Flight of the Dying Sun (Heirs of Ash book 2 Read online

  Praise for Rich Wulf’s Voyage of the Mourning Dawn …

  “Voyage of the Mourning Dawn is a soaring adventure with great characters and an intriguing mystery. I can’t wait to see where Rich Wulf takes his story in Flight of the Dying Sun.”

  —Don Bassingthwaite

  Author of The Killing Song

  Eberron’s fragile peace hangs in the balance.

  The only hope to prevent war from igniting the Five Nations is a harried band of adventurers. Their quest: To track down the last creation of Ashrem d’Cannith, a man whom some named the greatest mind of his age and others called a madman.

  “I have no sons. My only legacy is a prophecy that should never have been revealed. My heirs believe I have forsaken them. I have no legacy. Only ash.”

  THE HEIRS OF ASH

  BY RICH WULF

  Voyage of the Mourning Dawn

  Flight of the Dying Sun

  Rise of the Seventh Moon

  FLIGHT OF THE DYING SUN

  The Heirs of Ash • Book Two

  ©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Represented by Hasbro Europe, 2 Roundwood Ave, Stockley Park, Uxbridge, Middlesex, UB11 1AZ, UK.

  EBERRON, Dungeons & Dragons, D&D, Wizards of the Coast, all other Wizards of the Coast product names, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the USA and other countries.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Philip Straub

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6491-8

  640A5497000001 EN

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  v3.1

  FOR KAT

  I OWE HER A STORY.

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Epilogue

  PROLOGUE

  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.”

  “So what are we doing here?”

  Orren did not answer at first. Finally, a wry grin spread across his pale features and he looked down at his old friend. “Haimel, for years we’ve been trying to stop the Last War,” he said. “We’ve always known that there was nothing we could do. In the end we’re just men, and the world won’t change no matter what we do. But have we ever let that stop us?”

  Haimel laughed nervously. “No, Captain,” he said. “No, I guess we haven’t.”

  “This is no different,” he said. “We must save Ashrem, even if he cannot be saved. We must stop the Prophecy from being fulfilled, even if it cannot be stopped. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before, but I needed you. The Dying Sun can fly with a single pilot, but not at the speeds required to reach Metrol in time. Maybe we can’t stop destiny, but we don’t have to stand aside and accept it, either. We might still reach Metrol before Cyre’s doom is revealed. Or, if you want, we can turn back now and flee beyond the borders of Zil’argo. I will not ask any of you to throw your lives away for nothing. If a single soul here is unwilling to risk his life to save Ashrem d’Cannith and perhaps all of Cyre, say so now and I will turn the ship around.”

  The crew looked back evenly. Their fear and unease were replaced with grim resolve. Not a single man or woman looked away.

  “We are with you, Captain,” Haimel said.

  Orren nodded. “Then return to your stations,” he said. “There is little time.”

  The crew scattered. Orren urged the Dying Sun to greater speed, though not to the same unsafe excess as before. Haimel marched toward the bow, but stopped to look back at his captain a final time.

  “Was there ever really a man called Orren Thardis?” he asked.

  “No,” the captain answered with a chuckle. “Ashrem helped me invent the name and supplied the documents to make him real. Orren is merely a mask”

  “What is your name?” Haimel asked.

  “The few who ever truly knew me, called me Marth,” the captain answered.

  “It’s been an honor to serve with you, Captain Marth,” Haimel said, saluting sharply.

  The captain looked at his old friend in surprise. He returned the salute.

  And the Dying Sun continued on her fateful course.

  ONE

  Four years later

  True storms were rare over the Talenta Plains, but when they came they were swift and savage. Tonight’s display was certainly no exception, spurred on as it was by a dryad’s righteous anger. Aeven had issued a call to the elements, and they had answered with fury. Wind and lightning gouged the sky. Thunder cracked, the echo returning again and again over the vast plain. Twin rings of fire stood out against the storm as two airships spun in a deadly aerial dance. The larger turned wildly, seeking to bring her weapons to bear against the smaller ship, but the more maneuverable pursuer remained above and behind her larger sister. The leathery flap of wings resounded against the storm as a flock of glidewings spilled from the smaller ship’s deck, attacking the larger vessel.

  “For the honor of the Ghost Talon!” came a wild cry from the beasts’ halfling riders as they dove toward the Seventh Moon. The crazed riders lobbed barbed javelins and vials of flaming oil at the airship, bringing screams from the startled crew. Some riders leapt off their mounts onto the Moon’s deck, drawing swords and flinging themselves into combat against the crew. Jagged lightning erupted from the larger ship’s prow, striking two riders who foolishly ventured too far ahead. The furious storm carried their ashes away.

  Lightning flashed again, illuminating the night, outlining the unlikely sight of five figures leaping across the void between the two ships. Zed Arthen landed with a grunt, still cursing at the bitter taste Tristam’s potion had left in his mouth. Fire shot through the old inquisitive’s left thigh. The paladin’s magic had healed his earlier wound, but even magic couldn’t persuade pain to leave the body. Only time could cure such things. Zed ignored the weakness and drew his broadsword, scanning the rear deck for enemies.

  The massive warforged, Omax, landed beside Zed with a crunch of splintered timber. Eraina, the paladin, landed to Zed’s right side. She stumbled, unaccustomed to the magic that had carried them here. Zed gripped her arm to steady her. She pulled away with an annoyed sneer, drawing her half-spear and shortsword.

  Tristam Xain had been the f
irst one to land. Zed had never really imagined the boy as much of a leader, but then in his experience the best leaders didn’t generally reveal their worth until you leaned on them. One day they were in the background, saying nothing. The next, a crisis would hit and everyone was suddenly listening to what they had to say. The boy would do fine, as long as his confidence held out. The best way to ensure he kept it together would be not to give him too much time to think about the impossible situation they were in.

  “You ready to do this, Xain?” Zed asked brusquely, forcing Tristam’s attention.

  Tristam looked past Zed. His worry was replaced with a confident grin when Seren Morisse landed safely behind them. Zed chuckled. As long as Seren was here, Tristam would be too busy trying to impress her to worry for himself.

  They’d be fine.

  The artificer glanced up at Karia Naille, now hovering far above them. “Don’t worry, we don’t have to jump that,” he said. “Pherris will move closer when he sees our signal.”

  “Unless we die,” Zed said, hefting his sword with both hands. He wondered what the boy would say in reply.

  “Yeah,” Tristam said. “Don’t die!”

  Zed cackled. Yes, Tristam would be fine.