by Tim Waggoner
Tusya nodded approvingly. “And you, Leontis? What did you learn tonight?”
“That things are not always as they appear on the surface, and in order to combat evil, one must see a situation not as one thinks it is or should be, but rather as it truly is.” Leontis looked at Diran then. “You taught that to me tonight, my friend, and I am grateful.”
Diran smiled and nodded his acceptance of Leontis’s thanks.
Tusya stood, groaning at the stiffness in his joints. “I think it’s time we returned to our camp and got some rest don’t you? There’s a village not far from here, and once our strength is restored, perhaps we’ll pay the good folk who live there a visit and see if there’s anything three faithful servants of the Silver Flame might be able to do for them.”
Diran and Leontis rose to their feet.
“And perhaps we’ll see if they have some inexpensive wine for sale?” Diran teased.
Tusya grinned.
Diran walked over to the fountain and sat beside Leontis.
“I thank you for your earlier assistance, my friend. If you hadn’t arrived when you did, I’d most likely be one with the Flame right now, and Ghaji would have the burden of my death on his hands. Even though he wasn’t in control of his actions at the time, he would still feel responsible.”
Leontis didn’t look at Diran as he replied. “I was glad to help, but I really didn’t do much. You had the situation well in hand before I arrived.”
“Remember what Tusya always told us: ‘Humble or grand—’”
“‘—all good actions brighten the Flame’s light in the world.’” A ghost of a smile crossed Leontis’s face. “I haven’t forgotten.”
The entire time he’d been in the courtyard, Diran had felt uneasy, as if evil were present nearby, though for some reason it seemed muted and restrained. He’d put the feeling down to the lingering aftereffects of the Fury, but now that he sat close to Leontis, he could tell the evil he felt was centered on his fellow priest. Something was seriously wrong, and Diran felt confident that was the reason Leontis had kept himself apart from the others while they talked in the courtyard.
“It is good to see you, my brother,” Diran said. “It’s been too many years since last we saw one another. I would like to think you sought me out for old times’ sake, but I suspect otherwise. Something is clearly troubling you. Tell me what it is.”
Diran reached out to put his hand on Leontis’s shoulder, but the other priest jerked away, as if he feared Diran’s touch.
“I … I would prefer that you do not lay hands on me,” Leontis said.
Diran frowned, but he withdrew his hand. “Of course.” He waited several moments for Leontis to continue speaking, but his fellow priest remained silent, and Diran knew that whatever matter was plaguing his friend was so serious that Leontis couldn’t bring himself to discuss it, even though that was surely why he had come to Diran.
“May I see your arrowhead?”
Diran was puzzled by Leontis’s request, but he removed the holy symbol from the pocket where he kept it and held it out for his fellow priest to take. But instead of reaching out for the arrowhead, Leontis turned his palm up and waited. Even before he dropped the silver symbol into his friend’s hand, Diran had a bad feeling, and once the metal touched Leontis’s flesh that feeling was confirmed by the sound and smell of sizzling meat. Diran quickly snatched back the arrowhead, but the damage was done: a blackened scorch mark in the shape of the holy symbol had been seared onto Leontis’s palm.
As Diran stared at the mark in horror, Leontis gave him a sad, grim smile.
“I’ve come to ask you to kill me, my friend … for old times’ sake.”
The setting sun cast an orange sheen on the gray water of Kolbyr’s port, creating an illusion of warmth. A poor illusion, Ghaji thought, considering the wind felt as if it were blowing down from the top of a glacier. The half-orc, Yvka, Tresslar, Hinto, Solus, and Asenka were walking down Kolbyr’s dock back toward the wharf, their destination a tavern called the Ill Wind.
Asenka had already spoken with the harbormaster about hiring a ship, and since they had a letter of credit from Baroness Calida, the man was only too happy to make recommendations—especially since the letter promised him a substantial finder’s fee if he could find them transport as quickly as possible. He’d given Asenka several names, but he’d told her that if it what she was looking for was a swift vessel, the Turnabout was their best bet.
“She’s a galleon,” Asenka explained to the others when she rejoined them. “A fast one, too. Faster than she should be given her size, according to the harbormaster. He suspects magical enhancement of some sort, though there’s nothing obvious about the ship to indicate what kind. She’s anchored not far offshore. The harbormaster is going to send the captain a message to let him know we’d like to hire his vessel and how much we’re willing to pay. The harbormaster seems to think the captain will at least want to talk with us, and he suggested we wait for him at a nearby tavern.”
After that, they walked to the end of the dock to take a look at the Turnabout. She lay at anchor a quarter mile from the port—a bit farther than convenient, Ghaji thought. Almost as if the captain wanted to keep people from getting a close look at his vessel. Or perhaps so the ship was far enough out to sea in case there was a sudden need for hasty departure. A pirate ship, he decided, though in the Principalities any vessel might suddenly fly raider’s colors if the need—or for that matter, the whim—arose. Lhazaarites were nothing if not pragmatic, and given the harsh environment in which they lived, Ghaji supposed he couldn’t blame them.
Despite the harbormaster’s words, the Turnabout didn’t look like anything special, just a typical three-masted galleon. She didn’t leave the shipyard yesterday, but she wasn’t ready to be scuttled and sent to her final rest at the bottom of Lhazaar, either. Ghaji figured it likely that the harbormaster had made up the ship’s mysterious reputation for speed in the hope that they’d book passage and he’d get his finder’s fee before they discovered the vessel was slower than a leaky tugboat with a broken rudder and a hold full of lead ingots.
None of the others were impressed by the galleon’s appearance, either, but they agreed that they might as well head for the Ill Wind and hear what the Turnabout’s captain had to say. They found the tavern easily enough, and though it was crowded, once Ghaji stalked in glaring, a table near the back suddenly became free. The companions sat, ordered drinks that only a man with his tongue cut out would’ve believed was ale, and settled in to wait for the Turnabout’s captain to show—assuming he was interested in doing business with them at all.
The atmosphere in the tavern was subdued due to the aftereffects of the Fury. Patrons talked quietly among themselves or sat silent and alone, struggling to come to terms with the violence that had occurred—and which they’d all participated in one way or another. Tresslar, Hinto, Yvka, and Solus talked for a while, sharing stories of the difficulties they’d experienced during the Fury, but instead of contributing to the conversation, Ghaji only listened in moody silence.
After a while, Yvka had had enough of his being withdrawn, and she elbowed him in the side none too gently to get his attention. She then learned close to his ear and whispered, “What’s bothering you?”
Ghaji remembered how uncomfortable Yvka had seemed around him in the palace courtyard after the Fury had ended. “I know that your … profession prevents you from telling me certain things, and I accept that. But if there was anything that I really needed to know—about us, I mean …”
Yvka smiled and touched his cheek with her long, delicate fingers. “Come now, Ghaji. You know how I feel about you.”
Yvka gave him a quick kiss, a smile, and a wink. Ghaji returned the smile, but inside he was thinking: Does anyone ever truly know how another feels about them?
The harsh, unforgiving light of the desert sun blazed down upon the Talenta Plains, causing sweat to pour off Ghaji’s body as the half-orc hacked away at
one zombie after another. One good thing about fighting the undead creatures—the only good thing, as far as Ghaji was concerned—was that they were slower than living foes. Unfortunately, no matter how much damage you inflicted on the undead warriors, they couldn’t be killed, only disabled. Decapitation was the most efficient way of putting a zombie out of action, even though losing something as minor as a head didn’t destroy it. The body would continue to fight on, but since the zombie could no longer see to direct its attack, it could only flail about, hoping to score a blow by accident. It was then a relatively simple operation to remove the zombie’s arms and, if necessary its legs. The detached body parts would continue to move, but they could do little damage in and of themselves.
The Karrnathi zombie masters weren’t fools, though. Each of their zombies wore metal collars around their necks and flexible but tough leather bands around their shoulders, elbows, and wrists. One of Ghaji’s duties was to inspect this protective armor on a regular basis, which he’d just done this morning, and he knew the zombies’ gear was in good order.
Fire was an effective weapon against zombies, though the undead warriors would continue fighting until enough of their muscles and tendons had been destroyed to render them immobile. But the Karrns had thought of this as well, which was why all their zombies were alchemically treated to be resistant to flame. Not that Ghaji could afford to take the time to get a flint and striker and start a fire at the moment. He was too busy hacking away at zombies with his axe and trying to stay alive for a few moments longer.
Ghaji wasn’t concerned with the finer points of combat, nor did he employ a carefully thought-out battle strategy. Given the sheer number of zombies that were trying to kill him—two dozen in all—Ghaji knew the only hope he had of survival was savage brute strength. Luckily for him, that was his specialty. He stood in the midst of the attacking horde of zombies, his war-axe gripped in both hands, swinging it from side to side as if he were a woodcutter trying to fell two dozen murderous, animated trees. Zombies came at him, wielding scimitars as if the curved blades were extensions of their arms. Ghaji bled from numerous cuts and slashes, but he’d been wounded in combat before and he ignored the pain. Every warrior knew that the only wound that mattered was the one that killed you.
Ghaji wasn’t sure how many zombies he’d taken out so far. Not enough, he figured as he continued hacking with his axe.
He was distantly aware of the halfling riders sitting on their clawfoot mounts, watching with grim interest as he fought for his life. When the halfling shaman had first cast his spell to make the zombies attack, Ghaji had been surprised. The Talenta halflings were consummate hunter-warriors, and he hadn’t expected them to employ such a cowardly—though admittedly effective—tactic as getting the zombies to fight their battle for them. But then he’d realized that he wasn’t thinking like a hunter. The halflings were using the zombies the same way that a houndmaster might use a dog: to flush prey out of its lair. The halflings knew they couldn’t breach the Karrnathi tower, so instead they planned to make the zombies do it for them. The undead warriors would go inside, kill everyone they could, and if any Karrns were left alive when it was over, the halflings would finish them off. It was, Ghaji was forced to admit, a brilliant tactic. And one that looked as if it might have a chance of succeeding. There was no way that he could stop two dozen zombies on his own, and if the Karrns stationed inside the tower didn’t emerge to aid him—and it looked like they wouldn’t—then he’d be cut down soon. After that, the zombies would batter open the tower entrance, rush inside, and in close quarters the Karrns would have a difficult time trying to stop the zombies. They’d have a much better chance fighting them out here, in the open, where there was more room to maneuver. And if the door held and the zombies couldn’t get inside, the halflings would order the zombies to surround the tower while they made camp, and the sly hunters would simply wait for hunger and thirst to drive the Karrns out.
At least Ghaji had managed to keep the zombies’ attention on him so far. He hoped that Kirai would do the smart thing and try to escape while the battle raged on, but that hope—faint as it was—was dashed a moment later when he heard Kirai call out.
“Ghaji, close your eyes!”
Ghaji wanted to shout back, Are you insane? Closing his eyes in a fight like this was an excellent way to commit suicide. But he trusted Kirai, and so, after only a half-second’s hesitation, he did as the alchemist instructed. Spinning around in a circle, axe held out before him to keep the zombies at bay, Ghaji closed his eyes.
He heard the sound of a clay pot breaking nearby, and then an acrid smell filled the air. The stench burned his nose and throat, and even though Kirai hadn’t warned him to hold his breath, Ghaji did so anyway. The half-orc continued spinning around, and his lungs soon began to ache and he felt dizzy. He knew he had to take a breath soon or his body would give out on him. He’d fall unconscious, and the zombies would make quick work of him.
“The gas has dispersed enough!” Kirai shouted. “You can open your eyes!”
Ghaji did so, taking in a deep breath of air at the same time. The wisps of yellowish gas that filled the air stung his eyes and made them water. He stopped spinning and focused his attention on the nearest zombie. The creature stood near the broken shards of the clay pot Kirai had thrown, its normally brown-leather skin now the color of sun-blasted stone, and its movements significantly slower. The zombie still moved, but with obvious effort, as if trying to fight while deep underwater.
Ghaji grinned. Kirai had done something to reverse the effects of the unguent she used to prevent the zombies’ flesh from drying out in the heat of the Talenta Plains. The zombies’ skin and muscles had hardened, rendering them nearly immobile. As slowly as they now moved, Ghaji would have no trouble destroying the lot of them. But even if the zombies were no longer a threat, the clawfoot riders—and especially their shaman—still would be.
Ghaji stepped out of the way of a torturously slow scimitar strike and sought out the halfling shaman among the gathered riders. Ghaji picked out the shaman right away, sitting on his red-marked clawfoot mount at the forefront of the hunting party, rune-carved bone staff held high, still chanting in a lilting foreign tongue. The half-orc warrior took careful aim and, though his arm and shoulder muscles ached from fighting the zombies, he put every bit of his remaining strength into hurling his axe at the shaman.
The weapon spun through the air, hit the bone staff, and broke it in two. The top half tumbled to the ground and the bottom joined it an instant later, as the impact of the striking axe knocked it out of the shaman’s grip.
The shaman stopped chanting and cradled his injured hand to his chest. The zombies, whether because Kirai’s potion had dried their muscles completely or because the shaman’s spell was broken, froze where they stood, now little more than undead statues. Ghaji bent down to pick up a scimitar dropped by one of the zombies he’d managed to dismember. If the halflings planned to attack, he would be ready for them.
The shaman glared at Ghaji with a mixture of fury and respect, then with his good hand he took hold of his clawfoot’s reins, urged the giant lizard to turn, and the beast bore him away from the tower at a quick trot. The rest of the hunting party followed, and soon the halflings and their clawfoot steeds were nothing more than a distant cloud of dust moving toward the horizon.
Ghaji dropped the scimitar with a weary sigh before turning to check on Kirai. The alchemist rushed to him, threw her arms around him, and hugged him with a fierce strength that he wouldn’t have thought her slender body capable of.
“We did it!” she cried. “We stopped them! Just the two of us!”
Tentatively, Ghaji raised his arms and hugged Kirai back.
“I guess we did.”
The sun had almost set for the night, and the temperature on the Talenta Plains had become nearly bearable, though evening did bring out clouds of gnat-like pests that seemed to find Ghaji’s skin particularly tasty. Kirai knelt next a smal
l fire across which she’d erected an iron spit. A trio of metal pots hung from the cross-rod, their foul-smelling contents bubbling as the chemicals they held simmered.
Ghaji—his wounds smeared with healing ointment and bandaged by Kirai—approached the fire, carrying a clay bowl filled with stew. He crouched next to the alchemist and held out the bowl to her.
“I figured you weren’t cooking dinner for yourself out here, so I brought you something to eat. I have to warn you, though: don’t ask where the meat in the stew came from.”
Kirai laughed. “I don’t have to ask. It’s plains rat. What else would it be?” Still, she took the bowl and the wooden spoon Ghaji had brought and gave the half-orc a grateful smile.
Ghaji was silent while she ate, and he gazed up at the twilight sky. A palette of colors spread above them—pink, red, orange, blue, purple, and more—all swirled together as if the gods were in an artistic mood and had decided to use the sky as their canvas this evening. He looked at Kirai’s face, and though she might be plain by human standards, he found her every bit as beautiful as the gods’ sky-painting. He’d been trying all day to think of a way to tell her how he felt about her, but he still had no idea how to express his feelings without sounding like an idiot. Maybe if they started talking about something else first, the words he truly wanted to speak would come to him.
“Any luck with the zombies?” he asked.
Kirai swallowed a mouthful of plains-rat stew before answering. “Not yet. It’s possible that their musculature has desiccated to the point that they cannot be made to function again. It’s too early to tell for sure, though. I still have a few more tricks that I can try. That’s why I’m brewing more of my ‘foul-smelling glop.’” She gave him a wink, and Ghaji felt his heart lurch in his chest.