Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

Tristam opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his cabin. For several minutes, he couldn’t remember what had happened or how he came to be here. The last thing he could recall was leaping from the Mourning Dawn , clutching the life ring and narrowly missing Marth’s warship, only to see Shaimin’s grapple catch the bottom of the Seventh Moon as she passed overhead.

He sat up slowly. His left arm hung in a sling and felt entirely numb. His lower right leg was bound in a splint. He gasped in pain when he tried to turn his head; fire burned in the muscles of his neck and down his left shoulder. The rest of his body throbbed with a general ache. His homunculus sat at the edge of the bed, offering him a small cup of water. Tristam accepted it and drank gratefully.

Memories of the battle on the Seventh Moon slowly returned. He remembered Marth’s fall from the Seventh Moon . He remembered setting the ship’s core to overload and explode in a desperate attempt to save Sharn. He remembered being thrown into the bulkhead and buried in wreckage as the ship collided with Skyway. He remembered praying that the others had escaped as his vision began to dim. Then he remembered the wreckage being torn away by thick metal fingers and a pair of shimmering blue eyes staring down at him.

“How do you feel, Tristam?” Eraina asked. The paladin sat on a stool in the far corner of the cabin, watching him carefully. Her face was wan and exhausted.

“Amazed to be alive,” he replied, passing his cup back to the little construct.

“You very nearly weren’t,” Eraina said. “You still have a broken arm, and your ankle is sprained badly. I did what I could. Only time can do the rest. Zed left you the crutch he made back in Talenta.” She nodded at the crude shaft of wood leaning against the bookcase.

“Thank you, Eraina.”

The paladin smiled. “Omax was the one who carried you out of the Moon ,” she said. Her face hardened. “Is what Seren said true? Is Marth dead?”

“He fell out of the Seventh Moon with Seren’s dagger in his heart,” Tristam said.

“Are you sure?” she pressed, unconvinced. “Couldn’t this be another one of his tricks?”

“I don’t think so,” Tristam said. “He was badly weakened. He’d used most of his defensive magic to protect himself from Omax. He didn’t have anything left to protect himself. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have given up so easily. He would have done everything he could to stop us from saving Sharn.”

Eraina gave him a long, piercing look. “So this is the end, then,” she said. “Bishop Grove’s killer has finally met justice.”

“Does that mean you’re leaving?” he asked.

“That depends on you,” she said. “This is the last clue remaining.” The paladin took a thick book from atop Tristam’s desk and handed it to him.

Tristam looked at the cover curiously. The Wanderings of Morien Markhelm: A Journey into Argonnessen .

“What is this?” Tristam asked.

“The book that Norra Cais was studying shortly before she was murdered,” Eraina said. “Zed found it.”

Tristam blinked. “Murdered?” he asked. “By who?”

“Zed thinks that Zamiel is responsible, and I agree,” Eraina said. “At this point, we may never know for sure.”

Tristam set the book to one side and rubbed his eyes roughly with his good hand. He suddenly felt weak and alone. He and Norra had often had their differences, but that changed nothing. Another part of his past, another friend, was gone forever. When he closed his eyes he saw Marth staring up at him with Orren Thardis’s face, falling to his death.

“I wish I’d never heard of the Legacy,” Tristam whispered hoarsely. “I wish I had never heard the name Ashrem d’Cannith. I wish I had never been a part of this.” He looked up at Eraina. “So many people have died because of this, Eraina. Where does it end?”

Eraina knelt beside him, clasping his hand in both of hers. Her dark blond hair fell over one eye. She looked at him with a strange, sad smile. “The last few months have been a difficult time for me, Tristam,” she said. “To a paladin, an adventure such as this is not easy. We must see the world in absolutes, but the world is rarely so simple. We must always do what is just. What is right. We must seek out evil and destroy it without hesitation. But who is evil? Is Dalan d’Cannith evil? He manipulated us all from the start, but his ends were just. Was Kiris Overwood evil? She wanted nothing more than to save the man she loved. Was Norra Cais evil? She led her crew to their doom but did so in a mad gamble to save all of Eberron. Was Shaimin d’Thuranni evil? He was the portrait of a soulless killer, but in the end he sacrificed all. Was Marth evil? As mad as he was, he believed he was a patriot until the end, restoring the world to its natural state. It has been difficult for me to find absolutes.”

“I don’t think there are any,” Tristam said.

“But you are wrong,” she said. “This dragon, the prophet Zamiel, is a being of incredible evil. Every obstacle we have faced, every trial we have overcome, has been of his design. We do not know why or how he has orchestrated all of this, but I can tell you this, Tristam. For the first time since I boarded this ship, my path is clear. I recognize evil, and I know what we must do. We must face him and end him-or all of this has been for nothing. You wish to know where all of this ends? I can tell you.” She released his hands and stood, looking down at him from her full height. “It ends with us.”

“What if I can’t find him?” Tristam asked. “Or what if I do, but I can’t find a way to beat him?”

“Then do not fail,” she said. “May Boldrei’s wisdom be with you.”

The paladin turned and exited the cabin, leaving Tristam alone with the strange book. He stared at the cover for a long time. Crude Draconic runes covered its surface. The volume looked truly ancient. Tristam plucked his spectacles from his desk and placed them on his nose as he opened the book and began to leaf through the journal.

The pages were covered with cramped scribbling in three languages. Tristam’s eyes hurt just looking at them. From what he could determine, Markhelm was some roguish explorer of his age, determined to unlock the hidden mysteries of the dragon continent.

Tristam leafed through the pages impatiently. To his eye the book read as nothing more than bad fiction written by an unsteady hand. Why would Norra be interested in such a thing? Why would this be the last remaining evidence of her existence?

As he leafed through the book, he noticed something strange. A Draconic rune on a certain page was circled in bright red ink. He noticed nothing strange about it until he read the word in his mind.

Tristam’s stomach turned as the room changed. He was now standing in the center of a shadowy study. His splint and sling were gone. A map of Khorvaire was painted on the floor, with colored chalk marking name and boundary changes. Tristam peered about in confusion.

A pale, gaunt man in loose, tan robes stood beside him. It was Ashrem d’Cannith, but younger than Tristam remembered him. Beside the resemblance to his master, the image was strangely familiar.

“Who is there?” Ashrem demanded, glaring at a shadowy corner. “I told your headmaster I preferred to use these chambers for private study.”

“And the headmaster has respected your wishes,” replied a calm, sibilant voice. “But I am not a student of this campus.”

“You,” Ashrem said in a low voice. He turned to face the speaker, hands balled into fists within his wide sleeves. “Step into the light.”