Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  “They will not.”

  “How will you stop him without an airship?” Zamiel asked.

  “There are only so many ports from which Karia Naille could embark upon a journey to the Frostfell,” Marth said. “They are bound for Stormhome, no doubt.”

  “What will you do?” Zamiel asked.

  “Do as you suggested,” Marth said. He reached into his long cloak and drew out a short black cylinder, turning it over in his hands. “Conduct a test.”

  THIRTEEN

  Eraina closed the hatch softly and looked up at Tristam with a reassuring smile. “I will not lie to you, Xain,” she said. “The wound caused a great deal of bleeding, and Seren is in a fragile state. She has fallen to a fever, but I believe you brought her to me in time to save her life. A few days of rest and, with Boldrei’s aid, she will be as fit as she ever was. I will watch over her.”

  “Thank you, Marshal,” Tristam said softly. He bowed his head in relief. “Thank the Hearthmother, as well.”

  Eraina’s eyes widened with mild surprise. “I am unaccustomed to seeing such piety among this crew,” she said with a light laugh.

  Tristam shrugged. “I guess you’re the first real servant of the Host I’ve ever known,” he said. “All you’ve ever done is help us. Why shouldn’t I respect your goddess?”

  Eraina said nothing, though her face flushed slightly. She clasped Tristam’s arm with one hand and moved off down the corridor toward her cabin. Two shimmering blue lights appeared in the darkened hold behind Tristam, and he looked back with a grim expression as Omax appeared. The artificer nodded silently at his friend and moved above deck, the warforged in tow. He had almost reached the docking bridge before Zed Arthen stepped into his path, gray eyes squinting in irritation.

  “Where are you going, Xain?” he asked.

  “After the elf that tried to kill Seren,” Tristam said. “Come along if you want.” Tristam tried to push past Zed onto the bridge, but the inquisitive stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pherris said the assassin wasn’t after Seren,” Zed said. “He was trying to kill you.”

  Tristam glared at Zed. “Seren nearly died.”

  “Think it through, Tristam,” Zed said. “Seren is safe now, and that assassin could be anywhere. We can’t waste time looking for him. We need to be gaining ground on Marth while we can.”

  Tristam’s scowl deepened. “Do you suggest we just let him get away?”

  “Not at all,” Zed said. “I wouldn’t worry, Tristam. If he’s really a Thuranni, he’ll find you again.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” Tristam said. “Stay here if you want, Zed. Let’s go, Omax.”

  “I think Arthen is correct, Tristam,” Omax said.

  Tristam looked up at the warforged in surprise. “What?”

  “This assassin is toying with you,” Omax said. “Where he cannot kill you, he tries to weaken you—taking Pherris hostage so you will not use magic to defend yourself, wounding Seren to infuriate you. Do not succumb to impatience, Tristam.”

  “Impatience?” Tristam snapped. “I can’t believe you would say that, Omax. After everything Seren has done to help us, you would do nothing to defend her?”

  “An impulsive mistake is no way to repay her friendship and bravery,” Omax said. “She was injured protecting you from that assassin. Delivering yourself to him would be pointless.”

  Tristam glared at Omax angrily, unable to find any words. The warforged looked down at his friend impassively. Zed folded his arms across his chest and stepped back, letting Tristam make his own choice.

  “Well, I can’t go alone,” Tristam said bitterly.

  “Good,” Dalan said, appearing at the hatch of his cabin. He held a thick ledger under one arm. Gunther paced in small circles around his master, tugging at the short leash Dalan held in one hand. The dog was eager to leave, though it wasn’t sure where it was going, as all dogs are. “If that’s settled, let begin making preparations for takeoff. Gerith, make sure everything is secure.”

  The halfling rose instantly from his apparent nap, scrambling below deck.

  “We’re leaving now?” Tristam asked, shocked.

  “Why wait?” Dalan asked. “We have all the maps, supplies, and rations we require. Norra Cais is already weeks ahead of us. Thus we have no time to dally. And what better place to shed your Thuranni admirer than the heart of the Frostfell? Better than giving him time to plan a second attack. If he can follow us to the frozen north, then perhaps he deserves to kill you.”

  “I agree it’s time we were gone from here,” Pherris said, emerging from the galley and climbing up to study the ship’s controls. “If Marth’s assassin knows we are here, then Marth cannot be far behind. We don’t have much time before he realizes our intent and moves to stop us.”

  “It just seems a bit hasty, is all,” Tristam said.

  “Understandable,” Dalan said. “I do not know what awaits you in Zul’nadn, but I would wager it is a large part of why Marth knows more about the Legacy than we do. Remember, he was the Dying Sun’s captain.”

  Tristam cursed himself for not making the same conclusion. “Marth went there with Ashrem,” he said. “Marth has known about Zul’nadn since before any of this even started.”

  Dalan nodded. “I’m quite confident that whatever you find there will illuminate our path,” he said. “I wish you all luck.”

  “Wish us luck?” Zed asked, looking at the leash in his hand. “It almost sounds like you aren’t coming with us, Dalan.”

  “I am most certainly not,” Dalan said. “Why would I? I have no illusions about my talents in such a physical arena as arctic exploration. Even if I were to remain on board the ship the entire time, I would, at best, be a drain on your rations. I can serve us better here.”

  “How?” Zed said. “By not getting in the way?”

  “In part,” Dalan said, “but primarily by completing the project I’ve been working on since my rescue from Seventh Moon.” He took the thick ledger from under his arm, opening it and displaying the pages to Tristam and the others. Dozens of small sketches covered the interior, mostly variations of the Cyran coat of arms.

  “What are those?” Tristam asked.

  “Personal crests,” Zed said, looking at Dalan intently. “Marth’s soldiers?”

  “Heraldry has always been one of my favorite hobbies,” Dalan said. “During my captivity I took careful note of the badges Marth’s subordinates wore, committing them to memory. I have spent the time since methodically transcribing them in this volume.”

  “You remembered all of them?” Pherris asked dubiously.

  “I remember everything,” Dalan said, slightly offended that any other possibility might be suggested. “A soldier’s greatest fear is that his sacrifice will not be remembered, thus heraldry is of utmost importance. All variations, even the most minor, are carefully recorded. A personal crest boasts a soldier’s identity and history even should a grisly demise render him otherwise unrecognizable. It is a living memory. The House Lyrandar archives here in Stormhome have extensive heraldic archives. Such resources are useful if a wealthy passenger dies in transit and they need to know where to ship his effects … or to collect on an unpaid tavern bill.”

  “So you hope to find out who Marth’s soldiers are?” Zed asked.

  “Indeed,” Dalan said. “Even Marth cannot weave an army from nothing. The soldiers who follow the changeling seem to, for the most part, hail from the 87th Legion. That unit was was abroad when the Day of Mourning occurred, but he seems to have acquired some new recruits as well. If I can learn who these former Cyrans are and how they came to serve him, then perhaps we might find his headquarters.”

  “Smart,” Zed said, though the admission was somewhat grudging. “Need a hand, Dalan?”

  “I can manage well enough alone. Your talents will be more useful in the Frostfell, Arthen.” Dalan grinned wickedly. “I know how much you enjoy the cold. Have a marvelous time.”


  “Thanks,” Zed said dryly.

  Dalan nodded as he stepped onto the tower bridge with his dog in tow. “Good luck to all of you,” he said. “Give Miss Morisse my best wishes. I am relieved that she was not permanently harmed.”

  “Thank you, Dalan,” Tristam said sincerely. “Do you think we should leave her here to recover?”

  “I most certainly do not,” Dalan said. “I can think of no safer place for her than aboard the Mourning Dawn, close to you. Move her to my cabin if you like. It has an actual bed rather than the canvas-bound boards I supplied the rest of you.” Dalan looked at Tristam evenly. “Take care of her, Tristam.”

  The young artificer nodded quietly.

  A sudden rush of soft wind whispered over the deck. Suddenly the dryad was there, seated on the rail beside the figurehead. She was hunched against her likeness, arms wrapped around her thin chest as she shivered uncontrollably.

  “Aeven?” Pherris called out, alarmed.

  “Something has begun,” she said hoarsely.

  “What’s happening?” the gnome asked sharply. “What’s wrong?”

  The smell of burnt ozone and bitter smoke drifted on the wind. Pale blue lightning crackled in the cloudless sky. Even the bright yellow sun looked darker, as if hidden behind a gray haze.

  “The wind trembles,” Aeven whispered. “The chains the Lyrandar have placed upon the storms are weakening. Magic is dying.”

  “By the Host, no,” Tristam said. “This is just as Frauk described it.”

  “The Legacy,” Dalan whispered.

  “I’m taking us out of here,” Pherris shouted, hurrying to the controls. “All hands prepare for takeoff. Master d’Cannith, get back on board, if you please.”

  “No,” Dalan said, though his voice echoed with fear. “I have too much to do here. I have no magic to speak of. I will be fine.”

  “As long as an airship doesn’t fall out of the sky on you,” Zed said.

  Dalan glanced up nervously. Gunther whined and huddled behind his master’s legs.

  “Pherris, hurry,” Aeven whispered. “Leave this place.”

  The gnome nodded, leaning into the controls. A high-pitched whine surged through the ship’s elemental ring. For a brief moment, the blue flame flickered and the ship dipped dangerously, as if she would fall. Then the fire flashed with a sudden defiant roar and Karia Naille lunged into the sky. Tristam ran to the rail, looking down at the city as the ship soared upward. A swirling finger of blue mist had erupted from the center of the city, swirling rapidly outward toward the sky tower. As it expanded, the elemental rings surrounding the airships sputtered and died. The sound of thunder erupted repeatedly below them as the proud Lyrandar airships crashed into the earth. Fires erupted as the mighty fleet crumbled, followed by the confused screams of the citizens as chaos spread through the port. The sky overhead cracked in reply.

  “What’s going on?” Eraina asked, rushing onto the deck.

  Karia Naille shuddered. Veins of sickly green flame shot through her pure blue ring. Omax fell to his knees with an anguished groan, greasy smoke spilling from his joints. Aeven shook violently and slipped from the rail with a moan. Zed leapt to her side, seizing the tiny dryad in his arms and pulling her onto the deck. Eraina knelt beside Aeven, whispering a healing prayer that died in her mouth.

  “I cannot hear Boldrei,” she said, terrified. “The Hearthmother is silent.”

  “My magic is dead too,” Tristam said, kneeling beside the anguished warforged. “I can’t heal Omax or remember my infusions.”

  “Omax and Aeven are dying, Pherris!” Zed shouted, looking fearfully at the ship’s shuddering elemental ring. “Get us out of here.”

  The gnome nodded grimly.

  A web of blue lightning covered the sky, now rippling with the same sickly green electricity that tainted Karia Naille’s fire. A rush of wind surged past them as an airship toppled from the sky, plummeting past them into the city below. She was followed by another dying vessel, then a third. The last ship passed so close that Pherris was forced to bank to starboard to avoid collision. Tristam could see the terrified faces of the doomed sailors, clinging desperately to the hull. He could hear their helpless screams. Karia Naille’s elemental ring passed through the void where the other ship’s ring had once been—and for an instant, a faint circle of fire crackled around the falling ship. The falling airships plunged like stones into the city, disappearing in clouds of smoke and flame. The winds roared as storms long kept in check rolled over the city.

  “How in Khyber are we still in the air?” Gerith said. “Why is everyone falling but us?” The halfling eyed his glidewing nervously, clearly ready to hop overboard and fly for his life.

  “A mystery to consider at a later time, Master Snowshale,” Pherris said. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he urged the airship to greater speed. “Master Xain, any suggestions for how to escape this crisis would be welcome.”

  Tristam nodded. Rain scoured the deck. It was as if the elements were making up for lost time in Stormhome. He returned to the rail, staring down at the city skyline in horror. Fires now burned throughout the city, marking the crash sites of the Lyrandar airship fleet. The bay was scattered with elemental galleons, now drifting helplessly with no source of power. At the western edge he could see silver trails as three stormships sped away from the city under the power of their bound elementals.

  “That way, toward the sea,” Tristam said. “The Legacy’s power doesn’t seem to extend very far over the water. We can escape.”

  Pherris nodded and turned hard into the controls, forcing Karia Naille to bank and speed out to the north. Lightning sizzled the air around them. For a tense minute, the elemental ring crackled and blurred. Then, as quickly as it had begun, a rhythmic hum resounded from deep inside the vessel. The fire burned steady again. The air grew calm. The storm receded behind them. Omax sat up with a sigh, his eyes shining with a faint but steady glow. Aeven coughed sickly and struggled to her feet, leaning heavily against Zed.

  “No wonder Ashrem wanted to bury that damn thing,” Zed said, rubbing his unshaven face with one hand as he stared back at the burning city. “I hope Dalan will be all right in the middle of that.”

  “Master d’Cannith is a survivor,” Pherris said, though the words lacked confidence.

  “Why would Marth do that?” Gerith asked. The halfling’s eyes were moist as he looked back at the burning city. “Why would anyone unleash something like that?”

  “To cripple our ship as we crippled his,” Tristam said. “To stop us from finding Zul’nadn.”

  “All this just to stop us?” Gerith asked, horrified. “People are dying down there.”

  “If the Legacy can do that, I fear that Stormhome is only the start,” Pherris said. “There are others who rely on magic far more heavily than the Lyrandar.”

  “I can’t even comprehend what we just saw,” Zed said gravely. “How would you stop a weapon like that? If you can’t even use magic against it, what do you do?”

  Tristam didn’t answer. He looked away from the retreating city of Stormhome and went back below deck, shoulders slumping from the weight of what he had seen.

  FOURTEEN

  Ringbriar was certainly not a large town. It was hardly even a village, more a muddle of huts where the local farmers and woodsmen lived in close proximity to one another. Ringbriar wouldn’t have had a name if a Brelish cartographer hadn’t passed through a few decades past, felt that section of the map was somewhat bare, and assigned a name as thanks for the warm meal he had been offered that evening. The name didn’t even mean anything. There was no ring to speak of, nor did the village have any profusion of briars. It was just a pair of random words strung together. Ringbriar wasn’t an important place unless you lived there. The only folks who ever moved away joined the Brelish army—but those who took that route were seldom heard from again. In recent years, the war had been particularly fierce on the Brelish borders. Life for a young recruit was danger
ous and usually short.

  So when Seren looked up from tending her mother’s garden, she did not expect to see a lone, tired man walking down the main road. He wore the tattered uniform of a Brelish soldier and slung a heavy satchel of supplies over one shoulder. He limped slightly and was hunched from exhaustion, but pushed onward with the stride of a man who knew a well-deserved rest lay ahead. Seren gasped. The shears slipped in her hands, neatly beheading an innocent rose. She hardly noticed, dropping the tool on the soft earth before running toward the traveler as quickly as he could.

  He only had time to say, “Seren,” before she collided with him, arms wrapping tight around his waist. She buried his head against his chest and sobbed quietly.

  “Don’t leave, Dad,” she whispered. “Don’t go away again.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he said in a thick voice. He wrapped his free arm around her shoulders. The embrace quickly turned to support when Seren realized how exhausted he was. She let him lean against her, helping her father hobble back toward the house.

  “Are you on leave?” she asked.

  “Something like that,” he said.

  “Has the fighting stopped?” she asked.

  “For a little while,” he said.

  “Can you help me practice dueling?” she asked.

  “Maybe later,” he said, laughing. “I’m a little tired of fighting at the moment.”

  She laughed and looked up at him, grinning as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I missed you, Dad.”

  He was briefly silent. “I missed you too, Seren,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

  Seren looked past him, studying the surrounding houses. It was strange that no one else was around. Usually there were at least a few children in the streets, or the usual gaggle of old men gossiping about days gone by. A returned soldier usually caused quite a stir, with everyone hoping to be the first to greet their hero. Today everything was quiet. It was only the two of them.

  Seren’s face became pale. “Dad, where is Mom?” she asked.

  “She’s fine,” her father said. He stopped walking, turning Seren to face him. “She’s exactly where she should be, but that isn’t important, Seren. It’s you I’m worried about.”