Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

A small blue glidewing landed nimbly on the Karia Naille ’s deck, his jeering caw making Zed jump back with a curse. Gerith Snowshale rolled off the creature’s back, his eyes wide as he watched the plummeting Moon .

“Marth’s ship hasn’t broken up yet,” he reported. “That damned thing was built to last. Are we going to follow and finish them off?”

Pherris looked back at the halfling with a frown. “How uncharacteristically bloodthirsty, Master Snowshale.”

“You think so?” Gerith said darkly. “I saw what Marth and his men did to the Ghost Talons. If those had been my sisters and my brothers, I know what I would do.”

“Then we are fortunate that the Ghost Talons are not our tribe,” Pherris said, “for not only are we now a crew of but seven, but our own vessel is barely airborne. Have you forgotten the damage we sustained the last time we encountered the Cyrans? We fly, quite literally, on a wing and a prayer, Master Snowshale.”

“Aye, Captain,” Gerith acknowledged, though his eyes still watched the descending warship with silent rage.

“What about Koranth and the halflings?” Eraina asked. “Are we going to rendezvous with them?”

“No need,” Zed said. “We don’t have any more business with them. I think it’d probably be better for all parties concerned if we just made all possible speed to a town before our ship falls apart.”

“Indeed,” Dalan said. “Our alliance is tenuous at best. Consider that our previous meeting with their chief ended with an attempt to betray our progress to Baron Zorlan d’Cannith, an attempt that failed only when that mad changeling murdered most of their tribe. I think the Ghost Talons would be quite content to never see us again, and I echo that sentiment. Pherris, plot a course for Vulyar and make all speed that our fragile condition will allow. I can arrange for our necessary repairs there.”

Pherris nodded. “Aye.”

“Gerith, why don’t you get back on your glidewing and go find Seren and Tristam?” Dalan added. “Vulyar doesn’t have the facilities to repair the Mourning Dawn properly. We shall need Xain’s help to arrange what we can. I would not trust any other artificer.”

“Aye,” Gerith said. He whistled and Blizzard took to the air, flying over the side of the ship. The halfling moved to the railing, preparing to jump overboard.

“Master Snowshale,” Pherris said, a warning tone in his voice. “I recommend you restrain your heroic urges and avoid any survivors of the Seventh Moon . If the Ghost Talons still thirst for revenge, they shall find it without your aid. Your duty is to return Tristam and Seren to us. You shall have ample time for a pointless and heroic death on your own time.”

Gerith sighed, nodded, and hopped over the rail. Blizzard soared up an instant later, his tiny master riding upon his back.

“The rest of you return to your duties,” Dalan said. “Get these nets off my deck. It looks like a fishmonger’s hut.”

“Back to giving orders so quickly, Dalan?” Zed asked, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s still my ship,” Dalan said with a chuckle. “Next time you plot to save my life, consider the consequences.”

“Noted,” Zed said. “When you have a moment, I need to talk to you.”

Dalan’s smile faded, and he looked at Zed soberly. “Captain, please do not disturb me unless you require my dragonmark for emergency repairs,” he said.

“Aye,” Pherris replied.

Dalan limped back toward his cabin. Zed wondered how badly d’Cannith was truly injured. The guild master could be a proud man and certainly was not one to beg for aid. That he was showing pain at all suggested his time aboard the Moon had not been pleasant. Zed closed the hatch behind them. He was surprised to see Dalan kneeling on the floor, a sudden grin spread across his bruised features. Dalan’s shaggy dog huddled happily against his master, tail thumping the floor as he licked the fat man’s face.

“D’Cannith?” Zed asked, stunned. He had never seen Dalan smile before, save when profit was at hand.

Dalan looked up with amazement. “I … I don’t understand,” he said, his voice thick. “It’s just that … after the crash, Gunther was so badly hurt. He’s a very old dog, I never thought … I just expected he would be gone when I returned.”

“Eraina healed him,” Zed said.

“The paladin,” Dalan said, astonished. “I didn’t even ask her. I didn’t wish to presume. She … dislikes me.”

“You should have more faith in people, Dalan,” Zed said.

Dalan laughed, scratching the dog’s ears a final time before rising and composing himself. “Odd advice, coming from you, Arthen,” he said. “I shall most definitely thank the Marshal later, and issue a most generous donation to the Hearthmother’s temple in Karrnath. In the meantime, I apologize for allowing you to see me in such a state.”

“Whatever, Dalan,” Zed said. “I’m glad your dog is well, but it’s not what I’m here to talk about.”

“You wish to report what Tristam learned from Kiris Overwood?” he asked.

“Not really,” he said. “I’ll let Tristam share that with you himself, if he chooses to.”

“If he chooses to?” Dalan asked. “What do you mean? Tristam works for me.”

“Tristam knows about Marth,” Zed said.

“Tristam knows what about Marth?” Dalan asked pointedly. He settled heavily into the overstuffed chair behind his desk, dipping a silken handkerchief into a small wash basin and patting some of the blood and grime from his face.

“Don’t pretend we’re both stupid,” Zed said. “He knows why I quit working for you the last time. He knows that you were helping Marth decipher Ashrem d’Cannith’s work, and that when you found out Marth was a killer, you tried to distance yourself.”

Dalan shrugged. “Why should I care?” he asked. “Tristam is a clever boy. He was bound to learn the truth eventually. If anything, learning that he was my second choice will only intensify his burning need to prove himself as my uncle’s superior heir. My presence here is ample proof of that. Would Xain have risked all of your lives to rescue me if he no longer trusted me?”

“Don’t let your arrogance blind you, Dalan,” Zed said. “Tristam didn’t rescue you so that you could keep him under your thumb. He rescued you so that Marth wouldn’t interrogate you and find out what we’ve learned.”

“Interrogate me?” Dalan said, laughing bitterly as he lit the small lamp beside his desk. “What could Marth possibly learn from me? We know almost nothing.” He chewed his thumb thoughtfully for several seconds. “But perhaps that is what Tristam feared. A man moves slowly if he believes an enemy lies in wait, and so it is with Marth. If Marth knew how far behind him we truly are, he would assemble the Legacy with greater haste. He would know we cannot stop him, and would no longer waste time delaying our own quest.”

“That sounds more like the way you think than the way Tristam thinks,” Zed said. “Maybe the boy just thinks you haven’t told us everything yet, and he wasn’t ready to let you die until he found out for sure.”

Dalan gave a wicked grin. “You’re so paranoid, Arthen.”

“Am I?”

“Do not take it as an insult,” Dalan said. “I approve. Your paranoia serves you well. Each soul builds defenses against hardship. For you, it is your willingness to expect the worst in everyone about you, and you are never disappointed. For me, is the willingness to turn the weaknesses of others to my advantage-for such opportunity is always there. For Tristam, his work is his defense. He is a craftsman. Invention lifts his soul above earthly worries. So long as I can aid him in his work, he will always need me.”