by Rich Wulf
She had made Shaimin bleed.
She was untrained and inexperienced. He had seen that in her movements. Yet she had nearly undone him. Such instinct. Such talent. In a human!
It was intolerable. His failure was inexcusable.
She was so very intriguing. He needed to know more.
A sudden burst of movement within the house drew Shaimin’s attention. He sipped his disgusting beverage while he nonchalantly pretended not to be watching the door. From the corner of his eye he saw seven figures emerge. One waved and returned to the house. That would be Lemgran. The others split, three heading up the street in one direction while the rest headed the other direction, back toward the docking towers. Shaimin looked up more intently, searching for details now that it was less likely he would be noticed spying. Tristam, Seren, and Pherris composed the group that moved back to the airship.
Shaimin briefly considered entering Lemgran’s house and questioning the dwarf, finding out why Xain had come to Stormhome and what he was seeking in the Frostfell. The assassin carefully stamped out his curiosity as a traveler stamps out a campfire before it becomes dangerous. He didn’t know the full story of why Orren Thardis, or Marth as he wished to be called now, wished Ashrem’s former apprentice to die. He didn’t know what the changeling sought or why the boy wanted to stop him. He had enough problems of his own. He merely wished to repay this debt and be done with it. He smiled at the serving girl, let the teacup fall on the stone floor with a chink of shattered porcelain, and carefully followed Tristam and his companions into the streets of the city.
The assassin was more cautious than usual, following at a safe distance and melding with the flow of the crowd. That had been Shaimin’s biggest mistake back in Korth. He had been careless. For the last few years, his jobs had been rather boring and simple: eliminating old widows, merchant competitors, curious reporters, and other inoffensive quarry. Since the war had ended, his career had been stagnant. Gone were the days of sneaking into a fortified camp and slitting the general’s throat in his sleep. Stealing into a besieged castle to deposit poisoned meat in the water supply was simply a fond memory. Life as an assassin during peacetime was dull—you never got to kill anyone interesting. He should have realized from the start that Thardis—Marth—wouldn’t have called upon him for a mundane task. This would require effort. It was a welcome change, to be sure. It was merely an adjustment in his recent lazy habits.
The trio paused at the door to a small papermaker’s shop. Shaimin smoothly stepped into an alley and pretended to busy himself wiping nonexistent stains from his coat with a handkerchief. The gnome stopped to speak with the merchant while Tristam and the girl waited nearby. Shaimin concentrated upon the dragonmark upon his back and felt part of his soul step away from his body, extending his senses across the street.
“Three hundred sheets of fine vellum,” the gnome said. “The waterproof kind, if you can manage it. I’ll need it by the morning.”
“That’s a tall order,” the merchant replied.
The gnome held up a bronze seal.
“Cannith?” the merchant replied, impressed.
Buying paper. How boring.
Shaimin moved his senses to his target and the girl.
“I can’t help it, Seren,” Tristam said, answering some question that Shaimin had not overheard. “I just want to get moving. We’re so close now.”
So her name was Seren.
“Relax, Tristam,” Seren said. “This trip won’t be easy. We need to prepare.”
Shaimin chuckled. Seren advised Tristam to relax, but Shaimin could see the tension hidden just beneath the surface, the taut muscles in her back and calves. Her eyes watched the windows relentlessly. She was looking for him. The assassin smiled.
“I know, Seren,” Tristam said. “I’d just rather not be wasting time buying paper.”
“There are better ways to spend your time, I guess,” Seren said demurely.
“I could be doing all sorts of things,” he said, flustered, missing her cue entirely. “I could be doing the final launch maintenance on the ship. I could be studying Overwood’s journals trying to get an idea what we’ll see in Zul’nadn. I could be trying to get Omax to hold still so I can finish repairing him. I could … erm …” He blushed darkly at her. “You weren’t talking about ship maintenance, were you?”
Seren smiled and whispered something in Tristam’s ear. They both glanced at Pherris to see if he overheard, then moved a bit closer to each other with the mischievous grins of young lovers.
Shaimin chuckled darkly as some things fell into place. Marth had told him that Xain and his crew shared a mutual quest, but he had not told him—or perhaps had not even realized—the bonds these people shared with one another. Love made enemies dangerous, but it also made them predictable. Seren and Tristam would be watching each other, protecting each other—and Shaimin could use that against them.
The merchant finally came to some agreement and shook hands with the gnome. He led the three of them inside. Shaimin continued watching, his invisible eyes and ears following the merchant as he moved into the back room to fill the gnome’s order. Shaimin let the power of his dragonmark fade. Without another moment’s hesitation, he strode across the street, opened the door, and stepped inside. The low building was filled with dark iron printing presses and heavy wooden shelves piled with stacks of paper.
Seren recognized Shaimin instantly, drawing her knife and stepping to block his path to Tristam. Shaimin moved erratically, darting the other way and snatching Pherris Gerriman by the back of his coat. The elf held his long dagger against the gnome’s neck. Tristam drew his wand a few seconds later, his reflexes much slower than Seren’s. Pherris’ eyes widened, peering down at the blade pressed against his wrinkled skin.
“Khyber,” Xain swore. “You again.”
“Good evening, Master Xain,” Shaimin said, executing as much of a bow as he was capable of while holding the struggling gnome. “I am not from Khyber. The devils of that forsaken place only wish they had my immaculate sense of style.”
“Put him down,” Seren said.
“Why?” Shaimin whispered. “If you yell for help, I will kill him and vanish. If you attack me, Seren, I will kill him and vanish. Tristam, you cannot safely use your magic on me without harming your friend as well. If you fail to kill me with your wand, I will certainly kill him and vanish. Now put your weapons down.”
“So you can kill us?” Tristam asked.
“And vanish,” Shaimin added, waving his dagger with the rhythm of the phrase.
“If you hurt Pherris,” Xain said in a cold, steady voice, “even your dragonmark will not hide you from me.” He set his wand carefully on the floor.
Seren looked at Tristam uncertainly, then did the same, putting down her knife.
“A reasonable opponent is such a rare thing,” Shaimin said with a pleased sigh. “Master Xain, please take off your coat as well. I am well aware of the sorts of accoutrements you artificers like to tote about in your pockets.”
Tristam scowled and drew the garment off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor with a heavy clink.
“Tristam, I’m sorry,” Pherris said helplessly.
“It’s all right, Captain,” Tristam said, rising, eyes fixed on the assassin’s. “Nothing you could do.”
“Now kick everything well out of your reach, if you please,” Shaimin asked.
Tristam did so, booting his rumpled coat and the weapons toward the assassin. “Let Pherris go,” he said, voice quavering.
“Not yet,” Shaimin said. “Seren, please step away from Master Xain. Into the corner.”
“I won’t let you kill him, Thuranni,” she said.
He looked at her, impressed by the murder he saw in her eyes. Properly tempered, she would make an excellent assassin, for a human. Sadly, she probably would not forgive him for this. “Seren, I realize death is the sort of thing that is quite difficult not to take personally,” Shaimin said. “I am af
raid there can be no other arrangement. Facing both of you together is too irritating. If it pleases you, I might permit you a desperate leap for your knife after Tristam is dead—at which time I will kill you as well.”
Seren’s scowl deepened.
“Seren, listen to him,” Tristam said. “I’m not worth it.”
She looked at him in surprise for a brief instant, then their eyes met. Something passed between them, and she relented, stepping back into the corner.
“Now put him down,” Tristam said, holding his hands open to his sides. “You have what you want, Thuranni.”
“Not yet,” the assassin said, smiling as he set Pherris on the ground. He glanced down at the floor. He smiled as his bracelet pulsed, quietly warning him of the explosive ward Tristam had activated in his coat. “Captain Gerriman, please move Tristam’s discarded clothing out of my path. I would not wish to trip.”
Tristam paled as he saw his last hope fade. Pherris looked up at Tristam fearfully. Tristam shook his head, trying to warn Pherris away.
The door at the rear of the room opened and the papermaker stepped in, carrying a thick ream and a small knife. Seren lunged at him, ripping the parcel from his hand and twisting, scattering a cloud of fluttering paper across the room. The merchant shrieked and ran back out of the room. Seren dove toward Shaimin with the papermaker’s knife. The assassin sighed, ducked under her attack, and sank his own weapon deep into her side, twisting. She cried out and collapsed to her knees. He knocked her aside with a lazy kick. Tristam cried out in rage and snatched his wand from the floor, filling the room with white lightning. Shaimin sighed as he flipped to one side, dodging the worst of the blast.
“I can afford to be patient, Xain,” the assassin said with a sigh. “Hide behind your friends, and watch me carve them away one by one.”
A cloud of shadow enveloped the small room. Tristam shouted words of magic and burned the darkness away with a sweep of his wand. Shaimin was already gone.
Tristam hurried to Seren’s side, falling to his knees and cradling her head in his lap. A thin stream of blood trickled from her mouth. He reached desperately for his cloak, the explosive ward canceling at its master’s touch.
“Where in Khyber did he go?” Pherris said, looking around the room fearfully.
Tristam dug through his pockets and drew out a healing draught, tipping it between Seren’s lips.
“Why are the Thuranni after us, Tristam?” Pherris asked shrilly.
“Captain, find the Marshal,” Tristam said coldly. “She can still save Seren.”
“What if he comes back?” Pherris asked.
“Then there’s not much we can do, is there?” he said. “Find Eraina.”
The captain looked back at Tristam. For a moment, he looked very old and very helpless. “I’m sorry, Tristam,” he whispered roughly. “I should have done more. Maybe I should have stayed on the ship.”
“Just find Eraina, Captain,” Tristam said softly. “I’ll be fine till then.”
The little gnome nodded sadly and hurried off into the streets of Stormhome.
And from the darkness of a nearby rooftop, Shaimin d’Thuranni watched with a patient, calculating grin.
TWELVE
Orren Thardis drew his sword and stepped into the threshold, barring the chamber door. The captain’s face was grave, his pale eyes searching the empty halls for any sign of approaching movement. The twisted amethyst wand pulsed softly in his left hand, casting the frozen ruins in an eerie purple light.
“We must hold our ground here,” he said, his voice reverberating in the vast emptiness. “Old Ash needs as much time as we can purchase.”
The other crewmen murmured their assent with the exception of the elder dwarf. “What is that old fool doing?” Lemgran demanded in a low voice. His beady eyes flicked toward the shadowy fissure in the rear of the chamber. A pale, shifting light rose from far below, the only sign that Ashrem d’Cannith was still alive. “Whatever’s down there can’t possibly be worth our lives.”
A tortured, gurgling roar rolled through the halls beyond. It was followed by the sound of jagged claws scraping on ice and stone. The sound was familiar to all of them by now. It had taken only two of the creatures to kill four crewmen earlier. Now it sounded as if many more approached. Behind him, Orren heard Kormas mumble a desperate prayer to the Silver Flame. Kormas had never struck Orren as a particularly religious man, but then he had never really cared to ask. He envied Kormas, in a way. At times like this, Orren wished he still had any faith in anything other than himself and the man who had disappeared into the ruins beneath them.
The hideous sounds drew nearer. Now pinpoints of light could be seen in the darkened hallway—the baleful radiance of eyes that had never known true sunlight. There were over a dozen of the ravenous undead creatures.
“How many are there, Captain?” Haimel asked.
“At least six,” Orren said. It was a harmless lie. They were likely all doomed anyway.
“We can never beat so many,” Lemgran wailed plaintively. “Ashrem d’Cannith has led us to our doom! I know you have magic, Thardis. Teleport us out of here!”
“By the Host, toss that dwarf into the hall if he complains again!” spat one of the other crewmen. “I, for one, will be a great deal happier without his wretched moaning.”
“Quiet, both of you,” Orren said, glaring back at the assembled crew sharply. “We hold hope in our hands.”
The crew all looked at Orren in stunned silence. Outside, the shrieking ghouls drew steadily nearer.
“Do you even realize what Ashrem seeks here?” Orren said. His hands tightened on his sword and wand until the knuckles shone white with his anger. “I know each of you must have a friend, a son, a father, a lover who marches into battle somewhere in Eberron. The knowledge lost in these ruins could end the Last War forever. We do not fight for our own lives here, but for the future of our world. Even if we die, even if Ashrem fails and none ever know our fates, can any of you say that our deaths were not worthy? Would you rather live a long life in a world of orphans and widows when you had the means to fight? Even your cowardice cannot be so great, Lemgran Bruenhail.”
“I …” Lemgran could say nothing more. The dwarf was stunned, his blue eyes blinking rapidly in shame and surprise.
Just then Lemgran’s sibling climbed out of the fissure, his wizened face beaming. “D’Cannith is almost there,” Ijaac reported. “He’s found the Eye. He only needs a few more minutes.”
“Then stand with me, sons and daughters of Dying Sun,” Orren said, casting a commanding gaze over them all. “And one day, when Eberron knows peace, all of us will remember that this was the final battle of the Last War, and that we did not falter.”
Orren turned and stepped into the hallway to face the maddened ghouls. He felt the crew move as one behind him, even cowardly Lemgran.
Time rippled around him. Memory faded away. The crew was gone, but the ruins were the same. The intervening years had changed very little, though the charred and shattered corpses of the ghouls still lay where the wards had slain them. Orren Thardis’s weapons were the same—the Cyran longsword and amethyst wand. The man himself however, was different. He now wore the black uniform of a Cyran soldier. The guise of Orren Thardis melted away with his memory, replaced with Marth’s pale, scarred face.
Marth stared into the forsaken corridors of Zul’nadn, only the faint light of his wand reflecting off the ice and stone. He tried to remember the man he once was.
“You never needed them,” whispered the timeless voice. “You are the conqueror.”
But he could not remember the man who hated the War with such passion. That man was dead.
The Prophecy released him and the visions faded, returning him to the caverns beneath his stronghold.
There was too much pain, too much loss, too much burning need for revenge. The man named Orren Thardis may have forgiven the world, but that man was a mask—and that mask was no more. There was only Ma
rth—the conqueror. The changeling sheathed his sword and touched his face, tracing the scars he had earned on the Day of Mourning. They still burned. The raw magical fire had left wounds that would never fully heal. They matched the shadow cast upon his soul.
“Introspection can be a dangerous thing, Marth,” Zamiel said, appearing at the end of the corridor. “Worthy deeds are always difficult, and doubt makes that which is difficult impossible. Doubt lays legends low.”
“I do not doubt,” Marth said, pulling his hand away from his face. “I merely … wonder if there might have been another way.”
“Ask Ashrem,” Zamiel asked. “Your old master wavered at the moment of his destiny and was destroyed for his arrogance. What must be must be. The future will come no matter what we do. We can only prepare and herald its coming. You know that, Marth. Do not resist your fate. Embrace it, as a sail embraces the wind.”
“Yes,” Marth said. He sighed deeply. “Yes, you are right, of course.”
“But I have not come all this way to reassure you,” Zamiel said. “Our eyes and ears among Xain’s crew are no more. Our spy has been discovered and slain.”
“Slain?” Marth said. “I did not expect such brutality from Tristam. He could hardly bring himself to attack me when I faced him, even after all that I have done.”
“I doubt it was Xain,” Zamiel said. “More likely it was one of his allies—probably the paladin.”
“Which paladin?” Marth asked.
Zamiel looked at Marth curiously. “Eraina d’Deneith,” the prophet said. “What other paladin would I mean?”
“Never mind,” Marth said.
“Things will be far more difficult,” Zamiel said. “We have no way of predicting where they will go next. Your assassin has failed.”
“They will come here, in time,” Marth said. “Dalan knows far too much. But they will not come here yet.”
“Where?” Zamiel asked.
“The only destination of importance Kiris could have revealed to them,” Marth said. “Zul’nadn.”
“They must not reach the Eye,” Zamiel said.