by Tim Waggoner
“It’s not you talking now, is it, Cathmore? It’s your dark spirit, desperate to find a new host before you die and it’s forced to return to whatever foul netherworld spawned it. How does it feel to know that at the end of your life, the spirit you’ve relied on for so many years cares no more for you than a sea rat cares for a sinking ship?”
A wave of vertigo hit Diran. The Proving Room shimmered and grew blurry before disappearing altogether. When the dizziness passed, Diran found himself in a large cavern, his adult self once again. Makala had also been restored to her true age, though she still crouched with her back to Diran to hide from the light of the silver flame blazing in his hand. Diran took a quick look around and saw his companions were present as well—Ghaji fought with Chagai, axe against sword, while Yvka looked on; Tresslar and Asenka huddled close together, as if to protect one another from some unseen threat; and Hinto and Solus stood before a glowing crystalline structure that Diran knew had to be the creation forge which had birthed Solus. Inside stood Cathmore’s kalashtar ally, screaming as blood poured from numerous wounds to his face and neck. Crystal shards of varying sizes were embedded in the man’s ravaged flesh.
Diran wasn’t certain how they’d all ended up in the cavern. Perhaps the kalashtar had used his mind powers to direct them to come here, and they had no memory of doing so. It didn’t matter. All that was important was that Solus had triumphed over the kalashtar and broken the man’s hold over all of them.
All at once the kalashtar stopped screaming, his eyes went wide, and the light emanating from the crystalline structure began to fade. The kalashtar held onto a single crystal ring that hovered in the air above him, but he released his grip on the ring and fell to his knees. Diran thought the man was going to die, but he remained on his knees, staring blankly, a thin line of drool running from a corner of his mouth.
Diran turned to Cathmore.
“It’s over. You’ve lost.”
Cathmore’s gaze was clear, and Diran knew his dark spirit had returned control to the master assassin. The old man looked uncertain, as if he couldn’t bring himself to believe what had happened, as if he were hoping that this was another of the kalashtar’s illusions that any moment would be dispelled to reveal that he, Cathmore, was the ultimate victor.
Diran closed his hand, extinguishing the silver fire he’d brought into existence. He then drew a pair of steel daggers and flipped them into throwing position.
“Surrender or die, Cathmore. Your choice.”
Cathmore’s uncertainty faded and was replaced with cold hatred. “I’ll never surrender to you.”
Makala grabbed Cathmore from behind.
“That’s just what I wanted to hear,” she said.
Before Diran could stop her, she bared her fangs and sank them into Cathmore’s neck.
Diran had no choice. He hurled his daggers.
Ghaji ducked just in time to avoid Chagai’s swing, though from the way Yvka gasped as the broadsword passed over his head, Ghaji had come within a few hairs of losing his scalp. Though he was in an awkward position, Ghaji swung his axe at Chagai’s unprotected side. He knew his weapon probably wouldn’t penetrate Chagai’s enchanted mail shirt, but he hoped the impact would at least break a couple of the bastard’s ribs.
Before his axe could hit Chagai, the night-shrouded valley vanished, and Ghaji saw they stood inside a large cavern. The sudden change of scenery distracted Ghaji, causing him to angle his axe head upward so that the flat of the weapon struck Chagai in the side instead of the edge. There was still plenty of strength behind the blow however, and the breath gusted out of Chagai’s lungs as the impact sent him stumbling to his right.
Ghaji wondered what had happened to break the illusion of the night valley, and whether it meant good or ill for him and his companions, but he knew he didn’t have time to be concerned with such matters now. Twenty years ago he’d allowed Chagai to live, and that was a mistake he intended to rectify.
He stood, willing his axe to ignite, and he was gratified to see flames flare to life around the elemental weapon.
Chagai regained his balance and turned back to face Ghaji, bringing his broadsword around for another strike. Ghaji ran forward, gripped the flaming axe in both hands, and raised it high over his head.
“This is for Ruelo and his family!” Ghaji shouted.
Chagai’s eyes widened as Ghaji brought his fire-flecked axe blade down and split the orc’s skull in two.
“Soon … Soon … Now!” Nathifa commanded.
Skarm didn’t hesitate. He leaped from the cloak of darkness, donned wolf form, and dashed across the cavern floor toward the white-bearded artificer.
As much as Tresslar wanted to believe that he was responsible for ending the psionic illusion they’d been trapped in, he knew he had nothing to do with it. Still, he was pleased that his notion for defeating Paganus had worked, even if only in an illusion. Tresslar had answered a question that had nagged at him for forty years, and how many people were fortunate enough to receive an opportunity like that? There was no time for such idle thoughts: just because the illusion had ended didn’t mean the danger had.
Gripping his dragonwand—and wasn’t he glad to have it back?—he turned to Asenka.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
The Sea Scorpion commander looked dazed, but she shook her head, appearing none the worse for wear.
Tresslar glanced around the cavern, hoping to determine what was happening and where he might be needed.
A gray shape came streaking at him from the cavern’s shadows. Tresslar was still somewhat disoriented from having been in the grip of illusion, and so he hesitated, unsure whether the wolf running at him was real or not.
The beast leaped, closed its mouth around the dragonwand, and tore the magic weapon out of Tresslar’s hand. The wolf raced away toward a stairwell at the far end of the cavern, and though Tresslar thought it might be his imagination, he swore he saw a dark form trailing the creature, as if one of the cavern’s shadows had decided to break loose and accompany the beast. Then the wolf entered the stairwell, and the dark shape—assuming it truly existed—vanished as well.
Tresslar stared in stunned amazement. For four decades he’d possessed the dragonwand, using it during his voyages with Erdis Cai, then concealing it during his lengthy tenure on Dreadhold, and now, after all those years, it was gone.
The blades Diran threw were made of steel, not wood or silver, and thus would not cause Makala any serious injury, but he wasn’t aiming for Makala.
The first dagger struck Cathmore just above the throat apple, while the second slid into the master assassin’s left eye socket, penetrating deep into the brain. Cathmore stiffened as blood gushed from his wounds, then he fixed his remaining eye on Diran and slowly smiled with trembling lips. The smile fell away, the eye glazed over, and Cathmore died. The master assassin went limp, but he did not fall, for Makala had hold of him from behind, her head at the juncture of his neck and shoulder, her mouth pressed to the side of his throat as she drank the dead man’s blood.
Diran prayed that he’d been fast enough. For the moment Makala’s fangs had pierced Cathmore’s neck, she’d opened herself to the dark spirit that dwelt within the old man, but if Cathmore had died before the dark spirit could enter Makala though the blood of its former host, then there was a chance the evil entity would be cast out before it could infect her. If he’d been swift enough.
“Makala?”
As Diran spoke her name, he reached back into his cloak and withdrew a dagger made of pure silver from one of the sheaths sewn into the inner lining.
For a moment, she continued enjoying her grisly repast, but then she lifted her blood-smeared mouth from Cathmore’s ravaged neck and smiled at Diran, revealing crimson-flecked teeth.
“I’d forgotten how good it feels to have the darkness inside.” Her voice was soft, almost a purr.
Diran felt as if he’d taken a blow to the chest. He’d failed her—again.
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“Please, Makala … let me help you.”
Makala spoke with mocking amusement. “Help me how, lover? You can’t cure me. So what will you do? Kill me?”
Diran hesitated for only a half second. Forgive me, he thought, then threw the silver dagger at Makala, but before the blade could strike, she lifted Cathmore’s body and used it as a shield. The dagger thunked harmlessly into the dead man’s chest.
Diran reached for a second silver dagger, but Makala’s reflexes were far faster than his. She hurled Cathmore’s body at him then her form faded to mist.
Diran leaped to the side to avoid the old man’s body, throwing his dagger at Makala as he did. The blade flew straight and true, but it was too late. The dagger passed through the space where Makala’s heart had been. The blade fell to the ground with a metallic tink, and Makala’s dark laughter echoed through the cavern air. Though it quickly faded, Diran continued to hear it in his mind long after.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-THREE
Any luck?”
Diran turned to see Ghaji striding across the rocky ground toward him. The half-orc was clad in a thick fur cloak, his axe tucked beneath his belt. The clouds in the gray sky had a darkish undercast, and though it was not yet winter, Diran thought there was a good chance it might snow soon.
The priest was annoyed to see his friend approaching, but he tried to keep his tone neutral as he replied. “What do you mean?”
Ghaji stopped when he reached Diran and took a quick look at their surroundings to check the area for threats—an action Diran knew from their long association was second nature to the half-orc. Evidently Ghaji saw nothing to concern him in the desolate, rocky hills, for he turned his attention back to Diran.
“This is the third day you’ve come out here alone—without telling anyone, I might add. You’re searching for Makala, aren’t you?”
There was no point in denying it: Ghaji knew him too well. There were a couple of rocks nearby large enough to sit on. Diran took one, Ghaji the other.
Now that they’d sat, Diran found himself still reluctant to talk about Makala. “Have you heard anything from Yvka?”
Ghaji’s eyes narrowed, as if he were well aware that his friend was stalling. “She stopped by the King Prawn this morning to, uh, get some rest.”
Diran grinned.
“Anyway, she told me her ‘friends’ have taken possession of Mount Luster—and they’ve taken custody of Galharath. No doubt they’re going over the psi-forge facility inch by inch to glean all the information they can. I get the impression that Yvka’s risen in status in the Shadow Network thanks to her association with us. First she was able to deliver Grimwall to them and now Mount Luster.”
“I don’t like the idea of the Shadow Network possessing the capability to create psi-forged,” Diran said. “Imagine the destruction an army of constructs like Solus could cause.”
“Warforged aren’t mindless machines, you know,” Ghaji pointed out. “Creating them is one thing. Controlling them is another. Besides, according to Solus, the psi-forge’s energy matrix—whatever that is—was damaged when he attacked Galharath. There’s no guarantee that the Shadow Network’s artificers can repair it.”
“True, but if the Shadow Network can restore Galharath’s mind, they might be able to get the kalashtar to cooperate with them.”
Solus’s attack had done more than damage the internal workings of the psi-forge. It had reduced Galharath to a drooling idiot. Diran had attempted to heal him several times but without success. Whatever injury had been done to the kalashtar’s mind was beyond Diran’s power to repair. Galharath had been taken to Perhata and locked up in the baron’s prison, where he’d remained for the last few days … until the Shadow Network had taken him. Diran wondered how the Network had managed to get Baron Mahir’s cooperation, and he wondered what Asenka thought about having to give up the prisoner. He suspected she was less than thrilled.
“If you couldn’t heal him, I doubt very much the Shadow Network can,” Ghaji said.
“How’s Solus doing?” Diran asked.
He’d spent so little time in Perhata these last few days—mostly just to sleep and restore his supplies—and he hadn’t seen much of the psi-forged.
“His vision is still blurry, despite Tresslar’s attempts to fix it, but Solus doesn’t seem to mind. He’s happy enough with Hinto to guide him. You ask me, they make an odd pair.”
Diran smiled. “People have said the same about the two of us, you know.”
Ghaji snorted but otherwise didn’t reply.
Diran was pleased that Hinto had formed a bond with the psi-forged. They complemented each other well: Hinto helped Solus maintain mental stability, while the psi-forged helped the halfling emotionally. Diran had a feeling theirs was a partnership that would last, but only time would tell.
“How fares Tresslar?” Diran asked.
Ghaji shrugged. “He’s still mad as a nest of hornets over the loss of his dragonwand, though he tries to downplay it. You know he’d rather die than admit how much he’s come to rely on the thing. He says he’s working on a way to locate the dragonwand, but it might be mere bluster. Still, he has been spending a lot of time in the artificer’s workshop Baron Mahir has granted him use of, so who knows?”
“How are you feeling, my friend?” Diran asked. “By defeating Chagai, you’ve had the opportunity to lay an unpleasant part of your past to rest.”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but the truth is that I don’t feel much of anything. Killing Chagai didn’t bring back any of the people we killed during the time we served together, and I’d put our association behind me the day I left him lying wounded on a field in the Eldeen Reaches. The world’s a better place with him gone, though, that’s for certain.”
“As one of the Purified, I must remind you that all life is sacred,” Diran said, then he smiled. “However, in this case, I can’t help but agree with you.”
“What of you?” Ghaji said. “Cathmore was a large part of your past.”
Diran considered his reply for a time before speaking. “Of all the teachers I’ve had over the years—my father, Emon, Tusya—Cathmore is the only one I wish I’d never had, but I can’t deny that I learned from him, that the man I am today was shaped at least in part by his teachings. However, I do not feel any joy that he’s dead, nor do I feel any relief. No matter what we do, or who we outlive, the past remains with us—always.”
“Which brings us back to Makala,” Ghaji said softly.
“I suppose it does.” Diran let out a long, slow sigh. “I should’ve killed her the moment I realized she’d been tainted by the vampire’s curse.”
“How could you? You love her.”
“If I truly loved her, I would’ve done what needed to be done. Instead, I told myself that I should allow her to choose, that she was strong enough to bear the curse if she so wished.” He shook his head. “I was a fool.”
Before Ghaji could respond, a woman’s voice cut in. “You wouldn’t be the first fool for love, and I doubt very much that you’ll be the last.”
Diran and Ghaji looked up at the same time to see Asenka approaching. She wore a thick fur cloak with the hood down, and the sunlight—what little there was of it, at any rate—accented the highlights in her strawberry-blond hair.
The half-orc scowled. “Did you follow me all the way from Perhata?”
The commander of the Sea Scorpions smiled as she reached them. “That I did.”
Ghaji’s scowl deepened. “My senses must still be suffering from the after effects of Galharath tampering with our minds.” He stood up and turned to Diran. “See you back at the King Prawn for dinner?”
Diran had intended to continue searching for Makala until he was too weary to continue, but he nodded and said, “I’ll be there.”
Ghaji put his hand on Diran’s shoulder for a moment, and then, after a nod to Asenka, the half-orc warrior turned and began the trek back to Perhata. When Ghaji had gone
a dozen yards or so, Asenka sat on the rock he’d vacated.
“You know he let me follow him,” she said.
Diran smiled. “Yes.”
“He’s a good friend.”
“The best I’ve ever had,” Diran said as he gazed at the half-orc’s retreating form.
They sat in silence for a time, listening to the moaning of the wind as it blew through the hills.
After a while, Asenka said, “You’re not really searching for Makala out here, are you? At least, that’s not all you’re doing. She’s more likely to be holed up in Perhata, since that’s where …” Asenka trailed off, as if realizing she was about to say something she shouldn’t.
“Where the greatest supply of food is located,” Diran finished for her. “You’re right, of course. I’ve been coming out here to ‘reacquaint myself with solitude,’ as Tusya, the priest who was my mentor in the Church, would put it. When one wishes to hear the voice of the Silver Flame most clearly, one must first calm the unquiet mind.”
“Is it working?”
Diran smiled. “Not in the slightest.”
Asenka laughed then immediately apologized. “Sorry, I know it’s not funny.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Laughter is a sound of life, and while it might not have mystical healing powers, it’s a powerful medicine in its own right.” Diran broke off and stared into the distance, seeking Ghaji, but the half-orc was no longer in sight. “It’s a medicine I could use more of. For a man who’s dedicated himself to combating evil and preserving life, I spend far too much of my time surrounded by death.”
“Aren’t life and death two sides of the same coin?” Asenka said. “One can’t exist without the other.”
“I suppose,” Diran allowed, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“No, it doesn’t.” She paused as if trying to decide how best to proceed. “You’ve been doing more out here than just getting to know solitude again, though. You’ve been hoping to lure Makala out into the open. That’s why you haven’t gone too far into the hills. You want to remain close to the city.”