Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (24 page)

Though the trees grew thinner as they approached the fortress, the forest grew darker. Catching a glimpse of the sky through the treetops, Shaimin saw dark clouds boiling above. A growl of distant thunder sent the forest’s upper limbs shivering.

“Storm should give us some cover,” Shaimin observed. “Fine timing for it.”

“Funny, isn’t it?” Tristam answered with a smirk.

Shaimin looked at the sky again. It certainly had all the marks of an unnatural storm. From what he had seen, Tristam was certainly not powerful enough to command the weather. That only left someone still aboard the airship. Apparently there was more to
Karia Naille
than he had suspected. Intriguing.

They gathered at the edge of the forest, away from the road. The gates of Fort Ash loomed to their right. Seren was studying the walls, looking for a safe place to climb. Since his earlier escape, Shaimin noticed that Marth had posted guards along the battlements.

“Not sure if I could hit him cleanly with a knife from here,” Shaimin said, studying the closest guard. “Even if I did, I can’t guarantee he wouldn’t cry out for help before dying.”

“No one asked you to kill anyone,” Tristam said. He reached into his coat, took out a small bottle, and handed it to the warforged. “Omax, do you think you could throw that far enough to break on the wall near that guard? It’s very fragile so it should break easily.”

Omax gauged the distance and shook his head quietly. He picked up a rock from the ground, smeared it with mud, and stuck the bottle to the side to give it enough weight for a proper throw. He hurled the stone at the wall, where it landed on the battlements
with a faint tinkling. A plume of barely visible pink smoke could be seen. The guard quickly marched over to investigate the sound, stumbled, and fell unconscious on the wall.

“Perfect,” Tristam said.

Omax absorbed the praise without comment. He uncoiled the thick rope and grappling hook that he carried over his shoulder, hurling them over the wall. The hook caught with a clank, and Omax tugged to make certain they had purchase. Seren quickly climbed up the rope, followed by Tristam, who had slightly more difficulty.

“You are next,” Omax said, looking at Shaimin.

“After you,” the elf replied.

“I am the heaviest,” Omax said. “I should go last, in case the rope does not hold.”

Shaimin regarded him suspiciously.

“Best climb before the rain begins and slicks the rope,” Omax said. “Or before the ghouls arrive. Your flesh would suit their tastes better than mine, I think.”

Behind them, the slavering sounds of curious undead grew slowly closer.

“Fine,” Shaimin snapped, climbing up the rope. There went his last hope of quietly sneaking away. While the elf accepted that he needed Tristam and the others to stop Marth, he had hoped merely leading them here would be enough. He didn’t relish the idea of being so close to a former assassination mark for long. It was simply unprofessional. Those sorts of people always held a grudge, and even Shaimin couldn’t watch his own back forever.

When Shaimin reached the top, he found Tristam crouched at the inner edge of the wall, studying the courtyard intently.

“What are you looking for, Tristam?” Seren whispered.

“Trying to find the focus of the ward network that protects Fort
Ash from the undead,” Tristam said. “It offers some protection to the road as well, so it must be visible from the gates.”

“There,” Shaimin said, pointing. “It would be just like Marth to use that as a symbol of protection.”

“Of course,” Tristam said. He concentrated on the enormous Cyran crest that hung above the fortress gates. “That crest is radiating a powerful abjuration dweomer. I can sense it, even from this far away.”

“So what happens next?” Shaimin asked.

“Be ready,” the artificer said, looking at the sky. “This will be tricky. After the soldiers are distracted we’ll need to rush aboard the
Seventh Moon
. Hopefully we can destroy the Legacy before Marth can escape.”

Above them, the storm erupted. Rain scoured the stone walls of Fort Ash. Lightning forked across the sky. Thunder exploded with a deafening report. Tristam drew his wand from his coat and pointed it at the gates.

When Shaimin realized what the artificer was about, a wicked grin spread across his fine features. He wouldn’t have expected such a thing from Xain. But for several moments, Tristam hesitated, as if uncertain if he could go through with it. Finally, a bolt of white lightning erupted from the wand, sizzling through the air and shattering the Cyran crest. Cries of alarm erupted within the fortress, but they were quickly drowned out by the sudden chorus of vengeful shrieks and tormented moans from the forest. Shaimin looked over the wall into the forest. Dozens of shambling and ghostly creatures lurched toward Fort Ash.

“Tristam, what have you done?” Shaimin asked, bemused.

“Those undead are compelled to haunt these ruins,” Tristam said. “Marth forced them out with his magic. Now that magic is gone, so they’re going back where they belong.”

“And when they find the living have taken up residence in
their haunt, they’ll react most violently,” Shaimin said. “And you called
me
a monster? You’re a surprisingly bloodthirsty lad, Master Xain.”

The guards on the walls had drawn bows and were loosing randomly into the forest. None of them seemed to realize the lightning that struck the gates had not come from the sky. Down in the courtyard, the fort’s gates quickly ground closed. Undaunted, many of the attackers began to scale the walls, ragged claws finding easy purchase in the stone.

A pack of ghouls huddled around the gates suddenly parted at the arrival of a spectral figure. The ghost had the thin face and long, slender ears of a half-elf. It wore the flowing grey robes of a priest, embroidered with Draconic symbols. When the ghost arrived, the other undead ceased their actions and moved out of its path. It passed effortlessly through the gates. A few moments later, the gates ground slowly open and the undead flooded into Fort Ash.

“We can’t wait any longer,” Tristam said. He took the magical flare from his pocket and fired it into the air, tracing an arcing plume of sparkling green smoke through the sky above Fort Ash.

The artificer hurried down the steps into the courtyard. All around them was chaos as the Cyrans fought the undead. A pack of ghouls scuttled hungrily toward them, but Tristam scattered them with a blast of magic. A pair of confused guards stood at the airship’s gangplank, uncertain whether to stay and fight or flee aboard the vessel. Omax charged at them before they could ready their weapons, seizing one guard by the belt and hurling him into his partner, sending both flying off the ramp in a tangle. They charged onto the ship to find several soldiers on the deck already in combat. A half dozen of the undead had scaled the hull and were invading the ship. One guard opened his mouth to cry out
as they boarded, but Shaimin silenced him with a swift knife to the throat.

“This way,” Tristam said, pushing open a hatch and descending below deck. “We have to hurry before—”

A lurching sensation passed through the
Seventh Moon
. Searing red flame ignited the air, surrounding the ship’s hull in a perfect circle. Marth’s warship slowly heaved herself into the sky.

They were trapped.

“Khyber,” Shaimin swore under his breath. He should have run when he had the chance.

E
IGHTEEN

I
n his lifetime, Zed Arthen had seen his share of battles. Many brushes with death numbered in his memory. He’d had his share of battle scars from close scrapes. Even during his time as a champion of the Silver Flame, when his god had protected him from the adverse affects of fear, he had sometimes been afraid he would not live to see another day.

At no time in his entire life, however, could he recall being more terrified than at this moment. He knew part of that he couldn’t help. Dragons, by their very nature, radiated magical fear. Even if you didn’t want to be afraid, you couldn’t help but be afraid. His training as a knight had shown him how to identify that sort of fear, and he definitely felt that now. It felt somewhat redundant, though. Facing down a beast hewn from tons of muscle, scales harder than steel, and fangs that could slice through stone would have been terrifying with or without magic.

Zed cradled his broken arm against his body as he tried to push himself away across the floor. His sword lay on the cavern floor, just out of reach. It wouldn’t do him much good anyway. He could barely wield the weapon in one hand, much less fight. The dragon loomed over him, wings lazily fanning the air. In the light of the Draconic runes, Zamiel’s copper scales glinted blood red.
The beast was more than forty feet long, its serpentine body filling over half the cavern.

“Paladins,” Zamiel said, showing long fangs in a twisted sneer. “Why is it always paladins that cause so much trouble?”

“I think you’re a little confused,” Zed said. “I’m not a paladin.”

“Liar,” the dragon replied. It lashed out with a claw, pinning Zed to the floor. “I can smell the stink of the Silver Flame upon your soul. How did you find this cavern, mortal? Who sent you here?” The dragon flexed just a bit, digging one claw deep into Zed’s shoulder.

In the midst of his terror and pain, something sparked in Zed’s mind. Why wasn’t he dead already? Why would a powerful dragon care enough about a random intruder to interrogate him like this? What in this cave was so important? It had to be the Prophecy. But why did Zamiel care who had sent him?

Because Zamiel was afraid. The dragon was afraid that someone had discovered him—someone that could hurt him. Zed couldn’t imagine such a creature being afraid of anyone on
Karia Naille
like that. What had he stumbled on?

Zed mustered up a smug grin. “Who do you think sent me?” he asked, bluffing as hard as he could. He wasn’t sure where he was going with this. He just hoped he was giving Eraina enough time to get away.

“Do not trifle with me, mortal!” Zamiel shrieked. “Who told you of this cavern?” The creature leaned forward, placing a bit more of its weight against Zed’s arm and chest. The inquisitive grunted in pain.

“It’s too late for you,” Zed said. “I’ve seen what I need to see and passed the message on. Even if you kill me, they know what you’re doing. They won’t be long.”

The dragon’s eyes narrowed into slits. Zed sensed he had
pushed too far. Zamiel was no longer buying what he was selling.

“And what, precisely, am I doing?” the dragon said in clipped tones.

Zed scowled. “Planning to destroy Sharn,” he guessed, though he knew as he said it that there had to be more than that.

The dragon blinked. His grip loosened and he took a step back to stare down at Zed. “Is that all you know?” he said, chuckling darkly. “You must have stumbled in here by mistake. To think I was concerned.”

“You’ve altered the Prophecy,” he added.

The dragon’s eyes narrowed in hatred. “And you will die like the others who learned too much.”

Zamiel’s chest filled out as it took in a deep breath. Zed lunged for his sword, lifting the huge weapon feebly in one hand. He closed his eyes and whispered a short prayer, asking the Silver Flame to protect the
Mourning Dawn
.

A flash of golden light erupted behind the dragon’s head. Zamiel reeled, stunned, as Eraina called upon her goddess and smote him in the back of his neck with her spear. The creature shrieked and lurched to swat her away, but she had already leaped free. She pulled Zed to his feet and ran, dragging him back the way they had come. They stumbled into the tunnel, running as swiftly as they could down the slope. The water was much deeper than it had been before.

“You hurt him,” Zed said.

“Not badly enough,” Eraina said, “and I won’t get that chance again. Run!”

Behind them, they could hear the dragon roar in impotent fury, unable to pursue them in his current form. Zamiel sucked in air for a mighty breath again. Zed grabbed Eraina and dove under the surface, pulling her down just as the cloud of
acid washed over them. He felt his face tingle and burn as the dragon’s toxic saliva mixed with the water, but he was otherwise unharmed.

They emerged again in the chamber where Eraina had awakened. The cave was also swiftly filling with water, streaming down the walls from above. The earthy smell of rain filled the cave. An open tunnel still led to the north, offering uncertain escape. The passage to the west, toward the chapel, was still choked with rubble. Eraina began wading to the north, but Zed stopped her, seizing her by the arm and dragging her to the western tunnel. She looked at him in confusion, but he didn’t say a word. He clambered among the rubble and dropped under the water. Realizing what he was about, she followed.

Under the water, Zed pulled his long smoking pipe from his pocket, poking it through the surface to breathe. He took a few breaths, then handed it to Eraina, who winced at the smoky taste of the air before handing it back. They both held very still, moving just enough to pass the pipe.