by Tim Waggoner
Skarm found the man huddled behind a large outcropping of gray rock. He was blonde, bearded, broad-shouldered, and though half-frozen and trembling like a leaf caught in gale-force wind, the fact that he had survived exposure to the harsh elements on the island was testament to his great strength. This one would make a fine meal, indeed!
The man staggered to a standing position and brandished a knife as Skarm approached. He wore leather armor beneath a thick, red waterproof cloak, hood up as protection against the rain. Skarm’s lupine vision was able to make out a tattoo of a stylized blue skull on the man’s forehead. The image was meaningless to Skarm’s wolf-mind, and he forgot it as soon as he saw it. The man’s knife was a small, pitiful weapon, and his hand trembled so badly that Skarm doubted he would be able to do any serious damage with the blade. Not that it mattered if he did, for Skarm could heal with supernatural swiftness. But even if he had no special healing abilities, his hunger would still have driven him to attack, regardless of the risk of injury to himself.
Skarm ran at the man and leaped for his throat, already tasting the blood that would soon gush hot and sweet on his tongue.
But a strong hand grabbed hold of him by the scruff of the neck, stopping his attack in mid-leap. Skarm whipped his head around, growling and snapping at whoever dared to come between him and his prey.
“Easy, boy,” Makala said, grinning, incisors longer and sharper than usual. “Nathifa would like a word with this gentleman before you tear out his throat.”
Skarm writhed in Makala’s grip, trying to twist free, but the vampire held him above the ground in a grip like iron, and there was nothing he could do.
Then Nathifa came gliding forward, the tendrils of her dark cloak probing the ground as she advanced like the feelers of a gigantic black insect. Her crimson-flame eyes burned with excitement as she regarded the bearded man, and her smile was a terrible thing to behold.
“Well, now. Who we do have here?”
Haaken tried to put up a brave front, but he’d been marooned on Demothi Island for several days now—ever since the Maelstrom, the vessel he’d commanded, had run aground on this cursed shore—and he was half-dead from exposure. But even if he were at full fighting strength, still he would’ve quailed before the creature that glided toward him now. The wolf didn’t frighten him overmuch, nor did the vampire. The wolf was a simple beast, and while the vampire was a formidable enough foe, they’d met in battle before and he’d managed to get the best of her then. But this … this thing coming toward him—bone-white flesh, fire-pit eyes, shadowy cloak that seemed somehow alive—exuded an aura of such malevolence that, if Haaken had had any fresh water to drink over the last few days, he would’ve lost control of his bladder.
“His name is Haaken Sprull,” the vampire said. She continued to hold onto the snarling wolf, the animal showing no signs of calming down. “He is—or rather, was—the commander of the Coldhearts, the supposedly elite warriors who served Baroness Calida of Kolbyr. He made the mistake of kidnapping some former friends of mine, and he lost both his crew and his ship as a result. Quite frankly, I’m surprised the fool is still alive.”
The white-faced thing glided closer to Haaken and scowled as she examined him. He wanted more than anything to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and this horrible apparition, but he was too transfixed with terror to move. Besides, Demothi Island was so small, there wasn’t anywhere to run.
“Kolbyr, eh?” The words were carried on breath redolent of dust and ancient bone. She regarded him a moment longer before letting out a brittle laugh and clapping her skeletal hands together in glee. “My mistress displays an unexpected sense of whimsy this night! How delightfully appropriate that she would send a servant of Kolbyr to now serve me!”
Haaken had no idea what the witch was talking about, and he didn’t want to know. Better to die like a man than serve a creature like her! Though it took every bit of inner strength remaining to him, Haaken tore his gaze away from the witch’s burning red eyes, turned, and ran. He staggered toward the sea, boots slipping on ice-coated rocks, so weak that he was barely able to keep his footing, but he continued on, knowing that if he fell it would be all over, and he would belong body and soul to the shadow-draped witch with the red-coal eyes. As he ran, he heard the vampire speak.
“Should I let Skarm go after him?”
The wolf yipped with excitement, as if it understood what she’d said.
“No need,” the witch said. “He can’t escape.”
The witch spoke these words with such calm assurance that Haaken almost gave up in despair and stopped running. But then he heard the sound of waves breaking against the rocky shore, smelled the tang of saltwater, felt sea-spray wet his face, and his heart soared. Haaken was a Lhazaarite born and bred, and he’d spent more hours plying the sea than he had treading upon land. As a son of the Lhazaar, he couldn’t imagine dying anywhere else but in its cold embrace. The sea had sustained him in life; now it would be his deliverance in death.
His boots splashed in the foamy surf, and he laughed with relief. He’d made it! All he had to do now was dive into the water and let the Lhazaar have him. As cold as the sea was this time of year, and as weak as Haaken was, it wouldn’t take long for him to die. A matter of minutes at most. It would be just like going to sleep, Haaken told himself. Peaceful, soothing …
Gathering what little strength he had left, Haaken crouched and prepared to dive into the welcoming waters of the Lhazaar and claim his deliverance.
But before he could enter the water, a large dark shape surged forth from the waves and slammed into him. The breath was forced from Haaken’s lungs as he was driven backward toward shore. He reflexively grabbed hold of the creature that had attacked him. His hands clasped rough hide covered with barnacles, and he stared into a gaping maw ringed by triangular teeth—several rows of them—sharp and serrated. Shreds of ragged flesh were stuck between the beast’s teeth, and its breath stank of rotting meat. Haaken saw an eye on the side of the creature’s head, large as a dinner plate and black and cold as the bottom of the sea itself. Though the eye was inhuman, Haaken nevertheless had the impression that it glared at him with baleful intelligence.
At that moment the thought of death lost all appeal for Haaken.
In his terror to flee the white-faced witch, Haaken had unthinkingly held on to his knife. Suddenly realizing he still gripped the blade, the former commander of the Coldhearts decided to make good use of it. He rammed the knife into the beast’s tough hide once, twice, three times.
But though foul black blood spurted with each strike, the wounds closed almost immediately, giving Haaken further confirmation—as if he needed it—that he was dealing with an unnatural creature.
The monster—a shark, but one far larger than any he’d ever seen—bore him up onto the shore, scraping Haaken’s back bloody on the rough rocks. Haaken started to cry out in pain, but then he realized that he was holding onto the shark’s snout with his arms; his legs were inside the beast’s mouth. Haaken screamed in terror, but then the shark bit down, and Haaken’s scream became one of agony.
The smell of fresh blood came close to driving Skarm insane. He howled and thrashed in Makala’s grip, desperate to free himself so that he might steal a portion of the great shark’s feast. At last, his wolf-mind understood that there was no way he could get away from the vampire in his present shape, and so he handed over the reins to the barghest persona. It was stronger than the wolf, and it would find a way to—
Nathifa stepped in front of Skarm just as his form started to shift. “Enough,” she said calmly and backhanded him. Despite her withered, skeletal frame, the lich possessed incredible strength, and the blow was swift and strong enough to take the head off a mortal being. As Skarm was now nearly in barghest form, the strike merely cracked his skull in several places. It did, however, settle him right down.
Nathifa leaned close to Skarm’s face so that her crimson eyes nearly touched his.
“The human is mine, not yours. You cannot have him.”
Skarm could feel Nathifa’s power boring into his mind, and he knew that no matter how great his hunger became after this moment, he would have no choice but to obey her command. Slowly, he nodded.
Nathifa stepped back. “Release him, Makala.”
The vampire let go of the barghest and Skarm dropped to the ground. He wanted to look in Haaken’s direction to see if the shark had left anything for him, but he didn’t want to risk Nathifa’s anger again, so he kept his gaze trained on her.
“Makala, Skarm, I want both of you to go to the center of the island. There you will find a stone statue of a man rising forth from the rock, as if it had grown out of the earth itself. You are to carefully break the statue free from the surrounding ground without damaging it in any way, then carry it back to the Zephyr and stow it aboard. Do you understand?”
“Of course,” Makala said. “I was present when Diran and Ghaji nullified the statue’s power. They left a silver dagger embedded in its chest. Should we attempt to remove it?” From the tone of Makala’s voice, she didn’t relish the idea.
Skarm didn’t blame the woman. While silver had no particular ill effects on barghests, it was poison to a vampire. And this was no ordinary silver dagger; it had been wielded by a priest of the Silver Flame, one that Skarm had encountered before. Perhaps the priest had put some sort of blessing on the blade that would cause it to be harmful to any creature, undead or not.
Nathifa considered Makala’s question for a moment. “Don’t bother with the dagger. We can always remove it later, and if it currently is keeping the statue’s power in check, it’ll make it that much easier for us to transport.” She smiled. “Like a cork contains the contents of a bottle and prevents them from spilling. Just be careful not to touch the damned thing.”
Makala nodded. “One more thing. I know you told Skarm that Haaken is yours, but if you’re just going to let the man bleed to death anyway …” She trailed off, her point made. She was a vampire, and she wanted Haaken’s blood as badly as Skarm wanted his flesh and soul.
Skarm couldn’t help it; he turned to look toward Haaken’s body. The great shark was gone, the creature having presumably returned to the dark sea depths that had spawned it. Haaken lay motionless at the edge of the shore, both of his legs gone beneath from mid-thigh down. Even in his barghest form, Skarm could smell the blood flowing from the ragged stumps where the man’s legs had been attached only moments before. His stomach gurgled, and he prayed that Nathifa wouldn’t punish him for it.
“You can both forget about making a meal of Haaken,” Nathifa said. “Though our toothsome friend has finished his work, the man’s not going to die.” The lich’s dry lips drew away from her yellow teeth in a hideous mockery of a smile. “I have plans for him.”
The sun hung just above the eastern horizon as the small fishing boat sailed along the coast toward Kolbyr. The water was calm, the sky cloudless, and wind filled the sails. All in all, a good day to be out on the Lhazaar, even with the chill of approaching winter in the air.
A tall man with long raven-black hair, lean wolfish features, and intense blue eyes stood at the ship’s stern, holding onto a rigging line with one hand to steady himself. He was garbed entirely in black, and though at first glance he appeared to be unarmed, the fur cloak he wore did not stir in the breeze kicked up by the ship’s passage. An experienced observer would’ve guessed the cloak was weighted down, most likely by some manner of concealed weapon or weapons—and they’d have been right.
Diran Bastiaan inhaled the brisk salt air and exhaled with a sigh of contentment. Though born in the Principalities, he’d been sold into slavery as a child and had grown into adulthood in Karrnath, far from the sea. Still, Lhazaarite blood flowed through his veins, and he only truly felt at home when standing upon the deck of a ship, even one as small and humble as Welby’s Pride. The Pride was a shallop, a single-masted fore and aft rig propelled by both oars and sails, designed for inshore fishing and limited coastal traveling. Hardly stylish transportation, but serviceable.
Diran turned and made his way back to the center of the deck where the rest of his companions stood huddled together in a circle. A red gem covered with a lattice of copper wire hovered in the air between them, and though it gave no sign of emitting energy—no glow of light, no shimmer in the air surrounding it—the gem exuded the warmth of a small campfire.
The others shifted to make room for Diran as he rejoined them, and he held his chilled hands out toward the gem. Diran rarely wore gloves, no matter how cold it was, for they interfered with his knife-throwing grip.
The crew of the fishing vessel—who’d been well paid to ferry Diran and the others to Kolbyr—ignored their passengers as they went about their work. Just because the crew had paying guests didn’t mean they would pass up the opportunity to fill their fishing nets with additional profit as they sailed. The Lhazaar Principalities were a harsh, unforgiving realm, and its inhabitants had long ago learned to be both practical and frugal if they wished to survive. The animals in the Principalities were no exception: a mass of gulls hovered on the air currents around the vessel, hoping to snatch a free meal from the crew’s nets. Whenever a fish fell out flopping onto the deck, the more aggressive of the birds swooped in, only to be shooed away with waving arms and shouted curses.
Ghaji, Diran’s long-time companion in arms, stood to the right of the priest.
“Being a fisherman really stinks.” The half-orc wrinkled his nose. “On multiple levels.”
Ghaji’s green-tinged features were a fairly even blend of orc and human, but he chose to accentuate the more bestial aspect of his heritage because of the edge it gave him. Ghaji was a seasoned warrior, a veteran of the Last War, and he knew that a soldier had to make full use of whatever advantages he possessedif he hoped to survive to see another sunrise. Thus Ghaji kept his black hair in a shaggy tangle and had a vertical strip of beard that drew attention to his large sharp teeth. He kept his prominent brow in an almost permanent scowl—though in truth this had more to do with his natural temperament than any conscious strategy on his part. The numerous scars that he’d acquired on the battlefields of the Last War served to make him look even more imposing than he already was.
Ghaji wore a battered breastplate—another souvenir of his soldier days—as his only armor, and he carried two axes tucked into his belt. One was a simple hand-axe he used as his back-up weapon, but the other served as his primary—an axe imbued with an elemental that, when Ghaji wished, became wreathed in mystical flame. It was on unofficial and—if Ghaji had anything to say about it—permanent loan from the prison island of Dreadhold.
Diran, his hands nicely warmed now, smiled at his friend. “You get used to the smell after a time.”
Ghaji snorted as if to clear the stink out of his nostrils. “Easy for you to say. Your parents owned a fishing boat.”
An elf-woman stood on the other side of Diran. Her brown hair was woven into an intricate pattern of braids, and she possessed the fine aristocratic features and pointed ears common to her people. Like the others, she wore a thick fur cloak, though she gave no sign that the cold bothered her.
“You grew up in marshlands, Ghaji,” Yvka said. “Swamps have their own share of unpleasant odors.”
“Sure,” Ghaji said, “but they’re normal unpleasant odors—brackish water, decaying plants. Not this stench! It reminds me of … well, let’s just say I find it less than pleasant and leave it at that.”
An elderly human male stood next to Yvka, and he frowned at Ghaji. “Just be grateful that you’re a half-orc. Your sense of smell would be even stronger if you were full-blooded.” A lean man in his sixties, Tresslar sported a scraggly white beard and mustache, but his eyes—though receded into the sockets somewhat and set above drooping bags—were intense, vital, and alive. The eyes of a much younger man, or a man who’d never forgotten what being young felt like.
“I can help alleviate you
r discomfort if you wish, Ghaji.” Solus stood next in the circle, though he had no need of Tresslar’s magic gem to warm himself. The voice that issued from the construct’s throat was hollow-sounding and devoid of emotion, though not altogether inhuman. “I can temporarily reconfigure the sensory pathways in your mind so that you cannot detect the smell of fish. Or, if you’d prefer, I can cause you to experience any scent you desire, such as roses or perhaps a freshly cooked steak.”
Solus wore a hooded gray robe with oversized sleeves to hide his three-fingered hands. He also wore a fur cloak, though it wasn’t necessary since temperature extremes proved no discomfort for him. He had decided to wear the cloak for the same reason as he’d donned the robe: in order to disguise his true nature. Warforged were more common in the Five Nations than the Principalities, but they weren’t unknown here. But Solus wasn’t simply any warforged; he was special. Physically, he resembled a typical specimen of his kind. Roughly humanoid, body a composite of iron, stone, silver, obsidian, and darkwood. Glowing green eyes—though his were slightly dimmer than usual for a warforged—three-fingered hands, two-toed feet, and a hinged jaw.
But what made Solus stand apart from others of his kind were the crystals of various sizes, shapes, and colors embedded in the surface of his body. The crystals weren’t simply decoration. They possessed the ability to absorb, channel, and intensify psionic energy. Solus was a psiforged, capable of astounding feats of psychic prowess—telekinesis, telepathy, illusion-casting and more. But he was untrained in the use of his abilities and thus potentially a great danger to those around him. Keeping his true nature concealed was necessary to prevent others from focusing their attention—and more importantly, their thoughts—on him. Until he learned a greater measure of control over his powers, the fewer minds he came in close contact with, the better.