Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  Praise for Tim Waggoner and

  Blade of the Flame…

  “Diran is a kind of gentler, more thoughtful, but nonetheless formidable version of Conan and I look forward to his next adventure.”

  —Don D’Ammassa, dondammassa.com on

  Forge of the Mindslayers

  “Fans of adventure fantasy series like Salvatore’s Drizzt Do’Urden saga, Michael Moorcock’s Elric of Melniboné and Raymond E. Feist’s Midkemia sequence should definitely check out Waggoner’s Thieves of Blood: a pedal-to-the-metal thrill ride of a novel featuring some of the coolest fantasy characters to come along in years. Highly recommended.”

  —The Barnes & Noble Review

  “Waggoner is in possession of a talent that should be taken seriously, and I can’t wait for his next book.”

  —Johnny Butane, The Horror Channel, on Pandora Drive.

  “Waggoner is an excellent evoker of nightmarish terror, and his style is eminently readable.”

  —Horror Reader on Nightmare on Elm Street: Protegé

  THE BLADE OF THE FLAME

  BY ACCLAIMED AUTHOR

  TIM WAGGONER

  Thieves of Blood

  Forge of the Mindslayers

  Sea of Death

  DEDICATION

  To Mark Sehestedt,

  now a wizard of another coast. Thanks for sailing

  the Lhazaar with me!

  Dark clouds covered the heavens, smothering both stars and moons, leaving the sea blacker than night, blacker than sin. The wind howled like the wailing of a thousand lost souls crying out their misery to a cold, uncaring world. A sleek sailing vessel—a one-masted sloop mounted on runners—moved swiftly across the dark water, cutting through the turbulent waves with ease and grace, as if she traveled over solid ice, her runners fitted with razor-sharp blades. Though the sloop traveled against the wind, her sail nevertheless billowed full, thanks to a torrent of air issuing from a metal containment ring mounted behind the sail. The ring glowed with an aura of sizzling blue-white energy, and the scent of hot metal lay acrid on the salty sea air.

  At the prow of the vessel stood a figure draped in darkness, bone-white hands gripping the railing, ebon fingernails long and sharp as bird talons. She faced the wind, and though the frigid sea-spray struck her like pellets of ice, she didn’t wince, didn’t so much as blink, for her dead flesh felt nothing. She appeared to be cloaked in living shadow, tendrils of liquid darkness trailing behind her, undulating in the wind like the fronds of a strange undersea plant dancing at the mercy of a strong current.

  Nathifa gazed into the night, and though her eyes were dead, still they saw—saw much farther than they ever had in life. She knew they were drawing near their destination, and her desiccated lips, which hadn’t so much as twitched in all the hours she had stood motionless at the prow, now stretched into a slow smile, the movement cracking the layer of ice that had formed over her mouth during that time. Tiny shards of ice fell to the deck, taking bits of lip-flesh with them. Nathifa wasn’t aware of the loss, and even if she had been, she wouldn’t have cared. All she cared about—all she’d ever cared about, even back when she was alive—was satisfying her desires. And after over a century of patient, meticulous planning, she was now closer to her revenge than ever before. She had already gained possession of the golden dragonhead known as the Amahau, and on Demothi Island she would acquire the next item she needed. And after that …

  “It shouldn’t be much longer now.”

  A woman’s voice, cold with a mocking edge. A new voice in Nathifa’s undead existence, but one she had already grown to dislike. Nathifa responded without turning around.

  “Indeed. It is as if you read my thoughts, Makala.” Nathifa’s voice was cold and hollow, like the inner chambers of an arctic tomb.

  “Perhaps I did, lich.”

  Nathifa didn’t move her body, but her head swiveled around to face Makala, rotating one hundred and eighty degrees like that of an owl. Nathifa no longer smiled. The woman who’d addressed her was medium height, with short blonde hair and fine, delicate features. Her pale skin was smooth, almost glossy like glazed pottery, and pinpoints of red light blazed within the depths of her eyes like crimson flame. She wore a red leather vest, brown leggings, boots, and a black cloak that fluttered behind her in the wind like the wings of a giant night raven. Makala carried a short sword belted around her waist, but steel was the least of her weapons. Ice crystals clung to her hair, skin, and clothing, but like Nathifa, she displayed no indication that she was aware of the cold, let alone bothered by it.

  “Do not make sport of me, vampire.” Nathifa’s voice held a note of warning. “I can destroy you with a single whisper.”

  Makala smiled, revealing a pair of sharp incisors, and then bowed. “My apologies, Mistress. I meant no disrespect.”

  Makala raised her head and met Nathifa’s gaze. Crimson light similar to that which smoldered in Makala’s eyes burned bright within the hollow sockets of Nathifa’s. Normally, a vampire would have been unable to withstand the intensity of a lich’s gaze. But Makala didn’t turn aside, didn’t so much as blink … and she continued to smile with infuriating smugness. Nathifa wanted to spin around, lash out with a clawed hand, and rip the lower half of the woman’s face to shreds. And she might have, except that she knew that Makala wasn’t just a vampire. She carried another spirit within her, a dark entity of a kind Nathifa was unfamiliar with. It was this spirit that allowed Makala to endure the power of the lich’s burning gaze without shrinking. And until Nathifa knew the full measure of Makala’s strength, she would stay her hand.

  Besides, she needed Makala’s help in order to bring her vengeance to its final fruition. So let the vampire mock her for now. In the end, Nathifa would stand laughing over the woman’s cold ashes as her spirit—as both of them—was swallowed by everlasting darkness.

  Nathifa turned her head back around and looked out across the sea once more. “We shall reach Demothi Island well before dawn, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried. Didn’t I tell you the Zephyr was a fast ship?”

  “That you did,” Nathifa said grudgingly. Once again, her dark mistress had provided, just as she had always done.

  Makala went on. “I’m rather enjoying our journey. It’s been some time since I found sea travel tolerable, let alone pleasant.”

  Vampires, while useful servants, possessed a number of weaknesses—aversion to sunlight and holy objects chief among them. They also had difficulty traveling across running water: even the smallest stream could give them trouble, causing discomfort and even pain. Passage across a river was worse, and sea travel was nearly impossible. Makala possessed a mystic obsidian sarcophagus that allowed vampires to endure sea travel as long as they remained sealed within. But Makala hadn’t made use of the sarcophagus once during this entire voyage. She strode the deck with ease, displaying no signs of discomfort. No doubt another strength granted by the dark spirit housed within Makala’s undead body. How many more might there be, Nathifa wondered, and the thought troubled her.

  “It’s a good thing that we’re almost there,” Makala said. “Your barghest could use a rest.”

  Nathifa turned away from the prow and glanced back toward the containment ring. A short orange-skinned creature with a bat-like face and large pointed ears sat upon a wooden chair behind the glowing metal ring. Skarm’s left hand lay flat on a depression carved into one of the chair arms. The depression was formed in the shape of a slender, long-fingered hand larger than the goblin’s. An elvish hand. The flesh-to-wood contact allowed whoever sat in the chair to control the wind elemental that had been bound t
o the containment ring. At Nathifa’s order, Skarm had been keeping the elemental producing wind at full strength ever since they had departed the secluded cove near the city of Perhata. And while it took little mystic skill to control the elemental, it did require a certain amount of mental strength and life energy. It had been a while since Skarm had fed, and he’d never been especially gifted mentally. His eyes were weary, his cheeks hollow, and—though Nathifa couldn’t make out any color in the darkness—she knew his normally orange complexion would be pale peach.

  Skarm would need to rest soon. Otherwise, if he expended all the life energy he’d absorbed from his last prey, he would die and be useless. Well … even more useless than he already was, Nathifa thought.

  She glanced at Makala. Vampires were undead, but they did feed upon the living.

  Might the stolen blood that flowed through her veins be suitable to sustain Skarm, at least for a short time? Nathifa knew that the vampiric taint carried by Makala’s blood would have no effect on Skarm since he was a barghest. And as he was already bound to Nathifa, drinking Makala’s blood wouldn’t grant her mystic control of him.

  The lich smiled, impressed anew by her dark mistress’s wisdom at sending the vampire to her.

  “Makala, I want you to give Skarm a measure of your blood, enough to restore his strength until we reach Demothi Island.”

  The vampire looked at Nathifa for a long moment, face as expressionless as a marble statue. Nathifa thought that the woman might defy her, but in the end Makala simply inclined her head, turned, and began making her way sternward.

  Satisfied that the pecking order had been re-established—for the time being, at least—Nathifa faced into the wind once more and gazed out into the darkness with eyes of flickering crimson flame.

  The dark shape of Demothi Island hove into view. Cold, desolate, barren, and rocky, it was a place of death and evil, though not entirely uninhabited. The island claimed one resident, and it was he whom they had come to collect.

  They sailed toward the island’s western side, and Nathifa noted the wreckage of a ship just off shore. The vessel had been reduced little more than splintered planks now, thanks to the constant pounding of the waves, and within a few more days, perhaps a week at most, there would be no sign left that the craft had ever existed.

  “Have you been here before?”

  Nathifa hadn’t been aware of Makala’s approach. She turned to face the vampire, ancient neck bones grinding and cracking.

  “I have never set foot on the island, but I did see it once before, many years ago. When I was mortal.” Though she had been undead far longer than she had drawn breath, Nathifa’s memories of her previous life were as clear and sharp as ever.

  “My brothers and I sailed past Demothi when we first discovered the gulf. I wanted to investigate, but both Kolbyr and Perhata convinced me that we should avoid it. Even from a distance, we could sense the evil emanating from the place.” She smiled. “Of course, that was part of what intrigued me, but I deferred to my brothers.”

  Perhata and Kolbyr … the mortal bodies of her brothers were long dead, but their memories lived within her still. Memories of love, adventure, and conquest, but most of all of betrayal. Kolbyr’s betrayal. After all these years, after everything Nathifa had sacrificed, she was close to finally achieving her revenge against her hated brother.

  You killed my husband, Kolbyr, killed my son … all because you were too selfish to allow my child—your nephew—to become the heir you couldn’t produce. Everything we built … everything you took from me … soon it will lie in ruins, and your name will become a curse upon the lips of all who inhabit the Principalities, until at last your name fades from all memory … even one as long as mine.

  With a start, Nathifa became aware of Makala looking at her with a bemused expression. She feared Makala might take her momentary lapse as a sign of weakness, so to cover she said, “Tell Skarm to take us in.”

  Makala nodded, glanced down at the soarwood railing, and smirked before she turned and walked back to the barghest. Nathifa looked down to see what had amused the vampire so and saw that, in her anger, she’d gripped the railing so hard that her talon-fingers had dug deep furrows into the wood.

  A loss of control. Another sign of weakness. One that she could ill afford with Makala and her evil spirit about.

  Lady, guide me, she prayed.

  Hollow laughter came in reply, but Nathifa told herself it was simply an auditory illusion caused by the howling wind and the pounding surf, nothing more.

  At the stern of the Zephyr, Skarm grunted as he lifted the vessel’s anchor. In his present form he possessed no more strength than an ordinary goblin, but this was the best shape for him to use when he needed to perform manual labor—which, as Nathifa’s servant, he had to do more often than he liked. In wolf shape, he had no hands, and while as a true barghest, he did have opposable thumbs, his spine wasn’t designed for standing upright. The anchor felt as if it weighed a ton or more, and sharp pain shot through his lower back as he tossed it over the aft railing, rope playing out behind. His muscles quivered, weak as jelly, and despite the thick fur cloak that he wore—made of wolfskin, of course—he couldn’t stop shivering. Commanding the Zephyr’s wind elemental had taken a great deal out of him, and though the vampire’s blood, as bitter and foul-tasting as it was, had restored a certain measure of his strength, it hadn’t been nearly enough. He would’ve liked nothing better than to crawl into the sloop’s small cabin, curl up on a pallet and sleep for a decade or two. But not only wouldn’t Nathifa permit him a moment’s rest, she’d punish him severely for so much as asking. He had no choice but to keep going and hope he didn’t drop from exhaustion, for if he did, Nathifa would most likely slay him and simply transfer his duties to her new servant.

  Not for the first time, Skarm thought back to his life before he’d become the lich’s slave—roaming free among the Hoarfrost Mountains, preying on unwary hunters and travelers, devouring sweet flesh and guzzling hot blood. But then one day he’d felt drawn to a series of caves located in the foothills just beyond the mountains. He’d tried to resist the pull, but he could not. He had no choice but to enter, and once he’d made his way through the tunnels to the cave system’s main chamber, he discovered Nathifa waiting for him. Ever since that moment, Skarm had been the lich’s slave, and he knew he would remain so until the day he died. He supposed there were worse lives for a barghest to lead, but offhand he couldn’t think of any.

  He tied the anchor rope to a metal cleat bolted to the railing, then turned to inform his mistress that she could disembark. But before he could speak Nathifa, who stood at the Zephyr’s stern as she had since they’d sailed from Perhata, bowed her head. Her cloak of living darkness seemed to swallow her, and an instant later her form broke apart into dozens of smaller shadow-fragments that resembled rats. The night-black vermin surged toward the railing and scuttled over the side.

  Makala, who’d been standing next to Nathifa, glanced back over her shoulder and gave Skarm a grin. Then her form darkened, blurred, and reshaped itself into a large bat. Wind filled the vampire’s leathery wings and bore her skyward.

  Those two aren’t the only ones who can play at shape-shifting, Skarm thought.

  He ran to the stern, leather boots thumping on the wooden deck. Just as he reached the railing, his boots became padded lupine feet as his goblin body reworked itself into the form of a wolf. He leaped into the air with bestial grace and soared up and over the railing.

  Beware, Demothi Island! Skarm thought as he descended. The mighty barghest has come!

  Then he landed in the frigid roiling surf just offshore and howled in shock at the sensation of a thousand ice needles piercing his hide. He scrambled out of the water and onto the rocky shore, whining like a wounded pup, and lost no time in vigorously shaking his coat dry. Or at least as dry as it could get, considering that half-frozen rain pelted the island.

  I hate winter in the Principalites, Skarm thou
ght. And the worst of it was, this was only autumn.

  Nathifa and Makala stood on the shore, both having resumed their humanlike shapes. The lich shot Skarm a crimson-flecked gaze of irritation before turning and proceeding inland. She moved with an eerie gliding motion, as if she were floating above the ground instead of walking on its surface. Maybe she was floating, Skarm thought. After all, he’d never actually seen her legs and wasn’t entirely certain she had any. Makala followed behind Nathifa, walking mortal-fashion, but moving with the serpent-like ease common to vampire-kind.

  Skarm intended to shift into his barghest form then, for it was hardier than both his goblin and wolf shapes and thus better able to withstand the cold. But then his lupine nose detected a scent—a wonderfully rank odor of putrefaction that set his mouth to watering. Cold forgotten, Skarm padded toward the source of the tantalizing smell, a viscous mound of slime heaped onto the dark shore nearby. He lowered his snout to the ooze and drank in its deliciously foul stench. He judged the slime to be liquefied dead flesh—long dead, at that—and though barghests weren’t by nature carrion eaters, Makala’s blood had only done so much to restore his strength, and Skarm was still hungry … hungry enough to make even this muck seem like a fine banquet to him.

  Skarm opened his mouth and extended his tongue, prepared to lap up the foul stuff when another scent drifted into his nostrils—the scent of living meat. Human meat. Skarm was always Skarm no matter his shape, but his thoughts were affected by the form he wore at any given time. As a barghest, he was cunning and cruel, as a goblin timid and scheming, and as a wolf a creature of appetite and instinct. Both of these latter qualities now combined into a single overpowering urge that told Skarm he must feed—now.

  Skarm bounded off, nose to the ground, tracking this new scent. Others had been here not long ago, he knew—human, half-orc, elf, halfling—for their scents still clung to the rocks, but one scent, a human male’s, was strong and fresh. Whoever the man was, he was still on the island and soon he’d be filling Skarm’s belly. Skarm ran a zig-zag trail across the small island, heart pounding in excitement, air chuffing in and out of his nostrils as he searched for his prey. He heard voices yelling his name—both female—but he ignored them. Nothing mattered except filling the vast empty pit that lay at the core of his being.