Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“Admitted what?” said. His voice was barely a growl.

“You are no fool, Tristam,” Marth said. “If you have surmised, as I have, that Ashrem bound Dying Sun ’s elemental core to the Dragon’s Eye, then surely you must have realized the rest. Karia Naille shares the same power. Ashrem’s airships were all fueled by the same energies that infused Zul’nadn. That is why the Legacy does not affect them. Ashrem’s ships are the Legacy, though Ashrem has since rendered them unable to perform their original function.”

Tristam said nothing.

“You do not truly wish to destroy the Legacy,” Marth said with a dark chuckle. “You wish to complete it. Otherwise you would have destroyed the Sun already. You wanted to claim this ship, Ashrem’s finest creation, for yourself.”

“No,” Tristam said, voice quavering.

Seren looked at Tristam, uncertain what to think. Tristam would not meet her eyes.

“You don’t need to lie in front of your friends, Tristam,” Marth said. “There is no need to be greedy, Tristam. We are both worthy heirs. Step aside and let me claim the Sun. Keep Mourning Dawn , and unlock its power for your own ends.”

“What if I don’t let you have this ship?” Tristam asked.

“This is not a negotiation, Tristam,” Marth said. “This is a gift, to a man I once considered a friend. I once thought you intended to destroy the Legacy. Now that I see that you wish to embrace Ashrem’s most glorious and terrible creation as much as I do, I offer you one last chance to get out of my way.”

“No,” Tristam said, his voice pained.

Marth sighed and aimed his wand at Tristam. “I don’t have time to watch you wrestle with self-doubt, Xain. You had your chance.”

Seren drew her dagger, still shimmering with the light of Tristam’s enchantment. The changeling smirked, aiming his wand at her instead. A deadly blast of green fire rolled toward her, but this one stopped short, reflected by a shield of white sparks.

“Marth, stay your hand,” Ashrem’s visage said, stepping in front of her.

“Ashrem?” Marth cried. The changeling’s jaw gaped. He stretched one hand toward his mentor, only to see Ashrem’s image waver in a crackle of wild magic energy. “What sorcery is this?”

Seren seized on the distraction, leaping into the shadows behind a conductor stone just as the illusion of the living rail station reappeared. Ijaac followed, crouching beside her, hands tight on the haft of his morningstar. Tristam was nowhere to be seen, lost in the phantom crowd.

“Kresthian would be ashamed to see what you have become,” Ashrem’s phantom said sadly. “Your sons weep for their wretched father.”

Marth sneered. “I will not be judged by a memory.” He stabbed the wand into the image of Ashrem. The figment screamed as ripples of green fire spread through its form. The artificer’s image unraveled into spiraling trails of dust, falling to its knees as its body scattered in a cloud of shimmering motes.

Marth scowled as he prowled across the station toward Dying Sun , unleashing a random burst of flame in his path as he went, trying to flush them out of hiding.

“You must have seen what I have seen, Tristam,” Marth called. “You know what the future holds. Why won’t you let me rebuild the world as it should be?”

Seren saw movement within the airship. It could only be Tristam. She darted from the darkness, hoping that Tristam was ready for what she planned. She ran past the bow of the ship, toward Omax’s prone body. Marth unleashed another burst of fire at her, narrowly missing as she rolled to one side. The changeling strode after her, his pace calm and methodical, confident that she could not escape.

It was not until he lifted the wand to blast at her again that he heard the discordant whine of an elemental flaring to life. He looked over his shoulder at Dying Sun , and realized that the bow of the ship was pointed directly toward him, shining bright white. Seren leapt behind the cover of a thick column just as a bolt of searing blue lightning erupted from the airship’s bow, tearing through Marth with the smell of burning ozone. The changeling’s seared corpse fell to the earth with a crackle.

Seren’s ears rang from the blast but she kept running until she reached Omax, kneeling by the wounded warforged’s side. She had never seen him so badly damaged. A smoking crack bisected his chest. One eye shone only dimly; the other was dark. His jaw worked, but he made no sound. Tristam was already running toward them, his satchel of tools slung over one shoulder. Ijaac ran beside him, staring in wonder at the enormous gouge the Dying Sun ’s lightning ray had torn through the floor.

“Omax, stay with me,” Tristam whispered, kneeling by his friend. The artificer placed his hands on the injured warforged’s chest, whispering the infusions that would bind the broken wood and metal. “Omax, talk to me. I’m here.”

“You made me promise …” Omax whispered.

“Promise?” Tristam asked, leaning close. “Promise what?”

“To tell you the next time I needed repairs …” Omax said with a low chuckle. “I think … that time is now.”

“That isn’t funny, Omax,” Tristam said. Under his hands, the warforged’s body was already beginning to bend and twist back into shape. “You’ve been worse than this. Remember when I found you in the monastery?”

“I remember, Tristam,” said Omax. “And I thank you, Tristam. I know who I am now.” The warforged lay his head back on the rubble.

“Omax!” Seren cried. “Help him, Tristam!”

“I’m doing what I can,” the artificer said frantically. “He’s too badly hurt, and my magic is nearly exhausted from repairing the airship …”

Ijaac looked around quickly, the head of his morningstar cracking on the ground as his eyes widened in shock.

“Where did the changeling go?” he asked.

Marth’s corpse was gone.

“He just vanished,” Ijaac said, stuttering slightly. “I was looking right at him.”

Seren looked back at the airship just as a searing ring of red fire ignited around her, extending partially into the floor.

“Host!” Tristam swore. “The same trick I used in New Cyre.”

He ran toward the ship, leaping at her as she floated into the air. Tristam’s fingers hooked the delicate carvings on the ship’s hull and for several seconds he hung a dozen feet above the ground, hanging desperately onto Dying Sun ’s hull. The ship banked, dropping him back onto the cracked marble. The airship continued to ascend, shattering one edge of the broken glass ceiling as it rose. Tristam held up his arms to protect himself from falling glass as he lay in the ship’s shadow. He glared up at the Sun in rage, snatching the wand from his belt and aiming it at the airship. At the same time, the crystal rod in the ship’s bow flared a brilliant blue.

“Tristam, you must live,” Ashrem’s fading voice whispered.

Blue lightning sizzled into the rail station, but the figment’s wards flared. Explosive force reverberated through the shattering shields and rippled through the building. Ashrem’s voice screamed as the conflicting energies tore the phantom’s remnants apart. The rail station shuddered as chunks of the ceiling began to fall.

“Get to cover, girl!” Ijaac said. The dwarf seized Omax by the neck and hip, hauling the injured warforged over his shoulders. He turned toward the door, but Seren caught his shoulder.

“We can’t run outside,” she said. “Marth will kill us as soon as we go out there.”

Above them, the building shook as Dying Sun blasted it again.

The dwarf looked at her, panicked. “We can’t stay here or he’ll drop the building on our heads.”