Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3 (12 page)

Shaimin looked at Zed, mildly surprised. “A strange reversal.
Amazing what happens to people when they feel their death is imminent.”

Niam glared at his brother in disgust. He snatched the shortsword from the floor and buried it Yarold’s back. Yarold gasped in pain and surprise, feebly reaching over his shoulder to try to dislodge the weapon as he crumpled to the floor.

“For Captain Marth and Cyre!” Niam roared, charging at Zed.

Startled, Zed readied his sword to defend himself. Niam flung himself onto the blade. The shortsword fell from his hands with a clatter. He sneered at Zed with a look of satisfied defiance as he died.

“I suppose interrogating them is out,” Shaimin said dryly.

The door burst open behind them. Eraina entered with sword and spear in hand. She looked at the body impaled on Zed’s sword.

“Diplomacy?” she asked.

“I tried to talk to them,” Zed said, pushing the undertaker’s corpse off his blade with one boot. “These people are crazy.”

“The fault is mine, Marshal,” Shaimin said, gesturing calmly with his daggers. “Violence was an inevitable outcome, but I fear I accelerated matters.”

“Get rid of your knives, whoever you are,” Eraina ordered, looking at him warily.

Shaimin flicked his wrists and the blades disappeared. He held up his empty hands and smirked. Eraina’s hands tightened on her weapons. Her eyes took a stubborn gleam that warned Zed a quick intervention was in order.

“Eraina, be careful,” Zed said. “This is Shaimin d’Thuranni.”

“The assassin who attacked Tristam?” Eraina asked. “Did you follow us here?”

“Follow you?” Shaimin chuckled. “Absolutely not. I’ve been here watching these ghouls for nearly a week. It was about time you arrived.”

“Come then, assassin,” she said, beckoning with her sword. “We are ready for you.”

Shaimin rolled his eyes. “I’m not here to kill you,” he said. “I just saved Zed’s life. Pay attention. Shall we call it even?”

“It’s true,” Zed said. “I think. It didn’t turn violent till he started killing people, but he was trying to help.” Zed shifted uncertainly. “Probably.”

Shaimin sighed. “I’m not talking about the orgy of death,” he said. “These men were nothing you couldn’t handle alone, Arthen. I killed them because I was bored. I refer to this.” He reached into his vest and drew out a folded scrap of parchment, throwing it at Zed’s feet.

Zed looked at Shaimin suspiciously.

“Oh, yes, by all means be cautious,” the elf said, growing more annoyed. “It’s a dangerous letter, covered with invisible scorpions. They’re trained to bite everyone but me. It’s my weapon of choice.” He rolled his eyes and tapped his foot impatiently.

Feeling foolish, Zed sheathed his massive sword, knelt and picked up the letter. It bore a broken wax seal decorated with the modified Cyran crest that Marth’s soldiers wore. He unfolded it and read the contents.

“You’re fortunate the undertakers never received that,” the assassin said. “They might have roused enough thugs to actually kill you.”

Zed looked at Shaimin sharply. “Where did you find this?” he demanded, passing it to Eraina.

“Yarold Kenrickson was a distrustful man,” Shaimin said. “The moment his brother returned with news of your meeting, he dispatched a messenger to this Fort Ash to determine whether you were a threat. He became paranoid when the messenger never returned.”

“When you murdered the messenger, you mean,” Eraina said.

“His death was mercy,” Shaimin said with a wicked smile. “He wouldn’t have lived long, the way he was bleeding after I found him.”

“Wait,” Arthen said. “You took this letter from a messenger on his way
back
here.
After
the messenger reported. So Marth’s soldiers know I’m in Nathyrr?”

“Apparently,” Shaimin replied, waving one hand. “The only reason I even followed the messenger was to learn where their headquarters was. It was serendipity that I found that letter while I was questioning him on the way back. Your exposure was no fault of mine. Use an alias, Arthen. You won’t have these problems.”

“I didn’t mean to be recognized,” Zed said. He blinked, realizing what he was saying. “Why am I explaining myself? What are you doing here, d’Thuranni? Whose side are you on? You tried to murder Tristam and Seren. Now you want us to help each other?”

“I serve House Thuranni,” he said. “That is all.”

“You took a contract on behalf of your house to murder our friend,” Eraina said.

“You assume much,” Shaimin said, leveling a stern finger at her. “Suffice it to say that you are wrong. Dalan d’Cannith
revealed elements of this situation that have complicated my involvement.”

“Dalan tends to do that,” Zed said.

“Dalan hired you?” Eraina asked. “Your loyalties shift easily.”

Shaimin sighed, then laughed. “My loyalties? Let us retain perspective. You’re the mercenary here, Marshal. Money can occasionally broaden a Thuranni’s loyalties but they never waver. I was entrusted to perform a task. I now find it in my best interests to complete it in an unconventional manner. Suffice it to say that our ultimate goals are, for the time being, in alignment. We can help one another.”

“You expect us to aid a known killer?” Eraina said.

“We are all killers, Marshal,” Shaimin replied. “How many criminals have you killed in Boldrei’s name? How many of Marth’s soldiers have you slain? Were they wicked men, d’Deneith? Did all of them deserve death?”

The paladin snarled. “I should turn you over to the Knights of the Silver Flame.”

“For their sake, I recommend that you do not,” Shaimin said. “I see no reason those knights should die.”

“Eraina, Shaimin, please,” Zed said. He stepped between them but kept his eyes on the elf. “Sniping at each other isn’t helping. It won’t be long before the Cyrans come looking for their supplies and discover the Kenricksons are dead. We need to figure out our next move.”

“I know the location of Fort Ash,” Shaimin said, “but I am hesitant to infiltrate it alone. Though I mean you no harm in any case, perhaps a truce might settle your temper and allow us to aid one another?”

“Easy for you to say, Shaimin,” Eraina said. “You don’t have to worry about either of us stabbing you in the back if a truce becomes burdensome.”

“I have sharpened my daggers on tongues half as sharp as yours,” Shaimin snapped. “Why must you be so judgmental, Marshal? You do not know me. I am not the monster you presume me to be.”

“Why do wicked men always believe they are good?” Eraina asked. “Boldrei grants me clarity of vision. I know you for what you are.”

“I never claimed to be good either,” Shaimin said. “I merely wish to serve my family—as you do. Before you deny what I offer, consider that I can lead you to Marth’s stronghold. On the honor of my House, I swear not to betray you. Surely even a Deneith can comprehend that?”

Eraina fell silent. She sheathed her shortsword and lowered her spear.

“Up to you, Eraina,” Zed said. “I’m just the deputy.”

“On the honor of House Thuranni, you swear not to betray us?” Eraina asked.

“I swear your lives and honor are safe in my care so long as mine are safe in yours,” Shaimin said. He closed his eyes and bowed his head before her.

Eraina grunted under her breath. “Keep an eye on him, Zed,” she said. “I’m going to search the rest of the building.”

“Aye, Marshal,” Zed said as she marched past into the back rooms.

“Sharn,” Shaimin said.

Zed looked at the elf. “Excuse me?”

Shaimin was studying Zed intently. “I’ve been trying to recall where I remember you from since the first time I saw you,” he said. “You used to dwell in Sharn. We never met, but I know you by name and reputation.”

“Oh?” Zed said.

“Were you aware that House Thuranni agents were instructed
to increase their fee for any mark under your protection?” Shaimin asked.

“No,” Zed said. “I don’t think I ever ran into any Thuranni assassins.”

“That we stand here speaking to one another today is proof that you have not,” Shaimin replied. “The additional fee was so significant that it discouraged all potential clientele. They sought more economical options, and likely regretted their parsimony from the inside of a Sharn prison.”

“Nice,” Zed said. He chuckled, scratching the stubble on the side of his chin.

“I beg your pardon?” Shaimin said. “Why are you laughing?”

“The backhanded compliments are a nice touch, but don’t try to intimidate me, d’Thuranni,” Zed said. “I saw you fight. You’re quick, ruthless, and have just a little bit of magic to give you an edge. I know you’re smart. I know you’re cocky. Eraina was right. You know she’s a paladin, and you think that her sense of honor will make her a malleable pawn.” Zed leaned close to Shaimin, grinning at the elf. “But you have no idea what I’m capable of. I heard every word of your little vow, and I heard every word you didn’t say, too. Eraina isn’t the only one who should be watching her back here.”

“Are you threatening me, Master Arthen?” Shaimin asked.

Zed’s easy grin vanished, replaced by a hard, cruel stare. “You had damned well better believe it,” he said. “Do we understand one another, elf?”

“I think we do,” Shaimin said.

“Good.”

N
INE

I
think we’re finished, Omax,” Tristam asked.

The warforged looked at his hands, staring at himself in awe. The once scarred and pitted metal was now smooth. His adamantine plates shone. The darkwood supports beneath gleamed. The warforged sat up on the stone work table, moving with unaccustomed energy. He caught sight of himself in a battered mirror across the workshop. Blue eyes shone from a mask of pristine silver adamantine. He looked like a freshly built version of himself.

Tristam withdrew several steps. He watched Omax nervously, as if not entirely sure that his work had been sufficient to the task. The little homunculus clung to Tristam’s left boot, holding a small hammer in one pudgy hand. Gavus Frauk perched on a wooden stool, keeping an eye on his workshop.

“Finished?” Gavus asked impatiently.

“I think we may be,” Tristam said. “How do you feel, Omax?”

Omax closed his hands and looked at Tristam. “I feel different,” the warforged said.

“Did I do something wrong?” Tristam asked, concerned. “Are you in pain?”

“No,” Omax said.

“Excellent work, Tristam,” Gavus said. “My personal opinions aside, I must recognize a job well done. Your construct looks entirely new.”

“Thank you, Master Frauk,” Tristam said.

“I am surprised you care for my well-being, Frauk,” Omax said, looking at the golemwright. “Do you not believe I am a mindless machine?”

“Mindless? No,” Gavus said. “Soulless? Yes. However, that does not mean I cannot appreciate fine craftsmanship. I have grown quite fond of a golem servant or two in my time. I can understand the desire to prevent one from becoming inanimate, though I probably would not have gone to such great effort to preserve a tool. One can always build a new golem.”

Omax lurched across the room, his metal feet resounding heavily on the wooden planks. Gavus Frauk sat up a bit straighter on the stool as Omax loomed over him. The warforged extended one hand to the golemwright, three fingers spread wide enough to cast a shadow over the old man’s face.

“Omax!” Tristam called out. “Just ignore him. Let’s go back to the ship.”

“Keep your metal claws away from me, monster,” Gavus said, whimpering as he cowered before the warforged.

“If I were truly soulless,” Omax said, “I would take no more offense to your insults than a lump of inert clay. Ask yourself this, Master Frauk. If you are so sure that I am unliving, why are you afraid?” Omax rested his hand on the golemwright’s shoulder, causing him to jump. “You think you hate us, Gavus Frauk, but it is not hate you feel. It is envy.”

“I am not afraid of you,” Frauk said. “Harm me, and not even your friends will protect you from House Cannith’s retribution.”

“I do not wish to harm you,” Omax said, removing his hand and folding his arms across his chest. “I pity you. You envy me
and my kind because we represent change. You see us as a symbol of everything you have failed to become. You must reduce us to nothing because you think so very little of yourself. It is your own hatred that drives so many of my brothers to take up arms against their creators. You are fortunate that I have risen above that.” Omax backed away from Gavus once more.

Gavus glared at the warforged. “Master Xain, I believe my obligation to Dalan d’Cannith is fulfilled,” he said. “Take your weapon and leave my workshop now.”