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

by Wulf, Rich

  The elf took a step forward and fell through the gaping floor. Tristam instinctively lunged forward to catch him and would have fallen out himself if Omax had not quickly seized his arm. He was too late. Shaimin was gone. Under any other circumstances that might have been a relief.

  “Count on an elf to opt for the dramatic ending,” Marth said. “The rest of you, please drop your weapons and surrender to my soldiers.”

  Tristam dropped his wand. He heard Seren drop her dagger as well. A guard stepped forward and pulled his wrists behind his back, binding them with coarse rope. Another did the same with Seren, while yet another produced thick manacles to bind Omax. Seren cast him a confused look, which he returned in kind as they were led to the upper deck. This didn’t make sense. Why was Marth allowing them to live?

  On the upper deck, Cyran soldiers were just dumping the last of the fallen undead over the side. Others carried their fallen brethren below deck. Tristam tried not to look at them. Though they were enemies, the guilt for what he had done to invade their fortress weighed heavily upon him. It seemed especially pointless now. Their deaths had been for nothing.

  Marth emerged from a door on the opposite side of the deck. His pale eyes searched the storm curiously. “I would have thought Karia Naille would have come for you by now,” he said. “Every time she appears in my life, there is always a storm. How do you manage that, Tristam? You are no Lyrandar. Surely weather control is beyond your simple talents.”

  Tristam didn’t say anything. He glared at the changeling and took some satisfaction that he knew something Marth did not, for once. Seren and Omax stood to either side of him. The guards stood in a half-circle around them, keeping their crossbows ready.

  Marth sighed. “I suppose it is irrelevant. Captain Gerriman knows better than to challenge me directly. Your ship’s speed may be greater, but my weapons will tear her from the sky.”

  “The Mourning Dawn defeated you before,” Tristam said.

  Marth sneered. “You understand nothing, Xain,” he said. “Let me show you something.”

  The airship banked and made a wide turn. Far below them, Tristam could see Fort Ash, awash with turmoil. Cyran soldiers and undead monstrosities tore into one another on the walls, in the courtyard, and even in the forest beyond. Marth drew a small sphere of shimmering black glass from the pocket of his silken vest. He cupped it in one palm and closed his eyes, slowly drawing the tips of his fingers in a circle over its surface.

  “My apologies, Omax,” Marth said. “I always admired you, but you brought this fate upon yourself.”

  A sensation of bitter cold washed over the deck of the Seventh Moon. Lightning flashed through the air around them, leaving the smell of burnt ozone. Tristam felt a strange, numb sensation fall over him as his ability to sense magic began to ebb. Beside him, Omax groaned in pain and fell to one knee. The blue light in his eyes flickered.

  “You’re using the Legacy?” Tristam said, looking at Omax in horror. “You’ll kill him!”

  “The irony stuns me,” Marth said. “It is acceptable for you to unleash an army of horrors to murder my followers, but I should not kill one of yours to protect them? We are not as different from one another as you like to believe, Tristam.”

  A shockwave of energy rippled out from the Seventh Moon, washing over the forest and castle below. Above them, the clouds parted as the storm melted away in a perfect sphere around them. As the Legacy’s effect passed over the land, the undead … stopped. The ghouls and zombies fell dead where they stood. The ghosts were simply no more. The Cyrans stood dumfounded in their fortress, weapons at the ready. After a few moments, Tristam could hear the distant sound of their cheers.

  “Stop,” Tristam said, as Omax toppled, leaning forward on one shoulder. “He’s dying.”

  “Then remember Omax’s death,” Marth said. “Take vengeance on the one responsible once I am gone. I do not shirk responsibility for what I have done or what I am about to do—but there is another who shares in my crimes.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tristam demanded.

  “Leave us,” Marth said, looking to his men.

  “Captain, is that wise?” the closest soldier replied.

  “You heard me,” Marth repeated, glowering dangerously. “Leave us.”

  Omax slumped facedown upon the deck. Tristam wanted to go to him, to help him, but he knew at this point there was nothing he could do. He looked at Seren helplessly. She stared at Marth with murder in her eyes.

  “We are pawns, all of us,” Marth said, pacing the deck. “Zamiel drew upon Ashrem d’Cannith for his expertise, but Ashrem’s morality grew burdensome. It was Zamiel who warned Ashrem of the Day of Mourning, knowing that he would rush to his death trying to stop it.” Marth frowned.

  A flicker of movement near the bow of the ship caught Tristam’s attention, but he kept his eyes focused on Marth. A slim figure in dark clothing climbed over the rail of the ship and quickly darted behind a stack of barrels. Shaimin. The elf waved at Tristam and ducked back into his hiding place. How was it possible? Then again, Tristam hadn’t seen any trace of the elf falling. Could Shaimin have clung to the Seventh Moon’s hull and climbed his way back up to the deck?

  “Zamiel drew upon me because he knew I was weak,” Marth said. “I was easily twisted by my petty bloodlust and thirst for revenge, especially once Cyre was destroyed. I fear soon the time will come when I am of no further use for him either.”

  “And why is that?” Tristam asked.

  Marth laughed. “Do you not realize already?” Marth said. “What did you see in Zul’nadn, Tristam?”

  Tristam said nothing.

  “A vision?” Marth asked. “A dream of yourself seizing up the Legacy and using it to change the world?”

  Shaimin darted between the clutter on the ship’s deck, moving closer. Tristam nodded at Marth, trying to keep the changeling’s attention.

  “That vision was not a true part of the Prophecy,” Marth said. “This is what he does. He uses the Draconic Prophecy to cloak his own schemes. Men will do foolish things if they believe it to be their destiny. Meanwhile he uses illusions to feed your ego, to convince you that you are doing the right thing. Zamiel guides mortals, but only as long as it suits his purposes. The vision in Zul’nadn was created for you, as was that illusion of Ashrem in Metrol. You were to be my successor once my association became problematic. But Zamiel erred with you, as he did with me, for he does not understand the impulses that drive mortals to do foolish things. He did not expect you to progress so far so quickly. Because of that, I saw what I was not meant to see. I know that I have been used. We have been used.”

  “How did Zamiel err with you?” Tristam asked.

  “He did not expect me to follow my master into Cyre,” Marth said. “He was forced to go there and save me. The prophet did not realize that I loved Kiris.”

  “I watched you kill Kiris, Marth,” Seren said.

  “Zamiel spent years twisting me against her, building suspicions, feeding my paranoia.” The changeling’s scarred face twisted in disgust. “Now that I have some inkling of what he is, I cannot believe the things I have done. He is no man. He is something very old and powerful. Something intimately connected with the Legacy, though he does not understand it well enough to rebuild it himself. Perhaps artifice requires some natural talent he simply does not possess?”

  “If he needs you so much, then there’s your answer,” Tristam said. “Stop. Dismantle the Legacy. Set us free. Disband your army and turn yourself over to the authorities for your crimes.”

  “No,” Marth said. “It is too late for me, Tristam. I have gone too far, done too many terrible things. At least with the Legacy in my hands, I may yet do some good, even if in so doing I aid Zamiel’s mysterious agenda. When Sharn falls, the rulers of the Five Nations will recognize that this world of peace is an aberration.”

  “You’re still a madman,” Tristam said.

  “And how many lives have you ended in y
our crusade to stop me, Tristam?” Marth said, gesturing at the ruined fortress below them. “Tell me, where is the line that legitimizes the deaths you have caused and demonizes mine?”

  “You started this, Marth.”

  “What a childish answer,” the changeling said. “Perhaps I am going about this the wrong way. If Zamiel truly sees you as my successor, educating you of the danger he poses is perhaps not the most logical route. Perhaps I should just cast you over the side and leave his plans stillborn.”

  “At this point I think that would be preferable to hearing you speak any more,” Tristam said.

  Marth laughed. He flipped the amethyst wand end over end in his hand and strode across the deck toward them. Green fire crackled from its tip.

  “Unfortunately for you, my magic still functions properly within the Legacy’s aura,” Marth said. “My magic is attuned to the fires that empower it.”

  “So is mine,” Omax growled.

  The warforged lunged forward from the deck, slamming his shoulder into Marth’s chest. A shield of magical energy crackled around the changeling, protecting him from harm, but the sheer force of the blow sent him flying backward, through the hatch from which he had emerged.

  Tristam stared at Omax in surprise, barely able to understand what had happened. Had using the Karia Naille’s elemental core to save the warforged’s life made Omax immune to the Legacy’s dark power?

  Before he could ponder further, Shaimin rushed out to them, slicing through the ropes that bound Seren and Tristam. He held out one of the ship’s life rings so that each could grab an end. Omax, still chained, gripped his end awkwardly behind his back. Shaimin sliced the cord that activated the life ring’s enchantment and nodded sharply.

  Before Marth could gather his senses and climb back onto the deck, Tristam and the others jumped over the side.

  TWENTY

  Karia Naille rode high in the storm, circling above the Seventh Moon. She was just out of sight among the clouds but near enough to dive in rapidly if needed. Pherris Gerriman watched the flaming red ring below with a nervous eye. Tristam had already fired one flare, signaling he was preparing to board the ship. The second flare, signaling he was ready to be pulled out, never came. Now the Moon had taken flight, though she didn’t seem to be doing much at the moment besides hovering over Fort Ash.

  Pherris’s stubby fingers drummed nervously on the ship’s helm. In the bow of the ship, Aeven watched him with an enigmatic smile. She was always content when communing with the elements, even during the most dire circumstances. The storm playfully whipped about the dryad, causing her blond hair to dance in the wind.

  “Karia Naille is worried for her sister,” Aeven said. “Albena Tors’s elemental has been forced into an unfamiliar ship and altered in ways she does not understand. She is confused, angry, and unhappy. She is not used to controlling a vessel that size and is hurt by the things Marth has done to her.”

  “So then Marth stripped the Dying Sun of her core and used it both to repair the Seventh Moon and complete the Legacy,” Pherris said.

  “Yes,” Aeven said.

  “Good and bad news for us,” Pherris said. “If the elemental is upset, it’ll probably have problems controlling the ship.” He continued drumming nervously on the ship’s controls.

  “Pherris, be calm,” the dryad said. “Your anxiety does nothing to help them.”

  “I know,” Pherris said bitterly. “I am proud to name patience as one of my virtues, but I find myself less and less able to abide this each time it happens.”

  “Abide what, the waiting?” Ijaac asked. The dwarf huddled against the galley door, as far from the edges of the ship as he could get. He made a point of not looking down, or up, or anywhere else that reminded him he was very high above the ground in a terrible storm. “I hate waiting. Especially waiting in the air.”

  “The waiting doesn’t bother me as much as the uncertainty,” Pherris said. “One of these times, I fear there won’t ever be a signal and we won’t see Tristam again.”

  “Just like what happened to Zed and Eraina,” Gerith said morosely. The little halfling was huddled in a corner. Blizzard crouched beside him, absently preening one wing while his master grieved. Glidewings did not excel at offering comfort.

  “Nonsense,” Pherris said. “I won’t believe they’re dead until I hear it from a source more reliable than a murderous elf assassin. I think it’s more likely they got into trouble and Shaimin d’Thuranni abandoned them.”

  “I want to believe they’re alive as much as you do, Captain,” Ijaac said. “But if Zed and Eraina aren’t dead, then where are they? How do we find them?”

  “They’re alive, and that’s all that matters,” Pherris said stubbornly. “I can’t give up on them till I know for sure.” The gnome’s voice choked, almost imperceptibly, on the last word.

  “I was sorry to hear of Haimel Gerriman’s fate,” Dalan said softly. The guildmaster stood at the ship’s starboard rail, studying the castle below. “My uncle always spoke highly of your son. He was a good friend and, if the tales of his exploits during the war were true, quite the hero. I cannot imagine how such a loss must feel.”

  Pherris glared at Dalan, expecting some subtle mockery. Instead, he saw the man look at him with an expression of genuine sympathy. The rare gesture of support shocked Pherris. “Thank you, Master d’Cannith,” he said. “Fathers should not outlive their sons.”

  “Since the day I first set sail as owner of Karia Naille,” Dalan went on, “I knew that the only reason you remained captain was because you believed you might find him one day.” Dalan smirked. “Call me selfish, but in a strange way I have always been grateful to Haimel for giving you a reason to stay on. No other captain could have taken us this far. I only hope now that you’ve found what you seek that you stay on for a while.”

  “It’s been my life’s privilege, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said. “If we get through this alive, I can’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be than on Karia Naille.”

  “Marvelous,” Dalan said.

  Pherris’s moustache twitched. He gave Dalan a shrewd look. “Though if I’m as good as you say, perhaps we could renegotiate my salary.”

  Dalan’s eyes widened. “That is … something better left discussed at a later time.”

  Pherris cackled softly. Actually seeing Dalan d’Cannith caught flat-footed was nearly payment enough. That was a rare treasure he’d keep as long as his memory lasted.

  A sudden shift in the storm brought Pherris’s attention back to the matter at hand. He looked back down at the Seventh Moon, still hovering high above Fort Ash. A shockwave of white energy had erupted from the vessel. Pherris looked toward Aeven. The dryad had slid from her position next to her figurehead and curled on the deck.

  “It’s starting,” she moaned. “The world is dying again.”

  “Captain Gerriman!” Dalan exclaimed.

  “I know, I know!” the gnome said, working the ship’s controls frantically. “Everyone hold on! Gerith, take care of Aeven!”

  The halfling scrambled to the trembling dryad’s side. A wave of cold washed over the Karia Naille. The storm faltered.

  “What’s going on?” Ijaac shouted, frantic. The dwarf still resolutely refused to look over the side.

  Pherris steered the Karia Naille about and took her higher and deeper into the storm. Beneath them, the pulsating sphere of energy washed over Fort Ash and the Harrowcrowns. Pherris knew that the Legacy couldn’t harm the ship but was unsure if Tristam had finished the modifications that would protect Aeven from its power. He couldn’t take the risk.

  “What about Omax?” Gerith said. “He’s still down in that!”

  Pherris said nothing. He hated leaving the warforged behind as much as Gerith did, but there was nothing else he could do. He just had to hope that Tristam had found a way to protect them.

  Then again, if Tristam had succeeded, the Legacy would never have been activated. Pherris tried not to think abou
t that. He couldn’t let himself believe that this was it, that this was the time that Tristam and the others wouldn’t return. If he made that compromise he wouldn’t be able to help when they did need him. He wouldn’t give up on them until he knew they were dead.

  Pherris risked a glance down at the Seventh Moon. The flaming red circle had not moved. The storm had dispersed. Everything below was peculiarly still. In the bow, Aeven had recovered somewhat and sat up beside Gerith.

  “It has passed, for now,” she said, her voice a dry whisper.

  “Damn it, Tristam, what’s going on down there?” Pherris said.

  The Seventh Moon began to move, patrolling slowly over the Harrowcrowns. Lightning lanced from its bow, tearing into the forest periodically.

  “Marth is looking for something,” Dalan said. “He’s trying to flush Tristam out. No doubt his soldiers are searching the woods on foot as well.”

  “Want me to fly down and see what’s going on?” Gerith asked.

  “Absolutely not,” Pherris said. “There’s no more cloud cover, nowhere for you to hide if the Moon spots you.”

  “Good,” Gerith said. The halfling jumped over the side. His glidewing caught him in midair. They circled gracefully downward.

  Instants later, the Moon began directing her blasts in midair. The ship started off at greater speed, lightning firing erratically.

  “Fool halfling,” Pherris growled. “What are you doing?”

  He realized Gerith was trying to lead Marth away. A split second later, a plume of magical fire below them marked Tristam’s signal. Pherris pushed the controls hard, turning the airship into a swift and powerful descent. Ijaac groaned miserably and climbed down into the hold. Dalan, sensing the rough ride ahead, disappeared into his cabin.

  Pherris knew Marth would see Karia Naille as soon as she descended from the clouds; he was gambling that the Moon’s elemental was as stubborn and difficult as Aeven believed. As the ship circled lower, he saw four figures running along the road, waving frantically. The Moon had finally caught sight of them and was slowly turning about to pursue. Pherris swooped down over the road as close as he dared. The ship’s keel strut almost scraped the earth. Tree limbs lashed the ship’s deck. Karia Naille left a trail of smoking trees and singed grass in her wake as she pulled to a halt in front of Tristam and the others.