by Rich Wulf
The closer they drew to the end of their quest, the more Tristam knew that he was changing, and not for the better. In the last few weeks he had become colder, more pragmatic, more manipulative—more like Dalan. Tristam knew, on some level, that he had ignored Omax’s injuries so that he could spend more time studying Kiris’s journal. He knew that he had risked their lives flying the Karia Naille into the Fellmaw. He had hidden the full truth of his visions—that the Prophecy had depicted him in Marth’s role as the conqueror. Now he led them on a course into the Mournland, uncertain if the risk was worth the gain he had promised. Could Seren see the changes that had come over him? Could he become the person he used to be, the simple boy that only wanted to perfect his skills and impress his teacher? Could he avoid the fate the Prophecy had promised?
There was no way to know until the Legacy was out of his life forever.
From this altitude Tristam found that the Mournland hardly even looked real. After two days of flying through the mists, he still could not comprehend that the land below actually existed. There was no sun, just a sickly shimmering mist that painted the land in eternal twilight. The earth was scorched dry and blasted white. Withered trees clawed vainly at a sun they could not see. Battlefields remained strewn with the bodies of unburied dead, untouched by decay since the Day of Mourning. Bizarre creatures scuttled across the earth, sometimes pausing to stare up at the Mourning Dawn’s burning elemental ring with baleful eyes.
Some towns remained entirely intact, though bereft of life. Others were ruined in strange and random ways. Houses were cracked like eggshells with their contents strewn in the streets. Skeletal ruins burned with yellow flames that would not die. In one town, nothing remained but a flat glassy plain, etched with elongated blast shadows in the shapes of houses. In the larger cities, eerie lights indicated the presence of life. Pherris steered Mourning Dawn in a wide berth around these places, content not to know what had taken up residence there.
For all of these strange sights, the smell was even more disturbing. The Mournland smelled strangely … clean. There was no cloying smell of vegetation, no smoke from human settlements, no scent of rain on the air. The only scent was the crackling aroma of raw magic. It burned Tristam’s senses and tingled on his skin. The power of this place suffused Tristam, energizing him and sickening him. He felt the urge to call upon his infusions, to draw upon the Mournland’s wild energy to fuel his creations. It was like a siren’s song. He shook his head to clear away the urge to descend into his laboratory and noticed a flicker in the mists far below, like the wake a swift vessel left through still water.
“What are those lights?” Ijaac asked, startling Tristam and drawing his attention back to the present. The artificer hadn’t realized quite how lost in reverie he was. The dwarf stood well away from the ship’s rail, pointing at something on the land below. A line of faint blue lights was just barely visible through the mists, evenly spaced in a line that stretched off in the distance toward Metrol, tracing a path beside the River Melandor.
“Conductor stones,” Tristam answered, clearing his throat roughly. “It’s a lightning rail track.”
“How can the coaches still run here?” the dwarf asked, surprised.
“They don’t,” Tristam replied. “They’ve tried to run coaches through the Mournland, and they never get far. The line is broken in too many places, though theoretically you could still run a coach over the parts that remain intact. The stones are powered by their own self-perpetuating enchantments. I’ve heard that some of the people that live out here use improvised coaches to travel across the wasteland.”
“People?” Ijaac asked, shocked. “Who would want to live in a dead place like this?”
“Some would,” Omax said. The warforged rose from the corner where he knelt in meditation and joined them. “It is said that there is a warforged nation in the mists. Warforged who cannot find their place in the mortal lands come here, seeking a godlike figure known as the Lord of Blades.”
Tristam looked at Omax curiously. “You’ve never told me that before, Omax.”
“There was no reason for you to know,” Omax said. “He calls to those warforged who seek something more, who are desperate to create a world where they can become something more than slaves, monsters, or tools.”
“Has the Lord of Blades called to you, Omax?” Seren asked.
The warforged nodded. “I have been called,” he said, voice tinged with faint regret. “I have not answered. I will not find my place in the world by setting myself apart from it.” The warforged’s shining eyes searched the mists for something the others could not see.
“The sky is turning blue again,” Seren said, looking to the eastern horizon.
“We’re very close to the far border of the Mournland,” Omax answered. He sounded grateful for the change in subject. “The mists part not far beyond Metrol, taking us back into the Talenta Plains.”
There was a flap of wings from above, and Blizzard landed on the deck, depositing his exhilarated rider beside them. Gerith’s hair was a wild mess and he grinned broadly as he snatched his goggles away. He spoke excitedly, the words a tangled, unintelligible mess.
“Master Snowshale, we can’t understand a single word,” Pherris said, looking at the gnome suspiciously. “Try that again, but breathe this time.”
“This … place … is … wonderful!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together excitedly. “So many strange things to see!” His excitement died off quickly when he caught sight of Dalan emerging from his cabin, looking down with disapproval.
“I’m glad the corpse of my homeland provides you with such amusement, Gerith,” Dalan said dourly.
“I mean it’s wonderful except for all the tragedy and everything,” Gerith amended quickly. “It truly is an amazing place, like nothing else I’ve ever seen!”
“And we can be thankful for that,” Dalan said. “Report.”
“Metrol is just a few miles ahead,” Gerith said. “At least I’m guessing it’s Metrol, from the size of it. It’s amazing. Buildings are rooted up and stacked on one another like blocks. Streets just go right up into the sky and …” The halfling gestured, stacking his hands one each other erratically to attempt to describe what he had seen. “And they just stop! It’s like something out of a dream. And there’s magic in the streets.”
“How poetic,” Dalan said, arching an eyebrow.
“No, I mean literally magic,” Gerith said, still gesticulating violently. “Clouds of it, just wandering. Like the lightning and fire from one of Tristam’s wands had just got up and walked away.”
“Living spells,” Tristam said. “I’ve heard of those. They carry just a fragment of the intellect that created them. The Mournland gives them enough power to sustain themselves indefinitely. They wander around, just following their caster’s last command.”
“Last command?” Ijaac asked.
“Generally, ‘Destroy anything in your way,’ ” Tristam said.
“Ah,” the dwarf said. “Let’s not get in their way, then. Simple enough.”
“Did you see anything else, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked. “Airborne dangers would be of particular interest.”
Gerith considered the question for several moments. “No, even the living spells seemed pretty landlocked,” he said. “As long as we stay above of that cloud of ghosts, we should be safe enough.”
“I beg your pardon, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked. “What cloud of ghosts do you mean?”
Gerith looked worried. “You didn’t notice them?” he pointed.
“By the Host,” Ijaac swore.
Tristam looked down at the ground again. What he had mistaken as mists swirling in the ship’s wake had drawn closer. It resolved itself as a swarm of shadowy faces, mouths parted in anguish. They swam through the air beneath them, pursuing them. He could hear their cry now, a shrill, piercing noise that made his hands tremble. They soared just above the ground, clawing at nothing, desperate to reach the airs
hip far above.
“Undead,” Dalan observed bleakly. “We picked a fine time to leave our paladin behind.”
“Isn’t it always the way?” Ijaac grumbled. He stomped off toward the cargo bay. “Let me go get my morningstar.”
Tristam watched the cloud of spirits keep pace with the airship for several moments. “They’re faster than us,” he said, “but I don’t think they can fly any higher than that. We’re safe up here, but we won’t be able to land with them chasing.”
Gerith loaded his crossbow and loosed a bolt into the pursuing spirits. The missile passed harmlessly through the ghosts and disappeared into the mist.
“They’re ghosts, Gerith,” Dalan said.
“Worth a try,” the halfling answered.
“Aeven!” Pherris called.
The dryad appeared at the ship’s rail, one arm curled around the throat of her figurehead as she stared out into the sky. Her eyes were closed as her blonde hair swept over her face.
“Can you distract the ghosts with a storm?” Pherris asked.
“I call the winds, but they do not answer,” she said. “The winds are dead. This land is dead.”
Pherris’s face grew pale. “You’ve never said that before, Aeven.”
“I have never seen it before,” she said. “I want to leave this place.”
“Soon,” Pherris promised. “Can you still speak to the ship?”
“Yes,” she said. “She wants to leave as well. She says that her sister is close by, and that she is in pain.”
Tristam looked at Aeven hopefully. “The elemental can sense Dying Sun?”
Aeven nodded.
“Can she lead us there?” he asked.
Aeven looked at Tristam, her eyes narrow. “You have no comprehension of the danger, Tristam. This place should not be.”
“I just need a little time, Aeven,” Tristam said. “Tell the Karia Naille that I’m going to release the Albena Tors, like I did the Kenshi Zhann. All I need is for you to point out where she is when we fly over the city.”
The dryad nodded her assent.
The ship soared higher as the city of Metrol appeared in the distance. It was as Gerith described—a bizarre amalgam of impossible architecture. Buildings stood at odd angles or uncanny heights. Some structures seemed to move as the eye studied them. As in the other cities they had seen, strange lights flickered within the buildings. The swarm of tormented spirits followed them even through the city, passing unimpeded through the outlying buildings below.
“There,” Aeven said, pointing to a large building beside the river. “It is there.”
“Perfect,” Tristam said. “Can you urge the elemental to give us a burst of speed when I call for it?”
“Yes,” Aeven said. “But be swift, Tristam. This place holds death.” The dryad’s tone held the faintest hint of threat.
“Thank you,” Tristam said, frowning apologetically. “I’m sorry we have to do this, but it is necessary.”
“Nature understands necessary,” she replied, “but there is nothing natural here.” She stared forlornly down at the black river.
“What is your plan, Tristam?” Omax asked.
“We need weapons,” he whispered, an idea forming in his head. “Gerith, circle around and pass near that building again.”
“Weapons!” Ijaac said happily. “That much I understand.” The dwarf hefted himself onto the deck, strapping on his armor. His shining morningstar was slung over one shoulder. He tossed Tristam a short blade. “Picked that up in Stormhome because I liked the balance of it, but then I noticed you lost your sword.”
Tristam turned the sword experimentally and strapped it to his belt, nodding at Ijaac in thanks.
“Weapons don’t hurt them, Tristam,” Gerith said. “They’re just smoke.”
“I can change that,” Tristam said. “Give me your bolt case, Gerith.”
The halfling obediently removed the pouch from his hip and offered the ammunition to Tristam. Tristam’s voice rose in a low chant, infusing the missiles with shimmering energy as he brushed one finger over their fletchings. The pouch glowed briefly, and he handed it back to the halfling.
“Try again,” he said.
The halfling loaded and loosed. This time the bolt struck true, lodging in one of the spectral faces and eliciting a pained cry. A sparkle of ghostly white energy trickled from the wounded spirit as it evaporated into mist.
“Seren, your dagger,” Tristam said. “Omax, hold out your hands. Ijaac …”
“Already magic, Tristam,” the dwarf said, hefting his morningstar. “But thanks.”
Tristam cast more infusions, granting a glowing sheen to Seren’s dagger and Omax’s adamantine hands. Dalan took his cue and quickly retreated to his cabin, sealing the door behind him so he wouldn’t get in the way of combat.
“Pherris, take us as close to the river as you can,” he said, climbing down into the hold. “Everyone, come with me.”
“Be careful,” Pherris called out.
Tristam hurried below deck, opening the cargo hold. The dark waters of the Cyre River flowed beneath them. The spirits continued their pursuit, boiling over the river as easily as they followed across the land.
“Now, Aeven!” Tristam shouted. “Gerith, take us as low as you dare and pull back up in twenty seconds!”
A jolt shot through Karia Naille as the ship surged forward. Aeven’s rapport with the ship’s elemental carried them forward at tremendous speed. The river grew closer, the waters churned an ugly black.
“We’re going to jump into that?” Seren asked. “Are you sure that’s even water?”
“See you on the ground,” Gerith said, climbing back up the ladder. “I have a glidewing. I’m flying down.”
“No more time to argue,” Tristam said. “Go!”
Tristam leapt. For an instant he was weightless, the dead mists swirling around his body. Then the cold surface of the river struck him hard, blasting the air from his body. He tried to swim but was too dazed by the landing. His mouth filled with a putrid, oily flavor. His vision flickered as the waters swallowed him.
Then a metal hand clamped the collar coat and pulled hard, dragging him from the water. Tristam gasped and coughed, spitting the polluted water on the ground. Omax deposited Seren on the beach beside him, turned, and walked back into the river. Above them, Karia Naille’s flaming blue ring ascended back into the sky.
“Seren, are you all right?” Tristam asked desperately.
“That wasn’t one of your smarter ideas,” she said, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her leather jerkin.
Omax emerged from the water again, hauling the gasping figure of Ijaac Bruenhail by one arm. Blizzard alighted nimbly next to them. Gerith rolled out of the saddle and looked at his drenched comrades for a long, worried moment. Then he burst out laughing.
“Have some sympathy, Snowshale,” Ijaac said. He groaned as Omax dropped him with a wet clank. “That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve eaten some strange things in my time.”
“Like what?” Gerith asked, instantly curious.
“You really don’t want to know,” the dwarf said.
“Yes, I do!” the halfling protested.
“This isn’t the time,” Tristam said, pointing at the advancing cloud of ghosts. Their wailing cries grew closer. “Get ready.”
The ghosts swarmed around them, unleashing an unholy shriek as they surrounded their living prey. Gerith fumbled with his crossbow, bolts spilling onto the ground. Seren staggered, stabbing wildly at nothing. Omax simply froze, staring at his own trembling hands. Ijaac screamed—a raw and painful noise. The sound of the screeching ghosts seeped into Tristam’s mind as well, twisting his emotions, filling his mind with dread.
He saw the prophecy’s visions again. He saw the mortal nations crumble. This time it was different. This time he saw Marth’s face among the fallen. The city of Wroat lay in ruins. He saw Karia Naille’s elemental ring flicker and die as the ship plu
mmeted into the Howling River. Tristam stood among the ruins of the city, eyes cold and passionless as he surveyed what he had wrought.
“No!” he screamed. He clawed through the fear, ripping the wand from his belt and unleashing its lightning in a savage arc. The ghosts shrieked and recoiled. Tristam’s magic tore at their ethereal forms. Several unraveled completely, tendrils of ectoplasm bleeding away into nothing. Only a few of the spirits remained, now glaring warily at Tristam.
The others snapped out of their fear, invigorated by Tristam’s sudden recovery. Omax clapped his metal hands over one swirling ghostly face, clenching metal fingers in an explosion of mist. Seren and Ijaac slashed the air with their weapons as well. The ghosts shrieked and withdrew, melting into the ground, their cries fading into nothing.
“Are they gone?” Ijaac asked uncertainly.
“For now,” Tristam said, breaking into a run. “Let’s find Dying Sun and be done with this place.”
They ran along the river bank, feet crunching on the gravel in eerie silence. There was no other noise save their breath and the eerie hum of the giant conductor stones that lined the riverbank. The building ahead was in remarkably good condition, a large public structure of some variety. As they approached, Tristam could see a sign hanging above the wide doors.
HOUSE ORIEN RAIL SUBSTATION
SERVICING CYRE AND THE LANDS BEYOND
FIVE NATIONS
ONE RAIL
Tristam stared at the sign in momentary surprise. Metrol had once been the heart of Cyre’s extensive rail system. The loss of the city’s rail stations had been one of the major barriers to House Orien’s attempts to get the lightning rail operational again. Numerous exploration parties had been dispatched to the Metrol ruins in hopes of finding the main station and its substations. All had returned without success—or not returned at all. That they had found one of the substations so easily filled him with a sense of unease.
