by Wulf, Rich
“Faith, Arthen?” Eraina asked. “Quite a change for you.”
Zed scowled. “I have faith in Tristam,” he said.
“So what do we do?” Eraina asked. “How do we find out what Marth is planning?”
“We could try to capture and interrogate some of his soldiers,” Zed said.
“No,” Shaimin replied. “For a moment let’s ignore the unlikely assumption that whichever random guard you knock over the head will know anything of use. Remember how a late messenger threw the Kenricksons into a paranoid fit? Imagine that, but worse. If more of his troops started disappearing, Marth would tear this place apart looking for you.” Shaimin smiled thinly. “Especially since he already knows you’re in the area, Arthen. We’re already on borrowed time. We have no idea when this guard is expected to report.” He nodded at the unconscious man.
Zed grimaced. “So what do you recommend we do? We can’t just walk up to Marth and ask him what he’s planning.”
“You cannot,” the assassin said, “but perhaps I can.”
“What?” Eraina said.
“Remember that as far as Marth is aware, I am still an assassin in his employ,” Shaimin said. “My quarry is an elusive one. It would not be out of the question for me to appear, requesting more information.”
“You really think Marth would allow you to walk into his supposedly secret headquarters and not question how you found him?” Eraina asked.
“Why not?” Shaimin asked. “He hired the best. He should expect that his secrets are not safe from me.”
“This is a foolish risk,” Eraina said. “He may simply kill you.”
“A fortuitous result for you, Deneith,” Shaimin said. “For such a twist of fate will free you of an unsettling allegiance with an untrustworthy assassin—and likely leave Marth gravely wounded for the attempt. Now, do either of you have a better idea?”
Eraina and Zed looked at one another in silence.
“Very well,” the elf said, rising and smoothing dust from his black clothing. “Wish me luck. If I do not return within two hours, assume I will not return at all.”
TWELVE
Infuriating.
Simply infuriating.
Marth stalked through the halls of Fort Ash, his pale eyes seething with anger. He held his amethyst wand in one fist, as if expecting an attack at any moment. The guards melted out of his path, offering fearful salutes as he passed. Helmsman Marcho followed Marth like a shadow; he knew better than to speak when the captain was in such a dark mood. Making his way to an office deep in the heart of the fort, Marth threw open the heavy wooden door and strode inside. Within, a heavyset officer sat at low desk, conversing with a nervous man in the light, worn leathers of a scout. They both glanced up as Marth entered, rising quickly and saluting.
“Captain Marth,” the officer said with a weak smile. “We did not expect you to return so quickly. Welcome home.”
Marth glared down at the smaller man. The scout quietly backed away, happy to let the officer take the brunt of the captain’s wrath. “I have no home, Commander Sholan,” Marth snapped. “I have a fortress. A military fortress engaged in a campaign of utmost secrecy. Is that not so?”
“That is so, Captain,” Sholan said, unable to meet Marth’s gaze.
“Then why is it that your subordinates report that Zed Arthen has been sighted in the area?” Marth demanded.
“The situation should have been dealt with,” Sholan replied. “I issued orders to Nathyrr. Arthen was to be apprehended and killed.”
Marth sneered. “Was to be?” the changeling repeated. “Explain that.”
Commander Sholan glanced at the scout, then back at his captain. “Scout Arristan, tell the captain what you told me.”
“No,” Marth said. “You tell me, Commander Sholan. The security of Fort Ash was, after all, made your responsibility.”
Sholan swallowed with some difficulty and looked into his captain’s pale eyes. “After Yarold Kenrickson reported Arthen’s presence in Nathyrr, I dispatched a messenger with orders to kill Arthen, sparing effort to interrogate him only as a secondary measure. The messenger never returned, so I sent Scout Arristan to investigate.”
“And?” Marth prompted.
“Everyone in the mortuary was dead,” Sholan said gravely. “Of Arthen himself there was no trace. He has apparently vanished from the city.”
Marth’s eyes widened. Such wholesale slaughter seemed out of character for Zed Arthen, but it certainly wasn’t beyond the man’s ability.
“Sholan, do you realize what you have done?” Marth asked.
“Let me make amends, Captain,” Sholan said plaintively. “I can dispatch more troops to Nathyrr. They will find Arthen, interrogate him, kill him.”
“You are too late,” Marth replied. “Khyber, the man is a former paladin and an inquisitive! Who did you think you were dealing with? By now he likely knows exactly where Fort Ash is and has forwarded the information to our enemies in House Cannith. You should have directed all of your resources toward his death the moment you knew he was in the area. The entire security of this facility has been compromised, due to your incompetence. After I return from Sharn we’ll have to strip this base entirely.”
“I am sorry, Captain,” Sholan said, bowing his head in shame. “What do we do now?”
“We?” Marth replied. “There is no ‘we,’ Sholan. You are dismissed.”
“Dismissed?” Sholan asked, surprised.
“Gather your belongings and leave Fort Ash,” Marth commanded. “Immediately.”
“What of my badge of rank?” Sholan asked nervously.
“Keep it until you reach the edge of the forest,” Marth said. “Scout Arristan will accompany you and take it from you when you reach Nathyrr. A fool you may be, but I will not send a countryman to his death in this forest.”
Sholan bowed his head deeply. “Thank you for your mercy, Captain,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Be gone,” Marth said. “I must begin the evacuation of this base. You are in the way.”
Sholan nodded and scurried out of the office. Scout Arristan followed him, obviously relieved to have escaped punishment.
Marth circled the low desk and seated himself, burying his face in his hands. His fingers traced his rough, scarred cheek. His features shifted, only slightly, hinting at deeper scars kept hidden by the changeling’s shapeshifting abilities. He pulled his hands away and looked up at helmsman Marcho, who was carefully diverting his attention elsewhere.
“What is it, Devyn?” Marth said, causing the helmsman to look up with a start.
“Pardon, Captain?” Marcho replied.
“You seem pensive,” Marth said. “Do you think I was wrong to deal with Sholan as I did?”
“No, Captain,” Marcho said. “Much more lenient than I would have expected.”
“Than you would have expected?” Marth asked archly.
“No offense, Captain,” Marcho said quickly. “Considering what he’s cost us.”
“You mean you find it strange that I would let him live?” Marth asked.
Marcho shifted uncomfortably.
“That was no mercy,” Marth said. “What fate could be more cruel than to be an outcast even among those who have no nation? If Sholan finds no welcome with us, then who else will accept a Cyran mercenary in their midst? His life will likely be cold, short, and brutal.”
“Do you think the Mourning Dawn will find us here?” Marcho asked.
“It was inevitable,” Marth said. “The restless dead who wander this forest originally came here for a reason. The caverns beneath this fortress burn with the writings of the Draconic Prophecy. Xain follows the same path that I do. It is inevitable that he will find this place in time. This fortress served us as a secure base of operations, but when Xain finds us he will discover that is only one of its functions.”
“What do you mean, Captain?” Marcho asked.
“The wards that keep the undead at bay can be reversed,” Mar
th said. “Let Xain come to plumb the secrets of this fortress. Our comrades will be long gone from this place, and the original inhabitants will be ready.” Marth fell into silent thought for a long moment. “Speaking of which, return to the Seventh Moon and oversee the preparations. We must ready ourselves for departure as quickly as possible.”
“Aye, Captain,” Marcho replied. He saluted and quickly exited the small office.
Marth leaned back in Commander Sholan’s rickety wooden chair. His head throbbed and his shoulders ached from the last few mad days, but he could take no time to rest. His destiny lay ahead.
But was it truly his destiny? The illusion of Ashrem d’Cannith had been left behind as a guide—but not necessarily for him.
Yet they were irrelevant. Whether it was truly his destiny or not, Marth had won the power to strike a mortal blow to the heart of the nations that had betrayed and destroyed Cyre. That would have to suffice. It galled him to entertain the idea that he had been manipulated, but at least he would have what he desired as well.
A light knock at the door roused him from his thoughts. He peered up curiously. “Come in,” he commanded.
The door opened and a thin figure in silky black clothing slipped inside with a florid bow. He held his hands open to his sides, palms out, an obvious gesture that he intended no harm. His delicate features creased with an unreadable smile.
“Shaimin,” Marth growled, hand tightening on the amethyst wand. “Is this fortress’s existence a secret to no one?”
“I sincerely apologize for my intrusion, Captain,” the elf replied. “It took some effort to find you here.”
“More effort, it seems, than you have spared tracking Tristam Xain.”
“Yes, but Xain operates with a small ship,” Shaimin said. “The chosen few who serve him live on the Mourning Dawn. Their contact with the outside world is rare and difficult to track. You have many soldiers and constantly seek new recruits. Though you take great effort to mask your trail, it remains for those who know what to seek.”
“Don’t remind me,” Marth said sourly. “Why are you here, d’Thuranni?”
“Because I’ve had an epiphany,” Shaimin answered.
“Don’t tell me you’ve found religion,” the changeling said.
“Nothing of that sort,” the elf said with a chuckle. “Finding it so difficult to kill a relatively simple mark has upset me dearly. As much as I imagine it must upset you, if not more so, for it is my reputation on the line. But then I realized whence my difficulty arises.”
“Oh?” Marth asked.
“With you,” the elf replied. “Tristam is so difficult to track because his movements are reactive. He follows you. With that realization came the truth that, if I seek to find him, I must head him off at the source.”
“By following me?” Marth said.
“Of course not, that would be a pointless endeavor,” Shaimin replied. “You are a powerful artificer, more than capable of taking care of yourself. What good what it do me to wait beside you for Xain to appear? You have plenty of guards already and are no doubt quite capable of dealing with him yourself.”
“Indeed,” Marth said.
“But the boy has proven to be infuriatingly adept at predicting your next move,” Shaimin said. “So perhaps it would behoove you to utilize that to your advantage?”
“How so?” Marth asked.
“Send me where you plan to go next,” the elf said. “I will lie there in wait for him.”
“I think your purpose would be better served by waiting here,” Marth said. “Xain’s ally recently discovered the location of this fortress. It won’t be long before Karia Naille arrives to investigate.”
“Here?” the elf said, pouting slightly. “But this is such a bleak and unsettling place. No offense, but I had hoped not to remain here for long.”
“Nonsense,” Marth said. “You are safe enough within these walls and among my guards. I insist. Remain here as my guest until Xain arrives.” His scarred face twisted in a lipless smile.
Shaimin gave the changeling a cool look. There was no room for negotiation in his dead white eyes. “Very well,” Shaimin said. “What sort of Thuranni would I be to turn down the hospitality of an old friend?”
“Follow me,” Marth said, rising and gesturing to the elf. “We’ll get you situated.”
The changeling stepped to the door of the office, turning his back to the assassin for one brief moment. Marth peered over his shoulder. His face was fixed in the same humorless smile. He waited patiently.
The elf fell into step beside him.
“Quite an operation you have here,” Shaimin said as they walked. “Planning to branch out into mercenary work?”
“Not exactly,” Marth replied. “Mercenaries, much like assassins, owe their loyalty to an employer. The only loyalty my brothers and I hold is to Cyre.”
“I commend your patriotism though I confess I do not understand it,” Shaimin said. “Cyre is a dead land. The world has changed. You must move on.”
“You have a brother, Shaimin,” Marth said. “Correct?”
The elf gave Marth a startled look. “Yes, my younger brother, Kias.” Shaimin chuckled. “The pleasure of my mother and agony of my father. He chose to be a painter.”
“If your brother died, would you cease to remember him?” Marth asked.
“Of course not.”
“If your brother were murdered, would you fail to avenge him?” Marth asked.
“That is a foolish question,” Shaimin said. “Blood must be answered in blood.”
“And why should it be any other way with Cyre?” Marth said. “Every man and woman here has friends and relatives who perished in the Last War. The Day of Mourning has scarred us all. Yet you tell us to move on? To forget the insults and injuries we have suffered?”
“You speak in generalities, Marth,” Shaimin said. “I know your family died well before the Day of Mourning. I know you avenged them.”
“But I should let the murder of Cyre itself be forgotten?” Marth asked, his voice growing heated.
“If Cyre had truly been murdered, no,” Shaimin said. “The Day of Mourning was a mystery, Marth. No one knows why it occurred, not even you. It could have been a natural disaster. It could have been the fault of Cyre itself. Whom do you intend to blame for Cyre’s death?”
Marth glared at him. “All those who did nothing to save her,” he said. “All those who let her orphans wander in darkness.”
Shaimin looked back at him calmly. “My friend, it seems you have resigned yourself to a life of pointless vengeance against many innocents.”
“So be it,” Marth said. “This world has given me little else.”
Shaimin sighed and looked away as they stepped out of the fort and into the courtyard. Marth called sharply to a group of six nearby guards, summoning them to his side.
“This man is to be placed under guard in my personal quarters,” the changeling said. “See to it that he remains safe and secure until Karia Naille arrives.”
“Aye, captain,” the guards said. They stared at the elf, unable to conceal their surprise that he had entered the fort unnoticed.
“He is an important man,” Marth said. “Keep six guards on him at all times and do not let him leave your sight.”
“Aye, Captain,” they replied.
“Do not forget your obligation to me, d’Thuranni,” the changeling said.
“I have not,” the elf said. “Though you hardly resemble the man who earned it. If I may ask you a question before I go?”
Marth folded his arms tersely but nodded his assent.
“Why did you name this fortress after Ashrem d’Cannith?” Shaimin asked. “It seems a peculiar tribute, considering that its very existence betrays everything your master represented.”
“You are an odd man to question my morality,” Marth said.
“I do not judge,” Shaimin said. “I am merely curious. Was irony your intent?”
“No,”
Marth said. “I named my home after Ashrem because I respect his knowledge, his skill, and his compassion. I only regret that he wasted his life in a futile quest for peace.”
“You aided him in that quest, once,” Shaimin said.
“It seemed right at the time,” the changeling said, “but I have been shown much since then.”
Shaimin raised an eyebrow curiously.
“Take him to my quarters,” Marth commanded, ending the conversation.
Marth watched as the soldiers led Shaimin d’Thuranni away.
Marth retreated to a far corner of the courtyard, watching as his soldiers completed the repairs on the Seventh Moon and prepared for the journey to Sharn. He ignored those who saluted and greeted him, consumed in sullen silence. Shaimin had been such a disappointment. When Marth had tapped the assassin for his aid, the idea that Xain would be of any further trouble seemed an impossibility. The Shaimin of old could have found and slain Tristam Xain with ease. The idea that Tristam could repeatedly escape the assassin seemed impossible.
But then Marth was also guilty of underestimating Xain’s resources and abilities. It had cost him his ship and nearly his life. Perhaps Shaimin truly had been unable to complete his contract. The possibility that Tristam, or more likely Dalan, had turned Shaimin’s loyalties seemed a great deal more likely. Shaimin could respect the letter of their agreement in any number of ways while still betraying the spirit. The elf obviously disapproved of his mission of vengeance.
Maybe it had been foolish of him to seek Shaimin’s aid. It had been a desperate move, an attempt to set one ghost from his past against another. Instead, it had only created greater complications.
Shaimin’s parting words haunted Marth. Since the Day of Mourning, Marth felt that everyone else had changed, turned away from him. That had been another reason he had drawn upon Shaimin—the elf had always been such a cold-blooded professional that surely he had not changed as well. Now the assassin claimed that it was Marth who was so much different. Was it possible?
In Marth’s mind, he had not changed so much. Every dark choice he had made since the Day of Mourning had been a natural progression that this new world of “peace” forced upon him. It was the world itself, not he, that had changed. All that he had ever known was the Last War, and the war had taken everything away. Now he, like so many other sons of Cyre, was a memory that refused to fade. If the prophet had not come to him, shown him visions of a great and terrible future, then his life would be as hollow and pointless as the wandering ghosts in the forest.
