Rich Wulf - Rise of the Seventh Moon

“Nothing,” Marth said. “As you were.”

The helmsmen nodded and returned to his work. Marth scowled down at Cyre’s ruined landscape. A world that could do this was not worth saving.

The town of Gatherhold had been transformed into a frenzy of activity by Gerith Snowshale’s arrival, though Gatherhold was always a frenzy of something. The town was a central meeting place between the nomadic tribes. Halflings from across the Talenta Plains came here to rest, trade, socialize, fight, tell stories, and frequently all of the above. With the cold season approaching, most of the tribes had returned to their own territories, but a substantial number of permanent residents remained. Even at the busiest of times, the arrival of an airship was quite an event.

The combined weight of Gerith’s news and the roguish reputation of his tribe made him an instant celebrity. He alerted the citizens to the Mourning Dawn ’s impending arrival and the delicate cargo she bore before blowing kisses to the young girls and flying away on the glidewing’s back. Gatherhold responded to his warning with the eager urgency only halflings can muster. The built a docking tower in less than two hours. A small army of diplomats, merchants, and curious children gathered to welcome the visitors.

The healers of House Jorasco pitched a conical tent at the base of the tower. A few more opportunistic merchants moved their carts closer to the new tower so that the visitors could see their wares more easily. When the Mourning Dawn descended from the cloudy skies, Gatherhold was ready.

It had been two days since the airship had landed at the halfling settlement, but much of the novelty hadn’t worn off. The villagers always stopped as they passed, staring up at the strange vessel surrounded by her ring of searing blue flame. Ijaac Bruenhail emerged from the vessel at least twice a day, shouting fiercely in Dwarven as he shooed away the latest group of youngsters who had snuck aboard.

While Gatherhold had greeted its visitors with the boisterous hospitality for which the halflings were famous, the ship’s crew was quiet and somber. Even Gerith was a shadow of his usual adventurous self. The scout hadn’t even appeared since their arrival, most likely retreating to explore the countryside on his own.

Seren Morisse climbed down the tower’s rope ladder and hopped onto the dusty road. She wished she could have visited Gatherhold under happier circumstances. The town was a blaze of color and activity. She wanted to explore, to meet people, to know more about the curious tribes that could produce someone like Gerith, but now was no time to do it.

Seren wore a simple black tunic, dark cotton breeches, and no obvious weapons. It was some small comfort, considering the circumstances, to be in a safe place. She could hear the rhythmic chanting of the healers within the tent, accompanied by the lilting music of a flute. A haggard figure in a long coat sat beside the tent’s entrance, slumped on an overturned crate. He buried his face in his hands, unkempt sandy-brown hair spilling between his fingers.

“How is he, Tristam?” Seren asked.

The artificer didn’t answer.

“Tristam?” she repeated.

Tristam jerked forward and looked up at her with surprised, bloodshot eyes.

“You can’t see him yet, Seren,” he said groggily. “Mother Shinh only wants one visitor at a time, and Dalan is in there now.” The words tumbled out of his mouth in a single, jumbled slur. Seren barely understood him.

“Tristam, have you slept?” she said, concerned.

“Yes. You just woke me up,” he said wryly.

Seren gave a disapproving frown, but she had more urgent matters on her mind. “How is Omax?” she asked, nodding at the tent.

Tristam glanced away uneasily. “Not good,” he said. “I’ve never seen him so badly hurt. Even when I found him buried under the monastery. I’ve seen dead warforged in better shape than he is now. The healers say he was hiding a lot of damage from us, Seren.”

“Can they fix him?” Seren asked.

“I don’t know,” Tristam said. “Their medicine doesn’t affect him, but a few of them have real healing magic. That helps a little. I did as much as I could for him, but after a while they saw that I was just getting in the way. They chased me away and told me to rest.”

“So why didn’t you return to the ship?” she asked.

Tristam gave a crooked smile. “I was going to,” he said. “I just sat down here to get off my feet for a moment and dozed off.”

She sighed, hooked an arm under his, and dragged him to his feet. He staggered heavily, trying not to lean on her and failing. She looked up the rope boarding ladder carefully, then back at him. So that was why Tristam hadn’t gone back to his cabin. He was so exhausted he could barely stand, let alone climb a precarious ladder.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll lower the stretcher we used to unload Omax.”

“You don’t have to do that, Seren,” he said, grabbing a rung in one hand. “I can climb.”

“You’ll do Omax no good if you fall off that ladder and break your leg,” she said. Her grip tightened on Tristam’s arm, eliciting a pained yelp. He let go of the ladder and stepped away, looking at her with an expression that was somehow both hurt and grateful.

Seren swiftly pulled herself up the ladder and into the Mourning Dawn ’s cargo bay. After a quick search, she found the stretcher. It was lashed together from the flattened remains of a rail car coach seat, fortified with iron struts, padded with thick blankets, and secured to a steel hook. It looked unstable, but if it had supported Omax without difficulty surely it could be used to draw Tristam back aboard. Seren checked to make sure the ropes connected to the stretcher were still secured to the cargo winch, then glanced down to make sure the ground beneath was clear to lower the stretcher.

She saw Dalan d’Cannith emerge from the healer’s tent. The portly guildmaster was dressed in somber earthen tones. He held his small black cap against his round belly. He exited the tent with a slow, measured pace, stopping to stand beside Tristam. Dalan rested one hand on Tristam’s shoulder, drawing a confused look from the artificer. Curious, Seren crouched against the crates in the cargo hold and listened.

“Dalan?” Tristam said. “Is something wrong?”

Dalan looked quickly back the way he had come, then at Tristam. He gestured and stepped away from the healer’s tent, into the scaffolding of the docking tower where they would not be overheard. Or, rather, where only Seren would overhear them.

“Did they tell you anything, Dalan?” Tristam asked. “Did they say how Omax is doing?”

Dalan looked at Tristam with a shocked, angry expression. “How do you think he’s doing, Tristam?” he whispered sharply. “Marth shattered his torso. These people are used to healing flesh and bone, not wood and metal. There’s only so much they can do for him. You know they are only delaying the inevitable. Omax is dying.”

Tristam’s jaw hung open silently. His lips moved to form words, but none came.

“What are you going to say, Tristam?” Dalan asked. “Were you going to issue a pointless apology? Swear petty revenge against Captain Marth? Perhaps you were going to cast blame on someone else? Find your voice if you have something to say, boy.”

Tristam grasped the lapels of Dalan’s coat, his face red with a mix of anger and shame. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to speak again. Dalan pushed him away. Tristam fell to his knees in the dust, sobbing softly.

“Get up,” Dalan said. “Do you realize what you’ve done?”

“I’ve killed my best friend,” Tristam said, voice choked.