by Tim Waggoner
“Do you think the others heard him?” Ghaji asked.
Diran didn’t have to answer, for more Coldhearts came at them from both directions, weapons in hand, gripping the rail to keep their footing.
“The cold works to our advantage,” Diran said. “They can only come at us single file.”
“What direction do you want? Fore or aft?”
Diran didn’t have to think about it. “Fore. The wind’s blowing in that direction.”
“Then I’ll take aft.”
The two companions linked arms to steady themselves as they shuffled across the icy deck away from the open hatch and toward the starboard railing. They took up positions back to back—Diran facing fore, Ghaji aft—gripped the railing, and prepared to meet the oncoming Coldhearts.
It was an awkward, slippery battle, though it was made somewhat less so when Ghaji managed to liberate a sword from one of the attacking Coldhearts. When it was over, Ghaji had a shoulder wound from a sword thrust, and Diran’s left hand was broken from when a Coldheart had gotten close enough to slam the pommel of his sword against it, but that Coldheart, like the others, was dead now. The only one who remained alive was Haaken. The Coldheart commander—or former commander, since all his people had been slain—still huddled behind the body of the woman Diran had killed with a glass shard to the throat.
“Is that all?” Ghaji asked, sounding disappointed. Blood flowed freely from his shoulder wound, but the half-orc warrior paid no attention to the injury.
“I believe so.” Diran turned and placed his good hand on Ghaji’s shoulder. He concentrated and felt warmth spreading outward from his palm to radiate through his friend’s shoulder. Diran could sense the healing power of the Silver Flame reparing Ghaji’s wound. When the task was complete, Diran concentrated on turning that power inward and healing his broken hand. Within a few moments, it was done. He flexed his fingers and found them nimble as ever.
“Thanks,” Ghaji said. “What now?”
Diran noticed that his friend didn’t take his gaze from Haaken. The Coldheart might not appear to be much of a threat at the moment, but after what the man had done to them this day, neither Ghaji nor Diran would underestimate him again.
“If Haaken truly is the last remaining Coldheart aboard, then there’s no one sailing this vessel. One of us had better take the tiller.”
“After we take care of Haaken.”
Diran knew exactly what his companion meant by take care. “There’s no need to kill him. We can tie him up and put him in the hold.”
“We got out,” Ghaji said. “He could too.”
Before becoming one of the Purified, Diran would’ve slit Haaken’s throat without thought or remorse, but he’d forsaken the shadowy path of the assassin when he’d taken his vows, and he no longer shared his body with the dark spirit that Emon Gorsedd had implanted in all the recruits of the Brotherhood of the Blade. The dark spirit muted its host’s positive emotions while heightening the negative ones, making it easier for Emon’s assassins to kill without conscience. Diran had broken free of the Brotherhood years ago and dedicated his life to the service of the Silver Flame. Diran thus avoided killing unless it was absolutely necessary. Haaken was no longer a threat so there was no need to slay him, but he knew Ghaji didn’t see it that way.
“Perhaps we can locate his supply of amber sleep and use it to—”
The Maelstrom gave a sudden violent lurch and the sound of splintering wood filled the air. The impact knocked Diran and Ghaji off their feet and sent the two companions sliding across the icy deck. The vessel listed to port, and they continued sliding until they hit the railing on that side of the ship. They lay there for a moment, gripping the railing tight and waiting to see if the Maelstom was going to move any more. When it became clear that the vessel wasn’t going anywhere, Diran and Ghaji stood as best they could on the tilted deck.
Diran looked in the direction of the bow and saw that the ship had run aground on a dark, forbidding, rocky shore.
“I believe we’ve arrived at Demothi Island,” Diran said.
“Land ho,” Ghaji muttered.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
They searched the Coldhearts’ ship and found Ghaji’s axe and Diran’s cloak and daggers in one of the cabins—the one belonging to Haaken, Ghaji guessed, or perhaps that should be belonged, for since the Maelstrom had run aground, they’d seen no sign of the wounded man. If Haaken had been tossed overboard by the impact, he wouldn’t have lasted long in these frigid waters, and even if he’d made it to shore, without a fire to dry and warm him, he’d succumb to the cold soon enough. Still, Ghaji would’ve preferred seeing Haaken’s dead body for himself. He’d been a warrior too long to take anything for granted—especially the death of a foe.
Diran slipped his daggers into the various sheaths sewn into the inner lining of his cloak. The priest carried blades fashioned from all manner of materials: finely honed steel, polished silver, sturdy iron, carved wood, smooth-hewn rock, delicate crystal … each useful for battling creatures with varying weaknesses. Many of the blades had been purchased—though as a wandering priest Diran was hardly rich—while some had been gifts and a select few had been crafted by Diran himself. The priest had a specific place for each dagger, though how he kept their locations straight, Ghaji didn’t know. Give him a single weapon to keep track of, and maybe a second for back-up, and that was all he needed.
Ghaji also wore a pack containing supplies they’d scavenged from the Maelstom: rope, some rations, a few light-stones that while not as reliable as everbright lanterns, would serve well enough in a pinch. Diran didn’t carry a pack, for it would interfere with drawing daggers from inside his cloak, but he did carry a waterskin looped to his belt, as did Ghaji. The half-orc had scouted their landing place from the ship’s railing earlier, and from the look of the barren island, he doubted they’d find any fresh water there.
“Ready?” Diran asked when he was finished replacing his daggers.
“All ashore that’s going ashore,” Ghaji said.
They left the cabin and made their way back out onto the uneven deck. Dark clouds filled the night sky, blocking out the moons and stars. Waves crashed against the ship’s hull, causing the slanted deck beneath their feet to shudder, making walking even more treacherous as they moved toward the ship’s stern. Once there, Ghaji removed the rope from his pack and tied one end to the railing.
“You go first,” he said to Diran. “I’ll lower you down.”
The half-orc was far stronger than Diran, who was a lean man at any rate. He knew he would have no trouble performing this maneuver.
Diran nodded, took hold of the other end of the rope, and looped it around his left hand. He then drew a steel dagger—just in case a very unwelcoming welcome committee should appear—and climbed over the railing. The priest kept watch on the shore as Ghaji lowered him, but the precaution, wise as it was, turned out to be unnecessary. Diran’s feet came down in the surf at the edge of the shoreline safely. The priest let go of the rope and Ghaji hauled it in. He gauged the distance from the railing to the ground once more, then untied the rope, rolled it up, and replaced it in his pack. He then stepped up onto the railing and jumped.
The half-orc landed with a splash next to Diran. The priest gave him a look and Ghaji shrugged. “I figured we might need the rope later.”
Diran nodded, Ghaji drew his axe, and together they walked onto Demothi Island.
As soon as his boot touched the shore, Diran drew in a hissing breath.
“What’s wrong?” Ghaji asked, almost activating his elemental axe out of reflex.
“I sensed an aura of evil emanating from this place while we were still on the ship, but now that we’re here, it’s even stronger—as strong as anything we’ve ever encountered.”
A chill shivered down Ghaji’s spine. Considering some of the evil, both supernatural and mundane, they’d faced together over the years, that was saying something.
; As Ghaji took in his surroundings, he could easily believe that Diran’s foreboding was well founded. The island was craggy and rough, the stony ground cracked and covered with jagged rocks. The only signs of life were tufts of dry grass that had managed to shove their way through the narrow fissures in the ground, along with twisted, gnarled trees that looked as if they’d never grown leaves or borne fruit, regardless of the season. Though Ghaji had no priestly training, he was half-orc and thus strongly attuned to the natural world, and all his senses were screaming that there was nothing natural about this place—nothing at all.
“We might be better off if we went back to the ship.” Ghaji said.
Diran considered Ghaji’s words. “You make a good point, but it’s difficult to know how stable the Coldhearts’ ship is after running aground. It might well collapse under us in the middle of a battle.”
Ghaji glanced back at the Maelstrom. The ship listed to starboard, and there was a large hole near the bow, but otherwise the vessel looked as if she would hold together well enough. Diran had grown up in the Principalities and therefore knew far more about sea-going than Ghaji did, so the half-orc decided to defer to his friend’s judgment.
Diran gazed inland and scowled. “Besides, if there’s evil here, it is our duty to seek it out and destroy it.”
Ghaji sighed. “I hate it when you say things like that.”
The half-orc gripped the haft of his axe more tightly. He wasn’t about to activate it now. Doing so would give away their location to whatever might be lurking on the island, and the light would also render his night vision almost useless. They’d proceed with stealth for now, and Ghaji would ignite the axe’s flame when necessary.
Diran exchanged his steel dagger for a silver one, and the two companions began walking. Ghaji kept an eye out for threats while Diran, who only had the extremely limited nocturnal sight of a human, remained close to his friend and followed his lead. Ghaji knew that Diran wasn’t without other resources to draw on, however. His training as assassin had taught him to pay close attention to all his senses, not just sight. Diran was doubtless listening for any noises beyond the pounding of the surf against the shore, scenting the wind for any smells in addition to the tang of sea salt, feeling for vibrations juddering through the rocky ground beneath his boots with every step … Diran might not have orc blood in him, but thanks to the training he’d gained at Emon Gorsedd’s academy, the priest’s senses were honed to as fine an edge as that possessed by any of his blades.
Diran had his priestly powers to draw upon as well. When Diran said he sensed evil, he wasn’t speaking metaphorically, nor was he expressing the vague sensation that intuitive people sometimes had in dangerous situations. As one of the Purified, Diran sensed evil with the same clarity and certainty as someone else might see an object placed directly in front of their eyes.
They walked for some time across Demothi’s barren landscape without encountering any signs of life beyond the dry grass and twisted trees dotting the island. No animals, no birds, no lizards—nothing—yet Ghaji couldn’t shake the feeling that numerous eyes were monitoring their progress—malicious, hungry eyes.
Ghaji was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly jumped when Diran spoke.
“This is it—the place where the evil that permeates this island is centered.”
Diran pointed toward a dark object silhouetted against the night sky. The object was perhaps six, seven feet tall and wrought in the rough shape of a man. Ghaji was no priest, but now that they were this close, he could feel the waves of malevolent power emanating from the man-shaped obelisk.
“What is it?” Though he didn’t intend to, Ghaji spoke in a hushed voice.
“I’m not sure. I’m not as familiar with the legends of this part of the Principalities as I am with others. Still, I vaguely recall reading something once about a dark priest who sailed to an island … a priest who was transformed into stone.” Diran stepped closer to the stone figure to examine it. Ghaji made to accompany his friend, but Diran held up a hand to stop him.
“I appreciate your willingness to follow me, Ghaji, but it’s best if only I approach.”
Though he knew Diran was only taking a precaution, and a sensible one at that, Ghaji nevertheless felt a surge of anger at the suggestion he hang back. Remaining out of harm’s way while a companion strode forth into danger was not the orc way, and it wasn’t Ghaji’s.
As if sensing his friend’s feelings, Diran said, “Please. If this object is as powerful as I suspect, I’ll need all my skill and power just to protect myself. I won’t be able to safeguard us both.”
Ghaji wanted to argue that he could look after himself just fine, thank you, but in the end he recognized the wisdom of Diran’s words, gritted his teeth, and nodded.
Diran gave his friend a grateful smile before turning and walking toward the stone figure once more. Ghaji remained standing where he was, but he kept his axe at the ready, prepared to command it to burst into flame the instant anything even looked as if it was about to go wrong.
When he was within a foot of the statue Diran stopped, raised his free hand, and held it above the stone surface of the figure. Formed of the same dark rocky substance as the island, it didn’t look as if it had been carved so much as arisen naturally from the surface of Demothi. While the statue possessed rudimentary human features—head, torso, arms, and legs—from the knees down it was nothing more than a mound of rock. The eyes were its most striking feature. Glittering black gems as large as an egg protruded from the statue’s stony sockets.
“This is indeed the center of the evil on Demothi,” Diran said. “The power radiates from this figure down through the ground and then spreads throughout the entire island, perhaps even extending for some distance beyond its shores, but for what purpose, I cannot say.”
Ghaji heard a shuffling noise from behind him, and he whirled around to see what had caused it, elemental axe erupting in flame as he spun. The sudden light from his blazing weapon momentarily rendered his night vision useless, but his eyes quickly adjusted, and he saw a staggering humanoid shape lurching out of the night toward them. The creature was a bloated, wet thing, flesh puffy and discolored, body draped with dangling strands of seaweed. Its eyes and tongue were long gone, in their place clusters of tiny crabs that used the dead thing’s skull as a home. The rancid stink of the creature assaulted Ghaji’s nose—a sour reek of saltwater, dead fish, and rotting vegetation. It was fortunate that the half-orc hadn’t eaten lately, because the gagging stench would’ve caused him to empty the contents of his stomach right then and there.
“Walking dead man,” Ghaji said. He relaxed a bit upon seeing the undead creature shambling toward them. He’d encountered such creatures during his time as a soldier in the Last War, and he’d fought even more alongside Diran since then, though offhand he couldn’t remember seeing any quite as disgusting as this one. Still, the living corpses, while unpleasant, were easy enough to dispatch. Diran could always repell the creature with his priestly powers, and if for some reason that didn’t suffice, Ghaji’s axe would make fast work of it.
“Don’t you mean dead men?” Diran asked.
For a moment, Ghaji didn’t understand what his friend was talking about. Then he noticed that the water-logged zombie wasn’t alone. He’d brought some friends with him—several dozen, from the look of it. Ghaji squinted as he peered into the night beyond his axe’s fiery illumination. Make that several hundred. The half-orc turned in a slow circle and saw that an entire army of walking dead was coming toward them from all directions, shuffling, stumbling, moving with spastic, jerky motions as if they were ill-fashioned marionettes controlled by a puppeteer with severe arthritis. While they varied in size and race—humans, elves, dwarves, shifters, gnomes, changlings—they were all in the same bloated, wet condition as the first zombie Ghaji had seen.
“It would appear that Demothi Island is a trap of sorts,” Diran said, his tone emotionless and cool. “The undead wait underw
ater off shore, and once visitors reach the center of the island and are cut off from their vessel, the foul things rise forth to slay them. Clever.”
“You’ll forgive me if I don’t share your admiration,” Ghaji said. “Please tell me that you can repell a horde of zombies.”
“We’ll find out.” Diran still held a silver dagger in one hand, and with the other he reached into a tunic pocket and brought forth the arrowhead-shaped object that was the symbol of his order. He held the silver arrowhead out toward the closest of the advancing sea-zombies and the metal glowed with an aura of blue-white light.
“In the name of the Silver Flame, I command you to turn aside!” Diran’s voice boomed out, far louder than normal. Ghaji wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the priest’s words could be heard echoing across the entire island.
Several of the undead creatures stopped, hesitated, then resumed shambling forward.
Diran scowled. The aura shimmering around the silver arrowhead blazed more brightly, and this time when he spoke, his voice was loud as thunder.
“Be gone!”
The zombies didn’t even pause.
The light surrounding the arrowhead winked out, and Diran lowered the holy symbol to his side. “The evil power emanating from the statue is too strong. We have no choice. Fight or die.”
“I’ve been making that choice since the day I drew my first breath,” Ghaji said. Elemental axe held high with its flames trailing bright against the night sky, the half-orc ran forward to meet the first wave of walking dead.
Diran watched his friend hack zombies apart. Normally, undead flesh was dry, which made Ghaji’s flaming axe a perfect weapon, but these zombies had come from the sea, and their skin, while just as lifeless as that of any other undead creature, was too wet to burn. Indeed, their entire bodies were suffused with saltwater, and only magical fire of a very high order could harm them. Too bad Tresslar wasn’t here. He might well have a powerful flame spell stored in his dragonwand.