“How is Omax?” Tristam asked.
“It is difficult to say,” Mother Shinh said, glancing away evasively. “I’ve never seen a real warforged before, and certainly never treated one. Our normal medicines don’t do anything. Only my magic affects him and even that doesn’t heal him as wholly as it would a normal person.”
Dalan raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t mean your friend isn’t normal,” she amended. “I mean he isn’t a flesh and blood creature. I thought it was odd, at first, you people going to so much effort to keep a construct alive …”
“But then you spoke to him,” Dalan said.
“He is a gentle soul,” Shinh said, smiling fondly. “And so very wise. I’ve been trying to get him to sleep, but he’s stubborn.”
“Warforged don’t sleep,” Tristam said. “They don’t heal on their own, either. They can only be repaired.”
“I see,” Shinh said, a little embarrassed. “This is all new to us. We’re learning things every day, but I honestly don’t know if we can save him. Our healing spells are not replacing the broken metal quickly enough, and we have no one skilled enough to repair him.”
“You’ve done enough, helping him hold on this long,” Tristam said. “I’ll take things from here. Thank you.”
Mother Shinh looked at Dalan, confused. Dalan quickly drew a small pouch from his pocket and pressed it into the old halfling’s hands, clasping them warmly. “Your fee and more, Mother,” Dalan said. “If you require the aid of House Cannith, do not hesitate to call on me.”
Tristam pushed through the tent flap, Shinh and Dalan following him. Tristam knelt beside the warforged and slung the leather bag from his shoulder. He pulled the blankets away to inspect Omax’s injuries.
“You’re some sort of wizard, aren’t you?” Shinh asked.
“Artificer,” Tristam corrected.
The warforged turned his head weakly to face Tristam. His eyes shone only dimly. He looked a great deal better than he did after their escape from Metrol, but he was still seriously damaged. Large chunks of adamantine were missing from his torso. The smooth darkwood that granted his body flexibility was burned and splintered. A hoarse rumbling echoed in his chest.
“Don’t try to speak, Omax,” Tristam said. The artificer extended one hand, hands shining with a pale white light. The energy danced from his fingertips onto the warforged’s metal skin, sparks of magic winding through the damaged structure. “Just hold on.”
Omax nodded and lay back. The light in his eyes faded to almost nothing.
“You needed my help, Tristam?” Ijaac Bruenhail said. The dwarf looked around the inside of the tent. He gripped his morningstar in one hand, as if expecting a fight.
“Get his legs,” Tristam said. “Help me get him back onboard.”
The dwarf groaned at the idea of carrying Omax but did as requested. With some effort they carried the dense warforged to the stretcher and hauled him back aboard the ship. Once aboard, Tristam and Ijaac carried him out of the hold, laying him on the deck next to the ship’s helm. The rest of the crew had gathered, watching Tristam with varying degrees of confusion. Pherris Gerriman was tending the ship’s controls but spared Tristam a vexed glance.
“Korth?” the gnome captain asked.
“Aye,” Tristam said, digging in his bag again. “We need raw materials to repair this much damage.”
“Gavus Frauk,” Dalan said. “You intend to take him to the golemwright.”
“To the golemwright’s shop, anyway,” Tristam said. “I wouldn’t let Frauk touch Omax.” The artificer drew a length of thick metal wire out of his satchel. “The Canniths don’t build warforged anymore, but they build golems out of the same materials. Frauk will have what we need to fix a warforged-and he owes us.”
“Can Omax hang on long enough for us to reach Karrnath?” Seren asked, looking at the warforged with a worried expression.
Tristam fixed one end of the wire into the scar bisecting Omax’s chest. He spoke words of magic, fusing it to the warforged’s body. “That’s where Karia Naille’s favor comes in,” Tristam said. He held out the other end of the wire, weighted down with an improvised adamantine hook. He swung it in a few quick circles and hurled it straight up, latching it around the tall strut that embraced the ship’s fiery elemental ring.
“What are you doing, Tristam?” Aeven asked.
“The Dragon’s Eye drew upon a raw elemental force,” Tristam said. “I don’t entirely understand what it is-but I know what it does. I want Karia Naille to share her elemental energies with Omax. Let the fire we saw in Zul’nadn flow into him. That power was used to preserve the entire world once. We can use it to keep Omax alive.”
Tristam closed his eyes and concentrated. The ship’s elemental ring burned brilliant blue in reply. That same light extended the length of the thick cable. Omax’s back arched, and a deep groan erupted from him. His eyes shone with searing blue energy. Crackling blue sparks erupted from every joint in his damaged body. Tristam extended his hands, grasping Omax’s shoulders. The light in his eyes receded to its normal hue, though faint sparks of blue electricity still crackled across his body. Omax lay still once more.
“Karia Naille warns that what we attempt is dangerous,” Aeven said. “Such raw power could kill Omax as easily as it preserves him. She does not know how much a fragile form such as his can sustain.”
“Omax, fragile?” Ijaac scoffed.
“To an elemental creature such as Karia Naille, you are all fragile,” Aeven said.
“It’s all right,” Tristam said. “I know the ship doesn’t understand how he’s put together, but I do. I’ll stay here to help regulate the flow of power.”
“Korth is days from here, Tristam,” Dalan said. “You plan to watch him the entire time?”
“Yes,” Tristam said.
“I think that will do,” Pherris said gruffly. “I don’t doubt Master Xain has considered all the reasons why not to do this; there is no need to question him further. Omax is our friend. He deserves any chance we can give him. Unless one of you has a better idea how to save his life, I suggest we get on with this.” The gnome took the helm in both hands. “All hands, prepare for takeoff.”
SEVEN
In all her travels and studies, Norra Cais knew of only three places in all of Eberron that could truly boast larger libraries than that of Morgrave University. Despite her standard cynicism, she was impressed with the school’s wealth of knowledge. She had also come to appreciate Morgrave’s diversity. The masters of the school had long ago accepted that other colleges would always be afforded greater respect. Thus they were more willing to take measures to obtain information that other institutions might frown upon.
Master Larrian ir’Morgrave frequently hired independent experts to obtain prized volumes on behalf of the school. These explorers rarely had any real degree in their fields of study; sometimes their expertise consisted of good night vision, a sense of opportunity, and a crowbar. While the university did not officially condone theft, it did overlook the liberation of threatened manuscripts from areas of political turbulence. Depending on one’s point of view, nearly any part of Eberron could be reasoned to be an area of political turbulence. Many of the school’s most prized reference works had origins that were best not discussed. It didn’t matter. Morgrave University valued results. Its librarians were adept at removing bloodstains from leather and vellum.
The school’s collection of references concerning the Draconic Prophecy was particularly extensive. The Prophecy was a matter of keen interest to treasure hunters, as it often emerged in areas rich in valuable dragonshards. Those adventurers who failed to find the shards they sought often transcribed the Prophecy instead, knowing that the scholars in Dalannan Tower would pay a fair price.