Voyage of the Mourning Dawn: Heirs of Ash, Book 1

by Rich Wulf

  “Some people have too much money,” Seren said.

  “A simple, profound wisdom that has driven my entire career,” Jamus said with a nod. “It was a similar thought that first drew me to the Buzzard in the hopes that I might relieve a noble of his excess wealth, and that is how I met Fiona. She caught me sneaking out the back door with a stolen purse in hand.”

  “She caught you?” Seren said, impressed.

  Jamus smirked. “I could rationalize the matter and say that I was young and inexperienced,” he said, “but that’s not entirely true. Every man has his match, Seren. I underestimated Fiona Keenig. She took the pouch back and promised not to press charges if I snuck back into the private room and listened in on the conversation there. So I did. More jobs followed, spying on her clients or reporting the information to her other contacts.”

  “So she was a spy after all?” Seren asked.

  “Of course,” Jamus said, “but she wasn’t a Cyran spy. She was King Boranel’s agent, counter-intelligence, charged with defending the city against foreign infiltrators. The entire investigation had been a ruse. My life became a great deal more interesting after I met Fiona. I worked for her for over twenty years. It was only a few months before you came here that this place closed for good.”

  “What happened?” Seren asked.

  “The Day of Mourning happened,” Jamus said. “A wave of smoke and flame wiped out the nation of Cyre in a single night. Fiona loved Breland and was loyal to the king, but she had family in Cyre. The day she learned what happened, she closed the Buzzard and set out to find her brothers. That was four years ago, and no one has seen her since. This place has a great deal of memories for me …” Jamus looked around wistfully and laughed. “Also several emergency exits, built by the original smugglers who lived here. The perfect den for a spy. The perfect rendezvous point for a thief. No one else seemed to want the Buzzard, so I guess I’ve sort of adopted it.”

  Seren was silent a long moment. “What does any of this have to do with our meeting tonight?” Seren asked.

  “There weren’t many people who knew I worked for Fiona,” Jamus said. “So when she vanished, I returned to being the two-bit thief the city always believed I was. A few weeks ago, I was given a better offer by someone who knows about my past. I’ve been offered—we’ve been offered—a chance to do something worthwhile again. The payment and escape from this damned city is just a bonus.”

  “So we’re spies now?” Seren asked. It came out a bit more shrilly than she intended, and she saw Jamus flinch at her outburst.

  “Seren, you left home to become something more than you were,” he said patiently. “You can’t tell me that you can look at your life now and say you have no complaints?”

  Seren did not answer.

  “I thought as much,” Jamus said. “You’re a talented girl, Seren, but you are not a normal person. Normal people do not climb on rooftops and pilfer other people’s pockets. There are, however, ways to put those talents to use. Ways to help people. We’ve been given that chance.”

  “By whom?” Seren asked. “Why won’t you tell me who we work for?”

  “Knowledge and security are very rare companions in this line of work, Seren,” Jamus said. “I can’t tell you, for your own good and for our employer’s. You just have to trust me, Seren.”

  “You say trust is born from mutual benefit,” Seren said. “I have mercenaries following me through the streets already. How does this benefit me, Jamus?”

  “Seren,” Jamus said plaintively, but before he could say anything more he was interrupted by the protesting squeals of the wooden steps. He looked past Seren, his expression sharp and focused.

  “They’re early,” Seren whispered.

  Jamus remained silent, his expression worried.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “No, it’s not,” Jamus said, rising from his chair. “Early is never good.”

  “So let’s get out of here,” Seren said. She knelt and flipped a recessed latch on the floor. A small trap door in the floor led to a series of crawlspaces through which they could access any of the other rooms in the inn and make their way back to the street.

  “Wait,” Jamus said.

  Seren looked up at him curiously.

  “There’s more to this, Seren, a great deal more,” he said, settling back into his seat and watching the door. “Remember when I said the most difficult part still remained? Well, this is it. Run if you must, Seren. I’ll understand, but I would prefer if you stood with me.”

  The doorknob turned. Seren stood quickly, but left the trap door unlatched. Two gruff-looking soldiers in light armor stepped inside. One held a lantern high, eyes searching the room for any sign of a hidden ambush. Seren could see the crest on his breastplate, a golden crown on a field of green. The soldier’s eyes fixed on Seren for a brief instant, then moved on, disregarding her as a threat. Downstairs, she could hear more heavy footsteps. Who were they?

  Seren stood, slipping her shoes back on and moving to the edge of the shadows behind Jamus. One hand moved into her cloak, resting easily on the hilt of the dagger tucked in the back of her belt. Jamus was as uneasy as she had ever seen him, though she doubted a stranger would see the signs, a faint uneasiness around the eyes. To see her normally unflappable teacher so nervous gave Seren an incredible sense of dread. Yet she said nothing, only stood beside her teacher. If they hadn’t attacked yet, then this was to be a negotiation. A focused front was required for all negotiations. Disagreement would make a client nervous. Doubt would convince them they had the advantage. Confidence was everything.

  “Clear,” the man grumbled. “Only two of them, Captain.”

  “Just as promised,” said an elegantly deep voice. “You are a man of your word, Jamus Roland. At least thus far.”

  A tall, whisper-thin man slid through the door. A cloak, so deep purple it was almost black, hung from his shoulders so that he seemed little more than a shroud topped by a floating head. His hair and eyes were ghostly white. His face was smooth, pale gray, nearly featureless save for the raw pink burn scars that covered his left cheek. Seren flinched when she saw him.

  “Does my appearance upset your associate?” the man asked, looking at Seren with a crooked smile.

  “Seren means no offense, Captain Marth,” Jamus said.

  “I understand,” he said. “No doubt she simply has never seen a changeling honest enough to wear his true face? A lie may put her more at ease.” The man’s features blurred. His face was now lean and handsome, with rich black hair spilling out of his hood around his shoulders. “Is this more pleasing, Seren?”

  Seren nodded politely. Marth ignored her and moved to the table, cloak parting to produce a pale white hand with long, almost skeletal fingers. His fingertips brushed the table near the muddy sack. “This is what I seek?”

  “It is, Captain,” Jamus said.

  “Excellent,” Marth said, gesturing at one of his soldiers.

  The man produced a thick pouch and spilled its contents on the table. The white gleam of five platinum coins, each stamped with the image of a dragon, reflected the candlelight. Seren’s eyes widened. She had never dreamed of seeing so much money in one place.

  “Is that enough?” Marth asked.

  “The money isn’t the part of the reward that interests me,” Jamus answered. He pushed the muddy bag back across the table.

  Marth smiled and reached out again. His eyes met Seren’s, and she was taken aback by the strange intensity of his milky white eyes. He smiled, only faintly, and then slid the book from its container. His other hand appeared, producing a strange jeweled hand lens of frosted purple glass. Marth held it over one eye as he scanned through the pages.

  After nearly a minute of study, his shoulders slumped and he released a deep sigh. He opened the book carefully on the table, tucking the lens into his pocket. Before Seren could even react, one of the soldiers lunged forward and seized her arm, twisting it behind her bac
k painfully, away from her weapon. She cried out and stomped hard on the man’s foot with her heel. The bodyguard did not react, but only drew a short sword and held it to her waist. Jamus rose halfway from his seat, but Marth held out a cautioning hand.

  “Please, Master Roland, there have been enough mistakes here tonight,” Marth said in a calm, almost friendly voice. “A stomach wound is not a misery I would gladly inflict on one so young, but I will illustrate my sincerity if I must.”

  Jamus sat back down, though he turned so that he could watch Marth and his bodyguard simultaneously. Marth took the seat across from Jamus and regarded him quietly. The other soldier stepped forward and started scooping the coins off the table with a bored expression.

  “You have failed, Master Roland,” Marth said. “What I wish to know now is—did you intentionally seek to offer me a forgery, or is Dalan d’Cannith responsible for this? If the latter was the case, I would not hold you at fault. I would even offer you half the agreed pay for your discretion, though naturally our professional relationship would be permanently concluded. But the former …” He trailed off and was silent a long time. He drummed his long fingers on the book. “I fear I know too much of magic. I know enough to realize that there is no certain way to find truth. Deceit is a powerful force. There is always a way to lie. I cannot think of a way to judge with any degree of certainty that you have not betrayed me, Master Roland. What I am sure you will find even more unfortunate is that I also cannot imagine any particularly dire consequences for me if I were to err on the side of caution.”

  Jamus opened his mouth to reply, but Marth held up a silencing hand with a vague smile.

  “Before you seek to lecture me on honor between thieves, contractual obligations, a warning that you have powerful friends, or other such foolishness, consider this. I am no fool. I suspected that this lead might come to nothing. That is why I hired an expendable freelancer rather than risk one of my own loyal servants. However, know that I take no joy in the prospect of killing you. If you must speak, make it a convincing plea of your innocence—nothing more.”

  The sound of a pained shout and a heavy object smashing into something wooden sounded outside. Marth glanced at his guards in annoyance. Jamus stood, moving with the fluid speed of a man one-third his age. He flipped the table over in Marth’s face and drew two daggers from his sleeves, hurling one over his shoulder at the man that held Seren. Seren’s eyes widened and she twisted aside, but the knife’s path was true. The weapon lodged in her captor’s throat.

  The other soldier charged Jamus, but the old thief slashed the air at eye level. The man shrieked and staggered away, bloody hands clutched over his face. Jamus held the weapon high and leapt at the changeling. Marth rolled aside deftly, drawing a twisted amethyst wand from his cloak and aiming it at Jamus. It vomited an explosive cone of green fire, consuming Jamus and painting the ceiling in flame. The fire vanished in an instant, leaving only the smell of charred meat behind. Jamus Roland’s unrecognizable corpse collapsed with a sickly thud.

  It happened so fast Seren had no time to even move. Marth pointed the wand at her and smiled as she stood.

  She froze, waiting for the opportunity to act. The Cannith book now lay on the floor at her feet.

  “Poor girl,” Marth whispered. “He told you nothing, I imagine. Another pawn in these games, no doubt. How did you come to this life? An orphan of war, I’d wager. Do you have any idea what is happening here?”

  She only scowled and waited.

  “Do not hate me for what I have done to your teacher, Seren,” Marth whispered. “One day you will appreciate the burden of deceit I have removed from your life. Perhaps I may yet offer opportunities for you, if you are wise enough to embrace them.”

  The doors burst open and three armored soldiers charged in.

  “Captain, are you hurt?” one said. The guard looked down at Jamus’s charred husk with no apparent surprise.

  “No,” he said, still watching Seren. “Nothing unexpected. What is happening outside?”

  “Some lunatic and a warforged are loose in the inn,” the soldier said.

  “A warforged?” Marth looked at the man sharply.

  Seren reacted instantly to Marth’s distraction. She fell into a roll, shoved Marth aside, grabbed the book, and rolled onto the trapdoor. It flipped under her weight, depositing her in the dank crawlspace. She locked the door behind her and ran. Seconds later she heard a riotous explosion and felt a wave of heat wash over her. Marth had turned his magic to removing the trap door. She didn’t have long to make her escape. She pushed open another door and dropped through the ceiling of the kitchen. The angry shouts of Marth’s guards sounded from the hall outside. The chaos apparently had little to do with her—the Lhazaarite was busy piling furniture against the kitchen door while the warforged braced his shoulder against the door.

  “What in Khyber?” the Lhazaarite swore, looking up in surprise as he wedged another chair into the heap. “Where did she come from?”

  The warforged looked at Seren, pointed at the ceiling, and returned his attention to the door.

  They were, of course, the same pair she had encountered earlier in the street—Omax and Tristam Xain. Seren’s dagger was immediately in hand. She clutched the book to her chest and backed away from them.

  “Don’t try to stop me,” she warned.

  Tristam blinked. He glanced at Omax, then back at her.

  “You’re not getting the book back,” Seren said. She continued backing away, moving toward the corner.

  “Keep it,” Omax said, turning his eerie blue stare upon her. “Do you know another way out of here? Please.”

  “Omax, she’s a thief,” Tristam said. “We can’t trust her.”

  “Please,” Omax repeated calmly, ignoring his comrade. “If you know a way, we could use your help.”

  Seren hesitated. She stood only a foot away from a sliding panel in the wall. She knew she could step through and seal it behind her before either of them could react, but she hesitated. There was something in the warforged’s plain, direct demeanor that gave her pause, and Tristam seemed far too harried and confused to be threatening. In either case, if she escaped, Omax could likely just tear the wall away and follow her.

  She already had enough new enemies. What did she really have to lose by helping them?

  “This way,” she said, sliding open the panel.

  Tristam looked up at the ceiling, then at the passage with a look of astonishment. “Another secret passage?” he asked.

  “This place has an interesting history,” Seren said, stepping into the darkness.

  Omax followed, with Tristam bringing up the rear. The tunnel was narrow, passing through the walls between the ground floor rooms. Seren passed through with ease, but grimaced at the scraping clamor Omax produced as he squeezed his thick metal body through the passage. Fortunately Marth’s guards were producing too much noise to notice. The smell of smoke drifted from above.

  “The top floor is on fire,” Tristam whispered. “Who are these people?”

  “You don’t know either?” Seren shot back.

  The warforged gave her a curious look. “Why else would we—”

  “Later, Omax,” Tristam said, his voice a low hiss. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  Seren pushed another hidden door aside. A cool rush of air and the smell of fresh rain washed over her. She stepped into the garbage-strewn alley behind the Buzzard and looked back at the top floor. Behind the upper windows she saw flames, and a plume of thick black smoke spiraled into the sky. Seren felt a bit of hope drain from her. The Buzzard had always been a safe place, with a dozen ways to escape, a hundred places to hide. It had been a refuge from the dangers of her life, and when she saw it burn, she truly realized that her teacher was dead.

  She looked down again with a glum, distracted expression, only to see Omax emerge from the darkened tunnel at a full charge, eyes burning with violent blue fire. Seren’s hand darted for her knife, bu
t she knew it would be too late. The warforged was too fast, and her weapon would likely do little harm regardless.

  The massive creature charged past Seren, its heavy fist colliding with something behind her. She turned to see one of Marth’s guards slump against the wall, sword tumbling from his hand. She had not even noticed his approach. The warforged had likely just saved her life. Five more guards rounded the corner, shouting for help as they advanced. Seren drew her knife.

  “Get behind me!” Tristam shouted, darting forward with his sword in hand.

  “I can defend myself,” Seren retorted, but a heavy metal hand seized her shoulder from behind.

  “Trust him,” the warforged said, drawing back behind his comrade.

  The soldiers moved to surround Tristam. He held his sword low to one side in one hand and flicked his left wrist. A slender ivory wand appeared between his fingertips and for an instant Seren saw a look of terror in the soldiers’ eyes. Tristam shouted an unintelligible word, and a wave of sparkling white energy exploded into their scattering formation. Three fell among the garbage and did not rise, but another charged through the fire with sword held high. Tristam lifted his blade to defend himself, but his movements were slow, clumsy. Seren rolled between the guard and Tristam, slicing at the man’s left knee with her blade. He stumbled and his stroke flew wide, allowing Tristam to easily parry. The guard fell to one knee and Tristam swung a second time, dropping the man beside his fellows.

  The other two soldiers had rallied by now, but Omax was already among them. He bore no weapons but lumbered forward with his thick, three-fingered hands outstretched. He seized the first attacker by his chest plate; the metal creaked as it bent around his fingers. The soldier screamed and hacked at Omax’s shoulder with his blade, leaving only light dents in his metal skin. He caught the other man’s blade in his free hand and twisted, wrenching the sword from his grip. With a savage heave he lifted the first soldier into the air and hurled him at his fellow, crushing a rain barrel as they tumbled in a heap.

  One soldier slumped unconscious, but the other scrambled to his knees, clutching his dented chest plate in pain. He glared at the warforged and searched about for his lost sword. Omax advanced a single thunderous step, squared his shoulders, and released a fierce, reverberating roar. The man kicked up a small cloud of refuse as he fell on his rear and scurried away, whimpering in terror.