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

by Rich Wulf

  A closed door led to the ship’s central containment chamber, guarded by a single soldier. The guard held his sword in one hand, looking around nervously as he protected the door. Seren drew her dagger and looked at Tristam.

  Tristam shook his head and stepped forward from the shadows. The guard whirled with a start just as Tristam hurled a handful of dust in the man’s face. The guard blinked, staggered, and slumped to the floor.

  “Only sleeping,” Tristam said, examining the door. “These men are just soldiers, Seren. I don’t want to kill them if we don’t have to. They’re only following Marth because they have nothing else left.” He looked up at her. “I don’t sense any wards on this door. Do you think you can pick the lock?”

  Seren studied the lock briefly, then looked back the way they came. She cocked her head slightly, listening to the chaotic melee above. Seeing no one nearby, she stepped back and kicked the door sharply, jarring it off one hinge and shattering the lock. Tristam stared at her blankly.

  “Picked,” she said.

  Tristam didn’t argue. He hurried into the room beyond. The large chamber was filled with shining brass runes and shimmering crystals. A large square of the floor was transparent glass, displaying a murky purple cloudscape below them. A cylindrical black column stood in the center of the chamber, radiating heat.

  “That’s it,” Tristam said. “That cylinder contains the crystal that binds the ship’s elemental to this plane.”

  “What are you going to do?” Seren asked.

  “Send her home,” Tristam said. He took a small tube from his pocket and unfolded it into a four-foot ivory rod, engraved with runes and capped with a square of shimmering jade. He held the staff in both hands and closed his eyes, concentrating as he turned in a slow circle and concentrated on the crystal chamber.

  “Why not just blast the housing with your wand?” Seren asked.

  “Because that would just release the elemental into this room, not send her back to his home plane,” Tristam said. “After years of servitude, they tend to be quite angry—and we don’t want to be here for that.”

  Tristam opened his eyes when the door at the far side of the core chamber opened. Seren quickly darted behind the door, preparing to ambush whoever entered. A tall man in long purple robes stepped inside, long, white hair spilling over his shoulders. Tristam dropped the rod and quickly produced his ivory wand, releasing a bolt of crackling lightning at the changeling. When the smoke cleared, Marth was unharmed. An aura of magical power shimmered around him.

  “Impressive but uncalled for, Tristam,” the changeling said. “I was prepared for your coming, and I only wish to talk. Had I wanted to kill you, I would have left more soldiers here. After all, crippling the heart of my ship would have been your only real chance of escape.”

  Tristam’s scowl faded, replaced by a look of startled recognition. “Your voice,” he said. “Orren?”

  “If it pleases you,” Marth said. The changeling’s features shifted to that of a thin young man with blonde hair tied back in a ponytail. “Orren Thardis is an old name, given by an old friend. I’d hoped to offer you the same thing Ashrem offered me—a new life.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tristam said, backing away.

  “Dalan brought you into his quest only when he realized I would not be his pawn,” Marth said. “When he realizes you are worthier than that, he will betray you as he betrayed me. He holds you back, Tristam. He forces you to underestimate your own talent because he fears that you will become something greater than he can control—just as he could never control his uncle. He wants you to waste your life waiting for an opportunity that will never come, and all the while he reaps the fruits of your genius.”

  “And why should I help you?” Tristam asked. “So I get to be an accessory to murder?”

  Marth sighed. “I do not care if you help me, Tristam,” he said. “I do not want you to help me. You are my friend, Tristam. I just want you to find your own destiny, and stay out of mine.”

  “What if I say no?” Tristam asked. “Will you kill me like you killed Kiris?”

  Marth’s grip tightened on his amethyst wand. “Zamiel was right,” he said sadly. “This was a foolish luxury.” He pointed the wand at Tristam.

  As Seren pounced, she prayed to Kol Korran that Marth’s magical shield didn’t protect him from steel as well. Her prayers were answered. She felt steel sink into the changeling’s back and heard him cry out in pain. Green fire sprayed wildly through the core chamber as Marth staggered into the wall. Seren rolled away, losing her knife.

  Tristam darted in front of Marth, seizing and holding his wand ready.

  “Your magic doesn’t harm me, Tristam,” Marth sneered, looking for his own lost weapon.

  Without a word, Tristam turned and fired a bolt of energy into the ship’s housing chamber. A guttural roar, full of triumph and anger, echoed through the Kenshi Zhann. Marth’s eyes widened in fear as a creature woven of fire and rage rolled over him. The changeling vanished as the elemental filled the room. Tristam ducked under the blast, shattering the glass floor with his wand.

  He leapt into the swirling void with Seren in his arms.

  For several minutes the storm winds howled around them. Tristam held Seren’s waist tightly, so she gripped him firmly in return. Though she always thought she wasn’t afraid of heights, she discovered she was quite afraid of falling from thousands of feet up. They didn’t plummet as they should, but drifted, a feather. Seren didn’t open her eyes again until she felt the ground beneath her feet.

  Finding herself alive and standing on the soft grass of the Talenta Plains was a most welcome surprise. Seren relaxed her grip on Tristam, though she did not release him yet. She looked around in numb surprise, still shivering from the chill of the storm and the terror of their fall. In the sky far above she could see the twin rings of the two airships. One ring sped away across the sky at extraordinary speed. The other flickered and wavered as she slowly drifted toward the ground. Blue fire also crackled within the ring, as the angry elemental wreaked its vengeance on the Kenshi Zhann. The storm was swiftly dwindling to a light drizzle. The eastern sky glowed red with the haze of the coming sun.

  “I doubt that when he gave me that ring, Orren intended me to use it like that,” Tristam said, looking up sadly at the plummeting corpse of Ashrem’s flagship.

  “You could have reminded me about it before you jumped,” Seren said, finally catching her breath enough to speak. “I didn’t realize you could carry two people with it.”

  “Neither did I,” Tristam said.

  “What?” she said. She took a step back and glared at him.

  “I’m joking!” Tristam said, holding his hands out defensively. “Mostly joking. I mean, theoretically I knew it would support the weight of another light person, but I never really had a chance to test it, and I thought stopping to ask what you weighed wouldn’t have been wise.”

  “What would have happened if you were wrong?” she asked.

  “I dunno,” he said, tucking his wand back into his coat. “I guess I would have given you the ring and let go.” He looked at her seriously.

  “So what do we do now?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest.

  “I don’t know,” Tristam said. “It looks like Karia Naille escaped.” He pointed at the point of flame in the sky. “The others hopefully found Dalan and got back on board. If we can make our way to some sort of civilization and make contact with them, everything should be fine.”

  “But what about Dalan?” Seren asked. “Marth said that Dalan had been working with him.”

  “I’m not in the habit of taking lunatics at their word, even if they used to be friends,” Tristam said. “Though I will admit it makes a certain amount of sense. If Dalan wanted to crack the secrets of the Legacy, it would make sense for him to turn to one of Ashrem’s old partners. I guess when Marth proved to be a little too ambitious, Dalan turned to me instead. Wroat makes a great deal more sense
to me now.”

  “How do you figure?” Seren asked.

  “The way I see it is like this,” he said. “Dalan was working with Marth, but turned his back on him when he realized Marth was a killer. Later, he realizes that Marth is a great deal further along in his pursuit of the Legacy than we are. Dalan spreads rumors that he knows a little more about the Legacy than he ever let on, in the hopes that Marth will take the bait and give us a chance to track him. Marth is suspicious, so he hires Jamus to take the fall.” Tristam sat down in the grass and smoothed his hair nervously. “Of course that’s just a theory, but it looks like we’ve been lied to from the beginning. I need to talk to Dalan.” He sighed. “I’m sorry, Seren. Sorry to have gotten you involved in this.”

  Seren looked up at the sky. “Do you think Marth is dead?”

  “No,” Tristam said. “I think he teleported away when the fire came for him. He’s still out there, Seren. Still looking for the Legacy.” Tristam shook his head slowly. “I have no idea how to stop him.”

  “We still have Kiris’s notes,” Seren said. “There has to be something to be learned there. Not to mention Dalan spent a good amount of time on Marth’s ship. He must have learned something, especially if any of the soldiers made the mistake of talking to him.”

  Tristam chuckled. “That’s true,” he said. “Of course none of this solves our most pressing and immediate problem.”

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “The others probably think we’re dead,” he said. He looked around at the vast plain, then back at her. “We have no idea where in Talenta we are. All I know is that the Valenar are to the south, the mountains are to the east, and the Mournlands is to the west.”

  “Then my suggestion,” she said, standing up and offering her hand. “Is that we head north.”

  Tristam smiled, took her hand, and stood. Together, the artificer and the thief began their march across the plains.

  Two Weeks Later, the City of Fairhaven

  Shaimin loosened the garrote and let the old woman fall on the floor with a wet thud. He leaned back in the elegant mahogany chair where she had been doing her knitting only a moment before. The slim elf rested his chin on one hand as he looked at the corpse. It was almost disappointing. None of the guards had been paying attention. The windows had not been sealed, warded, or locked. He even gave the old woman a chance to see his reflection in the mirror. She didn’t yell for help. She didn’t have a knife. She only gaped in surprise. Now it would likely be several hours before anyone even found her.

  In. Out. Eberron has one fewer duchess. Shaimin’s bank account anonymously receives enough gold to feed a poor family for two years.

  The gold didn’t matter, of course. He had enough to live quite comfortably for the rest of his life. That was all most assassins dreamed of, but then most assassins had no sense of style, no understanding of why they killed. Their greed drove them to prison or to early graves. They had no appreciation for the hunt, no appreciation of the skills required to perform a task well.

  Shaimin drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair. All that time wasted brooding, and still no guards had arrived. Well, he refused to make any more purposeful mistakes merely to make his evening more interesting. He had a reputation to maintain. That didn’t make the boredom any less galling. If these assassinations didn’t swiftly prove to be more challenging, Shaimin feared that he might well have to enter a more interesting line of work. Perhaps politics? He already had plenty of contacts.

  With a heavy sigh, Shaimin d’Thuranni sauntered back to the window and bounded across the rooftops of Fairhaven. He moved with animal grace, traveling with no undue noise or hesitation, drawing no notice from the citizens in the street. When he felt he was sufficiently distant from the duchess’s house as to draw little suspicion, he paused and concentrated on the elaborate dragonmark scrawled across his shoulder blades. His senses expanded from his body, giving him a view of the alley below as if he were there. Confident that no undue bystanders were watching, he dropped gracefully to the ground. He smoothed his black silken cloak over his shoulders with a feline fastidiousness, pursing his lips in frustration.

  “Do you plan to follow me for the rest of the evening?” Shaimin asked. “Or are you quite satisfied with what you have seen?”

  “I am quite satisfied,” was the answer. The air rippled. A robed figure appeared from nothing. He was a tall, pale-skinned humanoid with pink burns on one side of his face.

  “Hello, Shaimin.”.

  Shaimin moved his finger off the trigger of the small crossbow he held beneath his cloak. A smile split his pale features. “Thardis,” he said with a malevolent grin. “I never believed you were dead. It is good to see you again.”

  “My name is Marth,” the changeling replied. “I am pleased to see you as well, though I fear I am not here to renew old friendships.”

  “I thought as much,” Shaimin said, his interest piqued. “A friend wouldn’t spy on me while at work; he’d just meet me at the theater afterward. You wished to ensure that my skills had not deteriorated since last we met.”

  “And I am not disappointed, Shaimin,” Marth said.

  “I should hope not,” Shaimin said stiffly. “This is regarding Ashrem’s legacy?”

  The changeling nodded.

  “Then walk with me,” the elf said, gesturing to the road. “Let us speak of old friends and unfinished business …”

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  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Epilogue