The Inquisitives [1] Bound by Iron Read online

  A low, chuckling laugh rolled out of the mist, and a shadowy form paced up to the very edge of visibility, a gray shadow against the lantern-lit fog. “So you noticed, did you? I told him that his spell wasn’t subtle enough.” His accent was Aundairian; his tone, cocky.

  He paced closer, slowly resolving into a three-dimensional person. He carried a dark shield on one arm, but no weapon in his free hand. Five more vague shadows appeared on both sides of the trio, cutting off any potential escape.

  “But we noticed you, too,” said the man. “And now it’s time for you to pay the full fare for everyone on the Silver Cygnet.” He snapped his fingers. “Let’s go, people.”

  Brandishing weapons, the five shapes closed on their victims, two next to the speaker at Cimozjen’s right, three from his left.

  Cimozjen steeled his resolve.

  The Inquisitives

  Bound by Iron

  BY EDWARD BOLME

  Night of the Long Shadows

  BY PAUL CRILLEY

  Legacy of Wolves

  BY MARSHEILA ROCKWELL

  The Darkwood Mask

  BY JEFF LASALA

  BOUND BY IRON

  The Inquisitives • Book 1

  ©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  EBERRON, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Michael Komarck

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6310-2

  640-A1323000-001-EN

  For customer service, contact:

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  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  Dedication

  For my father, Donald Weston Bolme, known affectionately as “Bop” by his grandchildren: You taught me more about morality than pretty much the rest of the world combined.

  Acknowledgements

  My deepest gratitude to my wife, Sarah, for her patience and support in trying times.

  To my editor, Mark, for working with me so hard on this and for being candid enough to say that he hates my outlines.

  To Dr. John D. Butts, Chief Medical Examiner, for providing a reality check.

  To Rick Sowter, Steven Wilber, and Jack Lee for being available; and to Jeff LaSala, Marcy Rockwell, and Paul Crilley for cross-promotion.

  I would also like to thank the many fans who’ve written me or posted online such nice things about my previous work. I don’t do this for the compliments. I do it to bring you entertainment and a few things to think about. But such feedback is the only way I can learn about whether or not I have succeeded.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One: Dark Meetings

  Chapter Two: A Mutual Acquaintance

  Chapter Three: A Cold and Joyless Homecoming

  Chapter Four: Dealings

  Chapter Five: Stories Written in Blood

  Chapter Six: Farewell to Torval

  Chapter Seven: Soundings

  Chapter Eight: In the Dark

  Chapter Nine: Questions and Lies

  Chapter Ten: The Empty Shell

  Chapter Eleven: First Taste of Freedom

  Chapter Twelve: The Streets of Throneport

  Chapter Thirteen: Fire in Flight

  Chapter Fourteen: The Foul Airs of Fairhaven

  Chapter Fifteen: Brothers in Arms

  Chapter Sixteen: Coincidence

  Chapter Seventeen: Another Coincidence

  Chapter Eighteen: Idyllic, Not Peaceful

  Chapter Nineteen: The Custodian

  Chapter Twenty: Brash

  Chapter Twenty-One: Trapped

  Chapter Twenty-Two: The Sharper Weapon

  Chapter Twenty-Three: The Dragon’s Trail

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Lying to the Authorities

  Chapter Twenty-Five: The Last, Desperate Act

  Chapter Twenty-Six: A Crash of Iron

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Quiet Touch of Death

  Chapter Twenty-Eight: Parting

  Prologue

  Mol, the 9th day of Sypheros, 998

  The world crashed in on him, blinding light surging on waves of chaotic noise.

  The warforged raised an arm to shield his eyes as one wall of his home swung open. He stepped out, holding his axe at the ready as he always did, as he did even in the darkness, for the world was an unpredictable beast. It was always there, lurking, waiting to strike. Every noise that dripped from it oozed peril.

  He looked about at the surrounding circle of spiteful faces, and he felt awash in bloodthirsty eyes, snarling mouths, and angry fists. He turned slowly, staggering on the slanting floor, searching for the one who would try to kill him. Someone always did. Thus far he had survived the assassins, slain them, every one.

  At last the warforged marked him. A human with long, unkempt, salt-and-pepper hair and a stew-matted beard. He carried a round shield in his right hand and a three-headed war flail in his left. A patchwork of scars served as his mail, crisscrossing his pale skin. He wore ragged breeches that came to just below his knees, and simple leather shoes ill suited for combat. An iron band of elegant design encircled his left arm above the biceps. As thin as the human was, it was surprising that the armband didn’t slide off.

  The human came closer, swinging the spiked heads of his weapon in a small circle. The steady centrifugal pull of the chains allowed the human to sense their position at all times, which reduced the chances that a snap strike might result in an errant flail head.

  This human has been trained to kill, he thought, but I have been forged for this purpose.

  His unblinking magewrought eyes captured every nuance of the human as he closed. The human was skilled, perhaps even had the greater skill, but it was the rare human for whom war was ingrained as tightly as it was for a warforged.

  Positioning his large battle-axe defensively, he kept the aging human at bay, dodging the spiked heads of the swinging flail and allowing nothing more than a minor gouge across his expressionless metal face. He backpedaled often, forcing the human to use more energy to close the ground again. As the battle progressed, he found that he was rather familiar with his assailant’s battle technique. He had seen it twice before, demonstrated by two other humans similarly aged and armed. They had not been not quite as skilled as this one, but he had learned much from them.

  He had killed them. This one he would kill too.

  He feinted forward, throwing his assail
ant off stride, forcing him to begin his assault anew. The warforged made a deliberately errant strike. And, as he had anticipated, it drew the human into a familiar pattern of blows, a five-swing combination that made use of the swinging chains to attack the head and each side of the torso and legs in one smooth series, maximizing the momentum of the flail heads.

  It was a dangerous combination. The first time it had nearly undone him. The second time he had been able to evade the worst of it. But the warforged had thought about it for many long hours in the darkness, and he knew that the third time he would prevail.

  The human executed the fourth swing, the fifth … and the warforged stepped into the blow with his battle-axe held high. He allowed the chain to wrap around his right forearm. The spiked heads smashed into his armor plating. Then he shifted his grip on the haft of his battle-axe to pin the flail heads in place, locking the human’s weapon with his.

  A look of surprise crossed the human’s face. The warforged pulled, and the human reflexively yanked back, not wanting to lose his weapon. The warforged abruptly switched from a pull to a push, and the haft of his axe struck the human squarely across the chest, knocking him down.

  The warforged released the grip of his right hand, allowing the human to pull the flail off. With his left, he spun the great axe around and brought it up over his head. Then, with a mighty two-handed swing aimed at the center of his supine opponent, he ended it.

  The warforged yanked the heavy blade from the human’s breastbone, and took a moment to ensure that the blow had been lethal. Save for a tremor that came and left, the human lay still.

  The victorious warforged looked about at the sea of faces. They were exuberant, anguished, relieved, but none were still hateful, none still looked at him.

  He turned. He went back home.

  And the blissful darkness enclosed him.

  Chapter

  ONE

  Dark Meetings

  Zol, the 10th day of Sypheros, 998

  Clutching her cloak about her, Henya glanced up at the sky. The rain clouds had largely broken up, their energy spent. Somewhere beyond her sight, the sun drew near the horizon, sinking behind the dark evergreen trees that covered the land of Karrnath. Although the sky still shone with pallid autumn sunshine, down in the cobbled streets of Korth all was growing dark. Not only dark but cold. Protected by the quiet embrace of the building’s shadows, the damp chill of impending winter crawled out of the alleys to slither through every gap in her cloak, and pry at every loose seam of her clothing. If the sunshine had still reached into the narrow streets she walked, she would have seen her own breath. As it was, she felt it condensing on her hood as she tried to hunker down even further into the folds of her cloak.

  She was cold, that much was true, but she had food. One hand extended from the front of her wrappings to hold the handle of a large woven basket, by necessity leaving a drafty opening in her cloak and slowly chilling her fingers through. The basket was filled with a large pork roast and several round loaves of dark rye or, as her father called it, “chamber music.” It was simple fare, especially with the weak home-brewed beer her father made, but it was better than the alternative. Her family had suffered deep pangs of hunger during the famine two winters past. They’d been so hungry that they’d barely had the energy to chop wood for the fire, so they’d spent the long winter months cold and famished, chewing on shoe leather to ease their growling stomachs. It had been a miserable way to celebrate the end of the Last War.

  That and her younger brother had never come home. She’d helped him learn to walk those many years ago, and now she wondered whether he still could. Could he still walk, or had he been crippled? Or did he lie rotting in some forgotten field somewhere?

  She’d asked, of course, as had so many others. Standing in long lines at the Korth military administrative bureau. Stoically awaiting her turn to hear … nothing.

  Her brother’s death she could handle. Through hunger, siege, and battle, the Last War had taken her great-grandfather, two granduncles, and several of her aunts, uncles, and cousins. She’d grown up with stories of martial valor and the last battles of many of her relatives. She’d known all her life the war might take her brother as well. Such sacrifices were necessary for the preservation of the nation and brought glory to the family name. And even dead, a Karrn soldier could still serve the crown as an animate warrior, his body gathered by a royal corpse collector, alchemically preserved and magically ensorcelled to fight for the military even after his life had ended. It was considered an honor to have the king spend such lavish amounts to preserve the service of a common foot soldier.

  Her brother’s survival would be wonderful, to see his smile again and his clear blue eyes. Even were he crippled, she’d feel no sorrow, delighting in the chance to be able to serve him again.

  Not knowing, that was the worst. According to the official records, her brother’s unit had fought as a rearguard at Shadukar. The army had been compelled to withdraw and had been unable to scour the field afterwards. There was no way to know his fate. “In all likelihood he was killed in battle,” the clerk had said, “but he might have been captured, might have been struck unconscious or disarmed and fallen therewith into the hands of the enemy.”

  Upon hearing that, Henya had turned up her nose and narrowed her eyes, fighting back the tears.

  The clerk had misinterpreted her reaction, and mumbled an apology. “Of course, there’s no way a man of such prowess as your brother would have done other than kill the stinking Thranes until his final breath.”

  Such prowess? He’d been just another soldier to the clerk. Recruit number 992-1-1763. One of the faceless peasants pressed into service, just another body to carry a spear.

  She’d held her tears and left. For the last eighteen months, she’d wondered whether or not her brother had been captured, whether he might some day return home, return to his family, return to her and grace her life with his laughter once again. According to the Treaty of Thronehold, all prisoners were to be repatriated. That knowledge had given her hope for the first year, to know that if the Thranes had indeed captured him, they could neither keep him as a slave nor execute him.

  Soon, though, that hope gave way to despair, for if he’d been captured, it shouldn’t have taken him a year to find his way back to Korth.

  The persistent ache in her cold hand pushed her from her dark reverie. She reluctantly unclenched her other hand from where it held her cloak shut, and switched her grip on the basket, losing most of her remaining warmth in the process. She drew her cold hand back into her cloak and did her best to coax her numb fingers to grip the fabric closed as tight as they could manage.

  Looking up, she saw that the sky was darkening, the light growing more scant in the narrow backstreets and alleys about her. She had slowed her pace as she’d fretted about her brother, and the evening had waned. Starting to shiver, she hurried forward into the gloom. If only her brother could come back. She’d give so much for just one more chance to hear him say—

  “Ho there.”

  The voice was so masculine, so gravelly, that she stopped in her tracks. She turned to the sound, a hesitant, desperately hopeful smile starting to bloom across her face.

  A short figure, likewise in a hooded cloak but with a moderate beard poking out of the hood, stepped out of the shadows. Though he stood no higher than her shoulders, he moved with purpose and, judging by the breadth of his mantle, he was very muscularly built. He drew close to her, shaking one arm loose from the folds of his cloak. He brandished a heavy stick pierced through at the end by cruel spikes.

  “Give me your basket, wench,” he growled, shaking his club as punctuation.

  For a moment, she almost yielded, but the thought of her family fanned her ire. She glanced at his bulk and height, and decided that even burdened with a basket, she should be able to outrun him. She didn’t have to get far, just to Angle Road. There’d certainly be someone there who’d defend her against a conscienceless
thug.

  “Give it,” he repeated.

  “No!” she spat, and turned and ran as hard as she could, clutching the precious basket with both hands, the chill air forgotten.

  She expected to hear him pursue her, but no noise of boots on gritty cobbles dogged her heels. Instead, after a panicked breath or three, she heard a single grunt of exertion. She had barely enough time to register the sound when stars exploded in her vision and she found herself stumbling into a rough, stone wall and falling to the rain-damp ground.

  Disoriented, she shook her head, all memory of her plight temporarily forgotten. She started to sit up, but dizziness and a raging ache in the back of her head gave her pause. Footsteps drew near, and she looked up. There, towering over her, stood a broad, cloaked figure with a spiked cudgel. She thought he might help her to rise, until his growl of distaste brought everything back to her.

  “Help!” she screamed.

  He raised the club. “Lock yer jawbone!” he snarled. Then his words slowed to a malevolent cadence. “You don’t want to stoke up a member of the Iron Band, do ya, wench?” He pulled up the sleeve of the arm that carried the club and displayed an armband. It glinted in the darkness.

  She gasped, raising a trembling fist to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. I mean, you can have—that is, if you’d asked, I’d—well, soldiers like you—”

  “Quiet, wench,” he said. He looked around at the dirt of the cobbled side street, but in the looming darkness, there was little detail to be seen. “Gone,” he harrumphed. “And that was my best throwing rock. Do you know how long I looked for just the right one?”

  “Please don’t hurt me. You can have my food …”

  “But now it’s all spilled on the ground,” he said as to a child. He sighed and tapped his bludgeon lightly on the side of his calf. “You’ve done given me some trouble tonight, wench. I’m going to have to take something of equal consideration for that rock.” He leveled a harsh kick that took her in the meatiest portion of the thigh.