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

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “Onatar’s ale-filled gut!” he swore again softly, looking at her in amazement. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  Sabira wrinkled her nose, pulling her hands away from his and taking a step back.

  “Host, Aggar! When was the last time you bothered to bathe?” She was only partly jesting; the dwarf was ripe, and Sabira couldn’t help but wonder just how long he’d been waiting in the tiny, sparse room.

  “Why do you think I was asking for water?” Aggar quipped, lowering his hands. Then his smile faded, and his expression grew earnest. “In all seriousness, Saba—as happy as I am to see you, why am I seeing you? Has something happened? Are you in trouble?”

  “Am I in trouble?” she repeated, dumbfounded. “You’re the one on trial for murder. And why are you so surprised to see me? You sent for me. Or did you really think I hated you so much that I wouldn’t come?”

  Aggar was shaking his head, frowning, and Sabira realized with a start that it wasn’t in response to her rapid interrogation.

  “You didn’t send for me.” It wasn’t a question.

  Mountainheart. That dirty, conniving son of a Jhorash’tar.

  “So let me get this straight. You’re saying you didn’t ask your nephew and fellow Concordian to go to Elix and basically threaten to end the trading partnership between the Tordannon clan and House Deneith if I didn’t come here to defend you from some trumped-up murder charges?”

  Aggar’s thick brows made a V above the bridge of his nose, its vertex getting sharper and sharper as she spoke.

  “No, no, no, no, and, most emphatically, no,” he replied, his expression growing darker with each denial. “That is, assuming that you’re talking about Orin?”

  “You have more than one nephew?” Since Aggar had no siblings, the existence of even one nephew had been a bit of a surprise, but given the multifarious nature of family ties in the Holds, Sabira supposed anything was possible.

  “I have five now, actually, and a niece. My father finally remarried four years ago—in part, I think, because he was hoping it would spur me on to do the same. His wife, the Baroness Meridella Deepspring Mountainheart, has three older brothers, and they’ve all been abundantly blessed with children and grandchildren, as Meridella herself has not.”

  Which was probably exactly why Kiruk Tordannon had married her. Childless, she posed no threat to Aggar’s inheritance, but with several grandchildren, there was no risk of that inheritance going to someone outside the clan, should Aggar not produce an heir of his own.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that Kiruk and Meridella had simply fallen in love, and her lack of direct heirs was mere happenstance, but marriage was rarely such a straightforward affair among the dwarves. Most of the time, it involved contracts whose long negotiations served the same function that the courtship period did for other races. Affection, or the lack thereof, was seldom a factor.

  Though, to be fair, Kiruk had loved Aggar’s mother, and deeply. When she had died in childbirth, the dwarf patriarch had been devastated, and the entire crushing bulk of his devotion had then been transferred to the only thing Kiruk had left of her: her sickly, flame-haired son.

  “But Orin’s the only one of them who’d pull a stunt like this. And the only one with the authority, since he was appointed envoy. Plus he’s been missing since shortly after his wedding to Gunnett Stoneblood, and I know he wouldn’t have left without a very good reason.” He didn’t look so angry now, but there was still a shadow behind his eyes. “So where is he?”

  Sabira briefly recounted how Orin had stalked her to Stormreach, threatened her, then gotten skewered by one yrthak while saving her life from another on the way back to Khorvaire. She left out the part about feeding him the ironspice, though, since she still wasn’t sure just how sick that had actually made him. Aggar relaxed visibly when Sabira told him Orin was in the care of House Jorasco.

  “And he told you he was a member of the Aurum?” Aggar asked when she was finished.

  “Silver Concord,” Sabira affirmed, though in truth Orin had only displayed the rings; he’d never actually claimed to be a Concordian. One of the few things he hadn’t lied about, apparently.

  “So that’s where my old rings went,” Aggar muttered to himself, and suddenly Orin’s reaction to hearing that Sabira had taken a job for Arach d’Kundarak—an actual Concordian—back in Stormreach made much more sense. To Sabira, he said, “And you believed him?”

  “As much as I’d believe anyone who told me you were a member of the Aurum—a Gold Concordian, no less—and that you’d gotten yourself arrested for murdering, what, half of them?” Which was to say, yes. She’d swallowed it all whole, because believing Aggar had become a criminal made it that much easier to sustain her anger toward him and toward herself. After all, she thought bitterly, what better tool for self-flagellation could she have than knowing the dwarf she’d let Leoned die to save had gone on to commit more than a dozen murders?

  “You believed I’d actually ask you to come back here, after … everything that happened? You honestly thought I would do that to you?” Neither his tone nor his face betrayed his hurt, but she knew her doubt had cut him to the quick.

  But he wasn’t the only one to take a knife to the heart over this whole Hostforsaken situation, and she wasn’t inclined to feel sympathetic.

  “Elix did. Why not you, as well?”

  That silenced him. He knew how close she and Leoned and Elix had all been. If Elix—someone she’d cared for and admired—could deceive her so thoroughly with that damnable letter, was it really any wonder she’d doubt him, someone she’d left the Holds practically hating?

  “So Orin left his new wife, masqueraded as a member of the Aurum, and lied to the Sentinel Marshals, all on your behalf? Seems like you’ve really learned how to inspire loyalty since I’ve been gone. That, or stupidity, since his actions are likely to earn him a cell next to yours.”

  “Orin believes I’m innocent,” Aggar replied, unruffled by her gibes. He crossed over to the room’s lone piece of furniture—a long wooden bench—and bent to pick up a small folded towel from atop a stack of clothing, using it to mop the sweat from his brow and the back of his neck.

  “Are you?”

  The dwarf didn’t answer immediately. He pulled a white shirt on over his head, then a sleeveless tunic in several startling shades of green and emblazoned with the Tordannon crest over that. He finished the ensemble off with an orange cloak that he clasped at his neck with a gold hand clenched in a fist.

  “Are you?” he countered sardonically, straightening his collar. “Is anyone?”

  She opened her mouth to explain, in explicit detail, just what she thought of his attempt to play the philosopher, but he held up his hand to forestall her.

  “If, on the other hand, you’re asking if I killed my fellow Concordians, the answer to that question is far simpler. No, I did not. And I have no idea who did.”

  “Obviously someone who hates you,” Sabira rejoined tartly.

  Aggar chuckled mirthlessly.

  “Well, my dear old friend, then that would put you at the top of a very long list of suspects.”

  “Undoubtedly. But seeing as this is the first time I’ve set foot in the Holds since …,” she trailed off, not quite able to bring herself to say it, here, in front of him. “Well, I think it’s safe to cross me off that list. But maybe if you tell me exactly who was murdered, and what relationship each of the victims had to you, we might be able to narrow it down to a few hundred other suspects, hmm?”

  “Only a few hundred?” Aggar laughed, with real amusement this time. “Why, Saba, I do believe you’ve mellowed during your time away.”

  Sabira’s answering smile was brittle.

  “Don’t count on it. Just tell me what happened, and leave all the fancy embellishments and philosophical musings for someone they might actually impress. The trial does start today, after all. And I need as much information as possible, as quickly as possible,
if I’m going to have any hope of defending you.”

  Aggar sat on the bench and motioned for Sabira to do the same. “Well, you might as well sit, then. This is going to take a while.”

  Honoring Sabira’s request, the dwarf kept his story succinct and factual. Most of the thirteen victims had been rival members of the Aurum, and they’d all been seen arguing with Aggar in the days and hours preceding their deaths. In fact, except for the first murder, Aggar seemed to have been the last person to see many of the victims alive. Aside from the real killer, of course.

  The first victim, Haddrin Goldglove, had been a lowly Copper Concordian from Frostmantle, obsessed with the Fist of Onatar and the great cache of Siberys dragonshards that legend placed deep within the bowels of the volcano. He’d come to Aggar—a member of the Frostmantle Four, the city’s governing body—with concerns about a recent increase in hot spring activity in the caverns below the mountaintop city, fearing a dangerous magma chamber might be developing there. But considering that the Fist was almost two hundred miles away, Aggar had dismissed Goldglove as a doomsayer, and not entirely stable—rightfully so, in Sabira’s estimation—and sent him on his hand-wringing way. Goldglove had stopped to see his mother before descending to the lower levels of the city, where he hoped to find proof to convince Aggar that he wasn’t crazy. His body had been found beside one of the hot springs a week later, his logbook still clutched in one bloody hand.

  As with all the subsequent victims, Goldglove had been conveniently beheaded, so questioning his corpse had not been an option. At the time, his death had been considered an isolated event, so there’d been no reason to have him resurrected to try and learn more about the manner of his passing—not that his mother could have afforded it, even if there had been reason. Instead, she’d had his body put to the flame, a practice common among worshippers of Onatar, the Sovereign God of Fire and Forge.

  And while Sabira was certain that most of the other Aurum members who’d been slain could have afforded to be resurrected, none of their heirs had seen fit to authorize that exorbitantly expensive procedure—probably because they had other uses for their newly acquired wealth. A fact that would normally have made each of them suspects as well, but unless they’d all conspired together to kill their respective family members and frame Aggar for it—a scenario that, while possible, was not at all probable—the chances of any of them actually being guilty were very slim.

  The second and third murders had occurred in Krona Peak while Aggar was there seeing to family business. Though the method of killing was identical to Goldglove’s, these deaths had not been linked to his until after the fourth murder, which happened back in Frostmantle and coincided with Aggar’s return there.

  At that point, local Inquisitives had been called in to examine the various crime scenes, but they’d found few clues. Inquisitives from Houses Medani or Tharashk would likely have had more success, but the dwarves had been understandably reluctant to call in outsiders. The only reason her own presence was being tolerated was because of her past service to the dwarves—the Iron Council had extended an open invitation to her after Nightshard’s death, and they could not rescind it now without looking churlish, frightened, or weak.

  It took four more murders before Aggar came under suspicion. The Inquisitives actually brought him in for questioning in the deaths of the ninth and tenth victims, which occurred back in Krona Peak. Aggar had been there attending Orin and Gunnett’s wedding, an ostentatious affair that had been held in Kol Korran’s Throne, the largest temple dedicated to the Sovereign God of World and Wealth in all of Khorvaire. But the Inquisitives didn’t have enough evidence to incriminate Aggar, so they had to let him go both times.

  It hadn’t been until the thirteenth and final death—also in Krona Peak—that Aggar had been apprehended, when they’d found the murder weapon in his possession. The sword had still been slick with the blood of the last victim, and a fair amount of Aggar’s own.

  It didn’t matter that his preferred weapon was a greataxe, or that he handled a longer blade about as well as he coordinated his clothing. Nor did it matter that he had been attacked and wounded that very night himself, by a cloaked figure wielding an identical—if not the very same—sword.

  The bulk of the evidence against him was too strong; if not for his position as a leader of Frostmantle and the heir to the majority of the Tordannon clan holdings, he’d have been arrested much sooner. But the Inquisitives had needed concrete proof of his guilt. How opportune that they should find it lying in the open in his rooms while he was being treated for the injury he’d likely received from that self-same weapon, at the hands of the actual murderer.

  “Well, whoever framed you went to a lot of trouble,” Sabira mused when the dwarf was done talking. “A plot this complex had to have taken a great deal of planning—it wasn’t hatched in a day, or even a month. That indicates someone with a long-standing grudge. Not to mention the resources and skill to circumvent the protection of some highly placed figures. Silvervein was related to Queen Diani of Thrane’s bodyguard, wasn’t she?”

  “His youngest sister,” Aggar answered, nodding.

  “Oh,” Sabira said, wincing. That wasn’t good.

  “And Mikos Deepshaft was Tiadanna’s favorite cousin,” Aggar offered, somewhat apologetically.

  “Tiadanna Mroranon? Wife of Torlan Mroranon, the Iron Council’s arbiter? That Tiadanna?”

  Aggar at least had the grace to look sheepish as he nodded.

  “It gets worse.”

  Sabira suppressed a groan as something that felt suspiciously like dread crawled down her spine and curled into a ball in the pit of her stomach.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Deepshaft was the last victim. He was also the chief priest at the Temple of Kol Korran.”

  Sabira’s groan escaped this time, though in truth she didn’t do much to try to hold it in.

  Mrorians revered their priests, viewing them as selfless heroes who willingly sacrificed the standing they held in their individual clans to serve the most important clan of all—the dwarven people.

  “Host, Aggar!” Sabira swore, shaking her head in disbelief. “A priest? This person doesn’t just want you dead, he wants you destroyed! I’m surprised they’re even giving you the courtesy of a trial.”

  “My father’s also on the Council,” Aggar reminded her, “And Torlan wasn’t particularly fond of his wife’s cousin, not after Deepshaft spoke out against the new tax on ‘excessive’ religious offerings.”

  Sabira scoffed at that. “Even if he secretly wanted Mikos dead, he’s not likely to publicly congratulate you for doing the deed for him. He’ll be expected to want revenge, and appearances will require that he live up to that expectation.”

  Then a thought struck her.

  “Wait. Deepshaft was a member of the Aurum?” Though it wasn’t a requirement of the calling as far as she knew, most dwarf priests of Kol Korran gave up all claims to personal property when they entered into the service of the Sovereign, exchanging tangible wealth for spiritual, the better to serve his Vassals. For such a priest to be involved with the acquisitive and power-hungry Aurum would be highly irregular, to say the least.

  “Actually, no. And the only time I ever met him was at Orin’s wedding. He doesn’t fit the pattern, but he was killed the same way as all the others, so of course I’m getting credit for it.”

  “Whoever framed you got impatient, then. Good to know, but it doesn’t help us now.”

  Quite the contrary. While Sabira had never been on this side of a trial before, she had testified in a couple of high-profile cases back in Sharn. She’d learned then that, when the verdict rested with a jury—in this case, the Council—the best bet for acquittal was having either a well-loved defendant or a well-known barrister.

  Even if Aggar had been a popular figure before these charges, the death of the priest would have effectively obliterated any support he might have had on the Council, other than that of his
own father and those members who might owe Kiruk favors. Big favors.

  That left the barrister.

  “Who’s your advocate for the trial?”

  “It was supposed to be Barrut Blackiron.”

  Good. Kiruk had spared no expense for his son. Blackiron was the best advocate in the Mror Holds. And a good barrister mattered more to a case like this than mere facts.

  “But …?”

  Aggar hesitated, his expression that of a student who knows he’s about to be severely chastised by his teacher.

  “He’s dead.”

  “What?” Sabira exclaimed. Olladra’s empty purse! Aggar must have done something to seriously offend the goddess of luck to have so many turns of fortune go the wrong way. “Please tell me he wasn’t forced to eat his own eyes before being beheaded.”

  “That wouldn’t make much sense, would it—me killing my own defender? Why would the real murderer bother to frame me for that?” Aggar shook his head, and the beads in his beard responded with a musical tinkling, a sound incongruous and alien in this stark setting, in the midst of this grim conversation. “No. He drowned in Mirror Lake a little over two weeks ago. Fishing accident.”

  Well, that was a relief, at least. Still, given the level of machinations within machinations they seemed to be dealing with, she felt compelled to ask.

  “Are you certain it was an accident?”

  “My father was with him at the time. Though I suppose there’s always the possibility he thought Blackiron’s retainer was too high.…”

  Leave it to Aggar to find something to joke about in the middle of this ever-burgeoning debacle.

  “So who will be taking Blackiron’s place?”

  “One of his apprentices. Rockfist, I think his name is. Supposedly very smart, but doesn’t have a lot of trial experience—none, at this level. He’s actually supposed to be here right now. Hopefully he’s just running late and didn’t walk through any dark alleys or shadowy hallways on the way to see me.”

  Wonderful. A defendant everyone would hate on principle and a barrister no one had ever heard of. The chances of winning this case had just shrunk from highly unlikely to virtually impossible.