Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“Does your brotherhood encourage such blasphemy, monk?” the man said, eyes widening in surprise.

“The members of my brotherhood, for lack of a better name, think for themselves,” Zamiel replied with some amusement. “We respect the gods, as we respect all things powerful and ancient, but we do not fear them. The gods are content to remain distant from the world, seeking nothing more than the adoration of small minds. They did not create this world. They do not control this world. Their wrath cannot be predicted or assuaged. There is no more sense in fearing them than there is in fearing a thunderstorm-the storm will do as it wishes whether one fears it or not. Likewise, there is no reason to cower before divinity.”

“You should not say such things,” the man said, glancing at Kol Korran nervously.

Zamiel chuckled darkly. “My words make you uncomfortable, spy?” he asked. “Then let us speak of something else.”

“Yes,” the other man agreed, glancing about quickly, “but not here.” He ducked into the alley between the statues of Kol Korran and Boldrei. The prophet followed, shrugging his arms into his thick sleeves as he walked.

“There is little point in such measures,” Zamiel said as he stepped into the shadows. “If I do not wish us to be overheard, it will not happen.”

“If you say so,” the man said. “Forgive me if I’m a little more careful than you. I have a reputation in this city.”

“Naturally,” Zamiel said, with an indulgent smile. “Now share with me what you have learned.”

“The Karia Naille makes her port in Vulyar,” the man said.

“Vulyar?” Zamiel replied. “Why such a remote location?”

“The ship was badly damaged in battle,” he replied. “They put in for repairs lest it collapse upon itself. I don’t know for sure how it became damaged. I was not told.”

Zamiel frowned thoughtfully. “Do you think they suspect your betrayal?”

“I am beyond suspicion,” the man said with an arrogant laugh. “The last message was short because there was little need for an in-depth report.”

The man fell silent. Zamiel sensed he was waiting for him to inquire further, keeping a valuable revelation in reserve, savoring it. The prophet resisted the urge to roll his eyes and indulged the game a bit further. Tools like this were easier to use when they felt some measure of control. “Why no need for a report?” he asked.

“Because my contact will soon be arriving personally,” the man said.

The prophet smiled. This was good news. “The Karia Naille is coming to Korth?” he mused.

“As soon as she is relatively airworthy,” he said. “Several of her crew members, including my contact, have business here. She should be in port here for at least a week.”

“Very interesting,” Zamiel said. He reached into the pocket of his left sleeve and drew out a small, dense bag. He pressed it into the spy’s palm, and he accepted it eagerly. “May your house prosper,” he said.

The spy nodded eagerly. “How soon?” he asked. “When will the war begin anew?”

“You will know when I do, my friend,” Zamiel said, allowing himself a small smile.

Zamiel’s contact nodded eagerly and stepped away, pausing only to glance around for eyes and ears that were not there. The prophet watched him go with a bored, patient smile. As soon as he was alone in the alley, he spoke another word of magic and was gone.

If there was a word to describe the city of Korth, it was “uninviting.” Centuries of building and development had turned the streets of Korth into a meandering, confusing mess. Recent attempts to rebuild and restore order to damaged parts of the city had only made matters worse. Massive square buildings stood in even rows along well paved streets only blocks away from snarled webs of dead end streets. Karrnathi pride was obvious in its architecture, as all buildings, old and new, featured the grim statuary and delicately twisted wrought iron so common in this land. Compared to Wroat, Seren was amazed at how dark the city was. Her first impulse was that it seemed to be a very cold, unyielding place. The murky gray clouds and steady drizzle of rain cast the city in a mournful light. This was a place of strict, unflinching law.

The sooner they were gone from here, the better.

“It has been some time since I have visited a leader of my House,” Dalan mused, joining Seren at the railing. He held the same thick ledger he had been carrying so often of late, toying idly with a stick of charcoal as he sketched on a page. “I doubt Zorlan will be eager to see me. He was good friends with my uncle, until the end.”

“I’m guessing Zorlan was one of the ones who didn’t approve when Ashrem acquired a taste for peace?” Zed asked.

“Certain words were exchanged between Zorlan and my uncle on several occasions,” Dalan replied. “Suffice it to say that the Baron’s disrespect encouraged me to throw my support behind his rival, Merrix. I may not have agreed with my uncle’s philosophies, but neither will I endure slander heaped upon him.”

“I hesitate to posit such an uncomfortable question, Master d’Cannith,” Pherris said from the helm, “but what if Zorlan is in league with Marth? The changeling’s ship is crippled just as ours was. If Marth is forced to seek repairs and Zorlan is his ally, Korth will probably be his destination as well.”

“I haven’t ruled out the possibility,” Dalan said, eyeing the city below thoughtfully. He clapped the book shut and tucked the charcoal into his pocket. “Yet I think it is unlikely. Zorlan is not the sort of man to consort with mercenaries-he has plenty of his own loyal troops. Further, Zorlan lost all respect for my uncle’s work when Ashrem turned his attention away from armaments of war. As I said, he was quite vocal in his denouncements. I think Zorlan would be too proud to use the Legacy to secure his own bid for power. Using one of Ashrem’s inventions to secure his bid for power would be too much like admitting he was wrong. He would be more likely to destroy the Legacy altogether, if he knew about it.”

“So what do we expect to find here, Master d’Cannith?” Pherris asked.

“Clarity, Captain Gerriman,” Dalan answered. “Now take us down.”

Karia Naille soared downward, weaving between the heavy structures of Korth toward the sky towers near the river bank. A pot-bellied dock officer waddled across the bridge to inspect their vessel. Dalan took the man aside and, after a few quiet moments of discourse, pressed a small pouch into the man’s hand with a grin. The officer glanced over the ship a final time, smiling eagerly, and disappeared back into the tower.

“Docking fees, so to speak,” Dalan said. “I have tipped the man to be incurious.” Dalan glanced over the crew with a smug grin. “You are all free to do as you like. I have no idea how long we will remain here. At least long enough to conduct our repairs. Our next destination still waits for us to find it. Omax, if you would be so kind, I would appreciate your attendance as I go to meet with the would-be master of my House. We must hurry.”

The warforged looked over sharply from his daydreaming. Seren noticed that Omax seemed distracted of late. The injuries he had sustained on the Moon still scarred his metal chest.

The warforged inclined his head. “Do you expect danger, Dalan?” he asked coolly.

“Not from the Baron himself,” he said. “If Zorlan had hostile intents, there is little we could do, save flee. His resources and manpower dwarf nations. However, I do not believe he is our true rival.”

Omax’s eyes flickered. “Then who?” he asked evenly.

“I do not know,” Dalan said. “Thus we must hurry, so he will make a mistake and reveal himself.’