Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“Seren, are you all right?” Tristam asked desperately.

“That wasn’t one of your smarter ideas,” she said, wiping her mouth on the sleeve of her leather jerkin.

Omax emerged from the water again, hauling the gasping figure of Ijaac Bruenhail by one arm. Blizzard alighted nimbly next to them. Gerith rolled out of the saddle and looked at his drenched comrades for a long, worried moment. Then he burst out laughing.

“Have some sympathy, Snowshale,” Ijaac said. He groaned as Omax dropped him with a wet clank. “That was the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted. And I’ve eaten some strange things in my time.”

“Like what?” Gerith asked, instantly curious.

“You really don’t want to know,” the dwarf said.

“Yes, I do!” the halfling protested.

“This isn’t the time,” Tristam said, pointing at the advancing cloud of ghosts. Their wailing cries grew closer. “Get ready.”

The ghosts swarmed around them, unleashing an unholy shriek as they surrounded their living prey. Gerith fumbled with his crossbow, bolts spilling onto the ground. Seren staggered, stabbing wildly at nothing. Omax simply froze, staring at his own trembling hands. Ijaac screamed-a raw and painful noise. The sound of the screeching ghosts seeped into Tristam’s mind as well, twisting his emotions, filling his mind with dread.

He saw the prophecy’s visions again. He saw the mortal nations crumble. This time it was different. This time he saw Marth’s face among the fallen. The city of Wroat lay in ruins. He saw Karia Naille ’s elemental ring flicker and die as the ship plummeted into the Howling River. Tristam stood among the ruins of the city, eyes cold and passionless as he surveyed what he had wrought.

“No!” he screamed. He clawed through the fear, ripping the wand from his belt and unleashing its lightning in a savage arc. The ghosts shrieked and recoiled. Tristam’s magic tore at their ethereal forms. Several unraveled completely, tendrils of ectoplasm bleeding away into nothing. Only a few of the spirits remained, now glaring warily at Tristam.

The others snapped out of their fear, invigorated by Tristam’s sudden recovery. Omax clapped his metal hands over one swirling ghostly face, clenching metal fingers in an explosion of mist. Seren and Ijaac slashed the air with their weapons as well. The ghosts shrieked and withdrew, melting into the ground, their cries fading into nothing.

“Are they gone?” Ijaac asked uncertainly.

“For now,” Tristam said, breaking into a run. “Let’s find Dying Sun and be done with this place.”

They ran along the river bank, feet crunching on the gravel in eerie silence. There was no other noise save their breath and the eerie hum of the giant conductor stones that lined the riverbank. The building ahead was in remarkably good condition, a large public structure of some variety. As they approached, Tristam could see a sign hanging above the wide doors.

HOUSE ORIEN RAIL SUBSTATION

SERVICING CYRE AND THE LANDS BEYOND

FIVE NATIONS

ONE RAIL

Tristam stared at the sign in momentary surprise. Metrol had once been the heart of Cyre’s extensive rail system. The loss of the city’s rail stations had been one of the major barriers to House Orien’s attempts to get the lightning rail operational again. Numerous exploration parties had been dispatched to the Metrol ruins in hopes of finding the main station and its substations. All had returned without success-or not returned at all. That they had found one of the substations so easily filled him with a sense of unease.

“What is it, Tristam?” Omax asked, looking at him with concern.

“Nothing,” Tristam said. “Still shaking off the effects of those spirits, I guess.” He hated himself for the lie.

An explosion resounded from around the corner of the building. Tristam ducked behind the foundation of a large conductor stone, gesturing for the others to follow. A seething mass of red flame oozed around the corner of the building. It spread over the street, leaving sizzling cobblestones in its wake. Tendrils of swaying fire tasted the air like antennae. It rolled aimlessly, pausing in front of the rail station doors, waiting.

“That’s one of the things I told you about, Tristam,” Gerith whispered. “The living spells.”

Tristam gestured for the halfling to be quiet. The fireball bumped against the doors of the rail station. The field of pure white energy flickered over the doors. The spell forced itself against the doors a second time, but the shield held. A pinpoint of brighter energy pulsed deep within the flaming mass. It unleashed violent gouts of flame in an explosive display. The shield shuddered as white energy crackled around the entire substation. Tristam flinched, ducking back behind the corner of the conductor stone. The living spell shrieked and rolled away from the door, veins of white magic tearing through its form. It tumbled aimlessly away from the building, roaring in mindless agony.

“The door is warded,” Seren said.

“But who warded it?” Tristam asked, running quickly toward the station doors. He whispered softly as he traced one hand around door frame. A web of magical energy came to life, surrounding the door. He could see similar shields covering the rest of the building as far as he could see.

“It’s not just this door,” he said in amazement. “Every door. Every window. There’s no way to get inside without triggering the shields.”

“Can you dispel them?” Seren asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. He leaned close to the door handles, studying the protective weave of energy. “It’s very powerful and complex. I’ve rarely seen anything like this. If I hadn’t seen that living spell get repelled, I wouldn’t even be able to say for sure what the ward does.”

“Old Orien wards?” Omax asked.

“Doubtful,” Tristam said. “The Orien wouldn’t waste this kind of magic locking up a public building. This looks recent and well maintained.”

“Someone is inside,” Seren said.

“Marth?” Ijaac asked.

“This doesn’t look like Marth’s magic,” Tristam said. “It’s difficult to explain but it’s too … orderly.”

“If anyone’s in there, they’ve either been in there for a while or there’s another exit,” Gerith said. “The only tracks I see other than our own are the burn marks that spell left.”

“Then at least we got here before Marth did,” Tristam said. “Everyone get back a bit. I don’t want you to be close if something goes wrong opening these doors.”

The others nodded and backed away, though Seren hesitated. She kissed his cheek impulsively and wished him luck before withdrawing. He gave her an encouraging smile and returned his attention to the door.

Judging from the way the ward had reacted to the living spell, Tristam knew that the magic was only dangerous if he attempted to force entry. Touching the building would do no harm. He removed his gloves and placed them on the surface of the door, hoping to get a better feel for the enchantment before attempting to remove it.

The magical field immediately faded and the doors parted with a metal click.

“Wow, that was fast, Tristam,” Gerith said. He clapped his little hands, greatly impressed.

“I didn’t even do anything,” Tristam said, replacing his gloves and looking back at them in bewilderment. “It just opened.”

“Good enough for me,” Ijaac said, stomping past him and holding out his morningstar to light the way. “Let’s see what we’ve found.”

Tristam followed the dwarf inside. A small vestibule opened into a large, grand chamber. As it happened, the dwarf’s light was unnecessary. Enchanted stones shone in the torch sconces, casting a radiance that reflected in the stained glass dome that served as a roof. The floor was covered in shining marble tile, as clean and flawless as if the Day of Mourning had never been. Velvet ropes marked the course intended for prospective passengers. Tristam gasped as a group of travelers walked directly toward them and passed through like phantoms, oblivious to their presence.