“This way, please, Master d’Thuranni,” Omax said coolly, leading him to the upper deck.
The crew gathered on the ship’s upper deck. The gnome climbed into his perch on the helm to watch Shaimin. Tristam paced in the bow, eyes searching the vast forest to the west. The halfling huddled in the corner next to his glidewing, hugging his knees to his chest in shock.
“Don’t believe what he says, Gerith,” Pherris said. “Don’t believe anything he says.”
“Now I know why Ashrem recruited zealots, sycophants, and criminals instead of heroes,” Shaimin said. “Dalan, your crew is altogether too sensitive for this sort of business.”
Dalan shrugged and tucked his hands into his pockets. He sat on a barrel near his cabin door with a grin. Shaimin wondered if d’Cannith was enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of not being the most distrusted person aboard the ship.
“Well, we’re all here now,” Tristam said. “Tell us what you know, Shaimin. Which way do we go?”
“And I am an elf of my word,” Shaimin said. “Turn your bearing northwest and stay parallel to the road by one mile. We should see his fortress in due time.”
“Aye,” Pherris said, turning to the ship’s controls. Karia Naille turned smoothly and soared off in the appropriate direction. “Master Snowshale, if you wouldn’t mind scouting ahead?”
The halfling nodded somberly, climbed onto his glidewing, and soared off over the forest.
“Truth be told, I’m a great deal more interested in the other information you offered,” Dalan said. “You said you knew where Marth planned to strike first.”
“Sharn,” Shaimin said.
“Khyber,” Tristam said. “Of course.”
“Sharn?” Ijaac repeated. “Is he after Norra?”
“If he is, that’s not his main goal,” Tristam said. “Sharn exists in a manifest zone, an area where the planes border very closely upon one another. The city’s connection to Syrania allows its artificers to build towers and floating structures that would otherwise be impossible.”
“If Marth activated the Legacy there, it could cause the entire city to collapse,” Dalan said.
“Why would he do that to all those people?” Pherris asked, horrified.
“Because he has become a madman,” Shaimin said. “He blames the surviving nations for the fate of Cyre. He believes the peace that now occupies Eberron to be an aberrant state. He wishes to reignite the War. The deaths he would cause in Cyre would only be the beginning of something much larger.”
“As insane as it sounds, it would work,” Dalan said grimly. “Sharn is a symbol of Brelish power, prestige, and prosperity. Were the city suddenly to be inexplicably destroyed, the entire kingdom of Breland would be thrown into chaos. The people would demand blood, demand vengeance, even if they weren’t sure exactly who was at fault. Old suspicions would flare into violence. The warmongers would have their day. Someone would be blamed-most likely Thrane, Aundair, or Karrnath. War would be upon us again.”
“I hope my motivations are somewhat clearer now,” Shaimin said stiffly. “Your personal opinions about my house and profession are irrelevant here. What kind of monster would I be if I condoned the murder of an entire city?”
“That isn’t going to happen,” Tristam said. “We aren’t going to let Marth do this.”
“Your defiance is admirable,” Shaimin answered, “but have you given any thought to what we intend to do when we find Fort Ash? The forest teems with undead, Marth’s guards have us terribly outnumbered, and then there is the matter of the Seventh Moon.”
“We’ve defeated the Moon before,” Pherris said.
“Narrowly,” Dalan added. “I don’t understand how Marth could have repaired her so rapidly. Tristam, didn’t you say you destroyed her elemental containment?”
Tristam nodded. “Marth must have removed the Dying Sun’s core and moved it into the Moon,” he said. “The Sun’s core really isn’t sufficient to deal with a ship that size. The Moon won’t be nearly as fast as we’re used to.”
“Small favors,” Pherris mumbled.
Tristam stopped pacing and looked directly at Shaimin. “How many undead did you see in the forest?”
“Dozens, at least,” Shaimin said. “Corporeal and incorporeal. They were apparently original residents. Marth has bound them to guard the forests beyond the fortress.”
“No,” Tristam said. “That’s impossible. Marth’s magic is powerful, but he’s no necromancer. He may be able to erect a ward to keep them out, but there’s no way he could command them to guard his fortress. Some of them would eventually wander off to seek prey.”
“Maybe they want to stay,” Ijaac said. “Remember, those ghouls at Zul’nadn haunted that temple for centuries.”
Tristam scratched his chin thoughtfully. “It’s possible,” he said. “I could see Marth using something like that to his advantage. I just wish I had some idea what sort of spells and infusions he used to produce that kind of effect.”
Shaimin coughed softly and took the Cyran badge from his pocket. He had intended to keep it for himself, just in case things went sour and he was forced to escape again. If Xain could put it to good use, perhaps he would never need escape in the first place. “Marth’s guards wear these,” Shaimin said. “As long as they remain near the road, whatever spells protect the fortress extend over them as well.”
Tristam eagerly took the badge from Shaimin, examining it for several moments. “This is very similar to the amulets the ghouls wore in Zul’nadn,” he said, amazed. “Instead of drawing upon ambient magical energy to bolster negative spirits, it draws upon it to repel them. Marth probably fashioned these after studying the undead in the Frostfell. I need to study it. It may give us the edge we need.” He hurried below deck.
“I’ll be in my cabin,” Dalan added, turning and opening the door. “Wake me if you need me. Or when things start catching fire.”
Shaimin sauntered toward the rear of the ship, doing his best to ignore the adamantine shadow that followed him. He glanced to his left and noticed Seren Morisse sitting on the ship’s railing, watching him quietly.
“Is there something I can do for you, Miss Morisse?” Shaimin asked, giving her an arch look.
“Did it really bother you so much?” she asked.
“Whatever do you mean?” he answered.
“Were you really so upset that you couldn’t kill Tristam that you had to give it one last attempt to prove that you could before you could ask for our help?” she asked.
“Yes,” Shaimin said, leaning back against the wall and lacing his fingers across his stomach.
“Don’t you think that’s a little childish?” she said. Her dark eyes burned with quiet, steady anger.
Shaimin couldn’t help but grin. “Of course,” he said. “But you must understand something, Seren. In my line of work, I have nothing more than my pride. Wealth is nothing. What use is political prestige to a killer? Maintaining a good reputation, while crucial, means very little if an assassin’s confidence wavers.”
“So you had to prove that you were Tristam’s equal?” Shaimin asked.
“Oh, I was always Tristam’s superior,” he said. “I could have killed the boy at any time. You were always the obstacle, Seren.”
“What?”
“You are quite lethal when you need to be,” the elf said. “Fired by your love of the boy, you fight quite fiercely. Sadly, when weakened by concern for him, you are vulnerable. Your killer instinct is somewhat delicate, too hampered by compassion. All the same, you have my respect. You have a great deal of potential.”