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

by Rich Wulf

  “What do you want me to do now?” Seren said, shouting over the howling winds.

  “Just hold on, Miss Morisse,” Pherris said. “Though I’ve no doubt those two will need a hand when … Khyber.” The gnome continued swearing under his breath and concentrated more intently on the small crystal mounted on the ship’s wheel. The ring of fire flashed green and the ship surged forward with a burst of speed.

  Seren looked ahead and saw a plume of black smoke rising from the city. She saw the black silhouette of Blizzard rise up from the buildings, circle the plume, and then turn back toward Karia Naille. The glidewing banked sharply and landed on the ship. Gerith cartwheeled out of his harness and landed beside the captain, grasping Pherris’s shoulder for balance.

  “They’re alive!” Gerith announced in a bright tone. “Though we should probably hurry before they die in the fire.”

  “Why have they set the city on fire, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked with exaggerated calm.

  “It’s just one building, to be fair, Captain,” Gerith said. “I think they intended to distract the Watch, but then they got trapped on the roof.”

  The captain cursed again, in a variety of languages. “Guide me to them, Master Snowshale.”

  “Easy enough, Captain,” the halfling said as he climbed back into his saddle. “Just head for the fire.”

  Blizzard took to the air again, his broad wingspan barely clearing the elemental ring around the deck. The glidewing soared down toward the city in a dizzying circle and Karia Naille followed, falling into a controlled dive. The city grew beneath them. Wroat looked so strange from above; though Seren knew her way around these streets, nothing was arranged quite how she thought it would be. The crowds that gathered in the streets to look at the rising smoke now stopped and pointed up at the airship in awe.

  The plume of smoke rose just ahead, to the ship’s port side. It rose from a dilapidated four-story building. The airship fell level with the streets, soaring between the city’s taller structures. Seren could see a large contingent of City Watch galloping down the street beneath them, as well as a brigade of citizens carrying buckets of water from the Howling River. The airship rose gradually, banking to port as she circled the burning building. Blizzard dove and landed on the roof farthest from the smoke, where Tristam and Omax waited. The ship pulled as close as she could, the elemental flames that surrounded her preventing her from getting too close lest more damage be done.

  “Throw that cable to them, Miss Morisse, and pull the lever when they are secure,” Pherris said, nodding to a nearby coil lashed to the deck.

  Seren quickly complied, hurling the heavy cable over the rail. Omax caught it in one hand, passing the slack to Tristam, who gave a quick salute. She pulled the lever and a winch began to turn below the deck, hauling them both up toward Karia Naille. Omax crawled over first, carrying a body over one shoulder. He dumped it unceremoniously onto the deck.

  The captain looked down at the limp bundle with a sour expression. “Omax, why did you bring me a dead watchman?” he asked, looking back to the wheel.

  “It was Tristam’s idea,” Omax said.

  “He’s not dead!” Tristam added as he climbed over the side. “He passed out in the smoke.”

  Pherris pulled a lever and the ship banked upward again. “Then we are merely kidnappers and arsonists, not murderers. That’s good news. Don’t you agree, Miss Morisse?”

  The sound of a metallic thunk sounded from the deck beneath them, followed by another.

  “What was that?” Seren asked.

  “Crossbows,” Gerith said, alighting on the deck nearby. “I’ll be forever working those bolts out of the hull. Tristam, what in Khyber did you do?”

  “Not now, Master Snowshale,” Pherris said in a warning tone, concentrating on the ship’s control. The airship pulled smoothly to a halt above a low building and Pherris looked back at the warforged. “Omax, please return to Wroat what is Wroat’s.”

  Omax nodded and, picking up the watchman, rappelled over the rail again. He laid the man carefully on the roof and then began scaling his way back up the cable. The flaming circle flared green and the ship started off again even before Omax had cleared the rail.

  “Secure yourselves,” Pherris said as Omax climbed onto the deck. “Miss Morisse, say your good-byes to your home. Aeven, please give us a boost before the King’s soldiers discover their own airships.”

  The captain did not remove his hands from the wheel, but the ship lurched heavily. Seren fell to the deck, clinging to the nearest secure rope with both hands. Tristam also fell nearby, though when he saw Seren’s eyes watching him his own terrified expression became a grin of false confidence. Even Gerith scrambled for the ropes, securing himself and Blizzard to the deck. Only Omax seemed unaffected, standing in the middle of the deck with feet splayed and shoulders squared against the ship’s sudden momentum.

  Karia Naille’s bow fell forward, and the elemental ring burned white with an incredible burst of speed. The city melted away beneath them, dwindling to the size of a toy and eventually becoming nothing more than a distant black dot beside the blue ribbon of the Howling River. The deck boards shuddered against one another, and sweat streamed down Pherris’s face as he gripped the wheel with white knuckles. After several minutes of such frantic speed, the flaming ring burned blue again. The ship fell into a calm cruise far above the Breland plains. Seren wobbled to her feet, holding the railing for support. The ground was now far beneath them. Wisps of white clouds streaked past on each side, some far below. It was unlike anything she’d ever seen. It was like entering a new world, a sea of calm far removed from the chaotic land below. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Gerith look at her with a knowing grin.

  Dalan d’Cannith’s cabin opened and the fat guildmaster strode out onto the deck. He looked calm and unruffled by their rapid escape. Gunther peered warily around the corner of the door, then retreated rapidly back inside.

  “What happened in the city, Tristam?” Dalan asked. He folded his arms behind his back as he looked down at the prone artificer. “You started a fire and attacked a watchman?”

  Tristam scrambled awkwardly to his feet and tried to dust the soot off his jacket with one hand.

  “I’m sorry, Dalan, I dunno what happened,” he explained. “Omax found a wanted poster with my face on it, so we tried to investigate …”

  “If the Watch was looking for you, then wouldn’t it make more sense to return and let Gerith and Omax investigate?” Dalan asked interrupting Tristam’s explanation.

  “They think I killed city guards and burned down your house, Dalan! I’d hoped I could set the record straight.”

  “And making their arson charges a reality and nearly justifying a murder charge in so doing is how you set things straight?” Dalan asked. “What a unique approach.”

  “The building was empty,” Tristam said. “The Watch was already chasing us. That was a distraction, to throw them off while we ran back to the ship.”

  “I understand that,” Dalan said. “Why did you choose to create such an elaborate distraction and then trap yourself on top of it?”

  Tristam’s shoulders slumped. “We meant to run,” he said. “But Omax saw that stupid guard run inside. I guess he thought someone might be trapped inside. We had to help him.” Omax stood beside Tristam, looking impassively at Dalan with his strange blue eyes.

  “We could not let him die, Master d’Cannith,” Omax said.

  Pherris looked back from the wheel, giving the young artificer an appraising look. Dalan only chewed his lip thoughtfully. “We can scarcely afford such reckless heroism, Tristam,” Dalan finally said, though his voice was softer now. “You know how much is at stake here.”

  Tristam nodded.

  “Our apologies, Master d’Cannith,” Omax added.

  “No harm done,” Dalan replied. “Our Captain Marth is a changeling. No doubt he assumed your identity and framed you for his own crimes. Now at least one watchman in Wroa
t might not be so quick to believe you are a killer. Not that it matters in the end; I doubt we’ll soon be returning to Wroat. Miss Morisse has provided us with a most intriguing lead in exchange for a position among our crew.”

  Tristam looked back at Seren in surprise, then back at Dalan. “So she’s coming with us?” he asked, not sounding entirely pleased with the news.

  “What did you find, Seren?” Omax asked in a more pleasant voice.

  “An enchanted hand lens,” she said. “Marth used it to study the book I stole. Whatever he was looking for with it, he didn’t find it.”

  “Some sort of magical cipher,” Tristam said, scratching his chin. “Ashrem was a prolific writer. He could have easily hidden his work on the Legacy in his many books, written invisibly, and used something like that to read them. May I see the lens, Dalan?”

  “Of course,” Dalan said.

  Dalan reached in his vest pocket and produced the small chunk of frosted glass. Tristam grabbed it eagerly, hurrying past Dalan into the cabin. Seren followed, watching Tristam curiously. He picked up one of the many volumes marked with Ashrem d’Cannith’s seal and flipped through its pages, holding the lens to one eye.

  “There’s definitely something there I haven’t seen before, but I can’t understand the text,” he said. He pushed the book aside and quickly seized another, flipping through that one and setting it aside as well. He reached for a third, but stopped as Dalan interrupted with a heavy sigh.

  “Encoded as well as hidden,” Dalan d’Cannith said, circling Tristam and seating himself at the desk again. “And if it is one of Ashrem’s codes, then all your skills will not unravel it. That is why we are going to Black Pit.”

  “Black Pit?” Tristam said, incredulous. “We don’t need his help, Dalan. He already turned his back on us once.”

  “I hope that you are correct,” d’Cannith said. “Yet surely you agree if this truly is some sort of magical code, then his talents are better suited to this matter than yours. Until then, I will retain the lens.”

  “You aren’t even going to give me a chance to crack this myself?” Tristam asked.

  “If I cannot read it, I doubt you can,” Dalan said. “I cannot afford to see an item so valuable lost or broken, Tristam.” He held out his hand.

  Tristam dropped the piece of glass onto Dalan’s palm and turned with a scowl, nearly tripping over Seren as he stormed out of Dalan’s cabin. Tristam coughed an embarrassed apology and circled around her, headed to the far end of the deck. Omax sat down cross-legged by his friend’s side in a posture of deep contemplation, the glow in his blue eyes dimming.

  “Black Pit,” Gerith said with a whistle, appearing beside Seren again.

  “What’s in Black Pit?” she asked. “For that matter, what is Black Pit?”

  “It’s a hole in Eberron,” Gerith said.

  “Like Wroat?” she asked.

  “No, I mean literally a hole,” he said. “It’s a crack in the ground that leads right into Khyber itself. There’s a village right near the edge, and it names itself after the pit. That can be a bit confusing, having two places with the same name, but then humans have always been a confusing sort of people. The village built up near the end of the Last War. It’s not even on most maps; the folks there prefer it that way. It’s a place for deserters, smugglers, mercenaries, criminals. It’s also the backbone of Breland’s thriving black market. Very interesting place, with all kinds of interesting people.”

  “Why are we going there?” Seren asked, looking down at the halfling with a worried expression.

  “Like I said, all kinds of interesting people,” Gerith answered. “Zed Arthen is one of them. He’s an inquisitive.”

  “Inquisitive?” she said. “An investigator?”

  “An inquisitive is a bit more than that,” Gerith said. “Sort of like a glidewing is a little more than a lizard. An inquisitive answers questions that nobody wants to have answered, questions that folks generally figure can’t be answered. You’d like him, I think.”

  “Why would Arthen be in a place like Black Pit?” Seren asked.

  Gerith grinned a broad gap-toothed grin. “Maybe because in a place like that a person like him always has something to do. Maybe because in a place like that, he hopes that people like us will leave him alone.”

  It was all so frustrating. She should have known better than to listen to Jamus.

  Eraina d’Deneith watched the strange airship leave a trail of flame across the northern sky, taking her answers with it. Around her, watchmen and civilian volunteers formed frenzied bucket chains, passing water from the river to the burning building. She ignored them, steering her steed directly toward the building where she had seen the airship pause. Dropping from the saddle and pushing the door open, she strode inside. An elderly couple had been watching the fire from a nearby window, and looked at her with alarm.

  “What is the meaning of this?” the old man demanded, voice shaking as he looked at Eraina’s polished armor, spear, and the shortsword that hung from her belt. “Get out of our house!”

  Eraina drew a thin metal case from her pocket and snapped it open for the couple to see the identification documents inside. Within was a small packet of papers fixed with an official seal, featuring a small illustration of the dark-haired woman that held the case.

  “I am a Sentinel Marshal conducting an official investigation. I have business on your roof and won’t be more than a moment.”

  The man glanced at the papers in Eraina’s hand but stayed well out of reach of her sword arm, holding his wife fearfully. Eraina had hoped for as much; though she had not lied to them, she would prefer not to have her name remembered. She snapped the case shut and continued toward the stairs. She climbed up onto the roof and looked around, holding her short spear in her left hand, right hand resting on the hilt of her blade. Her hand fell away when she saw the limp form lying on the roof. She leaned her spear beside the door and knelt, pulling off one mailed gauntlet to press two fingers to the man’s throat. He was alive. His armor was blackened with soot but he did not seem to be badly burned.

  “Get up,” she said, standing and rolling the man onto his back with one steel-toed boot.

  The man lay where he was, unconscious. Eraina knelt again and laid her hand on the man’s chest. Her other hand grasped the amulet about her throat and she whispered a brief prayer. For an instant, her hand glowed with a white light. The glowing energy drained from her fingers into the man’s body. A spasm shook him and he stirred, his eyes snapping open at the sky.

  “What is your name, watchman?” she asked. She held one finger out before his face, watching as his eyes focused upon it.

  “Watchman Markus,” the man said, still a bit dazed.

  “Get up, Markus,” she repeated with an impatient gesture. She rose and began to pace beside him.

  The watchman sat up with a groan, pulling off his helmet and rubbing his head. Blinking in astonishment, he patted himself down with both hands for any sign of injuries. He looked about in confusion, his gaze eventually resting on the dying plume of smoke rising from the building to the south.

  “How did I get up here?” he said in a bewildered voice.

  “You were dropped out of a fleeing airship,” she said. “Do you remember that?”

  He stood up unsteadily, staring at the three-headed chimera crest on her tabard with some amazement. “A Sentinel Marshal?” he said. “What’s going on here?”

  Eraina sighed. “Boldrei’s teachings advocate patience for those who have suffered,” she said, replacing her gauntlet and stretching her fingers within it. “However, as a Sentinel Marshal I am required to seek the truth efficiently. I called the Hearth-mother’s blessings upon you to heal you, Watchman Markus. Thus I would appreciate it if you finished gather your senses swiftly.” She fixed him with a stern expression.

  “My apologies, Marshal,” the man said, flustered. “What would you like to know?”

  “As much as you can remember b
efore you awakened here,” she said, folding her arms across her chest.

  The guardsman nodded. “I can’t remember much, to be honest,” he said. “We were pursuing a Lhazaarite who burned the Cannith estate and killed three watchmen last night. When the fire started I ran inside looking for anyone that might have been trapped.”

  “What was this man’s name?” she asked.

  The guardsman shrugged. “No name, only a description.”

  Markus took a folded scrap of parchment from his pocket and offered it to Eraina. She unfolded it and studied it for a long moment. It was a hastily printed wanted poster, and the man in the illustration was unfamiliar.

  “He was the last thing I saw,” the watchman said. “He and his warforged friend ran into the fire to rescue me.”

  “The killer rescued you?” Eraina asked.

  The man nodded, though he looked rather confused. “Seeing as how I’m here, Marshal, he must have.”

  Eraina sighed. Somehow, after all that had happened, she had hoped that the clues would begin to fall together. She was not truly surprised; she had enough experience to know that the truth rarely fit together in a convenient way as it did in stories. More often, even after a crime was solved, she never knew the full truth. Sometimes she just wished that a mystery would come together cleanly, if only for variety.

  When she spoke again, her voice was a great deal softer. “Thank you for your help, Watchman Markus.” She folded the poster and tucked it in one pocket. “I have nothing further. No doubt your superior officer will be eager to discover you are still alive.”

  “Thank you again, Marshal …” he said, letting the end of the sentence hang as he hoped to catch her name.

  Eraina merely gave a brief salute and turned, taking up her spear and heading back down the stairs. The elderly couple was just as she had left them, still huddled by the window in terror. Eraina stopped with her hand on the door.

  She moved to the window beside them, looking out at the smoking building. They moved away as much as they dared.