Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2

by Tim Waggoner

  Diran’s anger faded to be replaced by guilt. As if sensing his friend’s change of emotion, Ghaji put a hand on Diran’s shoulder.

  “You’re not to blame for what happened to Makala,” the half-orc said. “You did everything you could to save her.”

  “My everything wasn’t enough, was it?” Diran said. He wanted to pull away from Ghaji and stalk off into the night. But instead he took a deep breath, centered himself, and let the air out slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and more than a touch weary. “Are you suggesting I’m driving us all so hard because I’m trying to make up for failing her?”

  Ghaji smiled. “I’m just a dumb half-orc, remember?”

  Diran laughed. “Very well. We shall leave it up to Tresslar and Hinto. If they want to stay the night, we shall. If not, we’ll start back for Perhata. Agreed?”

  “Agreed.” Ghaji’s smile fell away then. “At the risk of straining our friendship even further, I think you should consider having a talk with Hinto. If he continues to accompany us on our ‘hunts,’ he’s going to get hurt, perhaps even killed.” The half-orc paused before adding, “Or worse.”

  Diran didn’t have to ask his friend what he meant by or worse. He meant something like what had happened to Makala. Diran remembered the last time he’d seen her face—skin pale, canine teeth elongated, eyes blazing with hunger …

  He’d already failed one of his companions. He wasn’t going to fail another.

  “I’ll talk to him the next chance I get,” Diran said.

  Ghaji nodded and the two companions started back toward the campfire, walking together, but each alone with his own thoughts.

  Hinto and Tresslar opted to remain camped for the night and get an early start come dawn. They spread out their bedrolls around the fire and decided in what order they’d stand watch. As a priest, Diran could erect certain wards about their camp—some mystical, some physical—but these would only fend off undead or infernal creatures. More mundane threats would have to be detected by eyes and ears and met with cold steel. Diran selected the first watch, Ghaji the second, Tresslar the third, and Hinto the last. As the others settled into their bedrolls and drifted off to sleep, Diran sat cross-legged on the ground and concentrated on entering a meditative trance that would allow him to remain in a state of semi-wakefulness, senses alert, mind vigilant, for the entire night. Letting his friends have their sleep might not make up for the way he’d been driving them the last few months, but it would be a start. On the morrow, Ghaji would likely accuse Diran of taking the entire night’s watch as a way to punish himself, and the half-orc would be right, but then, Diran thought with a smile, a little self-flagellation was good for the soul. He closed his eyes halfway, slowed his breathing, and settled in to keep watch over his friends.

  And so the night passed.

  The four companions reached the outskirts of Perhata by noon. Their journey back had been uneventful, and if it hadn’t been for the cold winds blowing down from the north, it might have been almost pleasant.

  Though the citizens of Perhata referred to their home as a “city,” in truth it was more like a ramshackle village. The docks were old and badly in need of repair or complete replacement. The outer buildings were unpainted shacks, their wood worn and weathered, the structures so rickety they looked as if a strong rainfall might batter them to the ground. The buildings in the center of Perhata were somewhat sturdier, though hardly more attractive: square gray-stone buildings of one or two stories. Even the baron’s “palace” was of similarly plain construction, though it stood three stories high and was surrounded by a stone wall topped with rusty iron spikes to discourage unwanted visitors. The streets of central Perhata were paved, though their brick surface was often cracked and warped. The streets in the rest of the city were nothing but dirt and mud—given the city’s proximity to the sea, more of the latter than the former. A cold breeze wafted in off the Lhazaar, filling the air with the salty tang of seawater. From any point in the city one could hear the cries of gulls, the shouts of sailors, and the lap of waves breaking against the pier.

  The companions had a pair of rooms at a dockside inn called the King Prawn. The establishment’s grandiose name belied the rather modest accommodations it offered, but it was the best they could afford, which meant they probably wouldn’t contract a fatal disease by staying there. As they walked down the street toward the inn, they passed men and women of various races—humans, half-elves, and gnomes being the most common. Most were dressed warmly and huddled within cloaks of thick cloth or fur with the hoods up. With everyone garbed thus, it appeared the street was filled with shady characters of dubious intent which, given Perhata’s reputation as a place where any type of business could be conducted without questions asked, seemed only appropriate.

  Diran and the others entered the King Prawn and stepped into the common room. Sailors, traders, and low-level merchants sat drinking and playing games of chance, speaking to one another in low tones so no one else might overhear the plans they made. Cast-off bones and dropped bits of food covered the bare earth floor, all marinating in a stew of spilled ale and other less savory liquids. Despite the chill outside, the logs in the fireplace remained unlit, and the cold air smelled of sweat, desperation, and dark intent.

  The four companions made their way through the crowd as they headed for the stairs, intending to go up to their rooms and divest themselves of their packs before coming back down to eat. But just as they were about to mount the stairs, someone in the crowd called out, “Hey, half-orc!”

  Ghaji sighed. Normally he enjoyed dealing with the idiots who taunted him about his half-blood status, but he was tired and hungry and didn’t have the patience for it right now.

  He turned around. “Yes?”

  A gnome stood up on his chair. He was smaller than Hinto, which made him short even for one of his people. He wore brown boots, brown pants, a white shirt, and a black leather vest. His bald head was adorned with an octopus tattoo, the tentacles reaching down across both of cheeks. From the way he wobbled unsteadily on his chair, it was clear the man was drunk.

  “I got a question for you!”

  Everyone in the common room grew silent as they waited to see what the gnome was going to say. Ghaji figured that more than a few of them were hoping to see the little man torn apart by an enraged half-breed beast-man.

  “Since you’re a half-orc, are your manly bits half-sized?”

  Delighted with his display of wit, the inebriated gnome barked out a laugh and looked around the room to see what reaction his joke had gotten. A few of the men and women in the room laughed along with the little man, but most kept their gazes fixed on Ghaji, anticipating his violent reaction.

  Ghaji turned to Diran. “What is it with gnomes and size jokes?”

  “A racial inferiority complex would be my guess,” the priest said.

  “You’re probably right.” Ghaji considered drawing his axe and setting it aflame to scare the gnome, but he decided against it. It wouldn’t be the wisest move to advertise he possessed such a rare weapon, especially not in a place like this. Since “borrowing” the axe from a guard on the prison island of Dreadhold several months ago, Ghaji had been forced more than once to prevent someone from trying to “borrow” it from him.

  Instead, he reached down, undid his belt buckle, and allowed his pants to drop around his ankles. The crowd let out gasps of surprise and more than a few murmurs of appreciation. The gnome’s eyes goggled as he took in Ghaji’s “manly bits.”

  “As you can see,” Ghaji said, “I received the best of both worlds.”

  A moment passed, and then the patrons in the common room broke into applause—and no one applauded louder than the gnome with the octopus tattoo.

  Diran and Ghaji reached their room first, and Tresslar and Hinto continued down the hall to theirs. As Ghaji opened the door to the room, Diran said, “If I were you, I’d prepare myself to be visited by any number of ladies tonight … and perhaps even a
few gentlemen.”

  Ghaji was about to tell Diran that he wasn’t any funnier than the gnome, but before he could do so, a feminine voice came from within the room.

  “He’s already got a visitor, though I’m not sure too many people would call me a lady.”

  Ghaji and Diran stepped into the room and saw a slender elf-woman sitting atop one of their straw-filled sleeping pallets. Her chestnut-colored hair was braided in colorful beaded strands, as was the custom in the Principalities. She wore a white shirt with long billowy sleeves, tight black pants, knee-high black boots, and a wide black belt with an iron buckle. Hanging from the belt was a leather pouch that Ghaji knew was filled with any number of surprises.

  “Yvka!” Ghaji broke into a broad grin upon seeing the elf-woman. The sight of an orc—even a half-orc—baring his teeth normally would’ve sent a shiver of fear through even the most seasoned of warriors, but Yvka returned the grin, hopped lightly to her feet, and ran over to embrace Ghaji. Despite the elf-woman’s thin frame, she nearly knocked Ghaji off his feet as she threw herself into his arms. They kissed, and when they were done, they kissed again.

  Diran cleared his throat. “I’ll just go on down and have something to eat while you two finish saying hello.”

  Diran, Tresslar, and Hinto sat at a table in the common room, their meal long finished. They were drinking ale and talking when Ghaji and Yvka at last came downstairs. There was a scattering of laughter and raised mugs from the other patrons when they saw Ghaji, and the half-orc waved good-naturedly as he led Yvka over to his friends’ table.

  “What was that all about?” the elf-woman asked as they sat.

  “There was this drunken gnome,” Hinto began, but Ghaji shot him a dark look and the halfling mumbled, “Never mind” and turned his attention back to his ale.

  “It’s good to see you again, my dear,” Tresslar said. “It’s been far too long.”

  Ykva smiled. “I’m afraid the life of an entertainer is an uncertain one. It seems I’m always moving from one town to another in search of my next job.”

  Hinto put down his mug and wiped a smear of foam off his upper lip. “What are you talking about? I thought you worked for—”

  The halfling cried out in pain as Ghaji’s boot connected solidly with his shin.

  “Hinto, while I may, upon occasion, perform certain tasks not related to entertaining, I’d appreciate it if you could avoid speaking of them aloud.”

  “Our friend is a juggler and acrobat,” Diran said. “Remember? And one who possesses more than a touch of wanderlust, I might add.”

  Understanding shown on Hinto’s face at last, and he gave the elf-woman a wink. “No problem. I’ll be as quiet as a Tantamar brothel after an outbreak of fire-fungus.”

  “Thank you.” Yvka smiled at the halfling sailor.

  She seemed amused by Hinto, but Ghaji didn’t think the situation was funny. Though she’d never come out and said so to any of them—not even him—she was an operative who worked for the Shadow Network, an organization of mercenaries, spies, and assassins that didn’t officially exist. The most valuable weapon an operative possessed was secrecy, and if Yvka’s true profession became known, she could be placed in grave danger. While the elf-woman could handle herself well in just about any situation, given how Ghaji felt about her, he couldn’t help feeling at least a little protective.

  Ghaji decided to change the subject. “So what were you three talking about before we got here?”

  “We were taking bets on how long it would be before you came down from the room,” Hinto said. “Tresslar won.”

  Ghaji scowled as Hinto and Diran tossed coins over to Tresslar, but Yvka just laughed.

  “That means the next round of drinks is on me.” The artificer raised his hand to catch a serving woman’s attention.

  “Before that, we were talking about yesterday’s expedition,” Diran said. “I assume you didn’t get the opportunity to tell Yvka about it?”

  Ghaji shook his head and Diran gave the elf-woman a quick run-down of their battle with the lich in her mountain lair. During the telling, Tresslar ordered more ales, and the serving woman went off to fetch them. Diran was finished with the story by the time their drinks arrived.

  Yvka lifted her clay mug and sniffed the contents with suspicion. “Is the ale any good in this place?”

  Tresslar took a sip of his and grimaced. “If by good you mean awful, then yes.”

  Yvka considered tasting her ale, but then put the mug back down on the table. It seemed even an operative of the infamous Shadow Network was only so brave. “It sounds as if you four had quite an adventure yesterday. Sorry I missed it.”

  Ghaji listened as Diran filled in Yvka about their hunt for the lich, and from the tone of his voice, Ghaji guessed something was bothering his friend. “It’s not like you to sit with a mug of ale in your hand and relive old glories, Diran. There had to be some other reason why you were discussing the lich.”

  “There was. Did you notice anything strange about her lair?”

  “You’re joking, right? It was a lich’s home—the whole place was strange.”

  Diran smiled. “I meant anything unusual for a lich.”

  Ghaji thought for a moment. “Now that you mention it, her lair seemed overdone, almost as if it were something out of a child’s tale.”

  Diran nodded. “It takes a strong will and a great amount of mystic knowledge for someone to transform herself into a lich. In life, such individuals are usually devoted to the acquisition of power in all its forms: political and economic, as well as magical. After they enter a state of undeath, they are loath to give up the riches they stockpiled in life. They surround themselves with finery … ornate clothes, luxurious furnishings, rare and beautiful artifacts of all sorts, though it’s only a short time before the lich’s corruption begins to taint those possessions with rot and decay.”

  “There was plenty of rot and decay in the lich’s lair,” Ghaji said, “but not so much in the way of finery. Even the objects in the chamber that held her phylactery seemed more like a collection of odds and ends taken from her victims over the years than a hoard of prized possessions.”

  “Precisely my thinking,” Diran said. “It was almost as if she purposely constructed her chambers to resemble a fiend’s lair, like a set built for a play.”

  “I acknowledge that hunting and dispatching the undead is your area of expertise,” Tresslar said, “but during my time with Erdis Cai, we ran into more than a few such fiends ourselves. While they often do conform to certain patterns of behavior—much like animals follow their instinctive nature—they once were human, and some remnant of that remains buried inside them. Because of this, the undead sometimes defy expectations, and you find a ghoul that resists its craving for human flesh, a zombie that refuses to obey its creator’s orders, a vampire …” Tresslar broke off, suddenly uncomfortable.

  Ghaji glanced at Diran to see if Tresslar’s words had disturbed him, but the priest’s expression was unreadable.

  Tresslar cleared his throat and hurried on. “My point is that this particular lich, for whatever reasons, chose to create a lair that was different from what most liches would have. Perhaps she built her chambers according to her own expectations of what a fiend’s lair should look like.”

  Diran seemed to consider the artificer’s point for several moments before slowly nodding. “Perhaps so.” He said no more on the matter, and an awkward silence descended over the table.

  It was Yvka who finally broke the quiet. “I wish I could say that I have come here solely to see the four of you again”—she flashed Ghaji a smile—“but I cannot. Instead I’ve come on business. Certain friends of mine have come into possession of knowledge that I think will be of interest to all of you, but most especially to Diran.”

  The priest, who’d been lost in thought, looked up in surprise. “Indeed?”

  Yvka nodded. “Tell me, is the name Aldarik Cathmore familiar to you?”

 
Diran didn’t answer, but his shocked expression spoke for him. Ghaji was about to ask his friend what was wrong, when the door to the common room burst open and a group of men and woman entered, bringing a chill breeze with them. There were six of them—four male, two female. Garbed in thick red waterproof cloaks, they carried long-swords belted around their waists, though Ghaji doubted the swords were the sole extent of their weapons. As the six red-cloaks came inside, they pulled back their hoods to reveal they all bore the same tattoo on their forehead: a stylized blue skull.

  One of the newcomers, a broad-shouldered man with a blond beard, appeared to be the leader. He looked around the room, taking the measure of its patrons, and then said, “I bring you greetings from your neighbors across the Gulf of Ingjald! The Coldhearts have just made port and we have a ravenous thirst for some fine ale, but since the best drink can only be found in the taverns of Kolbyr, I suppose we’ll have to make do with the piss-water you people serve!”

  Blond-Beard’s companions laughed as if their leader had just made the funniest jest in the history of the Principalities. But none of the King Prawn’s customers came even close to smiling.

  Diran looked at Ghaji. “How long do you think it’ll be before a fight breaks out?”

  “Less than a minute. Better get ready.” Ghaji drew his axe, though he didn’t activate its flames. Diran’s hands disappeared beneath the tabletop and remained there, out of sight. Ghaji knew the priest had drawn a pair of daggers and was ready to use them should the need arise.

  Tresslar sighed. “I’ll say one thing. My life hasn’t been dull since I joined up with you two.” The artificer left his dragonwand tucked beneath his belt—for the moment, at least. Tresslar wasn’t one to expend magic unless it was absolutely necessary.

  Ghaji glanced at Hinto, but the halfling showed no signs of panic. He was a sailor, and to him this was just another tavern fight in the offing. Nothing out of the ordinary and thus nothing to fear.