Rise of the Seventh Moon: Heirs of Ash, Book 3

Praise for Rich Wulf’s
Voyage of the Mourning Dawn …


Voyage of the Mourning Dawn
is a soaring adventure with great characters and an intriguing mystery. I can’t wait to see where Rich Wulf takes his story in
Flight of the Dying Sun.

— Don Bassingthwaite
Author of
The Killing Song


The Legacy, the ultimate doomsday weapon, is reborn—and it lies in the hands of a madman

The black sphere in Marth’s hand seethed with bitter cold. The smell of burnt ozone singed the air. Below him, the city of Sharn was thrown into chaos. Already he could see fires erupting in the lower reaches of the city from the crashed airships. Alarm bells echoed throughout Skyway. Lights flickered in the buildings ahead as citizens roused from their slumber. The Brelish airships, thrown into chaos, pursued the
Seventh Moon
at a distance. They were hardly even worth concern

The ship gained speed again, soaring deeper into Sharn. Marth saw lights rising from the floating island like hornets stirred from their nest. Some were the burning rings of airships, flying out to reinforce the fleet. Others might be skycoaches attempting to flee the city or even the gleaming staves of wizards flying under the power of their own magic. A squad of swift Brelish airships darted up from the streets below, soaring toward the
in formation

The airships attacked with a desperate volley of fire, lightning, and raw arcane power. The changeling’s hand tightened around the glass sphere, and the Legacy lashed out




Voyage of the Mourning Dawn


Flight of the Dying Sun


Rise of the Seventh Moon


The Heirs of Ash • Book Three
©2007 Wizards of the Coast LLC.


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Breland, near Ringbriar

ristam climbed atop the shattered tower, puffed out his chest, and attempted to look impressive. He was a skinny youth, so this was a difficult task. At least his long coat flapped dramatically in the chill autumn wind.

Beneath him, only a few paces away, the four men were digging through the rubble. They took no notice of him just yet, sifting out metal scraps and tossing them in a wagon. They wore faded uniforms, worn and bloodstained but recognizable as those of Brelish soldiers. Each had a large sword lying within easy reach. Tristam’s shoulders slumped and his courage faltered; he had thought there were only two. He considered retreating to rethink his plan. He glanced around for a quiet path back down the rubble heap. One of the soldiers turned to add a large scrap to their haul and paused to stare blankly at the strange boy standing above them.

“Who in Khyber is that?” the man said, dropping the metal in the wagon.

There was no retreating now. Not with his dignity intact. There was only one option—pure, stupid bravado.

“Hold, villains!” Tristam cried, sweeping out his hand in a flourish. “Step away from your weapons and I will show mercy.”

“Hold, villains?” one of them said, surprised. He turned to
his comrade. “Veran, did that boy actually say ‘Hold, villains’ to us?”

The other man blinked. “I think he actually did.”

“Sounds like a Lhazaarite,” said the first man, returning to his work. “They’ve got a liking for drama. Ignore him. He’s just a harmless brat.”

Tristam’s face darkened. He considered backing away in shame. He was heavily outnumbered, after all. But no, he couldn’t leave now. He had an important task to complete, and these men were interfering. That wasn’t even considering what they might do if they discovered what he had been working on. He drew his sword.

Four pairs of eyes moved instantly at the sound. Their amusement and playful indifference vanished. The men watched Tristam with the dead eyes of experienced soldiers. The nearest, Veran, drew his his own sword from its scabbard.

“Don’t be stupid,” Veran said. “Why would you want to get in our way?”

“You’re grave robbers,” Tristam said. “By your uniforms, I’m guessing you’re deserters as well. Worst of all”—he pointed at the wagon full of metal scrap—“you’re stealing the House Cannith property that I have been sent to collect.”

The men blanched at that. The law could reach only so far. The Brelish army could spare only so many resources to find them. But only a fool crossed the House of Making. House Cannith’s reach extended into every city in Khorvaire. The Cannith guildhouses commanded the loyalty of nations.

Veran’s eyes hardened as he took a step forward. “If this scrap belongs to House Cannith, then they shouldn’t have sent a lone boy to collect it,” he said.

The others drew their swords and grouped close behind Veran, advancing to surround Tristam’s high perch.

Tristam reached into his coat with his free hand and drew out a thin ivory wand. He spoke a word of magic and released a bolt of crackling electricity at the nearest soldier’s feet, hurling him backward in a cloud of smoke and debris. The soldiers scattered. Tristam leaped from the rocky spire and ran, trying to take advantage of the distraction.

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