Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  For many halflings, this phenomenon was extremely irritating. Halfling merchants found it a constant stumbling block, and halfling diplomats often became infuriated at the polite condescension they were offered in human arenas. For a halfling like Gerith, on the other hand, it was a blessing far more often than it was a curse. He had only had to share stories about his day for a mere ten minutes before the meat vendor bitterly shoved a free mince pie in his face to shut him up. Now he sat cross-legged at the side of the road, munching happily. He was oblivious to the drizzle, appearing to enjoy the rain rather than let it bother him. Though the streets were busy this time of night, the crowds parted around the little halfling who had decided to sit down on the street corner. Invisible.

  One man walked directly toward Gerith. He was clad in a shabby coat with a short pipe clenched in his mouth. Gerith grinned and gave a little wave, but did not stop eating.

  “Busy, Snowshale?” Zed asked, looking down at Gerith curiously.

  “I love Karrnath,” Gerith said, mouth full of crust and meat. “It’s such an ugly place, but the food is wonderful. They fry everything! Anything tastes better fried.”

  “Fantastic,” Zed said. “Aren’t you supposed to be doing something?”

  “I’m keeping an eye on her,” Gerith said. He nodded at a rooftop across the street.

  Zed looked up. Blizzard sat hunched in the shadows at the edge of a rooftop, watching the far street with beady black eyes.

  “That bird is trained to tail people?” Zed asked, impressed.

  “He’s not a bird,” Gerith replied, a little insulted. “And yes, glidewings are very clever beasts. Kind of like flying dogs. My people originally domesticated them as guardians. It wasn’t till centuries later that we bred them big enough to ride. Blizzard is even smarter than most.”

  “Remarkable,” Zed said.

  The little scout beamed proudly.

  Zed shrugged, plucking his pipe out of his mouth and sighing a plume of smoke into the night air. “No signs of Marth or any of his Cyrans in the shipyards,” he said. “If they are repairing the Seventh Moon, they’re not getting supplies to do it here.”

  “How would you know he’s here?” Gerith asked. “He’s a changeling.”

  “Because it doesn’t matter how well you hide your face, people notice when you buy a few small fortunes worth of soarwood to repair an airship,” Zed said. “The only people in Korth who’ve been placing orders on that scale are Lyrandar merchant vessels.” Zed paused. “And us, of course. All the same, if we can go a few days without seeing that damn warship drop out of the clouds on us, I think we’ll be a little happier.”

  “They say it’s the little things that really make you happy,” Gerith agreed. “Pie. Sunsets. Girls in short skirts. No Cyran warships blasting you out of the sky.”

  Arthen laughed. “How’s the story coming, Snowshale?”

  “Oh, I have high hopes for this one,” he said, swallowing the last bit of pie and wiping his hands on his vest. “We’re in a slow bit right now, but that happens with every story. If there’s nothing but action, then it’s not interesting anymore. You need boring bits to make the rest taste better, like stew needs peas.”

  “So I’m peas?” Zed asked.

  “A little bit,” Gerith asked. “You need to pick a fight or something, Arthen, or this scene is getting cut out when I tell it to my grandfather.”

  “You can’t write me out,” Zed said. “I’m the hero.”

  “Pfft,” Gerith said, rolling his eyes. “Seren’s the heroine. You’re the comic relief.”

  “Seren?” Zed asked. “I thought she was your winsome damsel.”

  Gerith sighed melodramatically. “Would that it were so,” he said, bowing his head. “As comely as she is, I fear I’m too much for such a fragile lass. She would not endure. Seren will have to settle for Tristam.”

  Zed laughed. “I need to visit your tribe some day, Snowshale,” he said. “I need to see what sort of family coughs out something like you.”

  “I’m the quiet one,” Gerith said.

  Zed looked at Gerith blankly.

  “I have seventeen sisters.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not,” Gerith said. “I’m the youngest, too. Bunch of troublemakers, every one of them. Why do you think I left home?” Gerith looked around with a bored expression, then suddenly changed the subject. “Does Eraina know that we’re following her?”

  “No,” Zed said, watching the glidewing.

  “Oh,” Gerith said, pondering that for a few minutes. He looked up at Zed curiously. “Why are we following her, then? Don’t we trust Eraina?”

  “You trust everyone, Snowshale,” Zed said. “I don’t trust anyone.”

  “But she’s a paladin,” Gerith said. “They have to be good.”

  “Exactly,” Zed replied.

  Gerith looked confused. “Paladins are picked by the gods,” he said. “They can’t be untrustworthy, can they? I mean if they were, the gods would just pick someone else, right?”

  “Gods can be stupid too, Snowshale,” Zed said. “Divine favor doesn’t make you immune to mistakes. Paladins have a way of not watching where they’re going because they think the gods are watching over them.”

  “Aren’t they?” Gerith asked.

  “Doesn’t really matter,” Zed said with a shrug. “If Boldrei isn’t keeping an eye on Eraina, I am.”

  Above them, Blizzard suddenly sat up, alert. The glidewing flapped across the street onto another rooftop, watching something in the street below.

  “She’s moving,” Gerith said.

  “Follow her,” Zed said. “I’ll meet up with you later.”

  “Aye,” the halfling said, scrambling to his feet and rushing off as fast as he could, trying to keep his pet in sight.

  Zed tapped out his pipe and tucked it into his coat. He walked down the street, searching for the building the glidewing had been watching. A crest hung above the door, emblazoned with a chimera’s head below a mailed fist clutching a double-bladed sword. This was a House Deneith holding, a bastion of the Sentinel Marshals. Zed peered about casually but no one appeared to care much about his presence. He strode toward the bastion, stepping aside just as the door opened. A thin man wearing a Marshal’s seal on his chest stepped out, lifting a hood over his face to shield against the rain.

  “Evening, Marshal,” Zed said, nodding at the man as he walked toward the door.

  The Marshal nodded, paying no attention to Zed. “If you are a client or wish to assist with an investigation, please see my subordinates within,” he said, pushing past Zed and making his way down the road.

  “Thanks very much,” Zed said.

  The inquisitive stopped at the door, peering over his shoulder and watching the Marshal hurry away down the crowded street. He followed casually, keeping his eye on the man without seeming to. The Marshal wasn’t paying much attention, so it wasn’t difficult. Either he didn’t care that he was followed or the idea that he could be followed had never entered his mind. He cut a direct path through the randomly twisting streets and alleys of Korth. Not only did the man know exactly where he was going, he had obviously gone this way many times before.

  The man turned a sharp corner and stepped into a small building. It was a speaker post, a place where dragonmarked Sivis couriers could transmit messages to distant lands via magic. Zed took up an unobtrusive position across the street and watched the building patiently. After several minutes the Marshal emerged and headed back the way he came, again not even glancing to see if he was followed. Zed felt almost insulted that he had made such a professional effort not to be seen by someone who obviously was making so little effort to watch his trail. He sighed and snatched up a heavy wooden beam from the garbage strewn alley and circled around a side street. Hefting the beam over one shoulder, he waited for the Marshal to round the corner. When the Marshal appeared, Zed lunged forward. The man only had time to gasp in surprise before the beam took
him across the temple.

  Zed dropped the beam and lifted the unconscious Marshal, hooking his arms under the man’s shoulders and dragging him deeper into the alley. Instinctively, he glanced behind him, sensing someone approaching. An embarrassed smile creased his weathered features when he saw the woman facing him.

  “Eraina,” he said, leaning the unconscious Marshal against the wall and standing with an embarrassed expression.

  “What are you doing, Arthen?” she demanded.

  “Sightseeing,” he said lamely. “Your homeland is very lovely. Very … gray. Your comrade here has injured himself.”

  She folded her arms across her breasts and scowled. “You know I sense your lies,” she said. “Are you trying to infuriate me further?”

  “I was trying to be funny, really,” he said. “He’s just unconscious.”

  She stepped toward him. A startled caw sounded above them. Zed looked up to see Blizzard perching at the edge of the roof with Gerith mounted on his back.

  “Erm … everything all right?” the halfling asked in a small voice.

  “Go back to the ship, Gerith,” Eraina said.

  “Aye,” the halfling said in a relieved voice. Waiting for no further explanation, he flapped off into the night.

  “This isn’t what it seems to be, Eraina,” Zed said, gesturing at the unconscious Marshal. “No one on the Mourning Dawn is a traitor, I’m sure of that. So I guessed that someone must be intercepting our communications. The thing is—we don’t really have any communications. None of the rest of the crew keep in touch with anyone outside the ship except for Gerith, Dalan, and you. Gerith doesn’t send anything but love letters to a dozen girls in random cities. He never mentions anything about what we’re doing. Dalan’s speaker posts are always financial, and always travel through such convoluted, circuitous routes that anyone tracking us would never find the source.”

  “That leaves only my regular reports to House Deneith,” Eraina said.

  Zed nodded.

  Eraina sighed, leaning on her short spear and closing her eyes in frustration. “Do you think that I am stupid, or did you forget that I am a Sentinel Marshal?”

  Zed blinked. “I don’t follow you.”

  “You aren’t the only one with the power of deductive reasoning, Arthen,” she said. “Since our conversation in Vulyar I have been thinking about the information leak.” She looked at him, her eyes blue, clear, and sad. “I was Bishop Grove’s bodyguard, and his friend. I failed to protect him from Marth and have hunted him ever since. Yet every time I find a promising clue or lead, it crumbles. It wasn’t until Wroat that I truly believed there was a chance. Then Marth found us, again and again.” She bowed her head, her face growing dark. “And always, he found us shortly after I had dispatched one of my reports to Korth. Those reports were always delivered to this man, Marshal Killian.”

  Zed sighed. “So you knew Killian is a traitor, but you reported to him anyway? That was foolish.”

  “You are quick to judge, Arthen,” she said, glaring at him. “It is no wonder that you fell.”

  Arthen opened his mouth to spit an angry retort, but hesitated. His expression softened. “Tell me what happened, then.”

  “I did not know Killian was a traitor, but I suspected,” she said. “So I gave Killian my report. I said that the Mourning Dawn had sustained such damage that only a miracle would allow her to fly again. I told him that the Ghost Talon halflings were apparently working for Baron Zorlan d’Cannith, who would likely turn his efforts toward blocking Dalan’s progress. I told him that Marth was last seen trapped in a flaming airship, battling a rogue elemental, and that his survival was highly unlikely. I told him that the last person who could have translated Ashrem’s journals for us had been murdered. I told him that the surviving members of the crew would be returning to Korth.”

  “So you told the truth,” Zed said. “Just not the whole truth.”

  Eraina looked pained. “Do not mock me, Arthen,” she said. “My vows do not tolerate lies. Falsehood, prevarication, and omission are all facets of the same sin. It sickened me to deliver that report, just as it sickens me to allow Killian to draw another breath wearing the tabard of a Sentinel Marshal.” She looked down at the unconscious Marshal. “I gave him that report to gauge his reaction, hoping that I would be wrong. Then he immediately leaves his post to visit a speaker station in the middle of the night.”

  “I thought that a bit odd, too,” Zed said. “I was about to ask him why.”

  “I will wake him,” Eraina said, kneeling over Killian.

  “Wait,” Zed said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “Why not just leave him? Keep sending your reports. Keep Marth misinformed, off his guard. Killian doesn’t know he’s been found out yet. He could do more good than harm.”

  “You warned me about splitting hairs,” Eraina said. “After one false report, Marth will suspect the truth and cease relying upon Killian. My lies will serve no further good and a corrupted Marshal will continue to preside over Korth. There is only one recourse now.” She extended one hand and pressed her fingers to Killian’s temple. “And that is the truth.”

  Eraina whispered a brief prayer to Boldrei and her fingertips glowed white. A shivering gasp issued through the unconscious Marshal. Killian sat bolt upright, instantly awake, his eyes wide.

  “What happened?” he said, looking around in confusion. “Eraina?”

  “Killian,” Eraina said. She rose, glaring down at him coldly. “Why?”

  He looked at her blankly, glancing past her for a moment to peer at Zed curiously. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Why what?”

  “Why?” she repeated, more tersely. Her hand tightened on her spear. “Why did you betray us to Llaine Grove’s killer?”

  “I didn’t …” Killian began, but the dangerous gleam in the paladin’s eyes made the lie die in his mouth. “You don’t understand, Eraina. Your view is too narrow, too naive. Eberron is not ready for peace. Zamiel will ignite the war anew, and the world will be as we all remember it again.”

  “Remove that seal,” she said, pointing at his Marshal’s badge with her spear.

  “Am I under arrest?” he asked. “I have done nothing that you can prove. You have no grounds to accuse me, Marshal.”

  Eraina removed her own Marshal’s seal, casting it onto the cobblestones. “It is not a Marshal who accuses you. It is not House Deneith’s judgment you face, traitor. The Host judges you now. Boldrei’s eyes are upon you.”

  “Damn paladins.” Killian hissed, staggering to his feet.

  “Indeed,” Zed said. “Need help, Eraina?”

  She shook her head, eyes still fixed on Killian.

  Marshal Killian drew his sword and lunged at Eraina with a fierce cry. She parried his blade with the haft of her spear and drew her shortsword across his stomach. Killian fell to his knees with a wet cough, blood streaming over his legs. He looked up at her in helpless pain, hand shaking as the sword dropped from his grasp. Eraina flipped the blade in her hand and drew it back in another swift stroke, slashing the fallen Marshal’s throat. He fell dead in the filth and refuse of the alley. Eraina knelt beside him, wiping his blood from her blade with a scrap of white cloth as she uttered a short prayer to the Hearthmother.

  “You’re quiet, Arthen,” she said. “More advice?”

  Zed rested a hand on her shoulder. Eraina looked up, her eyes widening when she saw he held her Marshal’s seal in his hand. She hesitated a long moment before accepting it, pinning the badge back in its accustomed place on her cloak. He helped her to the feet and together they made their way back through the rain toward the Sentinel bastion.

  SEVEN

  Seren saw a flicker of movement, but too late. She seized Tristam’s arm and pulled him to the side, but the shadows opened and a small, thin man lunged out and drew twin daggers, stabbing at Tristam’s back. Tristam hissed in pain and fell to one knee as the blades drove into him. The assassin daggers fell again, the left hand blade slashing
out at Seren. Seren saw the weapon coming, but her eyes were on the right blade, lifted high, prepared to finish Tristam. Rather than dodge aside, she dropped, kicking up with one leg as she fell. Her foot collided solidly, and the mysterious attacker recoiled with a groan.

  She lunged forward into a crouch and sprang, her own knife appearing in her hand. Her target recovered, standing straight and spinning in a pirouette to one side. A knife lashed out, tracing a path of red pain across her hip.

  Seren turned to find the assassin pacing away, watching her carefully. He was a small man with short, curly blonde hair. His ears tapered into long, slender points and his almond eyes gleamed with excitement.

  “Unexpected grace and complexity. Like the first snowflake,” the elf said in a deep, oddly musical voice. “If I touch you, will you melt?”

  Seren glanced down at Tristam, huddled in pain on the ground. The assassin seized upon her distraction, leaping in with both daggers again. Seren returned her attention to him instantly. His eyes widened as he realized he had fallen for her feint. Seren rolled aside and her dagger slashed down, slashing a gouge across his back. He hissed and somersaulted away, throwing one of his daggers as he rolled. The blade slashed her thigh and tumbled into the darkness.

  “No longer intriguing, snowflake,” he said, drawing up to his full height and sneering at her.

  The assassin ran at Seren, blade low and to one side. Seren held her dagger ready to meet his charge, but he cartwheeled to one side at the last moment, leaping toward Tristam. The artificer fell backward, drawing out his wand and unleashing a bolt of lightning at the elf. The assassin dodged the blast with an annoyed curse. The energy struck the side of a temple, scattering stone in a noisy explosion. Muffled shouts and startled hoof beats resounded in reply, as well as the ring of a guard’s alarm bell.

  The assassin stood straight, looked at Seren and Tristam, and sighed.

  “Annoying,” he said.

  The shadows billowed outward, wrapped around him, and swallowed him. Seren and Tristam were alone in the darkened street. Tristam collapsed on the cobbles, wand tumbling from his hand. Seren ran to his side, calling out for help.