Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (28 page)

“We need to hurry out of here,” Zed said, heading toward the
Mourning Dawn
’s ladder. “We have to stop Marth before he reaches Sharn.”

“Wait, Zed,” Tristam said, turning toward the fortress. “We don’t entirely know what we’re up against, but there might be answers here.”

“We can come back after we save Sharn,” Zed said.

“And if we rush into this unprepared, we’ll have no chance,” Tristam said. “There are passages of the Prophecy in the caves underneath this fortress. I need to know what they say.”

“If we don’t hurry,” Zed said, “Marth is going to kill a lot of people.”

“Do you think I don’t realize that?” Tristam said. “There’s something deeper going on here, Zed. Sharn is only part of it. Zamiel has manipulated everything from the very beginning—driving Ashrem to recreate the Legacy, sending him to his death in the Mournland, twisting Marth into a deranged murderer; even our own part in this was engineered. I have to know what he is and why he’s doing this before we play into his hands again.”

“Zamiel is a dragon, Tristam,” Zed said. “We only narrowly escaped him in the caves earlier. He tried to kill us when we discovered the same caverns you’re talking about.”

“The Prophecy within the cavern is nothing but lies,” Eraina said. “Zamiel has changed the Prophecy somehow to suit his
own ends. I can only assume he must have done the same at Zul’nadn.”

“A dragon?” Tristam replied, genuinely surprised. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would he want to unleash the Legacy? A dragon is a creature of magic. Its effects would kill him.”

“I don’t know,” Zed replied. “I only know what we saw. He was bigger than the one that chased us in the Frostfell.”

A faint tremor passed through the ground beneath them. Zed frowned and glanced up at the trees. The upper branches swayed gently even though there was no wind. Something was shaking them from their roots. The sound of cracking stone erupted from deep beneath them. The earth rumbled. A cloud of billowing dust suddenly rose from the depths of Fort Ash. The walls of the castle shook violently.

“Withdraw!” Draikus shouted, backing away from the walls. “The ruins are collapsing!”

The soldiers quickly complied, swiftly moving away from the crumbling fortress. Their prisoners moved with them, watching in stunned silence as their home fell in upon itself. In a matter of moments, it was done. Fort Ash lay in ruins. After a few tense moments of silence, an explosion of earth and stone erupted from the center of the ruins. A long, sinuous shape broke from the earth, climbing into the sky on immense bat wings, unleashing galeforce winds over the forest. Its reptilian body shone with brilliant copper scales. It soared into the clouds and was seen no more.

“The prophet,” Tristam said, amazed.

“I guess Zamiel doesn’t want us reading his prophecy after all,” Ijaac observed.

“Damn,” Tristam said. “I just wanted some answers.”

“You’re not the only one.” Captain Draikus cleared his throat loudly, drawing their attention. “Dragons, Cyran mercenaries,
the Prophecy, and a plot to attack Sharn? I would appreciate it if someone fully explained to me what is happening.”

Tristam looked at Draikus. Zed could see the fear in the boy’s eyes. Tristam was afraid for the secrecy of their mission, worried that if the Thrane found out about the Legacy, it might fall into the wrong hands.

“Draikus, could I have a moment alone to speak to Tristam?” Zed asked.

Draikus regarded Zed suspiciously. “I will not allow you and your friends to play games with the security of my people.”

“
Our
people,” Zed said. “I’m still Thrane, Draikus. Even after all that’s happened, do you think I would do anything to place our homeland in danger?”

The knight stared into Zed’s eyes. “I suppose not,” Draikus said. “But be swift.” He stepped away brusquely, shouting commands to his confused soldiers.

Zed gripped Tristam’s sleeve and pulled him to one side.

“What do you think you’re doing, bringing him into this, Zed?” Tristam whispered. “He’s a Knight of Thrane. You know what could happen if the Five Nations learn about the Legacy.”

“Tristam, think,” Zed said. “This is bigger than any of us. This can’t stay secret anymore.”

Tristam’s eyes widened. “What are you saying, Zed?”

“Think about it, Tristam. Secrecy is what’s been killing us from the very beginning,” Zed said. “We’ve always moved cautiously because we’re afraid the Legacy would fall into the wrong hands. When I looked into the dragon’s eyes, I knew what a terrible mistake we had made. Secrecy only serves to help Marth and Zamiel. I don’t think the Legacy could possibly be in worse hands than it is now. Zamiel doesn’t care that we know what he is anymore because it’s too late to matter. Marth’s on his way to destroy an entire city and reignite the War. We’ve been outnumbered from the start because we
were afraid to trust anyone. If we hadn’t been so damned paranoid, maybe things wouldn’t have gotten this far. Marth knows that when he destroys Sharn, the Five Nations will blame one another, but his entire plan would have been impossible if people knew the truth all along. If Sharn dies, Tristam, we share the responsibility for what happens afterward. We were so arrogant we believed we were the only ones worthy enough to stop him. We were wrong.”

Tristam’s shoulders slumped as Zed’s words sank in. “So what do we do?” he asked.

“We tell Draikus what’s going on,” Zed said. “That way if we fail, and Sharn falls, at least someone will know. Maybe if Draikus tells enough people the truth, at least Thrane won’t be stupid enough to get involved with this war because of one madman’s actions.”

“But what about the Legacy?” Tristam asked, folding his arms tightly across his chest. “We can’t let its secret get out.”

“That part is still up to us,” Zed said, clasping the artificer’s shoulder with one hand.

“So,” Draikus said, approaching them. “What have you decided? I hope what you have to say is illuminating. I suspect our prisoners will be difficult sorts to interrogate.”

“I’ll tell you as much as I can, Captain Draikus,” Tristam said, “but we don’t have much time—and I’m not sure if you’ll believe me.”

“Try,” the Captain said, glancing up at the sky where the dragon had vanished. “Today you might find me unusually credulous.”

T
WENTY
-T
WO

C
old winds tore at Zamiel’s scales as he plummeted toward the Harrowcrowns. Acidic steam curled from the dragon’s nostrils. He gasped for breath, his mighty chest heaving against the thin air. His wings stiffened and snapped open wide, steering his massive body into a gentle glide. The earth grew rapidly closer. As a small clearing moved into view, he silently willed his draconic form away.

The prophet fell to his hands and knees as he became human once again. His limbs trembled as pain surged through his body. Memories flooded his soul. He remembered an army of dragons soaring through the young skies of Eberron on scaled wings of a dozen different hues. He remembered the demonic horde that marched across the plains, staring up at the impudent draconic invaders with hateful eyes. He remembered the power that wracked the earth and sky as it tore through demon and dragon alike. He was the power, surging through both armies. His breath tore the flesh from immortals. His touch burned impure beings from reality itself. The feeling was incredible, and with each being that died, a part of their being added itself to his. Bit by bit, he awakened. Bit by bit, he came into being.

The memories faded, buried under the weight of eons.

The prophet returned to himself, awakening to the present.
His long fingers curled in the mud left behind by the recent storm. He closed his eyes and bowed his head, waiting for the agony to pass. Magical power wracked his being, setting his limbs trembling. No matter how many times the Legacy was unleashed, the pain never ceased to strike him as it did now. Though he despised the weakened state in which it left him, he welcomed the pain. It reminded him of how much closer he drew to his goal. Such was the price of power.

Zamiel’s eyes narrowed into slits as he looked to the north. A distant plume of smoke curled above the forest. Destroying Fort Ash had been, admittedly, a somewhat cathartic experience. It was not the first time he had been forced to do so, but in the past, it had always been due to failure. This time, it was a simple matter of expedience. Mortals were such easily distracted creatures. With the Prophecy still resonating deep in the caverns beneath Fort Ash, they might have spent forever pondering its mysteries. At this stage of the game, such things served only as distractions. He no longer needed the Prophecy. All had been set into motion.

If Marth should somehow fail at this point, time was still on the prophet’s side. He was, after all, timeless. He could retreat where even the
Mourning Dawn
would never discover him. He would wait until his enemies were dead. He would wait until the mortals forgot about the caverns beneath Fort Ash. He would return to clear the rubble and steer some new prodigy to their discovery.

Even so, the idea disgusted Zamiel. He had waited so long to reclaim what was rightfully his. He had seen so many fools attempt to grasp the secrets and fail. Ashrem had come closer than any before, and Marth was a worthy successor. Tristam, if he performed as predicted, would complete the cycle once Marth had fallen. This time, there would be no failure. The anticipation was driving him mad.

And that disturbed him. Over the ages, he had learned the value of patience. He accepted victory and failure in equal measure, for time was always on his side. He had waited lifetimes and watched nations rise and fall. The fulfillment of his dreams had seemed within grasp many times before, but never did he allow himself to presume victory. What was so different now?

The prophet rose, clasping his hands into fists within his sleeves. With a whispered spell, the dirt fell away from his hands and garments. Zamiel composed himself and surveyed his surroundings. He was almost disappointed that no one had noticed his descent. He yearned for a reason to strike down a few of those smug paladins, as senseless as it would have been.

Perhaps he had simply grown disgusted at the state of this world. Conflict had always been the defining attribute of Eberron’s existence. Good fought evil. Chaos struggled against law. Nation struggled against nation. Yet now, the denizens of this world struggled against order. As much as the Five Nations still mistrusted and despised one another, none of them truly wished for another war. The majority of Eberron’s inhabitants seemed, for the time being, to desire peace. The idea unnerved him. It was simply unnatural. At least there were those, like Marth, who could easily be turned to seeing things his way. Zamiel would return Eberron to a state of conflict—it would be his parting gift to the world.

In the distance, he could hear men shouting to one another. That would be the Thrane knights, searching the rubble for clues or survivors. Zamiel ignored them. Everything of importance in Fort Ash had been buried, and his Cyran allies were of no further use. The Thrane would enjoy their illusion of victory, grow bored, and leave in good time. They did not matter. The two who had discovered him were long gone from here, aboard the
Mourning Dawn
.

The prophet scowled. That was another thing that was quite
different from before. In the past, none of his pawns—ally or enemy—had come close to discovering the truth about him. He had never expected Tristam to find Zul’nadn so soon, let alone destroy it. The two paladins had been another unexpected wrinkle. They had escaped knowing more than Zamiel intended to reveal. Marth, he suspected, had begun to discern the truth as well. Was the prophet’s fear of discovery leading to his impatience, or was his impatience leading to unprecedented mistakes? Perhaps mortals were simply growing more difficult to predict? Perhaps he was simply too set in his ways.

Such meandering thoughts were pointless. What was done was done, and what his enemies had learned could not be unlearned. Zed Arthen and Eraina d’Deneith would almost certainly misunderstand what they had seen—or at least comprehend the truth too late. Marth would not betray Zamiel now—he
could
not betray him now—he had descended too deeply into madness. He would not stop until Sharn lay in ruins.

Marth’s success was unavoidable now—even if he died, the prophet’s ends would still be met. All that remained now was for Zamiel to prepare for the inevitable results.

The prophet whispered words of magic and took a step forward. The world rippled and faded around him. The tall trees of the Harrowcrowns were replaced with a gaping canyon paved with brittle shards of bleached white. The hollow eyes of gigantic inhuman skulls glared down at him. Twisted spires clawed toward the sky on each side of the rough path where he stood. A low, mournful wail hung upon the air though no wind moved the prophet’s robes.

Zamiel walked forward, looking up at the ancient, massive expressions with a strangely wistful expression. Some of them were almost familiar to him. He traced the fingers of one hand along a large rib protruding vertically from the earth. This place
was at once comfortable and alien to him. Soon, all of this would end.