None of them had done anything like this, with outright defiance, destroying the Prophecy itself rather than become a pawn of destiny. This changed everything.
Zamiel stood at the edge of a broken cliff, extending one thin arm from his robes. The black smoke curled around his fingers. His dark eyes narrowed as he studied the patterns of magic. They were broken and confused, but still quite obvious to his eyes. The means by which Zul’nadn had fallen were all too familiar. It was impossible. Xain had no access to any such power, but Zamiel knew better than to distrust his senses.
The prophet glanced to one side, his eyes catching sight of a glimmer amid the debris. He knelt, sifting the snow away and picking up a flat shard of ice. Not ice, in fact, but a sleek white scale. It shone in the cold light of the Frostfell sun, gleaming brilliantly in Zamiel’s hand. One edge was ragged and dark, as if broken in a fire.
The prophet’s lips parted, and he released a mournful cry. The words were strange and alien, fragments of a language never invented by man. He closed his eyes as he listened to the call echo on the wind. He bowed his head when there was no reply. Mercheldethast knew better than to ignore his call. Such a creature would not endure capture. The white dragon must be dead. Bitter anger threatened to shatter Zamiel’s intense calm and he threw back his head, bellowing with such fury that large chunks of crumbling ice fell from the cliffs into the void. As the prophet’s roar faded, he heard the claws of ghouls scampering to get away.
With a sigh, Zamiel collected his rage, swallowing it down, burying it with the rest. Mercheldethast had been a loyal if occasionally dull ally. Endless vigil over a frozen wasteland had been a duty well-suited to such a creature. The white dragon’s loss would not be forgiven. Zamiel tucked Mercheldethast’s scale into his robe and stepped out over the cliff’s edge. He fell, long sleeves of his robe spreading outward and fluttering in the air like broad wings. The smoke swallowed him, enveloping him as he fell. For several seconds there was nothing but darkness as the wind whistled past the falling prophet.
Zamiel landed on the blasted earth at the base of the pit with a thunderous crash. He knelt with hand braced against the earth, but was unharmed. He stood, copper fire curling around one hand to light the depths. He was surrounded by broken ice, stone, and bone. Sparks of orange flame sputtered in the black as the vestigial remains of the Draconic Prophecy attempted to reflect Zamiel’s light. The writings were unreadable now, destroyed along with Zul’nadn and Mercheldethast.
That was perhaps the most disturbing loss of all. It was rare that the Prophecy manifested as powerfully as it did in the caverns beneath Zul’nadn. The prophet had found only one place where it spoke to him more powerfully than it did here. Strongholds could be rebuilt. Minions, even those as powerful as Mercheldethast, could be replaced. Zul’nadn’s voice, however, would remain forever silent.
Zamiel released a deep, exhausted sigh. He spoke a word of magic and the world folded around him, shifting and blurring as it resolved itself into a broad, grassy plain. Seventh Moon sat propped on a skeletal network of scaffolding as Cyran soldiers scrambled about repairing the crippled airship.
A raucous cry erupted from over the nearby hills. A pack of six Ghost Talon halflings broke over the crest, riding on bipedal clawfoot mounts. They shouted defiantly in their bizarre tongue, loosing arrows at the Cyran soldiers as they rode past. Their shafts flew true, injuring several of the workers. The Cyrans reacted immediately, falling behind wooden barricades and returning a volley of arrows. One of the clawfoot mounts staggered and fell, spilling its rider on the earth near the prophet’s feet. The halfling grunted in pain and rolled nimbly to his feet just as another arrow took him in the chest, driving him to the ground again. The other riders hesitated, but the wounded halfling shouted, waving them off. They continued galloping, cursing at the Cyrans as they retreated.
Zamiel relaxed the magical aura that surrounded him, allowing himself to be seen. The advancing Cyrans hesitated, staring in surprise. The halfling looked up, his face twisted with pain, rage, and hatred. He lunged at the prophet wildly with a short, hooked knife. Zamiel caught the little man’s wrist and looked down at him with a compassionate smile.
“Your thirst for vengeance is understandable, my friend,” he said, speaking to the halfling in the little man’s own tongue. “Yet you have failed your tribe, because you were impatient. Do you understand this? In your haste to avenge your kin, you have only fallen to the same power that destroyed them.”
The halfling glared at Zamiel in silent hatred, blood streaming from his nose and lips. A shriek erupted as the Cyrans buried their swords in his wounded mount, setting off an anguished shriek from the halfling. He drew a second, hidden knife and slashed at the prophet’s hand. The knife left no wound.
Zamiel looked down in mild surprise and seized the halfling’s other wrist. He sighed, carefully placed his foot against the halfling’s throat, and gently pulled on both arms. There was a brief, muffled cry followed by a wet snap. With a disappointed sigh, Zamiel let the dead halfling’s body collapse on the earth.
He looked up at the Cyran soldiers, all now watching him with undisguised awe. While Zamiel was not one to broadcast his power recklessly, it was important that examples sometimes be made. He clasped his hands and bowed politely, mumbling a barely audible blessing before sweeping off toward the great hulk of the fallen vessel. There, in the shadow of the Moon, he found the camp where repairs were directed.
“Brother Zamiel,” Marth said, only glancing up to nod in greeting. The changeling was well accustomed to Zamiel’s sudden appearances and disappearances.
“What progress?” Zamiel asked smoothly.
“Very little,” Marth said. “Moon’s basic structure is nearly intact, despite the frequent incursions of those annoying Ghost Talon harriers. The guards have them well in hand, for the most part. It is the Valenar who concern me more.”
“Valenar?” Zamiel asked. “Elves?”
“They invade the plains periodically,” Marth said. “Some of the lookouts say they’ve seen scouting parties, but there has been no violence yet.”
“If the Valenar sense opportunity, they will not attack until they have mustered force enough to overwhelm us,” Zamiel said.
Marth nodded. “I fear they have returned for reinforcements. The men are worried. They know the elves’ reputation.”
“I would not give it much thought,” Zamiel said. “If the elves seek booty, the halflings are much easier targets than we.”
“Perhaps,” Marth said, clearly unconvinced.
“Or perhaps they can be reasoned with,” Zamiel said. “The Valenar are honorable souls. We can always use more allies.” He looked at the wrecked airship. “When will she fly again?”
“A difficult question,” Marth said. He straightened as he studied the ship, focusing on the change of subject. “The elemental containment is, as I feared, unsalvageable. After studying her workings in detail, I am uncertain that the Moon would fly even if we secured a new bound elemental from Zil’argo. Ashrem customized upon the gnomish construction extensively. I fear we would need his genius to make the Moon rise again.”
“Disturbing,” the prophet said. “Why do you continue to repair her if there is no hope she will fly again?”