by Wulf, Rich
“So,” Draikus said, approaching them. “What have you decided? I hope what you have to say is illuminating. I suspect our prisoners will be difficult sorts to interrogate.”
“I’ll tell you as much as I can, Captain Draikus,” Tristam said, “but we don’t have much time—and I’m not sure if you’ll believe me.”
“Try,” the Captain said, glancing up at the sky where the dragon had vanished. “Today you might find me unusually credulous.”
TWENTY-TWO
Cold winds tore at Zamiel’s scales as he plummeted toward the Harrowcrowns. Acidic steam curled from the dragon’s nostrils. He gasped for breath, his mighty chest heaving against the thin air. His wings stiffened and snapped open wide, steering his massive body into a gentle glide. The earth grew rapidly closer. As a small clearing moved into view, he silently willed his draconic form away.
The prophet fell to his hands and knees as he became human once again. His limbs trembled as pain surged through his body. Memories flooded his soul. He remembered an army of dragons soaring through the young skies of Eberron on scaled wings of a dozen different hues. He remembered the demonic horde that marched across the plains, staring up at the impudent draconic invaders with hateful eyes. He remembered the power that wracked the earth and sky as it tore through demon and dragon alike. He was the power, surging through both armies. His breath tore the flesh from immortals. His touch burned impure beings from reality itself. The feeling was incredible, and with each being that died, a part of their being added itself to his. Bit by bit, he awakened. Bit by bit, he came into being.
The memories faded, buried under the weight of eons.
The prophet returned to himself, awakening to the present. His long fingers curled in the mud left behind by the recent storm. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, waiting for the agony to pass. Magical power wracked his being, setting his limbs trembling. No matter how many times the Legacy was unleashed, the pain never ceased to strike him as it did now. Though he despised the weakened state in which it left him, he welcomed the pain. It reminded him of how much closer he drew to his goal. Such was the price of power.
Zamiel’s eyes narrowed into slits as he looked to the north. A distant plume of smoke curled above the forest. Destroying Fort Ash had been, admittedly, a somewhat cathartic experience. It was not the first time he had been forced to do so, but in the past, it had always been due to failure. This time, it was a simple matter of expedience. Mortals were such easily distracted creatures. With the Prophecy still resonating deep in the caverns beneath Fort Ash, they might have spent forever pondering its mysteries. At this stage of the game, such things served only as distractions. He no longer needed the Prophecy. All had been set into motion.
If Marth should somehow fail at this point, time was still on the prophet’s side. He was, after all, timeless. He could retreat where even the Mourning Dawn would never discover him. He would wait until his enemies were dead. He would wait until the mortals forgot about the caverns beneath Fort Ash. He would return to clear the rubble and steer some new prodigy to their discovery.
Even so, the idea disgusted Zamiel. He had waited so long to reclaim what was rightfully his. He had seen so many fools attempt to grasp the secrets and fail. Ashrem had come closer than any before, and Marth was a worthy successor. Tristam, if he performed as predicted, would complete the cycle once Marth had fallen. This time, there would be no failure. The anticipation was driving him mad.
And that disturbed him. Over the ages, he had learned the value of patience. He accepted victory and failure in equal measure, for time was always on his side. He had waited lifetimes and watched nations rise and fall. The fulfillment of his dreams had seemed within grasp many times before, but never did he allow himself to presume victory. What was so different now?
The prophet rose, clasping his hands into fists within his sleeves. With a whispered spell, the dirt fell away from his hands and garments. Zamiel composed himself and surveyed his surroundings. He was almost disappointed that no one had noticed his descent. He yearned for a reason to strike down a few of those smug paladins, as senseless as it would have been.
Perhaps he had simply grown disgusted at the state of this world. Conflict had always been the defining attribute of Eberron’s existence. Good fought evil. Chaos struggled against law. Nation struggled against nation. Yet now, the denizens of this world struggled against order. As much as the Five Nations still mistrusted and despised one another, none of them truly wished for another war. The majority of Eberron’s inhabitants seemed, for the time being, to desire peace. The idea unnerved him. It was simply unnatural. At least there were those, like Marth, who could easily be turned to seeing things his way. Zamiel would return Eberron to a state of conflict—it would be his parting gift to the world.
In the distance, he could hear men shouting to one another. That would be the Thrane knights, searching the rubble for clues or survivors. Zamiel ignored them. Everything of importance in Fort Ash had been buried, and his Cyran allies were of no further use. The Thrane would enjoy their illusion of victory, grow bored, and leave in good time. They did not matter. The two who had discovered him were long gone from here, aboard the Mourning Dawn.
The prophet scowled. That was another thing that was quite different from before. In the past, none of his pawns—ally or enemy—had come close to discovering the truth about him. He had never expected Tristam to find Zul’nadn so soon, let alone destroy it. The two paladins had been another unexpected wrinkle. They had escaped knowing more than Zamiel intended to reveal. Marth, he suspected, had begun to discern the truth as well. Was the prophet’s fear of discovery leading to his impatience, or was his impatience leading to unprecedented mistakes? Perhaps mortals were simply growing more difficult to predict? Perhaps he was simply too set in his ways.
Such meandering thoughts were pointless. What was done was done, and what his enemies had learned could not be unlearned. Zed Arthen and Eraina d’Deneith would almost certainly misunderstand what they had seen—or at least comprehend the truth too late. Marth would not betray Zamiel now—he could not betray him now—he had descended too deeply into madness. He would not stop until Sharn lay in ruins.
Marth’s success was unavoidable now—even if he died, the prophet’s ends would still be met. All that remained now was for Zamiel to prepare for the inevitable results.
The prophet whispered words of magic and took a step forward. The world rippled and faded around him. The tall trees of the Harrowcrowns were replaced with a gaping canyon paved with brittle shards of bleached white. The hollow eyes of gigantic inhuman skulls glared down at him. Twisted spires clawed toward the sky on each side of the rough path where he stood. A low, mournful wail hung upon the air though no wind moved the prophet’s robes.
Zamiel walked forward, looking up at the ancient, massive expressions with a strangely wistful expression. Some of them were almost familiar to him. He traced the fingers of one hand along a large rib protruding vertically from the earth. This place was at once comfortable and alien to him. Soon, all of this would end.
He felt a sense of dread and was bewildered by the feeling. For countless ages he had sought his destiny, but now that it was close at hand, he was strangely afraid. The prophet realized that had become too comfortable in this state of existence. He had almost come to enjoy the pursuit, the endless quest to complete himself. Now that victory was so near at hand, he was uncertain what to do.
The sound of shards of bone sliding against one another drew his attention. Zamiel chided himself once again for such pointless musings. He peered up at the shambling hulks lurching through the shadows beneath the bony towers. Their formless bodies oozed over the terrain, pushing showers of shattered bone in their wake. The earth itself softened and oozed out of their path. Dozens of bloodshot eyes and misshapen mouths gaped upon their putrid flesh. Rotten teeth chewed the air. A pitiful gibbering sound rose as they approached.
Zamiel winced, irritated at the s
ound. The gibbering tried to gain a foothold in his mind, to drive him mad. Zamiel ignored their feeble magic. Much like the bones, these creatures were oddly familiar to him. While the ancient remains inspired a sense of nostalgia, these mindless beasts simply disgusted him.
“This is all that remains of Khyber’s proud empire?” Zamiel said, deep voice echoing across the bony waste. “Where once a demon horde ruled this land, now only their mindless beasts lurch across the earth, seeking vermin to devour?”
The surging heaps of flesh moved toward the source of the voice. There were half a dozen of them, pushing one another out of the way in an effort to be the first to feed on this intruder. The prophet’s lip curled and his form flickered as he shifted back into the shape of a great copper dragon. The gibbering mouthers paused. Some fragment of their demented minds recognized the creature they now faced, and they were afraid.
Zamiel exhaled a cloud of boiling acid across the bleached path. The black liquid flowed over the aberrations, searing into their bizarre forms. Their gibbering changed to anguished shrieking, pitiful screaming, and finally—silence. In moments, the cloud dispersed. The creatures of Khyber had been reduced to smoking heaps of melted flesh. Zamiel returned to his human form and continued on his way, stepping carefully over their remains and paying them no further mind.
He explored for nearly an hour before finding what he sought. Zamiel occasionally heard more aberrations, hovering at the boundaries of perception. They gave him no more trouble, hurrying from his path each time he moved toward them. Even their simple minds now perceived the danger he represented, but they followed him nonetheless.
The prophet found what he sought near the center of the canyon, near a particularly large skull. Zamiel climbed onto its broad snout and seated himself between its gaping sockets. He extended one hand, reaching toward something in the air that only he could sense. There was nothing to see, nothing to smell, no obvious sign at all that this place was different from any other. Yet he knew this was it. His hand drew back sharply as he reached a certain point in space. He hissed and clasped his fingers as if he had burned himself.
Reality felt thin here. It was as if there was a wound in existence. Zamiel felt it, the tear between worlds left behind by the same ancient battle that created this graveyard. Zamiel grinned and folded his arms in his sleeves. He concentrated, extending his senses into the anomaly, probing, and sensing. He felt a terrible, shuddering pain deep within himself as the jagged boundaries between worlds sawed against his soul. He felt surging power, just out of reach. He felt a terrible, unknowable intelligence lurking just out of reach. The Timeless.
As Zamiel reached for that power, he felt it reach back toward him. He sensed that it did not comprehend what he was but that it wished to know. It wished no longer to be alone.
“Soon, my friend,” Zamiel whispered in a soothing voice. He knew the other could not hear, but it pleased him to say it.
Zamiel sensed the barrier between them, holding firm. But this time, he saw the cracks. It would not be long. He was almost strong enough. This was where everything had begun. This was where everything would end.
It was only a matter of time.
TWENTY-THREE
The Mourning Dawn soared across the night skies of Khorvaire, traveling as swiftly as she dared. For days they had sped across Breland without any pause, wasting no time in their pursuit. Tristam stared straight ahead, tense with impatience and worry. He knew that Marth now had nothing to lose. The changeling had no home to return to. From the way Marth had spoken earlier, Tristam suspected that he did not intend to survive his attack on Sharn. No doubt he would fly the Seventh Moon as swiftly as he dared—for she would never need to fly again. This was their last chance to stop him.
A shimmering haze was barely visible on the distant horizon. That would be the lights of Sharn, glowing in the night. Tristam hoped that they had moved swiftly enough. At one time, the Seventh Moon had been a much swifter ship than the Mourning Dawn over such long distances. With the Dying Sun’s elemental now powering the ship, Tristam truly had no idea how quickly Marth could reach Sharn.
Perhaps Zed was right, and they had been foolish to keep the Legacy a secret for so long. Tristam’s thoughts drifted back to Nathyrr. Captain Draikus seemed an honorable man, though he obviously disliked Zed. Tristam wondered what might have happened between the two men, but that was irrelevant at the moment. The Thrane paladin had listened intently to Tristam’s story, then urged him to hurry to Sharn with the Silver Flame’s blessings. He had even volunteered his soldiers to assist them, but the Mourning Dawn could not fly as swiftly as she needed with a large crew.
Tristam’s greatest regret in telling Draikus of their quest was that he had not trusted anyone sooner. Marth had counted on the fact that by attacking Sharn, the paranoid rulers of the Five Nations would blame one another. Old fears and hatreds would ignite into violence. The peace of the last few years would swiftly be forgotten. If they had not struggled to keep the Legacy’s existence secret, Marth’s entire plan would have been impossible. Tristam cursed himself for his stupidity.
At least now there was a chance. Even if they failed, perhaps someone in Thrane would listen to Draikus. Maybe the war could still be avoided.
Aeven sat on the ship’s rail beside her figurehead, guiding the winds that drove them onward. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration. Shaimin d’Thuranni stood nearby. He leaned nonchalantly against the rail and watched her, as he did quite frequently since boarding the ship in Nathyrr. Tristam looked at him curiously.
“Of all the possibilities,” Shaimin said, “I never suspected a dryad.”
“What are you talking about?” Tristam asked.
The elf grinned. “When I was hunting you, I sensed powerful magic protecting this ship. My careful observations revealed little about its nature, so I simply avoided boarding the Mourning Dawn altogether. I would never have guessed that you bound a fey spirit to your vessel. Incredible.”
“Aeven is not bound,” Tristam said. “She remains here of her free will.”
“Don’t say anything else, Tristam,” Zed said. The inquisitive emerged on the deck, hands stuffed in his pockets, smoke curling from the tip of his pipe. He glared coldly at the assassin. “Don’t give him anything. Let him wonder.”
“Zed?” Tristam asked, confused.
“I know how your mind works, Thuranni,” Zed said. “Everything is a job to you. Right now, you’re replaying different scenarios in your head. You’re wondering if, knowing what you know now, you could have breached this ship’s defenses. You might even be wondering if you could kill Aeven, if you had to. You’re wasting your time, d’Thuranni. I can tell you how that would go.”
“Impressive,” Shaimin said, sneering. “Your skill as an inquisitive is so great that you can see into another’s thoughts? Who are you to judge me, Arthen?”
“Someone who has dealt with your kind more than anyone should ever have to,” Zed said.
“My kind?” Shaimin asked.
“The kind that doesn’t belong on this ship,” Zed said.
“I find your tone boorish and insulting,” the elf replied. “You would speak to me in such a way when you need my help?”
“No,” Zed corrected. “We needed you back in Nathyrr, and you abandoned us. You gave your word you would help, ran at the first side of trouble, and then told everyone that Eraina and I were dead.”
“You’re overlooking the part where I saved Tristam and the others from the Seventh Moon,” Shaimin said coolly.
“I’m not keeping score here,” Zed said. “You can’t cancel out a betrayal by turning around and helping us. That doesn’t make you a friend—it makes you an unpredictable liability.”
“Oh please, Arthen,” Shaimin said, chuckling. “Did you really expect me to remain behind with Marth’s army chasing us? Dying beside you would have served no purpose. How was I to know you would escape such an impossible situation?”
“I guess
someone like you wouldn’t,” Zed said. “You underestimated me. And that’s how things would play out in that little scenario you were running through your head. If you attacked Aeven, you’d just underestimate us again. Like you underestimated me. Like you underestimated Seren. You’d make a mistake—like you always do—but this time I’d kill you. So put it out of your head, elf. You’re wasting your time thinking about it.”
Shaimin gave a tight, bitter smile. “Thank you for your opinion, Arthen,” he said. “I shall note that accordingly. In the meantime, I don’t care how you feel about me. Dalan has given me permission to remain here, and this ship is his property.”
“Dalan’s good will carries you only so far with me,” Zed said. “If I think you’re up to anything, I’ll toss you over the side.”
“And I’ll bank the ship to help dump you off,” Pherris said from the ship’s helm. “Count on that.” The gnome looked at the elf in silent hatred. Tristam was taken aback; he’d never seen Pherris look at anyone like that before. The captain obviously hadn’t forgiven Shaimin for humiliating him in Stormhome.
The elf’s handsome face paled slightly. He glanced to one side, studying the long drop to the Brelish plains below. He offered a brief bow. “Perhaps I shall retire to my cabin for a time,” he said. “Things seem a bit tense up here.”
The elf sauntered across the deck and climbed down into the hold. All the while, his cold eyes never left Zed’s. Dalan’s cabin hatch opened as the elf disappeared. The guildmaster sighed uncomfortably as he stood beside Zed. Dalan’s shaggy dog followed, slumping on the deck beside his master and nestling his muzzle between his paws.
“Taking him along was a foolish risk, Dalan,” Zed said grimly. “You caution us all along that we should never let knowledge of the Legacy fall into the wrong hands and then you invite that killer into our confidence.”
“Bringing Shaimin along is no more a risk than telling our entire story to that Captain Draikus,” Dalan replied. “Not that it matters at this point. The Legacy’s secret is not nearly as dangerous as it once was. Shaimin, in his peculiar way, is as trustworthy as a knight. A Thuranni is at least predictable. I would wager that even when Shaimin abandoned you, he did not break whatever promises he made.”
