“In the desert, water is a kiss.”
Startled, Sabira looked up to see yet another dwarf standing in front of her, this one with an odd spiraling tattoo that started up on his forehead, curved down across his right eyelid and continued on to his cheek. There, the swirling design almost disappeared into a thick brown beard that was plaited into two heavy braids, both of which were free of adornment. He wore a blue shirt, brown vest and green pants and boasted a painful-looking sunburn across every exposed inch of flesh.
“Wayfinder Skavyr,” he said by way of introduction, understandably not offering her one of his very red hands. He nodded at the halfling. “Quilli. You and your tart tongue can run back to Kup now. I’ll take responsibility for your ‘guests’ for the nonce.”
Quilli snorted, clearly not liking being dismissed, but liking her job of nursemaid to Sabira and Greddark even less.
“You just make sure Zawabi knows that,” the sailor said warningly as she stood. “After what happened last time—”
“Is that old rust-bucket still complaining about that? Brannan paid him for his losses. I don’t know what he’s so worried about, anyway. What’s Zawabi really going to do from inside that circle? The djinn needs Kup as much as Kup needs him—who else is going to ferry fighters out to this Forge-forsaken place to do his bidding, if not the Wayfinders?”
Quilli’s expression hardened and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, waiting. Still seated at the table, Sabira had a lower vantage point, and she could see what the dwarf couldn’t—the halfling’s fingers twitching toward the dagger she wore on her belt.
Skavyr heaved a long-suffering sigh.
“Fine. I’ll make sure the djinn knows. Happy now?”
Quilli’s fingers relaxed, as did Sabira. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done if the sailor and the Wayfinder had come to blows. She had a feeling Zawabi wouldn’t consider his refuge to be part of her jurisdiction as a Sentinel Marshal, and she didn’t think she could argue the point. Nor did she know which Wayfinder it behooved her to ally with—Kupper-Nickel or Brannan. Brannan could take her to Tilde, but Kupper-Nickel was the only one who could get her home again afterward. Then again, there was a better than fair chance she wouldn’t make it that far, so she should probably put her money on Brannan.
“Fair winds and following seas,” Quilli said to her, touching the brim of her hat briefly before taking her leave of them.
Skavyr slid into the halfling’s seat across from Sabira.
“Sarrgh,” he muttered under his breath, and Sabira blinked at the insult.
“I think it’s rather unlikely that her father was a manticore, considering her lack of facial hair,” she remarked. “Her mother could have been an orc, I suppose—I’d have guessed a kobold, myself.”
Skavyr looked at her in shock for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. His great, throaty guffaws rang off the rocks, echoing through the canyon settlement. Judging from the surprised looks he got in response, the Wayfinder wasn’t normally prone to mirth. And given the way his laughter trailed off into hoarse coughing, that was probably a good thing.
“Brannan didn’t mention you spoke the language of the Holds.”
“I imagine there’s a lot he didn’t mention, since there’s a lot he doesn’t know,” Sabira replied. The Wayfinder appeared to reassess her, his eyes taking in everything from the urgrosh on her back to the scars on her armor. She waited for the inevitable recognition, but if the dwarf knew the significance of the weapon she bore, he gave no sign of it. Sabira felt a moment of relief. And if there was also a brief, unexpected sting of disappointment, she pretended not to notice.
“Probably so,” the dwarf agreed affably enough. “He asked me to be on the lookout for you. He’s busy buying a severed gnoll’s paw from our local dust and dung seller, who swears up and down it’s actually a rakshasa hand. As if anyone who got close enough to one of those fiends to maim it would live long enough to try and hawk its body parts out here in the desert. Either way—paw or hand—Brannan got pretty excited when he heard about it. Ran straight over there. No idea what he’d want the thing for—some new spell he’s working on, I suppose. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll be back as soon as he’s done haggling.” Just then, a female drow walked up the ramp, ignoring Oh’tula’s greeting as she made for Raff. Her face was scarred and marked with white paint and she carried a scimitar in one hand, eschewing a scabbard.
“Well,” Skavyr amended quickly, “he’ll be over as soon as he’s done and she leaves. Calyx Shattermoon. Just as nasty as the Vulkoorim she abandoned, that one.”
Sabira studied the drow as Skavyr sat in Greddark’s spot. She had heard of dark elves who worshiped Vulkoor, a primitive scorpion deity revered in both the deep jungles and dry deserts of Xen’drik, but she’d never encountered one herself. The drow who lived outside Stormreach were far more likely to belong to the Sulatar, a tribe with an affinity for fire in all its many forms. Sabira knew little about the history of the drow, but as near as she could piece it together, back when the elves had been slaves of the giants, the Vulkoorim rose up against their oppressors while the Sulatar remained loyal. The two tribes had been at odds ever since.
Sabira wasn’t quite sure where the Umbragen fit into that hazy picture, though if she had to hazard a guess, she’d peg them as an offshoot of the rebel Vulkoorim. The fact that at least a portion of them appeared to worship yet another creature with too many legs lent some credence to that theory. She supposed she could ask Brannan, if the Wayfinder ever deigned to make an appearance.
Or maybe she’d just ask the Vulkoori woman.
“You could do that, I suppose,” Skavyr commented when Sabira evinced her curiosity. “But you should probably know she almost killed Brannan’s guide the first time he brought the Umbragen into the refuge. Called him ‘viler than even the clawborn.’ Considering the clawborn are the ones who bound her and left her helpless in a scorpion breeding pit as part of her initiation rites, and she thinks he’s worse … well, I wouldn’t necessarily go around advertising that you and he were going to be traveling partners soon. At least not where she can hear you and has room to draw a blade.”
Good point. Maybe she’d just stick with her original idea of asking Brannan.
As she waited for the Wayfinder to finish up his paw-haggling, she quizzed Skavyr about his experiences in the Menechtarun. Every so often, she’d overhear snippets of Greddark’s conversation with Jaidene—purposeful on the inquisitive’s part, she thought, to impart information to her without seeming to do so. But the multitude of dwarven voices around her, including a few scattered refugees from a prospecting mission gone wrong, reminded Sabira sharply of her latest visit to the Holds, though it was never so hot there, or so dry. And of course remembering the cold, hard mountains made her homesick for Karrnath, and the warmth of Elix’s arms.
But thinking of the Sentinel Marshal captain brought back a sudden image of him from her dreams, splashing into that pit of bubbling magma, incinerated in a matter of agonizing seconds. The scene was so vivid that she could actually smell the hint of burnt flesh and hair and she thought for a moment she might vomit up her breakfast. But, no, it was just another specialty from Raff’s Watering Hole—goat, or maybe boar. Sabira took a deep, steadying breath and tried to focus on what Skavyr was saying.
“… sent me to the Demon Sands on a mission of discovery, but all I’ve discovered is that dwarves and deserts don’t mix.…”
Sabira smiled politely, not really listening. She was thinking about the gnoll’s paw he’d mentioned, wondering if it could really be a rakshasa hand and, if it was, what sort of spell would require such a thing as a component. The possibilities were rather chilling.
“… Wayfinders want to know more about the Menechtarun and its hazards. We’ve already mapped out the major points of interest,” Skavyr went on, oblivious to her rather obvious inattention. Sabira was amused by his arrogance—or, rather, that of the Wayfinders. The idea that the
foundation had truly discovered all of the Menechtarun’s secrets was laughable. The desert was roughly half the size of the Five Nations combined, and nowhere near as populated. Maybe the Wayfinders had sussed out the secrets of the area around Zawabi’s Refuge, but there was no way the group had learned everything there was to know about the entire desert. Ir’Kethras’s discovery of Tarath Marad was proof enough of that.
As if summoned by her thoughts, a tall man in white robes walked up to the table. His features were bronzed and weathered by long years in the sun and his dark hair was liberally sprinkled with gray, but he was still surprisingly handsome. Even more so when he smiled, revealing perfect teeth. Sabira noticed that he, like Boroman ir’Dayne, wore a Khyber shard earring in his left ear. She wondered it if were a sign of rank among the Wayfinders. Skavyr wore no such jewelry, and of course Kupper-Nickel didn’t have ears.
“Marshal!” Brannan said, sticking out a calloused hand to her. “So glad you made it here without incident!” He looked about the small patio. “But where are the others Kup mentioned? The warforged, the orc, and the artificer?” He picked out Greddark easily in the thinning crowd. “Ah, there he is! Already chatting up the Forgemaiden, I see. Many dwarves do seem to thrive here in this rugged environment, despite Skavyr’s assertions to the contrary. Master d’Kundarak certainly appears to be right at home. I’m beginning to think it’s less that dwarves and deserts don’t mix, and more that Skavyr and sand don’t.”
Sabira laughed at that, deciding she liked the human Wayfinder.
“Well, I’m sure you have many questions for me, but I think perhaps it would be better to wait until we reach the caravan to have that discussion.” He gestured toward the clustered wagons, where several warforged were guiding soarsleds laden with supplies toward the path Sabira and Greddark had taken up from the gorge. Unlike typical sleds, these had metal runners attached to their underbellies, so they could skate over the tops of high dunes even while weighted down with water and food. “It looks as if our supplies are ready, so if you’d like to gather your companions, we can get started.”
Sabira cast a dubious eye at the sky, where the sun was already blazing above the eastern horizon.
“Now?” she asked incredulously. “We’re not going to wait for nightfall?”
“Oh, no,” ir’Kethras replied, shaking his head. “Traveling during the heat of the day is far preferable. We know the risks posed by sun and sand and can take measures to avoid or mitigate them as necessary. Moving through the desert in the darkness, though? The Menechtarun is perilous enough when you can see your enemies. We’d none of us survive if we tried to travel through it blind.”
Comforting thought.
Sabira stood, nodding her thanks to Skavyr.
“I’d love to see Tarath Marad,” the dwarf said, grimacing in pain as he rose to join her. “Just imagine—the cool, sunless depths, solid rock instead of sand, and no wind save that created by the forge bellows. Ah, paradise! I would travel with you, but I can hardly move. Blast this sunburn!”
Greddark, seeing her stand, took his own leave of Jaidene.
“… fair Forgemaiden. Perhaps when I return, you can teach me some of those crafting techniques.” He winked at Sabira as he said it, and she realized she couldn’t tell if he was bluffing or not. For the first time, she wondered what it might be like to face him over a card table, or on a field where the stakes were quite a bit higher. She’d thought Aggar had sent the inquisitive along on this mission more to get him out of Khorvaire and away from the bounty hunters chasing him than because his skills would prove particularly useful. But after seeing the deft way he pumped Jaidene for information without her realizing it, Sabira was no longer quite so sure.
She watched him appraisingly as he crossed the stone patio to her side. Once there, he gave her a quick grin.
“What’s the matter, Sabira? Jealous?”
Sabira snorted.
“More like nauseous. Come on. It’s time to earn your pay.”
They backtracked to the spot where they’d disembarked from Kupper-Nickel’s airship, following behind the warforged and their laden sleds. The soarsleds were tethered to their handlers, so they couldn’t be caught by the wind and sent spinning across the gorge. The long leather straps also served as safety lines for the warforged; in the event that one of them slipped, their connection to the floating sleds would keep them from plunging to the canyon floor.
As they trekked up the side of the canyon, Sabira noticed that the rock changed color from a dull red to a bright yellow. Crystals sparkled in the canary-colored layer and the air was suffused with the distinct odor of rotten eggs as they passed by.
“Sulfur,” Greddark commented, as if Sabira wouldn’t recognize the smell. It permeated her dreams often enough—those of Korran’s Maw, where Ned had died, and those of the caverns under Frostmantle, where Orin Mountainheart had lost his life. She’d seen her share of corpses—many of them brought to that state by her own hand—and she was no stranger to the scent of decomposing flesh. But to her, the association between the sunny mineral and loss was so strong that death had only one smell, and it was not the sickly-sweet odor of decay; it was the sour aroma of sulfur.
“Lot of volcanic activity in this area at one time,” the dwarf continued, though she hadn’t asked him to elaborate. He paused to scrape some of the yellow crystals off into a vial from one of his belt pouches, filling it to the rim. As he stoppered the glass tube and returned it to its pouch, he saw her dark glance, and shrugged. “It’s very useful stuff—works in everything from healing balms to bombs. Jaidene tells me it goes for five sovereigns and some change back at the refuge. Of course, they prefer it mixed with bat guano, but I’m sure the pure stuff would fetch a comparable price.”
Sabira briefly considered offering him the bulk of his pay in the form of rocks and excrement, but then thought better of it. With her luck, he’d agree, and she’d be left to scrape his fee off the walls of bat caves while the tiny flying rodents nested in her hair. Host, but she hated the furry beasts! She still remembered the time Tilde’s pet bat had attacked her. What was that awful thing’s name, anyway? Scarwing? No, that would be too logical for Tilde, naming the creature after the jagged scar it bore on one of its wings, a remnant from some predator who unfortunately hadn’t finished the job before Tilde arrived on the scene to save the day in proper Deneith fashion. No, Shieldwing, that was it. It had happened shortly after she and Ned had become partners. Tilde hadn’t approved of her brother’s new assignment and had let Sabira know about her displeasure in no uncertain terms. Though the sorceress later claimed the bat had acted on its own, Sabira was sure the woman had set the little animal on her purposely, knowing she wouldn’t dare lift a hand against Ned’s sister’s familiar.
Funny. She’d give anything to see that stupid flying rat now, even if the damned thing was about to bite her on the cheek.
They left the sulfur deposits behind and soon reached the end of the ledge, though they were still fifty feet short of the canyon rim. Ropes dangled down from the edge, knotted at regular intervals to make climbing easier. But the warforged ignored them. Instead, one by one, they fiddled with some switches on the sleds’ control panels and the laden disks began to rise slowly toward the top of the gorge. As the sleds reached shoulder level, the warforged handlers would reach out to grab a second tether on the opposite side of the disk, then let the sled lift them up into the air, their bodies forming dangling metal Y’s beneath the crystalline circles. Sabira watched them float up into the air, almost like dandelion fluff blown by a wishful child. At the rim, unseen hands pulled the disks out of sight, presumably to unload them. Within a few moments, the only ones left on the ledge were her, Greddark, and ir’Kethras.
She reached for one of the ropes, but Brannan stopped her.
“Patience, Marshal. No need to climb when we can ride.”
Sure enough, three sleds soon came floating back down, a warforged handler guiding each, though t
his time from the top instead of the bottom. The trip back up the canyon wall was much quicker than she expected; the sleds rose faster now that they were no longer burdened by barrels of water and crates of food and other supplies. Sabira was glad she’d had some time to digest her breakfast beforehand. She didn’t think Brannan would find her puking over the edge of the disk particularly impressive.
A caravan of twelve camel-drawn wagons waited near the rim, sheltered in the lee of some large boulders. Several hands reached out to pull the sleds in as periodic blasts of wind screamed by thick with stinging sand. She could see now why the Lyrandar had been unwilling to bring Kupper-Nickel’s airship up this high—it would take a skilled pilot indeed to keep the vessel’s bound air elemental from heeding the siren call of its lesser, freer brethren.
As she and Greddark rejoined Guisarme, Jester, and Skraad and introduced them to ir’Kethras, Sabira noticed a drow hovering off to the side. Unlike Calyx or the Sulatar Sabira had faced, this elf bore no scars, tattoos, or war paint. His dark skin was perfectly smooth, as though it had been carved from a chunk of obsidian.
“Ah, Xujil!” Brannan said when he noticed the elf. “Come join us, and meet Donathilde’s friends! They’re the ones you’ll be guiding back down to try and rescue the poor girl.”
The elf moved forward, his black eyes taking them all in with unblinking intensity, but before he could speak, one of the warforged hurried over.
“Boss, I think we’ve got a problem. Dust storm moving in.”
Sabira looked to the north where the construct was pointing. Squinting, she realized that what she had at first glance assumed was a distant cliff was actually a towering wall of windborne dust, headed their way.
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