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

by Wulf, Rich

  “What are you doing, Tristam?” Dalan asked.

  “Jumping onto the Seventh Moon,” he said. “We have to stop Marth somehow.”

  “How do you plan to come back?” Zed asked.

  “I’ll worry about that later,” Tristam said with a crooked smile. “This can only carry four. Who’s coming with me?”

  Omax had already seized one side of the ring. Seren quickly grabbed another. Zed, Ijaac, and Eraina all reached for the remaining handle.

  Shaimin had already grasped it.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  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.

  Only one other vessel could dare share the sky with him now. The Mourning Dawn soared high above, narrowly rolling to one side as another bolt of lightning erupted from the Moon’s bow.

  A soldier laughed as he watched the Dawn dodge and weave high above them. “Why did she come back down?” he said, laughing to a comrade. “They don’t have any real weapons. They don’t have a chance against us.”

  Marth looked sharply back up at the ship. That was an excellent question. Why would Pherris Gerriman put his ship in their range again? It wasn’t like the gnome to do something so suicidal.

  It was a trick.

  “Veer to port!” Marth shouted urgently.

  The Seventh Moon rolled to one side. Marth staggered to keep his balance. In the starlight, he thought he saw something fall past the ship’s rail. He allowed himself a smile, wondering if Xain had attempted to board his ship. What a strangely ignominious end, to fall to his death over the same city he had hoped to save.

  “Watch the Mourning Dawn carefully,” Marth commanded. “Keep her behind us, where she is useless. Captain Gerriman can watch us destroy Sharn if he so desires. He is no threat. Helmsman, take us to the center of Skyway.”

  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 magical energy dissipated before ever reaching the Moon. The airships dropped from the sky like dead birds. Marth frowned. Wouldn’t the men and women aboard those ships have known their attack was suicide?

  In their position, he supposed, he would have done the same.

  The center of Skyway drew nearer. Once the Moon came into range, the end would begin. Once the Legacy had corrupted the magic that bound the heart of the district, an avalanche of twisted metal and stone would rain upon the city. The towers of Sharn would fall. This magical monument to Brelish power and arrogance would be no more.

  Marth frowned as the Moon suddenly decelerated. “More speed!” he commanded.

  There was no reply. The changeling sneered in irritation. There was no time for such stupidity.

  “You six, come with me,” he said, gesturing at a group of nearby soldiers. Though he doubted there was any possibility of an attack, he would take no chances.

  Marth turned and climbed below deck, heading down the narrow passageway toward the ship’s helm. He gripped his wand in one hand and the sphere that controlled the Legacy in the other. The shimmering crystal cast fitful purple light upon the walls. He opened the hatch and stepped inside, finding it pitch black, swallowing his wand’s light.

  “None of that,” Marth muttered. He summoned the Legacy’s power again, filling the room with crackling energy.

  The magical darkness vanished. Marth dodged to one side just as a dagger sliced the air where his throat had been. An blast of green fire erupted from his wand, hurling his attacker against the wall. The figure rose instantly and lunged at him again. A second blast threw him across the room, clothes still flaming from the attack. The Cyran soldiers looked on, stunned. Everything had happened more quickly than they could react.

  “Shaimin,” Marth whispered, taking a step forward. He grimaced at the smell of scorched flesh.

  The elf’s burned face twisted into a smile as he slumped to the floor beside the dead helmsman. Shaimin lay on one side, his left arm twisted uselessly beneath him. “Thardis,” he said, breathing irregularly. “You were always quicker than you looked.”

  Marth pointed his wand at the fallen elf. “Why, Shaimin?” Marth asked. “I can understand, after everything I’ve done, why all the others turned on me—but you have always been a killer.”

  “You still don’t see,” Shaimin said with a cackle. “That’s exactly it. Life means nothing, Thardis. Life ends, no matter what we do—but the names we leave behind are eternal. Do you want to be remembered like this?”

  Marth sighed. “Are you still trying to talk me out of this?”

  “No,” Shaimin said. He smiled. The burnt skin on his left cheek cracked. “I’m just stalling you while Tristam sabotages the ship’s core.” The assassin rolled onto his back, drawing his other dagger with his left hand and hurling it at Marth.

  The changeling twisted to one side, but the dagger sliced the right side of his neck. He cried out in pain and unleashed another bolt of roiling flame, incinerating the fallen elf. Marth sighed and gestured curtly, dismissing the flames before they damaged the ship.

  “Take the helm!” he ordered the soldiers. “Guard this room and take the ship to the main island of Skyway at full speed!”

  The soldiers quickly obeyed, flanking out to cover the room while one took the controls. He could feel the Seventh Moon gain speed again. None of them was as skilled a helmsmen as Marcho had been, but that didn’t matter. All they needed to do was fly the ship in a straight line toward the center of the city. Marth pressed a handkerchief to his injured neck as he ran through the corridors toward the core chamber. The bodies of dead and incapacitated soldiers lay strewn in his path. Tristam and his allies had definitely been here.

  The changeling passed through the ship’s original core chamber. The shattered floor still yawned dangerously over open sky next to the defunct core. A used life ring lay discarded in one corner. A grappling hook was tangled about the inert core; a rope still dangled through the hole. Marth had expected Tristam and the others to attempt to board his ship again, but he had not expected them to enter from below.

  Such trickery demanded to be repaid in kind. Marth’s features shifted. His face became Shaimin d’Thuranni’s. Enchantments in his cloak wove illusions over his clothing to complete the disguise.

  The ship’s new core was housed in a supplemental cargo bay in the rear of the airship, not far from the original core. The door hung open at an awkward angle. Marth could still hear combat from within. He whispered a few words of magic, bolstering his defenses as he entered. Within, Tristam Xain, Seren Morisse, and Omax were locked in combat with three of his soldiers. Two more lay unmoving on the floor.

  Tristam glanced toward Marth. His eyes widened. “Seren, look out!” he shouted, ducking behind the ship’s core.

  Marth scowled in irritation that Tristam had not fallen for his disguise, but he did not hesitate. Following the destruction of the ship’s original core, the new one had been warded to resist magical attacks. Thus Marth pointed the wand, filling the chamber with green fire without concern for anything within. Omax darted to shield Seren with his body as the fire washed over them. The flames cleared an instant la
ter. Tristam peered around ship’s core, staring in horror at the charred corpses of Marth’s crew.

  Marth paused for an instant, realizing what he had done. Then Omax charged roaring and swinging at the changeling with heavy fists. Marth summoned a shield of force, but it shattered against Omax’s attack. The blow sent him flying backward, skidding on his back down the corridor. Marth sat up and grasped the Legacy. A wave of white energy washed over the warforged. Omax dropped to his knees but continued glaring at Marth. The light in Marth’s wand dimmed as the Legacy glowed more fiercely.

  “The Legacy doesn’t seem to kill you, but it weakens you enough to do the job,” Marth said. The white fire faded, and the changeling’s wand ignited again. Marth pointed the wand at Omax’s chest and blasted him backward through a cabin hatch.

  Tristam charged out of the core chamber toward Marth. Seren rose and drew her dagger, but the changeling closed and locked the door with a gesture, sealing her inside. Tristam pointed his wand at the changeling, praying that his preparations had been sufficient to shield his magic from the Legacy. A bolt of white lightning lanced toward Marth. The changeling’s invisible shield absorbed the blast, and he replied in kind, unleashing green fire at Tristam. The fire was absorbed in the same manner. Tristam still flinched when the blast struck him, as if he wasn’t sure the spell would work.

  “Your magic has improved a great deal,” Marth admitted, drawing his sword. “I wonder if your skill with a blade is still as weak as before.”

  Tristam blanched but drew the shortsword that hung at his belt. He held it awkwardly in both hands. Xain’s grip was too tight, just as Marth remembered. He lunged toward Tristam, but as he did, the younger man straightened and dropped his sword into one hand in a low grip. Xain wheeled away from Marth’s thrust. A searing ribbon of pain traced up the changeling’s thigh.

  Marth stumbled backward, surprised by Tristam’s sudden display of prowess. He quickly brought his blade to the defensive, parrying as Tristam slashed at him. Marth retreated down the hall into the ship’s original core chamber.

  “How did you know it was me?” Marth asked.

  “Thuranni promised to hold the helm,” Tristam said. “He told us that if we saw him again, there could only be one reason. Do not wear his face, Thardis!” Tristam lunged again, slashing furiously at the changeling.

  “So be it,” Marth said as he dodged aside. He released control of his appearance entirely, letting all of his injuries show—even those he normally concealed. His face was a hideous network of scars and deep burns. His right eye was a milky, unhealthy yellow.

  “Now you see?” the changeling said, noting Tristam’s revulsion. “You truly have no comprehension of what I’ve endured. Why do you make this so difficult, Tristam? You were never my enemy. All you ever needed do was to get out of my way. Surely you must find this world of peace as unnatural as I do.”

  “I prefer it to the world that sent my family to the gallows and destroyed Cyre,” Tristam said, stabbing at the changeling as he retreated. “I prefer it to the world that made madmen like you.”

  Marth’s ravaged features flushed with rage. “How dare you speak of my homeland,” Marth hissed, slashing out and leaving a red line across Tristam’s chest. “I gave everything for Cyre, and the other nations destroyed her.”

  “Gave everything for Cyre?” Tristam asked. He circled the hole in the floor as he darted away, clutching his chest. “Are you talking about how you murdered your commanding officers?”

  “Those men were no true sons of Cyre!” Marth roared. “Traitors, all. I did my homeland a service by destroying them.”

  Tristam shook his head. “And those soldiers you killed in the core chamber?” he said. “Not true sons of Cyre either, I suppose. How deep do your delusions go, Marth? How much has Zamiel twisted you?”

  Marth’s lips pressed into a firm line. He leapt across the gap in the floor, holding his blade high. Tristam brought his sword up to block. The two men crashed backward into the wall. Tristam rolled, punching Marth across the face with the hilt of his blade. The changeling reeled, sword falling from his hands. Tristam lifted his blade, the point hovering just above Marth’s throat.

  Marth’s let his features shift. His face became the one he wore so many years ago, the face of Orren Thardis.

  “Tristam, no,” he whispered.

  Tristam hesitated. Something struck the side of the airship heavily, rocking the entire chamber. The Brelish were attacking again. Marth moved as Tristam was thrown off balance, stabbing the boy in the hip with a small knife from his belt. Tristam cried out in pain and sprawled on his back beside the gap in the floor, nearly sliding out into the void. Marth rose quickly, snatching his sword from the deck and kicking Tristam’s blade through the hole.

  “You never listened to me, Xain,” Marth said sadly. “Opportunity won’t wait for you. Don’t wait for it.”

  “Good advice,” Tristam said hoarsely, looking past him.

  Pain seized Marth. He looked down to see the hilt of a dagger blooming from his chest. Across the chamber, Seren stood in the hatchway, another knife at the ready. A slow, bitter smile spread across the changeling’s face. The sword fell limply from his hand. A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. The blade had not struck his heart, but it was close enough that the difference would amount to only a few seconds.

  “Xain, stop the prophet,” he whispered. “Please.”

  “I will,” Tristam said, struggling to his feet and backing away from Marth.

  “Bury me in Cyre,” Marth begged. “With my family.”

  “No,” Seren replied, glaring hatefully at him.

  Marth’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward, though the shattered floor, down into the City of Towers. As he fell, the face of Orren Thardis became the changeling’s scarred visage a final time.

  The black crystal in the changeling’s hand erupted as he died, releasing one more wave of white energy over Sharn. The Legacy’s disruptive power washed through the center of Skyway.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Revenge was a strange sort of thing. In the stories, the hero was often wronged by some hated enemy. He would swear revenge, and, after toil and sacrifice, there would be a final confrontation. The villain would fall, and the hero would come away with an empty feeling—a feeling that his vengeance served no purpose after all. In the stories, it was always the same. So that was what Seren expected.

  To her surprise, seeing the man who murdered Jamus Roland plunge out of an airship was strangely satisfying. She watched Marth’s body drop until it vanished into the clouds below.

  “Seren!” Tristam shouted, shaking her back to her senses.

  She looked at him in surprise. “Sorry,” she said, composing herself.

  “How did you get out of there?” Tristam asked, amazed. “Marth sealed the door.”

  “And I’ve spent the last few years picking locks in a city full of wizards,” she answered.

  Tristam smiled, but his happiness quickly faded. “This isn’t over yet,” he said. “The island is tearing itself apart.” He stared through the hole in the ship at the cloud below them. Shimmering fractures were swiftly spreading through Skyway. The bulk of the island was too large to disintegrate under a single burst from the Legacy, but Marth’s final attack had started a chain reaction that would inevitably destroy it.

  “So we failed,” Seren said, afraid.

  “No,” Tristam said. “We can still stop this. I have to get back to the core chamber!”

  Tristam hurried back down the corridor. She followed, finding him kneeling beside Omax. Tristam summoned his magic to heal the fallen warforged as best he could. Omax sat up stiffly amid a heap of wooden debris. He looked from Tristam to Seren as he scrambled to his feet. “Where is Marth?” he said. He clenched his fists, prepared to fight, oblivious to the deep scorch marks on his arms and chest.

  “Dead,” Seren said.

  The warforged seemed surprised at that. The ai
rship shook violently. A loud snap sounded from somewhere deep within the vessel, and the Seventh Moon listed to port.

  “What was that?” Omax asked.

  “From the way she’s handling, I’d guess she’s going down,” Tristam said. “The Brelish are trying to shoot us down. If we don’t land soon we’re going to crash. Can you and Seren make it to the bridge safely?”

  “Yes,” Omax said. “Why?”

  “I need you two to try to land the ship on the main island,” Tristam said. “There may still be time to save Skyway.”

  “What are you going to do, Tristam?” Seren asked.

  Tristam looked toward the ship’s core. “Use the Legacy,” he said. “Even without Marth’s control sphere, I should be able to control it from the core itself.”

  “The Legacy will only make matters worse, Tristam,” Omax said.

  “No,” Tristam replied. “Only if I use it as Marth intended. It’s like you said, Omax—destruction is not its true purpose. The magic that Sharn’s architects used to construct Skyway is intended to be self-sustaining, but the Legacy has started a chain reaction that has crippled that. If I can access the Legacy’s connection to whatever plane it draws its power from and release that energy in one focused burst of magic, the chain reaction will stop. The residual enchantments will feed off that power. Sharn’s connection to Syrania should regenerate, and the main island will stabilize.”

  “What kind of focused burst are you talking about?” Seren asked.

  “I’m going to power up the Legacy and then destroy the Seventh Moon’s containment core before it can activate,” Tristam said. “When the elemental escapes, it will release a burst of pure magical energy over Skyway. That should reverse what Marth has done.”