Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“The Legacy doesn’t seem to kill you, but it weakens you enough to do the job,” Marth said. The white fire faded, and the changeling’s wand ignited again. Marth pointed the wand at Omax’s chest and blasted him backward through a cabin hatch.

Tristam charged out of the core chamber toward Marth. Seren rose and drew her dagger, but the changeling closed and locked the door with a gesture, sealing her inside. Tristam pointed his wand at the changeling, praying that his preparations had been sufficient to shield his magic from the Legacy. A bolt of white lightning lanced toward Marth. The changeling’s invisible shield absorbed the blast, and he replied in kind, unleashing green fire at Tristam. The fire was absorbed in the same manner. Tristam still flinched when the blast struck him, as if he wasn’t sure the spell would work.

“Your magic has improved a great deal,” Marth admitted, drawing his sword. “I wonder if your skill with a blade is still as weak as before.”

Tristam blanched but drew the shortsword that hung at his belt. He held it awkwardly in both hands. Xain’s grip was too tight, just as Marth remembered. He lunged toward Tristam, but as he did, the younger man straightened and dropped his sword into one hand in a low grip. Xain wheeled away from Marth’s thrust. A searing ribbon of pain traced up the changeling’s thigh.

Marth stumbled backward, surprised by Tristam’s sudden display of prowess. He quickly brought his blade to the defensive, parrying as Tristam slashed at him. Marth retreated down the hall into the ship’s original core chamber.

“How did you know it was me?” Marth asked.

“Thuranni promised to hold the helm,” Tristam said. “He told us that if we saw him again, there could only be one reason. Do not wear his face, Thardis!” Tristam lunged again, slashing furiously at the changeling.

“So be it,” Marth said as he dodged aside. He released control of his appearance entirely, letting all of his injuries show-even those he normally concealed. His face was a hideous network of scars and deep burns. His right eye was a milky, unhealthy yellow.

“Now you see?” the changeling said, noting Tristam’s revulsion. “You truly have no comprehension of what I’ve endured. Why do you make this so difficult, Tristam? You were never my enemy. All you ever needed do was to get out of my way. Surely you must find this world of peace as unnatural as I do.”

“I prefer it to the world that sent my family to the gallows and destroyed Cyre,” Tristam said, stabbing at the changeling as he retreated. “I prefer it to the world that made madmen like you.”

Marth’s ravaged features flushed with rage. “How dare you speak of my homeland,” Marth hissed, slashing out and leaving a red line across Tristam’s chest. “I gave everything for Cyre, and the other nations destroyed her.”

“Gave everything for Cyre?” Tristam asked. He circled the hole in the floor as he darted away, clutching his chest. “Are you talking about how you murdered your commanding officers?”

“Those men were no true sons of Cyre!” Marth roared. “Traitors, all. I did my homeland a service by destroying them.”

Tristam shook his head. “And those soldiers you killed in the core chamber?” he said. “Not true sons of Cyre either, I suppose. How deep do your delusions go, Marth? How much has Zamiel twisted you?”

Marth’s lips pressed into a firm line. He leapt across the gap in the floor, holding his blade high. Tristam brought his sword up to block. The two men crashed backward into the wall. Tristam rolled, punching Marth across the face with the hilt of his blade. The changeling reeled, sword falling from his hands. Tristam lifted his blade, the point hovering just above Marth’s throat.

Marth’s let his features shift. His face became the one he wore so many years ago, the face of Orren Thardis.

“Tristam, no,” he whispered.

Tristam hesitated. Something struck the side of the airship heavily, rocking the entire chamber. The Brelish were attacking again. Marth moved as Tristam was thrown off balance, stabbing the boy in the hip with a small knife from his belt. Tristam cried out in pain and sprawled on his back beside the gap in the floor, nearly sliding out into the void. Marth rose quickly, snatching his sword from the deck and kicking Tristam’s blade through the hole.

“You never listened to me, Xain,” Marth said sadly. “Opportunity won’t wait for you. Don’t wait for it.”

“Good advice,” Tristam said hoarsely, looking past him.

Pain seized Marth. He looked down to see the hilt of a dagger blooming from his chest. Across the chamber, Seren stood in the hatchway, another knife at the ready. A slow, bitter smile spread across the changeling’s face. The sword fell limply from his hand. A trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. The blade had not struck his heart, but it was close enough that the difference would amount to only a few seconds.

“Xain, stop the prophet,” he whispered. “Please.”

“I will,” Tristam said, struggling to his feet and backing away from Marth.

“Bury me in Cyre,” Marth begged. “With my family.”

“No,” Seren replied, glaring hatefully at him.

Marth’s eyes rolled back into his head and he fell forward, though the shattered floor, down into the City of Towers. As he fell, the face of Orren Thardis became the changeling’s scarred visage a final time.

The black crystal in the changeling’s hand erupted as he died, releasing one more wave of white energy over Sharn. The Legacy’s disruptive power washed through the center of Skyway.

Revenge was a strange sort of thing. In the stories, the hero was often wronged by some hated enemy. He would swear revenge, and, after toil and sacrifice, there would be a final confrontation. The villain would fall, and the hero would come away with an empty feeling-a feeling that his vengeance served no purpose after all. In the stories, it was always the same. So that was what Seren expected.

To her surprise, seeing the man who murdered Jamus Roland plunge out of an airship was strangely satisfying. She watched Marth’s body drop until it vanished into the clouds below.

“Seren!” Tristam shouted, shaking her back to her senses.

She looked at him in surprise. “Sorry,” she said, composing herself.

“How did you get out of there?” Tristam asked, amazed. “Marth sealed the door.”

“And I’ve spent the last few years picking locks in a city full of wizards,” she answered.

Tristam smiled, but his happiness quickly faded. “This isn’t over yet,” he said. “The island is tearing itself apart.” He stared through the hole in the ship at the cloud below them. Shimmering fractures were swiftly spreading through Skyway. The bulk of the island was too large to disintegrate under a single burst from the Legacy, but Marth’s final attack had started a chain reaction that would inevitably destroy it.

“So we failed,” Seren said, afraid.

“No,” Tristam said. “We can still stop this. I have to get back to the core chamber!”

Tristam hurried back down the corridor. She followed, finding him kneeling beside Omax. Tristam summoned his magic to heal the fallen warforged as best he could. Omax sat up stiffly amid a heap of wooden debris. He looked from Tristam to Seren as he scrambled to his feet. “Where is Marth?” he said. He clenched his fists, prepared to fight, oblivious to the deep scorch marks on his arms and chest.

“Dead,” Seren said.

The warforged seemed surprised at that. The airship shook violently. A loud snap sounded from somewhere deep within the vessel, and the Seventh Moon listed to port.