Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

As she watched, he and his fellow constructs began piling pieces of broken wood and other flammables beside the body, building a small pyre. When it was large enough, the first warforged-who Sabira now realized was the gnomes’ driver-picked up the shrouded body and laid it reverently on the wooden mound. Another warforged retrieved the skeleton of the staff-wielding gnome and laid it beside the first gnome’s body. Of the dragonshard-tipped staff, there was no sign, but Sabira supposed the living constructs’ respect for the dead didn’t extend to destroying their belongings. They were Brannan’s men, after all.

The driver looked in her direction, probably awaiting permission from the Wayfinder. After a moment, the warforged nodded, then pulled flint and tinder from a pouch at his hip. He struck the flint against his thigh and had the tinder smoking in moments. A short time later, the gnomes’ pyre was sending up a trail of black smoke into the sky, an offering to whatever gods of the Sovereign Host the two might have worshiped. The warforged driver stayed for a moment with his head bowed and Sabira wondered for the first time what the living constructs thought about death and what came after. She should ask Jester; somehow, she was sure he’d have given the matter some serious consideration.

“There.”

While Sabira had been watching the impromptu funeral, Greddark had finally located the weak spot he needed. As Sabira turned back to him, he brought the pick down in a vicious arc. The second crack was even louder than the first, and this time the pick stuck fast.

The dwarf struggled to pull it free for a few moments, then glared up at her.

“I could use some of that legendary Shard Axe strength right about now.”

Sabira almost snorted at that. If there was anything “legendary” about her, it was her temper, or maybe her stubbornness. Definitely not her strength. Of course, she knew the dwarf was really talking about the enchantment on her urgrosh that gave whoever held it the stability and stamina of his rock-loving brethren, but now probably wasn’t the time to quibble over semantics. Or to remind him of the fact that it might not work, given the nature of the area they were in.

She pulled the shard axe off her back and then grabbed hold of the pick, so that both the urgrosh’s haft and the handle of the pick were in her grasp. She felt a surge through the leather-wrapped wood, but didn’t know if it was the urgrosh’s enchantment or some Traveler-twisted variant.

There was only one way to find out.

“On three,” she said. “One… two… pull!”

With what amounted to two dwarves yanking on the pick, it was either going to give way or break.

It broke, and both Sabira and Greddark stumbled backward, the shard axe in Sabira’s hand and what was left of the pick handle in Greddark’s. The head of the pick remained firmly lodged in the glass, its recalcitrance proving even more noteworthy than Sabira’s own.

But not for long.

“This is ridiculous,” she said impatiently as she regained her footing. “Move.”

Greddark obliged, opting not to bristle at her tone when he saw the dark look on her face.

Mimicking the dwarf’s earlier stance, Sabira brought her urgrosh up and back and then down. The adamantine axe-blade sheered through the head of the pick and shattered the glass in a two-foot radius, showering her with tiny stinging shards even as the blow freed Guisarme’s left arm and upper torso from their crystalline prison.

“Does it always do that?” Greddark asked after a moment, his voice registering awe. He was clearly shocked by the damage her blow had caused.

Almost as much as she was.

“Not usually.” She wondered if there might be some way to harness the effects of the Traveler’s Curse. She’d take the urgrosh’s enchantment not functioning at times if this is what happened when it did work.

She was about to pose the question when a deeper crack sounded below her, followed by a rumbling.

“That would be the glass near the dragon beginning to break,” Brannan said from behind her. While she and the others had been working to free Guisarme, the Wayfinder and Xujil had commandeered another mechanical wagon and its crew. A few warforged were just finishing up transferring the last of the supplies over from the overturned wagon. “We need to leave. Now.”

She had to give the man credit. He managed to keep all but the tiniest trace of smugness from his voice.

Now that Sabira’s shard axe had broken most of the glass encasing Guisarme, Greddark was able to clear the rest away. He dug some implements out of his shirt and various pouches, including a vial of what looked like oil and another of what looked like curdled milk. He muttered incantations under his breath, trying this spell and that to resuscitate the warforged, but without success. Finally, he looked up at Sabira, his eyes shadowed.

“I think he can be revived, but it’s beyond my skill. He needs to go back to Stormreach, to the House Cannith artificers. They’ve got the time and materials there to do what I can’t here.”

“So who’s going to take him back?”

Her question hung in the air, much as the steam cloud had earlier. As the warforged’s employer and the group’s leader, Sabira knew the job should fall to her, but she couldn’t abandon her quest. There was too much riding on it.

She could see similar conflict on the faces of her companions. They all wanted to see Guisarme to safety, and they all knew they couldn’t afford to. Even Jester, whose face couldn’t betray expression, still managed to convey his quandary by hanging his head, as if in shame.

“I’ll take him.”

Sabira turned to see the driver of the gnomes’ wagon, pulling along a soarsled weighed down by two chests marked “Property of the Library of Korranberg.” Sabira also saw books poking out of the mouth of a burlap bag and, finally, the dragonshard-tipped staff.

“I have to return these items to the doyen’s family. I can transport your companion back with me, as well.”

Doyen? The staff-wielder had been one of the luminaries of Korranberg? That wasn’t going to go over well back in Zilargo. She wondered briefly who the gnome might have been, then decided it was probably safer if she didn’t know.

“Thank you,” Sabira said gratefully, relieved and chagrined at the same time. It didn’t matter that it couldn’t be helped-leaving a man behind still stuck in her craw like a mugful of Old Sully’s gone bad. Which was, she supposed, the difference between her and Brannan. They might both choose the needs of the group over the needs of the individual, but she at least felt bad about it, and money was never a factor.

“I can give you a writ-” she began, reaching for one of her own pouches, but the warforged waved the offer away before she could make it.

“I’m taking one of my fallen brethren home, either to be restored to his former glory or to be laid to rest. One does not pay an honor guard.”

Sabira nodded her understanding.

“Of course; I meant no offense. But Guisarme no longer has anything to go back to, thanks in part to his decision to join us on this expedition. If the artificers can revive him, he’s going to need money, to pay for the repairs if nothing else. And he’s still owed payment for making it this far.” She dug out their agreed-upon fee from her money pouch, plus a handful of extra platinum. If asked, she’d say it was hazard pay, but she knew in her heart it was blood money. “And maybe you can talk to Kupper-Nickel on the way back. He might be able to get Guisarme reinstated to his old job, if he still wants it.”

The driver took the proffered coins without comment and deposited them into his own pouch. Then he stood aside as Skraad and Greddark lifted Guisarme’s body and placed it carefully on the sled. There was no ceremony, and no words were spoken as the driver led the laden soarsled away, but somehow it felt no different to Sabira than the funeral she’d witnessed earlier.