by Wulf, Rich
Praise for Rich Wulf’s Voyage of the Mourning Dawn …
“Voyage of the Mourning Dawn is a soaring adventure with great characters and an intriguing mystery. I can’t wait to see where Rich Wulf takes his story in Flight of the Dying Sun.”
— Don Bassingthwaite
Author of The Killing Song
The Legacy, the ultimate doomsday weapon, is reborn—and it lies in the hands of a madman.
The black sphere in Marth’s hand seethed with bitter cold. The smell of burnt ozone singed the air. Below him, the city of Sharn was thrown into chaos. Already he could see fires erupting in the lower reaches of the city from the crashed airships. Alarm bells echoed throughout Skyway. Lights flickered in the buildings ahead as citizens roused from their slumber. The Brelish airships, thrown into chaos, pursued the Seventh Moon at a distance. They were hardly even worth concern.
The ship gained speed again, soaring deeper into Sharn. Marth saw lights rising from the floating island like hornets stirred from their nest. Some were the burning rings of airships, flying out to reinforce the fleet. Others might be skycoaches attempting to flee the city or even the gleaming staves of wizards flying under the power of their own magic. A squad of swift Brelish airships darted up from the streets below, soaring toward the Moon in formation.
The airships attacked with a desperate volley of fire, lightning, and raw arcane power. The changeling’s hand tightened around the glass sphere, and the Legacy lashed out.
THE HEIRS OF ASH
BY RICH WULF
Voyage of the Mourning Dawn
Flight of the Dying Sun
Rise of the Seventh Moon
RISE OF THE SEVENTH MOON
The Heirs of Ash • Book Three
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC.
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eISBN: 978-0-7869-6492-5
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v3.1
FOR RASKAL
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Epilogue
Breland, near Ringbriar
Tristam climbed atop the shattered tower, puffed out his chest, and attempted to look impressive. He was a skinny youth, so this was a difficult task. At least his long coat flapped dramatically in the chill autumn wind.
Beneath him, only a few paces away, the four men were digging through the rubble. They took no notice of him just yet, sifting out metal scraps and tossing them in a wagon. They wore faded uniforms, worn and bloodstained but recognizable as those of Brelish soldiers. Each had a large sword lying within easy reach. Tristam’s shoulders slumped and his courage faltered; he had thought there were only two. He considered retreating to rethink his plan. He glanced around for a quiet path back down the rubble heap. One of the soldiers turned to add a large scrap to their haul and paused to stare blankly at the strange boy standing above them.
“Who in Khyber is that?” the man said, dropping the metal in the wagon.
There was no retreating now. Not with his dignity intact. There was only one option—pure, stupid bravado.
“Hold, villains!” Tristam cried, sweeping out his hand in a flourish. “Step away from your weapons and I will show mercy.”
“Hold, villains?” one of them said, surprised. He turned to his comrade. “Veran, did that boy actually say ‘Hold, villains’ to us?”
The other man blinked. “I think he actually did.”
“Sounds like a Lhazaarite,” said the first man, returning to his work. “They’ve got a liking for drama. Ignore him. He’s just a harmless brat.”
Tristam’s face darkened. He considered backing away in shame. He was heavily outnumbered, after all. But no, he couldn’t leave now. He had an important task to complete, and these men were interfering. That wasn’t even considering what they might do if they discovered what he had been working on. He drew his sword.
Four pairs of eyes moved instantly at the sound. Their amusement and playful indifference vanished. The men watched Tristam with the dead eyes of experienced soldiers. The nearest, Veran, drew his his own sword from its scabbard.
“Don’t be stupid,” Veran said. “Why would you want to get in our way?”
“You’re grave robbers,” Tristam said. “By your uniforms, I’m guessing you’re deserters as well. Worst of all”—he pointed at the wagon full of metal scrap—“you’re stealing the House Cannith property that I have been sent to collect.”
The men blanched at that. The law could reach only so far. The Brelish army could spare only so many resources to find them. But only a fool crossed the House of Making. House Cannith’s reach extended into every city in Khorvaire. The Cannith guildhouses commanded the loyalty of nations.
Veran’s eyes hardened as he took a step forward. “If this scrap belongs to House Cannith, then they shouldn’t have sent a lone boy to collect it,” he said.
The others drew their swords and grouped close behind Veran, advancing to surround Tristam’s high perch.
Tristam reached into his coat with his free hand and drew out a thin ivory wand. He spoke a word of magic and released a bolt of crackling electricity at the nearest soldier’s feet, hurling him backward in a cloud
of smoke and debris. The soldiers scattered. Tristam leaped from the rocky spire and ran, trying to take advantage of the distraction.
Tristam felt a sharp tug from behind. His feet slipped on the loose stones, and he fell. Veran had seized the tail of Tristam’s long coat, pulling him off balance. A booted foot struck Tristam in the stomach. His sword and wand were lost. Coarse hands seized Tristam’s wrists as the soldiers overwhelmed him, pulling him to his feet. Veran leaned close to his face.
“Curse you, boy,” Veran growled. “I don’t want to kill you but can’t have you going off to report us to the Canniths either. There’s a cellar in the ruins not far from here. We’re going to leave you there and seal the door. Don’t dig yourself out until we’re gone. Understood?”
No! He couldn’t let them beat him. If they discovered what he found, they would destroy it. Or, worse, use it …
Tristam lifted his throbbing head. He twisted in their grip, quickly sliding one arm out of the sleeve of his coat and punching Veran across the jaw. The soldier reeled and struck Tristam back with a mailed fist. Tristam’s vision blurred. He felt them grab his wrist and hold him helpless once more. Blood trickled down his chin. Veran seized Tristam by the throat, holding his sword against his stomach.
“You just killed yourself, idiot boy,” the soldier rasped.
Tristam saw the cold rage in the soldier’s eyes, but the killing blow never came. Dead silence fell over the crumbling ruins for half a breath, then the silence was punctuated by the sudden ring of metal against stone. The sound came again. Again. And again, in a rhythmic pattern.
The four soldiers looked at one another uneasily, as if they recognized the sound. They turned as one, looking toward an archway among the ruins. An enormous figure stepped into view. He was humanoid, except that his body was carved from scarred adamantine and battered darkwood. The setting sun framed him from behind, giving him a dark and ominous appearance. Two pools of blue light served as eyes in his smooth metal face. His thick arms curled into three-fingered claws, now balled into fists half the size of a man’s head.
A warforged.
The construct looked at the men silently, then at their wagon. He plucked a chunk of metal from the load and looked at it intently. It was the shattered face plate of another warforged. After a few moments he looked up at them, blue eyes shining with a cold light. The warforged spoke, his bass, metallic voice resounding over the shattered stone.
“Tristam Xain is my friend,” he said. “Let him go.”
Veran quickly released Tristam’s throat and backed away from the boy. “By the Host, do what it says,” he said. The other soldiers released Tristam, letting him fall limp on the stones.
“Now run,” the warforged said.
Veran sheathed his sword and clambered away over the stones.
“What about the salvage?” one of his greedier comrades said, nodding at the wagon.
“Can’t spend it if we’re dead, fool!” said another soldier, grabbing the man’s arm. “Run!”
The deserters scrambled away over the ruins, never looking back. Tristam sat up and watched them vanish over the heaps of ancient rubble. He groaned and crawled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. The warforged still stood in ruined archway, though he now leaned heavily against the threshold. He slid down the frame till he sat hunched among the broken stone.
“Omax!” Tristam shouted, running to the warforged’s side. He helped Omax lean back against the archway. In the shadows of the setting sun, the soldiers could not see how badly damaged Omax was. His metal body was a network of jagged scars. His adamantine skin was deeply dented or missing in many places. It had been one week since Tristam had found the wounded warforged buried in the rocks. How long had he been here? Ashrem said no one had lived in the monastery since it collapsed twenty years ago.
“Omax, are you hurt?” Tristam asked.
“No worse than before,” the warforged said.
Tristam searched his pockets, pulling out vials of reagents and whispering transfusions to mend Omax’s damaged body as much as he could. The warforged watched in silence as his metallic flesh twisted back into its proper shape at Tristam’s command. “You shouldn’t even be walking yet. They might have killed you.”
“They would surely have killed you,” Omax said. “You were not afraid.”
“I didn’t want them to find you,” Tristam said. “They would have forced you into servitude or used you for scrap.”
“Then you understand,” Omax said. “Even if you know you will die, to stand your ground for a righteous cause is the greatest victory.”
Tristam was stunned. No one had ever risked their life for him before. “Thank you, Omax,” he said quietly.
“You are welcome, Tristam,” the warforged said. He looked at the metal plate in his hand. “I assume their business here was the same as your own?”
“I think so,” Tristam said. “A lot of warforged died here. That’s a lot of House Cannith darkwood and adamantine. The right people would pay a lot of money for this stuff.”
“And is that why your master sent you here?” Omax asked, looking at Tristam solemnly. “To profit?”
“No,” Tristam said. “He sent me ahead to see if the ruins had been looted. Ashrem wanted to make certain the warforged received a proper burial.”
“Why?” Omax asked, placing the scrap back in the wagon. “We are only weapons.”
“Ashrem feels differently,” Tristam said.
Omax looked at Tristam, keenly interested. “Oh?” he said.
“Ashrem helped create the first generation of warforged,” Tristam said. “He feels sorry for the way they’ve been used.”
Omax said nothing.
“He should be here soon,” Tristam said. “Our airship is in Wroat, picking up supplies. Ashrem is a much more skilled artificer than I am. After he arrives we should have you back at full strength in no time, Omax.”
“And what then?” Omax asked. “Will I be returned to the War?”
“If you want to be,” Tristam said. “Or you could stay with us on the Seventh Moon. Master Ashrem believes that the warforged should be free to seek their destinies.”
“Free?” the warforged mused, tasting the word.
Tristam nodded.
“I think I would like that,” Omax said.
ONE
The Harrowcrowns
Seven Years Later
Nothing,” Eraina said, emerging from the worn shed with a scowl. She sheathed her shortsword and scanned the small camp with a sullen expression.
Zed Arthen sat on a stump. His two-handed sword lay on the grass, discarded but within easy reach. His long pipe dangled between his teeth, letting a plume of smoke curl in the air. He radiated disinterest as he studied the deep orange hue of the leaves above them.
“Are you even listening, Arthen?” Eraina asked. “I said I’ve found nothing.”
“I heard you,” he said, leaning backward and twisting to pop his back.
“You’ve nothing to add?” she said.
“Not really,” Zed said. “Not without saying I told you so, and that sort of thing just provokes you.”
Eraina’s face darkened.
“It’s true, though,” he said. “I told you Marth wouldn’t use these old scouting outposts. The Thrane military may have abandoned them, but they’re still on the maps. You know all it would take is one curious soldier checking in on area military holdings and Marth would be exposed. He wouldn’t take that kind of risk.”
“I don’t recall you saying any of that,” Eraina said. “I recall one grumbled, ‘Are you sure about this?’—which I attributed to your natural penchant for complaining.”
“I may have abbreviated my explanation,” Zed agreed, tapping out his pipe and tucking it back into his shabby coat.
The paladin gave him an exasperated look. “Zed, if you thought coming out here was such a terrible waste of time, you could have made your opinion clearer.” She stabbed her spear into the soft e
arth and slumped cross-legged on the ground.
“I didn’t have any better ideas,” Zed said. “None, at least, that you would have approved. To be honest, I kept my disagreement to a minimum because I hoped I was wrong. I thought maybe we would get lucky and find something.”
“Your first impression was correct, unfortunately,” she said.
“I’m a little confused by the entire situation, actually,” Zed said. “With as large an operation as Marth has, I would have thought he would be easier to track. At the very least he has to have some sort of airship repair bay, docking tower, and barracks. That means he has to maintain food, clothing, and morale for at least sixty to seventy troops. That’s assuming the soldiers we’ve faced are the majority of his followers. That may not be the case. There may be more. This sort of operation needs a lot of supplies, but we’ve seen nothing. Nathyrr is the most obvious staging point.” Zed sighed. “You haven’t sensed anything, have you, Eraina?”
“Nothing,” Eraina said, “but that isn’t unusual. Marth is, for all his cruelty, an ordinary mortal. Such beings rarely leave a supernatural trail that a paladin can easily follow. Though I don’t know why you need to ask me. You could try to sense him for yourself.” She looked at him meaningfully.
“That isn’t funny,” Zed said. “I told you, the Silver Flame hasn’t shone upon me in years. I’m not a paladin anymore.”
“Only because you turn away,” Eraina said. “Those who were wronged have been avenged. Commander Kalaven was brought to justice. Think of the good you have done in the years hence. You have risen above your weakness and atoned, Arthen. I think that your god would receive you as its champion. All that remains for you to be a paladin again is for you to forgive yourself.”
