Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  “I am not,” Gavus said.

  Dalan smiled mirthlessly. “I would not think you were,” he said. He chuckled, knuckling his forehead with one hand. “The translation of the term escapes me. Seren, do you remember?”

  “The golden lie,” she said, eyes fixed thoughtfully on the magewright.

  “Ah, yes,” Dalan said. “Thank you, Seren. A hmael is an obvious and blatant lie, crafted to draw attention away from an uncomfortable truth. Both parties know the truth, but they use the hmael as a convenient shield, allowing them to discuss the truth without embarrassment. For example, I could tell you that the Ghost Talons said that they were working for Baron Zorlan d’Cannith. The halflings believed this to be true. Yet you and I both know it to be a lie. Don’t we?”

  Gavus’s eyes narrowed. “You are a rude man, Dalan.”

  “You still have clay on your robes,” Seren said.

  “What?” Gavus asked. He looked down at the hem of his robe, quickly hiding the gray stains among the folds.

  “You have a keen eye, Seren,” Dalan said. “This is not your workshop, Gavus. By the spotless condition of the furniture in this room, I can assume you do not regularly come here to read without cleaning yourself first. Why would you rush here from your golems simply to entertain me until the Baron arrives? Any number of servants could have done that.”

  “You are paranoid,” Gavus hissed.

  “You have no idea,” Dalan said. “Regardless, you are no random emissary. Allow me to theorize. I think after our escape from the plains, the Ghost Talons rushed a messenger to Vulyar. Via speaker, he informed you that we would soon arrive. You posted a runner at the sky towers to watch for our vessel, but when we arrived, we gave you little time to organize a reception. You drew us here to delay us while you determined your next course of action, because you do not wish Baron Zorlan to know you have been wielding his authority unauthorized.”

  “Why would I do any of that?” Gavus asked.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Dalan said. “I’m more interested in knowing how you learned about the Legacy, and why you interfered with our search for it.”

  “Dalan,” Tristam said, a warning tone in his voice. His eyes were still on Ashrem’s statue.

  “Not now, Tristam,” Dalan said. “What do you know about the Legacy?”

  “Enough,” Gavus said. “You’re right, Dalan. I have monitored the Boneyard for many months now, through my Ghost Talon agents. They were seeking Kiris Overwood so that they might remand her to my custody. It was only random fortune that they discovered you instead.”

  “How did you learn about the Legacy?” Seren asked.

  “Ashrem told me himself,” Gavus said. “On the day he drew my promise to ensure it was never again completed.”

  “On that end, at least, we agree,” Dalan said. “But there are others far closer to that goal than ourselves, and we cannot stop them unless we follow the same path.”

  “You expect me to believe you would seek out the secrets of Ashrem’s work, but not use the Legacy for your own profit, Dalan?” Gavus asked. “Your greed and ambition are well known.”

  Dalan rose from his seat. “Insult me if you wish,” he said. “You are insignificant, so I am hardly offended. However, if you interfere with my business again, I shall inform Baron Zorlan of your insolence and he—not I—will deal with you. Understood? That is all I wished to say. We are finished here.”

  “Sit back down, Dalan,” Gavus said.

  “Dalan,” Tristam said again.

  “We have nothing more to discuss,” Dalan replied. He turned toward the door and jiggled the handle, finding it locked.

  “Sit down,” Gavus repeated. “I do not wish to resort to violence.”

  Dalan laughed. “Omax,” he said. “Open this door.”

  The warforged rose and turned with a fluid creak of wood and metal. He moved toward the door and lifted a heavy clenched fist, knocking the door crooked on its hinges with a single blow.

  “Omax, be careful,” Tristam said more urgently. The artificer rose, still watching Ashrem d’Cannith’s statue.

  A sound of grinding stone hissed from the depths of the statue. Omax looked back. The sculpture had begun to move, lumbering toward them slowly with its blade and lantern held high.

  “A golem,” the warforged said.

  “Ashen, do not allow these people to leave,” Gavus said, standing and quickly moving behind the golem.

  The stone servant staggered forward with an obedient groan, a sound like fire crackling in the heart of a great cave. Its eyes shone a baleful yellow as it moved toward Dalan. Omax darted into Ashen’s path, but the golem bashed the warforged with its lantern, knocking him back against the wall and flattening a bookcase. Dalan looked up in blank fear, quickly moving away from the door. The golem immediately ignored him, turning back to face the others. Seren rose and drew her dagger but was uncertain what to do with it against the stone creature. Tristam readied his wand and pointed it at the golem uncertainly.

  “Don’t waste your magic, boy,” Gavus said. “Your master must have taught you that golems are immune to such things.”

  Omax surged to his feet with a metallic roar. Ashen turned slowly to face the warforged, lifting its sword high. Tristam spoke a word of magic, unleashing his wand’s lightning, toppling a bookcase onto the golem. Ashen stumbled, giving Omax the opportunity he sought. The warforged collided with Ashen’s chest, ramming it against the wall and shattering another bookcase in a cloud of torn paper. Seren pulled Dalan out of the way as debris exploded across the library.

  Omax clutched the golem’s face with one hand, his thick fingers boring into Ashen’s wide eyes and open mouth, crushing and twisting, spreading cracks across its face. Omax rammed his other fist into the golem’s body, punching him repeatedly. The golem reeled under the attack, dust and splintered stone exploding from each hit. The creature wrapped its arms around Omax’s chest and squeezed. The sound of bending metal and cracking wood came in reply.

  Tristam closed his eyes in concentration and clutched Omax’s shoulder, directing his magic to mend what damage he could. Omax’s wood and metal body twisted back into its proper shape, only to be immediately crushed once again. Sparks erupted from the warforged’s chest, but Omax only grunted in pain and continued his assault. The golem pushed itself away from the wall, keeling over and collapsing heavily on Omax as Tristam narrowly dodged out of the way. The warforged heaved and twisted his wrist, wrenching Ashen’s head free with a crack of tortured stone and hurling it at the door, shattering the wood. The golem continued squeezing the warforged mercilessly, ignoring the injury. Glimmering yellow smoke boiled from the hole left behind by its decapitation.

  “I can’t stop it,” Tristam said helplessly. “I can’t repair Omax fast enough. It’s killing him!”

  “The warforged should not have begun a fight it could not win,” Gavus said, wiping one hand on his robe with a bored frown. “So much for their vaunted intellect.”

  Seren appeared behind Gavus, grabbing the old man by the robes and pushing him against the wall. “Call the golem off,” she hissed. Her dagger drew a white line across the wrinkled folds of Gavus’ throat. The old magewright’s eyes filled with terror. He cried for help, and Ashen immediately rose, leaving Omax where he lay. The headless thing turned to face Seren, lifting its stone sword as it advanced. Seren turned, moving Gavus’s skinny body between herself and the broken golem. It stopped, unable to harm its master and uncertain what to course of action to take.

  “Stupid girl,” Gavus hissed. “Kill me and Ashen will kill you in return. It can wait, quite literally, forever. We are locked in this impasse.”

  “We are locked in an impasse?” Dalan asked.

  The guild master sighed and turned to leave the room in no particular hurry, gingerly stepping through the shattered timbers. The golem spun, stepping over Omax’s fallen body in its haste to stop Dalan from escaping. It hesitated, looking back at its master, uncertain
which order to pursue. Dalan looked at Ashen and gave a quick, satisfied smile. Omax rolled into a crouch, seizing one of the golem’s legs in both arms and twisting hard as he pushed the statue off balance. Another crackling moan issued from deep inside Ashen’s body as Omax tore one leg free of its housing. The warforged spun the leg in both hands and jammed its jagged edge down with all his strength, shattering the larger construct’s chest.

  The golem gave what sounded like a final, tortured sigh, the sound of wounded magic escaping, the mournful call of imitated life extinguished. The golden smoke that boiled from its neck drifted away. The mutilated statue of Ashrem d’Cannith lay still. Tristam looked down at the broken sculpture in numb shock, his wand clenched in one hand. He whispered another quick infusion and placed his hand against Omax’s chest, directing the magic that animated the warforged to repair some of the damage to its body.

  “Impasse resolved,” Dalan said, kicking aside a pile of scattered books. Above them, the chants and rhythmic hammering continued. The rest of the household was oblivious to the battle. “I will issue you a bill for the damage you have inflicted upon my warforged.”

  Seren released Gavus, roughly pushing him away. The old man leaned against a bookcase, gasping for breath.

  “Dalan, there was no call to become violent,” Gavus said, rubbing his throat and coughing hoarsely. “I panicked when you attempted to depart, but with the Host as my witness—I only wished to speak. I would not have harmed any of you.”

  “I do not respond well to intimidation, Frauk,” Dalan said, stopping at the door but not looking back.

  “Ashen was commanded only to bar your exit,” Gavus said, staring at his shattered bodyguard. “There was no need to destroy it.”

  “It tried to kill me,” Omax said, clutching his injured chest.

  “You are not alive,” Gavus said.

  A deep rumble echoed within Omax, but Tristam held a calming hand toward his friend. “And what if our designs on the Legacy were as dark as you fear?” Tristam asked, his own anger obviously only barely held in check. “What would you have done then?”

  “Ashen would have contained you here indefinitely,” Gavus said. “This library is abandoned and has been enchanted to contain sound. The door has magical wards. This room could serve quite well as a prison.”

  “Or a tomb,” Dalan said meaningfully. “Keep talking, Frauk.”

  “I was foolish and desperate, but I had little choice,” Gavus said. “The Legacy is too powerful, too deadly for mortals to possess. If you rebuilt it, it would do to the Five Nations what it did to Cyre.”

  “What did the Legacy do to Cyre?” Tristam asked.

  Gavus scoffed. “Are you a fool? Look at the Mournland. That is Ashrem d’Cannith’s true legacy. Ashrem told me himself. It begins with cold and lightning. The smell of wretched smoke suffuses everything as the energy of life is sucked from the world. Magic dies. The works of wonder crumble. The creatures of arcana and divinity die. Ash and mist expand to fill the void … Is that not what became of the Mournland?”

  “Impossible,” Tristam said. “The Legacy nullifies magic. The Mournland seethes with magic. The Legacy could not have been responsible for that.”

  “So you hope,” Gavus said.

  “Know this, Gavus,” Dalan said. “I do not intend to rebuild the Legacy. As you say, it is far too dangerous. However, the secrets of its creation must be recovered. If left in the shadows, it will be found. I fear the ones who slew the Ghost Talons are already close to its completion.”

  Gavus grew pale and trembled visibly. “The Cyrans?”

  “No,” Dalan hissed. “They are no true Cyrans, though they bastardize the crest of that proud nation.”

  “You said you promised Ashrem that you would bar others from completing his work,” Tristam interrupted, drawing an annoyed look from Dalan. “When did you last see him?”

  “Only a week before the Day of Mourning,” Gavus said. “As he prepared to depart for Metrol. He drew our oaths that we would do everything within my power to prevent the Legacy’s construction.”

  “We?” Dalan asked. “Who else made this oath?”

  “Norra Cais, Bishop Llaine Grove,” Gavus said. “There were a handful of others …” Gavus trailed off, eyes wide.

  “What happened to the others?” Tristam asked.

  “They are gone now,” Gavus said. “Vanished or killed, one by one. Norra and I were the only ones left, and I have not seen her in weeks.”

  “Norra Cais?” Dalan asked. “She has been missing for months, not weeks.”

  “She was wise enough to go underground when the others began disappearing,” Gavus said. “I was one of Ashrem’s more obscure associates, so I took the risk of remaining public while she conducted secret research. But then she disappeared, and even I have lost contact with her.”

  “Where did she go?” Tristam asked.

  Gavus shook his head. “I will not tell you that,” he said. “I will say only that I believe she still lives, but I will not betray her to you. If you seek her insight into Ashrem’s Legacy, you will seek her without my aid.”

  “Fine,” Dalan said. “We do not need you, but if you interfere with our search any further, my earlier promise holds. Baron Zorlan will learn how you impersonated him. I suspect the Ghost Talons are not the only informants who believed they worked on his behalf.”

  The old magewright looked helplessly at Dalan.

  “And clean this mess,” Dalan said, gesturing at the spilled bookcases and shattered golem. “This is a d’Cannith library you have ruined. If you continue to treat it as whatever pigsty birthed you, I will see that you are returned there. Good day, Master Frauk.”

  Dalan exited the chamber with Tristam, Omax, and Seren following close behind. Once they were a good distance from Gavus, Tristam hurried to catch up with the guild master.

  “I think he knows more, Dalan,” Tristam said, glancing back. “He could tell us where Norra Cais is. If anyone can tell us more about Ashrem’s work, it would be her. She was his most brilliant student.”

  “I agree that locating Cais should be our primary objective,” Dalan said, “but I think questioning Frauk would be a waste of time. He knows nothing we cannot easily discover on our own. He is a fool, and we are better off without him. I do not enjoy relying on the help of ignorant bigots.”

  “Agreed,” Omax said quietly.

  “So we’re just letting him go?” Tristam asked. “He’s a valuable lead.”

  “He’s already told us Norra is alive, and that she was here weeks ago,” Seren said. “Zed and Eraina can track her down with that much to go on.”

  Dalan nodded. “Precisely my thought. Keeping an inquisitive and a Sentinel Marshal among us has its uses. It is obvious that Ashrem chose Frauk to safeguard his secrets only because the magewright has no imagination. Frauk follows orders with the same mindless stupidity as his golems. Tristam, return to the ship and tell the others what we have learned so that Arthen and the Marshal can begin their search. Omax, attend me and we shall see to your repairs while we are here in a House of Making.”

  “I can repair him,” Tristam said, slightly offended.

  “Ah, but I promised I would bill Gavus for his unprovoked attacks,” Dalan said with a wicked smile, “and Cannith craftsmanship is expensive. Meanwhile, I sorely need you to focus your talents on repairing the ship and studying Overwood’s journals.”

  “What about me?” Seren asked.

  Dalan looked at the young thief blandly. “What do I care?” he asked. “So long as you cause no trouble, you are free to do as you like.” The guild master took a deep breath and plucked his cap from his head, smoothing one hand over his balding scalp. “Enjoy Korth, Seren. I think we may be here for some time. The rest will do us good. This has been a most exhausting journey.”

  Dalan nodded at Omax and turned a corner, heading deeper into the House of Making with the warforged in tow. Tristam looked at Seren sheepishly.

  “W
hat?” she asked him, grinning a little and stepping closer to him as they walked.

  “I feel like such an idiot,” he said quietly. She slipped her hand into his, and he felt much better. He offered her a crooked smile.

  “Why do you feel like an idiot?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “I was so angry at Dalan back on the Plains,” he said. “At how he’d used us, manipulated us. Now here I am, taking orders from him again. Nothing ever changes, Seren.”

  “That’s not true,” she said. “You’ve changed.”

  “For the better?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

  “I think so,” she said.

  They stepped out through the doors of House Cannith and into the street. The guards cast bored expressions at them and did not move from their station, huddled under awnings against the misty rain.

  “How have I changed?” he asked, unconsciously huddling closer to her for warmth against the rain.

  She laughed softly. “When I met you were loud and cocky, but had no confidence,” she said. “Now you’re the opposite. Not as loud … but now you do what’s right without even thinking about it.”

  “Don’t be fooled, Seren,” Tristam said with a chuckle. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  “Let me illustrate,” hissed a voice from behind them. “You are dying.”

  The assassin leapt from behind, sliding twin daggers into Tristam’s back.

  SIX

  It was a curious trait that most halflings adopted easily in human cities. This was not to say that halflings were truly invisible, as if through magic, but that humans usually pretended that they were not there. To the average human, a halfling was not unlike a child, and the comparison extended beyond mere physical resemblance. The typical halfling’s energetic attitude and constant need for attention drove humans to treat halflings with the same selective blindness they reserved for other people’s noisy children. They were there. You saw them. You just pretended you didn’t notice them and hoped that they would get bored and go away.