Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  Ghaji had traveled with Diran ever since the two had met when the half-orc had been working as a brothel bouncer in Kartan. Though not a worshipper of the Silver Flame himself, Ghaji had joined Diran’s crusade against evil, and he had fought alongside the priest against threats so dire that just to stand in their presence was to risk one’s sanity. They owed each other their lives a dozen times over, and there was no person in the world that Ghaji trusted more. If Diran said he sensed evil, Ghaji believed him, without question.

  “My teeth have been on edge since we first approached the dock,” Ghaji admitted, “and the hair on the back of my neck is standing at attention. What do you think is causing it?”

  “The same force that drove the gulls to attack us,” the priest said. “But other than that, I cannot say.”

  “Do you think it also has something to do with the way everyone’s been looking at us?” Ghaji nodded toward a berthed sail boat as they passed. There were three men aboard—two humans and a half-elf—and whatever they had been doing a moment ago, they now stood upon the deck of their vessel, glaring at the companions as they walked by, faces contorted into expressions of pure hatred so intense they were almost comical.

  Almost.

  “We do seem to be attracting a great deal of negative attention,” Diran said. “Far more than mere travelers should get for simply walking along the dock. It’s almost as if our arrival was expected, though obviously not welcomed.”

  The trio in the sailboat wasn’t the only ones staring at them with hate-filled eyes. Sailors, fishermen, dockhands … all fixed the companions with baleful glares that seemed to carry an almost physical force. If eyes were swords, then those gazes could’ve pierced flesh.

  Ghaji’s fingers toyed with the haft of his axe, but though the half-orc made no move to draw his weapon, Diran—with the awareness that only long-time companions possess—said, “Easy, my friend. They appear content to stare. For now, at least.”

  Ghaji nodded, though his perpetual scowl deepened in displeasure.

  Diran glanced back over his shoulder toward Solus. “Do you sense anything more than you did aboard the shallop?”

  The psiforged’s crystals flashed briefly, then went dim. “No more than you do. The atmosphere of anger is stronger here, but I cannot locate its center. It seems to come from both everywhere and nowhere at the same time.”

  Tresslar snorted. “That’s helpful.”

  Ghaji glared at the elderly artificer. Ever since Solus had joined them, Tresslar had been envious of the psiforged’s powers, and his envy had only grown after the loss of the dragonwand. With the wand in his possession, Tresslar had been the most powerful member of their group in many ways. Without it, though he still possessed his skills at artificing, that distinction fell to Solus—and Tresslar was far from happy about it.

  Diran stepped forward to walk alongside Asenka. “Is Kolbyr always like this?”

  “I’ve only been here a few times. Most of my encounters with Kolbyrites have been at sea.”

  Ghaji knew that by “encounters” Asenka was referring to the Sea Scorpions’ periodic clashes with the Coldhearts.

  Asenka went on. “You met Haaken and his crew. By and large, most Kolbyrites are like them: ill-tempered, belligerent, ready to fight at the least provocation. But this … this is different.”

  Ghaji stepped forward to flank Diran. “Do you think this has something to do with the curse on the house of Kolbyr?”

  Diran thought for a moment before replying. “The tales we’ve heard make no mention of it affecting anyone but the firstborn heir of the house of Kolbyr, and even then, only the heir’s appearance is supposed to be affected. But rumors and stories never tell the entire truth, do they? I suppose it’s possible, though. We’ll just have to see for ourselves, and in the meantime, remain vigilant.”

  “In other words, business as usual,” Ghaji said.

  Diran smiled. “Precisely.”

  Kolbyr’s harbormaster demanded what seemed to Ghaji an exorbitant fee for allowing them passage into the city, especially since they didn’t have a ship of their own to dock. But the man—sour-faced, with a scowl even more pronounced than Ghaji’s—fairly trembled with suppressed rage while they talked, and Ghaji had the feeling that only the harbormaster’s greed prevented him from summoning the city watch to haul them away. But though it took a good portion of their remaining funds, in the end Baron Mahir’s money did the trick, and the companions were granted permission to enter Kolbyr.

  Like the docks, the buildings were hewn from gray stone. The squat, blocky structures were plain and austere, their surfaces smooth and bereft of ornamental touches. The streets were stone as well, though cracked in numerous places and in dire need of repair. The oppressive pall that they’d sensed at the docks was stronger here, and it felt as if the companions shouldered an unseen and increasingly heavy burden as they walked.

  “And I thought Perhata was unpleasant.” Ghaji remembered Asenka was with them and quickly said, “Sorry.”

  The woman smiled. “Don’t worry about it. My city may not be the jewel of the Principalities, but it has Kolbyr beat.”

  Ghaji couldn’t disagree with that.

  The people they passed looked little different than their counterparts in Perhata. Both men and women wore their hair in braids with intricate beadwork woven in—though theirs was less showy than elsewhere in the Principalities—and all were dressed warmly. The big difference was in attitude. Though the Perhatans were by and large rogues, thieves, and swindlers, the Kolbyrites appeared to be barely restrained killers. They glared, sneered, spat, and some even growled like beasts as the companions passed. More than a few hands twitched toward weapons, but none had been drawn—so far. Ghaji thought of the gulls that attacked Welby’s Pride, and he wondered if the only reason the Kolbyrites hadn’t given in to their antagonistic impulses was because they weren’t simple-minded animals. He also wondered that, if the curse of Kolbyr was truly at work here, how long the citizenry would be able to resist the urge to attack.

  Tresslar stepped forward until he trailed directly behind Diran. “I was thinking …” The artificer began.

  Diran stopped and turned to face Tresslar. The other companions halted as well and turned to listen.

  “Yes?”

  “Now that we’re here, I’d like to poke around a bit and see if I can detect any sign of my wand. I know it’s no longer in Perhata or the surrounding environs. Perhaps the barghest brought it to Kolbyr for some reason.”

  “What of the curse?” Ghaji asked. “We might need your help to lift it.”

  “I’m an artificer, not an exorcist,” Tresslar replied. “But to be honest, without my wand, I would be of little use to you. I’ve constructed a few other devices, it’s true, but none that will prove effective against a curse. But if my wand is here and I can find it …” The artificer trailed off.

  “As you wish,” Diran said. “Let us meet at the docks around sunset.”

  Tresslar nodded, clearly relieved.

  “I would like to accompany the artificer,” Solus said. “Despite my efforts, I can fathom little of the nature of the dark power that grips this city. This leads me to believe that it is primarily magical in origin. I suspect I will be of far greater assistance in helping Tresslar in his attempts to locate his lost wand.”

  Tresslar scowled at Solus, and for a moment Ghaji thought the artificer was going to decline the psiforged’s offer, but pragmatism won out over jealously, and Tresslar responded with a curt, “Thanks.”

  “I’m coming along as well,” Hinto said. “My friend can’t do without his eyes, can he?”

  The psiforged looked down at the halfling pirate, and though his face didn’t possess the ability to smile, Ghaji sensed the fondness Solus felt for his “eyes.”

  “Very true,” Solus said.

  Ghaji looked at Diran, an unspoken message passing between them. The loss of their two most powerful allies, if only temporarily, would seriously
deplete their fighting strength. Given the reception they’d received so far in Kolbyr, Ghaji wasn’t certain that splitting up was a good idea. But Diran gave a little shrug, as if to say there was no help for it, and Ghaji supposed his friend was right. Tresslar was obsessed with retrieving his wand, and he wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else until the mystic artifact was once again in his possession. And with Solus’s help, he just might be able to find it—assuming the wand was in Kolbyr at all.

  Tresslar looked at Diran. “The docks at sunset,” he said then turned to the psiforged and the halfling. “Let’s go,” he muttered, and the three headed off down the street. Ghaji kept an eye on them as they departed. The Kolbyrites glared at the trio as they passed, but otherwise did nothing. Then the three turned a corner and were lost to sight.

  Ghaji turned to Diran. “Looks like it’s just the four of us then.”

  “Actually …” Yvka said.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to desert us too!” Ghaji protested.

  The elf-woman reached out to take Ghaji’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “We need the Zephyr back. I need her back. I have no idea if she was brought to Kolbyr, but there are certain … acquaintances I can consult with here in the city that might be able to help.”

  “We can book passage on other vessels if we need to,” Ghaji said. “Diran and I got along fine without the Zephyr before.”

  Yvka’s delicate brow furrowed, and she released his hand. “Are you saying you got along fine without me?”

  Ghaji realized he’d inadvertently stepped into a cockatrice’s nest. “Of course not.” He knew he should say more, but not only couldn’t he think of anything else, he was afraid he’d just make things worse by continuing to talk. So he fell silent.

  “Perhaps it would be best if Yvka made her inquiries while we go to the baron’s palace,” Diran said. “I can think of only one person who knew where the vessel was hidden, and if she has her …” The priest failed to finish his sentence.

  But Ghaji understood what his friend meant. Makala had most likely stolen the Zephyr, not only because of the ship’s speed, but because the obsidian sarcophagus that allowed vampires to endure sea travel had been aboard. After the final confrontation with Aldarik Cathmore at Mount Luster, Makala had changed. She’d been a vampire for months, ever since being bitten by the undead pirate Onkar at the fortress-city of Grimwall. But while she’d been infected with the taint of vampirism, she’d fought to keep from being consumed by the darkness that now dwelled within her. But she’d lost that struggle at Mount Luster and had become a true creature of evil. With the Zephyr, she could go anywhere she wished and spread her contagion throughout the Principalities. Diran had failed to prevent Makala’s transformation into a vampire, and he’d failed to keep her from being claimed by evil. Now the priest was determined to slay Makala—even though she had once been the mortal woman he’d loved above all others. He would not fail her a third time, no matter what it took.

  Ghaji gazed at his friend with understanding before turning to face Yvka. “Sunset at the docks?”

  She smiled. “Sunset.” She leaned forward to give Ghaji a quick but passionate kiss, then jogged off down the street in the opposite direction the others had taken, moving with the silent, liquid grace that only elves possessed. Soon, she too was lost to sight.

  Ghaji sighed. “I’ve never really understood women, but of all the women I haven’t understood, I understand that one the least.”

  Diran laughed and clapped the half-orc on the shoulder. “Let’s continue on to the baron’s palace, my friend. Helping me exorcise a curse will hopefully take your mind off Yvka for a time.”

  Ghaji nodded, but he wasn’t thinking about Yvka, at least, not only about her. He was also thinking of another woman he’d known—or rather had thought he’d known.

  The half-orc thrust thoughts of both women from his mind. “Well, if we’re going to do it, then let’s get moving,” he growled. And without waiting for Diran and Asenka to resume walking, he stalked past them and continued down the street. He didn’t look over his shoulder to see if they followed. He knew they would. Besides, he didn’t want either of them to see how much the cold air was making his eyes water. And as he walked, the thought of Kirai.

  Ghaji wrinkled his nose as a horrid stench curled its way up his nostrils. He tried to ignore the churning in his gut and the splash of hot bile at the back of his throat—tried hard.

  “Karrnathi undead stink bad enough as it is, Kirai.” His voice was strained, and he fought to keep his gorge from rising any further than it already had. “Why make their stench worse by spreading that foul-smelling glop all over them?”

  Aligned in rows of six and positioned less than a hand’s breadth apart, a squadron of zombies clad in half-plate armor, two dozen in all, stood motionless upon the arid grassland of the Talenta Plains. It was only mid-morning, but there were no clouds in the sky to filter the punishing rays of the sun here on the edge of the Blade Desert, and it felt as if they inhabited a vast, open-air blast furnace. Ghaji wore a white cloth over his head tied in place with a black headband to ward off sun-poisoning. The rest of his uniform—if you could call it that—consisted of a white loin-cloth, a vest of boiled leather, sandals, and a belt beneath which he’d tucked the handle of his war-axe. Though he was a mercenary and not an official soldier in Karrnath’s army, he was currently employed by them and therefore required to wear the army’s standard uniform. But it was simply too damned hot for the half-orc to bother with such a foolish technicality, and whenever anyone tried to remind him of it, he just bared his teeth and growled until they left him alone. It never took long.

  Kirai knelt before the zombies, a clay jar sitting on the ground at her right. Periodically, she reached inside the jar and brought out handfuls of thick, greasy paste which she rubbed liberally onto the zombie’s skin. At times, for reasons Ghaji wasn’t clear on, Kirai would look at the paste on her hands, frown, then reach into a satchel sitting on the ground next to the jar. She’d pull out a few ingredients—a root, a vial of greenish-blue liquid, or perhaps a cylindrical object that resembled a spice dispenser—and add a touch of this, a sprinkle of that, presumably to adjust the formula’s potency. Right now she tossed in what Ghaji would’ve sworn was a dried spider carcass before continuing to rub unguent on a zombie’s left leg.

  Kirai was dressed for the heat, but their commander allowed that as the woman was an alchemist and not a soldier. She wore a white robe made of light cloth that covered her arms and legs, and while the clothing helped keep her cool, it did little to accentuate her appearance—much to Ghaji’s disappointment. Kirai kept her raven hair cut short because of the heat, but she didn’t wear a hat to shield her head from the sun. Instead she used a salve of her own making as protection against the sun’s rays, which she rubbed daily all over her body, including the top of her head. She’d gotten Ghaji to try it once, but he’d broken out in a painful rash that had lasted the better part of three days, and so he stuck to his trusty cloth head-covering and otherwise took his chances with the sun.

  Kirai smeared unguent on an undead knee-cap. “We’ve been here for the better part of a month, and you’ve complained about the smell ever single day. You should’ve gotten used to it by now.”

  Ghaji tried breathing through his mouth. It helped … a little. But inhaling the hot dry air made his throat feel as if it were caked with burning sand. “Some things you never get used to,” he said in a queasy voice.

  Kirai laughed. “Have you been taking that potion I mixed for you? It’s supposed to help keep your stomach settled.”

  Kirai wasn’t what most humans would deem beautiful. She was tall, lanky instead of thin, small-breasted, with bony elbows, knobby knees, and overlarge hands. Her face was plain, but when she smiled her green eyes shone, and she had full lips that Ghaji never got tired of looking at.

  “I drink a dose every morning without fail,” he said. “That’s why I finally stopped throwin
g up every time I guard you.”

  “Are you saying that I induce vomiting?”

  Ghaji felt suddenly flustered. “No! I meant—” He broke off when he saw Kirai grin. “Very funny.”

  Kirai continued smearing the greasy unguent on the zombie’s leathery brown flesh. The undead creature remained completely motionless, displaying no sign that it was even aware of Kirai’s ministrations, let alone that it felt them.

  “You know I have to do this, Ghaji. Stink or no stink.”

  Ghaji understood quite well. He just enjoyed hearing Kirai talk – and not only because their conversations helped keep his mind off his roiling stomach. He enjoyed the sound of her voice and the way she laughed when she teased him.

  Karrnathi zombies were more durable than ordinary undead because of the alchemical treatments they received. Those treatments not only prevented further decay, they kept the zombies functioning physically, though the undead warriors didn’t move as swiftly as their living counterparts. But the zombies more than made up for their slowness in durability and savagery, as Ghaji had witnessed numerous times in battle since he’d signed on with the Karrnathi army.

  But the harsh conditions on the Talenta Plains took a great toll on the zombies, further drying their already leathery skin and tightening their muscles and tendons. Because of this, they required almost daily alchemical treatments to continue functioning. That was one important advantage warforged had over zombies, Ghaji thought. The artificial constructs could operate in any environment—not to mention their scent was far more tolerable. They smelled of stone, metal, and wood … natural things. Zombies smelled like death. No, worse than that, for death was a natural part of the cycle of existence, but there was nothing natural about raised corpses. They stank of undeath, and to an orc—even a half-orc like Ghaji—there could be nothing more unnatural.

  Though no one had ever come out and said so to his face, Ghaji knew he’d been assigned to this unit not only because he was a mercenary, but because he was half-orc. Who better to work with zombies than a half-blood like him? That way true Karrnathi soldiers—human soldiers—would be freed up for more important and less odious duties. Ghaji told himself that he was a mercenary, and a job was a job, even if it did literally stink at times. But this assignment had its positive side: he’d gotten to know Kirai well during their time working together. She was quite talkative, and he’d learned a great deal about her—more than he’d ever learned about any human, as a matter of fact. At first he’d been annoyed by how chatty she was, but he’d soon come to appreciate their often one-sided conversations and, in a strange way, to even need them.