Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

“I feel a little foolish,” Tristam whispered to Seren.

She looked at him curiously.

“They aren’t even talking,” he said. “We aren’t learning anything. Did we really expect them to be discussing Marth’s master plan or something?”

Seren shrugged. “Sometimes you can learn more from what people don’t say,” she said. She looked at them again.

Tristam studied the soldiers as well. They seemed bored, unconcerned. Many, in the manner of career soldiers, were seizing the opportunity to catch up on sleep. Despite their flagship crashing deep in unfriendly territory, none of them seemed particularly worried. The truth sank in. He backed away from the camp slowly, gesturing for Seren to follow so that he could share his conclusions.

“They’re expecting a rescue,” Tristam whispered as she joined him. “And if Marth can rescue them here, then the Moon is only the beginning of his resources.”

“Who are they?” Seren asked.

“Cyran soldiers,” he said.

“I know they’re Cyrans,” she said, “but Cyre is dead. Where do they come from? How did they organize? How do you just build and equip an army without anybody noticing?”

“I don’t think it would be so difficult,” Tristam said. “Most people don’t even want to think about the war or about Cyre in particular. Didn’t Dalan say most of them used to be in a Cyran legion stationed in Karrnath at the end of the war? If someone like Marth wants to take in a bunch of Cyran refugees, no one will miss them. If he wants to buy up surplus military gear to outfit them, most merchants would be glad for the business. People are happier pretending that the Last War never happened and that Cyre never existed. It would be very easy.”

Seren’s eyes widened and she flattened herself in the grass. Tristam tried to follow suit, not even knowing what she had seen. He was too slow. A Cyran soldier who had wandered from the camp now looked nervously toward them, noticing something amiss. Seren’s dagger appeared in her hand.

“Stop him before he calls for help,” she whispered.

Tristam reached for the pouch of sleeping powder in his pocket, and cursed as he realized his coat was still hidden in the grass behind them. He drew his wand, but hesitated.

“Someone is here!” the guard cried. “Come help!”

Tristam stood up instantly, firing a bolt of searing blue lightning from his wand. It was not intended to kill, but burned the air closely enough that the Cyran leapt for cover. Tristam pulled Seren to her feet and ran back toward the place where he had hidden his coat. Two more Cyran soldiers came from that direction, weapons in hand. Tristam drew his sword and charged.

The first soldier parried Tristam’s sword so hard that it flew spinning out of his hands, disappearing in the grass. The Cyran lifted his sword for a killing blow, then keeled over with an anguished shriek as Seren cut his knee from behind. She gave Tristam a disappointed look.

“You said to hold the sword gently!” he said.

“Not that gently,” she said, darting aside as the other guard swung at her.

Tristam ran past the man and snatched up his coat, dusting it off with one hand as he shrugged into it. The Cyran soldier turned to follow, but stopped short as Tristam threw a handful of purple dust in his face. The soldier fell to one knee, then toppled on his side, snoring peacefully.

“I don’t even see where my sword went,” Tristam said, looking around forlornly.

“Forget about it,” Seren said, kicking the other wounded soldier in the side as he struggled to rise.

“I’ve had that sword for years,” he said. “I can’t just abandon …”

Tristam fell short when he saw the dozen Cyran soldiers now running from the valley in their direction.

“Sentimental value can be overrated,” he said, taking one of the soldiers’ swords and sliding it into his scabbard.

The two ran desperately across the plains. Behind them, the Cyran soldiers continued their pursuit. Out here on the plains, there was little they could do to lose their pursuers. All they could do was hope that they could run longer. Tristam cursed himself. His foolish curiosity may well have killed them both.

“I hope you have an invisibility potion in one of those pockets,” Seren said.

“I left them on the Karia Naille ,” Tristam said, a little embarrassed.

“Dozens of bottles and you didn’t bring invisibility potions?” she asked.

“They’re usually not as useful as you’d think!” he retorted.

Seren narrowed her eyes at him and kept running.

“Cease your flight and drop your weapons!” one of the soldiers shouted. “In the name of Cyre, surrender!”

Tristam glanced over his shoulder but kept running. His mind raced through the many potions and concoctions he carried with him. Most of them were fairly useless in this situation. There was, however, one possibility. He reached into one pocket and drew out a small bottle, shaking it in one hand. A thin plume of green smoke rose from the bottle’s cork.

“Stop!” he shouted, his voice booming as he turned to face the soldiers. “Don’t make me shed more Cyran blood today. No doubt your master has shown you what a weapon like this can do!”

The dozen Cyran soldiers stopped dead. Most stared in quiet terror terror. A few spared Tristam bitter, angry glances.

“Retreat!” the leader said. As a unit, they turned and ran back the way they had come.

“I was bluffing.” Tristam chuckled, bouncing the bottle in one hand. His chest swelled with pride. “It’s just ink. It smokes when mixed, so I guess it looks more impressive than it is.”

“I’m sure they were impressed,” Seren said with a wry smile. She nodded past him.

Tristam followed her nod. His pride deflated slightly, but he was hardly disappointed. The shimmering green ring of the Karia Naille now hovered high above them. The airship, not the harmless bottle, had given the soldiers pause. Tristam eagerly caught the rope ladder as it spilled to hang beside them, offering Seren a hand as they climbed up. A thick, three-fingered hand was extended toward them from the bay doors. Omax quickly pulled Seren and Tristam into the cargo bay, then began hauling up the ladder.

“All hands aboard, Captain!” Gerith cried in a shrill voice.

The ship banked heavily. The whine of the elemental ring intensified as the Karia Naille gained altitude. The wind rushed through the bay doors, which Omax slammed once the ladder was stowed.

“Good timing, Gerith,” Tristam said with a relieved sigh.

“Good to have you both home,” the halfling said, flashing a broad smile before hurrying off to his duties.

“Dalan wishes to speak with you,” Omax said. The warforged’s hollow voice was grave.

“I imagine he does,” Tristam said. His eyes fixed on the deep gouges that crossed the warforged’s chest. “Omax, you’ve been hurt.”

Omax glanced down, one hand touching the damage gingerly. “I was serving as a distraction,” he said.

“I’m sure you were,” Tristam said, narrowing his eyes as he studied the wounds. “Don’t worry, I’ll fix it.”

Omax inclined his head in silent thanks.

Tristam made his way above deck, Seren following. Pherris was in his customary place at the ship’s helm, lost in thought as he guided the Karia Naille on her course. Zed and Eraina stood at the port rail, looking over the side. Blizzard was crouched on his perch in the bow of the ship, preening himself fastidiously. Aeven was nowhere to be seen.

“Were those the Cyran soldiers?” Zed said.

“A lot of them survived the crash,” Tristam said.

“Marth?” Zed asked.

“I didn’t see him,” Tristam said, “but he’ll have to return to repair the Moon .”