Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

Only one other vessel could dare share the sky with him now. The Mourning Dawn soared high above, narrowly rolling to one side as another bolt of lightning erupted from the Moon ’s bow.

A soldier laughed as he watched the Dawn dodge and weave high above them. “Why did she come back down?” he said, laughing to a comrade. “They don’t have any real weapons. They don’t have a chance against us.”

Marth looked sharply back up at the ship. That was an excellent question. Why would Pherris Gerriman put his ship in their range again? It wasn’t like the gnome to do something so suicidal.

It was a trick.

“Veer to port!” Marth shouted urgently.

The Seventh Moon rolled to one side. Marth staggered to keep his balance. In the starlight, he thought he saw something fall past the ship’s rail. He allowed himself a smile, wondering if Xain had attempted to board his ship. What a strangely ignominious end, to fall to his death over the same city he had hoped to save.

“Watch the Mourning Dawn carefully,” Marth commanded. “Keep her behind us, where she is useless. Captain Gerriman can watch us destroy Sharn if he so desires. He is no threat. Helmsman, take us to the center of Skyway.”

The ship gained speed again, soaring deeper into Sharn. Marth saw lights rising from the floating island like hornets stirred from their nest. Some were the burning rings of airships, flying out to reinforce the fleet. Others might be skycoaches attempting to flee the city or even the gleaming staves of wizards flying under the power of their own magic. A squad of swift Brelish airships darted up from the streets below, soaring toward the Moon in formation.

The airships attacked with a desperate volley of fire, lightning, and raw arcane power. The changeling’s hand tightened around the glass sphere, and the Legacy lashed out. The magical energy dissipated before ever reaching the Moon . The airships dropped from the sky like dead birds. Marth frowned. Wouldn’t the men and women aboard those ships have known their attack was suicide?

In their position, he supposed, he would have done the same.

The center of Skyway drew nearer. Once the Moon came into range, the end would begin. Once the Legacy had corrupted the magic that bound the heart of the district, an avalanche of twisted metal and stone would rain upon the city. The towers of Sharn would fall. This magical monument to Brelish power and arrogance would be no more.

Marth frowned as the Moon suddenly decelerated. “More speed!” he commanded.

There was no reply. The changeling sneered in irritation. There was no time for such stupidity.

“You six, come with me,” he said, gesturing at a group of nearby soldiers. Though he doubted there was any possibility of an attack, he would take no chances.

Marth turned and climbed below deck, heading down the narrow passageway toward the ship’s helm. He gripped his wand in one hand and the sphere that controlled the Legacy in the other. The shimmering crystal cast fitful purple light upon the walls. He opened the hatch and stepped inside, finding it pitch black, swallowing his wand’s light.

“None of that,” Marth muttered. He summoned the Legacy’s power again, filling the room with crackling energy.

The magical darkness vanished. Marth dodged to one side just as a dagger sliced the air where his throat had been. An blast of green fire erupted from his wand, hurling his attacker against the wall. The figure rose instantly and lunged at him again. A second blast threw him across the room, clothes still flaming from the attack. The Cyran soldiers looked on, stunned. Everything had happened more quickly than they could react.

“Shaimin,” Marth whispered, taking a step forward. He grimaced at the smell of scorched flesh.

The elf’s burned face twisted into a smile as he slumped to the floor beside the dead helmsman. Shaimin lay on one side, his left arm twisted uselessly beneath him. “Thardis,” he said, breathing irregularly. “You were always quicker than you looked.”

Marth pointed his wand at the fallen elf. “Why, Shaimin?” Marth asked. “I can understand, after everything I’ve done, why all the others turned on me-but you have always been a killer.”

“You still don’t see,” Shaimin said with a cackle. “That’s exactly it. Life means nothing, Thardis. Life ends, no matter what we do-but the names we leave behind are eternal. Do you want to be remembered like this?”

Marth sighed. “Are you still trying to talk me out of this?”

“No,” Shaimin said. He smiled. The burnt skin on his left cheek cracked. “I’m just stalling you while Tristam sabotages the ship’s core.” The assassin rolled onto his back, drawing his other dagger with his left hand and hurling it at Marth.

The changeling twisted to one side, but the dagger sliced the right side of his neck. He cried out in pain and unleashed another bolt of roiling flame, incinerating the fallen elf. Marth sighed and gestured curtly, dismissing the flames before they damaged the ship.

“Take the helm!” he ordered the soldiers. “Guard this room and take the ship to the main island of Skyway at full speed!”

The soldiers quickly obeyed, flanking out to cover the room while one took the controls. He could feel the Seventh Moon gain speed again. None of them was as skilled a helmsmen as Marcho had been, but that didn’t matter. All they needed to do was fly the ship in a straight line toward the center of the city. Marth pressed a handkerchief to his injured neck as he ran through the corridors toward the core chamber. The bodies of dead and incapacitated soldiers lay strewn in his path. Tristam and his allies had definitely been here.

The changeling passed through the ship’s original core chamber. The shattered floor still yawned dangerously over open sky next to the defunct core. A used life ring lay discarded in one corner. A grappling hook was tangled about the inert core; a rope still dangled through the hole. Marth had expected Tristam and the others to attempt to board his ship again, but he had not expected them to enter from below.

Such trickery demanded to be repaid in kind. Marth’s features shifted. His face became Shaimin d’Thuranni’s. Enchantments in his cloak wove illusions over his clothing to complete the disguise.

The ship’s new core was housed in a supplemental cargo bay in the rear of the airship, not far from the original core. The door hung open at an awkward angle. Marth could still hear combat from within. He whispered a few words of magic, bolstering his defenses as he entered. Within, Tristam Xain, Seren Morisse, and Omax were locked in combat with three of his soldiers. Two more lay unmoving on the floor.

Tristam glanced toward Marth. His eyes widened. “Seren, look out!” he shouted, ducking behind the ship’s core.

Marth scowled in irritation that Tristam had not fallen for his disguise, but he did not hesitate. Following the destruction of the ship’s original core, the new one had been warded to resist magical attacks. Thus Marth pointed the wand, filling the chamber with green fire without concern for anything within. Omax darted to shield Seren with his body as the fire washed over them. The flames cleared an instant later. Tristam peered around ship’s core, staring in horror at the charred corpses of Marth’s crew.

Marth paused for an instant, realizing what he had done. Then Omax charged roaring and swinging at the changeling with heavy fists. Marth summoned a shield of force, but it shattered against Omax’s attack. The blow sent him flying backward, skidding on his back down the corridor. Marth sat up and grasped the Legacy. A wave of white energy washed over the warforged. Omax dropped to his knees but continued glaring at Marth. The light in Marth’s wand dimmed as the Legacy glowed more fiercely.