by Rich Wulf
That was perhaps the most disturbing loss of all. It was rare that the Prophecy manifested as powerfully as it did in the caverns beneath Zul’nadn. The prophet had found only one place where it spoke to him more powerfully than it did here. Strongholds could be rebuilt. Minions, even those as powerful as Mercheldethast, could be replaced. Zul’nadn’s voice, however, would remain forever silent.
Zamiel released a deep, exhausted sigh. He spoke a word of magic and the world folded around him, shifting and blurring as it resolved itself into a broad, grassy plain. Seventh Moon sat propped on a skeletal network of scaffolding as Cyran soldiers scrambled about repairing the crippled airship.
A raucous cry erupted from over the nearby hills. A pack of six Ghost Talon halflings broke over the crest, riding on bipedal clawfoot mounts. They shouted defiantly in their bizarre tongue, loosing arrows at the Cyran soldiers as they rode past. Their shafts flew true, injuring several of the workers. The Cyrans reacted immediately, falling behind wooden barricades and returning a volley of arrows. One of the clawfoot mounts staggered and fell, spilling its rider on the earth near the prophet’s feet. The halfling grunted in pain and rolled nimbly to his feet just as another arrow took him in the chest, driving him to the ground again. The other riders hesitated, but the wounded halfling shouted, waving them off. They continued galloping, cursing at the Cyrans as they retreated.
Zamiel relaxed the magical aura that surrounded him, allowing himself to be seen. The advancing Cyrans hesitated, staring in surprise. The halfling looked up, his face twisted with pain, rage, and hatred. He lunged at the prophet wildly with a short, hooked knife. Zamiel caught the little man’s wrist and looked down at him with a compassionate smile.
“Your thirst for vengeance is understandable, my friend,” he said, speaking to the halfling in the little man’s own tongue. “Yet you have failed your tribe, because you were impatient. Do you understand this? In your haste to avenge your kin, you have only fallen to the same power that destroyed them.”
The halfling glared at Zamiel in silent hatred, blood streaming from his nose and lips. A shriek erupted as the Cyrans buried their swords in his wounded mount, setting off an anguished shriek from the halfling. He drew a second, hidden knife and slashed at the prophet’s hand. The knife left no wound.
Zamiel looked down in mild surprise and seized the halfling’s other wrist. He sighed, carefully placed his foot against the halfling’s throat, and gently pulled on both arms. There was a brief, muffled cry followed by a wet snap. With a disappointed sigh, Zamiel let the dead halfling’s body collapse on the earth.
He looked up at the Cyran soldiers, all now watching him with undisguised awe. While Zamiel was not one to broadcast his power recklessly, it was important that examples sometimes be made. He clasped his hands and bowed politely, mumbling a barely audible blessing before sweeping off toward the great hulk of the fallen vessel. There, in the shadow of the Moon, he found the camp where repairs were directed.
“Brother Zamiel,” Marth said, only glancing up to nod in greeting. The changeling was well accustomed to Zamiel’s sudden appearances and disappearances.
“What progress?” Zamiel asked smoothly.
“Very little,” Marth said. “Moon’s basic structure is nearly intact, despite the frequent incursions of those annoying Ghost Talon harriers. The guards have them well in hand, for the most part. It is the Valenar who concern me more.”
“Valenar?” Zamiel asked. “Elves?”
“They invade the plains periodically,” Marth said. “Some of the lookouts say they’ve seen scouting parties, but there has been no violence yet.”
“If the Valenar sense opportunity, they will not attack until they have mustered force enough to overwhelm us,” Zamiel said.
Marth nodded. “I fear they have returned for reinforcements. The men are worried. They know the elves’ reputation.”
“I would not give it much thought,” Zamiel said. “If the elves seek booty, the halflings are much easier targets than we.”
“Perhaps,” Marth said, clearly unconvinced.
“Or perhaps they can be reasoned with,” Zamiel said. “The Valenar are honorable souls. We can always use more allies.” He looked at the wrecked airship. “When will she fly again?”
“A difficult question,” Marth said. He straightened as he studied the ship, focusing on the change of subject. “The elemental containment is, as I feared, unsalvageable. After studying her workings in detail, I am uncertain that the Moon would fly even if we secured a new bound elemental from Zil’argo. Ashrem customized upon the gnomish construction extensively. I fear we would need his genius to make the Moon rise again.”
“Disturbing,” the prophet said. “Why do you continue to repair her if there is no hope she will fly again?”
“I never said there was no hope,” Marth said with a grim smile. “Only that hope does not lie in Zil’argo. I need only wait for Tristam Xain to resurface. Ashrem d’Cannith built the Karia Naille. Her elemental core will serve to fire the Seventh Moon.”
“When do you think he will reappear?” Zamiel asked.
“I cannot say when, but I know where,” Marth replied. “Dalan d’Cannith was on the Seventh Moon far too long. A mind like his would have easily gathered clues enough to trace the soldiers who serve me. No doubt the Mourning Dawn will follow that trail to New Cyre. Over half the crew still has kin there.”
“Find Tristam quickly, Marth,” Zamiel said. “Each time he escapes you, he grows more dangerous.”
Marth frowned at the mention of his failure, but made no excuses. Instead, he stepped away from the repair crew, pale eyes intent on the prophet. “Something has happened,” he said.
“Xain has been to the Frostfell,” Zamiel said. “He has destroyed Zul’nadn.”
“Destroyed it?” Marth asked, shocked. “Are you certain?”
Zamiel looked at Marth patiently.
“A foolish question,” the changeling said. “How did he do such a thing?”
“It seems he is not as far behind your research as you believed,” the prophet said. “I sensed rampant magical energies similar to those of the Legacy. He turned the manifest zone upon itself, twisting the space between worlds and collapsing the temple.”
“What of the Draconic Prophecy?” Marth asked.
“Gone,” Zamiel said. “That which was written on the walls of Zul’nadn only remains here.” He pressed his hand against his chest. “Fear not, Marth. I feel I spent lifetimes studying the mysteries. Though the Prophecy speaks no more, I guide you still.”
“Thank you, Zamiel,” Marth said. “If you have time, do you think you could speak to the men? Between the wreck, the halflings, and the elves their morale has suffered terribly. Your words would do much to inspire them.”
“I will do what I can,” Zamiel said. “But I shall require some time alone in meditation.”
“Whatever you require,” Marth said. He smiled gratefully at the prophet and returned to his work.
TWENTY-TWO
Tristam staggered onto the deck, pulling his goggles away and coughing painfully. Pink smoke rolled off him, along with the stench of rotten eggs. He lurched to the ship’s rail, leaning into the wind and letting the cool breeze wash over him. His goggles fell forgotten from his hand. The little clay homunculus snatched them in one hand before they could tumble through the railing and into the sky. It slung them over one shoulder and plopped down by Tristam’s feet, regarding its creator with patient curiosity. Tristam clapped his hands rapidly over his sleeves, putting out the last few sparks that were dancing through his clothing.
“Research not going well?” Pherris asked, glancing over his shoulder at the artificer.
“I’m just a little flustered,” Tristam said, voice hoarse from coughing. “I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.”
“Pretty obvious to me,” Zed said. The inquisitive stood near the bow of the ship, long pipe dangling from his mouth. “I’ve seen this sort of thing
plenty of times.”
Tristam looked at the inquisitive curiously.
“Peace,” Zed said with a laugh. “From the Frostfell to Stormhome and beyond and we haven’t had any trouble at all. You don’t know what to do with yourself, Tristam. You keep expecting something to happen, and when it doesn’t, you worry. You’re looking for trouble. Seen it in plenty of young soldiers who just survived their first battle. Few weeks of peace after something like that can drive a man crazy.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Tristam said. “I’m worried about how easily things have gone since Zul’nadn. I’m worried that Norra was so eager to leave the ship and return to Morgrave. I’m worried that Dalan has been acting so strangely since he came back on board. I’m worried that no one in Stormhome gave us any trouble when we landed, though we were the only ship to escape Marth’s attack.”
“Dalan thinks none of the Lyrandar port authorities recognized us,” Pherris said.
Tristam grunted, unconvinced.
“Anyway, what were you working on, Tristam?” Zed asked. “Smells like it isn’t going well.”
The artificer shrugged. “I was taking a break from Overwood’s journals to tinker with a new formula,” he said. “I’d been toying with it in my head for a while now. It didn’t turn out quite as stable as I was hoping.”
“Explosives?” Zed asked.
“Not initially,” Tristam said. “I meant it to be a sleep powder. There was an unexpected reaction.” He rubbed his eyes and blinked into the wind. “I still can’t see straight. I guess the mixture was ineffective”
“Or just effective enough,” Zed said. “That all depends how long you want them to stay asleep. Did you make any more?”
“Of course,” Tristam said. He held out one hand, displaying a pink glass sphere. A gleam of gold metal shone within it.
“Looks like an egg,” Zed observed. “What’s that inside?”
“A calculated risk,” Tristam said.
“I am glad you are not one to let a failed experiment discourage you, Master Xain,” Dalan said, emerging from the galley. “I knew I was wise to sponsor you. Without curiosity, there can be no innovation.” The guild master held a thick wooden platter heaped with bread and roast duck. He smiled broadly and nodded at his burden, quite pleased at the bounty. “Gerith has outdone himself today. You really should help yourselves while it’s still warm.” He whistled softly as he strode across the deck and disappeared into his cabin.
Tristam stared at Dalan’s hatch blankly. Zed carefully tapped out his pipe on the rail and tucked it back into his coat.
“You’re right,” Pherris said quietly. “Dalan has been odd since he returned. Almost … I can’t describe it.”
“Pleasant,” Zed said.
“That’s the word,” Pherris answered.
“Pretty disturbing, I agree,” Zed said. “He hasn’t been as nosy as usual. Kept mostly to himself.”
“Perhaps he is busy organizing the information he acquired in Stormhome,” Pherris said. “He’s been amiable because he has a riddle to occupy his mind.”
“Or he found a woman,” Zed said. “Host knows Dalan needs one.”
Pherris frowned in disapproval.
“It’s true,” Zed shrugged. “He needed something to cheer him up, anyway. What makes Dalan happy?”
“Plans coming together,” Tristam said.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Zed said, taking a deep breath. “You should probably talk to him, Tristam. Try to find out what he’s up to. Make sure he still remembers whose side he’s on. You know Dalan.”
“You want me to talk to him?” Tristam asked. “You’re the inquisitive. Why don’t you find out what he’s up to?”
“Because Dalan hates me,” Zed said. “He’s extra careful not to give anything away because he knows I’m as smarmy, curious, and arrogant as he is. You’ve actually earned his respect, Tristam.”
“Me?” Tristam asked. “You’re kidding.”
“As much as Master d’Cannith is capable of respecting anyone other than himself,” Pherris said. “You should consult with him before we land in New Cyre.”
“True,” Tristam said.
He crossed to Dalan’s hatch and knocked, but it swung open at his touch. Dalan looked up from his desk with an eager smile, still enjoying his lunch. He waved Tristam in and gestured at the seat across from him. Tristam carefully drew out the chair and sat down. The little construct sat at his feet, drawing a confused sniff from Gunther before the dog retreated beneath the bed.
“They sent you to check up on me, didn’t they?” Dalan asked, eyes twinkling mischievously.
“You have been acting strangely, Dalan,” Tristam said. “And you’re dressing strangely. Plainer than usual. Not wearing any of your House seals.”
“Ah. This is merely a disguise,” Dalan said. “I believe our investigations today will go smoothly if I am perceived as a simple traveler, rather than Dalan d’Cannith. Much the same impetus that drives me to strip Karia Naille of all markings of ownership. As for my behavior. My brief vacation from Mourning Dawn has rejuvenated me. Since the events in the Talenta Plains, I must confess I have felt as if I were a burden to this crew.”
“A burden?” Tristam asked, surprised at the confession.
“Indeed,” Dalan said. “None of you trust me. None of you like me. I realize that the only reason that I was endured among you was because the airship belongs to me. While you all will gladly allow me to finance our expedition, I feared that none of you trusted me enough to let me wander far from your sight for long.”
“We let you stay behind in Stormhome,” Tristam said.
“You did,” Dalan said, smirking. “And how fortuitous.” He tore a small loaf in half and nibbled on a chunk. “I accomplished a great deal there. Events are set in motion that will put a severe dent into Marth’s plans.”
“Such as?” Tristam asked.
“Plans, plans, great and small,” Dalan said with a chuckle. “I successfully identified several members of Marth’s crew. A few of them have family members who do business with the Lyrandar. Apparently those families have been ordering unusually large amounts of food and supplies. It was assumed they were merely stockpiling, rebuilding resources—after all, many Cyrans escaped their homeland with no more than their names and the clothing on their backs. If they intend to continue ordering supplies for Marth, they will no longer do so on Lyrandar vessels.”
“You’ve frozen Marth’s mail,” Tristam said.
“Basically, yes,” Dalan said, laughing. “You may see it as a petty victory, but many wars are lost by economics. Don’t worry, Tristam, I didn’t waste my time. I have been quite busy. As you have been, I see. You took it upon yourself to add a dwarf to my crew.” He sliced off a large piece of meat and stuffed it into his mouth.
“Ijaac is an experienced explorer and a brave warrior,” Tristam said. “We can rely on—”
Dalan held up a silencing hand and smiled. “Tristam, please,” he said, chewing. “That was no criticism, merely an observation. The Bruenhails are friends of my family. I consider Ijaac’s presence a blessing. He told me how you saved his life.” Dalan drank deeply from his goblet. “Is it true that you fought and slew a dragon?”
“Tricked would be a more accurate description,” Tristam said.
“But it is dead, right?” Dalan said, looking at Tristam carefully.
“Torn apart by the Fellmaw,” Tristam said.
“Good,” Dalan said. “By all accounts, dragons have long memories and a richly honed sense of revenge. The last thing any of us need is a dragon appearing at an inopportune time to settle the score.”
“No, it’s definitely dead,” Tristam said.
“Shame you couldn’t find its hoard,” Dalan said, a faraway look in his eye.
“We had more important things on our mind, Dalan,” Tristam said.
“Of course, of course,” Dalan said, snapping back to the subject at hand. “What else did you discove
r in Zul’nadn?”
“The power source that Ashrem used to stabilize the Legacy,” Tristam said.
“You recovered it?” Dalan said.
“I destroyed it,” Tristam said.
“Even better,” Dalan said. “If Marth can’t create a reliable prototype of the Legacy, then we just about have this won.”
“Once we find him,” Tristam said. “Even an unstable Legacy is dangerous.”
Tristam wondered if Dalan was right. When the Prophecy entered his mind he saw the Dragon’s Eye, burning large and bright. When he found the actual flame, it appeared somehow reduced. He had the uneasy feeling that someone had somehow removed part of it. How did you remove part of a doorway to another world? That wasn’t the kind of thing a person could simply carry around.
“With luck that discovery will come shortly after we land in New Cyre,” Dalan said. “Several of Marth’s crew have family here. I believe our strongest chance to turn up clues will be his helmsman, Devyn Marcho. He and his elderly mother are the only survivors of a large family, all slain in the war.”
“You’re hoping Devyn will have kept in touch with his mother,” Tristam said.
“And that his mother will be lonely enough to gossip with a friendly stranger,” Dalan replied.
“Do you think the people of New Cyre are working with Marth?” Tristam asked.
“As a whole?” Dalan asked. “No. I doubt many surviving Cyrans would support Marth. After all, I am Cyran, and his actions disgust me. It takes a special sort of person to believe Marth’s rhetoric. My research has shown that most of the soldiers who followed Marth have histories of crime and violence since the end of the war. In any case, I doubt Marth would seek official sanction from New Cyre. He likely sees Prince Oargev ir’Wynarn as weak.”
