by Rich Wulf
“No,” Seren said in a low voice. “How could you do this, Dalan? Kiris was manipulated. She was an innocent. You would have set that murderer on her.”
“She set that murderer on herself,” he said. “She was a foolish girl, who bound herself to a horrible man because she believed she could repair him. I have no patience for such idiocy. Marth would have killed her eventually, as he later proved. Remember that I offered you that letter as a last resort. No matter what you may think of me, I do not enjoy threatening people. What I said to her was necessary.” He smiled faintly. “Just as your warning to me on the Karia Naille was necessary.”
Dalan walked back in the hallway, looking back over his shoulder for only a moment. “We are not so different, Miss Morisse,” he said. “In times of crisis, you are all as manipulative and pragmatic as I am. You simply refuse to see it. Reflect upon that.”
EIGHT
Raylen paced between the dusty crates with a fretful expression. The air in the old warehouse was dead, choked with stale dust from years of neglect. A single lantern hung from a beam, casting unsettling shadows across the room. This place had not seen any life since the end of the Last War, save the rats who made their homes in the crates of surplus military uniforms and other mundane supplies. It was a place no one remembered, which made it a good choice for the business at hand.
Raylen was not a young man, nor was he an old man. He was a lean, greasy, entirely unmemorable sort of person. The military surplus warehouse reminded him distantly of his youth, when he had served in the Karrnathi army just long enough to get himself wounded in battle and discharged. After that, he had floated about Korth for most of his adult life, taking whatever odd jobs were offered. Most of the time he simply acted as a city guide. Though few people remembered Raylen, he remembered everyone. He was good at putting people in touch with whomever or whatever they wanted to find in the city. Though that sort of work didn’t pay well, at least it was consistent. Someone was always lost in Korth. More frequently, Raylen’s employment was not quite so legitimate, helping thieves find a safe place to sell their stolen goods, or helping visiting nobles with questionable morals find what they required to sate their appetites. As a man of rather limited conscience, that sort of thing rarely bothered him. What good did ethics do a man who was starving to death?
At least that’s what he always told himself.
These people, however, made even Raylen queasy. He hadn’t quite realized what he was getting into when they had offered him the job. It seemed a little strange, sure, but a man like Raylen couldn’t afford to be too picky. Some wealthy clients had odd tastes. It was just something you had to accept. When a man hands you gold and asks you to dig up some corpses, you don’t argue. It wasn’t as if the Karrnathi graveyards were particularly short of corpses. When Master Jiazen offered Raylen two gold crowns for a fresh human corpse, it seemed as if a small fortune was a short walk and a quick dig away.
But the disturbing stranger kept coming back, fixing Raylen with his steady gaze and listing his demands in a cool, delicate voice. The more corpses Raylen brought, the more Jiazen asked for. The pay increased each time, but each time the demands became more specific. A cadaver of a certain height, a certain gender, a certain nationality, or even of a specific pigmentation. Once the strange fellow even asked for a satchel of finger bones and a half dozen undamaged blue eyes. It was growing to be too much for Raylen. He began visiting different bars, taking different routes through the city, hoping to avoid Jiazen. The strange man always found him, always smiling that too-intense smile. He would eagerly list off the materials he required, paying Raylen in advance, always assuring Raylen that he trusted him to uphold his bargains.
As tempted as Raylen was to flee the city with the money, he was afraid of what would happen if he did. Jiazen had no trouble locating him. Could he track him as well? What if Master Jiazen was some sort of demon, or worse, a wizard? What sort of terrible purpose did he have in mind for the corpses Raylen delivered? If he tried to escape, would Jiazen kill him and add him to the heap?
Raylen shuddered. If he vanished, he would never be missed. He had no family, few acquaintances, and no close friends. Most of the other vagrants he spent time with in the taverns didn’t even know his name. Jiazen had probably chosen him just for that reason. Whether he fled or not, the dark stranger would probably kill Raylen once he no longer required him. Considering the rather specific nature of what Jiazen had ordered this time, Raylen feared that this would, in fact, be his last job.
Raylen’s teeth chattered loudly as a quaver of fear washed over him.
“This is damnation,” he babbled to the empty air. “I know it is. The Host has cursed me as a thief and coward. I’ve wasted my life, and now they’re taking it away from me while I’m still alive.”
“The Host has better things to do than worry about scum like you,” came a gruff voice from among the crates. “Get it together, Raylen. We can’t let Jiazen know anything is wrong.”
“I can’t d-d-do this,” Raylen stuttered. “I don’t want to do this. The deal is off.”
“You’d rather live in fear forever?” the voice said.
“I’ve been afraid all my life,” Raylen said.
“Then if you die here, you haven’t lost anything worthwhile,” came the reply. “Consider this a turning point. A chance for redemption. You don’t get those every day.”
Raylen opened his mouth to reply, but the sound of a creaking floorboard beyond the warehouse door froze the words in his throat. He looked around quickly. The rear door was still open. He could run. He could still get away. Maybe Jiazen wouldn’t find him. He could start again somewhere else, maybe Karrlakton or Rekkenmark. A man who knew how to fit in could vanish forever in either of those places. Maybe even a wizard couldn’t find him there. Maybe. He took a single step toward the door.
And he stopped.
The fear remained, but Raylen ignored it. He didn’t think about why, or how. He just didn’t let himself back down. He cleared his throat, turned, and faced the door.
“You know what to do?” the voice said.
Raylen nodded.
The doors slid open, and four men-at-arms stepped inside, each carrying a long halberd in one hand. A small lantern hung from the haft of each spear, dangling just under the blade. They were dressed in silver armor with black, featureless tabards. Plain, black-enameled visors covered their faces. Raylen wondered how the men could see. They fanned out, watching Raylen cautiously while the others searched the warehouse. Raylen tensed as they passed the stack of crates behind him, but they apparently saw nothing. One faced the door and clapped a mailed fist against his breastplate.
Master Jiazen entered in no particular hurry. He wore a finely pressed suit of cobalt blue with a matching cloak draped over one shoulder. His eyes were lined with dark paint, intensifying the paleness of his skin. He smelled faintly of wet earth and vanilla. His lips quirked in an unsettling smile as he gave Raylen a short bow. Two more of the silent warriors followed him, watching Raylen patiently.
“Master Raylen,” Jiazen said, his voice low and sibilant. “I am pleased that you contacted me so soon. I feared that I might not hear from you again. What I asked was difficult.”
Raylen laughed nervously. “You know me, Master Jiazen,” he said. “I don’t back out of a contract. I have a reputation in this city.”
“Of course you do,” Jiazen said with a condescending smile. “If you are not offended by my curiosity, how did you procure such uncommon materials so quickly?”
“Only uncommon if you sit and wait for them to die,” Raylen said. “With the money you paid me, I thought I might take a bit of … erm … what’s the word?”
“Initiative?” Jiazen asked, flashing white teeth.
“That’s it,” he said. “Initiative.”
“Astounding,” Jiazen said. “You may have a great deal more potential than I imagined. Where is she?”
“Right over here,” Raylen said
, beckoning to the dark stranger as he walked toward a long crate in the back of the warehouse. He kicked off the lid, revealing the contents.
Jiazen’s smile broadened as he studied the crate in the light of a silent warrior’s lantern. Within the box, a young woman lay on a bed of straw. Long brown hair fell loose about her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and her skin was pale. She wore a simple white dress, her hands clasped across her chest in a posture of repose. She might have looked very peaceful, if not for the bloodstains that covered one side of her dress.
“Immaculate,” Jiazen said in a breathless voice. “I hope she is as … undamaged as she appears.”
“It was a clean wound,” Raylen said. “Knife just under the ribs, here, to the side.” Raylen pointed at his own back. “She made a lot of noise while she was bleeding out, but no one heard. She’s in good shape.”
Jiazen nodded clinically. “Yes,” he said. “That would certainly suffice.” He reached leaned over the crate, drawing a long leather glove from his cloak and stretching it over his right hand. “Allow me a moment to inspect her, and our business shall be concluded.”
Jiazen extended his hand toward the corpse, but he stopped short with a gasp when she fixed him with dark eyes. The woman opened her hands, revealing the complex golden octogram of the Sovereign Host. “By the light of the Hearthmother,” the girl whispered, “burn.”
The holy symbol shone. The warrior beside Jiazen released a mournful wail and staggered backward, smoke boiling from his armor. He fell to his knees, ashes spilling from the joints beneath the plate, crumbling in a heap of empty metal.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jiazen shouted, backing quickly away.
“In the name of House Deneith,” the girl said, rising from the crate and plucking her spear from the straw beneath her. “By the authority of the Sentinel Marshals, you are under arrest.”
“Vol, kill them both!” Jiazen shouted. He reached into his pocket and began chanting words in an arcane language.
“Careful, he’s a wizard,” warned a voice from above. A small crystal sphere dropped from the rafters. It shattered at Jiazen’s feet and ignited the powder strewn on the floor. The warehouse filled with blinding light and an explosive crack shattered Jiazen’s concentration.
When the light faded, they were there.
Omax burst from the crates beside the warehouse door, seizing one dark warrior’s halberd and clutching another by the helmet in one wide hand. Seren dropped beside another of the armored men, slashing at his knees with her dagger. Gerith’s crossbow took another in the skull, but the undead soldier remained standing upright.
Jiazen blinked rapidly, trying to restore his vision. He looked up in time to see Zed Arthen striding toward him with a grim scowl. A dark warrior stepped into his path but was cut down with a single blow from his massive sword.
“Wizards and zombies,” the inquisitive growled. “I hate zombies.”
“Could be worse,” Tristam said, hopping down from the rafters beside Zed. “Could have been a vampire, like Eraina suspected.”
“True,” Zed admitted. He rolled his eyes at the wizard. “Don’t do it, Jiazen.”
Master Jiazen began casting a spell.
Zed Arthen punched Jiazen in the throat.
The wizard fell, choking and clutching his neck.
“I warned you, damn it,” Zed said, turning and cutting down another of the zombie soldiers.
In moments, it was done. The undead warriors were no more, reduced to ashes by Eraina’s holy magic or torn apart by the furious warforged. Eraina removed her bloody dress, revealing her customary armor. She knelt and bound the wizard’s wrists behind his back.
“Impressed you took him alive, Arthen,” Eraina said as she dragged him toward the door. “The White Lions may even have a chance question him, once he can speak again.”
“I do my best,” the inquisitive said. He glanced around the warehouse, searching for the shabby grave robber. Raylen stood just under the sputtering lantern. He held an undead warrior’s halberd in his hand. A scrap of a black tabard hung from the tip of its blade. He stared at the floor in numb shock.
“Didn’t notice you actually joining the fight,” Zed said, impressed. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “You’re free now, Raylen.”
Raylen’s jaw worked for several seconds before he could speak. “By the Host,” he finally said. “Thank you.”
“I doubt the Host have a lot of good feelings toward me, but you’re welcome,” Zed said, lighting his pipe and popping it into his mouth.
“What do I do now?” Raylen asked.
“You uphold your part of the deal and tell us what you know,” Zed said. “After that, I really don’t care. Like I said, I’m a big admirer of redemption, but that’s really up to you.”
“Right, right,” Raylen said, nodding quickly. “The deal. It was four weeks ago. That woman you asked about wanted to charter an airship to Stormhome. Very urgent.”
“Stormhome?” Zed asked. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” Raylen said, scowling bitterly at the memory. “She was really pushy about it, too. Didn’t tip very much, either.”
“Did she say why?” Zed asked.
“I didn’t ask,” Raylen said. “People like me learn not to ask.”
“Thanks,” Zed said. “Now get out of here.”
The greasy little man nodded, mumbling a final, effusive thanks before running off into the night and, possibly, a new life.
“Khyber,” Zed said. “Why Stormhome, Tristam? Does that make any sense to you?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Tristam said. “According to Kiris’s journals, the Boneyard wasn’t the only place where Ashrem studied the Draconic Prophecy. There were others, as well. Places of power hidden around the world, where the Prophecy is very old and very strong.”
“And Stormhome is one of those?” Zed asked.
“No,” Tristam said, “The Prophecy wouldn’t be very strong in a place like that. It tends to resonate in places far away from mortal life, often in places we fear to go.”
“People are scared of the future,” Zed said with a dark chuckle.
“Maybe,” Tristam said. “Or maybe the future doesn’t like to be disturbed until it’s good and ready to arrive.”
“So then what does the Prophecy have to do with Stormhome?”
“It’s the northernmost port city on the continent,” Tristam said.
Zed looked at Tristam seriously. “Host, Tristam, I hope you’re not implying what I think you are.”
Tristam gave a quirky smile. “One of those places of power was Zul’nadn, an abandoned ruin deep in the Frostfell.”
Zed groaned and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Khyber,” he swore. “I hate the cold.”
NINE
The city of Stormhome teemed with people. Travelers from a dozen different races and a dozen different lands crowded the wide streets. Twin flags bearing the Aundairian dragonhawk and the House Lyrandar Kraken flapped proudly from nearly every building, boasting the twin masters of this city. Unlike most port cities, which often stank of fish and pitch, the inner streets of Stormhome smelled distinctly of cinnamon. The Lyrandar boasted an impressive mastery of the winds and were not above flaunting that mastery to make their city more palatable to visitors.
A single majestic tower rose against the sedate Stormhome skyline. This single massive docking tower was equipped to deal with all of the city’s airborne visitors. During the city’s time as an Aundairian military outpost, most of Stormhome’s structures had been built with an eye for simplicity—squat and close to the ground so that they might weather the frequent sea storms. When House Lyrandar took command of the settlement and transformed it into the hub of their vast merchant network, they added the tower for docking their fleet of elegant airships. Dozens of colorful burning rings pierced the dense morning fog around the tower, the idle energy of the elementals that held the Lyrandar fleet aloft. Captain Pherris Gerriman’s eyes fixed
nervously on a familiar ring of pale blue.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” Dalan said, clapping the old gnome on the shoulder. “The Dawn isn’t going anywhere without us.”
Pherris’s bushy eyebrows rose. “Am I so obvious?” he said wistfully. He looked back at the path ahead, following the others as they walked through the busy street. “We only just put her back together. I would hate to lose her in a place like this.”
“I wouldn’t worry,” Dalan said, winking. “The Lyrandar will keep a close eye on the ship while we’re here, if only to make sure we don’t cut in on their business. There’s no watchdog quite as keen as a sailor who thinks you might be after his share. Aeven is still there as well. I pity any thief that tries to sneak on board.”
Pherris shrugged. “I know,” he said with a sigh. “I’m a silly old man sometimes. I just can’t bear to be away from her.”
Dalan looked down at Pherris for a long moment, wondering if the old gnome was talking about his ship or the dryad. He changed the subject. “We need you here, Captain,” he said. “The Frostfell is a perilous frontier. We need your expertise if this journey is to be successful.”
“I meant to ask you about that, Dalan,” Zed said. “I know almost nothing about the Frostfell, and I hate not knowing what we’re getting into. I know it’s cold, it’s on the far side of the ocean, and no one ever comes back. That’s about it.”
“I think you know a great deal more than most,” Dalan said. “The Frostfell is a low priority for most explorers. Most deem it far more trouble than it’s worth, considering the profit to be had in less dangerous and more accessible areas.”
“I don’t like the sound of that,” Pherris said, grumbling under his breath. “I don’t recall ever hearing of a successful voyage to the Frostfell.”
“There was only one large expedition that ever journeyed into its depths and returned,” Dalan said.
