by Rich Wulf
“Karia Naille,” he mumbled to himself in astonishment, stepping back out into the street for a better look.
It was the simple things that could ruin a man’s entire evening.
Seren wasn’t sure what she had expected when Gerith described Black Pit. As the airship circled for a landing, whatever expectations she might have had were wiped clean. She heard the pit before she ever saw it, an eerie harmony of inhuman shrieks echoing from the depths. A tremendous wound split the surface between the jagged Blackcap Mountains and the lush forests to the east. The earth within the pit was a disturbing red, like fresh blood. The surrounding land was black and dead. From above, Seren could see veins of dead soil twisting from the pit into the woodlands. It was as if Khyber were reaching out with long fingers, slowly drawing the life of the forest into itself.
The village perched on a plateau at western edge of the pit. It was no larger than Ringbriar, but while Seren’s home consisted of a single road surrounded by houses and businesses, Black Pit was a disorderly sprawl of ill-tended buildings. The setting sun painted the village in a red hue, only deepening the sense that the land was raw and bleeding.
She stood at the rail as the ship circled the noxious coils of smoke rising from the Black Pit. Pherris was busy at the helm, and Dalan had disappeared into his cabin again. Gerith sat by Blizzard’s perch, singing a quiet song to calm the nervous glidewing. Tristam and Omax stood at the opposite side of the deck. Seren sensed the artificer casting nervous looks in her direction. He had attempted to confront her a few times since their conversation three days ago, but she avoided him. He had even sent Omax to offer an apology, which she had answered noncommittally. She wasn’t ready to forgive him yet.
There was something hypnotic, an odd ghastly beauty to the pit. Seren found it difficult to look away and hoped that Karia Naille might fly in for a closer look. The more rational part of her mind was horrified by her own fascination, and she was glad that Pherris kept the ship a good distance away.
“If I woke up and found something like this next to my village, I think I’d move somewhere else,” Seren commented.
Pherris chuckled. “The pit was here first, Miss Morisse,” he said. “The village came later.”
She looked back at him incredulously. “Someone built a village next to that on purpose?”
The captain just shrugged and kept his attention on his course. She noticed that he assiduously avoided looking down.
“I’ve always wondered about that as well,” Tristam said to no one in particular, “What kind of idiot would build a village in a place like this?”
“A certain sort of person just wants to go live where he won’t be found,” Pherris said. “You should be grateful you don’t understand it, Master Xain.”
“What’s making that noise?” Seren asked.
“Just the wind, or so they say,” Tristam said. “Of course, folks here say a lot of things so they can sleep at night. No one’s ever gone into the pit and returned, so I guess they can pretend it’s whatever they want.”
Dalan’s cabin door opened and d’Cannith stepped out, wincing at the relative brightness. His expression only soured when he saw the smoking pit beneath them. “Well, at least we are on schedule,” he grumbled.
“Two sky towers at the southern end of the village, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris reported. “Probably used by local smugglers. If it’s all the same, I’d rather just hover in the forest and send Omax in looking for Arthen. As we’re not loading cargo, it seems the safest route. No sense attracting attention in a place like this.”
“Ordinarily that would be wise advice, but in this case attention is precisely what we want,” Dalan said.
Pherris looked back at Dalan incredulously and returned his attention to the wheel. “As you say, Master d’Cannith.”
The airship banked, and Seren grasped the rail to steady herself. The pungent smell of the pit grew stronger as the ship circled slowly downward. They swooped over the village, dots below swiftly resolving themselves into people. Some stopped and looked up to watch the airship fly overhead. Others simply trudged onward, too jaded to care or too distracted for it to matter.
A pair of rickety-looking towers stood at the far southern end of the village, bordering the road. Seren thought it strange at first that such a small village would have airship facilities, until she thought about it. If Black Pit really was home to the Brelish black market, the towers would come in handy for the occasional wealthy smuggler. The towers looked shoddy and hastily built. From the clutter that surrounded them, Seren suspected that a few of the locals had made homes inside.
“Prepare to secure the vessel,” Pherris said as the ship pulled up alongside the western tower.
“Aye, Captain,” Gerith said, gesturing quickly to Seren.
She followed the halfling, leaping from the deck to the tower’s docking bridge. A few terrified chickens scampered out of the way, leaving a swirl of downy feathers fluttering to the ground. Seren knelt to tie the rope through one of the iron rings mounted on each side of the bridge but stopped short, looking up cautiously at the four burly men who had emerged from the tower. They looked down at her with smug, dangerous expressions. Their faces shifted to blank looks of terror as a heavy thud sounded on the bridge beside her, followed by another.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Omax said in his even, metallic voice. Tristam stood beside the warforged, letting his coat hang open to display the sword at his hip. Seren tied off the rope and edged behind the warforged, as did Gerith.
“I assume one of you is the tower master?” Dalan asked, stepping forward and greeting the thugs with a disconcertingly pleasant smile.
“Er, yes, that would be me,” said the leader of the group. He was the largest of the four, an unkempt man whose wealth of dirt and stubble was broken only by a crisscross white scar on his neck. “Docking fee is two gold per week.”
“Omax, please pay these gentlemen,” Dalan said.
Omax reached into his pocket and drew out two gold coins. The money looked ridiculously small cupped in his adamantine palm as he offered it to the men. The tower master shouldered one of his henchmen, who nervously stepped forward to snatch the coins. Omax closed his hand over the coins with a clank, nearly snatching the man’s fingers. He drew back with a start.
Dalan chuckled and looked embarrassed. “My apologies, but my associate is a stickler for formalities,” Dalan said. “I shall need to see the King’s Seal, tower master, just to make certain that you are in fact the proper authority.”
The tower master chuckled. “This is Black Pit, my friend,” he said. “We don’t need any official sanction from the King here.”
“I see,” Dalan answered. “How very interesting. It has long been my personal belief that a man willing to call a total stranger ‘my friend’ is invariably the least friendly, most untrustworthy sort of person. As pleasing as it is to see that once again I am not wrong, that is no excuse for either your behavior or your odor. If you are not an official authority, then your presence is irrelevant to me. Get away from my ship, or Omax will remove you.”
Seren’s hand moved to the dagger tucked in the back of her belt as she edged back toward the ship. Dalan glanced back at her, his eyes narrowing, making her stop where she was. Seren caught his meaning—a united front was important. Dalan looked back at the four men and folded his arms across his chest. Standing before the thugs, his face remained calm and unafraid. Omax stepped in front of the guildmaster, calmly tucking the coins back into his pocket. He fell into a relaxed stance, hands curled into fists near his waist, and bowed his head to the four men.
“Bah,” the tower master said with a sneer. “Don’t let the fat man and his golem intimidate you. I’ve fought my share of warforged. They die just like men.”
Omax lunged forward, seized the man’s chest in one hand, and hurled him from the tower bridge. There was a shrill yelp of terror, followed by the soft splat of a man landing heavily in the mud. Omax tur
ned and faced the three remaining men calmly. They backed into the tower, then ran down the stairs as quickly as they were able.
“He survived,” Dalan said, looking down as the tower master staggered to his feet and limped hurriedly away.
“What purpose would killing him serve?” Omax asked.
“He may come back,” Dalan said, sighing as he strode back onto the ship.
“And if he were to die, others might come seeking vengeance,” Omax said, following him.
“If there would be risk whether he lived or died,” Dalan said, looking back at the warforged. “Then why let him live? That man is useless scum. Probably a killer.”
Omax shrugged at Dalan. “Or just a desperate man,” the warforged said. “Mercy can put a desperate man on a path to redemption.”
“Or grant him the opportunity to kill another day,” Dalan said.
“Not everyone is a killer, Dalan,” Tristam said tersely.
“Tristam, you misunderstand me,” Dalan said, looking at the artificer with a smirk. “I trust Omax’s judgment and I value his opinions, even if I disagree with them. I was having a philosophical discussion. If you cannot add anything insightful to our discourse, then stay quiet and listen.”
Tristam looked away, face darkening. Seren thought she might take some small joy in seeing Tristam humiliated after the way he’d insulted her, but she did not.
“But this is not the time for conversation,” Dalan said, heading toward the cabin. “Tristam, get into the village and find Zed Arthen. Take Seren with you to keep you out of trouble.”
“I don’t really know this village,” Seren said to Dalan’s back.
“Neither, thankfully, do any of us, save by reputation,” Dalan said, pausing at the door. “Nonetheless, if you could survive on the streets of Wroat, I’m certain you’ll do well enough here. You’ll do far better than Tristam, in any case.”
“I will let no harm come to either of you, Seren,” Omax said.
“Your loyalty is duly noted, Omax, but I need you to remain here,” Dalan said. “I cannot risk leaving Karia Naille undefended in case the ‘local authorities’ return.”
“The ship isn’t exactly undefended, Dalan,” Tristam said.
“Contingencies only retain their strength when they remain in place,” Dalan said cryptically. “Omax will remain here as our first line of defense.”
The warforged looked at Tristam, waiting for his decision. The artificer looked at Dalan, who peered back with a patient, thoughtful expression.
“Better listen to Dalan, Omax,” Tristam said quietly.
Omax bowed to his friend. Dalan closed his cabin door
“Good luck, both of you,” Gerith said cheerfully. The halfling climbed back onto the deck, carrying a struggling chicken under one arm. He headed toward the galley.
“Let’s go,” Seren said, brushing past Tristam and hurrying down the tower stairs.
She exited the tower to find Tristam already waiting at the bottom. She did a double-take, looking from him back at the door behind her.
“Feather fall ring,” he said, holding up a hand to display a bronze ring with a smirk. “What good’s a little magic if you can’t show it off, right?”
“You made that?” she asked.
“I haven’t mastered ringcraft, but soon,” he said. “My friend Orren Thardis gave it to me after Ashrem suspended my teaching. He was brilliant; probably taught me as much as Ashrem did.” Tristam bent low to examine the tower’s doorknob. “I think he gave me the ring because he felt sorry for me.”
Seren surveyed the area for any signs of danger. A number of locals were still staring at the ship in wonder. The locals all looked generally shady and suspicious, making it difficult to tell if anyone was a relevant danger.
“Wisdom,” Tristam said under his breath.
“What?” she asked, looking back.
“That’s the password to get through the ward I just put on this door,” he said, looking at her earnestly. “Remember it, Seren. Please. I don’t want you hurt.”
She nodded and gestured for him to follow. She took to the middle of the road, staying as visible as possible to reduce the chance of ambush. Tristam followed, remaining silent for a long time.
“Seren,” he finally said, still walking a step behind her. “Did Omax talk to you?”
“I don’t like apologies,” Seren said. “They’re just words.”
“Oh,” Tristam said. “Well, by that logic, when I stupidly called you a thief, that was just words too. Therefore no harm done and I don’t need to offer a worthless apology. Right?”
Seren scowled at Tristam. He offered a crooked grin, and she had a difficult time remembering just why she was so angry at him.
“Fine. Apology accepted,” she said, rolling her eyes. They continued walking down the street.
“Boldrei’s blood, that’s a relief,” he said, exhaling. He walked beside her instead of behind, a bit of his cocky self-assurance returning. “I have enough problems without worrying about you stealing something from me in revenge.”
She glared at him again, but his quick laugh took the sting off his words. “Joking! If there’s one man in all of Khorvaire who has no right to judge you for your past, it’s me. All in all, I think if you compared our respective professions yours is more worthy of respect. At least a thief is honest.”
“How do you figure that?” she asked. “You’re an artificer. You make things that change people’s lives.”
“We also make weapons, Seren,” Tristam said. “For every airship and lightning rail you can name, I can point to the warforged … or to Cyre.”
“Omax is a warforged,” she said. “He seems like a good person. So to speak.”
“He is,” Tristam said, “but that doesn’t change the fact that his people were created to kill. The warforged were supposed to be monsters. The fact that some of them, like Omax, are strong enough to rise above their origins was not intentional.”
“If you think so little of magecraft, then why are you helping Dalan find the Legacy?” she asked.
“Because someone has to make sure it’s used responsibly,” he said. “Whatever it really is, it’s powerful, and I don’t want to see it misused. That was why I was so suspicious toward you, Seren. I can’t stand the thought of anyone exploiting Ashrem’s work. You have to admit we didn’t meet on very good terms. You had one of Ashrem’s journals in your pocket.”
“In a bag, actually,” she said. “But you think you can trust Dalan d’Cannith with Ashrem’s secrets?” She looked at him thoughtfully.
“I do,” Tristam said, though he hesitated just a moment. “Dalan wants what I want. He wants to find the truth before someone else does. But that makes me wonder what we’re doing here.”
“What do you mean?” Seren asked. She looked at him questioningly, then took stock of their surroundings again. A crudely painted sign depicting a full mug of ale hung over a nearby door. A tavern was as good a place to find information as any, so she headed that way.
“We’ve been looking for the Legacy for a long time now,” Tristam said. “Zed Arthen was a member of our original crew, but the search was too much for him. He abandoned us and came here.” He looked at her seriously. “I don’t trust Zed, Seren. I never liked him, even before he left us. The Knights of Thrane don’t cast out one of their own without reason.”
Tristam opened the tavern door for her, breaking the tension with an exaggerated, bow. She chuckled and stepped inside. She was surprised to find no one drinking inside. A barkeep in a dirty apron was setting chairs on tables.
“Closed,” the man said in a bored voice. “Sundown.”
“Sundown?” Seren asked.
“Oh, you’re new,” he said with an annoyed sneer. His right eye drifted to the right. “Black Pit’s no place to be out after dark. Get out quick. Find some place to sleep. Not here.”
“We can take care of ourselves,” Tristam said.
The bartender scratched his
chin, grunted to himself, and returned to his work, ignoring Tristam. Seren was about to ask the man if he knew Zed Arthen when the door opened behind them. The tower master stepped inside, his clothes stained with jet-black mud. He was followed by the same three thugs as before, as well as two new arrivals. The barkeep quickly flipped the last chair onto the table and hurried out of the room. Seren looked around for any other exit. The only other door was the one the barkeep had just slipped through, and she heard a latch fall heavily in place.
“We saw you lock that tower door, magewright,” the tower master said. He advanced as his thugs fanned out to block any path of escape.
Tristam drew his sword and wand, holding them in a ready stance. “Stay back, Seren,” he said, stepping between them.
“Put the sword away, boy,” the thug said. His comrades drew small crossbows, aiming them at Tristam. “The warforged is the one we want. Just tell us what we need to know and we’ll only give you a beating. We’ll even let the girl go.” He gave Seren a ghastly grin. “Eventually.”
“You haven’t the faintest idea who you’ve insulted,” Tristam said. “My name is Tristam Xain, and I rank among the most skilled swordsmen in the Lhazaar Principalities.”
The man gave Tristam another appraising look and then laughed out loud. Tristam’s bold façade faded noticeably.
Seren looked at the man coldly. “Are you an idiot?” she said. “Omax let you live because he could. We aren’t worth the pain we’d give you. Leave while you can.”
The tower master looked at Seren soberly, then glanced back at Tristam, with a disdainful sneer. He reached for the heavy crossbow at his hip.
A mocking chuckle sounded from the doorway, causing the thug to stay his hand. He turned quickly, aiming his crossbow at the newcomer. A stocky man in a long brown coat stepped into the room. His face was plain and unremarkable except for his sharp blue eyes. A long pipe hung from his lip, leaving a drifting plume of smoke as he entered. The newcomer looked at Seren, Tristam, and each of the men before looking at their leader again.
