Skein of Shadows

Xujil led them over the stone bridge and toward the back of the cavern where there were no buildings and no everbright lanterns to light their path. A forest of thick white and yellow stalagmites sprouted up from the cavern floor here, some of them reaching up to join thinner stalactites that dripped from the ceiling. The twisting formations obscured the back wall of the cave from view until they came to a gaping hole in the stalagmite thicket. Shattered rock littered the ground here, and it was obvious that the opening had been created by an explosion of some sort. The debris had been moved aside by the explorers who came after, so it was impossible to tell the directionality of the blast from their pattern or the scorch marks that remained in the surrounding stone pillars.

The drow paused and turned toward them. With the blackness of the entrance to the depths behind him, and framed as he was by the jagged remains of both stalagmites and stalactites, it looked for a moment as if the earth itself had opened up to swallow the guide. The illusion was fleeting, but powerful, and Sabira shivered. She hoped it wasn’t an omen.

“Shall we proceed, Marshal?”

Sabira nodded at him.

“Lead on.”

Xujil turned and led the way through the yawning mouth of the quake-spawned cavern. As Sabira stepped from the cave that housed the bulk of Trent’s Well into the narrower, cooler passage, the drow’s voice echoed eerily back to her through the darkness, disembodied and alien.

“Welcome to Tarath Marad.”

Legacy of Wolves
Inquisitives Book 3

The Shard Axe

No novel is produced in a vacuum (possibly because in space, no one can hear you scream, but I digress). Many people played a part in bringing this book to life, and I’d be remiss if I didn’t offer them my heartfelt gratitude. To Wizards of the Coast and Turbine, who created and brought to life the world that spawned Sabira—thank you. To my editors, Erin Evans, Liz Mills, and Nina Hess, who helped shape Saba’s story to make it the best that it could be—thank you. To my friends and fellow authors, Jeff LaSala, Don Bassingthwaite, Keith Baker, Sig & Anne Trent, and especially Erin M. Hartshorn and Rebecca S. DeMoss, who helped me pull a rabbit out of my,
er
, hat—more than once—thank you. To my husband and children, who supported and encouraged me throughout and who I know must be
really
tired of pizza—thank you, thank you, thank you. And, as always, to Catherine, because—
gratias tibi ago
.

D
onathilde ir’Thul stepped over another fissure in the tunnel floor, cursing. She’d already twisted her ankle in one such fungus-covered chasm, and had had to slow down what was left of her small group while she performed a brief healing spell; she wasn’t about to let that happen again. The fragment of the draconic Prophecy that Baron Breven had given her spoke of a night when “the Anvil next is silent, the Book is closed, the Warder dreams.” It had to be referring to when three of Eberron’s twelve moons were dark—Vult, Rhaan, and Eyre. By her calculations, tonight was the last night when that condition would be met for at least another four years, and the next alignment wouldn’t be perfect like this one, as Rhaan would just be moving out of the dark phase while Vult moved into it. If she didn’t find what she was looking for now, this whole expedition and the deaths of her men would be for nothing.

There were only three of them left, after entering Tarath Marad with a contingent of thirty. House Deneith had
paid only cursory attention when the vast caverns beneath Xen’drik’s Menechtarun Desert and the jutting peaks of the Skyraker Claws had been discovered earlier this year. They became much more interested when powerful artifacts started appearing in the Stormreach Marketplace, and in Khorvaire itself. Determined to beat the other twelve dragonmarked Houses to the loot, they’d sent in Tilde, a former instructor at Arcanix and a draconic Prophecy hobbyist. With her had come thirty Blademarks, some of whom had served with her brother, Leoned. Now, only one of Ned’s former comrades-at-arms remained, the others having fallen to the perils of this deep, dark place.

“I don’t like this, my lady,” Harûn said, eyeing the close tunnel walls warily, his long sword out and ready. Though there was nothing unusual about that—they’d learned early on that one did not sheathe one’s weapon in Tarath Marad, not even while sleeping.

“Is there anything you
do
like, Rûn?” Tilde rejoined halfheartedly as she stroked the fur of the small bat on her shoulder. She was tired of the Blademark’s constant grousing, but in truth, she didn’t like it much herself, and judging from her familiar’s restlessness, neither did he. Though that was no great surprise—there was nothing in this Hostforsaken pit
to
like.