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

by Marsheila Rockwell

  “Yes,” Mountainheart replied shortly, his eyes narrowing as he realized how she’d manipulated him yet again. “He said you wanted Goldglove’s journal. I was able to confirm that it’s in his mother Tysane’s keeping, but I was waiting until you arrived to approach her.”

  “Excellent,” Sabira said, reaching across the table to snatch his snifter and drain the last of the warm, salty Blood. “So, what are we waiting for? Let’s go approach her.”

  Tysane Goldglove’s Genealogical Services was located in her home on the city’s first sublevel. The two-story building was set back from the street behind a gate and an improbable garden filled with a fantastic mix of fungi and flowers, a small fountain, and dozens of chimes that rang sweetly from the colonnaded porch without the urging of any breeze.

  Sabira and Mountainheart strode down the well-kept path to the front door. A wooden sign hung above the door, emblazoned with a simple golden hand grasping a quill from which red ink dripped.

  Sabira raised an eyebrow at Mountainheart, who shrugged.

  “Genealogist’s joke, I suppose—their work is writ in blood?”

  Accurate enough, Sabira supposed, if a bit morbid. She wondered how much business the motto brought in. Hopefully not much; it would be best if Tysane was alone when they spoke to her, so there would be no interruptions.

  Sabira knocked on the door, then stood back and to the side as she waited for someone to answer.

  When several moments had passed with nothing but silence on the other side of the door, she looked at Mountainheart in irritation.

  “Please tell me you confirmed she was actually home before we came all the way down here?”

  “Where else would she be? The annual Society of Genealogist’s meeting isn’t until next month,” the dwarf rejoined bitingly, obviously still smarting from her earlier ruse.

  Sabira was about to respond with a splash of sarcasm of her own when the door suddenly creaked open and an elderly dwarf woman dressed in scarlet, lavender, and chartreuse poked her head out.

  “A Peaker and a Karrn, from the accents. I can probably help you,” she cackled, jabbing her cane toward Mountainheart. Then she turned milky eyes toward Sabira. “But you, my dear, are out of luck. I can refer you to my counterpart in Atur, if you don’t mind working with a Blood of Vol cultist. With the understanding that I get a percentage of whatever he charges you, of course. Finder’s fee.”

  “That won’t be necessary, grandmother,” Sabira replied with a polite smile that she realized belatedly the woman could not see. “We’re simply here to ask you a few questions about your son.”

  The woman’s friendliness evaporated in an instant.

  “I’ve already spoken to the authorities, for all the good that did. What justice exists in Frostmantle for a boy killed by her favorite son?”

  As she moved to shut the door, Sabira stepped forward, grabbing the blind woman’s wrist.

  “Please, grandmother. We’ve good reason to believe that the real killer is the confederate of one who stalked these halls, sowing terror, almost a decade ago.”

  Tysane’s face paled. Nightshard’s name was never spoken aloud here, out of superstitious dread and respect for his many victims, but Sabira knew it didn’t need to be.

  “Come in, then, and quickly,” the old dwarf said, spinning in a cloud of clashing colors and leading them, cane tap-tapping, into the dark maze of her home.

  They sat in a small parlor lit dimly by oil lamps. Bookcases lined the walls, but instead of being filled with genealogy tomes and family histories as Sabira had expected, the shelves were crammed with books and reports on the Fist of Onatar, volcanoes in general, the melting point of dragonshards, prayers to the Sovereign of Fire and Forge, spelunking, and mining, and those were just the spines she could read from where she sat. There even seemed to be an entire section dedicated to poetry inspired by those subjects.

  “You have a lovely home,” Sabira said when the blind woman didn’t seem inclined to speak once they were all seated. “With such an … eclectic library.”

  “You’re wondering why all the books here are my son’s?” Tysane asked, cocking her head to the side as if listening. The old woman grinned, showing gaps in her teeth. She rapped her temple sharply with a bony knuckle. “Because I don’t need books when I’ve got this. Everything I need to know is in here. What good would books be to me, anyway? I can’t say as I’m much of a reader.”

  Sabira could only hope Tysane’s son didn’t take after her in that regard; if his logbook didn’t have the information she needed—whatever that might turn out to be—because he kept the bulk of it in his head, then Aggar was doomed. Though, if the obsession evinced by his book collection was any indication, her problem might actually lie in the opposite direction: too much information, and too technical for her to readily understand it.

  Once she and Mountainheart had filled Goldglove’s mother in on the likelihood of Nightshard’s having had an accomplice who was actually behind not only the murder of her son but also of all the other recent victims, Tysane had been more than willing to turn the journal over to them. In the space of those few words, Aggar went in her estimation from pampered killer to persecuted victim, and her maternal instinct came raging to the fore. Anywhere else, the swift change of heart would have been unusual, even suspicious. But not here in Frostmantle, where wayward children were still warned against mischief with threats of Nightshard’s resurrection.

  “Here’s Haddrin’s work journal. I’ve marked the last entry with a ribbon.” Sensing Sabira’s surprise, Tysane offered another toothy smile. “It’s not magic, dear. Quills leave indentations in paper. I may not be able to see the entries or tell you what they say, but I can certainly tell you where they end.”

  “Thank you,” Sabira said, taking the logbook from Tysane and opening it to the marked place. There, she read the final entry she’d seen copied in Blackiron’s notes, then she skimmed the earlier entries until she found the one that referenced Goldglove’s meeting with Aggar, at the top of the previous page.

  Met with Tordannon. Laughed me out of his office, and said I’d regret it if I went to the rest of the Four with my findings.

  Need more proof.

  No wonder Aggar had come under suspicion. A written record of him threatening someone who wound up dead a few days later would be enough for most courts to find him guilty without ever going to trial. If he hadn’t had the power of the Tordannon clan behind him, this case would likely never have seen the inside of a courtroom, let alone the Iron Council’s chambers. And at least half of the murder victims would probably still be alive. Sabira didn’t particularly appreciate the irony.

  Blackiron’s records hadn’t referenced any earlier entries, so she began reading them in reverse order. If Goldglove said he needed more proof, this meant he already had some before he went to see Aggar. She needed to know what it was.

  As she read, she began to understand the magnitude of the threat Goldglove had been trying to warn Aggar about. Coupled with what she remembered of Darkore’s map, a disturbing image was emerging.

  Over the past five years, a magmatic fissure had formed on the northern side of the Fist of Onatar and had extended rapidly in an unnaturally straight line toward Frostmantle. Goldglove had become aware of the fissure on one of his many expeditions to the Fist, and he’d been tracking it ever since. He hadn’t been sure if the fissure would change direction at some point, perhaps heading for either Korran’s Maw or Noldrunthrone, or maybe even Goradra Gap. But when he’d begun seeing hot springs form beneath the city, as well as tree-kill in the mountains directly to the south, he’d realized that the fissure’s point of termination had to be Frostmantle.

  Someone was trying to channel magma from the Fist of Onatar to the caverns below the capital city of Tordannonhold. But who, and why? Somehow Sabira doubted it was some enterprising innkeeper hoping to capitalize on the supposed healing properties of the accompanying hot springs.

  Then she f
ound it. An offhand entry, made almost four months earlier.

  Goldglove had been mapping the fissure south of Frostmantle, on the Noldrun side of where it crossed from that hold into Tordannonhold. He’d been down in the newly formed caverns when he’d been attacked by a hooded dwarf who’d chased him away from the fissure, raving madly.

  … as if I had any interest in the fool’s stash of Khyber shards! Yelling at me like that: “Mine! First! Last! Always! Only!” Obviously completely unhinged. Lucky to have escaped unharmed. Must start carrying a weapon of some sort …

  Of course.

  It was circumstantial, Sabira knew, and would never stand up to the Council’s questioning without more proof, but she was certain she had the answer now. Rockfist would be pleased to know he’d been right all along. So would Kiruk.

  “What?” Mountainheart asked, leaning over to read the entry himself and not understanding what about it was making Sabira smile like a feral cat.

  “I know who did it, and I think I know why. Now all we have to do is prove it.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Far, Nymm 20, 998 YK

  Frostmantle, Mror Holds.

  Hrun Noldrun? Who is he?”

  Sabira quickly explained about the latest pretender to Noldrunhold.

  “He arrived in Krona Peak not long after the encounter Haddrin wrote about. Rockfist said he’d been badly burned at some point—maybe it happened in the cave-in. Maybe he was there, maybe he survived … what Ned and Nightshard didn’t.”

  The words came in a raw whisper as she saw it all happen again, playing out before her like a show at the Livewood. In her haste to save Aggar, she’d triggered a deadfall, and the portion of the cavern roof that Ned’s chain was connected to had collapsed. Her devastated scream was drowned out by the thunder of falling rock as she watched Leoned’s body disappear into the magma moments before both the pool itself and Nightshard were buried beneath a small mountain of earth and stone. She and Aggar dug in vain, but all they uncovered was a hand gray with dust. On it, a Khyber shard ring gleamed, even through its coating of dirt. Of Ned, they found nothing. He was gone.

  Nightshard had claimed his last victim.

  Sabira blinked fiercely, struggling to keep sudden tears at bay. She cleared her throat and continued, hoping Mountainheart hadn’t noticed.

  “Maybe it took him this long to find his way back.”

  “To Krona Peak?” Mountainheart asked disbelievingly.

  “To sanity. Or some semblance of it, anyway.” Host knew it had taken her that long … if she was even there yet. “We never really understood what he was doing back then, or why, but I think I do now. Haddrin gave me the clue. It was in one of the books he was looking at in … the library,” she said, glancing at Tysane. “One on mining claims in and around Noldrunhold. The names of most of the families had been grayed out—either their mines had been played out or the family lines themselves had. Several of those names seemed familiar to me at the time, but I was more interested in the material on magmatic fissures, so I didn’t stop to think about what that meant. But now that I understand that Noldrunhold’s been the key to this all along, it makes perfect sense.”

  Sabira paused expectantly, waiting for Mountainheart to catch up with her, but he just gave her a confused look and shook his head. Tysane said nothing.

  “The family names were familiar to me because I’d seen them before. Because they were all names of Nightsh—of the Stalker’s victims.”

  “Wait. You’re saying the Stalker killed all those people … over mining claims?” Mountainheart couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the prospect.

  “I think so, yes. To make sure the area in and around Noldrunhold was completely abandoned.”

  “But why? Nobody lives there anymore. Nobody wants to live there. Who would, with Korran’s Maw on one side and Noldrunthrone on the other?”

  It was a fair question. Noldrunthrone was believed by all to be haunted, and the Maw was possibly the most feared and shunned location in the entirety of the Holds. Though it was commonly known that the mine still bore rich lodes of ore, so great was the power of the legends surrounding it that those veins remained untapped, even four centuries after they were first deserted. Even so, there was one person who would not be deterred by shades and stories.

  It was Tysane who provided the answer.

  “A Noldrun.”

  “At least one—remember, Hrun is just the accomplice. The Stalker who set all this in motion was probably a Noldrun, too.”

  “So, what’s he doing now?” Mountainheart asked, frowning into his beard. “These new victims don’t fit the same pattern. Aside from Goldglove, most of them aren’t even from the southern holds.”

  “You’re right, they’re not,” Sabira agreed. “They’re all people whose deaths would be easy to lay at Aggar’s feet for one reason or another, but other than that, they’re not important to Hrun’s greater plan. Not like the first victims were.

  “I thought he just wanted to finish the job that I interrupted back in ’91—killing Aggar. But I realize now that was never his goal. Or at least, it wasn’t his only one.

  “Haddrin stumbled onto the true plot when he discovered the fissure. Hrun wasn’t going to be content with just killing the Tordannon heir this time—he was going to destroy the heir and the inheritance.”

  “Frostmantle?” Tysane asked, horrified. Tysane quickly curved her first two fingers into a fang shape—the sign of the Keeper, the Sovereign of Death and Decay, meant to ward off evil.

  “Exactly. Hrun must have remembered Haddrin from his crazed wanderings and realized the threat your son posed. It would have been easy enough for Hrun to track him down at the hot springs, since he knew where to look. Then, when he read the logbook entries and saw that Aggar had threatened Haddrin, the idea to frame Aggar for the murder must have seemed like a gift sent directly from the Mockery. Only the authorities took too long to figure it out; Hrun had to help them along by laying even more murders at Aggar’s feet. But now that Aggar’s been arrested, Hrun can carry on with his true work undisturbed.”

  “So how do we stop him?”

  “I haven’t figured that one out just yet. But I do know where we can find him.” She grinned at Mountainheart, unaccountably relieved to finally have a sure course of action. “Care to visit some hot springs?”

  As they were taking their leave of Tysane, Sabira reminded the old woman not to speak of what she’d heard and then thanked her again for letting them have Haddrin’s logbook.

  “Your generosity today will save many lives, grandmother—” Sabira began, only to have Tysane smack her on the shin with her cane.

  “Stop calling me that, girl. I’m no one’s grandmother—and won’t ever be, now. The Goldglove line ends with me.”

  “I’m sorry,” Sabira said perfunctorily, and then the old dwarf’s words reminded her of something she’d read. Ah, yes. Gunnett was likewise the last of her line.

  “Speaking of which, grand—sorry, Tysane. Can you tell me what some symbols on a family pedigree mean?”

  “Most likely,” the genealogist replied with alacrity. “Describe them.”

  When she had, Tysane nodded.

  “Hmm. The circle with the x in it is a fairly common one. It means the woman has been proven to be barren. The other symbol—two circles separated by a line, with one circle being larger—that one’s quite a bit rarer, at least in modern genealogies. It’s the sign of the fortunate twin.”

  Sabira, unfamiliar with the term, looked at Mountainheart, who shrugged and shook his head. A response he was getting a little too much practice making of late.

  “The fortunate twin?” she prompted Tysane.

  “Yes. It refers to an old custom no longer considered acceptable by civilized dwarves. Twin births are generally more difficult than singletons, and one or both children are often born with abnormalities. In older, darker days, the ‘imperfect’ twin was usually cast out.” Tysane’s wrinkled face c
reased into a grimace. “Can’t say as I’m sorry the custom’s been abandoned, seeing as I was a twin myself, and my life hasn’t turned out half bad.”

  Sabira resisted the urge to give Mountainheart a pointed glare at that, thinking of another blind child that never got the chance to find out what his life would have been like.

  “So, if the mother was barren, and the daughter was a fortunate twin …?”

  “Then the normal daughter was adopted via the Ceremony of Blood, Steel, and Stone, while her twisted twin was most likely left to die in the depths of the Ironroots,” Tysane finished. “If that’s the case, the size of the circles can also indicate the age at which the adoption took place.”

  Sabira thought back.

  “The smaller circle was about the same size as the one indicating barrenness, and the larger was probably twice that.”

  “Not an infant, then. Anywhere from five to ten years old, I’d guess. Old enough to remember it, poor child.” But whether Tysane was referring to the fortunate twin or the cast-off, Sabira couldn’t tell.

  “Why are you wasting time asking about this?” Mountainheart demanded with an impatient frown. “What does the barbaric practice of some obscure family have to do with finding Hrun or helping my uncle? Who are you even talking about?”

  Sabira looked at him for a moment, considering. He didn’t have any of the usual tells of someone who was bluffing; he must honestly not know that Gunnett had not been born a Stoneblood.

  “It’s not important,” she said at last. She wasn’t sure what to make of this new information, but she did know telling Mountainheart about it now was only going to distract him from the task at hand, and she had a feeling she was going to need him at his sharpest. Their foe was turning out to be far cleverer than she’d imagined.

  “Something from an old case,” she added when the dwarf didn’t seem convinced. “Remind me to tell you about it later, after this one is closed. For now, we need to get down to the lowest levels of the city as soon as possible. From what I read in Haddrin’s journal, the fissure had almost reached Frostmantle. It must be even closer now, maybe even beneath the city already, so whatever Hrun has planned, it’s going to happen soon. And we need to be there to stop it.”