Skein of Shadows

by Rockwell, Marsheila

  Sabira chuckled self-deprecatingly. As often as she ridiculed others for their blind obedience to the House, her assumption that Deneith warriors were superior to any others simply by virtue of their name was just another side of the same coin. She was suddenly glad she wasn’t traveling with either Aggar or Elix—both of them would have seen her hypocrisy in an instant, and only one of them might have kept quiet about it.

  “They don’t, necessarily. But I don’t know who else we can find, hire, and supply before the fourth bell.”

  Greddark shrugged. “How about some warforged? A lot of them don’t seem too happy working for Cannith right now; I’d bet they’d jump at the chance to prove they’re more than just two-legged toolboxes.” He looked over at Glaive, who was bringing them two mugs of cider, since the tavern sadly carried neither tea nor dwarven whiskey.

  “No offense meant,” he said to the warforged.

  “The mere fact that you are concerned I might be offended proves that,” the barkeep replied as he set down their drinks. “How many warriors do you need?”

  Sabira chewed her lip thoughtfully. Tilde had gone in with thirty men, but the very size of her party could have led to its demise—the larger the group, the harder it was to pass unnoticed by the things that lurked in the shadows, or to maneuver in tight places when such notice could not be escaped.

  She looked over at Greddark inquiringly, but the dwarf shrugged, as if to say, “It’s your show.”

  “It’s not a question of how many,” she said after a moment. “It’s a question of how good they are.”

  Glaive nodded his approval.

  “In that case, you will want to speak to Bardiche. He is a warforged in search of a purpose—better you give it to him than the Lord of Blades.”

  “The Lord of Blades?” Sabira repeated in surprise. “I didn’t know his cult extended this far outside the Mournland.”

  She didn’t know much about the shadowy figure, and everything she had heard was full of exaggeration and contradiction. By all accounts a powerful and charismatic warforged, the Lord of Blades was rumored to be building an empire for the living constructs out of the bones and ashes of the nation that had once been Cyre—though for what purpose, no one could truly say. She’d heard him variously described as a teacher and a prophet, a warlord and a madman. The truth, of course, was probably somewhere in between those extremes.

  What she hadn’t heard was that he had any interest—or sway—in Stormreach. That would certainly explain the unrest among the Cannith warforged. Though the Treaty of Thronehold had given the warforged their freedom at the end of the Last War, there were many people who still regarded the metal men as little more than slaves. Even the most enlightened tended to see the warforged, who had originally been created as weapons of war, as painful reminders of that century-long struggle. Few accepted them as actual people, let alone individuals with abilities and desires that might well have nothing to do with warfare.

  If asked, she would have said Stormreach, home of misfits and outcasts, was a perfect haven for warforged—or anyone, really—struggling to find acceptance in the wider world of Eberron. Apparently, she would have been wrong.

  “There are many Bladesworn among my brethren now,” Glaive replied. “Some say the Lord of Blades himself has come to Xen’drik, seeking an ancient device that will give him ultimate power.”

  “Lot of that going around,” Greddark said, and Sabira kicked him beneath the table.

  “So where can I find this Bardiche?” she asked a little too loudly, giving the dwarf a dirty look.

  Glaive seemed oblivious to the exchange. More likely, he just didn’t know what to make of the silly fleshlings.

  “When last I saw him, he was near the Maker’s Gate with two others, arguing with one of the monitors. If he has not yet been taken into custody for his impertinence, you may still find him there. You will know him by the dramatic flourishes he uses when he speaks. I believe his makers may originally have intended for him to serve House Phiarlan.”

  “Wait. They arrest people for impertinence here? You might as well turn yourself in now, Sabira,” Greddark quipped, pushing the bench back to avoid another blow to his shin as he made to rise.

  Before Sabira could think of a properly scathing rejoinder, Glaive put a hand on the dwarf’s shoulder to stop him.

  “Your pardon, Dark Artificer, but having seen your skill in aiding Kupper-Nickel, I am hopeful you might be able to assist another of my brethren who has all but lost the use of his right arm. The Cannith artificers want to remove it and replace it with a blade or a hammer, or some other implement of war. Perhaps even something similar to a rune arm—”

  “Rune arm!” Greddark interrupted with a disdainful snort. “Don’t know what the Canniths see in them. Bulky things. Make it impossible to drink your tea. Give me blade or a wand any day.”

  Glaive paused for a moment, nonplussed. When he was sure the dwarf’s outburst was over, he continued.

  “But Jester has worked diligently to master the lyre and fears that he will no longer be able to play once they are finished with him. If you could perhaps offer him another alternative, I know he would be very grateful. He might even be willing to join you on your quest. While he longs to play at the Livewood, he is quite agile and his services might be of use to you.”

  Greddark looked over at her, and Sabira shrugged.

  “Go. I can talk to Bardiche myself. Though I’m not really sure we need two jesters on this trip. Maybe if the warforged turns out to be funnier, I’ll take him with me instead and you can stay here and keep pretending you’re a Cannith instead of a Kundarak.”

  She gave him an acid smile and stood up.

  “Better than pretending I’m a Deneith,” the dwarf muttered under his breath as she walked away, but she acted like she hadn’t heard him.

  “… can’t loiter around here all day. Move along.”

  The Cannith monitor—a different one from when they’d first come into the enclave—was waving his crossbow around as the lead warforged responded theatrically, wringing his hands. The gesture was both amusing and somewhat pathetic, given his face’s total lack of ability to convey the accompanying anguish.

  “All we want are jobs. A mission, a reason to exist. If we cannot find that here, where we were made, then where can we?”

  Glaive was right. Bardiche would have fit right in with the players of House Phiarlan. He’d have made an excellent actor if he’d been anything other than a warforged.

  “That’s not my problem,” the monitor replied impatiently as Sabira approached. “You need to move along. Word is the warforged are becoming a danger to the peace-loving residents of this ward.”

  “If we are a danger, it is because you made us this way!” the amethyst-eyed warforged replied angrily.

  Just then, the Cannith man noticed Sabira.

  “These warforged are too stubborn for their own good,” he complained to her, obviously thinking her an ally by virtue of the fact that she was made of flesh and bone instead of metal and wood.

  “They’re trying to get rid of us,” Bardiche protested, turning to her, “pretend we don’t even exist!”

  One of the other two warforged, a green and yellow model with green crystals for eyes who looked like he’d been custom-forged for House Deneith, moved up to stand beside Bardiche.

  “We were made to be stronger than flesh. Why should we let flesh push us around?”

  His voice was low and ominous and Sabira had to resist the urge to reach for her urgrosh.

  The red-eyed warforged behind him spoke up.

  “House Cannith made us, and now they treat us like dirt. Maybe the Lord of Blades is right.…”

  “Right about what?” Sabira challenged, knowing this wasn’t her battle but not able to let the inherent threat hang in the air, unaddressed. “That you should rise up against the fleshlings and take what is yours by force? Is that what he’s preaching? War against the combined might of every breat
hing race on the face of Eberron? Because that’s what you’ll be facing if you rise up against Cannith—you have to know that. Eradication, not revolution. Is that really what you want?”

  Green Eyes looked at her, his hands flexing at his sides. The monitor was no longer waving his crossbow around—it was aimed, and cocked.

  “We never asked to be created! But now that we have been, Cannith owes us—”

  “Nothing,” Sabira replied coldly. “So what if you didn’t ask to be made? Who among us did? The mere fact of our existence doesn’t somehow entitle us to anything more than what we can earn with our sweat and buy with our blood. Why should warforged be any different in that respect than their creators? Or would you rise up against the Sovereigns themselves, then? Your fate would be less certain, at least, if not any less miserable.”

  “All we want is freedom—” the apologist for the Lord of Blades began, but Sabira interrupted him too.

  “Which you were given at the end of the Last War. I don’t see any chains keeping you here. If they exist, they’re of your own making.”

  The two warforged stepped back, muttering, and the monitor lowered his crossbow, looking relieved. Sabira turned to Bardiche.

  “Glaive sent me here to find some warriors for an expedition I’m outfitting, but I’m thinking these are probably not the warforged for the job. So unless you know some others …?”

  “You have to understand—” the would-be actor began, but Sabira held up a hand to forestall him.

  “No. No, I really don’t. I’m looking to hire blades, not philosophers.” Or, Host help her, anarchists. She might bend or sidestep the rules from time to time, but she at least acknowledged their existence. “If you can’t help me, I’ll look somewhere else.”

  Bardiche gave her a short, apologetic bow.

  “It is true, we seek a mission, but not, I fear, the one you’re offering.”

  Since she hadn’t actually offered it yet, Sabira knew it wasn’t the job they were rejecting so much as the opinions that came with it, but she was fine with that. The last thing she needed was to head into the depths of Tarath Marad wondering if she might wake up with a warforged blade in her belly because she’d had the temerity to be born with a pulse.

  Sabira shrugged.

  “Your loss.”

  As she turned to walk away, the warforged reached out a quick hand to stop her. The monitor’s crossbow snapped back up and his finger had pulled the trigger halfway home before she could wave him off.

  “There is one who might be interested. Guisarme shares many of the same beliefs about the Lord of Blades and his mission that you seem to. Perhaps you would find his company more … favorable … than ours.”

  She could hardly find it less so, but she didn’t think that really bore mentioning.

  “He is working on a ventilation shaft two flights up. Pass the Gorgon on the left side and another set of stairs on your right and you should find him there in a small courtyard.”

  “The Gorgon?” Not particularly helpful, considering the bull iconography was rampant in Cannith’s enclave, even more so than the chimera was in Deneith’s.

  “The giant floating bull’s head.”

  Ah. That narrowed it down. Even she knew where that was, and all her previous trips here had begun and ended at the tavern.

  “Good luck to you,” Bardiche said, extending his hand.

  Sabira hesitated a moment before accepting the grasp.

  “Can’t say as I wish you the same, considering, but I hope you and your brethren realize that you’re freer than you know before you do anything rash.” Of course, she didn’t have a lot of faith in epiphanies, so she planned on making sure she wasn’t around, just in case.

  She nodded to the monitor and then made her way up the two flights of stairs to the level that featured the Gorgon. As Bardiche had said, it was essentially an enormous bull’s head atop a floating pedestal that seemed to be powered by a gigantic blue orb that glowed and crackled with arcane energies. It was an ostentatious display of power and craftsmanship, one far more suited to the larger metropolises of Khorvaire than to this wild jungle continent. Toven d’Cannith, the head of the enclave, had certainly outdone himself. The sight was enough to make the true heads of the House—Merrix, Jorlana, and Zorlan—green with envy. Either that, or white with fear.

  First Greigur with his royal purple crest that had nothing of the traditional Deneith green and yellow in it, and now Toven with his Gorgon to rival the relics of the giants. Sabira was beginning to wonder if all the dragonmarked Houses arranged for their overly-ambitious scions to be sent away to Xen’drik before they could cause problems on the larger continent.

  Then again, if that were true, the population of Stormreach would be much, much higher.

  Sabira saw a warforged hammering at the side of a building in a tiny dirt courtyard that boasted a single tree and some tall bushes. As she neared, she saw it was indeed a ventilation shaft he was working on, with a large fan that circulated air to workers in levels far below the enclave.

  The warforged noticed her and paused in his work. He regarded her with unblinking violet eyes.

  “They like to talk about House Cannith and its amazing devices,” he said conversationally. “But somehow they never seem to mention the folks who keep those devices running, day and night.”

  “Well, they are the House of Making, not the House of Maintenance,” Sabira replied, wondering belatedly if Bardiche’s idea of “favorable” had anything in common with her own.

  Guisarme surprised her by opening his mouth wide in a booming laugh that echoed off the walls of the small enclosure.

  As his laughter was trailing off, Sabira heard a noise behind her and turned. A small crowd of men and women had gathered at the sound. None of them looked happy, and some of them bore naked steel.

  “Kanjira said the one who attacked her had a hammer—that must be him. Get him!”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Wir, Barrakas 4, 998 YK

  Stormreach, Xen’drik.

  Sabira pulled out her brooch and held it up. “Not happening, folks. I’d suggest you put those weapons down and back off until I can get to the bottom of this.” The group hesitated, not yet unruly enough to challenge a Sentinel Marshal, even if the odds were ten to one in their favor. “Now. What exactly is it Guisarme here is supposed to have done?”

  A thin man stepped forward, spurred on by a large woman in garish purple skirts who could only be his wife. Her face was bright red and contorted with hatred as she looked at the warforged, and Sabira was concerned the woman might collapse in an apoplectic fit at any moment.

  “That warforged attacked my daughter behind the Crafting Hall! He hit her in the head with that hammer and took her pouch! And now we’re going to teach him a lesson!”

  The Crafting Hall was across the square, one of several buildings—like the one Guisarme was working on—that faced the Gorgon and saw a lot of foot traffic. It seemed an unlikely place for a robbery, especially in the middle of the day.

  “With that hammer there?” Sabira asked. The crowd was on her right and Guisarme was on her left, so she stepped back toward the building as she gestured, to give the angry parents and their followers a better view. Guisarme held out the small sledge he’d been working with. “The one that is completely free of blood?”

  “So? He wiped it off!”

  “On what?” Sabira countered. “His clothes—the ones he’s not wearing? The nonexistent grass? Oh, I know. He wiped it off on a rag which he then stashed in the same place where he put the money he stole, somewhere in between this little courtyard and the Crafting Hall less than one hundred feet from here. All while about a dozen people and their iron dogs milled around, including a handful of Cannith monitors. Yes, that makes perfect sense.”

  “In the bushes, then!”

  Well, that was barely possible, she supposed, though it would make Guisarme the stupidest thief she’d ever encountered. Either that, or the cockie
st.

  “Look for yourself,” she said magnanimously. As Kanjira’s mother moved forward, Sabira shook her head. “No, not you.” She didn’t trust the woman not to cut herself behind the bushes and drop her own pouch to fabricate evidence against the warforged.

  “You.” She pointed at an orc who’d wandered over to the edge of the crowd, attracted by all the commotion. “What’s your name?”

  “Skraad Walor,” he replied. “It’s a travesty, seeing a proud warrior treated this way.”

  She wasn’t sure if he meant Guisarme or Kanjira’s mother—or possibly Kanjira herself, who was conspicuously absent from the mob that had formed to avenge her.

  “Actually, a travesty is what I’m trying to prevent. So, if you wouldn’t mind …?”

  The orc pushed his way through the crowd, which had grown in number, though it didn’t yet include any House Cannith monitors. Surely the enclave’s security must be aware of the situation by now. Sabira had to wonder what they were waiting for.

  He crossed the dirt yard in three steps and shoved the bushes aside, bending low to examine the ground and disappearing behind the greenery in the process. After a moment of searching, he reappeared, holding up something in his left hand.

  A bloodthirsty cheer went up from the mob until the orc stepped back out onto the dirt and proceeded to smooth out the crumpled up paper he’d found. It was a copy of the Stormreach Chronicle.

  “Droaam Expedition Lands in Xen’drik!” he read, in a surprisingly good imitation of a Chronicle newsboy. “Invasion Rumors Spread!”

  He made a show of examining the broadsheet front and back.