Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2

by Tim Waggoner

  Diran felt his own body begin to go numb, and as darkness rushed in to take him, he heard Haaken say, “Well, that was easier than I thought it would be.”

  Asenka was on the way back to the King Prawn with a detachment of three Sea Scorpions when they nearly collided with Haaken and his people in the fog. The Coldhearts were carrying something wrapped in a fishing net—something that looked suspiciously like two bodies, and she had a damn good idea who those bodies belonged to.

  Asenka drew her sword, and her people did the same. “If you want to leave Perhata alive, Haaken, you’ll put them down now.”

  Haaken grinned. “We outnumber you two to one, Asenka.” Only four of Haaken’s people carried the net-wrapped bodies. The other four, Haaken included, had their swords in hand, and they now touched the points of their blades to their captives. “Unless you want us to gut these two here and now, I suggest you make way and allow us safe passage.”

  Asenka thought swiftly. If she let the Coldhearts go, they’d simply kill Diran and Ghaji later, but if she attempted to stop them here, Diran and Ghaji would be skewered, and she doubted she’d be able to get them to a healer before they perished. As much as it galled her, she didn’t see how she had any choice.

  “Very well, Haaken. You have safe passage.” She stepped aside and motioned for her people to do the same. She lowered her sword, though she didn’t sheathe it. She wasn’t stupid enough to give Haaken the opportunity to kill her in the bargain.

  “A wise decision, Asenka,” the Coldheart leader said. “I always thought there was a reasonable person underneath that cold bitch exterior.” He laughed, and his people joined in. “One more thing: I was thinking of just slicing your friends’ throats and dumping them over the side for the sharks, but I’ve decided these two deserve something a bit more special, so we’re going to drop them off on Demothi Island.”

  Asenka felt a cold stab of fear pierce her gut. “You can’t be serious!”

  Haaken laughed even harder. He motioned for his people to move out, and the Coldhearts continued on toward the docks, bearing their captives off to their horrible fate.

  Demothi Island …

  Asenka wondered if it wouldn’t have been kinder to let Haaken kill Diran and Ghaji outright. She turned to her people. “Head for the barracks and alert the others that the Coldhearts are making for the dock. Stop them if you can. I’m going to the King Prawn to alert Diran’s companions.”

  From what she’d learned about his friends during her conversation with Diran, she thought they might have just as good a chance of saving Diran and Ghaji as the Sea Scorpions would—maybe better.

  As the rest of the detachment ran off to carry out their commander’s order, Asenka ran in the direction of the King Prawn. She only hoped that she’d get there before Haaken and his people could make sail.

  Makala soared above the buildings of dockside in bat form, wheeling and darting above the fog layer, exulting in the beauty of moon and starlight and the delicious freedom of not being shackled to the ground. She’d considered attempting to speak with Diran tonight, but it had been months since he’d allowed her to choose death at his hands or life as a vampire, and though she’d kept watch over him ever since, she hadn’t so much as allowed him to see her, let alone speak to him. She thought perhaps he was aware of her presence from time to time, but if so, he’d never sought her out. Perhaps he didn’t want to see her again. Perhaps he regretted his decision to let her live. He was a priest of the Silver Flame, one of the Purified, dedicated to destroying evil in all its myriad manifestations. Perhaps Diran had been avoiding her because he knew that if they encountered one another again, he’d be forced to destroy her.

  Maybe she was simply afraid of witnessing the revulsion in his eyes once he saw how much she had become a creature of the night since they’d parted. Every night she awoke she felt there was less of the woman Makala left in her and more of the dark thing she was becoming. It had taken Erdis Cai the better part of four decades to lose the last shreds of his humanity. Makala, perhaps because of the dark spirit she’d once played host to, seemed to be changing far more swiftly. She wondered how much longer it would be before the woman she had been truly died at last, and she became a monster in both body and soul. Look at what she’d done—or almost done—to Asenka tonight. Simply because she’d been jealous, she’d threatened the woman, been tempted to feed on her, even though she’d fed on Eneas earlier.

  No, she couldn’t see Diran again, not in person. She would just have to content herself with acting as his unseen guardian, watching over him and helping him secretly whenever she could.

  Though it was not yet midnight, Makala was weary—in spirit if not in body—and she decided to fly back to the dock and return to the Boundless and her obsidian sarcophagus. Perhaps if she were lucky, she’d fall into the torpor that vampires experienced instead of sleep before the dawn. If not … well, at least she’d be locked away where she could do no further harm this night.

  As Makala drew near the docks, she felt the pull of the ocean. It tugged at her, as if exerting some form of magnetic force, urging her to come closer so that it could reach out with liquid hands and pull her down into its cold dark depths. It was as if all water—so vital to life—despised the undead and wanted nothing more than to destroy them. Though minor bodies of water such as streams and small rivers exerted the same pull, they were mere annoyances to vampires. Resisting the power of a sea took a great deal of strength. The sooner Makala was back aboard the Boundless and safe within her black coffin, the better.

  She swooped down to the vessel, navigating by a complex interplay of bat senses, human intuition, and vampiric psychic abilities, but just as she reached the Boundless and was about to land upon the deck, she heard voices.

  “Into the hold with those two, but go easy! I want the priest and his half-orc servant in the peak of health when we reach Demothi Island.”

  Makala didn’t question how Diran and Ghaji had come to be captured. In life she had been more of a doer than a thinker, and death hadn’t changed that quality in her. She banked upward, beating her wings as she flew toward the sound of wicked laughter. The ship was berthed at the furthermost end of the dock, and as Makala approached, she heard brisk movement—boots shuffling on deck, ropes being untied and cast off—and she knew that the vessel’s occupants were preparing to get underway. Though she was only a few dozen yards closer to the open sea than where the Boundless was berthed, the mystic pull of the water was far stronger here, and as she angled down to the deck, she had to concentrate to resist the water’s tug. It was as if the sea were interfering with her senses in an attempt to cause her to miss the ship and splash into the water, but she managed to make her descent—albeit an uncertain, wobbly one—and just as her tiny bat feet were about to come in contact with the wood, her form became living shadow that stretched and reformed itself into her natural shape.

  It was part of a vampire’s powers that personal items such as clothing and weaponry disappeared when one assumed an alternate shape and reappeared when one resumed human form. Makala had no idea where these objects went during her transformations, and she really didn’t care. She was simply glad that the process worked the way it did. She drew her sword and cast about the deck, searching for the man who’d ordered Diran and Ghaji to be stowed in the hold. The fog was thinner at this end of the dock, and Makala, with her vampiric night-vision, had no trouble making out the forms of the ship’s crew. They, however, being mere humans, could not see her. Makala decided to rectify that.

  She willed the smoldering crimson flame that dwelt within her eyes to blaze and was rewarded with a shout of, “By the Host, what’s that?”

  It wasn’t the captain’s voice, so she assumed it was one of his underlings that spoke. No matter. She was certain the captain would hear her words.

  “You’ve abducted two friends of mine.” Makala spoke in a hollow-toned voice that seemed to issue forth from everywhere and nowhere all at once. She
hoped the kidnappers would find the effect suitably chilling. “Release them and I’ll allow you to depart in peace. Refuse, and I shall kill every one of you and then free them myself.”

  One of the crewmembers took several strides toward her, drawing his sword as he came. “Who might you be, missy? And more to the point, what makes you think you can scare us with your strangely spoken words and street-magician’s light show?”

  Makala smiled, revealing her fangs, though she doubted anyone could see them in the fog. “If you want to find out, just keep walking toward me.”

  The man hesitated. He was close enough now that Makala could make out his features despite the fog, and she saw he was tall, muscular, and blond-bearded. He carried a long-sword with the natural ease of someone who’d had so much practice wielding it over the years that the weapon had become virtually an extension of his own body. Not that it would do him any good.

  She sniffed the air and smelled the blood coursing through the man’s body. He was strong, in the prime of his life, and his blood smelled to her like the finest of wines. Makala’s hunger welled within her, powerful and insistent, and for an instant she forgot about Diran and Ghaji. She pictured herself leaping upon the man and burying her fangs in the sweet-salty flesh of his neck, drinking deeply and letting the warm wet fluid that was life itself gush down her throat. She went so far as to take a step toward him, but she restrained herself. She wasn’t an animal, and her friends—Diran—needed her.

  “I have little patience,” Makala said. “I’ll say it one more time: release my friends or—”

  She didn’t get the chance to finish her ultimatum. A pair of sailors, both men and both as large and muscular as their captain—rushed at her from both sides and grabbed hold of her arms.

  Blond-Beard grinned. “Looks like we have three passengers to ferry to Demothi Island now.”

  Unlike Diran, Makala hadn’t been raised in the Principalities, and she’d never heard of Demothi Island. Whatever it was, Blond-Beard acted as if going there was some sort of terrible fate. Not that it mattered, for Makala had no intention of letting Blond-Beard and his crew set sail.

  Makala flexed her arms and slammed the two sailors that had hold of her into each other. Their skulls collided with a sickening hollow sound, and the men slumped motionless to the deck.

  “Cast off!” Blond-Beard bellowed to his crew. “Cast off now!”

  Makala didn’t know whether Blond-Beard realized she was a vampire and understood she’d be weakened by being out on the open water or whether the man was simply acting on instinct. Either way, she couldn’t afford to let this vessel get underway.

  She stepped forward, intending to strike at Blond-Beard with her sword, but before she could attack, the man reached beneath his tunic collar and withdrew a small metal object that dangled from a chain. He held the object out toward her, and intense pain flared through Makala’s entire body, as if her veins had suddenly become filled with molten fire. The pendant’s shape—an iron spiral with a small indigo gem at the center—was unfamiliar to her.

  She dropped her sword and raised her arms to block the spiral from her sight. That lessened the pain, but only a little. Hissing like an angry cat, she backed away from Blond-Beard, but he followed her, advancing slowly step by step, making sure not to get too close but still keeping up the pressure on her, not allowing her to find escape or respite from the pain that was burning her up from the inside out. She continued retreating until her lower back bumped into the ship’s port railing. Without thinking, driven solely by the all-encompassing need to get away from the spiral, she turned, hopped up onto the railing with inhuman grace, and then leaped out into space. She intended to transform into a bat and fly away from the ship and the agonizing metal spiral as fast as she could, but she was too wracked with pain to manage the change, and she plunged into the sea.

  Frigid water enveloped her, and she felt herself sinking. No, not sinking—being drawn downward, as if unseen tendrils had encircled her body and were dragging her deeper and deeper. The sea, the cradle from which some said all life had been born, was pulling her, a creature of death, down to where she could harm no one ever again. She struggled, thrashing her arms and legs, attempting to swim back to the surface, but it was so hard … her limbs felt like heavy lead weights, and she felt a weariness coming over her, not unlike the daylight torpor in which she slept. It would be so easy to give up, to surrender, let the Lhazaar take her and be done with it.

  Then she remembered: Diran needed her help.

  She renewed her efforts, swimming with all of her strength, and slowly, inch by inch, she felt herself rising back toward the surface. It felt as if she struggled against the sea’s pull for hours, but finally her head broke the surface and, though she no longer had any need for air, she drew in a gasping breath. She swam to the edge of the dock, reached up, gripped its wooden edge, and hauled herself out of the water. She lay on the dock, wet, cold, and shivering, but still alive—or at least not dead. The fog had thinned out even further during her struggle to escape the Lhazaar’s embrace, and she could clearly see a ship drawing away from the dock.

  Makala rose unsteadily to her feet, turned back toward shore, and began staggering down the dock. Each step was an effort, but she couldn’t afford to take time to rest. She had to reach the Boundless and rouse Eneas before the other vessel could get too far out to sea. She had enough faith in the old sailor’s skills to believe he’d be able to track the ship if they could set sail soon enough, though what the two of them might be able to do on their own against Diran and Ghaji’s captors—especially with her weakened as she would be by being out on the water—she didn’t know, but she had to try.

  She reached the Boundless and climbed aboard, nearly collapsing in the process. She managed to stay on her feet and made her way down into the hull where she’d left Eneas slumbering. She was relieved to find the old sailor still there, snoring away as if he didn’t have a care in the world. All she had to do was wake him and then they could get underway. She crouched down and put her hand on his shoulder, intending to give him a shake …

  And then she caught the scent of his blood.

  She’d been greatly weakened by her plunge into the sea, and she desperately needed to rebuild her strength. She tried to resist the urge, but she was too weak to do so.

  Just a little, she told herself. Enough to help me function, and no more.

  She bent down over Eneas’s neck, bit into his flesh, and began to feed. Blood poured into her, trickling through her body, filling her with warmth and life. She was unaware of time as she fed, but when she felt strong once more, she drew away from Eneas and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Then, without thinking, she licked the smear of blood from her hand.

  She then took hold of Eneas’s shoulder and gave him a shake.

  “Wake up, Eneas! I need your help!”

  But the old sailor did not wake. Makala shook him harder, and his head slumped forward and lolled back and forth. That’s when Makala realized she could no longer smell his living blood, couldn’t feel his pulse through her fingertips on his shoulder. She had taken too much.

  Guilt and sorrow filled her unbeating heart, followed immediately by anger. How could she have been so foolish? Without Eneas, there was no way that she could go after Diran and Ghaji. Even if she knew how to sail, as a vampire she couldn’t operate the Boundless on open water. She needed help, but first, she had a duty to attend to.

  “I’m sorry, Eneas. You were a good servant, and you deserved better than this.”

  Makala took firm hold of the sailor’s head and with a single swift violent motion broke his neck. She then picked up his lifeless body, threw it over her shoulder, and climbed up onto the deck of his ship … her ship now, she supposed. Though what she would be able to do with it on her own, she had no idea. Once on the deck, she lay his body down and removed a dagger from a sheath on her belt. The blade was sharp, and with her strength it took her little time to sever
Eneas’s head from his body. There was no blood, for there was none remaining in the corpse.

  Though the blade wasn’t stained, Makala wiped the dagger off on Eneas’s clothes before returning it to its sheath. Now that Eneas had been beheaded, there was no chance that he would return to life as a vampire. Still, she wanted to make sure. First she threw his head out to sea as far as she could, and then she tossed his body after it. Instead of floating, Eneas’s remains hit the water and sank like stones as the sea claimed them.

  Makala gazed at the rippling water for a moment longer before casting aside her human form and rising into the air on leather wings, bound for the King Prawn.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Cathmore stood at the open window, hands gripping the stone sill as he gazed westward. Galharath didn’t have to read the old man’s mind to know what he was searching for.

  “You’re wasting your time. You won’t see Chagai approach in the dark.”

  Cathmore didn’t turn away from the window. “It’s my time to waste, isn’t it?”

  The two men stood in one of the highest chambers within Mount Luster: a stone room constructed near the pinnacle of the mountain, with a window that faced westward. There were three other chambers just like it, each with a window facing another point on the compass. These were watch chambers, with shutters painted on the outside to resemble the mountain’s rocky surface. The shutters were open, and the late autumn wind blew cold and harsh. Cathmore, wrapped in his thick bearskin cloak, still shivered continuously, though he displayed no other sign of discomfort and made no complaint about the wind. So fierce was the old man’s will and so intense his concentration that Galharath thought Cathmore capable of ignoring the temperature until he froze to death. As a kalashtar, Galharath could appreciate such disciplined focus, even when it was less than practical.