by Tim Waggoner
“What if Tresslar doesn’t succeed?”
Diran shrugged. “Asenka is confident Baron Mahir will give us the resources to track down Cathmore if we should need them.”
Makala’s smile vanished. “Asenka is quite a woman, isn’t she? Strong, confident, beautiful …”
Makala’s voice contained a hint of a growl, and Diran was suddenly uncomfortable. “She’s an effective commander.”
Makala leaned in close until all Diran could see was her crimson eyes.
“She wants you, Diran, and you her. Don’t deny it.”
Diran wanted to open his mouth to do that very thing, but he couldn’t. His mind felt muzzy, as if it were wrapped in thick cotton, and his thoughts flowed sluggishly, like half-frozen tree sap.
“She’s not good enough for you. You should just keep your relationship professional. In fact, it would be better if you didn’t have anything to do with her at all.”
Yes. Why hadn’t he realized that before? It was so clear … Asenka was nothing compared to Makala. Nothing at all.
Diran reached for Makala, intending to take her in his arms, but then she smiled, revealing her fangs once more. Diran understood then what was happening, and he closed his eyes to shut out the crimson light shining in Makala’s gaze. He took a step backward and turned away from her before allowing himself to open his eyes.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he said, still avoiding her gaze.
Makala said nothing for a moment, then she spoke as if nothing had happened between them just now. “If Tresslar fails to awaken Solus, you’ll need another way to find Cathmore. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll conduct a search of my own.”
An instant later, Diran felt a breeze and heard the sound of leathery wings beating the air. He looked up to see a large bat winging away from the lagoon, heading westward toward the Hoarfrost Mountains. He stood watching it for a long time.
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Darkness …
Soothing, silent.
No voices, no confusion.
For the first time since he had been brought into existence, Solus knew peace. Wherever or whatever this placeless place was, he had no intention of ever leaving.
Light stabbed into his eyes.
He tried to close them and shut the light out, but warforged eyes didn’t function the same way that other creatures’ did, and he had no choice but to allow the light in.
“Mfixzumedl … hear me?”
Solus swiveled his head in the direction of the voice and found himself looking at the blurry outline of a face. Male from the voice, and human, he guessed, though his vision was still too fuzzy to tell for certain.
“Yes, but I can’t see you clearly.”
“Your vision should be fine in a few moments,” the man said, and then added, “I think.”
Solus didn’t find that particularly reassuring, but he saw no reason to make mention of it. Either his eyes would work efficiently or they wouldn’t. “Where am I? Who are you?”
Another voice answered, this one also male but higher-pitched, as if it belonged to a child. “You’re lying atop a table in the common room of the Sea Scorpions’ barracks. We brought you here after your head exploded.”
The voice came from his left, so Solus turned his head in that direction. This man was shorter than the other, and though the psi-forged’s vision was no clearer than it had been a moment ago, he thought he recognized this man, not from his blurry features, but rather from his aura. A name came to the forefront of Solus’s mind, and he spoke it aloud.
“Hinto.”
The small blurry face broke into a grin. “That’s right! How are you feeling?”
“I …” Solus didn’t possess the facial muscles to frown, but if he had, he would’ve done so now. “The voices … I don’t hear them.”
The owner of the first voice spoke. “Voices?”
“When I was born, I absorbed the minds of my makers. Their voices have been with me ever since, sometimes as soft murmurs in the background of my thoughts, sometimes as deafening shouts. They are still present … I can feel their memories, but I no longer hear them speak.”
“While I was repairing you, I detected an odd imbalance in your energy matrices. I suppose it was caused by these voices of yours. At any rate, I realigned your matrices, so they shouldn’t give you any more problems.”
“You mean just like his eyes?” Hinto said.
“I never claimed to be an expert on warforged! I was working primarily on instinct and intuition. To be honest, I’m surprised he’s functional at all.”
Hinto reached out and patted Solus’s hand. “Don’t mind Tresslar. He gets grouchy sometimes.” The small man lowered his voice. “It’s because he’s old.”
“Not so old that I didn’t hear that!” Tresslar snapped.
Solus decided to try sitting up. His body moved sluggishly, as if reluctant to cooperate, but he managed the simple maneuver then turned to Tresslar.
“I appreciate your efforts. Thank you.”
Solus couldn’t see the expression on the man’s face, but he could sense his irritation subsiding. “You’re welcome. I can have another look at your eyes, if you like.”
“That’s not necessary.” While his psionic abilities couldn’t replace vision, in some ways they allowed him to “see” the world with more clarity and accuracy than mere eyes could ever provide. “You say my head exploded?” Solus reached up and touched his forehead. He found the area smooth and unbroken.
“It was the people you were with,” Hinto said. “You turned to look at them right before the green crystal on your forehead blew up. I think they did something to make it happen.”
“There were three men,” Tresslar said, “a human, a kalashtar, and an orc. I believe the kalashtar controlled you through the green crystal and then detonated it when you broke free of his influence. Don’t you remember?”
Solus concentrated. He could sense the memories of his four makers waiting for him to draw upon them if he chose, but his own memories—those that he had made since stepping forth from the creation forge—were hazy and jumbled.
“I recall bits and pieces … scraps of memory that make little sense.”
“It’s possible your memories became scattered, for lack of a better word, when I realigned your energy matrices,” Tresslar said. “They may return in time, but then again, they may be lost forever. I don’t know.”
“Well, if your memories are gone, you’ll just have to make new ones, won’t you?” Hinto said.
Solus felt waves of cheer and good will emanating from the small man. His was a simple soul, but all the stronger for it. Solus didn’t possess the physiognomy to smile, but he reflected the feeling of good will as he replied.
“I suppose so.”
Ghaji and Asenka were sparring in the barracks’ central courtyard while Yvka cheered them on. Diran had yet to return from his trip to release Makala from the obsidian sarcophagus, and Ghaji was trying not to worry about his friend. The sun had set over an hour ago, and the stars glittered in the night sky like chips of ice. A series of glass globes set atop metal poles lit the courtyard, but while the minor fire elementals trapped inside the globes provided heat as well as light, Ghaji and Asenka’s breath still misted the air as they fought. The illumination was more for Asenka’s benefit than Ghaji’s, and it was actually something of a detriment to him, given his night vision. Ghaji’s preferred weapon was an axe, but he was proficient with any number of weapons. He wielded a longsword now to match Asenka. Ghaji was impressed by how well the woman handled herself, but then she had to be good to command a baron’s warrior fleet, he supposed, even in a backwater city like Perhata.
Asenka closed and brought her sword around in a sweeping arc toward Ghaji’s left. He blocked the blow easily and wondered if he’d been mistaken in his earlier assessment of her, but then Asenka, moving faster than Ghaji thought possible for a human, spun in the opposite direction and slammed her swo
rd blade into his right side. His breastplate took the worst of the strike, but the impact still knocked the breath out of him.
Yvka laughed and clapped her hands. “That’s another point for Asenka! It’s now two to five. Be careful, lover—she’s catching up!”
Ghaji had no breath to spare for a witty reply, which was fortunate since he also didn’t have time to think of one. Asenka pressed her attack, coming at him with a series of rapid strikes that took all his concentration to deflect. He knew he could use his strength to overpower her if he wished, but at the outset they’d agreed that this would be a match of skill against skill. Five years ago, Ghaji would’ve won, but now … Half-orcs tended to have shorter life-spans than humans, though it varied from one individual to another. Ghaji was still in his thirties, but even so, he wondered if he was starting to get old.
Ghaji was spared from losing another point to Asenka when the barracks’ door opened and Tresslar, Hinto, and the warforged stepped into the courtyard. The halfling held the construct’s hand—or more accurately, one of his thick fingers—and it appeared the little pirate was leading him. Ghaji caught Tresslar’s eye, and the artificer nodded to indicate all was well. Ghaji didn’t allow himself to relax fully though—not after all the trouble the warforged had given them on the dock.
Cautiously, Ghaji, Asenka, and Yvka approached the construct. Yvka had been holding Ghaji’s elemental axe for him, and now she gave him the axe in exchange for the longsword. Yvka appeared petite and delicate, but she was an elf and thus stronger than she looked—as Ghaji could attest from some of their more … enthusiastic encounters. She would be able to wield the sword without difficulty should the need arise.
The two groups met in the middle of the courtyard.
“It looks as if you’ve worked another miracle, Tresslar,” Yvka said. “Congratulations.” She openly admired Solus, and Ghaji knew she was calculating the construct’s worth to her masters in the Shadow Network.
“Nothing that any other exceptionally brilliant master artificer couldn’t do,” Tresslar said.
Ghaji couldn’t tell whether the old man was joking or not. “Whatever you did, I hope it purged our new friend of his homicidal tendencies.”
“You have no need to fear me,” Solus said in the eerie hollow voice that all warforged possessed.
“Of course not,” Asenka said. “Why should we fear a being that’s capable of hurling us all about like rag dolls simply by thinking about it?”
“Don’t give him any ideas,” Ghaji muttered.
“Solus is our friend now,” Hinto said. “He’s going to help us find Cathmore and the others.”
“He’s going to try,” Tresslar amended. “The explosion that halted his attack also damaged his memories.”
“I shall do my best to aid you,” Solus said. “I have looked into Hinto’s mind, and I have seen what Cathmore and his companions made me do. They are evil men and must be stopped.” The construct looked down at the halfling who still had hold of one of his fingers. “Right?”
Hinto smiled as he gazed up at the warforged like a child looking at a beloved adult. “Exactly right, my friend.”
Ghaji looked at Yvka and raised an eyebrow. It seemed Solus was following Hinto’s lead in more ways than one.
“As soon as Diran returns, we can make plans for our departure,” Ghaji said.
“He is already here,” Solus said. “He’s been watching us from the shadows all this time, waiting to see if I am still a threat.”
The warforged pointed to the far end of the courtyard where the illumination of the light globes didn’t quite reach, and everyone turned to look. At first nothing happened, but then a piece of the darkness broke free and came striding forward.
“I regret our last encounter, priest,” Solus said as Diran joined them. “I hope you will forgive me.”
Diran smiled. “I’ve had a great deal of practice at forgiving. I think I can manage to do it one more time.”
“I hate it when you sneak around like that,” Ghaji said. “At least now there’s one of us you can’t hide from.”
Diran’s smile fell away and his expression became grim. “Let us hope Cathmore has no more success hiding from our new friend than I did.”
The night was more than halfway gone by the time Skarm entered his mistress’s lair. His burns were almost entirely healed, thanks to a lone streetwalker in Perhata who’d reluctantly donated her life to fuel the barghest’s healing. Unfortunately, dealing with his injuries had used up all the life energy he’d stolen, and Skarm was hungry once more. As he padded along the tunnel to Nathifa’s chamber in wolf form, he kept alert for any vermin that might make a quick snack, but aside from himself, the tunnel was empty. Even rats and lizards were afraid to enter into the presence of his dread mistress, it seemed.
Skarm wasn’t surprised to find Nathifa sitting at her table, gazing into the empty eye sockets of her obsidian skull. The lich didn’t turn around or in any way acknowledge his return, but he knew she was aware of him nevertheless. He shifted to goblin form so that he could converse with her. But before he could say anything, Nathifa spoke.
“You have failed to obtain the Amahau.”
Her tone was cold, utterly devoid of emotion, and that frightened Skarm far more than if she’d been angry. He knew it would do him no good to make excuses, but he couldn’t help himself.
“I tried … several times, but I encountered … difficulties.” He hated hearing the wheedling sound of his own voice.
“I know all about your so-called difficulties. Espial has kept me informed of your progress, or rather, your lack thereof.” Nathifa stroked the black skull’s smooth round dome with slow, gentle motions of her bone-white hand, as if the object were a beloved child … or perhaps a lover.
Nathifa didn’t take her gaze off Espial, and Skarm wasn’t sure whether or not to be grateful. When his mistress got like this, she was difficult to read. He had no idea whether he was going to be punished for his failures, or if she were so caught up in communing with whatever spirit inhabited the obsidian skull that she was going to ignore them. To be on the safe side, he decided to keep talking.
“I know where the priest and his companions are going. They travel to Mount Luster to confront those who have taken up residence there. The leader of the Mount Luster group is an old enemy of the priest’s named Aldarik Cathmore. The priest intends to confront Cathmore, and his companions—including the artificer who carries the Amahau—travel with him. I thought—”
“—that you could make another attempt to snatch the Amahau while both groups are distracted by battle,” Nathifa finished. “I know. Espial has told me this as well.”
Skarm scowled at the black skull. He’d never felt comfortable around the mystical object, and he certainly didn’t like it giving away his plans before he had a chance to propose them to Nathifa himself, but Skarm’s irritation was swept away by his mistress’s next words.
“It is a good plan, Skarm. Espial approves.”
Skarm looked at the skull with newfound appreciation. Perhaps he would have to reconsider his feelings toward the thing.
“There’s more going on here than we’ve realized, Skarm. It’s as if we were part a grand tapestry—all of us: you and I, the priest and his companions, Cathmore and his allies …” Nathifa’s voice held a dreamy lilt to it, as if she were under some sort of enchantment. “We are threads being brought together by a master weaver, one overlapping the other, about to be drawn tight to become the warp and woof of an ingenious design.”
Nathifa rose from her chair and glided silently across the floor toward Skarm. It appeared even the endorsement of his mistress’s vaunted magic skull wasn’t enough to spare him from the lich’s wrath. The barghest raised his arms to shield himself from the blow that was sure to come, but Nathifa moved past him and continued to the tunnel entrance.
“Don’t just stand there. We have work to do.”
Skarm lowered his arms and gazed at his mi
stress’s retreating back in confusion. Since entering into Nathifa’s service, Skarm had never known the lich to leave her lair, but unless he misunderstood, she intended to accompany him to Mount Luster. Nathifa disappeared into the tunnel, and a moment later she shouted Skarm’s name.
The barghest shifted into wolf form and hurried to catch up to his dark mistress.
Makala had been flying in bat form for hours. Had she been a natural creature, she would have become weary long ago, but weariness was for mortals. Of course, hunger was also a mortal sensation, and being undead did not spare her from it. It had been more than a day since last she had fed—she felt a pang of guilt for poor dead Eneas—and while her strength and endurance hadn’t diminished appreciably in that time, the emptiness gnawing at the core of her being was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. She could feel her tenuous control over the Hunger beginning to slip, and she knew that if she postponed feeding too long, the Hunger would take control of her. If that happened, she would become a wild creature, an animal concerned only with satisfying the basest of desires.
She pushed such concerns from her mind. Thinking of the Hunger would only make it stronger. Like Diran she had once been an assassin in the Brotherhood of the Blade, and like all in the Brotherhood, she had played host to a dark spirit implanted within her in order to blunt her natural human empathy and make her a cold and utterly dispassionate killer. She had been freed of her dark spirit some time ago, but she remembered what it was like to co-exist with evil. That experience helped her live with the Hunger without giving herself over to it, and she would have to rely on that experience once again this night.
Besides, she would feed once she found Cathmore … and then when she was finished, she would leave his desiccated corpse for the mountain scavengers to feed upon, and there would be a little less evil in the world.