“But this time Karia Naille might not be here to catch us,” Seren warned.
“Try not to think about that,” Tristam said. “I saw life rings up on the deck. Maybe we’ll have time to run up and grab one. Their enchantments are usually strong enough to carry a few people float safely to the ground at one time. Most of the time.”
Shaimin glanced behind them uncomfortably. “You say this is how you disabled the Seventh Moon last time?” he asked.
“Almost exactly what we did last time,” Tristam said. He reached for the door of the containment chamber.
“Wait, Tristam,” Shaimin warned, but he spoke too late.
As Tristam opened the door, several hatches opened in the hallway behind them. A dozen Cyran soldiers stepped out, aiming crossbows at them. Marth waited patiently in the chamber beyond, amethyst wand in one hand. The walls of the housing chamber were still blackened with smoke from Tristam and Marth’s last battle here. The ship’s old core was a shattered husk. The glass half of the floor was still shattered, creating a yawning void between Tristam and Marth. The airship had ascended so high that the land below was only partially visible through the pouring rain.
“Hello, Tristam,” Marth said.
“You were expecting us,” Tristam answered.
Marth sighed. “Throughout this adventure I have suffered terribly for underestimating you, Tristam,” the changeling said. “Now you have some understanding of how I feel.”
“You moved the ship’s core,” Tristam said.
Marth shrugged. “When I rebuilt her, yes. After going to all the trouble to repair Kenshi Zhann, why leave her vulnerable to your sabotage again? Not to mention I wasn’t looking forward to cleaning this room anyway. You truly made a mess of this place.” He looked at the shattered floor and scorched walls with distaste.
“Are you going to kill us?” Shaimin asked.
“I should,” Marth said. “Two weeks ago I might have. Difficult to say. Now, things have changed. None of you are any further danger to me, and you’re about to replace me as pawns in a larger game. So I leave the choice to you. Drop your weapons and return to the main deck. I shall explain everything that is about to happen.”
“I’ve already heard your rhetoric, old friend,” Shaimin said. “I’ll take my chances with the storm before I sit through it again.”
The elf took a step forward and fell through the gaping floor. Tristam instinctively lunged forward to catch him and would have fallen out himself if Omax had not quickly seized his arm. He was too late. Shaimin was gone. Under any other circumstances that might have been a relief.
“Count on an elf to opt for the dramatic ending,” Marth said. “The rest of you, please drop your weapons and surrender to my soldiers.”
Tristam dropped his wand. He heard Seren drop her dagger as well. A guard stepped forward and pulled his wrists behind his back, binding them with coarse rope. Another did the same with Seren, while yet another produced thick manacles to bind Omax. Seren cast him a confused look, which he returned in kind as they were led to the upper deck. This didn’t make sense. Why was Marth allowing them to live?
On the upper deck, Cyran soldiers were just dumping the last of the fallen undead over the side. Others carried their fallen brethren below deck. Tristam tried not to look at them. Though they were enemies, the guilt for what he had done to invade their fortress weighed heavily upon him. It seemed especially pointless now. Their deaths had been for nothing.
Marth emerged from a door on the opposite side of the deck. His pale eyes searched the storm curiously. “I would have thought Karia Naille would have come for you by now,” he said. “Every time she appears in my life, there is always a storm. How do you manage that, Tristam? You are no Lyrandar. Surely weather control is beyond your simple talents.”
Tristam didn’t say anything. He glared at the changeling and took some satisfaction that he knew something Marth did not, for once. Seren and Omax stood to either side of him. The guards stood in a half-circle around them, keeping their crossbows ready.
Marth sighed. “I suppose it is irrelevant. Captain Gerriman knows better than to challenge me directly. Your ship’s speed may be greater, but my weapons will tear her from the sky.”
“The Mourning Dawn defeated you before,” Tristam said.
Marth sneered. “You understand nothing, Xain,” he said. “Let me show you something.”
The airship banked and made a wide turn. Far below them, Tristam could see Fort Ash, awash with turmoil. Cyran soldiers and undead monstrosities tore into one another on the walls, in the courtyard, and even in the forest beyond. Marth drew a small sphere of shimmering black glass from the pocket of his silken vest. He cupped it in one palm and closed his eyes, slowly drawing the tips of his fingers in a circle over its surface.
“My apologies, Omax,” Marth said. “I always admired you, but you brought this fate upon yourself.”
A sensation of bitter cold washed over the deck of the Seventh Moon. Lightning flashed through the air around them, leaving the smell of burnt ozone. Tristam felt a strange, numb sensation fall over him as his ability to sense magic began to ebb. Beside him, Omax groaned in pain and fell to one knee. The blue light in his eyes flickered.
“You’re using the Legacy?” Tristam said, looking at Omax in horror. “You’ll kill him!”
“The irony stuns me,” Marth said. “It is acceptable for you to unleash an army of horrors to murder my followers, but I should not kill one of yours to protect them? We are not as different from one another as you like to believe, Tristam.”
A shockwave of energy rippled out from the Seventh Moon, washing over the forest and castle below. Above them, the clouds parted as the storm melted away in a perfect sphere around them. As the Legacy’s effect passed over the land, the undead … stopped. The ghouls and zombies fell dead where they stood. The ghosts were simply no more. The Cyrans stood dumfounded in their fortress, weapons at the ready. After a few moments, Tristam could hear the distant sound of their cheers.
“Stop,” Tristam said, as Omax toppled, leaning forward on one shoulder. “He’s dying.”
“Then remember Omax’s death,” Marth said. “Take vengeance on the one responsible once I am gone. I do not shirk responsibility for what I have done or what I am about to do-but there is another who shares in my crimes.”
“What are you talking about?” Tristam demanded.
“Leave us,” Marth said, looking to his men.
“Captain, is that wise?” the closest soldier replied.
“You heard me,” Marth repeated, glowering dangerously. “Leave us.”
Omax slumped facedown upon the deck. Tristam wanted to go to him, to help him, but he knew at this point there was nothing he could do. He looked at Seren helplessly. She stared at Marth with murder in her eyes.
“We are pawns, all of us,” Marth said, pacing the deck. “Zamiel drew upon Ashrem d’Cannith for his expertise, but Ashrem’s morality grew burdensome. It was Zamiel who warned Ashrem of the Day of Mourning, knowing that he would rush to his death trying to stop it.” Marth frowned.
A flicker of movement near the bow of the ship caught Tristam’s attention, but he kept his eyes focused on Marth. A slim figure in dark clothing climbed over the rail of the ship and quickly darted behind a stack of barrels. Shaimin. The elf waved at Tristam and ducked back into his hiding place. How was it possible? Then again, Tristam hadn’t seen any trace of the elf falling. Could Shaimin have clung to the Seventh Moon’s hull and climbed his way back up to the deck?
“Zamiel drew upon me because he knew I was weak,” Marth said. “I was easily twisted by my petty bloodlust and thirst for revenge, especially once Cyre was destroyed. I fear soon the time will come when I am of no further use for him either.”