Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

The walls on each side of the station had once been exposed to the open air, but were now blocked by thick gates of sculpted iron. Three lines of conductor stones passed through the chamber, entering through the east gate and departing through the west. Three silver coaches stood ready, hovering several feet above the rail. A shimmering circle of lightning encircled the head of each coach and sparked through the stones mounted on the base of the vehicle.

“An illusion,” Tristam said, putting his hand through a passing phantom.

The vision of the rail station flickered and faded, replaced by the reality of an empty, discarded ruin. The floor was littered with corpses, untouched by decay due to the bizarre magic that suffused this place. There were no living people, no light save the twilight glow that filtered through the shattered skylight. One of the lightning coaches still hovered over the tracks, the stones beneath it still crackling with faint. The second coach had fallen from the stone rail and now lay crippled on its side. The third was a demolished heap, having surrendered to years of neglect and corrosion. At the far side of the enormous chamber, the massive bulk of an airship lay among the ruins of the rail station. Its elemental ring was long doused. Tristam recognized it immediately.

“ Dying Sun ,” the artificer whispered, awed that it was still intact.

The illusion of the living rail station resumed, phantom travelers passing through them in each direction. Gerith moved out of their path, his glidewing hopping nervously beside him.

“How did the Sun get here?” Seren asked, staring at the ship in wonder. “What is this place?”

“Doesn’t look like she crashed,” Tristam said, studying the ship as illusion and reality alternated before his eyes. “Her structure seems to be in good condition.”

“Ashrem built his ships to last,” Omax said, impressed.

“Who speaks my name?” asked a hollow voice from the shadows of a ticket booth.

Tristam drew his wand immediately, and whirled to face the voice. A tall man stepped out of the darkness, his limbs crackling with a nimbus of shimmering magic. Tristam’s wand tumbled from his numb fingers and bounced noisily on the marble floor.

“Who is that?” Ijaac asked, looking at Tristam urgently. “Friend or foe?”

Tristam could not speak, so it was Omax that answered.

“That is Ashrem d’Cannith,” the warforged said.

“No,” Tristam said, collecting his wits and stepping toward the spectral figure. “It’s not.”

“A ghost?” Gerith asked, drawing his crossbow.

“I hate ghosts,” Ijaac grumbled. “Always coming back from the dead and complicating things.”

“It’s not a ghost,” Tristam said. He snatched up his wand and circled the figure of Ashrem, looking at it curiously. “Not exactly.” Ashrem looked back at Tristam, his expression calm. Tristam put his hand through Ashrem’s chest. A burst of sparking orange light surrounded his fingers. Ashrem looked down at the arm piercing his body, unconcerned. The phantom extended his own hand toward Tristam. His arm dissipated in a swirling cloud of energy as it touched the artificer’s chest.

“Pure magic,” Ashrem said. “Wild magic. I am a memory of what was, like the figments in this train station.” Ashrem gestured at the bustling crowd around them. “I am an echo of Ashrem d’Cannith. I am a memory of who he was on the Day of Mourning.”

“Like the living spells outside,” Seren said. “Carrying out their last command forever.”

“Precisely,” Ashrem said. The phantom smiled.

Tristam drew his hand back, staring at his fingertips as motes of light danced around them. “A figment that knows it’s real?” Tristam said, amazed. “Are these others aware as well?”

“No,” Ashrem said. He pulled his hand away from Tristam. It instantly reformed as it had been. The phantom looked at the tips of his fingers thoughtfully. “Unlike these others, I retain enough of Ashrem’s logic and arcane knowledge to recognize what I am and accept it. I am a magical construct, formed from rampant energies of illusion and abjuration, fused in this phantasmal form. Trapped here, knowing that I cannot exist beyond the magical phenomenon that has suffused this station, has been difficult. My memories are complete in many ways, but fragmented and bare in others. Ashrem d’Cannith’s strength of character has given me the strength to abide, but I am not … real. I must say that it is good to meet you at last, Tristam.”

“An abjuration,” Tristam said. “So you’re you the one that warded the station?”

“I am,” Ashrem said. “I keep out the living spells, mournful undead, and curious grave robbers. My purpose is to fulfill Ashrem d’Cannith’s will.”

“So Ashrem d’Cannith is dead?” Omax asked gravely.

“Truth be told, I don’t know,” the phantom admitted, surprised by the question. “I don’t remember dying. I remember Albena Tors crashing through the skylight. I remember Marth leaping down through the skylight, challenging me … demanding that I stop.”

“Stop what?” Tristam asked.

“Stop the future,” Ashrem said. “I came to stop the future.” His gaze was unfocused as he remembered. His voice was distant. “I was told the Day of Mourning was approaching. The War would end. All that I needed to do was stand aside, do nothing … but Cyre would die.”

“Told by who?” Tristam asked.

“Zamiel,” Ashrem said. “Do not trust him, Tristam. Do not aid him.”

“Aid him?” Tristam asked. “Why would I aid him?”

“He showed me a grand vision of the Draconic Prophecy,” Ashrem said. “A mortal conqueror brought everlasting peace through use of the Legacy. In my arrogance I thought I could rise above the darker visions of the prophecy-but fate would not be denied. I tried to step away from the conqueror’s destiny. I dismantled the Legacy and tried to turn my back on Zamiel. This was his vengeance. Those who will not abide by the Prophecy’s demands will be ground beneath it.”

“What does Marth have to do with this?” Tristam asked, looking at Dying Sun ’s dark hulk. “Why did he follow you to Cyre?”

“For Kiris,” Ashrem said. “Marth loved her. She wished to stand beside me, even at the end.”

“Then why did you come here if you knew that Cyre would die?” Tristam demanded.

“I do not know,” Ashrem said. “There is not enough of Ashrem left within me to remember that. Perhaps I had some plan to stop the Day of Mourning and it failed? Perhaps I had no plan and wished only to die beside my countrymen? Perhaps the true Ashrem lives and his true plan has yet to unfold.”

“What is your purpose?” Tristam pressed. “You say you exist to fulfill Ashrem’s will, but you didn’t say what that will was.”

“To protect Dying Sun until the heir of Ash arrives,” the figment said. “I was waiting for you, Tristam.”

“Me?” Tristam said, shocked. “But Ashrem cast me out. Why would he want me to have his ship?”

“I cannot say,” the vision said. “I know only that he thought of you often. As the mists swallowed Cyre, he thought of you. The last thing I remember before I became what I am is the certainty that you would put things right.”

Tristam looked at the corner of the rail station. The illusions flickered again, revealing the shadowed mass of Dying Sun . The ship was constructed much differently from the Mourning Dawn . Only two struts supported the elemental ring, projecting from the sides. This granted the ship greater durability but less maneuverability. It also meant that the ship had survived all of these years sitting on its hull without snapping her struts. If the elemental was still bound to the ship’s core, Dying Sun might well fly again. Possibilities formed in Tristam’s head. He knew how durable Ashrem’s airships were, how a skilled artificer could restore them from even the most grievous damage. What if he could repair the Sun ? Tristam could have a ship of his own, a vessel that could fly free of Dalan’s manipulations and machinations.