Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  “I don’t even see where my sword went,” Tristam said, looking around forlornly.

  “Forget about it,” Seren said, kicking the other wounded soldier in the side as he struggled to rise.

  “I’ve had that sword for years,” he said. “I can’t just abandon …”

  Tristam fell short when he saw the dozen Cyran soldiers now running from the valley in their direction.

  “Sentimental value can be overrated,” he said, taking one of the soldiers’ swords and sliding it into his scabbard.

  The two ran desperately across the plains. Behind them, the Cyran soldiers continued their pursuit. Out here on the plains, there was little they could do to lose their pursuers. All they could do was hope that they could run longer. Tristam cursed himself. His foolish curiosity may well have killed them both.

  “I hope you have an invisibility potion in one of those pockets,” Seren said.

  “I left them on the Karia Naille,” Tristam said, a little embarrassed.

  “Dozens of bottles and you didn’t bring invisibility potions?” she asked.

  “They’re usually not as useful as you’d think!” he retorted.

  Seren narrowed her eyes at him and kept running.

  “Cease your flight and drop your weapons!” one of the soldiers shouted. “In the name of Cyre, surrender!”

  Tristam glanced over his shoulder but kept running. His mind raced through the many potions and concoctions he carried with him. Most of them were fairly useless in this situation. There was, however, one possibility. He reached into one pocket and drew out a small bottle, shaking it in one hand. A thin plume of green smoke rose from the bottle’s cork.

  “Stop!” he shouted, his voice booming as he turned to face the soldiers. “Don’t make me shed more Cyran blood today. No doubt your master has shown you what a weapon like this can do!”

  The dozen Cyran soldiers stopped dead. Most stared in quiet terror terror. A few spared Tristam bitter, angry glances.

  “Retreat!” the leader said. As a unit, they turned and ran back the way they had come.

  “I was bluffing.” Tristam chuckled, bouncing the bottle in one hand. His chest swelled with pride. “It’s just ink. It smokes when mixed, so I guess it looks more impressive than it is.”

  “I’m sure they were impressed,” Seren said with a wry smile. She nodded past him.

  Tristam followed her nod. His pride deflated slightly, but he was hardly disappointed. The shimmering green ring of the Karia Naille now hovered high above them. The airship, not the harmless bottle, had given the soldiers pause. Tristam eagerly caught the rope ladder as it spilled to hang beside them, offering Seren a hand as they climbed up. A thick, three-fingered hand was extended toward them from the bay doors. Omax quickly pulled Seren and Tristam into the cargo bay, then began hauling up the ladder.

  “All hands aboard, Captain!” Gerith cried in a shrill voice.

  The ship banked heavily. The whine of the elemental ring intensified as the Karia Naille gained altitude. The wind rushed through the bay doors, which Omax slammed once the ladder was stowed.

  “Good timing, Gerith,” Tristam said with a relieved sigh.

  “Good to have you both home,” the halfling said, flashing a broad smile before hurrying off to his duties.

  “Dalan wishes to speak with you,” Omax said. The warforged’s hollow voice was grave.

  “I imagine he does,” Tristam said. His eyes fixed on the deep gouges that crossed the warforged’s chest. “Omax, you’ve been hurt.”

  Omax glanced down, one hand touching the damage gingerly. “I was serving as a distraction,” he said.

  “I’m sure you were,” Tristam said, narrowing his eyes as he studied the wounds. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

  Omax inclined his head in silent thanks.

  Tristam made his way above deck, Seren following. Pherris was in his customary place at the ship’s helm, lost in thought as he guided the Karia Naille on her course. Zed and Eraina stood at the port rail, looking over the side. Blizzard was crouched on his perch in the bow of the ship, preening himself fastidiously. Aeven was nowhere to be seen.

  “Were those the Cyran soldiers?” Zed said.

  “A lot of them survived the crash,” Tristam said.

  “Marth?” Zed asked.

  “I didn’t see him,” Tristam said, “but he’ll have to return to repair the Moon.”

  “Repair?” Eraina asked. “You blew up her elemental core and crashed her into the plains. The ship is dead.”

  Pherris chuckled. “Don’t underestimate Zil’argo craftsmanship,” he said. “Remember that you’re standing in a ship that survived a similar catastrophe only a few days ago. The Moon will fly again.”

  “But not soon,” Tristam said. “The damage was extensive, and binding a new elemental will take time. We’ve crippled Marth’s mobility for the time being.”

  “If Marth is as powerful as he’s shown himself to be, does he really need an airship to follow us?” Zed asked.

  Tristam said nothing. Zed’s words only reflected his unspoken thoughts.

  “Those men were not Cyran soldiers.” Dalan spoke from deep within his cabin. “Do not call them that. They wear the Cyran crest. They shout Cyran battle cries. They may have been born in Cyre, but they are no countrymen of mine.”

  Dalan stepped out of his cabin, his scowl deepening as he squinted at the morning sunlight. He held a thick ledger tucked under one arm. “Cyre was a proud nation, with a tradition of honor and courage. Marth and the murderers who serve him should not cheapen Cyre’s memory by calling themselves her sons.”

  “Dalan,” Tristam said, looking at the guild master coldly.

  “Xain,” Dalan replied, gesturing curtly at the artificer. “Step into my cabin. I wish to speak.” Dalan disappeared into his chambers.

  “Not in there, Dalan,” Tristam said. “Out here, where everyone can hear.”

  Dalan stepped back out, scowling at Tristam in irritation. “Tristam, this isn’t the time to be rebellious.”

  “No more secrets, Dalan,” Tristam said, his voice heated. “Either you talk to me here and now, or I leave the ship.”

  The galley hatch creaked open and Gerith peered out curiously. Omax climbed up from below deck, watching with interest as well. Eraina folded her arms and leaned against the rail.

  “Me, too,” Seren said.

  Dalan looked from Seren to Tristam, his scowl deepening. Zed laughed softly, drawing a withering glare from d’Cannith. Dalan’s shoulders slumped, and he gave a deep sigh as he sat upon a small crate.

  “I owe you my life for rescuing me from the Moon,” Dalan said in a quiet voice. “I can at least offer you my candor.”

  “Tell me what you know about Marth,” Tristam said.

  Dalan looked at Tristam blankly.

  “Pherris, take the ship down,” Tristam said. “I am disembarking.”

  “Belay that order, Captain,” Dalan said. “If Master Xain chooses to leave us, I insist on depositing him in a civilized land. No offense, Snowshale. I am sure the plains are lovely for halflings.”

  “Civilization is a crutch,” the halfling said.

  “I’m not bluffing, Dalan,” Tristam said. “I’m done with your lies.”

  “I believe you,” Dalan said in a tired voice, “but why do you insist on me telling you something you already know? Does it please you to hear me recite my mistakes and failures? Obviously Zed has already told you most of it and you have surmised the rest.”

  “I want you to tell everyone,” Tristam said. “Tell them about Marth.”

  “Very well,” Dalan said. “After my uncle disappeared, I determined to seek out his lost research. At the time, admittedly, my ends were no nobler than my own promotion within House Cannith. After a brief search, I came into contact with a skilled artificer who also possessed the cunning, discretion, and manpower to help me acquire the information I sought.”

  “Marth?” Eraina asked, a danger
ous edge to her voice.

  “How was I to know the sort of man he was?” Dalan asked. “Over the years, as I surmised the true purpose of Ashrem’s Legacy, I began to suspect Marth’s motives were not as base and simple as my own greed. He is afflicted with a peculiar mix of patriotism and madness. That is when I sought your aid, Tristam. Like Marth, you possessed knowledge of artifice that I did not. When Llaine Grove died, I severed my association with the changeling. There was no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the bishop’s murder.”

  “You aided a killer, then simply stepped away when your status as his accomplice became uncomfortable?” Eraina asked.

  “I did nothing to assist him in Grove’s murder,” Dalan said. “I had no idea what he planned. My contact with Marth was more limited than you believe. We merely met from time to time so that we could exchange information. Why do you think I have been so careful to keep Tristam close under my observation? I did not wish to repeat the same mistakes. I did not pursue Marth because I could not. However, I did not intend to aid him any further. Quite the opposite. I made it my primary objective to interfere with his quest as much as possible.”

  “I don’t understand,” Seren said. “When I stole your fake journal, you said that you left it as a trap, to lure out whoever else was searching for the Legacy. But you already knew who was searching for it—Marth was.”

  “An uncomfortable detail that was irrelevant at the time of our first meeting,” Dalan said.

  “Why would you try to draw him out when you already knew who he was?” Zed asked.

  Dalan sighed. “I will be blunt.”

  “This is a first,” Zed murmured.

  Dalan ignored him. “I am a man of position and power,” he said. “I cannot simply step forward and tell the world, ‘I was assisting a murderer, but now I am sorry,’ especially when the man in question is as elusive as Marth. He would have fled and my numerous enemies would have exploited my admission of weakness to destroy me. Any aid I could have offered in Marth’s capture would thus have been wasted, and my life would be consumed by petty political battles. Honesty, in this case, would have accomplished nothing.”

  “And this is blunt?” Zed asked.

  “I am coming to a point, Arthen,” Dalan snapped. “While a straightforward admission of guilt might be outside my scope, there are other alternatives. Such as producing a false manuscript, one that I know Marth would be too tempted not to investigate, and ensuring that knowledge of that manuscript’s existence fell into the hands of certain authorities who would find the information useful.”

  Dalan looked meaningfully at Eraina.

  “Such as the Deneith Sentinel Marshals,” he said. “Bishop Llaine Grove was, after all, under their protection. They would have a vested interest in pursuing his killer.”

  “Ridiculous,” she snapped. “My father, not you, told me about that book, and only after Marth hired him to help steal it.”

  “You don’t find it terribly convenient, Eraina?” Dalan asked. “Your prodigal father, who had not contacted you in years, spontaneously visits you with a clue to the same murder you were already investigating? Did it not seem strange that Marth, who has proven himself to be cautious and secretive in his dealings, would seek out an unknown like Jamus Roland for help with a petty theft? Come now, Eraina, you’re a better investigator than that.”

  Eraina said nothing.

  “I knew your father since the Last War,” Dalan continued. “We were information brokers. Seren, did Jamus ever mention Fiona Keenig to you?”

  “She was one of King Boranel’s spies,” Seren said. “Jamus worked for her for decades.”

  “And I was one of the lovely Miss Keenig’s most highly paid informants,” Dalan said proudly. “Cyre and Breland had many mutual enemies. I was pleased to aid her when I was able. Jamus and I were thus well acquainted. When Fiona disappeared, Jamus was shattered. The man fell into a sad state. He became a common street thief. I knew he had a daughter in House Deneith but was too proud to contact her. I was all too eager to give him a reason to better himself and serve the cause of peace again.”

  “So you blackmailed him into being your pawn,” Eraina said coldly.

  “Blackmail? I offered him a chance at a new life,” Dalan corrected. “I always contacted Marth through intermediaries. My association with Jamus had always been secret. It was simple enough to have Jamus present my false information to Marth’s agents as well as to you, Eraina, in hopes that the Sentinel Marshals would interfere. If you could not stop Marth, you would at least interfere with his progress.”

  “The truth would have been so much simpler,” Eraina said.

  “Perhaps,” Dalan said. “My only true mistake was underestimating the amount of aid House Deneith would provide. If they had sent more than one Marshal to investigate, perhaps Marth would not have escaped Wroat.”

  “I cannot dispute that,” Eraina said, not meeting Dalan’s eyes. “I warned my superiors that greater vigilance would be required. I tried, but we failed. I think they were embarrassed by my failure to protect Grove and have been unmotivated to pursue the case.”

  “Eraina,” Dalan said. “You pride yourself on your ability to detect falsehood. It is a talent that causes me no end of discomfort. Listen to me now.”

  The paladin looked up again, meeting Dalan d’Cannith’s gaze.

  “Jamus Roland was my comrade,” Dalan said. “The two of us survived a great deal together. The adventures the Karia Naille’s crew share would have been a footnote among our exploits during the Last War. I never intended for your father to die.” He smirked, though there was a hint of sadness in the expression. “I … never expected the old fool to steal the book from me himself. If I knew that was his plan, I would have simply given it to him. I’m still …” He coughed, clearing his voice. “I’m still amazed I did not recognize him when he visited me the night he died, but then he was a master of his trade.” Dalan offered a weak smile. “Believe me when I say that the only life I was intended to risk against Marth was my own.”

  “And mine,” Tristam said. “You sent Omax and me to look for that damned book, knowing full well what Marth was capable of.”

  “Only after I recognized all the earmarks of Jamus’s work,” Dalan said. “Seren used all of Roland’s techniques to break into my office. When I realized that Jamus’s life was at risk—that was when I sent you to investigate.”

  “Without having any idea what we were walking into,” Tristam said.

  “Omax is a warrior, even if you are not,” Dalan said. “He is always prepared.”

  “True,” the warforged said.

  Tristam glanced from Omax to Dalan angrily. “But you chose not to tell us any of this until now?” he asked, flustered.

  Zed laughed. “Not trying to make excuses,” he said, “but does any of this really surprise you, coming from Dalan? I’d wager there’s a great deal more that he doesn’t think is worth mentioning.”

  The crew was silent for a long time. Tristam glared at d’Cannith in tense silence. Dalan looked back impassively. Eraina folded her arms across her chest and stared at the deck.

  “I don’t know what to think of all of this,” Tristam finally said, an edge of anger in his voice. “Did you know that Marth was Orren Thardis all along?”

  Dalan blinked. “No,” he said, shaking his head slowly. “I never knew that at all.” A wicked smile twisted his jowls. “A very interesting revelation, Tristam. That certainly explains a great deal.”

  “Who in Khyber is Orren Thardis?” Zed asked. “Why is that name familiar?”

  “He was the captain of my uncle’s third vessel,” Dalan said. “The Dying Sun. He followed Ashrem into Cyre on the Day of Mourning. I had assumed he was dead.”

  “Like you assumed Kiris Overwood was dead,” Zed said.

  “Hardly a coincidence,” Eraina said. “He must have rescued her from the Mournland. That would explain why she was willing to die for him.”

  “If T
hardis is Marth, his obsession with my uncle’s work becomes a great deal clearer,” Dalan said. “I knew Thardis hid his talents as an artificer, but I never knew he was a changeling.”

  “What we never knew grows every day,” Gerith said.

  Omax nodded vigorously.

  “Seren salvaged a few of Kiris’s journals,” Tristam said. “They aren’t written in the same impossible code as Ashrem’s, so we may be able to learn something from them.”

  “Excellent,” Dalan said. “We will have several days of idle time during our repairs and travel to Korth. To gain ground would be a welcome change.”

  “I hope so,” Tristam said.

  “Any more questions?” Dalan asked. “If you wish for truth, ask for it all. I don’t like these uncomfortable suspicions.”

  “Only one,” Tristam said, looking at Dalan evenly. “Zed told me you recruited me to replace Marth. Did you really pick me because you thought I was an easily manipulated fool?”

  “Those weren’t my exact words,” Zed interrupted.

  “Yes,” Dalan said curtly, returning Tristam’s gaze. “When you served my uncle you were headstrong, impetuous, and eager to please. The slightest criticism crushed you, while the smallest compliment could buy your loyalty for weeks. I believed you would be the perfect pawn, talented but malleable.”

  Tristam’s face darkened.

  “Stay your temper, Tristam,” Dalan said. “You’ve proven me quite wrong, and I am glad for that. Your ability to think for yourself has saved us all, time and again.”

  Tristam’s eyes widened, surprised by Dalan’s use of his first name.

  “Marshal, am I lying?” Dalan asked.

  “No,” the paladin replied.

  “There you have it,” Dalan said. “Now if you will pardon me, I am not a young man, and I am still exhausted from my kidnapping and torture. If there is anything further, I shall be in my cabin.” Dalan stood and made to return to his chambers.

  “I don’t think I trust you anymore, Dalan,” Tristam said to the guild master’s back.

  “Good,” Dalan replied. “You’ve finally caught up with the rest of the world. Thank you again for saving my life.” He closed the door behind him.