Rich Wulf: Rise of the Seventh Moon

Breland, near Ringbriar

Tristam climbed atop the shattered tower, puffed out his chest, and attempted to look impressive. He was a skinny youth, so this was a difficult task. At least his long coat flapped dramatically in the chill autumn wind.

Beneath him, only a few paces away, the four men were digging through the rubble. They took no notice of him just yet, sifting out metal scraps and tossing them in a wagon. They wore faded uniforms, worn and bloodstained but recognizable as those of Brelish soldiers. Each had a large sword lying within easy reach. Tristam’s shoulders slumped and his courage faltered; he had thought there were only two. He considered retreating to rethink his plan. He glanced around for a quiet path back down the rubble heap. One of the soldiers turned to add a large scrap to their haul and paused to stare blankly at the strange boy standing above them.

“Who in Khyber is that?” the man said, dropping the metal in the wagon.

There was no retreating now. Not with his dignity intact. There was only one option-pure, stupid bravado.

“Hold, villains!” Tristam cried, sweeping out his hand in a flourish. “Step away from your weapons and I will show mercy.”

“Hold, villains?” one of them said, surprised. He turned to his comrade. “Veran, did that boy actually say ‘Hold, villains’ to us?”

The other man blinked. “I think he actually did.”

“Sounds like a Lhazaarite,” said the first man, returning to his work. “They’ve got a liking for drama. Ignore him. He’s just a harmless brat.”

Tristam’s face darkened. He considered backing away in shame. He was heavily outnumbered, after all. But no, he couldn’t leave now. He had an important task to complete, and these men were interfering. That wasn’t even considering what they might do if they discovered what he had been working on. He drew his sword.

Four pairs of eyes moved instantly at the sound. Their amusement and playful indifference vanished. The men watched Tristam with the dead eyes of experienced soldiers. The nearest, Veran, drew his his own sword from its scabbard.

“Don’t be stupid,” Veran said. “Why would you want to get in our way?”

“You’re grave robbers,” Tristam said. “By your uniforms, I’m guessing you’re deserters as well. Worst of all”-he pointed at the wagon full of metal scrap-“you’re stealing the House Cannith property that I have been sent to collect.”

The men blanched at that. The law could reach only so far. The Brelish army could spare only so many resources to find them. But only a fool crossed the House of Making. House Cannith’s reach extended into every city in Khorvaire. The Cannith guildhouses commanded the loyalty of nations.

Veran’s eyes hardened as he took a step forward. “If this scrap belongs to House Cannith, then they shouldn’t have sent a lone boy to collect it,” he said.

The others drew their swords and grouped close behind Veran, advancing to surround Tristam’s high perch.

Tristam reached into his coat with his free hand and drew out a thin ivory wand. He spoke a word of magic and released a bolt of crackling electricity at the nearest soldier’s feet, hurling him backward in a cloud of smoke and debris. The soldiers scattered. Tristam leaped from the rocky spire and ran, trying to take advantage of the distraction.

Tristam felt a sharp tug from behind. His feet slipped on the loose stones, and he fell. Veran had seized the tail of Tristam’s long coat, pulling him off balance. A booted foot struck Tristam in the stomach. His sword and wand were lost. Coarse hands seized Tristam’s wrists as the soldiers overwhelmed him, pulling him to his feet. Veran leaned close to his face.

“Curse you, boy,” Veran growled. “I don’t want to kill you but can’t have you going off to report us to the Canniths either. There’s a cellar in the ruins not far from here. We’re going to leave you there and seal the door. Don’t dig yourself out until we’re gone. Understood?”

No! He couldn’t let them beat him. If they discovered what he found, they would destroy it. Or, worse, use it …

Tristam lifted his throbbing head. He twisted in their grip, quickly sliding one arm out of the sleeve of his coat and punching Veran across the jaw. The soldier reeled and struck Tristam back with a mailed fist. Tristam’s vision blurred. He felt them grab his wrist and hold him helpless once more. Blood trickled down his chin. Veran seized Tristam by the throat, holding his sword against his stomach.

“You just killed yourself, idiot boy,” the soldier rasped.

Tristam saw the cold rage in the soldier’s eyes, but the killing blow never came. Dead silence fell over the crumbling ruins for half a breath, then the silence was punctuated by the sudden ring of metal against stone. The sound came again. Again. And again, in a rhythmic pattern.

The four soldiers looked at one another uneasily, as if they recognized the sound. They turned as one, looking toward an archway among the ruins. An enormous figure stepped into view. He was humanoid, except that his body was carved from scarred adamantine and battered darkwood. The setting sun framed him from behind, giving him a dark and ominous appearance. Two pools of blue light served as eyes in his smooth metal face. His thick arms curled into three-fingered claws, now balled into fists half the size of a man’s head.

A warforged.

The construct looked at the men silently, then at their wagon. He plucked a chunk of metal from the load and looked at it intently. It was the shattered face plate of another warforged. After a few moments he looked up at them, blue eyes shining with a cold light. The warforged spoke, his bass, metallic voice resounding over the shattered stone.

“Tristam Xain is my friend,” he said. “Let him go.”

Veran quickly released Tristam’s throat and backed away from the boy. “By the Host, do what it says,” he said. The other soldiers released Tristam, letting him fall limp on the stones.

“Now run,” the warforged said.

Veran sheathed his sword and clambered away over the stones.

“What about the salvage?” one of his greedier comrades said, nodding at the wagon.

“Can’t spend it if we’re dead, fool!” said another soldier, grabbing the man’s arm. “Run!”

The deserters scrambled away over the ruins, never looking back. Tristam sat up and watched them vanish over the heaps of ancient rubble. He groaned and crawled to his feet, wobbling unsteadily. The warforged still stood in ruined archway, though he now leaned heavily against the threshold. He slid down the frame till he sat hunched among the broken stone.

“Omax!” Tristam shouted, running to the warforged’s side. He helped Omax lean back against the archway. In the shadows of the setting sun, the soldiers could not see how badly damaged Omax was. His metal body was a network of jagged scars. His adamantine skin was deeply dented or missing in many places. It had been one week since Tristam had found the wounded warforged buried in the rocks. How long had he been here? Ashrem said no one had lived in the monastery since it collapsed twenty years ago.

“Omax, are you hurt?” Tristam asked.

“No worse than before,” the warforged said.

Tristam searched his pockets, pulling out vials of reagents and whispering transfusions to mend Omax’s damaged body as much as he could. The warforged watched in silence as his metallic flesh twisted back into its proper shape at Tristam’s command. “You shouldn’t even be walking yet. They might have killed you.”

“They would surely have killed you,” Omax said. “You were not afraid.”