Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  Ghaji rolled his eyes. “And now you’re trying to make deals with us. Is there some kind of infernal school where they teach you this sort of thing, or are demons bereft not only of souls but of imagination as well?”

  The demon grinned even wider, and this time Ghaji thought he could hear the boy’s mouth tear. The blood flow increased, and now drops fell from Taran’s chin to patter onto his claw-marked chest. “Let me give you a sample of my wares. I know where your elven lady-love is right now, half-orc. I know who she’s talking to and what they’re talking about. I could relate their conversation to you word for word, if you wish. It would be as if you were standing there beside her, listening unseen.”

  Ghaji clenched his teeth in anger. “Shut up.”

  The demon continued speaking, its voice a hideous parody of sympathy and concern. “She’s such a mystery to you … you have so many doubts. You keep them to yourself, struggle to tell yourself that you understand and that not knowing doesn’t matter. But it does matter to you, doesn’t it, half-orc? It matters very much indeed.”

  Ghaji’s gripped the haft of his axe tighter, and without realizing it he took a step toward the possessed child. Diran took hold of his arm and stopped him.

  “He’s just trying to goad you,” the priest said. “If you slay the demon’s host body, the Fury will be dispelled, but Calida will lose her son. The demon will be banished, but only until such time as the next Baron or Baroness produces an heir.”

  “As long as that ruler is a descendent of the House of Kolbyr,” the demon said. “When the line of Kolbyr ends, so too ends the curse, and I shall return to your world no more. Needless to say, I hope that doesn’t occur for many, many years. I’m having too much fun playing with the city and all the foolish mortal toys that inhabit it. I love to make them angry, make them fight each other, kill each other … I’m a naughty child, I suppose, always breaking my toys.” The boy shrugged. “But no matter. There are more where those came from, are there not?”

  “The one who summoned you was Kolbyr’s sister,” Diran said. “Nathifa was her name.”

  “I should make you barter for confirming that information, but I’m in an especially good mood today. Yes, that’s true.”

  “She must’ve have been an especially powerful sorceress to call forth a demon of your strength,” Diran said.

  The demon’s laugh was so much like that of a normal little boy that it startled Ghaji.

  “So now it is your turn to attempt to appeal to my vanity, eh? What fun! You amuse me, so here’s another free tidbit: the sorceress is powerful, yes, but the one she serves—and from whom her power flows—is far stronger.”

  Diran frowned. “You speak of the sorceress in present tense, but she summoned you a century ago. Are you telling us that she still lives after all this time?”

  A sly look came over the boy’s face, as if he were hiding a secret. “She is not alive, and that’s the last thing I shall tell you without receiving payment first.”

  Ghaji glanced at Diran. “Not alive isn’t the same thing as being dead.”

  “Indeed,” Diran agreed.

  “Are you now convinced that the information I have to offer is worth the cost?” the demon said. “Are you ready to bargain with me?” The demon sounded almost as if it were pleading, like a child begging an adult to play.

  Diran appeared to consider the demon’s offer. “I don’t know … you haven’t really told us anything new. And quite frankly, you could be making up what you have told us. Demons aren’t known for their scrupulous adherence to the facts.”

  “My friend means you’re a bunch of damned liars,” Ghaji translated. “Literally.”

  The demon scowled, and the waves of anger pouring off of him became more intense. “Do not push me, half-orc. Cease to amuse me, and it will go all the worse for you.” The demon considered for a moment. “Very well. Another sample for you, but I warn you, this is the last. I know where your vampire lover is, priest. I know who she travels with and where they are bound. Not only do they sail the vessel the half-orc’s love lost, they also carry with them an object that your artificer friend is most anxious to regain possession of.” The fiend’s smile returned. “Now are you interested in bargaining with me?”

  Ghaji was stunned by the demon’s words. He’d learned a great deal about infernal creatures since beginning his travels with Diran, and he knew that demons did far worse than simply lie. They seasoned their falsehoods with truth, mixing the two together until you couldn’t tell where one began and the other ended. It was this diabolical tactic that ensnared more fools than any other, and even though Ghaji knew better, he found himself tempted by the demon’s offer.

  If I could return the Zephyr to Yvka …

  Ghaji turned to Diran, looking to his friend for support. Diran wouldn’t be tempted by the demon’s sly words. He’d take hold of his silver arrowhead, the sacred symbol of the Silver Flame, and he’d thrust it toward the demon’s face, and in a commanding voice reject the fiend’s offer.

  But Diran said nothing. The priest only stared at the demon wearing the face of a young boy, his gaze dark, jaw clenched as if he were struggling to hold back his voice. He made no move to reach into his vest pocket and remove his silver arrowhead. His arms remained slack at his sides, hands empty.

  Ghaji couldn’t believe it. Was Diran actually considering the demon’s offer?

  The demon, like a hunter sensing weakness in its prey, pressed on. “I can tell you much more if you wish, priest. I can reveal to you secrets about Emon Gorsedd, about your teacher Tusya … secrets that would completely shatter your views of them and forever change the way you see yourself. It will be my great privilege to share my knowledge with you … for a price.”

  Ghaji knew that all it took to seal a bargain with a demon was a single word of assent. Sometimes, with the most powerful demons, even speaking aloud wasn’t necessary; simply the desire to make the bargain was enough.

  Ghaji didn’t want to harm the child whose body the demon possessed, but he couldn’t allow his friend to damn his soul in a moment of weakness. He owed Diran his life a dozen times over, and he’d do anything to protect the priest—even if it meant taking the life of an innocent.

  Ghaji raised his flaming ax high and stepped forward to strike. But just as he was about to swing, he saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. A dagger slammed hilt-first into his axehead with a metallic clang, throwing off the weapon’s trajectory and sparing the child’s life.

  Ghaji looked back at Diran and saw the priest held a second dagger in his left hand. In his right he held a silver arrowhead. The flames from Ghaji’s axe should’ve coated the arrowhead’s metal surface with orange-red light, but the holy symbol shone with a bright silvery illumination of its own.

  “Your honeyed words are laced with poison, demon,” Diran said, “and they fall on deaf ears.”

  Ghaji grinned. Now that was more like it!

  The demon squinted against the light from the arrowhead, but it didn’t look away. The creature then let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Oh, well. You can’t blame a fiend for trying. To be honest, I was getting rather tired of that game anyway. I’d much rather play another, one that I’ve always wanted to try but somehow have never gotten around to.”

  Ghaji knew the demon wanted them to ask What game? But the half-orc warrior was done playing. “The fun’s over. It’s time for you to return to whatever hellhole you crawled out of, and this time you’re going to stay there.”

  The demon did not appear overly impressed with Ghaji’s taunt. “I don’t think so. You see, the game I’ve always wanted to play is called the Destruction of Kolbyr. And I’m going to start playing it with you two.”

  Before either Ghaji or Diran could do anything, the demon’s black eyes turned a baleful crimson, and rage unlike anything the half-orc had ever experienced surged into his heart. All positive emotions were driven out of him, along with the memory that he had ever experienced such
feelings. All that remained was hate and fury and the lust to kill.

  Ghaji turned to see the man garbed in black glaring at him with a hatred bordering on madness. Ghaji knew just how the bastard felt.

  The man in black dropped the sliver arrowhead to the floor and grabbed a dagger. He now held a blade in each hand.

  For a moment, the two partners stood glaring at each other, and then the demon said, “Let the games begin.”

  Ghaji and Diran shouted their Fury and rushed toward one another to the accompaniment of the demon’s dark, delighted laughter.

  So this is a Tinker’s Room,” Hinto said. “Looks like a trash heap tossed about by a hurricane.”

  The halfling’s comment might have irritated Tresslar if it hadn’t been so apt.

  The cellar of Illyia’s gallery was crammed full with wooden tables, so many that there was barely room to walk between them. There were no chairs or other furnishings of any kind, simply for the fact that there wasn’t any remaining space. Row upon row of shelves lined the walls, and the room was lit by a dozen or so of Illyia’s bubbles that floated near the ceiling, glowing with greenish-yellow phosphorescence like some kind of spherical deep-sea creatures. Mounds of junk covered every flat surface in the cellar—tables and shelves alike. Fragments of metal, chunks of minerals, pieces of wood, jewels and gems in a variety of colors and sizes—including a few small dragonshards here and there—along with bits of string, twisted lengths of wire, nubs of wax, an assortment of nails, screws, bolts, and nuts … There were tools as well, everything from mundane hammers, wrenches, and chisels to exotic objects designed to help balance magic matrices, bind minor elementals, and merge incompatible energy sources.

  A dozen men and women of various races were present, either working alone at tables or standing in groups of two and three, chatting and, in more than a few cases, arguing good-naturedly.

  “—impure dragonshards do have their uses, I agree on that point, but you have to concede the danger in—”

  “—crazy? If you try to bind an elemental that way, the containment ring will blow up in your—”

  “—and then she said to me, ‘I didn’t realize artificers could build things like that!’”

  Laughter followed that last comment, and Tresslar couldn’t help smiling himself. He’d spent so many years working on Dreadhold, hiding from the monster Erdis Cai had become, that he’d forgotten how much he missed the simple camaraderie of other artificers. Oh, he hadn’t been the only artificer working at Dreadhold. Far from it. But the dwarf artificers of House Kundarak had never really accepted him as one of their own. Or perhaps, Tresslar mused, he had never accepted them. Perhaps things would be different now, if he were to return to the prison island.

  Most of the artificers in the room were too involved in their work or conversations to notice the newcomers, but a few glanced their way and immediately fixed their gazes on Solus. They stared at the psiforged with undisguised interest. Tresslar was certain they were eager to come over and inspect the construct, but the protocols of Tinker’s Rooms everywhere discouraged approaching new arrivals unless they made it clear they were open to socializing.

  Illyia led them down the stairs into the cellar and stood next to Tresslar, a little closer than was strictly proper—not that he was complaining.

  “Are you here for anything in particular,” she asked, “or is this just a recreational visit?”

  One of the duties of a Tinker’s Room host was to help artificers find the tools and materials they might need if they’d come to tend to a specific task, such as repairing a magical device or even building one from scratch.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to feed her another of your moldy old lines, Tresslar,” Hinto said. “They stink worse than goat cheese that’s been left out in the sun too long.”

  Tresslar glared at the halfling before turning to Solus. “I don’t suppose you would consider psionically suppressing his so-called sense of humor.”

  The psiforged cocked his head to the side. “I find his wit amusing.”

  Tresslar couldn’t tell if Solus was being serious or not. He’d never heard a warforged laugh or tell a joke, but that didn’t mean the constructs didn’t appreciate humor in others.

  Tresslar decided to ignore the halfling and the psiforged and answer Illyia’s question. “Actually, we’ve come in search of information. One of my devices—a very special one—was recently stolen. I’m hoping to find some leads as to where it might be so I can get it back.”

  Illyia frowned. “This is a Tinker’s Room, not a place where stolen good are fenced.”

  Tresslar held up his hands. “Please, I mean no offense. But if your Tinker’s Room is anything like the others I’ve visited over the years, more than information is exchanged here. Tinker’s gossip is what they used to call it.”

  Illyia’s frowned faded and she smiled. “And they still do, at least here in Kolbyr. But you have to know just how reliable that gossip often is.”

  “Not very,” Tresslar admitted. “But I have to start somewhere.”

  Illyia considered for a moment. “Perhaps it would be best if you allowed me to make inquiries on your behalf. I’m someone they know and trust. They’ll be more forthcoming with me.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Tresslar said. “The object I’m looking for is a wand with a golden dragon’s head affixed—”

  “Tresslar,” Solus interrupted. “Something is happening.”

  Tresslar looked to the psiforged, but before the construct could explain further, the conversations in the room rose in volume. The voices not only got louder, they took on a harsh, angry edge. Soon the gathered artificers were shouting at one another, gripping tools in clenched fists and waving them about as they yelled, almost as if they intended to wield the objects as weapons.

  Tresslar felt a wave of anger wash over him. He was about to rebuke the impertinent psiforged for interrupting his conversation with Illyia, but before the artificer could speak, the emotion faded, though it didn’t completely vanish. Tresslar still felt irritated, but his level of anger had diminished to the point where he could handle it.

  “The Fury is growing stronger,” Illyia said. The enchanted spheres that formed her dress began to glow, and Tresslar knew their magic was protecting her against the curse of Kolbyr.

  “Why would it suddenly get worse?” Hinto asked. “You likened the Fury to weather, Illyia, but it can’t be like a storm that blows weak one moment then strong the next … can it?”

  “Not in this case, my friend,” Solus said. His artificial eyes shimmered with green light, and the multicolored crystals embedded on the surface of his body pulsed with psionic energy. “Diran and Ghaji are confronting the creature responsible for the Fury, and it’s fighting back—not only by striking out at our friends, but by attacking the entire city. Illyia has her magic to protect her, and I can continue to shield the three of us from the worst of the Fury, but that’s all I can do.”

  “If Diran and Ghaji are in trouble, then we should go to the palace and help them!” Hinto said.

  Tresslar regretted splitting off from the others to go in search of his dragonwand. The mystic object was undeniably powerful, but in the end it was just a thing. Diran and Ghaji were good men, good companions, good friends, and they mattered far more than any number of magical artifacts ever could.

  “You’re right,” Tresslar said. “We might not be able to reach the palace in time to be of any assistance to them, but we have to try.” He turned to Illyia to make his farewell to her, but his words died in his throat before he could speak them.

  The room had gone completely silent.

  They looked to the artificers who had only moments before been arguing amongst themselves. Every man and woman now glared at them, eyes wild with hate, teeth bared in animalistic snarls. They clutched a variety of objects in their hands—mystic tools, magical devices, even metal rods that they gripped like clubs.

  Then, as if obeying some unspoke
n signal, the artificers bellowed like mindless beasts and came running toward them.

  Yvka didn’t know how to respond to Zivon’s pronouncement—more like a warning, really—that she was expected to deliver both Solus and Tresslar’s dragonwand to the Shadow Network. She desperately tried to think of a way to stall Zivon until she could come up with an appropriate answer, but she was so stunned by this development that nothing came to mind.

  Zivon popped a well-seasoned mussel into his mouth and chewed while he waited for Yvka to speak. She knew he would gauge her level of compliance and, more importantly, its sincerity by the amount of time she took to think before responding. She had only seconds to speak, and whatever she said, it had to be good.

  “You ask a great deal,” she said. “I’m not sure that simply remaining in the Network’s good graces is payment enough.”

  Zivon looked at her while he swallowed the last of the mussel. Then, though it appeared he was trying hard not to, he smiled.

  “Spoken like a true operative. Of course, whether you mean what you say or are merely putting on a front to protect your friends”—he sneered as he said this word—“is debatable. But then, a little mystery is the spice of life, is it not?”

  Yvka gave Zivon a sly smile before reaching across the table to take his wine cup. She raised the cup in a toast, then lifted it to her lips and drank. But as she started to put the wine back down in front of Zivon, she felt a cold, prickling sensation on the back of her neck. She’d worked many years as an operative for the Shadow Network, longer than a human lifetime, and that experience had sharpened her survival instincts to a keen edge. Now those instincts were screaming at her that there was danger nearby. She glanced quickly around the room but saw nothing that could account for her feeling. The sensation of danger didn’t dissipate, though. Instead, it continued to grow worse, until it felt as if the threat were all around her, as if the Culinarian itself were the danger.

  She looked to Zivon to see if he felt it too, but before she could broach the subject, the man bared his teeth at her, snarled like a wild animal, and lunged across the table, hands twisted into claws as he attempted to grab hold of her. Yvka leaned back in her chair, pressed the soles of her boots against the edge of the table, and pushed with all her strength. Though she was petite and slender, she was an elf and far stronger than she appeared. The table slammed into Zivon’s stomach, knocking the breath out of him. Yvka’s chair fell backward, and just before it struck the floor she performed a graceful reverse somersault and finished standing on her feet.