Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

Dying Sun accelerated, soaring after them. The crystal lance at its bow glowed blue. A bolt of lightning sizzled past them, shattering a conductor stone in their path. The coach shuddered and crossed the void, jumping the dead stone in the elemental’s wild desire to keep running. Ijaac gripped the controls fiercely, muttering a stream of curses in the Dwarven tongue.

Tristam took aim at the airship and fired a blot of white lightning into the sky. Dying Sun banked sharply. The blast barely seared her hull.

Tristam took a step back, staring up at the airship. The blue beam seared the back of the coach, shattering the rear half of the roof. Seren threw herself over Omax to protect the wounded warforged from the debris. The Sun drew closer, hovering only a dozen feet from the coach, and powered up the lance again as the coach crested a hill.

Everything went dark as the coach suddenly dipped into a tunnel at the base of the hill. Sparks reflected off the walls, and the elemental’s roar echoed through the earth. Dying Sun ’s red ring followed them. Unable to veer away from the tunnel, Marth simply flew in after them.

“He can’t fire,” Seren realized as she saw the glow in the crystal rod fade. “If he kills us he’ll crash right into our wreck.”

“Calm down, Ijaac,” Tristam said.

“What?” the dwarf shouted. “We need to go faster, not slower! I can barely keep this thing under control as it is!”

“Calm down, Ijaac!” Tristam shouted. “Let Marth catch up to us!”

The dwarf glanced back at Tristam in disbelief, then turned back to the controls. The elemental’s shriek changed pitch, from anger to defiance. The coach shook and began to lose speed. Dying Sun drew closer. Tristam aimed his wand and opened fire, releasing white lightning into the airship. He unleashed his magic again and again, firing blast after futile blast. The airship flashed in the light of the wand’s blasts, outlined by its own elemental fire. Tristam kept firing, screaming in fury as he poured the wand’s magic into Dying Sun . The red hull turned slowly black but continued pursuit, growing slowly closer. The wand tumbled from Tristam’s hand, now a dull black, its energy spent. The end of the tunnel drew near, and in the light of the conductor stones Seren saw the bow of the ship clearly. Dying Sun ’s crystal rod was shattered, her weapon destroyed.

The coach sped out the other side of the tunnel, plummeting down another hill and following the rail as it made its way to the edge of the city. Dying Sun pulled above them and to one side, hovering patiently.

“What’s he doing?” Seren asked.

“Waiting,” Tristam said. “We’ve killed his ship’s weapon. Now he’s just waiting for us to stop so he can finish us himself.”

“Afraid it won’t be long,” Ijaac said, frowning as the coach continued to lose momentum. The sparkling energy that surrounded the front of the coach slowly died down and vanished altogether. The sparks that exploded from stones began to lose intensity as the vehicle gradually slowed. Tristam drew another wand from his cloak, scowling as he girded himself for the fight ahead.

“He’ll land when we stop,” Tristam said. “Then he’ll come after us himself.”

“You sound a little eager, boy,” Ijaac said, worried.

“It’s time this was over,” Tristam said darkly.

The coach ground slowly to a halt. Tristam stepped out onto the dry earth, holding his wand and sword in either hand. Dying Sun hovered over them for a long, agonizing moment, then turned about in midair and soared higher into the mists.

Tristam looked back at them in confusion. “Why did he run?”

Seren saw the answer immediately. She pointed at the sky. A ring of blue fire soared from the clouds above, racing toward them. Karia Naille hovered as low as she dared, boarding ladder spilling from the cargo bay. Tristam secured Omax into one of the coach seats and tied it to the ladder as they climbed, then hauled the injured warforged aboard.

“What happened to Omax?” Gerith asked in a worried voice.

“Marth came after us,” Tristam said, pulling the doors shut. “He’s taken Dying Sun .”

“You should have destroyed that ship, not repaired her,” Dalan said angrily. “You delivered her right into his hands.”

“We’re near the Talenta Plains, aren’t we?” Seren said, looking at Gerith. “Are there any towns nearby?”

“Gatherhold,” Gerith said. “There are healers there. Good healers. Maybe they can help?”

“Can we still catch up to Marth?” Tristam asked.

“ Dying Sun was headed back toward New Cyre, Tristam,” Dalan said. “With a single pilot, he’ll be flying slower than us. We can catch him, if we hurry.”

Tristam looked down at the battered warforged.

“Omax looks really bad, Tristam,” Gerith said. “Will he hold on long enough for us to catch Marth and get him back to Gatherhold too?”

Tristam looked down at Omax for a long, silent moment.

“No,” Tristam said. “If we follow Marth, Omax dies.”

“If Marth escapes again, many people will die, Tristam,” Dalan said. “But the choice is yours. I may own this vessel, but I have no illusions regarding who commands this quest anymore.”

Tristam and Dalan locked gazes for a long, silent moment.

“Gerith, run up to the captain,” Tristam said. “Tell Pherris to make all possible speed for Gatherhold.”

The prophet folded his arms in his robes and drifted off through the camp. Many of the soldiers rose and saluted or merely nodded as he passed. Some grasped holy octagrams of the Host or emblems of the Silver Flame and whispered the names of their gods as he passed. Zamiel mumbled blessings to each of them. They knew him as a holy man, and since he never spoke against any of their gods, all of them assumed he served theirs. It was true enough, he supposed. After all, the gods all served the same power he did. Destiny. The divine guardians were like brothers to him. He considered the gods intriguing peers, and worthy of respect.

Zamiel continued on his way through the camp. The soldiers returned to their business. None noticed as he continued walking past the barricades and out onto the plains. He did not wish them to see him, so they did not. He smiled faintly as the sun set over the shifting grass. Talenta was a beautiful place. The halflings had chosen wisely when they infested these plains. The prophet tilted his chin into the wind, closed his eyes, and waited. For days he had done this, seeking any sign of the Valenar. Usually, there was nothing, but he persevered nonetheless.

Faith, after all, was everything.

Eventually it came to him. The faint but distinctive scent of horses. Halflings did not ride such creatures, so it must be the elves. It was a faint trail, one that someone had taken great effort to conceal. To Zamiel’s keen senses, it was obvious. He followed the scent of horses unerringly across the plains.

The sun had set completely by the time he arrived at the camp. A small fire burned in the darkness. Though shielded so that it would give off little light, Zamiel saw the flame clearly. He walked directly toward the camp, holding his arms outstretched so that it was obvious he bore no weapons. He felt the elves move in the darkness as they sensed him.

“Halt,” came the expected command, barked sharply in the Valenar tongue.

“I am unarmed,” Zamiel said. “I am Brother Zamiel. I wish to speak to your leader on behalf of the Seventh Moon and the Cyran nation.”

Tense silence was the reply. After nearly a minute, a single warrior stepped from the darkness. He wore a baggy coat over thick chain armor. A peaked helmet reflected the pale moonlight. He drew a slender sword and pointed it toward the prophet. “No spells,” he said. “No weapons. I will slit your throat if you do anything foolish. Do you hear me, priest? Even your god will not save you if you defy us.”