Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“So what are we doing here?”

Orren did not answer at first. Finally, a wry grin spread across his pale features and he looked down at his old friend. “Haimel, for years we’ve been trying to stop the Last War,” he said. “We’ve always known that there was nothing we could do. In the end we’re just men, and the world won’t change no matter what we do. But have we ever let that stop us?”

Haimel laughed nervously. “No, Captain,” he said. “No, I guess we haven’t.”

“This is no different,” he said. “We must save Ashrem, even if he cannot be saved. We must stop the Prophecy from being fulfilled, even if it cannot be stopped. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before, but I needed you. The Dying Sun can fly with a single pilot, but not at the speeds required to reach Metrol in time. Maybe we can’t stop destiny, but we don’t have to stand aside and accept it, either. We might still reach Metrol before Cyre’s doom is revealed. Or, if you want, we can turn back now and flee beyond the borders of Zil’argo. I will not ask any of you to throw your lives away for nothing. If a single soul here is unwilling to risk his life to save Ashrem d’Cannith and perhaps all of Cyre, say so now and I will turn the ship around.”

The crew looked back evenly. Their fear and unease were replaced with grim resolve. Not a single man or woman looked away.

“We are with you, Captain,” Haimel said.

Orren nodded. “Then return to your stations,” he said. “There is little time.”

The crew scattered. Orren urged the Dying Sun to greater speed, though not to the same unsafe excess as before. Haimel marched toward the bow, but stopped to look back at his captain a final time.

“Was there ever really a man called Orren Thardis?” he asked.

“No,” the captain answered with a chuckle. “Ashrem helped me invent the name and supplied the documents to make him real. Orren is merely a mask”

“What is your name?” Haimel asked.

“The few who ever truly knew me, called me Marth,” the captain answered.

“It’s been an honor to serve with you, Captain Marth,” Haimel said, saluting sharply.

The captain looked at his old friend in surprise. He returned the salute.

And the Dying Sun continued on her fateful course.

Four years later

True storms were rare over the Talenta Plains, but when they came they were swift and savage. Tonight’s display was certainly no exception, spurred on as it was by a dryad’s righteous anger. Aeven had issued a call to the elements, and they had answered with fury. Wind and lightning gouged the sky. Thunder cracked, the echo returning again and again over the vast plain. Twin rings of fire stood out against the storm as two airships spun in a deadly aerial dance. The larger turned wildly, seeking to bring her weapons to bear against the smaller ship, but the more maneuverable pursuer remained above and behind her larger sister. The leathery flap of wings resounded against the storm as a flock of glidewings spilled from the smaller ship’s deck, attacking the larger vessel.

“For the honor of the Ghost Talon!” came a wild cry from the beasts’ halfling riders as they dove toward the Seventh Moon . The crazed riders lobbed barbed javelins and vials of flaming oil at the airship, bringing screams from the startled crew. Some riders leapt off their mounts onto the Moon ’s deck, drawing swords and flinging themselves into combat against the crew. Jagged lightning erupted from the larger ship’s prow, striking two riders who foolishly ventured too far ahead. The furious storm carried their ashes away.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the night, outlining the unlikely sight of five figures leaping across the void between the two ships. Zed Arthen landed with a grunt, still cursing at the bitter taste Tristam’s potion had left in his mouth. Fire shot through the old inquisitive’s left thigh. The paladin’s magic had healed his earlier wound, but even magic couldn’t persuade pain to leave the body. Only time could cure such things. Zed ignored the weakness and drew his broadsword, scanning the rear deck for enemies.

The massive warforged, Omax, landed beside Zed with a crunch of splintered timber. Eraina, the paladin, landed to Zed’s right side. She stumbled, unaccustomed to the magic that had carried them here. Zed gripped her arm to steady her. She pulled away with an annoyed sneer, drawing her half-spear and shortsword.

Tristam Xain had been the first one to land. Zed had never really imagined the boy as much of a leader, but then in his experience the best leaders didn’t generally reveal their worth until you leaned on them. One day they were in the background, saying nothing. The next, a crisis would hit and everyone was suddenly listening to what they had to say. The boy would do fine, as long as his confidence held out. The best way to ensure he kept it together would be not to give him too much time to think about the impossible situation they were in.

“You ready to do this, Xain?” Zed asked brusquely, forcing Tristam’s attention.

Tristam looked past Zed. His worry was replaced with a confident grin when Seren Morisse landed safely behind them. Zed chuckled. As long as Seren was here, Tristam would be too busy trying to impress her to worry for himself.

They’d be fine.

The artificer glanced up at Karia Naille , now hovering far above them. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to jump that,” he said. “Pherris will move closer when he sees our signal.”

“Unless we die,” Zed said, hefting his sword with both hands. He wondered what the boy would say in reply.

“Yeah,” Tristam said. “Don’t die!”

Zed cackled. Yes, Tristam would be fine.

“Good luck, Xain,” he said.

“Good luck, all of you,” Tristam answered, splitting off with Seren to attend to their share of this mission.

A Cyran soldier stepped around the corner and opened his mouth in alarm, but fell silent as a backhand slap from Omax sent him crashing limp into the wall. Zed allowed himself a little smile. It was good to be fighting beside people he didn’t have to worry about, and both Omax and Eraina could take care of themselves. Zed charged past the warforged, surveying the path ahead. Chaos had utterly consumed the Moon ’s deck. Cyran mercenaries and halfling warriors grappled in combat as the storm rains scoured the deck. The Cyrans rallied one another, shouting the name of their lost homeland. The halflings screamed in frenzied rage, slashing and clawing at the men who had murdered their tribe. Zed watched as a Ghost Talon berserker tackled a Cyran warrior, dragging them both over the rail to plummet into the void. There was truly no enemy more fearsome than those with nothing left to lose-and both the Cyrans and the halflings fell into that category.

The time for watching was done. There was no more hesitation. Instinct fired Zed’s movements. He charged into the battle, thick blade hewing down a Cyran mercenary. The warforged fought beside him, moving with surprising grace for a creature sculpted of dense metal and enchanted wood. He heard Eraina’s smooth voice rising in prayer to her goddess. A wave of dizziness washed through Zed’s mind, followed by a surge of renewed strength as the Hearthmother’s divine magic flowed into him.

“I don’t need Boldrei’s help, Eraina,” Zed snapped.

“But she needs ours,” the paladin answered. “Accept her blessings with grace, and we will triumph.”

“If your goddess wants a champion, I’m hardly the best choice,” he said, parrying another mercenary’s sword and kicking the man away across the slippery deck.

“How can such a brave man have so little faith?” Eraina said.