Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

She leaned into the wagon, grasping the lid of a coffin. It was securely nailed shut. Peering around to make sure she wasn’t watched, she grasped the lid more firmly with both hands. She whispered a short prayer to Boldrei, importuning the goddess to bolster her strength and simultaneously praying that she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.

A surge of divine power issued through her limbs. The coffin’s lid popped loose with a dry crack as the nails pulled free. She looked back at the mortuary, worried she might be heard. The windows remained drawn tight.

Eraina eased the coffin’s lid open. Heavy burlap sacks and small barrels filled the coffin. She opened the nearest, finding it filled with dried beans. Another held rice. A third was filled with strips of dried beef. So this was how Marth supplied his troops. Who would search a wagon full of coffins?

Eraina closed the coffin and turned her attention to the mortuary. She wondered what other secrets lay within, and exactly how far Marth’s grip extended.

She also wondered whether Zed Arthen had been beaten unconscious by the city guard yet.

To stand on the deck of this ship again was at once both familiar and strange.

Marth’s slender hands rested lightly on the gunwale of Albena Tors , or the Dying Sun in the language of the elves.

In younger days, Marth had rarely worn his natural face. Most changelings did not, preferring to slip from one alias to the next. Marth saw no reason to uphold such illusions among his own crew. They would accept him as he was or not at all. Though his scarred white face showed no expression, he was preoccupied with how different the ship felt since he had reclaimed her in the ruins of Metrol. The way the vessel carried herself in the air, the hue of the flaming ring that surrounded her, the vibration of the deck beneath his feet, he couldn’t quite isolate what bothered him-but something deep and significant had changed.

At first Marth thought it was merely the unfamiliar sensation of piloting the vessel alone. In all his dimly remembered years at the airship’s helm, he had never flown her without a crew before. Though Ashrem’s extensive modifications made such piloting possible, the loss of speed and maneuverability made it impractical to do so. He had limped to Nathyrr as swiftly as he could after escaping the Mourning Dawn , taking on a supplementary crew. Their presence didn’t alter his nagging feeling.

“The mist is ahead, Captain,” the helmsman called out. He pointed at the horizon, where a murky gray fog consumed the land. “Do we veer north or south?”

Marth looked at the man evenly. “Neither,” he said. “Continue our course east to the Talenta Plains, Mister Draen. The rest of you, see to your duties. We must make all possible speed.”

The crew did not argue, but Marth saw several of them look at one another with fearful expressions.

“The Seventh Moon waits for us,” Marth said. “We must not alter our course.”

“Aye, Captain,” the helmsman said, the doubt clear in his voice.

Marth turned to face the helmsman. The other soldiers quickly went about their duties. The helmsman concentrated upon the ship’s controls, trying not to look afraid under his captain’s scrutiny.

“Have you never entered the Mournland?” Marth asked. His white eyes stared out at the horizon.

“No, Captain,” the helmsman admitted, “but I have heard terrible stories.”

“All of those stories are likely true,” he said. “The Mournland teems with horrors beyond imagination. Most of the wild magic that consumes the place prefers to stay near the earth-we should be safe enough if we keep a high altitude and a steady speed. Do not allow fear to conquer you. Let Cyre’s grave stand as a reminder of why we fight beside one another. Remember that this was once our home.”

“Aye,” the helmsman replied contritely. “We shall make all possible speed.”

“See that you do,” Marth said. He walked past the others, climbing down the ladder that led to the heart of the ship. He felt a sense of nostalgia to be in his old ship, his old home, once more. To know that the Dying Sun would soon be stripped down and abandoned seasoned his mood with sadness. There was no other way. The Dying Sun was a small ship, designed to support a small crew. For what Marth planned to do, he required a warship. He needed the Seventh Moon to rise again, her damaged elemental core replaced with that of her sister vessel. The idea of cutting out his first ship’s heart to power his warship pained him-but it was necessary.

Marth opened the hatch that led into the ship’s core chamber, closing it behind him so that he would not be interrupted. A large cylinder of black metal dominated the small room. He stepped inside and touched the ship’s heart. The metal was warm, heated from within by the bound elemental.

Tristam’s repairs to the damaged airship had been significant. Marth was impressed at the miracles the boy had performed in such a short period of time. When Marth had abandoned her in Metrol, she seemed irreparable. Yet even Tristam’s modifications were not what bothered him. It was something deeper.

The mystery could wait. He had urgent matters requiring his attention.

Marth reached into his long, black coat and drew out his amethyst wand. He passed it in a complex pattern, chanting words of power. Motes of stuttering, sparkling light projected from the end of the wand and scattered like insects. Marth gave another sharp command, and the energy froze in midair as if trapped by an invisible force.

“Reveal yourself,” Marth commanded.

The shining bits of light stirred, swirling around one another as they wove shapes in midair. The image of a humanoid figure formed, resembling an elderly human man. It was nearly transparent. Its arms and legs faded into nothing. The vision’s face was more haunted and lined with worry than Marth remembered, but it was still the face of Ashrem d’Cannith.

“I thought I had been destroyed,” Ashrem’s visage said. “I thought I was free.”

“I absorbed the magic that sustains you into my wand,” Marth said. “Destroying you would have been rash. You pose too many questions.”

“Let me fade,” the vision whispered, his voice hoarse. “I have served my purpose.”

“Then serve my purpose now, or linger in pain forever,” Marth said. “Tell me what I wish to know, and I will grant you the oblivion that you desire.”

The changeling’s pale eyes shone green for the briefest instant. He stared deep into the illusionary figure, probing the threads of magic that bound it together. After nearly a minute, he was satisfied that his suspicions had been correct. The changeling’s shoulders slumped. Marth’s eyes filled with pity.

“Why were you in that rail station?” Marth demanded.

“I am a reflection of Ashrem d’Cannith,” he said. “Like a ghost, I was bound to protect the Dying Sun until the last Heir of Ash arrived.”

“The last Heir of Ash?” Marth asked. “Tristam Xain?”

“Yes,” the vision said. “Xain has been chosen … as have you.”

“Chosen by whom?” Marth demanded. “How can you tell?”

“I do not know,” Ashrem said. “There is a glow about you, an aura of importance. You were approved by my maker.”

“Who made you?” Marth demanded.

“The Mourning made me,” he answered. “I am woven of forgotten magic, like the living spells that haunt Metrol.”

“Lies,” Marth hissed. “You are reciting an answer that means nothing.”

He tightened his grip on the wand, causing sparks of green flame to erupt from the tip and scour the illusory figure’s form. The visage of Ashrem doubled over in pain but did not scream.