Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“No, I mean literally magic,” Gerith said, still gesticulating violently. “Clouds of it, just wandering. Like the lightning and fire from one of Tristam’s wands had just got up and walked away.”

“Living spells,” Tristam said. “I’ve heard of those. They carry just a fragment of the intellect that created them. The Mournland gives them enough power to sustain themselves indefinitely. They wander around, just following their caster’s last command.”

“Last command?” Ijaac asked.

“Generally, ‘Destroy anything in your way,’ ” Tristam said.

“Ah,” the dwarf said. “Let’s not get in their way, then. Simple enough.”

“Did you see anything else, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked. “Airborne dangers would be of particular interest.”

Gerith considered the question for several moments. “No, even the living spells seemed pretty landlocked,” he said. “As long as we stay above of that cloud of ghosts, we should be safe enough.”

“I beg your pardon, Master Snowshale?” Pherris asked. “What cloud of ghosts do you mean?”

Gerith looked worried. “You didn’t notice them?” he pointed.

“By the Host,” Ijaac swore.

Tristam looked down at the ground again. What he had mistaken as mists swirling in the ship’s wake had drawn closer. It resolved itself as a swarm of shadowy faces, mouths parted in anguish. They swam through the air beneath them, pursuing them. He could hear their cry now, a shrill, piercing noise that made his hands tremble. They soared just above the ground, clawing at nothing, desperate to reach the airship far above.

“Undead,” Dalan observed bleakly. “We picked a fine time to leave our paladin behind.”

“Isn’t it always the way?” Ijaac grumbled. He stomped off toward the cargo bay. “Let me go get my morningstar.”

Tristam watched the cloud of spirits keep pace with the airship for several moments. “They’re faster than us,” he said, “but I don’t think they can fly any higher than that. We’re safe up here, but we won’t be able to land with them chasing.”

Gerith loaded his crossbow and loosed a bolt into the pursuing spirits. The missile passed harmlessly through the ghosts and disappeared into the mist.

“They’re ghosts, Gerith,” Dalan said.

“Worth a try,” the halfling answered.

“Aeven!” Pherris called.

The dryad appeared at the ship’s rail, one arm curled around the throat of her figurehead as she stared out into the sky. Her eyes were closed as her blonde hair swept over her face.

“Can you distract the ghosts with a storm?” Pherris asked.

“I call the winds, but they do not answer,” she said. “The winds are dead. This land is dead.”

Pherris’s face grew pale. “You’ve never said that before, Aeven.”

“I have never seen it before,” she said. “I want to leave this place.”

“Soon,” Pherris promised. “Can you still speak to the ship?”

“Yes,” she said. “She wants to leave as well. She says that her sister is close by, and that she is in pain.”

Tristam looked at Aeven hopefully. “The elemental can sense Dying Sun?”

Aeven nodded.

“Can she lead us there?” he asked.

Aeven looked at Tristam, her eyes narrow. “You have no comprehension of the danger, Tristam. This place should not be.”

“I just need a little time, Aeven,” Tristam said. “Tell the Karia Naille that I’m going to release the Albena Tors , like I did the Kenshi Zhann . All I need is for you to point out where she is when we fly over the city.”

The dryad nodded her assent.

The ship soared higher as the city of Metrol appeared in the distance. It was as Gerith described-a bizarre amalgam of impossible architecture. Buildings stood at odd angles or uncanny heights. Some structures seemed to move as the eye studied them. As in the other cities they had seen, strange lights flickered within the buildings. The swarm of tormented spirits followed them even through the city, passing unimpeded through the outlying buildings below.

“There,” Aeven said, pointing to a large building beside the river. “It is there.”

“Perfect,” Tristam said. “Can you urge the elemental to give us a burst of speed when I call for it?”

“Yes,” Aeven said. “But be swift, Tristam. This place holds death.” The dryad’s tone held the faintest hint of threat.

“Thank you,” Tristam said, frowning apologetically. “I’m sorry we have to do this, but it is necessary.”

“Nature understands necessary,” she replied, “but there is nothing natural here.” She stared forlornly down at the black river.

“What is your plan, Tristam?” Omax asked.

“We need weapons,” he whispered, an idea forming in his head. “Gerith, circle around and pass near that building again.”

“Weapons!” Ijaac said happily. “That much I understand.” The dwarf hefted himself onto the deck, strapping on his armor. His shining morningstar was slung over one shoulder. He tossed Tristam a short blade. “Picked that up in Stormhome because I liked the balance of it, but then I noticed you lost your sword.”

Tristam turned the sword experimentally and strapped it to his belt, nodding at Ijaac in thanks.

“Weapons don’t hurt them, Tristam,” Gerith said. “They’re just smoke.”

“I can change that,” Tristam said. “Give me your bolt case, Gerith.”

The halfling obediently removed the pouch from his hip and offered the ammunition to Tristam. Tristam’s voice rose in a low chant, infusing the missiles with shimmering energy as he brushed one finger over their fletchings. The pouch glowed briefly, and he handed it back to the halfling.

“Try again,” he said.

The halfling loaded and loosed. This time the bolt struck true, lodging in one of the spectral faces and eliciting a pained cry. A sparkle of ghostly white energy trickled from the wounded spirit as it evaporated into mist.

“Seren, your dagger,” Tristam said. “Omax, hold out your hands. Ijaac …”

“Already magic, Tristam,” the dwarf said, hefting his morningstar. “But thanks.”

Tristam cast more infusions, granting a glowing sheen to Seren’s dagger and Omax’s adamantine hands. Dalan took his cue and quickly retreated to his cabin, sealing the door behind him so he wouldn’t get in the way of combat.

“Pherris, take us as close to the river as you can,” he said, climbing down into the hold. “Everyone, come with me.”

“Be careful,” Pherris called out.

Tristam hurried below deck, opening the cargo hold. The dark waters of the Cyre River flowed beneath them. The spirits continued their pursuit, boiling over the river as easily as they followed across the land.

“Now, Aeven!” Tristam shouted. “Gerith, take us as low as you dare and pull back up in twenty seconds!”

A jolt shot through Karia Naille as the ship surged forward. Aeven’s rapport with the ship’s elemental carried them forward at tremendous speed. The river grew closer, the waters churned an ugly black.

“We’re going to jump into that?” Seren asked. “Are you sure that’s even water?”

“See you on the ground,” Gerith said, climbing back up the ladder. “I have a glidewing. I’m flying down.”

“No more time to argue,” Tristam said. “Go!”

Tristam leapt. For an instant he was weightless, the dead mists swirling around his body. Then the cold surface of the river struck him hard, blasting the air from his body. He tried to swim but was too dazed by the landing. His mouth filled with a putrid, oily flavor. His vision flickered as the waters swallowed him.

Then a metal hand clamped the collar coat and pulled hard, dragging him from the water. Tristam gasped and coughed, spitting the polluted water on the ground. Omax deposited Seren on the beach beside him, turned, and walked back into the river. Above them, Karia Naille ’s flaming blue ring ascended back into the sky.