Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (39 page)

“Wait here, Omax,” Zed said. “We’ll circle around and distract him.”

“Hurry,” Omax said. “Not much time remains.”

They made their way back into the maze of bones. For several minutes they picked their way around until they reached another pass that entered the clearing. They were at the dragon’s left side now. Zamiel still stared patiently into the blue flame, front claws cupped around it. Seren felt the urge to run, to cower and hide until the prophet went away. She began to tremble. Tristam, still leaning against her for support, shook as well.

“Dragons radiate magical fear,” Tristam said. “I’m not sure what to do about that.”

“Same thing we do about the regular sort of fear,” Zed said, hefting his sword. “Try not to think about it. Tristam, you’re no good to us with that leg. Stay here and back us up at range.”

Zed charged first, but Seren was faster. She darted in toward the dragon, drawing her daggers. The dragon wheeled about the moment she entered the clearing, looking down at her with dull hatred. She barely dodged aside as its claw drove into the ground, shattering rock and bone. She hurled her dagger at the dragon’s face. It stuck harmlessly in his right cheek, like a pin lodged in a piece of thick wood. Zamiel did not appear to notice.

Zed was behind her, slashing at its arm with a heavy blow from his sword. His sword gleamed white as it struck, and the dragon hissed in pain. It pulled away, blood streaming over its claw.

“Paladins,” the dragon growled. “Always paladins.”

Zamiel reached for Zed, but a silver bolt of lightning from Tristam’s wand scorched his injured hand. The dragon roared in irritation, lumbering toward Tristam. Behind him, Omax dashed into the clearing toward the flaming sphere. As he reached the edge the dragon turned suddenly, lashing out with his tail. Omax was hurled backward across the bony plain. The dragon rounded on him.

“Idiot warforged!” Zamiel roared. “I can sense your connection to the Timeless as clearly as you sense mine. Did you believe you could thwart me? I have planned this for centuries.”

Zamiel pinned the warforged to the earth with one claw and leaned close, taking in a deep breath. Omax reached out and snatched Seren’s dagger from his cheek, slashing it across the dragon’s eye. Zamiel roared, his acidic breath spraying randomly across the clearing. Zed lunged toward Seren, grabbing her as he rolled, ducking behind an outcropping of bone as the deadly breath washed over them.

She risked a glance around her cover and saw Omax rushing toward the flame. His body steamed from the dragon’s breath; the adamantine plates that covered his left arm were fused and melted. The dragon recovered itself just as Omax reached the fire. It lashed out with one claw just as Tristam fired another burst of lightning at his face. The dragon’s claw impaled the warforged. Seren thought she saw Omax’s fingers touch the tip of the fire, but she wasn’t sure.

Nothing happened. Omax lay beside the flame, pinned to the earth by the dragon’s claws. The blue light in his eyes flickered and went dim. Zamiel looked at the rest of them, a slow grin spreading across his face. His remaining eye shone with malevolent green light.
Zamiel’s chest swelled as the dragon inhaled deeply, looking down at Tristam. He released a cloud of boiling acid over the artificer.

“Tristam!” Seren cried out.

The cloud cleared. Tristam stood unharmed. He stared up at the dragon in surprise.

Zamiel’s eye widened. “No,” he growled. “How?”

“Prophet, hold your wrath,” said a deep voice.

Omax rose slowly to his feet. Twin plumes of bright blue fire now blazed in his eye sockets. He stared at his open hands in wonder, as if seeing them for the first time. An eerie silence fell over the clearing, broken only by the distant gibbering of the Boneyard’s inhabitants.

“No!” Zamiel roared, spinning to face the warforged. “How is this possible?”

Omax tilted his head. “Is this not what you sought?” he said in the alien voice. “Is this not what you desired? To help me find an end to my solitude?”

“Yes, but
I
was to be the vessel!” the dragon snarled. “Me! This is
my
destiny!”

“I am confused,” the voice of the Timeless replied. “I thought you only wished to aid me.”

The dragon’s snarl faded. “Of course, Timeless,” he said, speaking with excessive calm. “But this one is not suitable to be your avatar. He is flawed. Imperfect. My ancestors created you—I know how to control your power.”

The warforged’s hands closed with a sharp metal click. “I do not wish to be controlled,” the Timeless said. “I wish only for an end to my solitude.”

“But you do not know this world,” Zamiel said. “You will require the guidance of one who is wise.”

“Don’t listen to him!” Tristam cried.

“Quiet,” the Timeless said. Omax’s body gestured at Tristam.
The artificer was thrown backward, scattering bone shards as he slid across the ground. A chorus of mad shrieks echoed from the creatures of the Boneyard. Zed could feel them huddling at the edges of the shadows, gathering to watch what was happening.

“Well done, Timeless,” Zamiel said. He circled behind the warforged, glaring at Zed and Seren. “Now deal with the other mortals as well so that we can discuss the future of this world without interruption.”

The warforged opened one hand and stared at its surface. “How peculiar,” the Timeless said. “Why does it sadden me so much to harm something so temporary?”

“It is as I have said,” Zamiel said. “You have chosen an unworthy vessel. Abandon it!”

“No,” the Timeless said. “I am intrigued.”

“Intrigued?” the dragon asked. “By what?”

“The memories of him with whom I share this body,” it said. “I see a soul who forever doubted his purpose, who turned his back upon the fate others would thrust upon him. I see one who walks a path marked with loneliness and regret.” The warforged looked up at Zamiel. “I see a soul that treasures these fickle mortal creatures, though he has no reason to do so. I find it intriguing.”

“No, Timeless,” Zamiel said. “The mortals are a pestilence, nothing more. We have nothing to learn from them.”

“You are wrong, prophet,” the Timeless said. “I have much to consider. I am not yet ready for this world. I have too much to learn.”

“You are ready!” the dragon roared. “
We
are ready! We shall rebuild this world as we deem fit. The mortals are beneath our consideration.”

“Sad,” the Timeless said. “I think you have much to learn as well, my friend. Let us retire to consider things anew.”

The warforged gestured. Zamiel’s draconic form vanished,
replaced by a humanoid figure in coppery robes. The brilliant fire in Omax’s eyes faded. A metallic groan issued from deep in his chest as the warforged fell to his knees, then toppled face first into the bone-strewn earth.

Seren ran to Tristam, helping him limp to Omax’s side. The artificer rolled Omax onto his back. The usual blue light shone in his eyes again.

“He’s not hurt,” Tristam said, awed. “He’s not hurt at all.”

Beside them, the swirling blue flame diminished and then vanished altogether. The Timeless was gone.

“No!” Zamiel screamed, rushing toward them. Zed moved into his path. The prophet backed away fearfully, tripping over his own robes. Zed lifted his sword.

“Let him live, Arthen,” Omax said, sitting up. “The Timeless wished him to learn what it means to be mortal and powerless.”

“Mortal,” Zamiel said, patting his own chest in horror. “Human, even. Disgusting and weak. This is impossible! This was my destiny!” He rushed at Zed again. The Inquisitive seized him by the collar of his robes and threw him back on the ground. “The Prophecy is never wrong!”

“It wasn’t wrong,” Zed said. “You just weren’t as important as you thought. Looks like Omax is the immortal conqueror—and you’re the one he conquered.”

“Let’s find the others and get out of here,” Seren said, pulling Tristam’s arm around her shoulders.

“Good luck with your new life, Prophet,” Zed said, sheathing his sword. “What’s left of it.”

Zed, Omax, Tristam, and Seren hurried back the way they came. Seren could hear the prophet’s enraged shrieks for several minutes afterward, until the gibbering shrieks of the Boneyard’s monstrous inhabitants eclipsed them.

Then there was only silence.

W
as Omax all right?” one of the children asked, worried.

“A little dented. A little sadder,” Seren said, “but still strong. Still Omax. We gathered up the others and escaped the Boneyard.”

“Did Tristam fix the airship?” a second child asked.

“Did Captain Gerriman survive?” another asked.

“What happened to the dog?” a third called out, deeply concerned.

“Please, please!” Seren laughed and held out her hands to calm the mob of eager little halflings. “I’m not done with the story yet. Keep interrupting and you’ll never hear the rest.”

The children quickly calmed down. They stared at her with sullen, impatient expressions. When she had begun the tale, there had only been two listeners, but word spread quickly through the village. Now the entire tribe was here, including thirty of the most eager and impatient little listeners she had ever met.

“As brilliant as Tristam was, even he could never fix the
Karia Naille
again,” Seren said. “Instead, we took what was left of the airship and built a memorial to Gerith at the edge of the Boneyard. We left his crossbow, his stewpot, and Blizzard’s perch there—a tribute to the bravest and wisest halfling we had ever known. When we set out for the long walk home, I looked back one last
time. I thought I saw a glidewing with a sky blue belly sitting on Gerith’s shrine … but I guess I’ll never be sure.”

The children cooed in approval.

“And how could Captain Gerriman not survive, with Eraina and Aeven tending his wounds?” Seren asked, grinning at her audience. “He was awake by the time we returned, and in as foul a mood as ever. ‘I suppose we’ll be walking back to Zil’argo, Master Xain?’ ” Seren spoke in a deep voice and puffed out her chest in impersonation of the little captain. The children laughed.

“Wasn’t Pherris sad to lose his airship?” a child asked. Some of the others glared at him, afraid that Seren would follow through on her threat to stop telling the story.

“He was,” Seren said. “Very sad. All of us were. The
Mourning Dawn
was our home, and the crew was our family. Even though we had stopped Zamiel and saved Khorvaire, it looked like the end. Would the world pull us apart and leave us to wander alone again?”

She stopped to slowly gaze over her audience, all waiting to see what she would say next.

“But Dalan saved the day,” she said.

“Mean old Dalan?” one child said, wincing in distaste. The guildmaster was clearly not one of her favorite characters.

“Mean old Dalan,” Seren replied. “Dalan went to Zil’argo and paid the gnomes to build him a new airship, as beautiful as the
Mourning Dawn
and faster than the
Seventh Moon
. Tristam helped them build her, just like Ashrem helped build the sister ships, so that she would be better than any other airship in the world. Pherris stayed on as the new captain, and Tristam became his first mate. Omax and Ijaac stayed on as the crew, and I stayed with them. Aeven, as always, guided our way.”

“And mean old Dalan?” the same little girl asked.

“Mean old Dalan went back to Wroat, though he wasn’t quite
so mean anymore,” Seren said. “Eraina returned to Karrnath to be with her church and her family. Zed was sad to see her say good-bye. Sadder than I think he’ll ever admit.”

“And what happened to Sir Arthen?” an older child asked excitedly. “Did he ever really get his magic back?”

Seren thought about her answer for a moment, then smiled sadly. “I don’t really know what happened to Zed Arthen,” she said. “He set off on his own shortly after we arrived in Zil’argo. I guess that’s another story entirely.”

A few of the children clapped excitedly. The halflings began to file out of the tent, but she noticed that one of the children was still watching with a strangely forlorn face. She suddenly remembered an important detail.

“And the dog was fine,” Seren said. “Dalan knew that the trip to the Boneyard would be very dangerous, so he left Gunther behind in Sharn.”

“You should have said that earlier,” the worried child said urgently.

“It didn’t seem to fit into the story,” Seren said.

“It was the
dog,
” the child said, completely outraged by the omission.

“Sorry,” Seren said.

The child pouted and stormed out of the tent.

“She was right, you know,” the old man in the back of the tent said. “Never forget the dog. You can kill all the heroes you like, but the audience will never forgive you if you hurt the dog.”

“Sorry,” she said, grinning at the old halfling. “How was it?”

The old man grunted. “It’ll do, I guess,” he said. “The language was a little rough, but the plot seemed all right. I could polish it up, I suppose. Helps that you wore that short skirt, too. That made the slow parts interesting.” The old halfling leered at her legs.

Seren folded her arms across her chest and gave Mannis
Snowshale a disapproving look. He was as incorrigible as his grandson.

The old halfling burst into a fit of cackling, laughing so hard that he was forced to dab his eyes with his sleeve. When he finished, his eyes still glistened. He looked up at Seren seriously.

“Did my grandson really do what you said?” he asked hoarsely. “Was he as brave as you said?”

“My words don’t do it justice,” she said. “Pherris named the new ship after him.”

“The
Lunatic?
” Mannis asked hopefully.

“The
Reckless,
” she said with a laugh.

“Eh, close enough,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Morisse. I proclaim my grandson’s quest a success.” The old halfling rubbed his nose with the same sleeve, sniffling a little. “I think I need some time alone to write all of this down.”