Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (2 page)

Tristam felt a sharp tug from behind. His feet slipped on the loose stones, and he fell. Veran had seized the tail of Tristam’s long coat, pulling him off balance. A booted foot struck Tristam in the stomach. His sword and wand were lost. Coarse hands seized Tristam’s wrists as the soldiers overwhelmed him, pulling him to his feet. Veran leaned close to his face.

“Curse you, boy,” Veran growled. “I don’t want to kill you but can’t have you going off to report us to the Canniths either. There’s a cellar in the ruins not far from here. We’re going to leave you there and seal the door. Don’t dig yourself out until we’re gone. Understood?”

No! He couldn’t let them beat him. If they discovered what he found, they would destroy it. Or, worse, use it …

Tristam lifted his throbbing head. He twisted in their grip, quickly sliding one arm out of the sleeve of his coat and punching Veran across the jaw. The soldier reeled and struck Tristam back with a mailed fist. Tristam’s vision blurred. He felt them grab his wrist and hold him helpless once more. Blood trickled down his chin. Veran seized Tristam by the throat, holding his sword against his stomach.

“You just killed yourself, idiot boy,” the soldier rasped.

Tristam saw the cold rage in the soldier’s eyes, but the killing blow never came. Dead silence fell over the crumbling ruins for half a breath, then the silence was punctuated by the sudden ring of metal against stone. The sound came again. Again. And again, in a rhythmic pattern.

The four soldiers looked at one another uneasily, as if they recognized the sound. They turned as one, looking toward an archway among the ruins. An enormous figure stepped into view. He was humanoid, except that his body was carved from scarred adamantine and battered darkwood. The setting sun framed him from behind, giving him a dark and ominous appearance. Two pools of blue light served as eyes in his smooth metal face. His thick arms curled into three-fingered claws, now balled into fists half the size of a man’s head.

A warforged.

The construct looked at the men silently, then at their wagon. He plucked a chunk of metal from the load and looked at it intently. It was the shattered face plate of another warforged. After a few moments he looked up at them, blue eyes shining with a cold light. The warforged spoke, his bass, metallic voice resounding over the shattered stone.

“Tristam Xain is my friend,” he said. “Let him go.”

Veran quickly released Tristam’s throat and backed away from the boy. “By the Host, do what it says,” he said. The other soldiers released Tristam, letting him fall limp on the stones.

“Now run,” the warforged said.

Veran sheathed his sword and clambered away over the stones.

“What about the salvage?” one of his greedier comrades said, nodding at the wagon.

“Can’t spend it if we’re dead, fool!” said another soldier, grabbing the man’s arm. “Run!”

The deserters scrambled away over the ruins, never looking back. Tristam sat up and watched them vanish over the heaps of ancient rubble. He groaned and crawled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. The warforged still stood in ruined archway, though he now leaned heavily against the threshold. He slid down the
frame till he sat hunched among the broken stone.

“Omax!” Tristam shouted, running to the warforged’s side. He helped Omax lean back against the archway. In the shadows of the setting sun, the soldiers could not see how badly damaged Omax was. His metal body was a network of jagged scars. His adamantine skin was deeply dented or missing in many places. It had been one week since Tristam had found the wounded warforged buried in the rocks. How long had he been here? Ashrem said no one had lived in the monastery since it collapsed twenty years ago.

“Omax, are you hurt?” Tristam asked.

“No worse than before,” the warforged said.

Tristam searched his pockets, pulling out vials of reagents and whispering transfusions to mend Omax’s damaged body as much as he could. The warforged watched in silence as his metallic flesh twisted back into its proper shape at Tristam’s command. “You shouldn’t even be walking yet. They might have killed you.”

“They would surely have killed you,” Omax said. “You were not afraid.”

“I didn’t want them to find you,” Tristam said. “They would have forced you into servitude or used you for scrap.”

“Then you understand,” Omax said. “Even if you know you will die, to stand your ground for a righteous cause is the greatest victory.”

Tristam was stunned. No one had ever risked their life for him before. “Thank you, Omax,” he said quietly.

“You are welcome, Tristam,” the warforged said. He looked at the metal plate in his hand. “I assume their business here was the same as your own?”

“I think so,” Tristam said. “A lot of warforged died here. That’s a lot of House Cannith darkwood and adamantine. The right people would pay a lot of money for this stuff.”

“And is that why your master sent you here?” Omax asked, looking at Tristam solemnly. “To profit?”

“No,” Tristam said. “He sent me ahead to see if the ruins had been looted. Ashrem wanted to make certain the warforged received a proper burial.”

“Why?” Omax asked, placing the scrap back in the wagon. “We are only weapons.”

“Ashrem feels differently,” Tristam said.

Omax looked at Tristam, keenly interested. “Oh?” he said.

“Ashrem helped create the first generation of warforged,” Tristam said. “He feels sorry for the way they’ve been used.”

Omax said nothing.

“He should be here soon,” Tristam said. “Our airship is in Wroat, picking up supplies. Ashrem is a much more skilled artificer than I am. After he arrives we should have you back at full strength in no time, Omax.”

“And what then?” Omax asked. “Will I be returned to the War?”

“If you want to be,” Tristam said. “Or you could stay with us on the
Seventh Moon
. Master Ashrem believes that the warforged should be free to seek their destinies.”

“Free?” the warforged mused, tasting the word.

Tristam nodded.

“I think I would like that,” Omax said.

O
NE

N
othing,” Eraina said, emerging from the worn shed with a scowl. She sheathed her shortsword and scanned the small camp with a sullen expression.

Zed Arthen sat on a stump. His two-handed sword lay on the grass, discarded but within easy reach. His long pipe dangled between his teeth, letting a plume of smoke curl in the air. He radiated disinterest as he studied the deep orange hue of the leaves above them.

“Are you even listening, Arthen?” Eraina asked. “I said I’ve found nothing.”

“I heard you,” he said, leaning backward and twisting to pop his back.

“You’ve nothing to add?” she said.

“Not really,” Zed said. “Not without saying I told you so, and that sort of thing just provokes you.”

Eraina’s face darkened.

“It’s true, though,” he said. “I told you Marth wouldn’t use these old scouting outposts. The Thrane military may have abandoned them, but they’re still on the maps. You know all it would take is one curious soldier checking in on area military holdings and Marth would be exposed. He wouldn’t take that kind of risk.”

“I don’t recall you saying any of that,” Eraina said. “I recall one grumbled, ‘Are you sure about this?’—which I attributed to your natural penchant for complaining.”

“I may have abbreviated my explanation,” Zed agreed, tapping out his pipe and tucking it back into his shabby coat.

The paladin gave him an exasperated look. “Zed, if you thought coming out here was such a terrible waste of time, you could have made your opinion clearer.” She stabbed her spear into the soft earth and slumped cross-legged on the ground.

“I didn’t have any better ideas,” Zed said. “None, at least, that you would have approved. To be honest, I kept my disagreement to a minimum because I hoped I was wrong. I thought maybe we would get lucky and find something.”

“Your first impression was correct, unfortunately,” she said.

“I’m a little confused by the entire situation, actually,” Zed said. “With as large an operation as Marth has, I would have thought he would be easier to track. At the very least he has to have some sort of airship repair bay, docking tower, and barracks. That means he has to maintain food, clothing, and morale for at least sixty to seventy troops. That’s assuming the soldiers we’ve faced are the majority of his followers. That may not be the case. There may be more. This sort of operation needs a lot of supplies, but we’ve seen nothing. Nathyrr is the most obvious staging point.” Zed sighed. “You haven’t sensed anything, have you, Eraina?”

“Nothing,” Eraina said, “but that isn’t unusual. Marth is, for all his cruelty, an ordinary mortal. Such beings rarely leave a supernatural trail that a paladin can easily follow. Though I don’t know why you need to ask me. You could try to sense him for yourself.” She looked at him meaningfully.

“That isn’t funny,” Zed said. “I told you, the Silver Flame hasn’t shone upon me in years. I’m not a paladin anymore.”

“Only because you turn away,” Eraina said. “Those who were wronged have been avenged. Commander Kalaven was brought to justice. Think of the good you have done in the years hence. You have risen above your weakness and atoned, Arthen. I think that your god would receive you as its champion. All that remains for you to be a paladin again is for you to
forgive yourself
.”

“Eraina, drop this,” Zed said. “It isn’t something I want to talk about. Ever.”

“Very well,” Eraina said. She rubbed her eyes, pushing strands of pale blond hair back into her unraveling braid. She caught Zed looking away and suppressed a grin. “What are you staring at?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Liar,” she said. “You were going make a comment about my hair again.”

Zed scratched his chin. The inquisitive had not shaved in several days, either due to laziness or preoccupation with their search. “What if I was?” he asked.

“I would have instructed you to return your thoughts to our task, deputy,” she said.

“Again with the deputy business.” Zed sighed. “You really take that seriously, don’t you?”

“I take everything seriously, Arthen,” Eraina said.

“I know you took a vow of honesty, but what other sorts of vows does a Spear of Boldrei take?” Zed asked.

“Arthen, focus,” she said. “We have much to do here.”

“Just making conversation,” he said. “I was wondering what sorts of relationships you’re allowed to have with outsiders.”

“If you are trying to seduce me again, this is hardly the time,” she said, rising and plucking her spear from the earth. She strode back to her horse.

“Why not?” Zed asked, not rising from his seat. “We’ve been here nearly a week and haven’t seen any sign of Marth’s soldiers. You’re an attractive woman, Eraina. You’re also interesting to talk to when you don’t have your spear jammed up your—”

“Wait,” she repeated, pausing with a thoughtful look as she adjusted her saddle. “Repeat what you said earlier about your ideas.”

“Excuse me?” Zed said, looking at her blankly.

“You said you had no ideas that I would have approved,” she said, looking at him sharply. “Implying that you had ideas of which I would not approve.”

Zed’s eyes shifted nervously. “Maybe.”

They mounted their steeds and rode back toward Nathyrr. The sun floated low above the horizon, painting the sky deep red. They urged their horses to a trot, eager to leave the dark reaches of the Harrowcrowns behind before sunset. Local legend held that the woods were haunted. Most Thrane forests were. Eraina and Zed were no strangers to the supernatural, nor were they entirely helpless against such foes. Nonetheless, their experiences had only made them all the more eager to avoid conflict if possible. If the legends were only that, so be it, but there was no harm in riding a bit more swiftly to avoid danger. Nothing more was said until the woods parted and the walls of Nathyrr appeared among the distant hills. Small farms and homesteads dotted the plains around the city, evidence of normal life that was a world away from their own existence.

“Tell me your plan, Arthen,” Eraina said.

The inquisitive looked at her blandly. He held his reins with one hand. His other hand held the straps of his sword belt, which he had slung over one shoulder. “I can’t,” he said with a sly grin. “Not if you want it to work.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You know better than to ask that,” he said.

She studied him warily. She had known Zed Arthen long before this business with the Legacy and
Mourning Dawn
began, mostly through reputation. He was said to be one of the most skilled inquisitives in Khorvaire. The last few weeks had offered her the opportunity to work directly beside him. She had learned that Zed was a man quite adept at offending every moral sensibility she possessed. He was also, to her endless astonishment, a good man. Though she could feel her judgment straining at its foundations, she trusted him. She tried to imagine the worst that could happen as they rode through the city gates. The Nathyrr city guards looked up with bored expressions until she presented her Sentinel Marshal’s seal, then returned to their posts.