Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3

by Wulf, Rich

  “We speak of a tool forged thousands of years before mankind walked the earth, a weapon that shattered an army of immortal demons,” Zamiel said. “We speak of defying every nation in Khorvaire. We speak of ending the war itself. I should hope you feel strange; this is not the sort of matter one engages lightly.”

  “Perhaps,” Ashrem said.

  Norra found it telling that Zamiel insisted on calling the Legacy a tool, not a weapon.

  “It is not my intent to compel you to do that which you do not wish to do,” Zamiel said, bowing his head in a gesture of humility. “I know only that my studies of the Prophecy led me to you, Ashrem d’Cannith. I have offered my guidance. Whether you choose to accept that offer, I leave to you. How you choose to fulfill your destiny is your decision.”

  “Is it?” Ashrem asked with a bitter laugh. “I thought the Prophecy was inevitable.”

  “It is,” Zamiel said.

  “Then how can I truly have any choice?” Ashrem said. “If this is my destiny, will it not unfold whether or not I choose to embrace it?”

  “The Prophecy is inevitable, but it is also inscrutable,” Zamiel said. “Mortal interpretations, even those of learned individuals like me, are frequently flawed. Sometimes even a perfect interpretation of its manifestations makes little sense without the context of hindsight.”

  “What use is a prediction that makes no sense until it has transpired?” Ashrem asked.

  “I said sometimes,” Zamiel said. “In your case, the manifestation that led me to you was relatively clear. I was instructed to seek a senior craftsman, a man who can breathe life into stone, a man cast from his house for setting his sword aside.” Zamiel smirked. “You helped create the first warforged, thus granting life to stone. Your pacifist leanings have earned you the disfavor of your house, a form of self-imposed exile. Such words are open to interpretation, but they describe you aptly.”

  “But they may just as equally apply to someone else,” Ashrem said. “Someone a thousand miles from here or someone not yet born.”

  “Perhaps,” Zamiel said. “You cannot do what I do for any length of time without the ability to admit being wrong.”

  “So the Prophecy has foreseen everything, but our ignorant inability to understand it gives us the illusion of free will?” Ashrem asked.

  Zamiel laughed. “You are a cynical man.”

  Ashrem shrugged into his robes.

  “The point is this. The Prophecy guides us, but our choices are our own,” Zamiel said. “If you wish, I can guide you to other manifestations and help you interpret them. You may find wisdom there. Or you can choose to pursue the secrets of the Legacy alone. Perhaps you might even choose to ignore this altogether and hope that the war ends without your assistance.” The prophet watched Ashrem in silence for a long time. “But I doubt a mind as keen as yours will be able to set this puzzle aside. An ancient device capable of unraveling all magic? If you do not seek it out, Ashrem d’Cannith, you know that someone else will. Someone less noble and selfless than you.”

  Norra looked into the strange prophet’s copper eyes. They were dark, unreadable. Was the man issuing a threat or stating a fact? The prophet knew his audience. That much was certain. He mixed fact and mysticism to Ashrem’s unique taste, adding in just a dash of flattery to inspire the old man to taking up his cause. Norra found she hated Zamiel, even though she had never met him. His style of manipulation reminded her of Dalan, but it was a great deal more sinister. If Zamiel had truly guided Ashrem all those years ago, he had been wise to hide himself from her.

  “I need time,” Ashrem said softly. “More time to study Markhelm’s writings and determine their legitimacy. More time to determine what I must do. I will need to seek others that can aid me.”

  “House Cannith?” Zamiel asked.

  “No,” the old man said, his voice hollow. He seemed to be resigning himself to a painful decision. “If this vision is true, I would not wish such a fate upon my family. Though they abandoned me, I cannot damn them. I must find others like myself—others who hate this war as much as I do. I must find people who have been forsaken. People with nothing left to lose.”

  “Like me,” Norra said gravely. “No wonder you kept Tristam away from the Legacy. He had imagination with none of my bitter cynicism. He was always your favorite student, wasn’t he, Ashrem?”

  “You are wise not to ignore your destiny, my friend,” Zamiel said, attempting to comfort the old man.

  Ashrem d’Cannith looked at the prophet with a fixed, wary gaze. He exited the chamber, letting the study door creak shut behind him. A thud echoed through the shadowed chamber.

  The moment Ashrem left, Norra Cais found herself seated in the dusty library again. Morien Markhelm’s book lay open in her lap. She felt a sense of dizziness from the shift in her apparent surroundings. She grasped the arms of her chair until the room stopped moving.

  What had she just seen? Had it been some sort of message, left behind by Ashrem? A warning? If he wished to warn her about Zamiel, why hide it in a rune in a book she might never even read? Why not just tell her directly? Who had left this vision and to what purpose?

  It didn’t make any sense.

  She had to know more.

  Norra returned to the beginning of Markhelm’s journal and started reading.

  EIGHT

  Zed moved to the mouth of the alley and peered carefully around the corner. The mortuary was calm and quiet. Only a few passersby walked the streets. Most of them casually avoided the darkened building. The cart still waited outside the offices, hitched to a pair of horses.

  “Must be delivering that cart soon,” Zed said.

  “No sense in waiting any longer, then,” Eraina said. She waited a safe distance behind him, out of sight.

  Zed nodded. “If things go wrong, I’ll try to signal you somehow.”

  “I’ll look for screaming, random violence, and possibly fire,” Eraina said.

  He gave her a hurt look. “I was thinking more of a whistle, you know?” he said, “Maybe pulling up one of the window shades and waving—but keep an eye out for those other things. Just in case.”

  “I will,” she said. “Are you certain you wish to do this? It’s already fairly obvious they are working for Marth. We could approach this more directly.”

  “But we don’t know how many there are or where their larger base is,” Zed said. “Let’s try diplomacy first. We might learn something.”

  Eraina nodded. “Boldrei watch over you, Arthen.”

  Zed looked at the paladin for a long, silent moment. “Thank you, Eraina,” he said finally.

  He set out across the street, shrugging into his coat as he adjusted the weight of his sword across his shoulders. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to fight. His sword bore the markings of a Knight of the Silver Flame. As a war veteran, it lent him a certain air of legitimacy. Plus, the fact that it was one of the deadliest weapons in Eberron didn’t hurt—just in case diplomacy was insufficient.

  Zed knocked on the door. A slit opened, and a curious eye stared out. “Are you Master Arthen?” a gruff voice demanded.

  “I am,” Zed said, giving a short bow. “I am here to speak to Niam Kenrickson.”

  The slit closed. The sound of a rattling lock followed. The door opened, and a large man waved Zed inside. The inquisitive strode into the mortuary, looking over one shoulder warily as the door slammed shut and bolted behind him. The doorman was nearly a foot taller than Zed and dressed in thick leather armor. A shortsword hung from a loop on his belt.

  “Kind of thorough for an undertaker’s doorman, aren’t you?” Zed asked.

  The guard stared at Zed with the bored, sullen stare shared by hired muscle the world over. He folded his arms and stood with his back to the door. Zed studied his surroundings. The mortuary lobby was sparse. The walls were of bare wood, with a floor to match. The boards were loose in several places. A single glowing stone hung from a cheap glass fixture on the ceiling. Black shades had been drawn
over every window. In one corner, a rather incongruous looking vase of roses rested on a tall, crooked table. The sickly scent of chemicals and rotten meat hung in the air. A pair of double doors at the far side of the room led deeper into the mortuary. This place had been constructed cheaply, and the occupants apparently didn’t care.

  The opposite doors opened and Niam Kenrickson entered, alongside six other men. One was dressed nearly identically to Niam, in a dark coat and cloak. He was short and squat where Niam was thin. The other five men resembled the guard, burly men in cheap armor. Zed noticed that Niam looked nervous while his counterpart looked angry. This was going to be bad.

  “Yarold, you are overreacting,” Niam said, punctuating his remark with a nervous laugh. “This is unnecessary.”

  “First the Lyrandar embargo against us and now this,” the shorter man said. He looked up at Zed. There was obvious anger in his eyes. “We shall see if I am overreacting. You are the Thrane war hero?”

  “I don’t think too many people who knew me in the Last War would call me a hero,” Zed said, “but I was a Knight of the Silver Flame.”

  “Indeed,” Yarold said. “How convenient for you to appear when you did.”

  Zed blinked. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it looks like you’re upset. I got into a fight with some guards, and Niam bailed me out of prison. He said I could pay back the favor if I came here. If that’s not the case, I’ll go.” Zed turned around but the guard had not moved from the door. The man rested one hand absently on his sword as his beady eyes flicked in Zed’s direction.

  “I apologize for this, Master Arthen,” Niam said. “My brother is short-tempered and we are in the midst of an important transaction.”

  “Do not apologize to the Thrane cur!” Yarold said, pointing one pudgy finger in his brother’s face.

  “Niam, there is no need to be insulting,” Niam said. “The Thrane have often proven worthy allies.”

  “Of worth in your eyes, perhaps,” Yarold said. He looked up at Zed again. “Master Arthen, if you are truly as harmless as you claim, then you will surrender your weapon and submit to my questions.”

  Zed sighed. Fighting his way out of this could be rough, especially if he couldn’t signal Eraina. At least compliance might buy some time. Maybe he could even learn something. He unslung the sword from his shoulder. He held it out in both hands to show that it was safely sheathed before walking to the corner and leaning it against the small table with exaggerated care. He paced his way back along the wall to the corner of the room, hands buried deep in his pockets. One of the thugs moved between Zed and his sword. Yarold watched the inquisitive suspiciously, but at least his seething rage had been replaced with simmering anger.

  “Ask your questions,” Zed said.

  “Why are you in Nathyrr?” Yarold demanded.

  “I was desperate for work,” Zed said. “I’ve been moving from place to place since the war ended. Somehow I always make a bad impression on the authorities when I stay in town for too long.” He reached into his coat, causing the guards to go for their swords. He froze, gave what he hoped would be a soothing smile, and slowly drew his pipe and smoking pouch from his pocket.

  “Picking fights with knights is an odd way to look for work,” Yarold said.

  “Yeah, well.” Zed shrugged, striking a tindertwig and lighting his pipe.

  “If you disapprove of the Knights so highly, why not try Breland?” Yarold said.

  “Tried that already,” Zed said. “Didn’t like the climate. It was time to come back home.”

  “Listen to him, Yarold,” Niam said. “Look at his clothing. Obviously someone in such a state isn’t a threat. He’s just an old soldier desperate for work.”

  “Hm,” Yarold said. “He certainly looks like a vagabond. I’ll admit that.”

  Mildly surprised, Zed looked down at himself. He hadn’t noticed how dirty and ragged his coat had become in the last few weeks. He really did look like a desperate vagrant. It wasn’t intentional; this was just his favorite coat. He felt relieved and mildly insulted at the same time.

  “I’m not quite certain what to do with you, Master Arthen,” Yarold said, eyeing the inquisitive meticulously.

  Zed realized he was going to have to take control of this situation fast, or Yarold’s paranoia was going to get the better of him. He glanced at the men surrounding him, looking for clues to what they were thinking. Yarold cracked his fingers, one at a time, eyeing Zed all the while. Niam looked embarrassed. His gaze was locked soundly on his own feet. The other guards were all tense, as if they were expecting him to attack at any moment. The inquisitive breathed a long plume of smoke into the air.

  “Listen,” Zed said. “First, I’m sorry I came at a bad time. Last thing I want to do is interfere. I keep getting the feeling that someone screwed up, badly. My guess is that someone threw you off whatever schedule you’re trying to keep. What’s more, I bet it has something to do with that cart outside. You want to get that shipment out of here before the locals start wondering what could be inside so many coffins, but something is getting in the way. Either something got lost, or somebody died. Which is it?”

  Niam looked up, eyes wide. Yarold’s face darkened in anger.

  “Who are you working for?” the undertaker demanded. “Have you been spying on us?”

  “I just pay attention,” Zed said. “Be calm. Maybe I can help.”

  “How dare you presume to speak to me in such a fashion,” Yarold said. “We do not need your assistance, cur. If not for my brother, you would already be dead.”

  Zed gave a soothing smile again and held up his hands in mock surrender. “Sorry,” he said. “Not trying to cause trouble.”

  “Bah,” said an irritated voice from the darkness. “This is a waste of time.”

  One of Yarold’s guards fell forward, eyes bulging as he clutched his throat. Blood gushed between his fingers. A thin elf in black silk materialized from the shadows behind the dying man, a long dagger in each hand. With a flick of his wrist, a second guard fell across the room, blade lodged in his forehead.

  “Khyber,” Zed swore.

  “Kill them both!” Yarold shrieked, drawing a shortsword from within his cloak.

  The closest guard brought his sword up and charged Zed. Zed flicked his pipe at the man, scattering hot ashes in his face. The man screamed and faltered. Zed stomped on a loose floorboard while the guard was distracted. Zed’s sword, carefully balanced on the other end, catapulted into his hand. By the time the guard had recovered his senses, Zed had unsheathed the heavy blade and brought it down across the man’s chest. He turned to meet another guard’s charge with a heavy kick, followed by a punch to the bridge of the nose. The guard rolled to his feet in time to meet the next heavy cleave of Zed’s sword.

  Across the room, the two remaining guards charged the elf. The intruder seized the closer man’s wrist with his free hand and twisted, diverting his momentum and driving the thug’s sword into his comrade’s path, impaling him. With a backhand slice, the elf brought his dagger neatly across the first man’s throat and let them both fall at his feet. The elf looked at Zed with a mischievous smile.

  “Your mode of investigation is far too time-consuming, Arthen,” the elf said.

  Yarold had not moved. He still stood clutching his sword inexpertly in both trembling hands. Niam had taken several steps back and looked from Zed to the newcomer in terror. Zed held his bloody sword, point low, eyes on the elven assassin.

  “You bastard, Arthen,” Niam said. “You’d planned to kill us all.”

  “I won’t deny that I’m a bastard,” Zed said, watching everyone carefully. He slowly circled away from the elf, toward the nearest window, “but I don’t even know who this elf is.

  “If you’re of a mind to signal your paladin accomplice, feel free,” the elf said with a cheerful grin. “I won’t interfere.”

  “Who are you?” Zed demanded.

  “I think you know,” the elf said, laughin
g. “Don’t worry; I’m here as an ally. You’re far too interesting to kill for free, Arthen.”

  Zed stopped dead. “Shaimin d’Thuranni?” he said.

  The elf smiled broadly, pleased to be recognized.

  “You have terrible handwriting,” Zed observed.

  Shaimin’s smile became a confused grimace.

  Zed lifted pulled up the shade over the nearest window and waved frantically. The window faced the alley where Eraina was waiting. Hopefully she would see and help him figure out how to deal with this.

  Shaimin ignored Zed and faced the undertakers. “Now, Kenricksons. What to do with you?” Shaimin said, flipping his daggers in his hands.

  “The sons of Cyre will never yield,” Niam said, voice quavering.

  “Spare us,” Yarold said, dropping his sword. He fell to his knees, clasping his hands. “I’m no match for a Thuranni assassin. We’ll tell you what you want to know. I don’t want to die!”

  Shaimin looked at Zed, mildly surprised. “A strange reversal. Amazing what happens to people when they feel their death is imminent.”

  Niam glared at his brother in disgust. He snatched the shortsword from the floor and buried it Yarold’s back. Yarold gasped in pain and surprise, feebly reaching over his shoulder to try to dislodge the weapon as he crumpled to the floor.

  “For Captain Marth and Cyre!” Niam roared, charging at Zed.

  Startled, Zed readied his sword to defend himself. Niam flung himself onto the blade. The shortsword fell from his hands with a clatter. He sneered at Zed with a look of satisfied defiance as he died.

  “I suppose interrogating them is out,” Shaimin said dryly.

  The door burst open behind them. Eraina entered with sword and spear in hand. She looked at the body impaled on Zed’s sword.

  “Diplomacy?” she asked.

  “I tried to talk to them,” Zed said, pushing the undertaker’s corpse off his blade with one boot. “These people are crazy.”

  “The fault is mine, Marshal,” Shaimin said, gesturing calmly with his daggers. “Violence was an inevitable outcome, but I fear I accelerated matters.”