Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  “One known expedition,” Tristam corrected, looking back over his shoulder at Dalan.

  “Quite,” Dalan said, nodding. “I am not surprised to learn that my uncle apparently made his own secret forays into that land, but if we wish to follow, we must seek the wisdom of those who made their exploits popularly known.” Dalan paused, surveying the streets around him. A small grin split his broad features as he found the building he sought—a small, two-story home surrounded by a low fence. “Masters Ijaac and Lemgran Bruenhail are friends of the family. They both accompanied Lord ir’Dayne’s expedition into the Frostfell. If we wish to journey there safely, we should seek their advice.”

  “Do you need me for this?” Gerith asked. The halfling shifted from foot to foot, looking at Dalan and Pherris with an anxious expression.

  “What’s got into you, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked, offering Gerith an irritated look.

  “Me?” Gerith asked, feigning surprise. “I’m not up to anything.” He looked around sharply, eyes moving from one thing to the next with an eager intensity. “It’s just that I’ve never been here before. I’ve heard a lot of stories about this place. I want to see it.”

  “Stormhome has a reputation as a den of spies, pirates, and debauchery,” Dalan said with some amusement. “Your curiosity fails to surprise me.”

  Gerith shrugged lamely. “I guess maybe I was a little curious,” he admitted, “but I thought I might start looking into gathering supplies. Frostfell is a long way away.”

  “Good idea, Master Snowshale,” Pherris said. “I doubt in your current agitated state you would add much to this meeting.”

  Gerith grinned.

  Pherris smiled. “Take Omax with you, just to be safe,” he said.

  Gerith frowned.

  The warforged looked down at Gerith and released a metallic sigh.

  “You don’t really expect to carry all those supplies by yourself, do you?” the captain asked.

  Gerith pursed his lips in an annoyed pout. “I guess not,” he said. “Come, Omax.” The halfling walked off toward the docks, shoulders slumping slightly. The warforged loped along behind him, blue eyes scanning the streets for danger.

  “Remind me to apologize to Omax for any trouble Master Snowshale topples down upon them,” Pherris said, watching them go.

  Dalan laughed as he opened the gate and entered the small garden beyond. There were few plants; the garden was mostly fine stones of black and white, placed carefully upon the earth and combed in intricate patterns. A stocky little man knelt on the path near the house, smoothing the stones with a long-handled rake. He peered up as they approached. His wizened face was framed by thick gray brows and an explosion of salt-and-pepper beard.

  “D’Cannith,” the old dwarf said, rising and carefully leaning his rake against the house. He erupted in wet, hacking coughs for several moments before composing himself and eyeing Dalan shrewdly. “How did I know you’d come?”

  “I need information, Lemgran,” he said. “I will pay.”

  “Oh, you will,” the dwarf agreed. He looked at the rest of them with a cautious eye, then turned and opened the door, gesturing for them to follow.

  The inside of the house was dark and smelled richly of incense. The walls were adorned with faded maps and dusty hunting trophies. Half-eaten plates of food sat stacked about the bookcases and furniture, discarded and forgotten. The old dwarf led them to a low table surrounded by overstuffed chairs and a long couch. He sat down heavily and watched them enter in keen silence, muffling a cough behind his handkerchief.

  “I won’t take much of your time,” Dalan said, settling on the couch across from the dwarf. “Allow me to introduce my associates …”

  “No,” the dwarf said, eyeing Zed Arthen warily. “No names. Your friends have the look of people I’m better off not knowing. Just ask your questions, d’Cannith. You’re here about the Frostfell?”

  Dalan nodded. He looked around the room thoughtfully. “Your brother Ijaac has gone there, hasn’t he?” he asked.

  “Why do you say that?” Lemgran asked, his voice rough as he stifled a new fit of coughing.

  “Your brother was always the tidy one,” Dalan replied. “By the looks of your home he has not been here in weeks.”

  Lemgran scowled. “Ijaac’s a fool, and he always has been,” the dwarf said. “Always running off on any stupid adventure, Bruenhail honor be damned. I told him the Frostfell was no place for an old dwarf, but he was too stubborn.”

  “Has Norra Cais been here?” Dalan asked.

  Lemgran nodded. “She was the one who wrapped him up in promises of adventure,” he said. “Ijaac left with her weeks ago on a ship bound for the north.”

  “But you stayed here?” Dalan said.

  “I don’t regret our adventures, but I put them behind me,” the dwarf said sadly. “Ijaac was always hungry for one more trip, but the Way finder Foundation never really needed us. They have plenty of young fools to die on their trips to Xen’drik, Argonnessen, and Q’barra. Sure, we have experience, but nobody ever wants to go to the Frostfell.”

  “Except for Norra,” Dalan said. “And my uncle, Ashrem.”

  “Aye,” Lemgran said with a bitter smile. “Our experiences in the Frostfell were what brought Ash to us all those years ago. He found something in the Draconic Prophecy that pointed him toward the Zul’nadn ruins. We helped him take the Dying Sun to that forsaken temple.” Lemgran fell silent for a long moment. His dark eyes were haunted. “When Ijaac and I went north with Lord ir’Dayne and his crew, we saw some strange things, but that was nothing compared to what Ashrem d’Cannith showed us in Zul’nadn.”

  “You’ve been to Zul’nadn?” Tristam asked eagerly.

  Lemgran sneered at Tristam. “Aye.”

  “We need to go there,” Dalan said. “We need a guide.”

  The dwarf looked back at Dalan. “Give up now, d’Cannith,” he said. “There’s nothing out on the ice but death. Even were my health not in the sad shape that it is, I would not go there with you. You have the wrong Bruenhail.”

  “What did you see in Zul’nadn that filled you with such fear?” Dalan asked. “I thought you were an explorer.”

  “Fear?” Lemgran said with a laugh, though the laugh dissolved into a short fit of wet hacking. “Fear is what fills you when you don’t know what to do. I know exactly what to do about Zul’nadn—leave it lost in the snow where it belongs.”

  “Ijaac clearly wasn’t so ready to give up,” Dalan said.

  “My brother is dead by now,” Lemgran said. “Whatever you’re seeking out there isn’t worth it. Give up.”

  “We can’t,” Tristam said. “We need to know what Ashrem saw.”

  Lemgran sighed. “Listen to me, boy,” he said. “I see that fire in your eyes, and because you’re young, I’ll excuse it. You sense secrets and you want answers, but some things are forgotten for a reason. Zul’nadn isn’t one of those mysteries that needs to be solved. It’s a cursed place. The dwarves that built that temple were not normal folk. They weren’t sane. Thousands of years ago, they went out there seeking the Prophecy, but the powers of Xoriat crawled into their heads and changed them. Raw madness forced them to build a living nightmare, a place of power, a temple designed to unravel the world.”

  “What happened to them?” Zed asked.

  “They died, thankfully,” Lemgran said, clearing his throat with a pained expression. “The Fellmaw was born out of their twisted magic. It crawled into their temple and froze them dead. You can still find them there, hunched over their altars, kneeling in their dormitories, trapped in ice, praying to demons who repay their faith with nothing but oblivion. Some of them still walk out on the ice …”

  “Alive after all this time?” Eraina asked, incredulous.

  “Hardly,” Lemgran said. “The darkness they served seeped into their corpses. They don’t live … they just hunger.” The old dwarf shuddered at the memory.

  “What is the Fellmaw?” Dalan as
ked.

  “A living storm,” Lemgran said. “We found a few writings about it in the temple. Apparently the cultists created it on purpose, believing they could control it. It prowls the plains and canyons of the Frostfell, devouring any life it sees. It’s like a blizzard that never dies. It hounded the Dying Sun, hunting us, howling in the night and spraying green lightning across the sky whenever it couldn’t find us.” The old dwarf shivered.

  “A living storm?” Zed asked dubiously.

  “I’ve been to the Frostfell twice, human,” Lemgran said with a sneer. “I saw terrible weather on my first expedition with Lord ir’Dayne, but it was nothing like the Fellmaw.”

  “Maybe you were just lucky on the first trip?” Zed asked.

  “Zed,” Pherris said softly, “I’ve been a sailor all my life. In my experience there’s no surer path to death than laughing at someone else’s nightmares. If Lemgran says that he saw a living storm, then that is what he saw.”

  “Nature itself doesn’t want anyone finding whatever is inside Zul’nadn,” Lemgran said, eyeing the gnome shrewdly. “I’m still not sure how Ashrem got a few of us out of there alive.”

  “It’s not inconceivable,” Tristam said, pondering the dwarf’s words. “If the Zul’nadn priests truly worshipped the demons of Xoriat, the boundaries between the planes would be thin there. A powerful rogue elemental could easily have slipped through one of their summoning rituals and become enraged at its entrapment in our world. An elemental has no concept of time or reason. It would perceive any living being as an ally of those who brought it here and lash out in vengeance. A large enough air elemental could manifest itself as a storm.”

  “Pointless,” Lemgran said. “Does explaining things make you feel better, artificer?”

  Tristam blinked. “I’m only trying to help,” he said. “If we know what we’re up against, we’ll be better prepared to face it.”

  “The Fellmaw doesn’t care or know where it came from,” the dwarf said. “It doesn’t care if you understand it. Go there and it will kill you. You can’t reason with a storm.”

  “In that regard we may be in luck, as storms have always been kind to us,” Pherris said. “All the same, we will be cautious.”

  “Any help you could offer would be most appreciated,” Dalan said. “Maps, suggested courses, advice on what sorts of supplies we should bring and what sort of hazards we might expect to face outside of the obvious occasional ravenous storm.” Dalan reached into his vest and drew out a small velvet bag. He leaned forward and set it on the table in front of Lemgran. The dwarf picked up the bag, weighing it in his hand.

  “Money is a good start,” Lemgran said, his voice so low it was nearly a growl. “But you …” He looked at the gnome captain. “The boy called you Pherris. Would your last name be Gerriman, by any chance?”

  “It would,” the gnome said.

  “Dying Sun’s first mate was a boy named Haimel Gerriman,” Lemgran said, coughing softly. “He spoke very highly of his father. He said that Pherris Gerriman was the finest airship pilot to ever sail the skies of Eberron.”

  Pherris smiled sadly. “Haimel had a tendency to exaggerate,” he said, “but he was my son. He flew with Ashrem to Zul’nadn?”

  “He did,” Lemgran said, studying the gnome carefully. There was a strange, hopeful light in his eyes. “Tell me, Captain Gerriman, how quickly could your ship reach the Frostfell?”

  “If the winds favor us, five days,” the gnome said. “And the winds always favor us.”

  “No Lyrandar airship would agree to take Cais on her doomed expedition,” Lemgran said. “The winds in the Frostfell are too wild for all but the bravest pilots. She and my brother were forced to journey by sea. You may yet have time to intercept them. Though I will not go with you to the Frostfell, I will give you everything you need, Captain Gerriman. I only ask one thing.” He pushed the pouch of coins back across the table toward Dalan with a serious expression.

  “And what is that?” Pherris asked.

  “That you find my foolish brother, Ijaac,” Lemgran said in a thick voice. “And, if he lives, bring him back home.”

  TEN

  Gerith Snowshale sat at the edge of the docks, his small face creased with a frown. Omax settled beside him, his enormous metal body making little sound. The warforged deposited a heavy sack of supplies with a solid thud. The docks were busy at this time of day, with dozens of sailors, merchants, criminals, and other assorted citizens going about their daily business. The weather was fair. A warm yellow sun blazed in a cloudless sapphire sky. The wind mildly caressed the docks, carrying the raucous cry of soaring gulls. Rumor claimed that the priests and wizards who served House Lyrandar used their magic carefully to cultivate an area of fair weather around their port, just as the mages within the city warded away the smell of the docks. Ships moved in and out of the busy bay. Though most bore the seal of House Lyrandar, vessels from every seafaring nation could be found.

  The Lyrandar stormships and wind galleons were easily distinguishable from the rest. A sleek tower rose from the back of each ship, linked to a swirling ring of shimmering silver mist. Much like Karia Naille and other airships drew upon bound fire elementals to soar through the sky, these sailing vessels drew upon air elementals for a steady source of wind. The ships were a gorgeous combination of magical innovation and shipbuilding artistry. Many travelers spent hours on the Stormhome docks, just watching the elemental ships come and go. Gerith cared nothing for the show. The halfling sat hugging his legs against his thin chest, looking unusually forlorn. Omax looked at the halfling, his blank adamantine face somehow radiating concern.

  “Is there a problem, Gerith?” the warforged asked.

  “Of course there’s a problem,” the halfling said with an irritated frown. “You’re making my job way more difficult than it needs to be.”

  “Difficult?” Omax asked, peering about himself in confusion. “What do you mean? What am I making difficult?”

  Blizzard landed on top of a nearby post with a leather snap of wings. The glidewing shifted from foot to foot, making himself comfortable, and settled in to patiently watch his master.

  “I’m here looking for stories, Omax,” Gerith said, mildly exasperated. “I’m always looking for stories, so I can finally find the best one. That one unique story that my grandfather’s never heard. Look at all these people, all going interesting places, coming from interesting places, doing interesting things. They must have stories, but none of them are going to talk to me or let me overhear anything interesting with you looming around like that.”

  “Looming,” the warforged said, tilting his head. “I was unaware that I loom. Shall I endeavor to cease looming?”

  Gerith blinked. “Now you’re making fun of me.”

  “Certainly not,” the warforged said.

  “You know what I mean,” Gerith said. “You can’t help it. The Host knows you’re a decent and honorable soul, Omax, but you were built to scare people. You are an intimidating person. Just look around us.” Gerith gestured vaguely.

  Omax looked over one shoulder compliantly. He was not surprised to find the crowded, busy dock had left avoid for a safe distance around him. “Not unusual,” he said, tracing a finger along the jagged scars on his chest. “The presence of a warforged fails to inspire trust in all but the most forgiving and sympathetic souls. It is a simple fact of my existence, and not a stereotype that is entirely unjust.”

  Blizzard suddenly dove from his perch with a triumphant caw, disappearing over the side of the dock with a splash. The glidewing soared back up seconds later, clutching a struggling fish in its beak. The creature settled back on its perch and shook the water from broad wings, eliciting some muffled curses from startled passersby. Blizzard pinned his catch beneath one talon and began pecking at it contentedly.

  “Doesn’t that ever bother you?” Gerith asked, ignoring the familiar display.

  The warforged looked at the halfling, his shimmering eyes questioning.


  “That people assume you’re a killer,” Gerith said.

  “I am accustomed to it,” Omax said. “It was, in fact, what I was built to be. I am not without blood on my hands.”

  “I don’t think it’s right,” Gerith said. “The same thing happens to me. Outsiders look at me and assume I’m a thief and a troublemaker because I’m from the Plains.” He looked at the water, thinking for a long moment.

  “You are a troublemaker,” Omax observed. “You exult in it.”

  “But I’m not a thief!” Gerith protested. “Not for weeks. It’s unfair.”

  “In your case, perhaps arguably,” Omax said. “But why should people not fear me? Though I avoid violence, it comes easily to my kind. Why should they not assume I am a danger to them? It is safer for them to assume I mean harm, considering the ease with which I could inflict violence upon them.”

  “That isn’t the sort of person you are,” Gerith said.

  “Not of late,” Omax answered, returning his attention to his injuries. “I have earned some measure of trust from you and from the rest of my friends on Karia Naille, and I treasure that. Yet it would be all too easy for me to revert to the monster I once was.”

  “Are you saying that warforged are inherently evil?” Gerith asked.

  “I am not sure what ‘evil’ is,” Omax said. “I do not believe there is any value in such an arbitrary designation. What seems evil in one instance may be quite heroic in another. Marth does not consider himself evil. He clearly sees himself as a patriot, and those who follow him believe they still serve my dead homeland. Yet to us, their actions are obviously flawed and destructive. We, on the other hand, have committed crimes and taken lives to stop him. Does that make us heroes?”

  “You’re talking about laws now,” Gerith said. “Laws don’t count when they get in the way of what’s right.”

  “A thin distinction,” Omax said.

  “Laws are what other people tell us to do,” Gerith said. “Other people don’t always know what’s right.”