“Except for Norra,” Dalan said. “And my uncle, Ashrem.”
“Aye,” Lemgran said with a bitter smile. “Our experiences in the Frostfell were what brought Ash to us all those years ago. He found something in the Draconic Prophecy that pointed him toward the Zul’nadn ruins. We helped him take the Dying Sun to that forsaken temple.” Lemgran fell silent for a long moment. His dark eyes were haunted. “When Ijaac and I went north with Lord ir’Dayne and his crew, we saw some strange things, but that was nothing compared to what Ashrem d’Cannith showed us in Zul’nadn.”
“You’ve been to Zul’nadn?” Tristam asked eagerly.
Lemgran sneered at Tristam. “Aye.”
“We need to go there,” Dalan said. “We need a guide.”
The dwarf looked back at Dalan. “Give up now, d’Cannith,” he said. “There’s nothing out on the ice but death. Even were my health not in the sad shape that it is, I would not go there with you. You have the wrong Bruenhail.”
“What did you see in Zul’nadn that filled you with such fear?” Dalan asked. “I thought you were an explorer.”
“Fear?” Lemgran said with a laugh, though the laugh dissolved into a short fit of wet hacking. “Fear is what fills you when you don’t know what to do. I know exactly what to do about Zul’nadn-leave it lost in the snow where it belongs.”
“Ijaac clearly wasn’t so ready to give up,” Dalan said.
“My brother is dead by now,” Lemgran said. “Whatever you’re seeking out there isn’t worth it. Give up.”
“We can’t,” Tristam said. “We need to know what Ashrem saw.”
Lemgran sighed. “Listen to me, boy,” he said. “I see that fire in your eyes, and because you’re young, I’ll excuse it. You sense secrets and you want answers, but some things are forgotten for a reason. Zul’nadn isn’t one of those mysteries that needs to be solved. It’s a cursed place. The dwarves that built that temple were not normal folk. They weren’t sane. Thousands of years ago, they went out there seeking the Prophecy, but the powers of Xoriat crawled into their heads and changed them. Raw madness forced them to build a living nightmare, a place of power, a temple designed to unravel the world.”
“What happened to them?” Zed asked.
“They died, thankfully,” Lemgran said, clearing his throat with a pained expression. “The Fellmaw was born out of their twisted magic. It crawled into their temple and froze them dead. You can still find them there, hunched over their altars, kneeling in their dormitories, trapped in ice, praying to demons who repay their faith with nothing but oblivion. Some of them still walk out on the ice …”
“Alive after all this time?” Eraina asked, incredulous.
“Hardly,” Lemgran said. “The darkness they served seeped into their corpses. They don’t live … they just hunger.” The old dwarf shuddered at the memory.
“What is the Fellmaw?” Dalan asked.
“A living storm,” Lemgran said. “We found a few writings about it in the temple. Apparently the cultists created it on purpose, believing they could control it. It prowls the plains and canyons of the Frostfell, devouring any life it sees. It’s like a blizzard that never dies. It hounded the Dying Sun, hunting us, howling in the night and spraying green lightning across the sky whenever it couldn’t find us.” The old dwarf shivered.
“A living storm?” Zed asked dubiously.
“I’ve been to the Frostfell twice, human,” Lemgran said with a sneer. “I saw terrible weather on my first expedition with Lord ir’Dayne, but it was nothing like the Fellmaw.”
“Maybe you were just lucky on the first trip?” Zed asked.
“Zed,” Pherris said softly, “I’ve been a sailor all my life. In my experience there’s no surer path to death than laughing at someone else’s nightmares. If Lemgran says that he saw a living storm, then that is what he saw.”
“Nature itself doesn’t want anyone finding whatever is inside Zul’nadn,” Lemgran said, eyeing the gnome shrewdly. “I’m still not sure how Ashrem got a few of us out of there alive.”
“It’s not inconceivable,” Tristam said, pondering the dwarf’s words. “If the Zul’nadn priests truly worshipped the demons of Xoriat, the boundaries between the planes would be thin there. A powerful rogue elemental could easily have slipped through one of their summoning rituals and become enraged at its entrapment in our world. An elemental has no concept of time or reason. It would perceive any living being as an ally of those who brought it here and lash out in vengeance. A large enough air elemental could manifest itself as a storm.”
“Pointless,” Lemgran said. “Does explaining things make you feel better, artificer?”
Tristam blinked. “I’m only trying to help,” he said. “If we know what we’re up against, we’ll be better prepared to face it.”
“The Fellmaw doesn’t care or know where it came from,” the dwarf said. “It doesn’t care if you understand it. Go there and it will kill you. You can’t reason with a storm.”
“In that regard we may be in luck, as storms have always been kind to us,” Pherris said. “All the same, we will be cautious.”
“Any help you could offer would be most appreciated,” Dalan said. “Maps, suggested courses, advice on what sorts of supplies we should bring and what sort of hazards we might expect to face outside of the obvious occasional ravenous storm.” Dalan reached into his vest and drew out a small velvet bag. He leaned forward and set it on the table in front of Lemgran. The dwarf picked up the bag, weighing it in his hand.
“Money is a good start,” Lemgran said, his voice so low it was nearly a growl. “But you …” He looked at the gnome captain. “The boy called you Pherris. Would your last name be Gerriman, by any chance?”
“It would,” the gnome said.
“Dying Sun’s first mate was a boy named Haimel Gerriman,” Lemgran said, coughing softly. “He spoke very highly of his father. He said that Pherris Gerriman was the finest airship pilot to ever sail the skies of Eberron.”
Pherris smiled sadly. “Haimel had a tendency to exaggerate,” he said, “but he was my son. He flew with Ashrem to Zul’nadn?”
“He did,” Lemgran said, studying the gnome carefully. There was a strange, hopeful light in his eyes. “Tell me, Captain Gerriman, how quickly could your ship reach the Frostfell?”
“If the winds favor us, five days,” the gnome said. “And the winds always favor us.”
“No Lyrandar airship would agree to take Cais on her doomed expedition,” Lemgran said. “The winds in the Frostfell are too wild for all but the bravest pilots. She and my brother were forced to journey by sea. You may yet have time to intercept them. Though I will not go with you to the Frostfell, I will give you everything you need, Captain Gerriman. I only ask one thing.” He pushed the pouch of coins back across the table toward Dalan with a serious expression.
“And what is that?” Pherris asked.
“That you find my foolish brother, Ijaac,” Lemgran said in a thick voice. “And, if he lives, bring him back home.”
TEN
Gerith Snowshale sat at the edge of the docks, his small face creased with a frown. Omax settled beside him, his enormous metal body making little sound. The warforged deposited a heavy sack of supplies with a solid thud. The docks were busy at this time of day, with dozens of sailors, merchants, criminals, and other assorted citizens going about their daily business. The weather was fair. A warm yellow sun blazed in a cloudless sapphire sky. The wind mildly caressed the docks, carrying the raucous cry of soaring gulls. Rumor claimed that the priests and wizards who served House Lyrandar used their magic carefully to cultivate an area of fair weather around their port, just as the mages within the city warded away the smell of the docks. Ships moved in and out of the busy bay. Though most bore the seal of House Lyrandar, vessels from every seafaring nation could be found.
The Lyrandar stormships and wind galleons were easily distinguishable from the rest. A sleek tower rose from the back of each ship, linked to a swirling ring of shimmering silver mist. Much like Karia Naille and other airships drew upon bound fire elementals to soar through the sky, these sailing vessels drew upon air elementals for a steady source of wind. The ships were a gorgeous combination of magical innovation and shipbuilding artistry. Many travelers spent hours on the Stormhome docks, just watching the elemental ships come and go. Gerith cared nothing for the show. The halfling sat hugging his legs against his thin chest, looking unusually forlorn. Omax looked at the halfling, his blank adamantine face somehow radiating concern.