort of recognition, the dragon opened its great maw and inhaled, as if trying to suck her into its lungs. She stood fast as her copper hair streamed out in thick ribbons around her head, knowing what was coming. And knowing that she’d have mere seconds to dive out of the way once the dragon let loose with its deadly breath.

  But the dragon was a step ahead of her. It brought its tail around behind her, forming a spiked and scaled barricade, blocking her retreat. Then her hair fell limp as the dragon stopped drawing air in and closed its mouth. Its intelligent amber eyes locked with hers for a long moment as the dragon held its breath. It cocked its reptilian head to one side, as if considering.

  Then, the dragon opened its massive jaws and began to blow.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Mol, Barrakas 9, 998 YK

  The Menechtarun Desert, Xen’drik.

  And then Guisarme was in front of her, his backplates to that gaping maw as he shielded her from the great wind that emanated from the dragon’s throat like a shrapnel-filled gale. As she crouched in front of the warforged, she could see bits of metal and wood sliced off his body as if by a multitude of invisible and impossibly sharp knives. Then the force of the dragon’s breath toppled him on top of her, and they went down, the warforged curling around her like a mother protecting a newborn.

  “Flaywind,” the warforged said, his voice reverberating in her ear but unable to drown out the cries as others without the benefit of a construct shield succumbed to the fury of the dragon’s breath, the flesh scoured from their bones in a matter of endless, agonizing moments.

  After an eternity, the screams and the wind stopped and an eerie silence reigned. Just as Guisarme was peeling himself off of her, another sound cut through the stillness.

  “Everybody off the sand! Now!”

  Guisarme stood and pulled her up with one arm, strips of shredded wooden tendons hanging down from it like fringe. As she regained her feet, she saw Brannan standing on the overturned wagon, brandishing a glass globe. Red and yellow flames raged within.

  The dragon’s tail was disappearing into the sand as she and the warforged raced for the wagon. Skraad and Greddark were helping Jester aboard, and from the strips of missing metal and wood on the red-armored warforged’s backside, she could see he’d tried to protect the orc in much the same way Guisarme had shielded her. Unfortunately, the bard wasn’t as big as Skraad, and blood oozed down the orc’s arms from a dozen long gashes as he strained to lift the warforged off the sand.

  As she ran, Sabira almost tripped over a small skeleton. As she sidestepped the glistening bones, she saw a dragonshard-tipped staff still clutched in an ivory fist. Apparently the gnome’s magic hadn’t worked any better than her last crossbow bolt had.

  Which made her question why Brannan thought his ball of fire was going to do any good. Spells clearly weren’t working correctly in this area, and a part of her wondered if the dragon had somehow known that and that’s why it had herded them here.

  Jester was up on the wagon now, turning to help her and Guisarme as they made it to the tattered canvas. She quickly harnessed her urgrosh and grabbed the bard’s outstretched hands, using him as a counterweight to keep her boots from slipping as she clambered up an exposed steel rib. Xujil appeared next to Skraad and reached down to help him and Greddark hoist the larger warforged up. As Guisarme’s feet left the sand, the drow shouted, “Clear!”

  Brannan threw the orb. It arced through the air, carried several feet south of where the Wayfinder had aimed by the approaching storm. But Brannan had taken the wind into account and the glass shattered against the sand right where a telltale berm had appeared, heralding the dragon’s next attack.

  Fire burst out of the broken orb, washing over the sand in a molten wave. Steam rose in a great cloud, too thick for even the rising winds to disperse and Sabira watched from the safety of her perch as the sand began to melt and fuse into a vast block of glass.

  “Was that … alchemist’s fire?” Greddark asked in amazement, and Brannan laughed.

  “More or less,” the Wayfinder replied with an exultant grin. Catching Sabira’s eye, he added, “The dragon was probably counting on us not being able to attack it with magic. I’m sure it wasn’t counting on this.”

  Sabira turned back to the transmuting sand, which was just beginning to reach their wagon. Guisarme was still only halfway up the side, the damage done to his legs by the dragon’s flaywind making it difficult for him to climb
. She was just moving over to help the others haul him up when Skraad let out a small cry. Sabira was too far away to see exactly what happened, but suddenly Guisarme was dangling from one arm, his foot mere inches from the molten sand as Greddark and Xujil struggled to pull him back up.

  And then the warforged was falling, his ungainly weight too much for the two to bear alone. He landed in the liquefied sand with a plop, and his heavy body sank about halfway in, so that only his face and upper chest were free. His jaw hinged open, but no sound escaped, and the light in his purple crystal eyes went dim.

  “No!” Sabira shouted, and she would have leaped down to help him if Brannan hadn’t grabbed her from behind and pulled her bodily backward.

  “Do you have some sort of death wish, Marshal?” he hissed in her ear, his hold surprisingly strong as she struggled against him. “Just wait. When the sand cools, we can dig him out, and maybe your artificer can revive him.”

  She relaxed in his arms, feigning acquiescence, but the Wayfinder wasn’t fooled. The strength of his grip didn’t lessen.

  “How long?” she asked sullenly, unable to take her eyes off of Guisarme’s inert form.

  Brannan hesitated. When she tensed again, he answered, “That was one of the strongest batches I’ve ever seen. Days, probably.”

  She sagged against him at the news, and this time his hold did slacken. She jerked out of his grasp and turned to face him.

  “You know we don’t have that kind of time,” she spat at him, furious at his matter-of-fact tone. She could see the dragon encased in the massive block of translucent, glowing glass, and even at this distance, its amber eyes burned with hatred. “Was this wagon carrying water, or just a lot of magical toys?”

  Brannan’s lips compressed into a thin line.

  “Don’t be foolish. All the wagons carry food and water, along with weapons.”

  “Good.” She made her way over to where the others were gathered above Guisarme and put a hand on Greddark’s shoulder. The dwarf looked up at her with anguished eyes.

  “His hand slipped off Skraad’s.” A quick glance showed Sabira why; the orc’s forearm was covered in blood. “Then when he saw that his weight was going to pull the drow and me down with him, he just … let go.”

  Sabira squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

  “We might still be able to help him. I need you and Skraad to climb down into the wagon and hoist a couple of barrels of water up to us. We’ll pour it out on the sand—that should make it cool faster, and we can get him out sooner.”

  Greddark looked uncertain.

  “That sudden a change in temperature could very well crack the glass—and Guisarme with it.”

  Sabira’s gaze was unwavering.

  “Would he be any worse off than he is now?”

  The dwarf didn’t hesitate.

  “No.”

  “Then get moving. I don’t think this sand-to-glass trick is going to slow the dragon down for long, so we need to move quickly.”

  “You can’t possibly mean to waste two full barrels of water on one warforged.” Brannan’s voice was sharp with disbelief and anger.

  Sabira didn’t bother to turn.

  “Yes, actually, I can.”

  “I won’t allow you to—”

  She rounded on the Wayfinder.

  “You won’t allow me?” she repeated, her tone low and dangerous as her hand hovered meaningfully over the release for her urgrosh’s harness. “How exactly were you planning on stopping me?”

  She felt Xujil stir, but didn’t turn. Greddark was there to handle him if the drow really felt defending his employer was worth getting disemboweled over.

  Brannan’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer immediately. Weighing his options and running the numbers, no doubt.

  “Each barrel of water holds enough to keep ten men alive for a day. Do you have ten men who are volunteering to cut their ration short for two days for the sake of this warforged?”

  “There’s one less camel now,” Sabira countered, “and the gnomes won’t be using their share, assuming it survived the wreck of their wagon. And if need be, yes, my men and I will gladly reduce our rations for the sake of ‘this warforged.’ Whose name, by the way, is Guisarme.”

  Brannan shrugged.

  “Very well. Rest assured that I will hold you to your word, if it comes to that.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sabira replied.

  With Jester’s help, Greddark and Skraad were able to lift up a pair of heavy wooden barrels and hold them in place on one of the steel ribs. Directly below the barrels, Guisarme’s body lay partially encased in cooling glass. Sabira set her feet as best she could on the taut canvas, unharnessed her urgrosh and brought the axe-head down on the first barrel as hard as she could. The wood split like a kobold’s skull and water gushed out, running down the side of the waterproof fabric and onto the sand below. For the second time today, Sabira was engulfed in a cloud of steam as heat and cold battled for supremacy. Greddark and Skraad tossed the remains of the empty barrel off the wagon and moved the second one into place, and Sabira cleaved that one in twain, as well.

  As they waited for the resulting steam to dissipate, Sabira frowned. The wind from the storm should have torn the billowing clouds to shreds, but they still hung in the air, a bizarre pocket of humidity in the arid climate. Come to think of it, the wall of wind-driven sand should have overtaken them long before now.

  She turned back to regard the dragon’s dust storm, only to see that it was battering itself to pieces against an invisible wall a few hundred feet beyond the line of wagons. The unnatural storm must have hit the edge of the zone that had warped all their spells thus far. The magic that propelled the sand and wind could go no farther, and so low dunes were forming along the boundary, like a row of burial mounds. Nice to see the Traveler’s Curse working in their favor for a change.

  There was a soft thud below her. Sabira whipped her head back around to see a large melon rolling lopsidedly across the hardened glass, a wet bruise visible intermittently visible as it rotated.

  “I think it’s safe now,” Greddark said. “Jester found a pick and some shovels. Let’s go dig him out and we’ll see if I’m as skilled as I like to claim I am.”

  At her nod, the warforged handed her a shovel; Skraad was already holding one. Sabira felt a momentary pang when she saw that his arms were bandaged. Jester had apparently found more than just mining equipment in his foraging. She should have been the one to see to it that the orc’s wounds were treated, but her guilt was overridden by satisfaction at the knowledge that she’d chosen wisely, with men who didn’t need explicit orders from her to do what needed to be done, quickly and efficiently. She’d been on her own for so long as a Marshal that she’d all but forgotten what it was like working with a unit of well-trained warriors.

  Greddark grabbed the pick and jumped down first, followed quickly by Jester and then Skraad. Sabira came down last; though she wanted Guisarme freed just as much of the rest of them, she knew they were driven by more than just camaraderie. She knew the great weight of guilt and grief that came from having a partner who’d been hurt because of your actions, or lack thereof. She’d carried that burden herself—still did, in many ways, though it was no longer as heavy as it had once been. She understood their urgency and let them take the lead, because, while she wanted to rescue Guisarme, they needed to.

  “You do realize that when you break the glass surrounding him, you’re also breaking the glass around the dragon? The glass that is currently the only thing keeping it from resuming its rather devastating attack?” Brannan asked from his place at the top of the overturned wagon.

  “Well, I guess you’d better make sure the caravan is ready to move the moment we’re finished, then, hadn’t you?” Sabira answered, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice. Though it wasn’t directed at the Wayfinder, so much as at the fact that he always seemed to be right.

  Greddark kneeled down to examine
Guisarme, then the glass around him, trying to find a point where he could start chopping at the transparent block without causing further injury to the warforged. After a moment, he chose a spot about a foot away from the construct’s right side. The dwarf muttered something under his breath, and Sabira thought she caught the words “Onatar,” “Canniths,” and “show them how it’s done,” but she couldn’t be sure. He swung the pick up and back and then brought it forward with a grunt of effort, the muscles in his arms bulging.

  The crack of metal on stone reverberated across the sand and chips flew up in a spray of sparks and broken glass as the pick slammed into the block with the full force of Greddark’s anger behind it. A thin line appeared in the translucent surface, spreading out in both directions from the crater created by Greddark’s blow. A second strike widened it a hair, and a third made a gap big enough to inset a shovel blade.

  “You two start here while I go work over there,” the artificer said to Jester and Skraad before stepping over Guisarme’s body to find a similar weak spot in the glass on the other side. The two set to work with gusto, wedging the shovels into the crack and working the blades back and forth to widen it further.

  Sabira joined Greddark on the far side, waiting for her turn. As she did, she noticed warforged braving the sand to scavenge what they could from the ruins of the gnomes’ wagon. After they’d removed a miraculously intact barrel and two mostly intact crates, one of the warforged emerged from the wreckage carrying a small body. Sabira recognized the crossbowman from the driver’s seat. The warforged wrapped the gnome’s corpse carefully with a swath of torn canvas and then laid it out on the ground near the ruined wagon.

  As she watched, he and his fellow constructs began piling pieces of broken wood and other flammables beside the body, building a small pyre. When it was large enough, the first warforged—who Sabira now realized was the gnomes’ driver—picked up the shrouded body and laid it reverently on the wooden mound. Another warforged retrieved the skeleton of the staff-wielding gnome and laid it beside the first gnome’s body. Of the dragonshard-tipped staff, there was no sign, but Sabira supposed the living constructs’ respect for the dead didn’t extend to destroying their belongings. They were Brannan’s men, after all.