Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  “Tristam, no,” Seren said, worried.

  “Don’t worry, Seren,” he said. “A few minutes should be long enough to run back to Karia Naille and escape.”

  “You think I would trust you with this?” she asked.

  “By the Host, give it to him, Norra,” Ijaac snapped. “You want an alternative? This is it. You don’t even know where the Eye is, anyway. You needed me for that, and at this point I’m not sure I’d help you.” He looked at Tristam. “Are you sure you can get us back out of there in time, boy?”

  Tristam nodded.

  Norra frowned. She gave Tristam a long, wary look and held out the sphere. He took it in one hand, turning it over and examining the surface.

  “How does it work?” he asked.

  “Just throw it into the Eye,” Norra said. “It will activate automatically. I suppose you could get back to the airship if you were quick and lucky.”

  “We excel at quick and lucky, Miss Cais,” Pherris said.

  “Put us back down, Pherris,” Tristam said. “As close to Zul’nadn if you dare, but get back out fast if you see any sign of the dragon.”

  “Aye,” Pherris said. Karia Naille veered and banked downward, her elemental ring blazing a brilliant turquoise.

  “Zed, Gerith, I’ll need you both again,” Tristam said. “Ijaac, you said you would help us?”

  “What are we doing again?” he asked.

  “Collapsing a doorway between worlds and trying to stop a madman from reigniting the War,” the artificer said.

  The dwarf let that sink in. “Seriously?”

  Tristam nodded.

  “And you’re sure we’ll survive?” Ijaac asked.

  “Fairly sure,” Tristam said.

  “Eh, why not?” the dwarf chuckled. “I was ready to die down there in that cave. For what you did for me, I can take one more stupid risk.”

  “Eraina should come too,” Zed said. “If we run into more ghouls, we may need her.”

  “I would like to help,” Eraina said. “Seren is fit enough to travel and fight again, as well.”

  “Good,” Tristam said, smiling confidently at both of them. “We’ll need all the help we can get. I’d be grateful to have you both beside me.”

  “And me?” Omax said. The warforged sat near the bow of the ship, head bowed.

  Tristam hesitated. “Stay here and guard the ship, Omax,” he said, not looking at the warforged. “You’re too badly hurt to help us.”

  Omax looked back at the deck. “Aye,” he said.

  “Come, then,” Tristam said, climbing down the ladder to the cargo bay. “We need to hurry before the dragon notices us.”

  “Or before the Fellmaw arrives,” Aeven said. The dryad had appeared at the ship’s bow again. She perched on the railing, looking toward the east with a pensive expression. The sky flickered a faint green.

  “Is the storm coming?” Pherris asked.

  “Yes,” Aeven said. “We have a few hours, perhaps.”

  “Then we’ll hurry,” Tristam said, dropping below deck.

  The others filed after him. The warforged watched them go in silence.

  “Xain is as much a fool as he always was,” Norra said. “Why would he go into battle and leave a warforged behind?”

  “He fears that I will come to greater damage,” Omax said. The warforged rose and walked back toward the cargo bay, clutching his chest. He staggered slightly as he climbed down the stairs. His blue eyes flickered in pain, but he pressed on.

  Once Pherris and Norra were alone on the deck, the gnome turned to look at her. He pushed his frosted goggles back onto his forehead and gave her a polite smile. “Miss Cais, I understand that you have endured quite the traumatic ordeal,” he said. “As such, I was prepared to offer you a modicum of patience and politeness. Interestingly enough, you have already exhausted that gesture.”

  “You intend to judge me as well, gnome?” she asked.

  “That I do, human, and as long as you stand upon my ship, that is my right,” he answered, returning his attention to the ship’s controls. “Thus far Master Xain has saved your life and offered you a viable alternative to your crazed suicide mission. He deserves better from you than to be treated a fool.”

  “I …” Norra’s voice was heated, but she trailed off quickly. “I suppose we shall see,” she finished, looking slightly ashamed.

  Pherris grunted noncommittally. “Be aware that while you are welcome to remain with us and enjoy our hospitality until such a time as we return to civilization,” he said, “I then expect you to remove yourself from my ship immediately upon our return to Khorvaire.” He looked back at her. “Is that understood?”

  “Aye,” she said quietly.

  “Until then, I recommend that you repay the generosity that Master Xain has shown you by making yourself of use,” he said. “I understand you are an artificer?”

  “I am,” she said.

  “Then I have a request.”

  SEVENTEEN

  Tristam stood before the gates of Zul’nadn, staring up at the giant skeletal maw in wonder. The empty eye sockets shone with a faint golden fire, staring upward into space with an expression of timeless anger. The inner structure of the ruins stood just within the mouth, with the lower jaw and skull serving as an outer wall.

  “Why would the dwarves build something like that?” Seren asked, standing close to Tristam as he studied the massive skull. “And how did they build it out here?”

  “Not entirely sure they built it, lass,” Ijaac replied. He trudged past them, morningstar slung over one shoulder. “According to some of the inscriptions Old Ash found inside, Zoltan’s cult just sort of found the skull and moved in without asking too many questions.”

  “So then who built it?” Seren asked.

  “Who says anyone did?” Ijaac replied with a mad grin. “Someone definitely built the inner walls, but I think the skull is just what it appears to be. Take a good look when we get close. It’s more like bone than stone or ice.”

  “No creature is that big,” Gerith said.

  “Not anymore,” Ijaac replied.

  Tristam looked down at the halfling scout. He was nervous, fidgety, constantly jumping at imagined sounds and clinging close to his glidewing. He remembered how Gerith clung to the halfling superstitions about the Boneyard. This place, an enormous monument to some forgotten supernatural entity, was not so very different.

  “Gerith, maybe you should get on Blizzard and patrol out here,” Tristam said, laying a hand on the halfling’s shoulder. “Someone should keep an eye out for the dragon, if it comes here.”

  “Aye,” Gerith said gratefully. He cast the ruins one last suspicious glance, made a quick sign against evil, and flew off on Blizzard’s back.

  “Sense anything, Eraina?” Zed asked. The inquisitive had drawn his sword, and held it ready.

  The paladin nodded. “There is evil here, intense and pervasive,” she said. Her face glistened with sweat. “I can sense it without even attempting to do so. I feel it senses us as well.”

  “Was afraid you’d say that,” Zed said. “Let’s hurry this up a bit.”

  “Your instincts are sharp, Arthen,” Eraina said, looking around carefully. “I sense ancient evil makes its home here.”

  “Show us the way, Ijaac,” Tristam said.

  The dwarf nodded pertly and stomped off through the gap in the jaw that served as a gate. He paused briefly, tapping the tip of his morningstar against the bone. The weapon’s spike head took on a bright blue glow, illuminating the path ahead. Tristam twisted the head of a ring on his right hand, causing it to glow brightly as well.

  “Showoff,” the dwarf said with a chuckle.

  The courtyard between the outer wall and the inner ruins was littered with bones and debris.

  “Most of these aren’t animal bones,” Zed said, looking at the refuse as he walked. “How is that possible? I thought only Lord ir’Dayne and Ashrem d’Cannith ever went to the Frostfell.”

&n
bsp; Ijaac laughed darkly. “People come here all the time,” he said. “They just never go back home.”

  “Comforting,” Zed said.

  “You did notice that all the ghouls weren’t dwarves, right?” Ijaac said. “The original Zul’nadn undead have bolstered their ranks with the odd hapless explorer over the years. S’why I was so eager to make sure my friends got as proper a burial as we could muster.”

  “Something is following us,” Seren whispered. She did not look back. She followed Ijaac at a calm, even pace. Her dagger was in her hand and her eyes flicked to one side, indicating the direction. “Several of them, moving through the shadows.”

  “Ghouls?” Ijaac asked. His voice shook. His hands tightened on the haft of his weapon.

  “No sense in waiting to find out,” Tristam said. He reached into his coat, drawing out several small clay flasks. “Run for the entrance and don’t look back.”

  The others complied, running for the door just as Tristam hurled the flasks toward the gap in the gate. The shrieking chatter of ghouls rose behind them as the undead saw their prey attempt to escape. Tristam’s bottles exploded in a chaotic swirl of light and sound. The ghouls howled in confusion. Tristam used the precious seconds of distraction to dash after his friends. Seren had waited for him. He took her hand and ran. They ran through the narrow doors of the inner ruins, hounded by the scrabbling sound of bare claws on stone.

  “Help me with this,” Zed growled, throwing his shoulder into the heavy wooden doors.

  The others complied, forcing the massive doors to slowly grind shut. The mad cries of the ghouls grew closer. Shining yellow eyes appeared in the shadows beyond the door, drawing near. Eraina stepped back, holding her spear and sword crossed at length before her.

  “By the light of the Hearthmother—burn,” she whispered.

  There was a moment of silence, then a wave of warmth washed out from the paladin. A few of the ghouls cried out. Pain wracked their twisted corpses as the goddess tore the semblance of life from them. The rest threw themselves into the doors, shrieking in pain, ignoring the paladin’s power. Twisted hands probed through the cracks in the door, seeking flesh.

  “I can do no more,” Eraina said, worried.

  “Get away from the doors!” Zed shouted.

  They fell back as the ancient wooden gates flew inward. The stench of stale, raw flesh filled the halls of Zul’nadn. The ghouls clambered through in a chaotic mass, some of them clinging to the wood like monkeys. There were even more than before. Tristam’s wand was already in his hand, unleashing fire over the undead. A hollow, twisted roar erupted from the mass, dying quickly as the ghouls were reduced to ash. A half dozen survived, now loping directly toward Tristam. Eraina and Zed stepped into their path, sword and spear slashing through them. Ijaac’s morningstar fell heavily on another from behind, crushing its back. The wounded creature struck the dwarf across the face. He fell, limbs stiffening, just as Seren darted in and buried her dagger in the ghoul’s chest.

  “Help him,” Zed shouted, pointing at the dwarf. Seren snatched Ijaac’s morningstar off the floor and wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders.

  The last of the ghouls had fallen. Eraina knelt beside one of them, her dark eyes searching for answers. “Will there be more?” she asked.

  “With ghouls, there are always more,” Zed said. “Eraina, we have to hurry.” He held his sword ready and watched the courtyard, shoulders tense.

  “Here,” she said, tearing something from one of the undead dwarves. She held out an ancient amulet of blackened metal, depicting a complex circle of writhing tentacles. “Touched by the dark powers of Xoriat. Look.” She pointed at the undead bodies scattered beyond the door. “The ones who fell when I called upon Boldrei were not dwarves—probably sailors or explorers who were reanimated by the cultists in the years since. The rest were protected from Boldrei’s holy power by these amulets. I could not turn them.”

  “All of the ones in the cavern earlier were wearing those,” Zed said, looking at the twisted metal, pondering some unspoken thought.

  “If it’s a magic problem, then magic can solve it,” Tristam said, kneeling and plucking an amulet from one of the corpses. “I can study this later and maybe find a way to pierce the protection.”

  The sound of more maddened shrieking echoed from somewhere outside, drawing slowly closer. Zed pushed the wooden doors closed and let the bar fall. “Eraina and I can wait here and hold the door,” he said. “Find the Eye fast, Tristam.”

  “Aye,” Tristam said, tucking the amulet into his pocket.

  “That way,” Ijaac said, nodding stiffly as Seren helped him walk.

  The three moved deeper into the ruins. The Frostfell’s pervasive cold quickly faded, replaced by a sticky heat so warm and intense that they were forced to remove their extra layers of bundled furs and leather. The walls of Zul’nadn hummed, radiating an unnerving living energy. Tristam felt the strange sensation that there was something deep within the floor beneath him, watching them, waiting. It was a maddening sensation, invasive and alien.

  “I feel it too, lad,” Ijaac whispered. The dwarf’s face was pale behind his wild beard. “Let’s finish our business and be done with this place.”

  “Which way?” Tristam asked.

  “Keep going,” Ijaac said, nodding at the hall ahead. “There’s a stair or a ramp somewhere. Been a few years since I was here last, but this was the …”

  Without warning the floor gave way beneath them with a crack. Seren jumped back instinctively, but Tristam and Ijaac tumbled forward into the void. Everything went dark, and Tristam felt himself falling for several seconds. He hit the earth with a jarring thud. He crawled to his hands and knees, finding himself in a rough earthen cavern. The light of his ring reflected against the walls, spattering fitful shadows everywhere. Ijaac lay on his back beside Tristam, muttering pained curses to himself in the Dwarven tongue.

  “Yep. I think this is the place,” Ijaac said, finally sitting up with a grimace.

  “Seren!” Tristam shouted. He scrambled back the way he had come, climbing up the rocky slop toward the hall above.

  The pale light of his ring shone through the hole into the darkened hall above. Seren lay at the very edge, her arm outstretched, grasping toward Tristam. He leaned toward her but couldn’t reach.

  “No rope?” Ijaac asked, looking up at Tristam with a frown.

  Tristam looked back at Ijaac and shrugged uncomfortably.

  Ijaac sighed and trudged off to explore the cavern.

  “I can’t reach you,” Seren said, her voice panicked. “I’m not sure I could even pull you up.”

  “It’s all right, Seren,” Tristam said, studying the way he had fallen. “It looks like the hole collapsed a bit after we fell anyway. I don’t think we can go back that way. There has to be another way out.” He pulled off his ring, tossing it up to her. She caught it deftly in one hand. “Go back and help Zed and Eraina. We’ll find our own way back to you.”

  “Are you sure?” she asked quietly.

  Tristam nodded and smiled reassuringly, ignoring his gnawing fear.

  Seren looked uncertain but returned his smile. “Come back to us, Master Xain,” she said, her tone lightly mocking.

  He laughed and felt a little less afraid. “I will, Miss Morisse,” he promised.

  “Adorable,” Ijaac grumbled, peering around the cave by the light of his morningstar. “I’m touched. Can we keep moving? I don’t like not knowing the way out.”

  “Sorry,” Tristam said. He looked back up at Seren, but she was already gone.

  Tristam climbed back down. He drew his wand out of his coat, speaking a word of magic that made it glow with a warm golden radiance. He gasped as the light filled the cavern. A hundred lights shimmered in reply, filling the darkness. The shine of his wand reflected off of twisting scripts that covered the stone walls.

  “The Draconic Prophecy,” Tristam whispered.

  “Aye, part of it,” Ijaac said. �
��It’s all over the walls down here.”

  Tristam barely heard the dwarf’s reply. The words surrounded him, pressed down on him, forced themselves into his mind. The Prophecy really was alive … and it had been waiting for him. Images swum through his vision. He saw an army of demons battle an army of dragons over the skies of the Talenta Plains. He saw an ancient giant, standing alone in a vast field of emerald green, fighting to hold the world together with will alone as everything unraveled around him. The giant fell, alone and unmourned, leaving behind only his burning heart as a reminder of his vast power as the ice embraced his bones. He saw a mortal conqueror take up the weapon of the fallen dragons, temper it in the giant’s fiery heart, and turn its power against the nations of man, elf, and dwarf. The conqueror wrought death and destruction against those all who stood against him. The conqueror was cursed as a villain, decried as a madman.

  And in the end, there was everlasting peace.

  “Xain,” Ijaac said, shaking Tristam’s shoulder. The dwarf’s eyes were wide with worry.

  “Huh?” Tristam said, blinking. He was lying on the stone floor, though he didn’t remember falling. His throat felt raw and dry.

  “You’ve been lying there screaming for ten minutes,” the dwarf said.

  “Sorry,” Tristam said, mussing his hair as he rubbed his aching head. “Not sure what happened. I had some kind of reaction to the magic here.”

  “Magic’ll do odd things if left to itself,” the dwarf agreed. He peered around the cavern, holding his glowing morningstar high. “I’ve been trying to figure out where we are. I thought this is the same cavern where Old Ash and I found the Dragon’s Eye, but it’s been a long time. It should be right there.” He pointed at a large formation of pure white ice in the center of the chamber. “Afraid my memory isn’t what it used to be, Master Xain.”

  “It’s all right, Ijaac,” Tristam said. He staggered to his feet and snatched his wand from the floor, holding it up for a better view of the cavern. “It has to be here somewhere.”

  “If you pardon me asking, you said some strange things while you were out,” the dwarf said. “I know my way around foreign languages, at least well enough to ask where the privy is in most of the places I’ve been, but I’ve never heard that one before. What was that?”