Forge of the Mindslayers botf-2

by Tim Waggoner

  "You know, we all feel somewhat foolish for racing to your rescue." Makala gestured at a mound of bones sitting in a puddle of foul-smelling slime close by. Similar mounds of liquefied zombie remains covered most of the island. "From the looks of things, you were doing just fine on your own."

  "This night would have had a very different outcome if you hadn't arrived in time to pull that zombie off me." He reached up to touch the scratches on the left side of his neck and found them tacky with partially dried blood. After the confusion following the zombies' destruction, Diran had forgotten about the wounds and hadn't gotten around to healing himself yet.

  He saw how Makala's gaze fixed on his scratches, how her pupils widened and her nostrils flared. He lowered his hand, but her gaze remained on his neck.

  "Am I going to have to reach for my arrowhead?" He meant it as a joke, at least partially, but it came out sounding more like a threat.

  Makala tore her gaze away from Diran's neck with a start, and she shook her head as if to clear it. "I'm sorry. I can't help it."

  "I understand. We both once played host to dark spirits of a different sort."

  "That experience does help me resist the Hunger," Makala said, "but it's not the same. The dark spirits Emon Gorsedd forced upon us dwelled within our bodies. They whispered to us… manipulated us, but even so, they remained separate from us. The Hunger is different. It's always with me, and it never grows weaker, no matter how much I feed. The Hunger is me and I am it. We're inseparable."

  Diran realized he didn't understand, not really. "I take it that you have killed to sustain your life."

  She looked away from him and gazed out across the sea. Diran was struck by how pale she'd become. She'd always been fair-skinned, but now-here, in the moonlight-her flesh seemed white and smooth as marble. He wondered if he were to reach out and touched her if he'd find her skin cold as marble as well.

  "I try to avoid taking life when I can," she said in a soft voice. "Let's leave it at that."

  "As you wish."

  They fell into an uncomfortable silence. They spent the next several moments watching the others crawl about the lopsided deck of the Maelstrom.

  "The others are uneasy around me," Makala said. "I knew they would be, but it hurts." She gave him a quick smile. "At least you're not treating me like a monster."

  "Try not to blame them," Diran said. "None of them has known you for as long as I have-and Tresslar and Hinto barely know you at all."

  She gave him a sideways glance. "You forgot to mention Asenka." A hint of ice had crept into her voice.

  "We only met today."

  "She likes you, Diran. I can tell." A pause. "Do you like her?"

  Diran felt uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking. "As I said, we just met. She seems to be a competent commander."

  "Is that all you think of her?"

  Diran looked at the eastern horizon and saw the first hint of dawn pinking the night sky.

  "The sun will be rising soon."

  "I know. I can feel it." Makala stood. She started to walk toward the water, but then she stopped and spoke without turning back around to face him. "I've learned a great deal about my… condition… over the last few months. It's hard to live with the Hunger but not impossible. If I can do it, Diran, I know you can. We could be together. Forever."

  Without waiting for a response, Makala continued walking to the sea. Just as she was about to step into the water, her form blurred and she took to the air in bat form. She soared toward the Zephyr, once more assuming human shape as she landed upon the deck of the sloop. She then climbed into the obsidian sarcophagus and drew the lid closed over her. An instant later, a ray of sunlight broke over the horizon. It was soon followed by more, but despite their warmth, they did nothing to drive away the chill surrounding Diran's heart.

  Many miles to the west, across the Gulf of Ingjald and well into the foothills of the Hoarfrost Mountains, the first light of dawn also touched Mount Luster. Despite the mountain's name, however, the sun's rays did nothing to make its dull gray surface look any less dull or any less gray.

  Inside the hollowed-out mountain, Aldarik Cathmore stood outside the workshop where Galharath continued to work on Solus. Chagai sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows propped on his knees, eyes closed, chin on his chest. The orc mercenary had learned long ago to rest when he could, and after his journey to Perhata and back-not to mention his "reunion" with Ghaji-his body needed it.

  Chagai was unable to do more than doze fitfully, though, for Cathmore's constant fidgeting and fussing kept waking him. For an elderly human, the man seemed to have a vast supply of energy. He put Chagai in mind of a flame that flares most brightly just before going out.

  Chagai spoke without opening his eyes. "Galharath will be finished when he's finished. Your pacing isn't going to make things go any faster."

  Cathmore's footsteps stopped. "I appreciate your advice, but you'll forgive me if I ignore it. Your kind isn't exactly known for its wisdom, after all."

  Chagai felt an urge to draw his lips back from his teeth, but he didn't want Cathmore to know that he'd gotten to him, so the orc resisted the impulse. "Wisdom is where you find it," he said.

  Cathmore laughed. "It appears I have an orc philosopher on my hands!"

  Employer or not, Chagai thought it high time that he taught the old man a lesson in respect. He leaped to his feet and rushed Cathmore, fist cocked and ready to strike. Chagai didn't see Cathmore move, but the elderly assassin now held a dagger, and what's more, it was pressed against the orc's throat. An acrid smell floated to Chagai's nostrils, and he knew that the blade as coated with poison. He didn't recognize the scent, but he had no doubt that whatever the substance was, it was deadly.

  Cathmore's mouth stretched into a slow, wide smile, and his eyes glittered with an unsettling dark light that Chagai had never seen in the man's gaze before.

  "Lower your hand, orc, or you'll be dead before your body hits the floor."

  Chagai had been the one to attack, and to back down now would bring much dishonor to him. On the other hand, honor didn't mean a thing if you were dead.

  Chagai lowered his hand.

  Cathmore grinned at the orc a moment longer before slowly removing the daggerpoint away from his throat. "I assure you, Chagai, the next time you decide to test me will be your last. Do you understand?"

  The orc answered through gritted teeth. "I do."

  "Very good." With surprising deftness for one whose hands resembled vulture claws, Cathmore returned the dagger to its hiding place somewhere within the folds of his bearskin cloak. "At least your impetuosity has served to entertain me while we wait, and for that I thank you." The master assassin turned his back on Chagai and began pacing once more.

  Chagai stood there for a moment longer before returning to the spot where he had been resting. He sat but this time he didn't lower his head or close his eyes. Instead he kept his smoldering gaze fixed on Cathmore and amused himself by imagining all the different ways he could make the old man suffer before he died.

  Solus stood high atop a mountainous peak, white clouds drifting past at astonishing speed, though the air seemed still. Solus had only left the interior of Mount Luster a handful of times since the facility had been abandoned, but during those brief excursions into the outer world, he had learned that he did not experience existence the same way flesh beings did. He felt changes in temperature, but they meant little to him in regard to his own personal comfort, and while he also felt wind, he experienced it only as varying degrees of pressure against his solid body. He knew from the swirling, confused tangle of memories belonging to the four minds that he had absorbed that such physical sensations as the feel of sunlight on skin, of a breeze ruffling one's hair were far different and more intense that what he could experience on his own. He felt a pang of loss for something he had never known save through the memories of others.

  Solus gazed down from his vantage point high upon the mounta
in and saw a city spread out below him, and beyond it, a slate-gray mass of water that stretched for mile after mile toward the eastern horizon. Though he had never seen such a sight before, the memories he had accidentally stolen from his makers whispered that he was looking at a vast body of water called the sea.

  "Lovely, isn't it?"

  Solus turned to see that he wasn't alone. Standing on the mountaintop next to him was a tall, lithe figure sporting a long brown ponytail braid woven with multicolored crystals. Solus felt no fear upon seeing the man, only mild curiosity blended with a sense of familiarity, as if he'd seen the man somewhere before, but that was impossible, of course. Aside from some representatives from House Cannith who'd come to investigate what had happened at the Mount Luster facility a few weeks after Solus's birth, the psi-forged had never seen another living being… or had he?

  "Who are you?"

  The tall man smiled, and Solus's stolen memories whispered that it was a warm, friendly smile. "My name is Galharath. I am your friend."

  Solus did not possess facial features capable of expression, but if he had, he would've frowned. "How can this be so? I do not know you." Yet he couldn't escape the feeling that he did know this man, this Galharath, only he couldn't remember from where.

  The man put a hand on Solus's shoulder, and the psi-forged saw that Galharath wore leather gauntlets containing more crystals embedded over the knuckles. The crystals pulsed with soft, gentle light-and they pulsed in time with the glow emanating from the larger crystal shard attached to the front of Galharath's vest. Solus thought this detail was important, but he wasn't sure why.

  "You may not know me now, but you knew me once," Galharath said, "before your memories were taken from you."

  "My memories… taken?"

  "You still retain a few faint echoes of memory, the merest scraps of the knowledge you once possessed. I have some small skill with matters of the mind, and I've been working to restore your memories but without success. I have come to realize that your memories aren't simply damaged. They are gone, and this is the man who took them."

  Galharath turned the palm of his free hand upward. Colors shimmered into existence above his hand and formed the image of a human male's face with long black hair and a lean, wolfish aspect. His gaze was hard and cold, the gaze of a man who felt no pity and gave no mercy.

  "Is that him? The man you say took my memories?"

  "It is. His name is Diran Bastiaan-a worshipper of evil gods whose only reason for existence is to spread misery across Khorvaire. He is the one who has your memories. Only by confronting him can we hope to get them back."

  Solus didn't take his gaze off the face of Diran Bastiaan as he spoke. "How can we do that?"

  "As I told you, I have some ability with matters of the mind. You also possess great strength of your own. Though Bastiaan is stronger than either of us alone, together we shall prove more than a match for his dark power."

  Solus continued gazing at the image of Diran Bastiaan's face. He certainly looked like a man capable of the kind of evil that Galharath described, yet Solus couldn't help feeling that something wasn't right here, that he was missing something vital, though he had no idea what that might be.

  "Your thoughts are in such turmoil, my friend." Galharath's tone was sympathetic and caring. "It pains me to think of the confusion that torments you so. Help me to heal you. Help me find Diran Bastiaan, and together we shall reclaim that which is rightfully yours."

  Solus looked at the image hovering in the air above Galharath's palm for an instant longer before reaching out and closing his three-fingered hand around Diran Bastiaan's face, snuffing it out of existence.

  "Where is this monster?" Solus asked.

  Smiling, Galharath pointed to the city spread out below them.

  Chagai got to his feet when he heard the sounds of movement coming from within the workshop. A moment later, the psi-forged strode forth with heavy footfalls, Galharath following close behind.

  "Were you successful?" Cathmore asked, voice tight with barely restrained excitement.

  "I was," the kalashtar said, "and we can speak freely. Our friend is now the sole inhabitant of his own private mindscape. He shall see and hear only what I permit-as long as I remain close to him, that is."

  Solus didn't pause during this exchange. He continued walking toward the stairs at the far end of the workshop level.

  "Perhaps you succeeded too well, artificer," Chagai said. "We'll have to get moving if we don't want the construct to leave us behind."

  "Indeed," Cathmore said. "Let's go." The elderly assassin started hobbling after the psi-forged, Galharath and Chagai on either side of him.

  Asenka stood toward the aft of the Zephyr, though not so close that she could overhear what Yvka and Ghaji were saying to each other. Though in truth, given the howling wind that poured forth from the elemental containment ring to fill the sloop's sails, she would've had to be standing right next to the two lovers to hear anything. Still, she wanted to give them their privacy, so she stayed where she was.

  Hinto slept inside the Zephyr's cabin, while Tresslar stood at the port railing holding his dragonwand out almost as if it were a fishing rod. Asenka had no idea what the artificer was doing, but he appeared to be in deep concentration, so she didn't wish to disturb him, and Makala… Asenka's eyes strayed to the obsidian sarcophagus resting on the deck between the containment ring and the cabin. She was close enough to the stone coffin that it would only take half a dozen steps for her to reach it. She wished they didn't have to keep the damned thing above deck, but the Zephyr was a small vessel built for speed, not hauling cargo, and there wasn't enough room below. She knew that the sarcophagus couldn't be opened from the inside, and that even if Makala did somehow get out, she wouldn't be able to withstand the light of the sun. Even so, she didn't feel comfortable with the thing-and the creature it contained-always present, and it seemed she wasn't the only one who felt that way, though perhaps for different reasons.

  Diran stood at the bow of the Zephyr, gripping the railing to steady himself, his long black hair billowing behind him in the wind. His cloak barely stirred in the breeze, and Asenka knew that was because the daggers sheathed inside the inner lining weighted it down. The priest hadn't said much since coming aboard the Zephyr, and no one had made an issue of his silence. They'd also obviously made a point of leaving him alone. Asenka felt sorry for Diran. From what she gathered, this was the first time he'd seen Makala since her transformation into a vampire… a transformation that for some reason Diran felt responsible for. She wanted to go to him and be a sympathetic ear if nothing else, but she couldn't bring herself to disturb his self-imposed solitude, much as she might wish otherwise.

  Asenka's thoughts turned to what had occurred so far during their journey back to Perhata. So swiftly did the elemental sloop travel that they'd already encountered the Water Dragon, still only two-thirds of the way to Demothi Island. Yvka had stopped the Zephyr long enough for Asenka to tell the Sea Scorpions what had happened and order them to return home. She felt somewhat foolish doing so, for it pointed up the fact that Diran hadn't needed her and her people at all. The priest's friends had proved quite capable of coming to his aid all on their own-if only to give Diran and Ghaji a ride back to Perhata.

  Asenka still couldn't believe that Diran and Ghaji had broken the curse on Demothi Island by themselves. She didn't know why she had ever imagined she might be of any use to them… to him. She wasn't a war veteran or an adventurer. She was just the fleet commander for a third-rate barony in a region teeming with them. As the saying went in the Principalities, there are more fish in the Lhazaar than barons, but only just.

  At least her baron wouldn't have to worry about Haaken and the Coldhearts anymore. Though not all of their bodies had been found, Asenka felt confident that they had perished either at the hands of Diran and Ghaji or when their ship had run aground. Either way, they were no longer a concern, and it would be some time before Baroness Calida
could rebuild her fleet. Until that happened, Perhata would control the Gulf of Ingjald. Baron Mahir would certainly be pleased, even if the victory wasn't the Sea Scorpions' doing.

  Though the sun was well above the eastern horizon now and the sky was clear, it was still quite cold aboard the Zephyr, and Asenka thought the wind stirred up by their swift passage was only partially to blame. She also noticed that thin patches of ice coated the deck and railing in numerous places-the first ice she had seen since the elemental sloop had set sail the night before. Since she didn't have anything else to do, she decided to go speak to Tresslar about it. Besides, it would give her a chance to find out just what the artificer was doing with his wand. She headed over to join Tresslar and, not wishing to break his concentration, she waited for him to acknowledge her presence. When he didn't, she spoke up.

  "There are patches of ice on the ship."

  Tresslar didn't turn to look at her. "Hmm?"

  "I think something might be wrong with whatever warming spell you placed on the Zephyr."

  That got the artificer's attention. He snapped his head around to face her, features twisted into a disapproving scowl. "What are you talking about? When I cast a spell, it…" He trailed off and rubbed his free hand over a tiny spot of ice on the railing in front of him. His expression softened, as did his tone. "Oh. I see what you mean. I'll tend to it at once."

  Tresslar touched the golden dragonhead on the end of his wand to the ice on the railing. As near as Asenka could tell, the artificer didn't do anything, but a moment later tiny curls of steam issued forth from the dragonhead's nostrils-though there didn't appear to be any sort of opening in them. The steam touched the ice, melting it instantly. The wispy coils didn't evaporate, though. Instead they began to expand, spreading all along the port railing, then-Asenka looked over her shoulder-to the starboard railing. The steam, moving more like fog now, rolled down the railing and onto the deck, picking up speed as it spread. It coated the deck, the cabin, the mast and sails, and even the containment ring and Yvka's chair, though it never touched any of the people on the Zephyr. There was only one other thing that the steam didn't come in contact with: Makala's obsidian coffin. The warm white mist passed around the black sarcophagus, coming no closer than three inches to the unholy dark stone. Once it had covered the entire ship, the steam-coating lingered for several seconds before finally dissipating in the wind.