Rich Wulf - Flight of the Dying Sun

War had returned to Cyre.

She had only just begun to recover from the last series of battles, and the Karrnathi invasion had devastated the proud nation once more. Homes and villages lay in ruins. What had once been green fields were now rendered desolate. It was as if all the color in the land had been drained. Even the afternoon sky was polluted with greasy smoke. The sun was little more than a slightly brighter smear in a field of gray. Across the tortured earth, a line of dimly shining yellow stones marked the path of a lightning rail. A cloud of shimmering sparks erupted from the line as a coach sped on its way west, towing a line of cars on a path out of Cyre.

The scattered citizens and wounded soldiers glanced enviously as the coach sped on its way to a better place, then continued to trudge across the land. Suddenly a dash of unaccustomed color turned their gaze heavenward. A splash of flame pierced the gray, burning brightly and moving swiftly through the pallid sky. At first it seemed as if the sun had returned, but the fire glowed green in a solid ring. It was the elemental flame that marked the passage of an airship.

The dead eyes of the refugees watched the ship soar past. Some watched with faint hope, wondering if a new ally had arrived. Others, more pessimistic, worried that this might only be the herald of some new enemy. Most watched only for a moment then returned to their hopeless march, too beaten down by tragedy to care one way or another. After all that had been lost, what did one more airship matter? Soon enough it would be gone, like everything else.

Aboard the vessel, Captain Orren Thardis paid no mind to those below. His hands gripped the ship’s helm, knuckles white. His eyes were fixed upon the churning sky as the ship soared onward. His brow furrowed at the rattling hum that grew deep within the ship’s hull, but he paid no other mind. The sparse crew exchanged worried looks, yet only one dared speak up.

“We need to slow down, Captain,” snapped a sharp voice. The first mate stamped across the deck to Orren’s side, glaring up at him in irritation.

Orren’s eyes narrowed as he glared down at the gnome, but his expression quickly faded into a pained frown. “We can’t, Haimel,” he said. “Too much is at stake.”

The young gnome folded his arms across his chest and sighed back at Orren. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said, “but it’ll do us no good to tear the ring off its struts before we even catch sight of Metrol. We’ll do no one any good if we crash.”

“I fear we won’t do any good in any case,” Orren replied, though his voice was softer now. His grip loosened a bit on the ship’s controls. Dying Sun slowed her mad pace, and the rattling warning lessened.

Haimel smiled weakly. “We’ll catch him, Captain,” he said. “The ship was built for speed.”

Orren nodded, though it was clear he did not believe his friend’s comforting words. His gaze was fixed on the course again, searching for the distant city’s skyline. The gnome paced the deck, mumbling orders to the crew or pausing to study the ravaged lands below.

“Haimel,” the captain said, his voice low, “there is something you should see.”

The gnome peered back with a quizzical look. His eyes widened as Orren changed. His skin became a dull gray, his face smooth and nearly featureless. Blonde hair and green eyes both faded to ghostly white. Thin lips quirked in an ironic grin. The crew muttered among themselves and stopped their work to stare at the captain.

“Back to work, you lot,” Haimel barked at them sharply. “We’re to be in Metrol within the hour!”

Some of them cast a final, uneasy looks at their inhuman captain, but none of them argued with the first mate. The gnome glared at them pointedly till every one of them had returned to his duties.

“You aren’t surprised, Haimel,” Orren said calmly. “So you knew I was a changeling?”

“I suspected,” Haimel said. “I’ve known a few of your kind. You showed all the signs.”

“Signs?” Orren asked. “What signs?”

Haimel shrugged. “Little things,” he said. “Sometimes you take on odd gestures and mannerisms, then never use them again. It’s like little bits of lives you’ve led before were peeking through. Your face is always clean shaven, even if by all rights you’ve had no time to wash up in days. Mostly, though, it’s your past.”

“I never talk about my past,” Orren said.

“That’s what I mean.”

“Is that really so unusual?” Orren replied. “We’re all old soldiers here. I think a lot of us have done things we don’t want to dwell upon.”

“That’s true,” Haimel said, “but you never let anything slip. Nothing. Ever. Changelings are better than most at burying things they don’t want to think about.”

“I only hide things you would not wish to hear,” Orren said bitterly. “I must confess I am surprised. I thought I was rather good at hiding what I am.”

“Like I said, I only suspected,” Haimel said.

“You never said anything,” Orren said. “Did you not fear I was a spy, or worse?”

“Well, I always figured Ashrem must have known,” Haimel said. “You can’t fool Ash. It just isn’t possible. And if it was all right with him for you to pretend to be someone else, there must be a good reason for it. After everything we’ve done in the name of peace, letting a changeling hide behind another man’s face really wasn’t such a big deal.”

“I see,” Marth said. “Well, the illusion is done. I am tired of lying to friends.”

“Me, too,” the gnome said. His brow furrowed as he followed the captain’s gaze to the horizon. “What do you think the old man is up to out there?”

“Trying to save the world,” Orren said softly.

Haimel looked at him curiously. “You said he was in danger.”

Orren did not answer at first. He finally cleared his throat loudly and called out to the crew. They gathered quickly, watching their captain with obvious unease.

“No more lies,” Orren said. “It is time we all knew our purpose here. What do you know about the Draconic Prophecy, Haimel?”

“Not much,” the gnome admitted. “I know Ash puts a lot of stock in it, but then magic makes a man adopt a lot of odd habits. Ash says the Draconic Prophecy is never wrong, but then again it’s very old and very long, isn’t it? Babble long enough and you’re bound to be right sooner or later, and the Prophecy has been babbling for a long, long time.”

Orren chuckled. “That is true of most prophets and prophecies,” Orren answered. “The Draconic Prophecy is different. It is a living thing, a thing woven through the fabric of this world, but that exists outside of the constraints of what we recognize as reality. The Prophecy can be misunderstood or misinterpreted, but it cannot be wrong.”

“And what does it say is going to happen to Ashrem d’Cannith in Metrol?” Haimel asked.

“The Prophecy says that Cyre is going to die today,” Orren said.

Startled gasps and frightened mumbling rumbled through the crew. Sailors, even air sailors, were superstitious by nature. Prophecy was not a laughing matter.

“So Ash is flying to the capital to stop the Prophecy from being fulfilled?” Haimel asked.

“I am uncertain what he intends to do,” Orren said, “but it will end badly if we are not quick.”

The crew was silent for several long moments.

Haimel looked at Orren soberly. “If the Prophecy is never wrong,” he finally said, “then there’s nothing we can do to save Cyre.”

Orren nodded. “Ashrem knows this as well. That is why he told no one why he was leaving.”