Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2

by Rich Wulf

  Zed scratched his chin and stared out the window at the water, his expression bemused.

  “Are you formulating another lecture warning me of the dangers of splitting hairs, or other such nonsense?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I was going to compliment your flexibility. I find it refreshing. You’re an intriguing woman, Eraina.”

  Eraina lifted one eyebrow and laughed. “Are you flirting with me, Arthen?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Have you forgotten again how adept I am at sensing lies?” she asked. She removed the metal clip from her hair, letting her blonde locks fall from their tightly coiled braid.

  “You are?” he asked. He blinked at her, feigning innocence. “I didn’t know. And you should wear your hair down more often.”

  “It gets in the way when I fight,” she said.

  “Then cut it off,” Zed said.

  “I can’t bring myself to,” she said with a small smile. “Can I be allowed that one vanity?”

  “I think Boldrei will forgive you,” he said.

  “You need to speak to women more often, Zed,” she said primly. “If you think you’re being charming, you’re quite terrible at it.” She propped her spear against the door and crossed her legs as she leaned back in her seat. “Remember that, as you are my deputy, I shall toss you over the side of this boat if you try to cause trouble with the guards again.”

  “Duly noted,” he said with a grin. “I never had the chance to say I was sorry, by the way.”

  “For what?” she asked, laughing in surprise.

  “For hitting you in the jaw back in Cragwar,” he said.

  “Oh yes,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You clubbed me over the head, too.”

  “I know,” he said. “Things were getting pretty heated. I just wanted to stop the situation from getting worse.”

  “So you tried to beat me unconscious,” she said.

  “Tristam’s a good man, but he can be high strung, especially where his mission to recover Ashrem’s work is concerned,” Zed said. “Are you telling me you didn’t notice him reaching for his wand when you started threatening to stop us?”

  “I didn’t,” she said. “I thought him harmless at the time.”

  “He probably doesn’t even remember,” Zed said. “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize. I was just trying to help.”

  “There is no need,” she said. “Don’t you remember? You said sorry when you hit me the second time.”

  “I did?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “You remember that?” he said.

  She nodded again.

  “Even after being knocked out?” he asked.

  “You never knocked me out, Arthen,” she said. “I let you think you won.”

  Zed looked at her in blank surprise then smiled a little. “Isn’t that a bit like lying?”

  “I considered it a strategic retreat,” she said. “If you wish to believe you can defeat a Spear of Boldrei in two blows—that is your own stupidity.”

  Zed cackled. He looked out the window again, but his grin faded as he stared at the receding Vathirond cityscape.

  “I know you are a private, stubborn, arrogant, introverted, antisocial, dreadful man,” Eraina said, “but if you wish to talk about what’s bothering you, I promise to listen.”

  “Flatterer,” Zed said. His frown broke slightly as he looked back at her.

  “You’ve been to Vathirond before,” she said.

  Zed nodded. “Long time ago,” he said. “When I still served the Flame.”

  “So you really were a paladin, then,” Eraina said.

  “You already knew that,” Zed said, his gray eyes boring into hers.

  “And this is where you fell,” she said. It was not a question.

  “Therese Kalaven was my commanding officer,” he said. “She was everything I thought a champion of the Silver Flame should be. Bold. Beautiful. Totally fearless. I would have followed her anywhere.” Zed laughed bitterly. “I was a stupid boy back then.”

  “You loved her,” Eraina said.

  “I thought I did,” Zed said. “Looking back, I think my motivations were a little more …” He smirked. “Basic. She reciprocated, which of course only made me all the more willing to follow her.”

  “Most paladins take vows of chastity for a reason, Arthen,” Eraina said. “Relationships like that are doomed from the start.”

  “Trust me, Eraina, I’ve heard it all before,” Zed said, drumming his fingers on the arm of his chair. “We were assigned to Thrane’s front lines. Our squad had a reputation for speed, efficiency, and brutality. Therese was a brilliant commander, if totally ruthless.”

  Zed took a deep breath as he remembered. Eraina watched him quietly, her eyes sympathetic.

  “I was blind, Eraina. I never saw what she was becoming. What we all were becoming. Therese would have rationalized any violence, any atrocity, in the name of the Silver Flame. We were dispatched to Vathirond. We were supposed to ally with the Brelish, help them wipe out some Cyran forces that had been harassing their borders. When we got to Vathirond, we found the Brelish defenses had been sabotaged. They were totally defenseless.”

  “The Battle of Vathirond,” Eraina said. “I’ve heard of it. So Therese saw an easier target and chose to ally with the Cyrans instead?”

  “That’s not all,” Zed replied. “Therese burned the temples of the Sovereign Host, convinced the priests were using their congregation to spy on Thrane over the border. She commanded us to show no mercy.” Zed scowled. “I watched my brothers and sisters, Champions of the Flame, do terrible things. I saw two soldiers drag a priestess out of a burning temple into an alley. I don’t know what they planned to do to her. Everything blurred. I killed them both. The girl screamed and ran for her life. I don’t even know if she survived the siege. When I gathered my senses again, I couldn’t hear the Flame’s voice anymore.”

  “What did you do?” Eraina asked.

  “What could I do?” Zed said. “I’d killed my fellow soldiers, but I wasn’t about to turn myself in for doing the right thing. I ran. I left Vathirond behind. I figured the deeper I ran into Breland, the less chance there’d be that Therese would find me.” He snickered. “Or maybe I was running from the Flame. I don’t know. But any god that would strip one of its champions for saving an innocent girl is a god I’m better off without.”

  “Perhaps your god didn’t punish you for saving that girl,” Eraina asked. “Perhaps it punished you for waiting so long to do the right thing.”

  Zed looked out the window again. “I’ve wondered about that,” he said in a low voice. “Would it hurt so much for the Flame to tell me what I did wrong?”

  “Didn’t it?” she said.

  “No,” Zed said, exasperated. “In fact, it didn’t. It let me kill my friends, disgrace my family, and stagger off to hide in a bottle for six years. The Silver Flame gave up on me, Eraina, so I gave up on myself.”

  Eraina said nothing for a long time. She watched Zed sadly. He couldn’t bring himself to look at her.

  “What did you do next?” she asked.

  “I realized I would need money to keep paying for the alcohol,” Zed said. “I discovered I was good at noticing things other people missed, remembering details everyone else forgot, and my military training didn’t hurt, either. I lived under an alias in Sharn, working as an inquisitive. I fell.”

  “But you rose again,” Eraina said. “You may not be a paladin, but neither are you an anonymous drunkard. What happened?”

  Zed chuckled. “Would you believe I have Dalan to thank for that?”

  “Dalan d’Cannith?” Eraina was genuinely surprised.

  “Dalan hired me to recover some stolen Cannith prototypes that had made their way to Sharn,” he said. “While on the job, I saved his life from a hobgoblin assassin. I didn’t think any more of it, but Dalan didn’t forget. Say what you will about him, but he’s a man who repays his debts.”

>   “What did he do?” she asked.

  “I got a letter from him four months later,” Zed said. “It contained details regarding Commander Therese Kalaven’s trial and execution by the church inquisitors for assorted war crimes. The warrant for my own arrest had been repealed, and I had been issued a full pardon and formal apology from the Voice of the Flame herself. Dalan had dug it all up, brought it all to light. He even arranged an invitation to return to my post in Flamekeep whenever I wished.”

  “But you never went,” Eraina said.

  “No,” Zed said. “I’m still not convinced that any gods are really watching over us, but Dalan convinced me that people can watch out for each other. If even a man like Dalan can put a wrong thing right, then I have no excuse to hide from evil.” He looked at her, his gaze clear and strong now. “So that’s what I do now. I help people, however I can. Actually, trying to do the right thing gave me the focus I needed to stop drinking.” He smirked. “I’m still working on quitting smoking.”

  “I think you are right, Arthen,” Eraina said. “The Flame never watched over you.”

  “Angling to convert me to the Host, Eraina?” he asked. “Never had you pegged as an evangelist.”

  “That isn’t what I mean,” she said. “Aren’t you the one who always touts the value of redemption? Yet you deny your own redemption, deny any possibility of returning to your role as champion.”

  “You don’t have to be an artist to like a painting, Eraina,” Zed said.

  “You’re a good man, Arthen,” Eraina said. “The Flame never watched you because it knew you could watch yourself. You were chosen as a paladin because you did not need protection. You had the strength to protect others—and you still do.”

  “Then why can’t I call on a paladin’s holy magic anymore?” Zed asked. “Why can’t I hear the Flame’s voice?”

  “Because you are not listening,” Eraina said. “You are a man of unshakable faith, Arthen, but you have turned that faith inward. You listen only to yourself.”

  He looked into her eyes for a long moment, wondering, wanting to believe. Then the moment was over. His weathered face creased in a bitter sneer. He folded his arms across his chest and sat back in his chair, tucking his chin against his chest.

  “I think I’m done talking about religion for one day, Eraina,” he said. “Wake me up when we reach Nathyrr.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Dying Sun was larger than Karia Naille, but still much smaller than most airships. She was painted brilliant red and was far more ornately appointed than her sister ship. The entire vessel, from the railing to the ring struts, was covered in decorative pictograms. A delicate lance of pure crystal extended from the bow of the ship, a smaller version of the devastating lightning rod that Seventh Moon had so often used against them. As Seren stood beside the airship and ran one hand along her sleek hull, she imagined how beautiful Dying Sun must have been. It was no surprise that Tristam could not bring himself to destroy such a wondrous creation.

  She just hoped he was making the right choice.

  Deep inside the ship, Seren could hear low chanting and rhythmic hammering. Tristam worked to restore life to the Sun. She worried about him. The more he worked on the crippled airship, the less he spoke. Today he had only emerged to eat, smile faintly at her, and disappear back into the ship’s core. For two days they had been here. Gerith appeared occasionally, delivering food and water from Karia Naille, but they were otherwise on their own.

  Ijaac and Omax were outside again, shoveling the last heaps of dirt and stone atop the mass grave they had dug for the bodies in the rail station. It seemed almost a futile act, burying a few corpses in a city of the dead. When Seren asked why they insisted, Omax only shrugged and replied that he felt he must do something. Some of the Sun’s crew had been the warforged’s friends, years ago. Ijaac was far more pragmatic in his motivation. In a place like this, it was just better to bury the dead before they got back up and started causing trouble. Seren had helped them dig until she was exhausted, but she could not keep up for long. She was not a frail girl, but could only match the pace of a dwarf and a warforged for so long. The door of the station opened and Ijaac staggered in with a tired sigh. The dwarf’s thin white hair was streaked with sweat. His pale skin was flushed with exhaustion. Outside, Omax’s digging continued with the same rhythm he had maintained for the last several hours.

  “Almost done,” Ijaac said with a pleased smile. He ambled over to Seren, pausing to glance at something in his hand. The dwarf looked at her soberly, his cheerful demeanor fading. “I found this on one of the bodies. You may want to give this to Pherris.”

  He handed her a small golden badge. She held it in her palm, studying the design. It looked like a military insignia, sculpted in the shape of an open wing. Though she didn’t speak or read the language of the gnomes, she recognized the family name inscribed upon it.

  “Haimel Gerriman,” she read.

  “I flew with him to the Frostfell,” Ijaac said. “He was a good lad. He deserved better than this. His father should know what happened to him. If I were a betting dwarf, I’d wager finding out what happened to Haimel was one of the reasons Pherris got wrapped up in this.” Ijaac smiled ruefully. “I think he’ll take the news better from you, Seren. You’re prettier than I am.”

  “How do I tell Pherris his son is dead?” Seren asked, tucking the pin in her pocket.

  “I don’t know, Seren,” Ijaac said, shrugging uncomfortably. “If it helps, I think Pherris already knows. He just needs proof. He’ll sleep easier, knowing what happened.”

  “I have no sons,” Ashrem’s shade said sadly. “My only legacy is a prophecy that should never have been revealed.” He stared into his hand, watching as the fingers faded from view and resolved themselves once again. “My heirs believe I have forsaken them.” He laughed, an almost hysterical sound. “I have no legacy. There is only ash.”

  Ijaac looked at the figment cautiously, then back at Seren. “That thing’s beginning to get on my nerves,” he said. “It’s been getting more disjointed and weird since we got here, mumbling on about nothing to no one in particular.”

  “The phantom has almost fulfilled its purpose,” Tristam said, appearing at the railing above them. The artificer tugged his goggles down to hang around his neck. “The magic that binds it is beginning to lose cohesion as I get closer to repairing the Sun. I wish I could find a way to stabilize it. Having Ashrem’s wisdom would be a great help, even as fragmented as it is.”

  “Let it die, Tristam,” Ijaac said. “That isn’t really Ashrem. It shouldn’t exist. You shouldn’t listen to it. The Mournland creates things like that to drive people insane.”

  Tristam said nothing. He stared at the illusion of his mentor, his face unreadable.

  “How’s your work coming, Tristam?” Seren asked.

  “Good,” Tristam said, breaking into an excited smile. “I think the Sun could fly right now if we needed her to. She just needs more fine tuning to make sure she’ll stay in the air long enough to reach a city. A ship like this can fly with a single pilot for short periods, so I hope we can …”

  A sharp pop and the sound of snapping metal came from outside. Seren jumped as white sparks scattered over the one of the windows.

  “Those damn living spells are back again,” Ijaac said, sighing as he drew his morningstar from his belt. “I’d best go give Omax a hand.”

  “Omax?” Tristam called out. “Are you hurt?”

  The doors opened and Omax staggered inside. His eyes shone only dimly. A thin plume of smoke curled from his mouth. A jagged scar bisected his chest, glowing white hot.

  “Tristam, flee!” the warforged said. Omax tore the doors from their hinges, hurling them at an unseen foe. A grunt of pain accompanied a burst of green flame, exploding in the doorway. Omax flew backward, crashing into a ticket booth and lying still.

  Marth stepped into the doorway, walking with a pained limp. He wore his usual uniform, though his purpl
e cloak was now ragged and torn. The amethyst wand was still smoking in his hand. Blood trickled from one corner of his mouth. He looked at them with dead white eyes and sliced the air with one hand. The invisible wards protecting the door flashed a sickening green color and shattered.

  “Omax, you never did know when you were better off not fighting,” Marth said.

  “Khyber,” Tristam swore, leaping down from the deck and drawing his wand. “How did Marth find us?”

  “Find you?” Marth asked with a laugh. “I abandoned Dying Sun here. I knew exactly where to look for you.”

  Tristam pointed his wand at the changeling.

  “Hold, Tristam,” Marth said quickly, extending a pale hand. “I come alone. I do not wish to fight. Give me a chance to speak my piece, or I will end your warforged friend.”

  Tristam looked at Omax helplessly, then glared at Marth. “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “A compromise,” Marth said. “I am prepared to share the Legacy with you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tristam demanded.

  “I first suspected the truth when I saw Karia Naille escape Stormhome,” Marth said. “I knew I was right when I learned what you did at Zul’nadn. When you escaped me in New Cyre, I knew you would come here next. Do your friends know what you are planning? Have you even admitted it to yourself?”

  “Admitted what?” said. His voice was barely a growl.

  “You are no fool, Tristam,” Marth said. “If you have surmised, as I have, that Ashrem bound Dying Sun’s elemental core to the Dragon’s Eye, then surely you must have realized the rest. Karia Naille shares the same power. Ashrem’s airships were all fueled by the same energies that infused Zul’nadn. That is why the Legacy does not affect them. Ashrem’s ships are the Legacy, though Ashrem has since rendered them unable to perform their original function.”

  Tristam said nothing.

  “You do not truly wish to destroy the Legacy,” Marth said with a dark chuckle. “You wish to complete it. Otherwise you would have destroyed the Sun already. You wanted to claim this ship, Ashrem’s finest creation, for yourself.”