“Who goes there?” she demanded, holding out her spear and shortsword. Brilliant light shone from the spear’s head, filling the stairs below.
The twang of three crossbows issued in reply. Eraina did not flinch. The bolts struck her chest harmlessly and fell on the stairs with a clatter. Three gruff-looking men stood on the stairs beneath, staring up at her in awe. Each now held an unloaded crossbow.
“Khyber,” one swore and reached for the knife at his belt.
Eraina did not hesitate. Planting her spear against the stairs for balance, she lunged forward and planted her foot in the nearest man’s chest. He yelped and rolled backward, seizing the railing in time but sending his friend tumbling into the void. He landed on the ground floor with a crack. The third man leapt over his fallen friend and charged Eraina with a stout pipe, rushing inside her reach before she could swing. She punched him sharply in the throat with the hilt of her sword and he fell backward. She swung her spear in a deadly arc, leaving a trail of red across his chest. He fell backward, screaming, down the stairs. The surviving thief clung to the railing as his dead friend rolled past. He held his knife in his free hand, looking up at Eraina in terror.
“Stay back,” he said, though he could barely force the words out for his terror.
Eraina sneered and struck out with her sword, viciously slapping the man’s wrist with the flat of the blade and sending his dagger flying into the depths. She sheathed her blade and seized his collar in a twisting grip, dragging him to his feet. She held the point of her broad-bladed spear an inch from his eye.
“Who sent you?” she demanded.
The man looked up at her, terrified. “Nobody sent us!” he said. “Three against one seemed like an easy mark is all! Please don’t kill me!”
“I walk a path of compassion,” Eraina said. “I kill only to defend myself or my charge. You are no threat to me.”
“Thank the Host,” the man whimpered.
“You should,” Eraina said. “Boldrei has given you mercy, but I have no time to spare you kindness.” She leaned her spear against the wall and punched him hard in the temple with a mailed fist. Taking her spear back, she left him lying in an unconscious heap on the stairs. She frowned uncomfortably at the two corpses as she reached the bottom of the stairs. As usual, the rush of combat took all certainty with it. Now that the battle was over, her doubts returned, little by little. These men had been wicked, but could there have been another way? Was redemption beyond them? Now there was no chance for them and she was to blame-again. She could not bring herself to pray for forgiveness; she suspected she deserved none.
But doubt could wait till later. Eraina peered out of the tower, wary of any more accomplices that might lay in wait. Either there were none or they had wisely fled when the screams began. As the excitement of the battle faded, something stuck in Eraina’s mind. She looked back at the tower door. It hung wide open. The doorknob and lock were missing, probably scavenged by some enterprising local decades ago. Eraina frowned.
An airship was a highly valuable piece of property. Only a fool would land one unguarded in a neighborhood such as this, yet Galas said that there were no guards or obvious crew. It had taken only a matter of minutes for a band of thugs to follow her in here. An airship would not have survived docked to an unlocked tower without incident, not even for one night, unless other precautions were taken.
Eraina stepped back inside the tower and looked at the door frame. There, where the door’s lock used to be, she saw a strange pattern etched into the wood. She prayed to her goddess, drawing upon Boldrei’s wisdom to grant her insight. The pattern glowed blue to her eyes, displaying an intricate pattern of magical energy. It was a ward, intended to seal the door against outside entry until the proper command was given. It was inactive now, but that was not what truly interested Eraina. Like any form of art, magic was given to particular styles. To the trained eye such things quickly became recognizable. She noticed a looping curve in the runes here, a signature flare there, and the particular pigment of the ink was also noteworthy.
This ward was made by a Cannith, or someone who had been trained by them.
Many possibilities ran through Eraina’s mind. Could one of Cannith’s underlings have made plans with Seren to obtain the book, kill Jamus, and burn his master’s house to conceal the crime? Other than Dalan, there were no members of House Cannith in Wroat who were wealthy enough to possess such an airship, and any who had such holdings would probably be so highly ranked in their house they could have simply demanded that Dalan surrender the book. That left only Dalan d’Cannith. Could he still be alive? Why would Seren betray and kill Jamus only to turn the book over to the man she had stolen it from? Who had burned Dalan’s home? Who was the mysterious Lhazaarite who had murdered the guards, and why was Dalan consorting with him?
Too many questions, but at least this was a beginning. Now Eraina knew what to do. Once she had alerted the Watch to the thief and two corpses she had left behind, she could pursue the matter in earnest.
Marshal Eraina d’Deneith climbed into her saddle and galloped away through the streets of Wroat.
CHAPTER 9
Seren woke with a pounding headache and a knifelike pain in her back. All about her was darkness. She sat up awkwardly, feeling around for some sense of her environment. She did not remember this room, nor how she came to be here. She felt a pang of alarm when she realized the knife at her belt was gone. Had she been wrong to trust d’Cannith’s strange crew? Had they decided not to trust her after all and locked her in the brig? A thousand paranoid theories burned through Seren’s mind.
Fear swallowed all rational thought as two pale blue lights suddenly shone in the darkness. The dim light was followed a moment later by a small lantern flaring to life, held by the warforged, Omax. Seren lay on a narrow cot in a cramped chamber. The warforged knelt in the center of the room, holding the lantern in one hand. A small table stood beside the cot. Seren’s dagger lay atop it, still sheathed. She quickly snatched the weapon and huddled in the corner, as far away from the construct as she could. The weapon would do her little good if Omax was hostile, but some chance was better than nothing.
“Hello, Seren,” Omax said in his deep, measured voice. “Are you feeling better?”
“What am I doing here?” she asked. “What are you doing here?”
“The captain felt it best if one of us remained to watch over you,” Omax said. “Sky sickness can leave one confused and disoriented. We did not wish to see you come to harm. I apologize if I frightened you.”
As the initial terror passed, Seren began to remember the events of the previous day. The ship had continued her steady pace over the Brelish landscape. Seren had spent the better part of the first day helping Gerith and Omax tend to the ship, keeping the decks clean and preparing the meals. While helping scrub the aft deck, she had begun to feel unusually ill and could not remember anything after that.
“Sky sickness?” she asked, tucking the dagger into her belt. She felt rather foolish for her paranoia but saw little need to apologize to the construct.
Omax nodded. “The enchantments that keep a ship like this afloat also provide some modicum of comfort, but they are not perfect,” he said. “The air is much thinner and colder than you are used to. The movements of the ship itself can be disorienting. A human not accustomed to the conditions can easily be overcome with exhaustion without any warning.”
“I see,” she said. Seren climbed off her pallet. Her thighs felt rubbery and sore, and for a moment her legs threatened not to support her. Omax held out a metal hand and she seized it for support. She pulled away just as quickly, unnerved by the construct’s thick metal fingers. She had expected them to be cold, but Omax was warm, like a living creature.