Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

Whatever its source, the Traveler’s Curse was used to explain why no two parties that followed the same path to the same destination ever got there in the same amount of time-or if they got there at all. Sabira had always chalked it up to lazy or incompetent captains trying to find something besides their own failings to blame when someone else beat them to the prize, but the Lyrandar didn’t seem to fit that profile. And Kupper-Nickel himself was nothing if not efficient. Maybe there was some truth to the stories after all.

Or maybe Kupper-Nickel had realized the work Greddark had done to repair his arm wasn’t worth the Lyrandar’s ridiculous fee, and so had decided to cut his losses.

“Tell me he’s at least got earth sleds?” Piloted by dragonmarked members of House Orien in much the same way those of House Lyrandar commanded their airships, earth sleds were land barges that harnessed earth elementals to allow them to skim over the ground like their waterborne counterparts skimmed over waves. She’d only ridden on a sled once, back in the Holds. Her hearthfather, Kiruk Tordannon, had lent her his own private vehicle on her way from Krona Peak to Frostmantle and the sled had traveled twice as fast as any caravan could have made the trip. If she absolutely had to traipse through the Hostforsaken desert heat, she wanted to do it as quickly as possible.

“Not to my knowledge, no. I believe he uses wagons, drawn by camels.” At her look, he added helpfully, “Magebred camels.”

So they might move at three tortuous miles an hour, instead of two. Wonderful. She looked out over the starboard railing to the Skyraker Claws in the hazy distance. They were at least five hundred miles away. Even assuming the House Vadalis-trained animals needed minimal rest, it would still take well over a week to reach the mountains. Unless, of course, the Traveler’s Curse were real and worked in their favor, something not even a gambler like herself would risk actual money on, let alone people’s lives.

Tilde’s life.

“There’s got to be another way.”

“Got to be another way to do what?” Greddark had come above while she and the warforged had been talking and now moved so that he was standing beside Sabira.

“Cross the desert between Zawabi’s Refuge and Trent’s Well.”

The dwarf took a moment to digest the implications of that.

“I’m guessing we won’t be using Greddetta, then?”

Greddark had named the airship after himself soon after they boarded, using a bottle of Old Sully’s left over by a previous passenger. He’d been affronted that Kupper-Nickel hadn’t had the vessel properly christened, calling it foul luck. The Wayfinder had argued-convincingly, Sabira thought-that it made no sense to name a tool. Even warforged had only been numbers to their creators before the Treaty of Thronehold, or else they had been called by the names of the weapons they bore or the tasks they performed. It was an insult to the constructs who had actual souls and personalities and yet were treated with less respect than a ship which had neither. When the ship could choose a name for itself, then Kupper-Nickel would honor its choice. Until then, it was simply “the airship.”

“No. Your lovely namesake will be returning to Stormreach just as soon as her crew can push us off the gangplank, I imagine,” Sabira replied.

“We will do no such thing!” the Wayfinder protested.

“Aye,” the Lyrandar woman said with a wink and a grin. “We’ll make you jump.”

The half-elf hadn’t been joking. Zawabi’s Refuge had no docking tower; it had few actual buildings to speak of. Instead of a traditional berth, the Lyrandar navigated through a series of narrow canyons until she came to an outcropping on the gorge’s eastern rim, framed by curved pillars of stone reaching up into the sky like grasping fingers. A sizeable house surrounded by several improbably green trees sat back from the edge of the canyon beside the makeshift dock, and massive purple crystals grew out of the ground in the distance, blindingly bright in the morning sun.

But while the airship slowed, it didn’t stop at the house. Instead, the Lyrandar piloted the ship a bit farther down the canyon and then lowered the gangplank off the port side of the deck, away from the tree-framed house.

Sabira looked over the railing. Below them on the canyon floor, a field of sharp red rocks thrust out from the parched ground, each as big as a man.

“You can’t be serious.”

One of the crew, a sailor named Quilli, joined her at the railing. The halfling woman was a constant fixture on the airship’s deck, the youthful innocence of her face and voice belied by her sharp tongue and salty wit. Sabira had thought the dwarves undisputed masters of the curse until meeting the vulgar sailor. But given that the halfling had been able to make both Greddark and Skraad blush in the same breath, Sabira was no longer quite so sure.

“Not there, Marshal,” Quilli said, managing to pack a world of scorn into the title. “There.”

The halfling was pointing to a narrow ledge at the base of a tall rock pillar jutting up from the gorge’s western face. It was a good ten feet away from the end of the plank, and every now and then, a gust of wind blew through the canyon, making the wooden board quiver.

“Not to pry, but why exactly are we disembarking on a practically non-existent ledge on this side of the canyon when all the buildings-and, I’m assuming, the oasis-are on that side?” Greddark asked, gauging the distance to the ledge with a skeptical expression on his face.

“Zawabi refuses to allow Brannan’s caravans to stay within the refuge. They are camped on the top of the canyon wall, above us,” Kupper-Nickel responded, coming over to stand by the gangplank.

“So… why are we down here and not up there?” Greddark asked, his annoyed tone making it clear he didn’t think he should even have to be posing such a ridiculous question.

Just then, another strong gust of wind shrieked down the canyon, buffeting the airship and slamming the elemental ring into the rock wall. The dwarf, who’d had his feet planted firmly on the deck, swayed, but didn’t fall, the legendary immovability of his people serving him well. Sabira and the airship crew, including Kupper-Nickel, likewise stayed upright, though Sabira had to reach back a quick hand for her shard axe, drawing stability from the urgrosh’s enchanted haft.

The two other warforged were not so fortunate. Guisarme went down on one knee and the smaller, lighter Jester, who’d been standing beside Quilli looking at the rocks below, pitched forward over the railing with a decidedly human-sounding yelp. Quilli reached for him, but he wore no clothing for her to grab, and her hand slid ineffectually off metal and smooth wood.

Sabira reacted without thinking. Her urgrosh was out of its harness in an instant, and she was swinging the shard axe down toward the bard’s spine to a chorus of the crew’s shocked gasps. As the bard began to tumble headfirst into the gorge, Sabira snaked her weapon in, gouging his backplates and snagging his lyre strap behind the axe-head of the urgrosh. In the same motion, she twisted the haft in a two-handed grip while throwing her weight backward. The shard axe’s magical stability kept her from being yanked off the deck of the airship along with the falling bard, but it couldn’t keep her from sliding across the wooden surface on her backside. As she reached the railing, she braced her feet on adjoining balusters and bent her knees so she could bear more weight. Even so, the leather-wrapped haft was almost ripped from her grasp, and she knew she had mere moments before the lyre strap snapped.

“Little help here?” she grunted, even as Greddark and Kupper-Nickel reached over the side of the railing to grab Jester by the ankles and haul him back up onto the deck. Another spiteful gust shook the airship as they worked, threatening to send all four of them pitching over the railing. But the Lyrandar righted the ship in time, though the elemental ring took a chunk of rock the size of Sabira’s head out of the canyon wall in the process, and she barely avoided having it replace her flesh and bone one as it shot out across the deck, propelled by the unhappy union of air and earth. As it was, everyone on deck was showered with stone shrapnel, and a sliver the length of Sabira’s forearm embedded itself into the deck mere inches from her thigh.