Omax clutched the golem’s face with one hand, his thick fingers boring into Ashen’s wide eyes and open mouth, crushing and twisting, spreading cracks across its face. Omax rammed his other fist into the golem’s body, punching him repeatedly. The golem reeled under the attack, dust and splintered stone exploding from each hit. The creature wrapped its arms around Omax’s chest and squeezed. The sound of bending metal and cracking wood came in reply.
Tristam closed his eyes in concentration and clutched Omax’s shoulder, directing his magic to mend what damage he could. Omax’s wood and metal body twisted back into its proper shape, only to be immediately crushed once again. Sparks erupted from the warforged’s chest, but Omax only grunted in pain and continued his assault. The golem pushed itself away from the wall, keeling over and collapsing heavily on Omax as Tristam narrowly dodged out of the way. The warforged heaved and twisted his wrist, wrenching Ashen’s head free with a crack of tortured stone and hurling it at the door, shattering the wood. The golem continued squeezing the warforged mercilessly, ignoring the injury. Glimmering yellow smoke boiled from the hole left behind by its decapitation.
“I can’t stop it,” Tristam said helplessly. “I can’t repair Omax fast enough. It’s killing him!”
“The warforged should not have begun a fight it could not win,” Gavus said, wiping one hand on his robe with a bored frown. “So much for their vaunted intellect.”
Seren appeared behind Gavus, grabbing the old man by the robes and pushing him against the wall. “Call the golem off,” she hissed. Her dagger drew a white line across the wrinkled folds of Gavus’ throat. The old magewright’s eyes filled with terror. He cried for help, and Ashen immediately rose, leaving Omax where he lay. The headless thing turned to face Seren, lifting its stone sword as it advanced. Seren turned, moving Gavus’s skinny body between herself and the broken golem. It stopped, unable to harm its master and uncertain what to course of action to take.
“Stupid girl,” Gavus hissed. “Kill me and Ashen will kill you in return. It can wait, quite literally, forever. We are locked in this impasse.”
“We are locked in an impasse?” Dalan asked.
The guild master sighed and turned to leave the room in no particular hurry, gingerly stepping through the shattered timbers. The golem spun, stepping over Omax’s fallen body in its haste to stop Dalan from escaping. It hesitated, looking back at its master, uncertain which order to pursue. Dalan looked at Ashen and gave a quick, satisfied smile. Omax rolled into a crouch, seizing one of the golem’s legs in both arms and twisting hard as he pushed the statue off balance. Another crackling moan issued from deep inside Ashen’s body as Omax tore one leg free of its housing. The warforged spun the leg in both hands and jammed its jagged edge down with all his strength, shattering the larger construct’s chest.
The golem gave what sounded like a final, tortured sigh, the sound of wounded magic escaping, the mournful call of imitated life extinguished. The golden smoke that boiled from its neck drifted away. The mutilated statue of Ashrem d’Cannith lay still. Tristam looked down at the broken sculpture in numb shock, his wand clenched in one hand. He whispered another quick infusion and placed his hand against Omax’s chest, directing the magic that animated the warforged to repair some of the damage to its body.
“Impasse resolved,” Dalan said, kicking aside a pile of scattered books. Above them, the chants and rhythmic hammering continued. The rest of the household was oblivious to the battle. “I will issue you a bill for the damage you have inflicted upon my warforged.”
Seren released Gavus, roughly pushing him away. The old man leaned against a bookcase, gasping for breath.
“Dalan, there was no call to become violent,” Gavus said, rubbing his throat and coughing hoarsely. “I panicked when you attempted to depart, but with the Host as my witness-I only wished to speak. I would not have harmed any of you.”
“I do not respond well to intimidation, Frauk,” Dalan said, stopping at the door but not looking back.
“Ashen was commanded only to bar your exit,” Gavus said, staring at his shattered bodyguard. “There was no need to destroy it.”
“It tried to kill me,” Omax said, clutching his injured chest.
“You are not alive,” Gavus said.
A deep rumble echoed within Omax, but Tristam held a calming hand toward his friend. “And what if our designs on the Legacy were as dark as you fear?” Tristam asked, his own anger obviously only barely held in check. “What would you have done then?”
“Ashen would have contained you here indefinitely,” Gavus said. “This library is abandoned and has been enchanted to contain sound. The door has magical wards. This room could serve quite well as a prison.”
“Or a tomb,” Dalan said meaningfully. “Keep talking, Frauk.”
“I was foolish and desperate, but I had little choice,” Gavus said. “The Legacy is too powerful, too deadly for mortals to possess. If you rebuilt it, it would do to the Five Nations what it did to Cyre.”
“What did the Legacy do to Cyre?” Tristam asked.
Gavus scoffed. “Are you a fool? Look at the Mournland. That is Ashrem d’Cannith’s true legacy. Ashrem told me himself. It begins with cold and lightning. The smell of wretched smoke suffuses everything as the energy of life is sucked from the world. Magic dies. The works of wonder crumble. The creatures of arcana and divinity die. Ash and mist expand to fill the void … Is that not what became of the Mournland?”
“Impossible,” Tristam said. “The Legacy nullifies magic. The Mournland seethes with magic. The Legacy could not have been responsible for that.”
“So you hope,” Gavus said.
“Know this, Gavus,” Dalan said. “I do not intend to rebuild the Legacy. As you say, it is far too dangerous. However, the secrets of its creation must be recovered. If left in the shadows, it will be found. I fear the ones who slew the Ghost Talons are already close to its completion.”
Gavus grew pale and trembled visibly. “The Cyrans?”
“No,” Dalan hissed. “They are no true Cyrans, though they bastardize the crest of that proud nation.”
“You said you promised Ashrem that you would bar others from completing his work,” Tristam interrupted, drawing an annoyed look from Dalan. “When did you last see him?”
“Only a week before the Day of Mourning,” Gavus said. “As he prepared to depart for Metrol. He drew our oaths that we would do everything within my power to prevent the Legacy’s construction.”
“We?” Dalan asked. “Who else made this oath?”
“Norra Cais, Bishop Llaine Grove,” Gavus said. “There were a handful of others …” Gavus trailed off, eyes wide.
“What happened to the others?” Tristam asked.
“They are gone now,” Gavus said. “Vanished or killed, one by one. Norra and I were the only ones left, and I have not seen her in weeks.”
“Norra Cais?” Dalan asked. “She has been missing for months, not weeks.”
“She was wise enough to go underground when the others began disappearing,” Gavus said. “I was one of Ashrem’s more obscure associates, so I took the risk of remaining public while she conducted secret research. But then she disappeared, and even I have lost contact with her.”
“Where did she go?” Tristam asked.
Gavus shook his head. “I will not tell you that,” he said. “I will say only that I believe she still lives, but I will not betray her to you. If you seek her insight into Ashrem’s Legacy, you will seek her without my aid.”
“Fine,” Dalan said. “We do not need you, but if you interfere with our search any further, my earlier promise holds. Baron Zorlan will learn how you impersonated him. I suspect the Ghost Talons are not the only informants who believed they worked on his behalf.”
The old magewright looked helplessly at Dalan.
“And clean this mess,” Dalan said, gesturing at the spilled bookcases and shattered golem. “This is a d’Cannith library you have ruined. If you continue to treat it as whatever pigsty birthed you, I will see that you are returned there. Good day, Master Frauk.”