“Master Raylen,” Jiazen said, his voice low and sibilant. “I am pleased that you contacted me so soon. I feared that I might not hear from you again. What I asked was difficult.”
Raylen laughed nervously. “You know me, Master Jiazen,” he said. “I don’t back out of a contract. I have a reputation in this city.”
“Of course you do,” Jiazen said with a condescending smile. “If you are not offended by my curiosity, how did you procure such uncommon materials so quickly?”
“Only uncommon if you sit and wait for them to die,” Raylen said. “With the money you paid me, I thought I might take a bit of … erm … what’s the word?”
“Initiative?” Jiazen asked, flashing white teeth.
“That’s it,” he said. “Initiative.”
“Astounding,” Jiazen said. “You may have a great deal more potential than I imagined. Where is she?”
“Right over here,” Raylen said, beckoning to the dark stranger as he walked toward a long crate in the back of the warehouse. He kicked off the lid, revealing the contents.
Jiazen’s smile broadened as he studied the crate in the light of a silent warrior’s lantern. Within the box, a young woman lay on a bed of straw. Long brown hair fell loose about her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and her skin was pale. She wore a simple white dress, her hands clasped across her chest in a posture of repose. She might have looked very peaceful, if not for the bloodstains that covered one side of her dress.
“Immaculate,” Jiazen said in a breathless voice. “I hope she is as … undamaged as she appears.”
“It was a clean wound,” Raylen said. “Knife just under the ribs, here, to the side.” Raylen pointed at his own back. “She made a lot of noise while she was bleeding out, but no one heard. She’s in good shape.”
Jiazen nodded clinically. “Yes,” he said. “That would certainly suffice.” He reached leaned over the crate, drawing a long leather glove from his cloak and stretching it over his right hand. “Allow me a moment to inspect her, and our business shall be concluded.”
Jiazen extended his hand toward the corpse, but he stopped short with a gasp when she fixed him with dark eyes. The woman opened her hands, revealing the complex golden octogram of the Sovereign Host. “By the light of the Hearthmother,” the girl whispered, “burn.”
The holy symbol shone. The warrior beside Jiazen released a mournful wail and staggered backward, smoke boiling from his armor. He fell to his knees, ashes spilling from the joints beneath the plate, crumbling in a heap of empty metal.
“What is the meaning of this?” Jiazen shouted, backing quickly away.
“In the name of House Deneith,” the girl said, rising from the crate and plucking her spear from the straw beneath her. “By the authority of the Sentinel Marshals, you are under arrest.”
“Vol, kill them both!” Jiazen shouted. He reached into his pocket and began chanting words in an arcane language.
“Careful, he’s a wizard,” warned a voice from above. A small crystal sphere dropped from the rafters. It shattered at Jiazen’s feet and ignited the powder strewn on the floor. The warehouse filled with blinding light and an explosive crack shattered Jiazen’s concentration.
When the light faded, they were there.
Omax burst from the crates beside the warehouse door, seizing one dark warrior’s halberd and clutching another by the helmet in one wide hand. Seren dropped beside another of the armored men, slashing at his knees with her dagger. Gerith’s crossbow took another in the skull, but the undead soldier remained standing upright.
Jiazen blinked rapidly, trying to restore his vision. He looked up in time to see Zed Arthen striding toward him with a grim scowl. A dark warrior stepped into his path but was cut down with a single blow from his massive sword.
“Wizards and zombies,” the inquisitive growled. “I hate zombies.”
“Could be worse,” Tristam said, hopping down from the rafters beside Zed. “Could have been a vampire, like Eraina suspected.”
“True,” Zed admitted. He rolled his eyes at the wizard. “Don’t do it, Jiazen.”
Master Jiazen began casting a spell.
Zed Arthen punched Jiazen in the throat.
The wizard fell, choking and clutching his neck.
“I warned you, damn it,” Zed said, turning and cutting down another of the zombie soldiers.
In moments, it was done. The undead warriors were no more, reduced to ashes by Eraina’s holy magic or torn apart by the furious warforged. Eraina removed her bloody dress, revealing her customary armor. She knelt and bound the wizard’s wrists behind his back.
“Impressed you took him alive, Arthen,” Eraina said as she dragged him toward the door. “The White Lions may even have a chance question him, once he can speak again.”
“I do my best,” the inquisitive said. He glanced around the warehouse, searching for the shabby grave robber. Raylen stood just under the sputtering lantern. He held an undead warrior’s halberd in his hand. A scrap of a black tabard hung from the tip of its blade. He stared at the floor in numb shock.
“Didn’t notice you actually joining the fight,” Zed said, impressed. He clapped the man on the shoulder. “You’re free now, Raylen.”
Raylen’s jaw worked for several seconds before he could speak. “By the Host,” he finally said. “Thank you.”
“I doubt the Host have a lot of good feelings toward me, but you’re welcome,” Zed said, lighting his pipe and popping it into his mouth.
“What do I do now?” Raylen asked.
“You uphold your part of the deal and tell us what you know,” Zed said. “After that, I really don’t care. Like I said, I’m a big admirer of redemption, but that’s really up to you.”
“Right, right,” Raylen said, nodding quickly. “The deal. It was four weeks ago. That woman you asked about wanted to charter an airship to Stormhome. Very urgent.”
“Stormhome?” Zed asked. “Are you sure?”
“Very sure,” Raylen said, scowling bitterly at the memory. “She was really pushy about it, too. Didn’t tip very much, either.”
“Did she say why?” Zed asked.
“I didn’t ask,” Raylen said. “People like me learn not to ask.”
“Thanks,” Zed said. “Now get out of here.”
The greasy little man nodded, mumbling a final, effusive thanks before running off into the night and, possibly, a new life.
“Khyber,” Zed said. “Why Stormhome, Tristam? Does that make any sense to you?”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Tristam said. “According to Kiris’s journals, the Boneyard wasn’t the only place where Ashrem studied the Draconic Prophecy. There were others, as well. Places of power hidden around the world, where the Prophecy is very old and very strong.”
“And Stormhome is one of those?” Zed asked.
“No,” Tristam said, “The Prophecy wouldn’t be very strong in a place like that. It tends to resonate in places far away from mortal life, often in places we fear to go.”
“People are scared of the future,” Zed said with a dark chuckle.
“Maybe,” Tristam said. “Or maybe the future doesn’t like to be disturbed until it’s good and ready to arrive.”
“So then what does the Prophecy have to do with Stormhome?”
“It’s the northernmost port city on the continent,” Tristam said.
Zed looked at Tristam seriously. “Host, Tristam, I hope you’re not implying what I think you are.”
Tristam gave a quirky smile. “One of those places of power was Zul’nadn, an abandoned ruin deep in the Frostfell.”
Zed groaned and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Khyber,” he swore. “I hate the cold.”
NINE
The city of Stormhome teemed with people. Travelers from a dozen different races and a dozen different lands crowded the wide streets. Twin flags bearing the Aundairian dragonhawk and the House Lyrandar Kraken flapped proudly from nearly every building, boasting the twin masters of this city. Unlike most port cities, which often stank of fish and pitch, the inner streets of Stormhome smelled distinctly of cinnamon. The Lyrandar boasted an impressive mastery of the winds and were not above flaunting that mastery to make their city more palatable to visitors.