Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (19 page)

The innkeeper turned and ran out the back door. “Help!” he cried. “Officers, help!”

“Khyber,” Dalan swore.

The doors opened behind them. Tristam drew his wand but hesitated. The three panhandlers from the front step blocked the door. They had thrown their cloaks aside, revealing silver breastplates engraved with the Silver Flame.

“Drop your weapon, in the name of the Flame!” said a voice from behind them.

A tall knight with a thin blond beard had emerged from the rear office. He wore armor like the others, with the trappings of an officer. He held a heavy two-handed sword, identical to Zed Arthen’s. When he saw Dalan’s face, his gray eyes darkened.

“You,” the man growled.

“Captain Draikus,” Dalan said, bowing politely. “What an unexpected honor. I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“You know him?” Tristam asked, calmly placing his wand on the desk and taking a step back.

“Indeed I do,” Dalan said.

“I thought you said the knights didn’t mess with dragonmarked heirs,” Ijaac said, hand on his morningstar.

“I find they make exceptions,” Dalan replied, “for dragonmarked heirs who see their commanding officer receive due court martial and execution.”

Ijaac blinked. “Ah,” the dwarf said, setting his morningstar on the floor.

Dalan gave a tight smile.

“D’Cannith,” Draikus said, nearly spitting the name on the floor. “In the name of the Silver Flame and the City of Nathyrr, you and your associates are coming with me.”

F
OURTEEN

F
rom a glance, it would be difficult to surmise that the room where Shaimin d’Thuranni now found himself was the personal quarters of Fort Ash’s commanding officer. The room was large but only sparsely furnished with a small bed, wash basin, writing table, dented wardrobe, containing no clothing, and an unused chamber pot. The chambers were likely a mere formality. The changeling preferred life aboard airships; it was likely this chamber was never used at all. Shaimin sat at the edge of the bed, hands clasped before him, staring into nothing as he turned recent events over in his mind. Three of the six guards stood at the far side of the room, watching the elf nervously as they leaned on their halberds.

Shaimin was aware that Marth no longer trusted him, but for the assassin it was hardly a matter of concern. The guards were of no moment. If he wished to leave this place, he would do so. Even the forest was no longer quite as intimidating as it had been during his first frantic run. From the conversation he had overheard before revealing himself, he now knew it was the badges the Cyrans carried that warded off the undead outside the walls. When he wished to leave, he could strip a guard of his badge and vanish into the forest before anyone was the wiser.

That was, however, not what Shaimin desired. The elf still owed
Marth. The changeling had saved his life and reputation back in Wroat, and a Thuranni repaid his debts. However, it had become clear that this debt could not be repaid in the manner requested. Ashrem d’Cannith’s Legacy was a weapon of unimaginable destructive potential, one that might ultimately be brought to bear against Shaimin’s own house. After speaking to Marth, Shaimin had no doubt that the changeling was deeply disturbed. Whatever he had seen in the Mournland had changed him deeply.

Dalan d’Cannith and the others from
Karia Naille
obviously had already encountered Marth’s darker side, thus their campaign to stop him. Marth had slain their friends, even attempted to kill them. Their reaction was understandable, even if he did not agree with it.

What did Shaimin care about the deaths of people he had never met, people who were of no value to his house? For a Thuranni to judge another man for the blood on his hands would be the height of hypocrisy. All that mattered was his debt to Marth, a man who clearly was no longer himself. What could have happened in the Mournland that transformed him so?

To blame the Day of Mourning was too easy. If Marth were simply mad, he would never have accumulated the resources to build this fortress, maintain his airship, and recruit his followers.

Pondering such mysteries was pointless with such little information to go upon. From the bored demeanor of his guards, it seemed increasingly unlikely that they expected Marth to return and check upon Shaimin before his departure to Sharn. If that was so, then he could afford to wait here no longer.

He knew that there were three more guards in the hall outside. A fight with six well-trained soldiers was more than Shaimin felt confident to handle without incident. To complicate matters further, a cry from any of them would quickly alert the
rest of the fortress. If he wished to escape, it would be best if Marth did not realize his intention until he was already gone.

This would require elegance and timing.

He looked up at the guards, offering them a pleasant smile. They moved a bit closer to one another, hands tightening on their weapons. So they had some inkling that he was no one to be trifled with. They were afraid of him. Good.

“So you men are all Cyran, eh?” Shaimin asked.

They did not answer.

“Did any of you fight beside Marth in the war?”

They made no reply.

“Have you been trained not to speak to prisoners?” he asked, “or are you merely afraid of me?”

The soldiers shifted uncomfortably. The leader took the bait. “We are sons of Cyre,” he said. “We fear no one, not even a Thuranni killer.”

“Is that why you neglected to disarm me?” Shaimin asked.

The guards glanced at one another. The one who had spoken had Shaimin’s twin daggers tucked behind his belt. “What are you talking about, elf?” he demanded. “You have already been disarmed.”

“Oh,” Shaimin said innocently. “I thought you allowed me to keep the third dagger out of courtesy. My apologies.” He stood before them with his arms outstretched, inviting them to search him. “I have a dagger hidden on the inside of my left boot. Please, come and remove it.”

“Take it out and hand it to us,” the guard demanded.

“So you can tell your captain I drew a concealed weapon on you?” Shaimin asked. “I think not.”

The lead guard sighed, leaned his halberd against the wall, and stepped toward Shaimin. The other two stood back with their weapons ready. Shaimin carefully memorized the positions of each man, then called upon the power of his dragonmark.

Inky darkness filled the room.

The elf moved with startling speed. He lunged forward, pulling one of his daggers from the first guard’s belt just as he seized the man’s throat with his other hand. The blade sank in the throat of another guard. He twisted his wrist and clenched his hand savagely, crushing the first guard’s windpipe even as he pushed him away. He leaped over the man’s tumbling body onto the third guard, seizing the shaft of his halberd and twisting it to push him off balance. He drew the man’s sword with his free hand and slid it neatly across the man’s neck.

The three guards crumpled on the floor. Dead without a single cry of pain. The darkness melted away, dismissed by its master.

“Trosk?” called one of the guards outside, alarmed by the sounds of the falling bodies. “Everything all right in there?”

“Fine,” Shaimin replied in a passable impersonation of the guard’s voice. “Damned elf wanted his bed moved by the window.”

The guards outside chuckled. Shaimin carefully lodged a halberd in the door frame, wedging the door shut. When the guards swapped shifts they would at least waste some time trying to force the door before doing something useful like searching for him. He recovered his daggers, wiping the blood off on Trosk’s cloak. He pocketed the badge from each man’s cloak before sliding out the window.

Marth’s quarters were on the second floor of the main keep, roughly twenty feet from the stone courtyard. In the heat of mid-afternoon, only a few soldiers were still busy preparing the
Seventh Moon
for departure. He could see that the sleek silver hull of the ship was badly burned in places, as if she had recently seen a terrible battle. Many of the soldiers appeared quite busy putting the final touches on the repairs, sanding and repainting the hull. Shaimin noticed that a massive Cyran
crest hung above the gates of the fortress, a golden crown on a field of green. Shaimin was no saint, but it often astonished him the terrible deeds that people did—or occasionally paid him to do—in the misbegotten name of country. How many true Cyrans, Shaimin wondered, would approve of what Marth planned here today?

Shaimin glanced about to make certain no one was watching, then dropped to the ground. He hurried across the courtyard and up the stairs leading to the wall. Crouching amid the battlements, he stalked back to the tower where Zed and Eraina waited. He knocked on the door softly.

“You’re late, d’Thuranni,” Zed whispered, opening the door and looking around.

“That was never two hours,” Shaimin said in an offended tone, slipping inside and closing the door behind him.

“What did you discover?” Eraina asked.

“More from spying on Marth than from actually speaking to him, sadly,” Shaimin said. “It seems he hardly trusts me anymore.”

“What a sad day when a maniac can’t trust his own assassin,” Zed said.

“Indeed,” Shaimin agreed. “At any rate it seems that this stronghold is built upon some sort of cavern containing a significant passage of the Draconic Prophecy. I wonder if the ruins here, like Zul’nadn, were one of the discoveries that placed Marth upon his path.”

“We’ll leave Tristam to sort that out,” Eraina said. “Any idea what Marth is planning?”

“He’s headed for Sharn,” the elf said.

“Norra Cais is in Sharn, researching the Legacy,” Zed said. “Could he be after her?”

“I doubt it,” Shaimin said. “Look down at the courtyard. He’s mobilizing as many of his troops as he can, loading weapons and
supplies into the
Seventh Moon
. I think this is bigger than that. Marth is through learning about the Legacy. He intends to use it.”

“We need to get out of here,” Eraina said. “We have to get back to Nathyrr and contact the
Karia Naille
.”

“Agreed,” Shaimin said.

The clamor of an alarm bell echoed in the courtyard below. Cyran soldiers began swarming out of the keep, armed with swords and crossbows.

Zed glared at Shaimin. “Did you kill anyone on your way here?”

“A few,” the elf confessed, smiling.

“We’ll have to take our chances in the forest,” Eraina said.

“Take these,” Shaimin said, offering them two of the guards’ badges. “Apparently these protect the wearer from the undead in the forest.”

“Seems it would take more than a simple charm to protect against what we saw back there,” Eraina said, accepting hers.

“Marth himself claimed they work,” the elf replied, pinning one to his cloak. “They may not think to search for us in the forest at first. We may yet have a chance to escape.”

They had barely reached the edge of the forest when Marth’s guards found Shaimin’s grappling hook. Crossbow bolts thudded into the trees around them, urging them to greater speed. A hideous moaning rose around them as they ran deeper into the forest. Shambling figures appeared between the trees, lurching after them. One erupted from the earth beside them, clawing savagely at Zed before he put it down with his sword. Three more dropped from a tree and rushed them, only to be scattered by Eraina’s holy symbol.

“I cannot turn them away forever,” Eraina warned.

“They don’t seem bothered much by your badges, d’Thuranni,” Zed said.

The elf did not reply, but only kept running.

They crested a hill to find dozens of the undead meandering between the trees. Glancing back, Shaimin saw that Marth’s soldiers had begun pursuit. The sizzling flash of green flame showed that the changeling himself was burning through his reluctant undead guardians to find them.

“There,” Eraina said. She pointed to the crumbling ruins of what once might have been a chapel. It appeared to be mostly intact. “Maybe we can make our stand there, hold off against the undead and the Cyrans while they kill each other.”