by Rich Wulf
“He’ll land when we stop,” Tristam said. “Then he’ll come after us himself.”
“You sound a little eager, boy,” Ijaac said, worried.
“It’s time this was over,” Tristam said darkly.
The coach ground slowly to a halt. Tristam stepped out onto the dry earth, holding his wand and sword in either hand. Dying Sun hovered over them for a long, agonizing moment, then turned about in midair and soared higher into the mists.
Tristam looked back at them in confusion. “Why did he run?”
Seren saw the answer immediately. She pointed at the sky. A ring of blue fire soared from the clouds above, racing toward them. Karia Naille hovered as low as she dared, boarding ladder spilling from the cargo bay. Tristam secured Omax into one of the coach seats and tied it to the ladder as they climbed, then hauled the injured warforged aboard.
“What happened to Omax?” Gerith asked in a worried voice.
“Marth came after us,” Tristam said, pulling the doors shut. “He’s taken Dying Sun.”
“You should have destroyed that ship, not repaired her,” Dalan said angrily. “You delivered her right into his hands.”
“We’re near the Talenta Plains, aren’t we?” Seren said, looking at Gerith. “Are there any towns nearby?”
“Gatherhold,” Gerith said. “There are healers there. Good healers. Maybe they can help?”
“Can we still catch up to Marth?” Tristam asked.
“Dying Sun was headed back toward New Cyre, Tristam,” Dalan said. “With a single pilot, he’ll be flying slower than us. We can catch him, if we hurry.”
Tristam looked down at the battered warforged.
“Omax looks really bad, Tristam,” Gerith said. “Will he hold on long enough for us to catch Marth and get him back to Gatherhold too?”
Tristam looked down at Omax for a long, silent moment.
“No,” Tristam said. “If we follow Marth, Omax dies.”
“If Marth escapes again, many people will die, Tristam,” Dalan said. “But the choice is yours. I may own this vessel, but I have no illusions regarding who commands this quest anymore.”
Tristam and Dalan locked gazes for a long, silent moment.
“Gerith, run up to the captain,” Tristam said. “Tell Pherris to make all possible speed for Gatherhold.”
EPILOGUE
The prophet folded his arms in his robes and drifted off through the camp. Many of the soldiers rose and saluted or merely nodded as he passed. Some grasped holy octagrams of the Host or emblems of the Silver Flame and whispered the names of their gods as he passed. Zamiel mumbled blessings to each of them. They knew him as a holy man, and since he never spoke against any of their gods, all of them assumed he served theirs. It was true enough, he supposed. After all, the gods all served the same power he did. Destiny. The divine guardians were like brothers to him. He considered the gods intriguing peers, and worthy of respect.
Zamiel continued on his way through the camp. The soldiers returned to their business. None noticed as he continued walking past the barricades and out onto the plains. He did not wish them to see him, so they did not. He smiled faintly as the sun set over the shifting grass. Talenta was a beautiful place. The halflings had chosen wisely when they infested these plains. The prophet tilted his chin into the wind, closed his eyes, and waited. For days he had done this, seeking any sign of the Valenar. Usually, there was nothing, but he persevered nonetheless.
Faith, after all, was everything.
Eventually it came to him. The faint but distinctive scent of horses. Halflings did not ride such creatures, so it must be the elves. It was a faint trail, one that someone had taken great effort to conceal. To Zamiel’s keen senses, it was obvious. He followed the scent of horses unerringly across the plains.
The sun had set completely by the time he arrived at the camp. A small fire burned in the darkness. Though shielded so that it would give off little light, Zamiel saw the flame clearly. He walked directly toward the camp, holding his arms outstretched so that it was obvious he bore no weapons. He felt the elves move in the darkness as they sensed him.
“Halt,” came the expected command, barked sharply in the Valenar tongue.
“I am unarmed,” Zamiel said. “I am Brother Zamiel. I wish to speak to your leader on behalf of the Seventh Moon and the Cyran nation.”
Tense silence was the reply. After nearly a minute, a single warrior stepped from the darkness. He wore a baggy coat over thick chain armor. A peaked helmet reflected the pale moonlight. He drew a slender sword and pointed it toward the prophet. “No spells,” he said. “No weapons. I will slit your throat if you do anything foolish. Do you hear me, priest? Even your god will not save you if you defy us.”
“I wish only peace,” was Zamiel’s reply, “and I am no priest.”
The elf nodded and pulled a long leather strap from his waist. He bound Zamiel’s hands behind his back and pushed him forward, directing him toward the camp. The prophet kept his eyes on the point of the guard’s sword, always nearby. It was a fine blade. He could smell the magic woven through the steel. The elves always made such wonderful things.
Zamiel cocked his head sadly as he entered the camp. As much as he had hoped the elves were merely curious scouts, such was not the case. Dozens of warriors had mustered here, gathered around their tents and mounts. There were twice as many of them as Cyran soldiers protecting the Moon. This was a war party, poised to wipe out his mortal allies.
“Rouse Captain Nelethar,” the elven guard commanded. “The marooned Cyrans have sent an ambassador.”
The junior soldiers hesitated, obviously surprised that their presence here was known. They rushed off to the largest tent. A light appeared within. Several minutes later a female elf emerged, dressed in fine silken robes. She studied Zamiel carefully, then shot the guard an irritated look.
“Could this not wait until morning?” she asked.
“Your servant clearly seeks only to do his duty,” Zamiel said in a soothing voice. “Such dedication should be rewarded. My appearance was unexpected, and I apologize for that, but I was forced to seize the opportunity to follow your trail when I could.”
“Trail?” she asked, sneering. “What trail?”
“It was faint,” he said. “Your warriors have gone to some lengths to remain undetected.”
Nelethar scowled. “Who are you?” she demanded.
“I am Brother Zamiel,” the prophet replied. “I serve Marth, the final champion of Cyre.”
“He said he wanted to negotiate,” the guard offered.
“Final champion?” Nelethar asked. “Tell your friend Marth to pick a better cause. Cyre is dead.”
“Marth prefers to think otherwise,” Zamiel said. “He intends to restore his homeland to its former glory.”
“Does he?” Nelethar asked. She was fully awake now, her tone faintly amused. She tilted her head, looking at the prophet curiously. “He sent you to negotiate with us?”
“No,” Zamiel said. “I came of my own accord. I wished to discern the reason behind your presence here. I do not intend to negotiate. I do not believe you would accept such an offer, except perhaps to humor me.”
Nelethar frowned. Zamiel noticed that, even in her night clothes, she wore a sword at her hip. The Valenar were an intriguing people. He regretted what would come next.
“I know the customs of your kind,” Zamiel said. “Valor is your greatest virtue. The glory of battle is your greatest ecstasy. Victory forgives all sins. The halflings on these plains offer little chance for you to truly test your mettle—but a crew of trained Cyran soldiers tending a ruined Zil’argo warship? What a discovery. Surely that would be a victory of worth, so long as you could guarantee your success through strength of numbers.”
Nelethar’s frown curled into a grin. “And what if you are right, Brother?” she asked. “What if we intend to kill your comrades and take their ship and her spoils for my warchief? What do you think you could possibly sa
y that would convince me to turn our swords away?”
Zamiel looked around calmly. He could see that most of the soldiers had awakened and were watching with interest. Some exchanged quiet whispers and laughed quietly. Many of them had already drawn weapons.
“I fear there would be nothing I could say that would convince you to withdraw,” Zamiel said.
“Then beg, Cyran,” Nelethar said. “Grovel for Valenar mercy and I will give you water enough to run back to the human lands where you may spread tales of our glorious victory over your comrades.”
“No,” Zamiel said.
“No?” she said, eyes gleaming as she drew her sword. “You will not grovel?”
“No,” he said. “And I am not Cyran.”
“Then what land do you hail from?” she asked with a mocking laugh.
The prophet sighed and let the enchantments that bound him slip. Nelethar’s green eyes bulged in terror. The whispered mutterings ceased, eclipsed by fear. The shadow of Zamiel’s broad wings swallowed the moonlight. A claw as thick as an airship’s strut gouged the earth.
“Argonnessen,” Zamiel rumbled, taking a deep breath.
The dragon exhaled, and a cloud of roiling black acid washed over the Valenar warriors.
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Table of Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Epilogue