Keith Baker - The Shattered Land

“What have you done?” Lakashtai said, running down the passage from the portal.

She knelt beside the creature, laying a hand over one of its wounds. Her eyes glowed with emerald light and the beast relaxed, sinking back against the ground.

Daine’s heart sank. “Don’t tell me this is a friend of yours.”

She turned to glare at him, her eyes still burning. “I do not know him, but you of all people should know that people of power employ guardians.”

“And live in mansions!” Daine gestured at the rough walls of the passage. “I’m supposed to believe this is Master Hassalac’s manor?”

The light faded from Lakashtai’s eyes. She was silent for a moment, then looked away. “Yes … it seems that I am at fault in this. I should have told you what to expect; I sometimes forget the limitations of your lonely memory.”

“Fine. I think. Now what?”

Lakashtai turned back to the fallen beast. “I apologize for our actions,” she said softly, and even though Daine was beginning to recognize her powers he still felt a swell of sympathy. “My companion knows nothing of the one that you serve. I ask that you forgive us and escort us to your master.”

The creature nodded and slowly rose to its feet. It indicated that they should follow it with a motion of one curved claw, then lumbered down the passage.

“I did not realize I had such a champion to protect me,” Lakashtai said, her ghostly smile flickering into view, “but please, keep your sword in its sheath for the rest of this visit.”

Kuryeva!” the goblin merchant called, leering with rotting teeth as he offered his wares. “A fine skin of kuryeva to warm the darkest night!”

The street was a riot of color and noise, swirling around Pierce and Lei. In plotting their route back to the Ship’s Cat, Gerrion had taken pains to send them along crowded streets, believing that the Riedrans would avoid a fight in a public place. As damaged as he was, Pierce found himself wishing that they’d taking a quieter path-a pack of assassins seemed preferable to the milling crowd.

“Gurk’ash! Gurk’ash meat and milk, a luxury no traveler should do without!”

“A comb for the lady? Such lovely hair should be treated with care.”

Pierce stepped in front of the last speaker, a dwarf with greasy gray hair and a patchy beard. He reeked of sweat and ale. Comb-seller or no, given the man’s knowledge of hygiene Pierce suspected that larceny was his true goal.

Even as he pushed the dwarf aside, Pierce recognized the foolishness of his actions. Lei had shown herself to be quite capable of dealing with the cutpurses of Sharn. Given his current condition, if it came to a fight he would be wiser to let Lei take point. While Lei’s magical talents had restored him to consciousness, Pierce was still grievously damaged: combat would be most unwise.

Pain was a familiar feeling for Pierce. Shame was not.

The sensation of physical injury was quite different for warforged and humans. Pierce was aware of the damage that he suffered. Just as he could feel the stone when he touched a wall, he could feel the claws that tore through his innards. After the shock of the initial blow, the pain lingered, a continuing reminder of his condition. It was simply a part of how he perceived the world. He could sense each root-like tendril that ran throughout his body. He knew that six of the cords in his waist were severed, while four more were severely damaged. There was a long gash on the mithral plate of his upper left torso, and the alchemical reservoir below had suffered minor damage. There was no escape from this knowledge: even when he was fully repaired, he would feel the minor shifting in his ligaments with every motion, the constant balance of the self-replenishing fluids that kept his organic components flexible. For a human, it would be like sensing every second of the aging process, being constantly aware of the growing voice of hunger and thirst, feeling even the faintest touch of rot and cancer as they laid claim to his body, yet these things didn’t bother Pierce. This was a part of his existence and always had been.

While Lei could restore Pierce’s body, his pride was another matter. Pierce’s life to this point had been defined by his ability to perform his task and protect his allies. This was not the first time he had been seriously damaged, but it seemed that he had failed on multiple levels. First there was the frustration of the malady that had befallen Daine. Pierce could face any foe on the battlefield, but this concept of an enemy within dreams-Pierce could not even sleep, let alone dream. His inability to help Daine had been gnawing at his mind for the last week, far worse than any physical pain, and now he had failed again. He was a scout, and he’d fought Valenar commandoes in the woods of Cyre, yet he’d been surprised by Riedran assassins last night, and he’d fallen prey to the psychic attack that Daine had found the strength to resist. Now he’d been nearly torn apart-by another creature of magic and metal.

Was he flawed, or was lack of action to blame-had the relatively peaceful life of the last six months dulled his skills?

“Are you all right?”

Lei’s voice pulled Pierce from his reverie. “Yes, Lei,” he said. “My apologies. My injuries remain a distraction.”

“I’m sorry to leave you like this,” she said, refusing to meet his gaze; Pierce could sense her indignation. “With the day still ahead of us … you know.” She looked away.

“I do,” he replied. “Do not be ashamed. You must conserve your magical energies, and your skill with hand and tool shall suffice for this task. I have faith in your talents: a few moments more and we shall arrive at our inn, and you can begin the work.”

She smiled, and for a moment Pierce didn’t feel his pain.

Distracted as he was, Pierce could still recognize a threat. A large man-not quite large enough to have orcish blood in his veins, but carrying both muscle and fat on his frame-was purposely approaching them. He wore a shirt of rusting chainmail beneath a soiled gray tabard. There was a halberd in his hand and leather-bound club at his belt. A guard or watchman, Pierce concluded. With some bemusement, he noticed a smaller figure trotting next to the heavyset man-a bedraggled halfling wearing a miniature version of the same uniform, carrying a tiny halberd that Pierce could have used as a walking stick.

“Just what have you been up to, orasca?”

It was the halfling who spoke, his voice a nasal whine. His skin was remarkably dark, while his eyes were a pale shade of blue. He wore the hood of his tabard up, but as he spoke Pierce got a good look at his face and saw that the halfling’s left ear was missing; scar tissue covered the back of his head, seemingly the result of a grievous injury. Pierce wondered if the man had fought during the Last War, and if so what had caused him to abandon the Five Nations for this place.

Lei took the lead. “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

“There are always problems in Stormreach,” the little man replied, studying her with an appraising gaze. “Your warforged looks like he might have been involved with one of them.”

“Oh, I doubt it,” Lei replied. “I purchased him from the smith down the way with the black barrel over his door. I don’t even think he’s been on his feet for a month, so I don’t see how he could have caused any trouble.”

“Is that so, tincoat?” the halfling probed at Pierce’s injured cords with the point of his halberd, sending new signals of pain across Pierce’s consciousness.

Pierce simply nodded.

“Well then,” the watchman examined Pierce again. “Selling such trash to visitors to our fair city-a crime, is what it is. I can’t allow it, lady.”