Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

She’d barely finished forming the thought when the ground directly in front of their wagon exploded, showering them with sand and warm chunks of what she realized belatedly were masticated camel and gnome flesh.

Out of ammunition, she tossed the crossbow aside and reached back to remove her shard axe from its quick-release harness. She leaped off the driver’s seat just as Xujil brought one of the wagon’s mechanical legs down on the dragon’s neck, trying to pin it to the ground and keep it from burrowing back into the sand or flying away. The dragon turned its head so the metal limb slid off its scales, ripping through the membranes of its left wing on the way down. With a roar of pain and anger, the dragon drew its head back and slammed forward, knocking the wagon off its legs as easily as Sabira would swat a spider. Skraad leaped free, but Sabira couldn’t see what happened to any of the others inside. And she didn’t have time to worry about it, because the dragon had finally noticed her scrambling to her feet on the ground in front of it.

With a snort of recognition, the dragon opened its great maw and inhaled, as if trying to suck her into its lungs. She stood fast as her copper hair streamed out in thick ribbons around her head, knowing what was coming. And knowing that she’d have mere seconds to dive out of the way once the dragon let loose with its deadly breath.

But the dragon was a step ahead of her. It brought its tail around behind her, forming a spiked and scaled barricade, blocking her retreat. Then her hair fell limp as the dragon stopped drawing air in and closed its mouth. Its intelligent amber eyes locked with hers for a long moment as the dragon held its breath. It cocked its reptilian head to one side, as if considering.

Then, the dragon opened its massive jaws and began to blow.

Mol, Barrakas 9, 998 YK

The Menechtarun Desert, Xen’drik.

And then Guisarme was in front of her, his backplates to that gaping maw as he shielded her from the great wind that emanated from the dragon’s throat like a shrapnel-filled gale. As she crouched in front of the warforged, she could see bits of metal and wood sliced off his body as if by a multitude of invisible and impossibly sharp knives. Then the force of the dragon’s breath toppled him on top of her, and they went down, the warforged curling around her like a mother protecting a newborn.

“Flaywind,” the warforged said, his voice reverberating in her ear but unable to drown out the cries as others without the benefit of a construct shield succumbed to the fury of the dragon’s breath, the flesh scoured from their bones in a matter of endless, agonizing moments.

After an eternity, the screams and the wind stopped and an eerie silence reigned. Just as Guisarme was peeling himself off of her, another sound cut through the stillness.

“Everybody off the sand! Now!”

Guisarme stood and pulled her up with one arm, strips of shredded wooden tendons hanging down from it like fringe. As she regained her feet, she saw Brannan standing on the overturned wagon, brandishing a glass globe. Red and yellow flames raged within.

The dragon’s tail was disappearing into the sand as she and the warforged raced for the wagon. Skraad and Greddark were helping Jester aboard, and from the strips of missing metal and wood on the red-armored warforged’s backside, she could see he’d tried to protect the orc in much the same way Guisarme had shielded her. Unfortunately, the bard wasn’t as big as Skraad, and blood oozed down the orc’s arms from a dozen long gashes as he strained to lift the warforged off the sand.

As she ran, Sabira almost tripped over a small skeleton. As she sidestepped the glistening bones, she saw a dragonshard-tipped staff still clutched in an ivory fist. Apparently the gnome’s magic hadn’t worked any better than her last crossbow bolt had.

Which made her question why Brannan thought his ball of fire was going to do any good. Spells clearly weren’t working correctly in this area, and a part of her wondered if the dragon had somehow known that and that’s why it had herded them here.

Jester was up on the wagon now, turning to help her and Guisarme as they made it to the tattered canvas. She quickly harnessed her urgrosh and grabbed the bard’s outstretched hands, using him as a counterweight to keep her boots from slipping as she clambered up an exposed steel rib. Xujil appeared next to Skraad and reached down to help him and Greddark hoist the larger warforged up. As Guisarme’s feet left the sand, the drow shouted, “Clear!”

Brannan threw the orb. It arced through the air, carried several feet south of where the Wayfinder had aimed by the approaching storm. But Brannan had taken the wind into account and the glass shattered against the sand right where a telltale berm had appeared, heralding the dragon’s next attack.

Fire burst out of the broken orb, washing over the sand in a molten wave. Steam rose in a great cloud, too thick for even the rising winds to disperse and Sabira watched from the safety of her perch as the sand began to melt and fuse into a vast block of glass.

“Was that… alchemist’s fire?” Greddark asked in amazement, and Brannan laughed.

“More or less,” the Wayfinder replied with an exultant grin. Catching Sabira’s eye, he added, “The dragon was probably counting on us not being able to attack it with magic. I’m sure it wasn’t counting on this.”

Sabira turned back to the transmuting sand, which was just beginning to reach their wagon. Guisarme was still only halfway up the side, the damage done to his legs by the dragon’s flaywind making it difficult for him to climb. She was just moving over to help the others haul him up when Skraad let out a small cry. Sabira was too far away to see exactly what happened, but suddenly Guisarme was dangling from one arm, his foot mere inches from the molten sand as Greddark and Xujil struggled to pull him back up.

And then the warforged was falling, his ungainly weight too much for the two to bear alone. He landed in the liquefied sand with a plop, and his heavy body sank about halfway in, so that only his face and upper chest were free. His jaw hinged open, but no sound escaped, and the light in his purple crystal eyes went dim.

“No!” Sabira shouted, and she would have leaped down to help him if Brannan hadn’t grabbed her from behind and pulled her bodily backward.

“Do you have some sort of death wish, Marshal?” he hissed in her ear, his hold surprisingly strong as she struggled against him. “Just wait. When the sand cools, we can dig him out, and maybe your artificer can revive him.”

She relaxed in his arms, feigning acquiescence, but the Wayfinder wasn’t fooled. The strength of his grip didn’t lessen.

“How long?” she asked sullenly, unable to take her eyes off of Guisarme’s inert form.

Brannan hesitated. When she tensed again, he answered, “That was one of the strongest batches I’ve ever seen. Days, probably.”

She sagged against him at the news, and this time his hold did slacken. She jerked out of his grasp and turned to face him.

“You know we don’t have that kind of time,” she spat at him, furious at his matter-of-fact tone. She could see the dragon encased in the massive block of translucent, glowing glass, and even at this distance, its amber eyes burned with hatred. “Was this wagon carrying water, or just a lot of magical toys?”

Brannan’s lips compressed into a thin line.

“Don’t be foolish. All the wagons carry food and water, along with weapons.”

“Good.” She made her way over to where the others were gathered above Guisarme and put a hand on Greddark’s shoulder. The dwarf looked up at her with anguished eyes.