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

by Wulf, Rich

  “Don’t listen to him!” Tristam cried.

  “Quiet,” the Timeless said. Omax’s body gestured at Tristam. The artificer was thrown backward, scattering bone shards as he slid across the ground. A chorus of mad shrieks echoed from the creatures of the Boneyard. Zed could feel them huddling at the edges of the shadows, gathering to watch what was happening.

  “Well done, Timeless,” Zamiel said. He circled behind the warforged, glaring at Zed and Seren. “Now deal with the other mortals as well so that we can discuss the future of this world without interruption.”

  The warforged opened one hand and stared at its surface. “How peculiar,” the Timeless said. “Why does it sadden me so much to harm something so temporary?”

  “It is as I have said,” Zamiel said. “You have chosen an unworthy vessel. Abandon it!”

  “No,” the Timeless said. “I am intrigued.”

  “Intrigued?” the dragon asked. “By what?”

  “The memories of him with whom I share this body,” it said. “I see a soul who forever doubted his purpose, who turned his back upon the fate others would thrust upon him. I see one who walks a path marked with loneliness and regret.” The warforged looked up at Zamiel. “I see a soul that treasures these fickle mortal creatures, though he has no reason to do so. I find it intriguing.”

  “No, Timeless,” Zamiel said. “The mortals are a pestilence, nothing more. We have nothing to learn from them.”

  “You are wrong, prophet,” the Timeless said. “I have much to consider. I am not yet ready for this world. I have too much to learn.”

  “You are ready!” the dragon roared. “We are ready! We shall rebuild this world as we deem fit. The mortals are beneath our consideration.”

  “Sad,” the Timeless said. “I think you have much to learn as well, my friend. Let us retire to consider things anew.”

  The warforged gestured. Zamiel’s draconic form vanished, replaced by a humanoid figure in coppery robes. The brilliant fire in Omax’s eyes faded. A metallic groan issued from deep in his chest as the warforged fell to his knees, then toppled face first into the bone-strewn earth.

  Seren ran to Tristam, helping him limp to Omax’s side. The artificer rolled Omax onto his back. The usual blue light shone in his eyes again.

  “He’s not hurt,” Tristam said, awed. “He’s not hurt at all.”

  Beside them, the swirling blue flame diminished and then vanished altogether. The Timeless was gone.

  “No!” Zamiel screamed, rushing toward them. Zed moved into his path. The prophet backed away fearfully, tripping over his own robes. Zed lifted his sword.

  “Let him live, Arthen,” Omax said, sitting up. “The Timeless wished him to learn what it means to be mortal and powerless.”

  “Mortal,” Zamiel said, patting his own chest in horror. “Human, even. Disgusting and weak. This is impossible! This was my destiny!” He rushed at Zed again. The Inquisitive seized him by the collar of his robes and threw him back on the ground. “The Prophecy is never wrong!”

  “It wasn’t wrong,” Zed said. “You just weren’t as important as you thought. Looks like Omax is the immortal conqueror—and you’re the one he conquered.”

  “Let’s find the others and get out of here,” Seren said, pulling Tristam’s arm around her shoulders.

  “Good luck with your new life, Prophet,” Zed said, sheathing his sword. “What’s left of it.”

  Zed, Omax, Tristam, and Seren hurried back the way they came. Seren could hear the prophet’s enraged shrieks for several minutes afterward, until the gibbering shrieks of the Boneyard’s monstrous inhabitants eclipsed them.

  Then there was only silence.

  EPILOGUE

  One Year Later

  Was Omax all right?” one of the children asked, worried.

  “A little dented. A little sadder,” Seren said, “but still strong. Still Omax. We gathered up the others and escaped the Boneyard.”

  “Did Tristam fix the airship?” a second child asked.

  “Did Captain Gerriman survive?” another asked.

  “What happened to the dog?” a third called out, deeply concerned.

  “Please, please!” Seren laughed and held out her hands to calm the mob of eager little halflings. “I’m not done with the story yet. Keep interrupting and you’ll never hear the rest.”

  The children quickly calmed down. They stared at her with sullen, impatient expressions. When she had begun the tale, there had only been two listeners, but word spread quickly through the village. Now the entire tribe was here, including thirty of the most eager and impatient little listeners she had ever met.

  “As brilliant as Tristam was, even he could never fix the Karia Naille again,” Seren said. “Instead, we took what was left of the airship and built a memorial to Gerith at the edge of the Boneyard. We left his crossbow, his stewpot, and Blizzard’s perch there—a tribute to the bravest and wisest halfling we had ever known. When we set out for the long walk home, I looked back one last time. I thought I saw a glidewing with a sky blue belly sitting on Gerith’s shrine … but I guess I’ll never be sure.”

  The children cooed in approval.

  “And how could Captain Gerriman not survive, with Eraina and Aeven tending his wounds?” Seren asked, grinning at her audience. “He was awake by the time we returned, and in as foul a mood as ever. ‘I suppose we’ll be walking back to Zil’argo, Master Xain?’ ” Seren spoke in a deep voice and puffed out her chest in impersonation of the little captain. The children laughed.

  “Wasn’t Pherris sad to lose his airship?” a child asked. Some of the others glared at him, afraid that Seren would follow through on her threat to stop telling the story.

  “He was,” Seren said. “Very sad. All of us were. The Mourning Dawn was our home, and the crew was our family. Even though we had stopped Zamiel and saved Khorvaire, it looked like the end. Would the world pull us apart and leave us to wander alone again?”

  She stopped to slowly gaze over her audience, all waiting to see what she would say next.

  “But Dalan saved the day,” she said.

  “Mean old Dalan?” one child said, wincing in distaste. The guildmaster was clearly not one of her favorite characters.

  “Mean old Dalan,” Seren replied. “Dalan went to Zil’argo and paid the gnomes to build him a new airship, as beautiful as the Mourning Dawn and faster than the Seventh Moon. Tristam helped them build her, just like Ashrem helped build the sister ships, so that she would be better than any other airship in the world. Pherris stayed on as the new captain, and Tristam became his first mate. Omax and Ijaac stayed on as the crew, and I stayed with them. Aeven, as always, guided our way.”

  “And mean old Dalan?” the same little girl asked.

  “Mean old Dalan went back to Wroat, though he wasn’t quite so mean anymore,” Seren said. “Eraina returned to Karrnath to be with her church and her family. Zed was sad to see her say good-bye. Sadder than I think he’ll ever admit.”

  “And what happened to Sir Arthen?” an older child asked excitedly. “Did he ever really get his magic back?”

  Seren thought about her answer for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I don’t really know what happened to Zed Arthen,” she said. “He set off on his own shortly after we arrived in Zil’argo. I guess that’s another story entirely.”

  A few of the children clapped excitedly. The halflings began to file out of the tent, but she noticed that one of the children was still watching with a strangely forlorn face. She suddenly remembered an important detail.

  “And the dog was fine,” Seren said. “Dalan knew that the trip to the Boneyard would be very dangerous, so he left Gunther behind in Sharn.”

  “You should have said that earlier,” the worried child said urgently.

  “It didn’t seem to fit into the story,” Seren said.

  “It was the dog,” the child said, completely outraged by the omission.

  “Sorry,” Seren said.

  The
child pouted and stormed out of the tent.

  “She was right, you know,” the old man in the back of the tent said. “Never forget the dog. You can kill all the heroes you like, but the audience will never forgive you if you hurt the dog.”

  “Sorry,” she said, grinning at the old halfling. “How was it?”

  The old man grunted. “It’ll do, I guess,” he said. “The language was a little rough, but the plot seemed all right. I could polish it up, I suppose. Helps that you wore that short skirt, too. That made the slow parts interesting.” The old halfling leered at her legs.

  Seren folded her arms across her chest and gave Mannis Snowshale a disapproving look. He was as incorrigible as his grandson.

  The old halfling burst into a fit of cackling, laughing so hard that he was forced to dab his eyes with his sleeve. When he finished, his eyes still glistened. He looked up at Seren seriously.

  “Did my grandson really do what you said?” he asked hoarsely. “Was he as brave as you said?”

  “My words don’t do it justice,” she said. “Pherris named the new ship after him.”

  “The Lunatic?” Mannis asked hopefully.

  “The Reckless,” she said with a laugh.

  “Eh, close enough,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Morisse. I proclaim my grandson’s quest a success.” The old halfling rubbed his nose with the same sleeve, sniffling a little. “I think I need some time alone to write all of this down.”

  “Of course,” she said softly.

  Seren stepped out of the tent and back into Snowshale village. The sun shone brightly over the plains. The people went about their lives happily, with no worries for the future. She could hear some of them already trading their favorite bits of Gerith’s story.

  “How did it go, Seren?” Tristam asked.

  The young artificer wore a new coat, slick black with red trim. His sandy hair was tied back in a ponytail and he carried a new sword at his hip. The ring on his hand bore the Cannith house seal.

  He smiled at her hopefully. Behind Tristam, in the plains beyond the village, the airship’s green elemental ring hovered peacefully.

  “They liked it,” Seren said.

  Tristam’s grin broadened. He reached out and clasped her hand in his.

  “Let’s go home,” he whispered.

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