Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

“His hand slipped off Skraad’s.” A quick glance showed Sabira why; the orc’s forearm was covered in blood. “Then when he saw that his weight was going to pull the drow and me down with him, he just… let go.”

Sabira squeezed his shoulder in sympathy.

“We might still be able to help him. I need you and Skraad to climb down into the wagon and hoist a couple of barrels of water up to us. We’ll pour it out on the sand-that should make it cool faster, and we can get him out sooner.”

Greddark looked uncertain.

“That sudden a change in temperature could very well crack the glass-and Guisarme with it.”

Sabira’s gaze was unwavering.

“Would he be any worse off than he is now?”

The dwarf didn’t hesitate.

“No.”

“Then get moving. I don’t think this sand-to-glass trick is going to slow the dragon down for long, so we need to move quickly.”

“You can’t possibly mean to waste two full barrels of water on one warforged.” Brannan’s voice was sharp with disbelief and anger.

Sabira didn’t bother to turn.

“Yes, actually, I can.”

“I won’t allow you to-”

She rounded on the Wayfinder.

“You won’t allow me?” she repeated, her tone low and dangerous as her hand hovered meaningfully over the release for her urgrosh’s harness. “How exactly were you planning on stopping me?”

She felt Xujil stir, but didn’t turn. Greddark was there to handle him if the drow really felt defending his employer was worth getting disemboweled over.

Brannan’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t answer immediately. Weighing his options and running the numbers, no doubt.

“Each barrel of water holds enough to keep ten men alive for a day. Do you have ten men who are volunteering to cut their ration short for two days for the sake of this warforged?”

“There’s one less camel now,” Sabira countered, “and the gnomes won’t be using their share, assuming it survived the wreck of their wagon. And if need be, yes, my men and I will gladly reduce our rations for the sake of ‘this warforged.’ Whose name, by the way, is Guisarme.”

Brannan shrugged.

“Very well. Rest assured that I will hold you to your word, if it comes to that.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Sabira replied.

With Jester’s help, Greddark and Skraad were able to lift up a pair of heavy wooden barrels and hold them in place on one of the steel ribs. Directly below the barrels, Guisarme’s body lay partially encased in cooling glass. Sabira set her feet as best she could on the taut canvas, unharnessed her urgrosh and brought the axe-head down on the first barrel as hard as she could. The wood split like a kobold’s skull and water gushed out, running down the side of the waterproof fabric and onto the sand below. For the second time today, Sabira was engulfed in a cloud of steam as heat and cold battled for supremacy. Greddark and Skraad tossed the remains of the empty barrel off the wagon and moved the second one into place, and Sabira cleaved that one in twain, as well.

As they waited for the resulting steam to dissipate, Sabira frowned. The wind from the storm should have torn the billowing clouds to shreds, but they still hung in the air, a bizarre pocket of humidity in the arid climate. Come to think of it, the wall of wind-driven sand should have overtaken them long before now.

She turned back to regard the dragon’s dust storm, only to see that it was battering itself to pieces against an invisible wall a few hundred feet beyond the line of wagons. The unnatural storm must have hit the edge of the zone that had warped all their spells thus far. The magic that propelled the sand and wind could go no farther, and so low dunes were forming along the boundary, like a row of burial mounds. Nice to see the Traveler’s Curse working in their favor for a change.

There was a soft thud below her. Sabira whipped her head back around to see a large melon rolling lopsidedly across the hardened glass, a wet bruise visible intermittently visible as it rotated.

“I think it’s safe now,” Greddark said. “Jester found a pick and some shovels. Let’s go dig him out and we’ll see if I’m as skilled as I like to claim I am.”

At her nod, the warforged handed her a shovel; Skraad was already holding one. Sabira felt a momentary pang when she saw that his arms were bandaged. Jester had apparently found more than just mining equipment in his foraging. She should have been the one to see to it that the orc’s wounds were treated, but her guilt was overridden by satisfaction at the knowledge that she’d chosen wisely, with men who didn’t need explicit orders from her to do what needed to be done, quickly and efficiently. She’d been on her own for so long as a Marshal that she’d all but forgotten what it was like working with a unit of well-trained warriors.

Greddark grabbed the pick and jumped down first, followed quickly by Jester and then Skraad. Sabira came down last; though she wanted Guisarme freed just as much of the rest of them, she knew they were driven by more than just camaraderie. She knew the great weight of guilt and grief that came from having a partner who’d been hurt because of your actions, or lack thereof. She’d carried that burden herself-still did, in many ways, though it was no longer as heavy as it had once been. She understood their urgency and let them take the lead, because, while she wanted to rescue Guisarme, they needed to.

“You do realize that when you break the glass surrounding him, you’re also breaking the glass around the dragon? The glass that is currently the only thing keeping it from resuming its rather devastating attack?” Brannan asked from his place at the top of the overturned wagon.

“Well, I guess you’d better make sure the caravan is ready to move the moment we’re finished, then, hadn’t you?” Sabira answered, not bothering to hide the disgust in her voice. Though it wasn’t directed at the Wayfinder, so much as at the fact that he always seemed to be right.

Greddark kneeled down to examine Guisarme, then the glass around him, trying to find a point where he could start chopping at the transparent block without causing further injury to the warforged. After a moment, he chose a spot about a foot away from the construct’s right side. The dwarf muttered something under his breath, and Sabira thought she caught the words “Onatar,” “Canniths,” and “show them how it’s done,” but she couldn’t be sure. He swung the pick up and back and then brought it forward with a grunt of effort, the muscles in his arms bulging.

The crack of metal on stone reverberated across the sand and chips flew up in a spray of sparks and broken glass as the pick slammed into the block with the full force of Greddark’s anger behind it. A thin line appeared in the translucent surface, spreading out in both directions from the crater created by Greddark’s blow. A second strike widened it a hair, and a third made a gap big enough to inset a shovel blade.

“You two start here while I go work over there,” the artificer said to Jester and Skraad before stepping over Guisarme’s body to find a similar weak spot in the glass on the other side. The two set to work with gusto, wedging the shovels into the crack and working the blades back and forth to widen it further.

Sabira joined Greddark on the far side, waiting for her turn. As she did, she noticed warforged braving the sand to scavenge what they could from the ruins of the gnomes’ wagon. After they’d removed a miraculously intact barrel and two mostly intact crates, one of the warforged emerged from the wreckage carrying a small body. Sabira recognized the crossbowman from the driver’s seat. The warforged wrapped the gnome’s corpse carefully with a swath of torn canvas and then laid it out on the ground near the ruined wagon.