Voyage of the Mourning Dawn: Heirs of Ash, Book 1

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Voyage of the Mourning Dawn: Heirs of Ash, Book 1 Page 9

by Rich Wulf


  “Dalan is like his uncle,” Marth said, stepping away from the smoke. “He is no fool. He would not have left behind anything we can use. This is a pointless, destructive gesture.”

  “An enemy who cannot be destroyed must be intimidated,” Zamiel said. “Consider this a message—a warning to a respected rival. Dalan will look upon the ruins of his home. He will witness the destruction of so many beloved possessions. He will recognize that he should have left well enough alone. D’Cannith is no warrior. He is a bureaucrat, an academic, a coward. If he is wise, he will withdraw from this race and be content that he has only lost his home.”

  “Unlikely,” Marth said with a frown. “I think we will face Dalan again before this is done.”

  “Then he will die,” Brother Zamiel said.

  Marth did not reply. His smooth face was thoughtful as he watched the first tongues of flame emerge from the fallen books. He turned and made his way down the stairs. Three of his soldiers stood at the door, postures tense, hands on their weapons. One peered cautiously out the window just beside the back door. He looked back at Marth with an uncomfortable expression.

  “Captain Marth, there is a problem,” the soldier said.

  Marth moved to the window. The soldier quickly stepped aside. The first light of morning had only just begun to paint the street outside in pale, pastel colors. The rains had started again but now fell only in a meager drizzle. Few dared the muddy streets at this early hour, but Marth picked out a handful of armored men gathering in the shadows of an alley behind the house. Their eyes were on the Cannith home.

  “The City Watch,” Marth said with a sigh. He pushed the curtain back over the window, his gaze losing focus as he became lost in thought.

  “We cannot afford to be seen here, Captain,” Zamiel said as he descended the stairs. “For Dalan d’Cannith to know we oppose him is one thing. For King Boranel’s soldiers to learn of our presence is quite another matter.”

  “Captain, perhaps we might be able to escape through the front door,” a soldier offered.

  “The building will be surrounded,” Marth answered. “I will handle this. Perhaps their arrival might give us an opportunity for distraction.”

  As Marth reached for the door, his facial features shifted, becoming a young man’s thin face framed by sandy brown hair. He stepped out into the street, arms folded in his sleeves. The instant he did so, four watchmen emerged to surround him.

  “Halt and identify yourself,” the sergeant commanded. He kept his crossbow trained on Marth’s chest.

  “My name is Tristam Xain,” Marth said calmly, continuing his approach. “Is there a problem, officer?”

  “Hands out and to your sides!” the man said. “I said stop!”

  The watchman loosed a crossbow bolt. It struck Marth in the shoulder and fell with a shower of sparks. Unharmed, Marth drew his hands from his sleeves with a flourish, releasing a cloud of sparkling dust toward the watchmen. They fell into fits of hideous coughing. All but one staggered and fell helpless to the earth. The fourth recovered enough to unsheathe his sword, only to see that Marth had drawn his twisted amethyst wand. Its length shone with green fire. The watchman ran. Marth’s soldiers emerged from the house, flanking out to surround their leader. One drew his own crossbow, aiming it at the back of the retreating soldier.

  “No,” Marth said, pushing the weapon down and smiling with Tristam’s face. “Let one escape. Let him tell others who he has seen here.”

  A pained coughing drew Marth’s attention. He looked down at the remaining three watchmen, writhing on the earth as the toxins robbed them of their strength. With a slow, deliberate movement, Marth drew his sword and buried it in the chest of the nearest guard. A Cyran soldier drew his blade and advanced toward one of the others, but Marth waved him away.

  “This blood is on my hands alone,” he said. “Return to the ship.”

  The soldiers complied, hurrying through the darkened alleys. Marth finished the other two watchmen and moved on as well. He had not gone far before Zamiel appeared at his side, like a shadow as he walked.

  “Why do you brood, my friend?” the prophet asked. “Surely by now you recognize the necessity of what we do. Do you regret the deaths of those soldiers?”

  “No,” Marth said. “They earned their fate when they stood against me, just as Jamus Roland did. Do not worry, Zamiel. Your killer has not grown a conscience yet.”

  “Then what concerns you so?” he asked.

  “I fear we were too cautious,” he said. “I know the man who was with that warforged last night. I recognized him from the soldiers’ descriptions.”

  “The man whose face you wear,” Zamiel said, his face darkening. “I remember him. I also remember your insistence that he would not be a problem.”

  “Clearly things have changed,” Marth said. “Hopefully the City Watch will cause some trouble for him, at least. It will be difficult for him to return to Wroat without explaining the deaths of three watchmen.”

  “This only reaffirms what I have cautioned from the start,” Zamiel said. “We should have confronted d’Cannith directly instead of relying on untested subordinates. We should have killed Dalan and all who stood beside him. If that lens falls into Xain’s hands, it will not take long before they determine how to use it and gain ground.”

  “Perhaps,” Marth said. “But think not on what we have lost. Think instead upon what we have gained. Tristam is brilliant, but also foolhardy. He may find clues that you and I would miss, but inevitably he will stumble and we will find his trail. Then we can harvest the fruits of his discoveries and our own search will grow much easier.”

  Zamiel was silent for a long time.

  “You do not agree,” Marth said.

  “Xain should die,” Zamiel said. “We do not need the complication he represents.”

  “You have always told me that I was destined to succeed, prophet,” Marth said. “Is my destiny so frail that one foolish tinker could undermine it?”

  “You misunderstand me,” the prophet said. “I do not take destiny lightly, but neither should you. The Prophecy is a living thing. That which it foretells is certain, inevitable, but rarely predictable.” He looked at Marth seriously. “I have no time for those who play games with their own destiny. You claim you wish to use Xain to our advantage, but your words stink of mercy. Mercy is a luxury that a conqueror cannot afford.”

  “That sounds almost like a threat, Zamiel,” Marth said.

  “Not a threat, a warning,” Zamiel said in a tired voice. “You have spent only a few years helping me to fulfill this passage of the Prophecy. I have spent most of my life. Weigh this truth: You are not unique. There were others before you who seemed to be the conqueror I have foreseen. The Prophecy is a powerful force. Weak men who stand before it are ground into dust. Do not allow your enemies to gain ground, Marth. Show them no mercy, or all will be lost.”

  The changeling folded his arms in silent thought, pondering the prophet’s words. “Very well,” he said. “I will keep your words in mind.”

  “Good,” Zamiel said. “That is all I ask. All that I say, all that I have ever done for you was intended only as guidance. Do not follow me blindly. Your decisions must ultimately be your own, or you will never become what you must be.”

  “I will remember that,” Marth said.

  “See that you do,” the prophet said.

  With a sudden shift in the shadows, Zamiel vanished, leaving Marth to find his way to the ship alone. He pushed all thoughts of Ashrem d’Cannith and Tristam Xain out of his mind. The past was a burden, a weight that sought to drag him back down into the miserable mire that had consumed him before. Brother Zamiel had offered him the chance to fulfill a greater destiny, to embrace his talents and forge a better future for all of Eberron. Better to concentrate on that future, he thought, as he looked into a standing puddle and saw Tristam Xain’s face staring back at him.

  Such a brilliant, glorious future.

  Seren sat
on the railing of Karia Naille. She crouched beside the ship’s figurehead, overlooking the city. Though much of the deck was shielded from the elements, sitting on the rail offered no such protection. The wind rushed past her, whipping her long hair back in a fury. She paid little mind as she ate her lunch. She had no real fear of heights, and with one foot hooked behind the rail, she was balanced well enough. The old dog, Gunther, lay on the deck behind her. He kept his head nestled between his paws, watching intently for any fallen crumbs. Seren ignored the dog, her thoughts consumed with more urgent matters. She hadn’t found the answers she was looking for, but she was off to a good start. If nothing else, she had decent food, a steady wage, and would soon be leaving the city. That, at least, was an improvement.

  Seren enjoyed the view from up here, but she found herself returning her attention to the figurehead. It was an impressive piece of sculpture, depicting a slender elf woman with arms folded across her breasts. Her eyes were closed, head thrown back with long hair that spilled over her shoulders. The statue was unpainted, carved from rich, dark wood and highly polished. Something about the statue resonated with Seren, made her feel more at peace here. It seemed so free and untamed, even bound permanently to the hull of the ship.

  Other than the rush of the wind, the ship was strangely silent. Gerith was busy scrubbing the deck, singing a soft tune in a tongue Seren did not recognize. Blizzard perched on the rail nearby, regarding his master solemnly. Occasionally Gerith would halt the song for a moment and the animal would produce a high-pitched note in reply, singing along.

  “What are you singing?” she asked, looking back at him.

  Gerith looked up with a crooked smile. “Just an old song.”

  “What is it about?” she asked.

  Gerith paused in his scrubbing and tilted his head. “I don’t think you’re old enough,” he said with a chuckle. “Let’s just say it’s a song from my homeland, the song of an explorer, er, yearning for the comforts of home. We’ll leave it at that.”

  “Fair enough,” Seren said. “So where is the rest of the crew?”

  “Rest?” Gerith asked, peering up at her again. “Well, you’ve met Dalan, though he isn’t really crew, since he really doesn’t do anything to help keep the ship going other than pay the bills. Then there’s the captain, Tristam, Omax, me, and … and, well that’s pretty much it.”

  “Doesn’t a ship this size need a bigger crew than four people?” Seren asked.

  “Usually, yes,” Gerith said. “Throw magic in the mix and things get a bit odd, and airships are things of magic. Think of it this way: The wizards and artificers are already there binding the elemental and enchanting the ship so that she’ll take to the wind. They may as well add in a few extra spells so that the ship can function a bit more efficiently, right? Karia Naille has it better than most. One of the finest ships it’s been my pleasure to crew on. She has a few special features.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I’m not giving away her secrets,” Gerith said with a laugh. “Wait till you’re with us for a bit. Maybe you’ll find out.”

  Seren nodded and let the subject slide, though the idea of more secrets didn’t sit well with her. She looked past Gerith, at the creature perched behind him. “What sort of animal is that? I’ve never seen a lizard so big before.”

  The creature glared at her with angry black eyes. The leathery crest behind his cheeks flared.

  “Careful,” Gerith said. “Blizzard’s sensitive. He’s not a lizard. He’s a glidewing with a proud pedigree. Only the finest warriors in my tribe can ride them. They’re the most glorious creatures in all of the Talenta Plains, the rulers of the sky. And he’s my friend. The two of us have seen the whole world together.”

  Blizzard gave an irritated flap of his leathery wings and let out a quick shriek.

  “And he gets irritated when we do not finish our song,” Gerith explained, turning and flicking his towel at the creature. The glidewing blinked, snorted, and shook off the soapy water. Preening one wing, he huddled on its perch and waited patiently for Gerith to continue.

  The cabin hatch beside Dalan’s opened just as the halfling resumed his song. A tiny old man, only slightly taller than the diminutive Gerith, strode out onto the deck. He was dressed in an immaculately pressed black uniform, a tight leather cap, and a pair of frosted goggles. Seren recognized him as a gnome, though she had met only a handful of them during her time in Wroat. Jamus had always instructed her to avoid gnomes. Not only did their sharp, inquisitive nature make them difficult to rob, but you generally didn’t want to know what they had in their pockets.

  “Good afternoon,” the little man said, bowing toward Seren.

  “Hello,” she said.

  “You are Miss Morisse, the thief Master d’Cannith invited onto my ship?” he asked in a pert voice.

  “I am Seren Morisse,” she said, taken aback by the abrupt greeting.

  “Excellent!” the gnome said. “I am Captain Pherris Gerriman, of the Zilargo Gerrimans, of whom I am almost entirely certain you’ve never heard and likely couldn’t care less. That makes us even, for the details that would lead Master d’Cannith to invite a known thief onboard my vessel would most likely only raise my lather and induce another in the chain of many headaches that have plagued my days of late. Therefore I prefer my ignorance. More importantly, now you are acquainted with me and I am acquainted with you. Most importantly, I see that you are now acquainted with the rail, and that pleases me a great deal.”

  “Why is that?” Seren asked.

  “Because if you steal anything on my ship, Miss Morisse, or if you steal and draw trouble back to my ship because of it, then you will be going over that rail,” the gnome said in the same cheerful tone. “Until then, we have no problems with one another, and I will show you the same loyalty I show all my crew. Your past means nothing to me so long as you obey my orders. You are one of us now. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” she said, somewhat stunned.

  The gnome clicked his boots pertly and turned away from her. “Master Snowshale! Where in Khyber are my artificer and his bodyguard?”

  “Tristam and Omax are still in the city, I suppose,” Gerith said, not looking up from his scrubbing.

  “Blast,” Pherris said. Grumbling under his breath, the gnome climbed onto the railing beside Seren and stared at the skyline. “I should have sent the dog for supplies. At least he always comes back for dinner. We should have left Wroat hours ago.”

  “Do you want me to look for them?” Seren offered. “I know the city.”

  “Excellent idea, Miss Morisse,” Pherris said, rolling his eyes. “There’s nothing I’d like better than to waste time looking for you as well. No, my dear, that shan’t be necessary. Master Xain is a magnet for trouble, but I’ve no doubt he’ll find an opportunity to … ah.” The captain pointed at the southern skyline. “There. That’s their signal.”

  Seren looked in that direction to see a streak of red light dropping from the sky, leaving a trail of thick purple smoke.

  Pherris stomped back to the middle of the deck, climbing a short ladder to reach the ship’s helm. Sensing what was to come, Gunther rose, trotted across the deck, and pawed impatiently at his master’s hatch. “Prepare for takeoff, Master Snowshale,” Pherris said in a grim voice.

  “Aye, Captain,” the halfling said, already hopping to his feet. “Seren, lend a hand.”

  “What do I do?” she asked.

  “Just follow me and do what I do,” the halfling said, busily beginning to untie the mooring ropes that secured the ship to the tower. Seren helped as best she could, though the halfling’s deft fingers undid the knots more quickly than she could.

  “Is there trouble, Captain?” Dalan asked, opening his cabin hatch and peering out. Gunther shoved past his master and disappeared into the shadows beyond, obviously eager to flee the deck before takeoff.

  “Tristam and Omax have been gone too long,” the gnome said. “They sent up a flare.”
He pointed in the relevant direction, though he did not take his eyes from the ship’s controls.

  “Those fools had best not be drawing attention,” Dalan said angrily. “They’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “Time enough to cast blame when they’re back onboard, Master d’Cannith,” the captain said. “Ready for launch!”

  Dalan stepped back with a sigh and closed his cabin hatch. Gerith nudged Seren. She looked down to see he was now holding a thick rope, one of many tied securely to the rail at regular intervals. She seized one as well, and Gerith gave a whistle. Pherris nodded and spun the wheel with both hands. Above the deck, the glowing blue ring seethed with red energy and sang with a steady, high-pitched hum. A vibration passed through the deck and the ship lurched away from the tower. Blizzard released a sharp cry and dropped off the rail, only to appear again on the other side of the ship, wings spread wide to catch the wind. Captain Gerriman pulled sharply at a lever beside the wheel and the ship righted herself, falling even and roaring off over the river. Seren saw the streets of Wroat pull away beneath them, people dwindling into dots and buildings shrinking. It was an odd, detached feeling, as if she were falling away from the world. It was strangely thrilling.

  “First flight?” Gerith asked with a wide grin.

  She nodded, unable to find any words.

  “I envy you,” he said. “Wait till you fly through your first cloud.”

  “Master Snowshale, I would appreciate it if you would scout ahead!” Pherris shouted over the hum of the elemental.

  “Aye,” the halfling said. He gave another sharp whistle, and Blizzard appeared once more, soaring beyond the ship’s flaming ring. Gerith signaled to the glidewing, and it dove just as he leapt over the rail. Seren watched in astonishment as the halfling caught his steed’s leather harness in midair and pulled himself into the saddle just as Blizzard leveled out and soared away over the city.

  “Showboating lunatic,” the captain said. “He’ll miss one of these days, and I’ll never see the money he owes me.”

 

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