by Rich Wulf
“And how do we know what’s right?” Omax said.
“It comes naturally,” Gerith answered.
“And here is what comes naturally to me,” Omax said. He opened a broad, three-fingered hand and held it before Gerith’s face. “These hands can crush bone and tear metal, Gerith. I do not rest, do not tire, and can struggle on when my enemies have long succumbed to exhaustion. I have been given the tools to function as an efficient war machine, a living weapon to kill mortals. I was trained and encouraged to surrender to my violent urges. It is not what I aspire to be, but it is what comes naturally to me. It would be easy for me to be a monster, Gerith. Very easy. Does that make me ‘evil?’ Or does it grant my struggle to do what is ‘right’ greater value?”
Gerith shivered. “I think I want to talk about something else now.”
“Very well,” the warforged said, unperturbed.
The glidewing squawked happily and threw a stringy chunk of fish guts over his shoulder. The glidewing seemed to be aiming the entrails into the crowd.
“You look injured,” Gerith said, nodding at the dents and cuts that marked Omax’s chest.
“I am somewhat damaged,” the warforged said quietly. “It is nothing.”
“I thought Dalan had commissioned the Cannith thinkers to repair you,” Gerith said.
“I do not trust them,” the warforged said. “I would prefer to wait until Tristam has the time to do so himself.”
“And he hasn’t?” Gerith asked.
“He has done his best,” Omax said. “I have taken a considerable amount of damage in a short period. Given time, I do not doubt Tristam could fully repair my wounds. Warforged were designed to work in tandem with artificers such as Tristam. Their magic naturally boosts, heals, and sustains us—and Tristam is far more skilled than most artificers I have known. Yet I do not wish to tax his abilities when we need him focused on our quest.”
“That’s ridiculous, Omax,” Gerith said. “We need you in good shape.”
“Why am I needed so badly?” Omax asked.
The halfling looked surprised. “You’re the strongest.”
The warforged chuckled.
“What are you laughing at?” the halfling asked, brow furrowing in irritation.
“Nothing,” Omax said. “I was recalling a conversation I had with Seren. Do not worry about me, Gerith. I shall ask Tristam for aid when the time is right. We have a long trip ahead. There will be ample opportunity.”
“Good,” Gerith said. “We don’t need you falling apart on us, or breaking down, or dying, or whatever.” The halfling looked puzzled. “Do warforged die? I mean, if you fall apart, can you be fixed? Or do you die just like living people do?”
“Like living people?” Omax said.
“You know what I mean,” Gerith said. “I’m not trying to say you aren’t alive.”
“I did not take it that way at all,” Omax said. “I just found it somewhat amusing that you judge the finality of death as a gauge of legitimate life. Eberron’s history is peppered with individuals who prospered long after they should have been dead, and that is without even considering magic, which blurs all lines.”
“True,” Gerith said. “Hey, do you think Eraina can bring people back from the dead? I hear the gods give their champions that kind of power sometimes.”
“I think such blessings lie beyond the sphere of a paladin,” Omax said, “but if you are curious, you could always die. Then I could ask her on your behalf.”
“I’m not that curious,” the halfling said.
Omax laughed, drawing a mischievous grin from the halfling.
“I do think it’s weird, though,” Gerith said.
“How do you mean?” the warforged asked.
“I mean it’s odd that we run into half the problems that we do, considering how much magic we have at our disposal.”
“What seems magical to one may be quite mundane and limited to another,” Omax said. “Take Blizzard, for example.”
The glidewing squawked and peered down darkly at the sound of his name, then returned to nibbling his meal.
“What about him?” Gerith said.
“Your rapport with him is extraordinary,” Omax said. “To the observer, almost mystical. You sense one another’s moods, move perfectly in time with one another. When you fall, he never fails to catch you. It seems magical.”
“Blizzard isn’t magic; he’s just a good boy,” Gerith said, smiling proudly at his steed. The glidewing ignored him. “That’s just training and good timing. It’s nothing like what Tristam or Aeven or Eraina can do. Some of that stuff is nothing short of miraculous. You’d think that with magic like that, we could get an edge. We could just make our problems go away.”
“We have a flying ship,” Omax observed. “We have a paladin who heals our wounds and a dryad who commands the weather. Do you not consider these an ‘edge?’ ”
Gerith opened his mouth to reply but said nothing at first. He removed his soft leather cap and shrugged. “That’s a good point,” he said. “I guess there are a few things I take for granted, but still—shouldn’t magic make this a great deal easier than it is?”
“I am no expert in the arts of divine and arcane powers, but I have come to grasp a few of their limitations by watching Tristam,” Omax said. “Many people use the word ‘magic’ to define and contain anything they do not understand. Thus any problem beyond their grasp can be solved by ‘magic.’ Yet true magic is a power with boundaries and limitations like any other.”
“I know, but those boundaries are pretty loose,” Gerith said. “Magic can make an airship fly, heal the dying, and let me speak languages I’ve never even heard before. Host—it can even create life. Look at yourself, Omax. You’re a creature of magic.”
“And my existence is adequate warning that one should not use an ill-understood power to resolve a crisis,” he said. “The result will only give birth to more unforeseen problems. The men who created me and my brethren, for example, wanted slaves—not a sovereign people who wish to seek their own destiny. There is a reason no one builds any more warforged.”
Gerith stood, dusting his small hands on his leather trousers. He leaned one elbow absently against Omax and rested his head against his fist as he studied the ships at the docks. Omax did not appear to mind, tending his injuries and occasionally flicking a scrap of burnt, twisted metal into the water. Above them, Blizzard finished his meal and flung the now clean fish skeleton into the bay.
“Now that the war is over, what does a warforged do?” Gerith asked.
“The same as any soldier does, I imagine,” Omax said. “Enjoy the welcome respite, or wait for the next battle.”
“Eh, I’d rather not wait,” Gerith said. “Even during the War I avoided fighting. Most halflings know better than to get wrapped up in that sort of thing.”
“Yours is a wise people,” Omax said.
“Eh, it doesn’t make as much of a difference as you would think,” Gerith said, a forlorn note in his high-pitched voice. “People I knew still died, or even worse, just disappeared.” He was quiet for a time. “Still, I found some of the best stories during that time. I just hate the endings. Stories should have happy endings, and the War left far too few of those.”
“Agreed.”
The halfling drummed his fingers against his scalp. “I don’t think it’s over, Omax,” he said. “They say it’s over, but it’s not. Just look around. People don’t trust each other. The Five Nations, the dragonmarked houses, the other assorted kingdoms, they’re all still always trying to find ways to pick fights with each other. Is this the way things are supposed to be?”
“Hard to say,” Omax said. “After a century, too few remain who remember life without war. I think it will take some time for the world to accustom itself to peace.”
“Maybe,” the halfling admitted. “I just worry about all the other Legacies that might be out there.”
“Other Legacies?” Omax asked.
“How many other leftover memories of the Last War,” Gerith said. “Dangerous weapons, like Ashrem’s Legacy. Charismatic madmen like Marth. How many sparks are still bouncing around out there, looking rekindle the war?” He looked at Omax seriously. “And are there enough people like us to put out all the sparks? What if we can’t do it, Omax?”
The warforged’s heavy shoulders shifted. “I do not know, Gerith,” he said. “I wish I could reassure you.”
The halfling sighed. “I guess we should return to the ship,” he said morosely. “Maybe we should stop on the way to pick up some more furs and blankets. We’ll need as many as we can get.”
“Aye,” Omax said, rising with a hollow clank.
“I keep feeling like we’ve forgotten something important,” Gerith said. “I always forget something important.”
“I cannot say,” Omax said. “Other than that your recent introspective turn has left you no time for mischief. Captain Gerriman will be most disappointed if you leave him no reason to scold you.”
“Oh, I haven’t forgotten,” Gerith said with a sudden mischievous grin. “We still have to cross half of Stormhome to get back to Karia Naille. I have plenty of time to get into trouble.”
“Excellent,” Omax said. “I shall strive to keep my looming to a minimum as we continue.”
“Good,” Gerith answered. “You do that.”
ELEVEN
Stormhome was an unusual sort of city. Due to the thriving trade and tourism that flowed through the city, over half the people at any given time were strangers. Even many of the citizens who kept houses here spent much of their time abroad as sailors, merchants, or spies. Thus Stormhome was, with the obvious exception of the nobles who ruled the core of the city, a city of strangers. Known acquaintances were rare, and friends were even rarer. Passersby, while always cordial, kept to their own affairs. Such a place was quite comfortable to Shaimin d’Thuranni. He was the sort of man who preferred to be politely ignored. It just made his life a great deal easier. The less people who remembered his face, the better. The less people cared about each other, the less likely that a cry for help would summon anyone who cared. He liked being a stranger.
Dressed simply in an oiled black coat and short gray cloak, the assassin lounged under the awning of a small tea house. He leaned against the door frame as he sipped from a steaming ceramic cup, painted with the ugliest depiction of the Lyrandar house seal that Shaimin had ever seen, resembling a tangled mess of blue yarn and jagged noodles more than the traditional kraken, lightning bolts, and pearl. The tea was terrible, truly awful. It was far too bitter for his taste and reeked of kelp. He would never endure being served such a thing in his home. At a casual gathering he likely would have spat it in the host’s face and demanded satisfaction in blood. He was not the sort of man to indulge moderately—anything less than perfection was not worth his time.
Of course such quibbles didn’t apply when he was on a mission. Given the current circumstances, Shaimin was actually enjoying himself quite a bit. There was a certain decadent charm in allowing himself to pretend to be so flawed, to endure such wretched treatment to maintain his anonymity. It was the truest test of his skills, that he could restrain exercising his murderous talents even against someone who would insult him by serving such refuse. He knew he was arrogant and self indulgent, but he had earned the right to be such things. Humility was for morons.
Most of Karia Naille’s crew had been inside the dwarf’s house for a little over an hour. It had been a long time since Shaimin had seen Lemgran Bruenhail. The assassin doubted the dwarf would notice or recognize him after so many years, but Shaimin kept a careful distance from the house regardless. He wondered if Lemgran was still absorbed with self-pity and cowardice. The elder Bruenhail had always been a feeble man, a shadow haunting the steps of his more intelligent and capable brother. If Ijaac Bruenhail was dead, Lemgran was now truly and fully worthless. Shaimin could only imagine what sort of desperate state would lead Tristam Xain and his crew to seek the aid of such a pathetic soul.
As he waited for them to emerge from the house, Shaimin analyzed and categorized the situation thus far. The warforged and the halfling had already separated from the others to attend to their own business. That, at least, was a good thing. Even so, he had already been surprised once on this job, compelling him to take a more methodical approach. Impatience bred mistakes as surely as filth bred vermin. A Thuranni did not suffer filth.
Shaimin watched the dwarf’s house and considered the other potential threats and strategies one by one. One thing was certain. If he was to kill Tristam Xain, it would have to be done outside the airship. In his long and glorious career, Shaimin had frequently been required to deal with that most annoying of obstacles—magic. After being unduly surprised by more than one wizard, he had commissioned a bracelet that would allow him to sense the presence of magic, as well as those who could wield it. When he looked up at Karia Naille, the trinket warned him of the presence of something powerful and primal. Shaimin was uncertain what it was. Given the intensity of the energies, he was unsure he even wished to know. Perhaps he could deal with whatever was on board, given time and planning, but why bother when he could merely wait for Xain to emerge?
Catching the artificer away from the ship seemed safer, but Xain surrounded himself with allies at all times. The Karia Naille’s crew was not large, but each member was a considerable threat in his or her own way. Shaimin considered his potential opponents one by one.
Neither the gnome captain or Ashrem’s fat nephew would pose any serious threat. The gnome had perhaps been a formidable warrior in his youth, but those days were long past. His limbs were stiff, and he carried no obvious weapons. Dalan d’Cannith was only slightly more threatening. The guild master had never been—and never would be—a warrior, though he was definitely the sort of man who would turn a knife against an unwary enemy’s back.
The halfling scout appeared to be a capable, alert fighter, but Shaimin doubted Snowshale would pose a serious danger. Snowshale’s glidewing, on the other hand, made the assassin nervous. The creature was all sinew, claws, and teeth. Its dull black eyes radiated the mindless fury of a predator. If Shaimin were forced to confront the pair, it would be better to slay the beast first—and quickly. To kill either would likely send the other into a suicidal frenzy, and Shaimin preferred his chances against a raging halfling rather than a frenzied dinosaur.
The presence of a Deneith Sentinel Marshal, much less one who wore the trappings of a Spear of Boldrei, was intensely puzzling. To serve a goddess and a dragonmarked house would already require a questionable balance of loyalties. Shaimin wondered what would inspire such a champion to ally herself with such a questionable group. Whatever the reasoning, her presence irritated him. Divine magic was extremely frustrating to a person in his line of work. After going to all the preparation required to deal a perfect killing blow, nothing was quite as galling as to see a paladin wave her hand and wipe the injury away. It was the sort of thing to ruin a man’s faith. Did the gods have nothing better to do than interfere with his livelihood? The very idea of paladins and clerics made Shaimin bitter. If the paladin interfered, he’d have no choice but to attack her first, optimally striking her at the throat so that she could not call upon her goddess. She would be a formidable opponent. Once engaged there would be no option but to fight until she was confirmed dead. Paladins were stubborn sorts, and could recover from extraordinary wounds if an assassin was neglectful.
Zed Arthen was another curiosity. Most inquisitives that Shaimin had encountered were bookish, awkward creatures. Arthen had the eyes and bearing of a veteran soldier. His name was vaguely familiar, and Shaimin cursed himself for being unable to recall the reference, but the man was definitely more than he appeared. Shaimin considered hiring random thugs to pick a fight with the inquisitive, simply to gauge the man’s abilities. He was probably just as well off waiting for Xain to separate from him. Xain’s relationship with Arthen was cold at best. The
two rarely spent more time with one another off the Karia Naille than they had to.
The warforged, Omax, was definitely an opponent to avoid at all costs. Shaimin had slain his share of constructs in the past. They generally took far more effort than they were worth. Warforged fought to kill, asked no quarter, and survived brutal damage. Even victory was a dubious accomplishment, as they frequently left their opponents in no shape to fight again. Even more important, they knew how to wait. As an elf, Shaimin was virtually immortal. His long lifespan had granted him inexhaustible patience, a wealth of experience, and a unique perspective of time. He was willing to wait for days on end to draw an enemy into a relaxed and vulnerable state. The tactic worked well against humans, who were frequently impulsive and foolhardy. Such an advantage was of no use against a warforged. Though none of the constructs were more than a few decades old, they were literally immortal and neither slept nor rested. They were more patient than elves, and the idea that they would one day outlive elves as well was mildly insulting to Shaimin. Judging by the scarred, weathered condition of this warforged, Omax had survived many battles. He would be a deadly enemy, but he radiated overconfidence. Shaimin noted the unsteady, pained twitch in the warforged’s gait. Omax was injured, and more badly than he admitted. All that remained was to find those wounds and exploit them.
Then there was the girl.
Shaimin’s face darkened at the memory. He was not the sort of man who enjoyed losing, and he definitely did not enjoy surprises. Surprises were for men without imagination. He liked to believe when he embarked upon a mission that there was no contingency he had not considered. That girl—that foolish, random, stupid human girl—had shattered his preconceptions. Though she had not stopped him, she beat him in every way that counted. She noticed him tailing Xain through the streets of Korth when he did not intend to be seen. She acted before he could strike a killing blow. She had distracted him long enough for Xain to bring his powerful magic to bear.
