by Tim Waggoner
The other soldiers, about a dozen in all, remained inside the stone tower that lay several hundred yards to northwest—upwind of where Ghaji and Kirai worked. Because of their stench, the zombies were permitted no closer to the Karrnathi outpost, and while Ghaji couldn’t blame the humans, tending to the maintenance of the undead would’ve been marginally less unpleasant if they could’ve done it in the shade provided by the tower’s shadow. Instead Kirai and he had to stand out here in full sunlight, rivulets of sweat pouring off of them.
A faint scuttling sound came to Ghaji’s ears from off in the distance, and he drew his war-axe.
“Halfling riders,” he warned Kirai. Without waiting for the alchemist to respond, Ghaji whirled about to face the direction he judged the sound had come from. A group of halfling warriors wearing hunting masks and sitting astride clawfoots raced across the plains toward them, the man-sized two-legged lizards kicking up a cloud of dust as they bore their riders onward. The Talenta Plains were home to tribal halflings, fiercely proud hunters who’d domesticated the savage clawfoots, one of the breeds of giant lizards that roamed this land. For years, Karrnath had sought to extend its territory into the Plains—hence the outpost where Ghaji was stationed. But the halflings—understandably enough—were reluctant to allow their ancestral homeland to be conquered piece by piece by the Karrnathi. Ghaji didn’t blame the halflings for their reluctance to roll over and submit to Karrnathi rule, but they didn’t pay his salary; the Karrnathi did.
Ghaji did want to leave Kirai, but it was his duty to alert the human soldiers within the outpost. Besides, he knew from experience that the alchemist could take care of herself. Ghaji ran toward the outpost, shouting back over his shoulder, “Kirai, get the zombies ready!”
Karrnathi zombies possessed a rudimentary intelligence that allowed them to fight with little to no instruction, but they were most effective when given specific, direct orders.
“Arm yourselves and defend the outpost against the halflings!” Kirai commanded.
Ghaji didn’t look back to see if the zombies obeyed her. He knew they would, for they had no choice: it was how they were made. The zombies normally carried wickedly curved scimitars and shields that they never put down, but because they’d been receiving alchemical treatment from Kirai, the undead warriors had been instructed to discard their weapons. Two dozen scimitars and an equal number of shields lay on the ground in two neat rows, precisely where the zombies had put them. Ghaji knew the animated corpses were even now moving stiffly but deliberately to reclaim their weapons to fulfill Kirai’s order. As soon as the zombies were armed once more, they would move toward the outpost as fast as their desiccated limbs would allow and engage the attacking halflings in battle.
But Ghaji had no intention of waiting for the zombies to catch up. After all, the halflings weren’t going to rein their clawfoots to a halt and politely give the zombies a chance to reach the outpost.
The half-orc warrior drew in a breath and bellowed in the loudest voice he was capable of. “To arms! To arms!” He hoped he’d shouted loudly enough to rouse the soldiers in the outpost. The fort grew so hot during the day that they usually left the main entrance open to permit air to flow through the tower. A necessary step to make the atmosphere within the stifling tower walls bearable, perhaps, but one that seemed awfully foolish now. If the halflings reached the outpost’s wide-open entrance before the zombies got there, the warriors would dismount, run inside, and attack the Karrnathi soldiers with the spears they carried and which they could wield as well in close quarters as they did out in the open while seated on the backs of their clawfoot mounts. The Karrnathi were skilled fighters, but the punishing heat sapped their strength, while the halflings, being native to this region, weren’t bothered by the temperature in the least. The Karrnathi would be lethargic and clumsy, and once inside the halflings would make short work of them. But if Ghaji could reach the entrance first and seal the iron door shut …
He ran faster.
As he ran, he gauged the halflings’ strength. Ten riders armed with spears, each riding a clawfoot with mottled gray-green hide, a wide maw filled with sharp teeth, and a sickle-like talon on each foot that could disembowel prey as easily as a white-hot dagger could cut through lard. Clawfoots were savage beasts, but their riders controlled the animals with almost supernatural ease. Before signing on with the Karrnathi, Ghaji had heard rumors that the Talenta halflings had some sort of mystical bond with their monstrous mounts, and after serving on the Plains for the last month, he believed it.
The halflings resembled elves after a fashion, though they were of shorter stature and possessed deeply tanned skin. They wore ritual hunting masks fashioned from clawfoot jaws, tunics made from animal skin, and armored vests constructed from clawfoot hide. They were beardless, and their long hair trailed out behind them as they rode full out toward the Karrnathi outpost.
As Ghaji drew near the outpost, he noticed one thing more. He’d been mistaken in his first assessment of how the halflings were armed. Of the ten riders, only nine carried spears. One halfling rode in the middle of the group, and instead of a spear, he carried an ivory bone-staff with runes carved deep into its surface. This halfling appeared older than the others, his hair white, skin wrinkled and leathery.
He’s a shaman, Ghaji realized, and he felt a sudden unease. He’d never heard of a halfling shaman riding into battle before. Maybe the halflings hadn’t come to fight, but rather were here for a different reason.
Yeah, right.
Ghaji put on a last burst of speed and reached the tower’s entrance. One of the Karrnathi soldiers—a woman who normally refused to look at Ghaji, let alone speak to him—was already standing inside the doorway.
“I’ll bar the entrance, half-blood” she said. “You and the zombies can deal with the halflings.” She gave Ghaji a smirk before slamming the iron door shut in his face. A second later he heard the sound of an iron bar being slid into place.
Fury surged through Ghaji, and he felt like pounding his fist on the door and calling the woman a few choice names. But he didn’t have time to give in to his emotions. Not if he wanted to survive the next few moments. War-axe gripped tight, lower incisors bared in a snarl, the half-orc spun to face the oncoming riders—
—and saw that they had stopped.
Not a dozen yards from where Ghaji stood, the halflings had formed a semi-circle behind the shaman. The shaman wore the same animal-hide tunic as the other riders, but without the extra protection of a clawfoot-scale vest. Bone-staff held lightly in his left hand, the shaman sat relaxed but alert in the saddle of a clawfoot whose head was marked with a patch of deep red that might or might not have been natural. The shaman regarded Ghaji for several seconds with the confident, unconcerned air of a man who was completely in control of the situation.
The shaman spoke with the lilting accent of the Talenta halflings, his voice surprisingly deep for one of his diminutive stature.
“You are not Karrnathi. Why do you stand guard before their outpost?”
Ghaji glanced sideways and saw the zombies, scimitars and shields grasped in their undead hands, lumbering toward them. The halflings couldn’t have been unaware of the approaching undead, but they appeared not to notice, let alone care. Ghaji wasn’t sure why that was so, but if he could keep the riders distracted for a moment or two longer, the zombies would arrive and the half-orc just might be able to take to his sleeping pallet tonight with the same number of limbs and major organs he’d started the day with.
“Because the Karrnathi pay well and they pay on time.”
The shaman’s lip curled upward in distaste. “A mercenary. You fight for profit. We fight to repel invaders from our land.”
Ghaji didn’t know this man, didn’t have any reason to care what he thought. Yet the shaman’s blunt assessment of Ghaji’s motives cut through him as sharply as any blade ever had, and he felt ashamed.
Ghaji intended to say something bold and equally cutting to s
how the shaman that his words hadn’t bothered him—even if it was a lie. But before he could speak, the shaman raised his bone-staff high and spoke a series of rapid syllables in a strange language that hurt Ghaji’s ears to hear.
Ghaji risked another glance to check on the zombies’ progress, and he was gratified to see they had closed to within half a dozen yards. Another few seconds … then he realized the zombies had stopped. The undead warriors stood motionless, seeming to stare at the shaman’s upraised staff, their heads cocked slightly to the side in the manner of confused hounds. Ghaji then noticed something almost as disturbing. Instead of hanging back and remaining out of harm’s way, Kirai had followed in the zombies’ wake. She stood not ten feet behind the last of the zombies, her satchel of alchemical supplies slung over her left shoulder. She probably thought she could help somehow, and Ghaji admired her courage, but this was a battle in the offing—a far cry from smearing goo on undead flesh as part of daily zombie maintenance.
The zombies straightened their heads, their momentary confusion gone. Their full attention was focused on the halfling shaman, and Ghaji thought they seemed almost eager to hear his next words.
“Slay the Karrnathi—every one of them.” And then, almost as an afterthought, the shaman added, “And slay the half-orc as well.”
Two dozen leather-fleshed heads swiveled to look at Ghaji, two dozen scimitars were raised high in the air, and two dozen pairs of dry dead lips stretched into wicked, blood-thirsty smiles.
Ghaji sighed. It looked like it was going to be a long morning.
He lifted his war-axe, bellowed a battle cry, and rushed forward to meet the first of the oncoming zombie horde.
In the mouth of an alley across the street from Diran, Ghaji, and Asenka, a man sat with his back against the cold stone wall, knees drawn to his chest, hands wrapped around his legs, hugging himself for what meager warmth his body could provide. He was garbed in a tattered cloak that provided little defense against the late autumn winds, but though his clothing marked him as a man whose fortunes had taken an ill turn, the brown hair that hung past his shoulders had recently been washed, and his thick beard and mustache were neatly trimmed. Around his neck, concealed by his ragged clothing, a silver arrowhead hung from a chain. Lying on the ground next to him rested a longbow and a quiver full of arrows.
The man watched as the seven companions on the other side of the street spoke for several moments before going their separate ways. They were an interesting lot, but his gaze remained fixed on a single individual: the tall man garbed in black. Grim-faced, cold-eyed, he was the sort of man that exuded an almost palpable aura of danger, and yet there was gentleness about him as well. It was in the easy way he smiled at his friends, how he focused his full attention on them as they spoke, and the fondness in his tone of voice as he replied.
But despite his obvious kindness, at his core the man in black was a stone-cold killer. The man in the ragged cloak knew this. It was, in fact, why he had gone to such lengths to seek Diran Bastiaan out.
Images flashed through the cloaked man’s mind: moons blazing bright and full, a shadowy form emerging from the darkness and bounding toward him, growling low in its throat, mouth opened wide to reveal sharp white teeth—
Shuddering, the man thrust the images from his mind. His breath now came in ragged gasps, and sweat rolled down his face despite the cold.
Diran moved off down the street, accompanied by the half-orc and the blond woman. The cloaked man waited several moments until he’d collected himself, then he gathered his bow and arrows, rose to his feet, and followed.
Tresslar, Hinto, and Solus walked side by side along the street, the human and the halfling flanking the psiforged. Though the Kolbyrites they passed continued to glare at them, their animosity seemed somewhat muted now. Tresslar guessed Solus was using his psionic abilities to blunt the citizens’ anger, and before he could ask, the psiforged said, “Yes, I am. I have been doing so since we made port.”
Tresslar was taken aback. If Solus had been protecting them since their arrival in Kolbyr, did that mean psiforged was the only thing that had been keeping the citizens from attacking them? And if so, what did that mean for Diran and the others now that they no longer had Solus to shield them?
“Fear not, my friend,” Solus said. “The protective aura I extended around the others will linger for some time yet, and the citizens of Kolbyr have much experience at resisting the dark magic that hangs over their city, though I sense that it is stronger this day than usual. We should all be safe enough—for the time being.”
Tresslar nodded, though he could’ve done without Solus’s qualification of “safe.”
“So where are we going?” Hinto asked.
Tresslar didn’t want to answer the little pirate’s question, but he knew if he didn’t the halfling would only keep pestering him.
“Tinker’s Room.”
“Is that a tavern?” Hinto said. A chill breeze wafted down the street, and the halfling shivered. “It’s a bit early in the day to start drinking, but I could use a little something to warm me up inside.”
“No, it’s not a tavern, and Tinker’s Room isn’t its real name. It’s a customary nickname. There’s a Tinker’s Room in every city across Khorvaire, and while they’re a bit rarer in the Principalities, Perhata has one, and so does Kolbyr.”
Hinto frowned. “If they’re that common, why haven’t I heard of them before?”
Before Tresslar could reply, Solus said, “Because you aren’t an artificer, my friend.”
Tresslar scowled at the psiforged. “It’s impolite to read people’s minds without their permission, you know.”
Solus bowed his head. “My apologies, master artificer. I’m finding it more difficult to block out the thoughts of my new friends than I anticipated. The more time I spend in your company, the more my mind becomes … accustomed to yours, causing me to sense your surface thoughts without intending to.”
Tresslar, somewhat mollified by Solus’s referring to him as master artificer, decided to accept the psiforged’s apology. “Very well, but I’d appreciate it if you would allow me to keep my thoughts to myself in the future. Now, to return to Hinto’s question, while the existence of Tinker’s Rooms isn’t precisely a secret, it’s not something that artificers go out of their way to publicize. While both wizards and artificers work with magic, wizards deal with the more theoretical aspects of the craft, while artificers take a practical approach. Wizards research and study magic for the sake of acquiring knowledge and increasing their own personal power. Artificers, on the other hand, use magic, applying it for practical purposes. Wizards tend to work in isolation and guard their secrets jealously, but artificers—because of their more pragmatic approach to magic—are much more open about sharing their knowledge. Hence the existence of Tinker’s Rooms, places where artificers gather to talk shop, admire one another’s craftsmanship, and trade for materials and supplies as needed.”
“And you hope to learn something of your missing wand at the Tinker’s Room in Kolbyr?” Solus asked.
Tresslar shrugged. “No one at the Tinker’s Room in Perhata had any news about my wand, but someone here in Kolbyr might. Whenever an artificer is unsure how to begin tackling a problem, we have a saying: ‘Go to your room.’ So that’s what I’m doing.”
“Are you sure the people there won’t mind if we accompany you?” Hinto asked. “Neither Solus nor I are artificers.”
“Don’t worry,” Tresslar said. “While outsiders aren’t encouraged, they aren’t forbidden.” He then smiled at Solus. “In fact, I think you will be especially welcome, my bejeweled friend. Psiforged are extremely rare, and there’s nothing artificers love better than seeing a magical device—or in your case, a construct—that they haven’t encountered before.”
They continued walking through Kolbyr, and though Tresslar had never been here before, he’d received directions from artificers in Perhata before setting sail for this side of the gulf, and afte
r a short time the three companions stood before a domed building with a single wooden door hanging slightly askew on its hinges.
“This is it?” Hinto said, eyeing the building skeptically. “Kolbyr’s artificers must not be very good if they can’t fix a simple door.”
“I told you, Tinker’s Rooms aren’t advertised,” Tresslar said. “The door’s state of disrepair is no doubt intended to help disguise the building’s true nature.” Which was possible, but it was equally possible—and Tresslar had to admit, more likely—that Kolbyr’s artificers hadn’t even noticed the door’s condition. If there was nothing magical about the door, there wouldn’t be anything about it to interest artificers. “But you don’t have to take my word for it.”
Tresslar removed his backpack, reached inside, and withdrew a small metal ring with a wooden handle attached. Tresslar held the device, which resembled a magnifying glass that had lost its lens, up to the stone wall to the right of the door. He moved the device slowly up and down until a golden light began to glow within the center of the ring. The glow grew brighter, and the illumination began to take on a distinct shape: a hand grasping a tool that looked like a small trident wrapped in a coil of wire.
“Behold the Tinker’s Mark,” Tresslar said. He held the revealer steady for a moment while he gazed upon the mark, his mind filling with fond memories of the many Tinker’s Rooms he’d visited over the years—especially back when he’d been a young adventurer sailing on the Sea Star with Erdis Cai. Without a doubt, those had been the happiest days of his life, and he missed them.
