Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  The Cathmore-thing had closed to within ten feet of her now. “Not here it isn’t, but it’s dusk in the waking world.”

  Makala had no idea what the creature was talking about, but the cold continued to intensify, and that’s when she realized the frigid sensation emanated from within her body, not without. The creature was only five feet away now, and despite her intention to keep up a brave front, Makala couldn’t help stepping backward.

  “If this place isn’t real, then neither are you,” she said. She’d meant for the statement to come out as a bold accusation, but her words were little more than terrified gasps of air.

  “Untrue,” the creature said. “You and I are the only real things here.” He glanced upward. “Not counting our Dark Queen, of course. From far away among the ice-covered peaks of the Fingerbone Mountains, seated upon her throne of bone and sinew in Illmarrow Castle, she watches.”

  The Cathmore-thing continued its slow approach, and though Makala wanted to hold her ground, she couldn’t stop backing away from the creature.

  “What do you want?” This time her words came out as little more than a whispered plea, like a scared child hoping to find some way, any way, of placating an angry, dangerous adult.

  “Nothing dire, I assure you. I simply want to help you wake up. Think of me as your own personal alarm. You’re sleeping right now, Makala. In that.” The creature nodded toward something behind Makala. She turned just in time to keep from bumping into an obsidian sarcophagus with strange runes carved into the sides. Makala frowned. The sarcophagus looked familiar, but she couldn’t remember where she’d seen it before.

  The creature laughed at the expression of puzzlement on her face. “The undead slumber during the day and wake come nightfall. But though they appear to lay in a mindless stupor during the daylight hours, the truth is that vampires are very much active during the day—within their own minds. It’s an aspect of the curse, you see, and a most delightfully cruel one at that. During the day, what remains of your mortal soul is allowed to dream … to recall what it was like to be human. This day—as on numerous others—you relived your first time Diran and you made love. Then at dusk, the hunger that has claimed your soul takes over and the vampire Makala awakens.”

  “If that’s true, then what are you?” Makala asked.

  “I’m the dark spirit you received from Aldarik Cathmore when you attempted to drain his blood. A parting gift from one of your former teachers.” The creature glanced skyward, and though there had been no obvious change in the darkness above, the Cathmore-thing said, “The sun has fallen, and it’s time for you to rise.”

  The creature dashed forward and before Makala could react, it grabbed her by the arms and lifted her into the air. She looked over her shoulder and saw the lid of the sarcophagus had opened of its own accord and hovered in the air next to the obsidian coffin. Inside was nothing but darkness, just like that which filled the sky above. The Cathmore-thing shoved Makala into the sarcophagus, and she found herself falling downward into endless darkness. As she fell, she wailed in despair, knowing once again what she had become and what she had lost.

  And from the sky above came the sound of cold, dark laughter.

  Makala opened her eyes to darkness. She started to take a breath—a habit from her days as a living woman—but then stopped. Since her rebirth, she only needed air to speak.

  Deep within what remained of her mortal soul, Makala screamed in frustration and sorrow as the woman she had been was once more consumed by darkness, leaving only a vampire’s animalistic desire to rise from its resting place and feed. She reached up and rapped knuckles cold as ice on the inside lid of the obsidian sarcophagus. A moment later the lid was removed and laid aside, and she found herself looking up at the face of a goblin framed by a starlit night sky.

  “Good evening, Makala,” Skarm said. “Sleep well?”

  Makala hissed like a cat and lunged for the barghest, intending to slake her thirst. She grabbed hold of the barghest’s tunic and pulled him toward her, the scent of his blood pumping just beneath his orange skin sending her into a near-frenzy.

  “Hold!”

  Makala froze, her teeth mere inches from Skarm’s jugular.

  Nathifa glided out of the Zephyr’s cabin and across the deck toward the sarcophagus. The lich was living darkness, her undead eyes burning with crimson anger. “I’ll admit Skarm’s not much use, but until I have no further need of him, you will not drain him dry.”

  “I’ll just take a little,” Makala said, chafing from the way the sorceress had asserted control over her with a single word. As much as she wanted to sink her teeth into the barghest’s throat, she was unable to do so. She could not move her mouth a single fraction of an inch closer to Skarm’s neck. “His blood tastes like sour milk, but it will do until we reach our destination, and I can hunt for a finer vintage.”

  “You’ve fed recently enough that you will lose little strength by fasting this night,” Nathifa said. “And Skarm would be weakened by the loss of blood. You will have to suffer your hunger.”

  Makala glared at Nathifa for a long moment, fighting to break free from the lich’s mystical control. At first nothing happened, but then she began to feel Nathifa’s hold slipping. But the sorceress’s red eyes blazed like twin flames as she redoubled her efforts, and Makala knew that this was a battle she could not win … yet.

  “Fine,” Makala growled, and tossed Skarm aside. The barghest landed rear-first onto the deck and yelped in pain. Makala ignored both Skarm and Nathifa as she climbed out of her resting place, picked up the heavy stone lid as if it weighed no more than a thin sheet of vellum, and replaced it atop the sarcophagus.

  Skarm rose to his feet and rubbed his sore rump. He gave Makala an angry glare, feeling bold because his mistress was near. Makala considered tearing the barghest’s head off his shoulders and heaving it out to sea, regardless of what punishment Nathifa might dish out, but she decided the satisfaction of killing Skarm wasn’t worth the trouble. Besides, she could always slay the barghest later.

  Then she realized something: Skarm wasn’t piloting the ship. She looked back to the elemental containment ring and saw that it had been deactivated. The Zephyr traveled now by natural wind power alone.

  Makala looked at Nathifa. “What’s going on?”

  As if in response to Makala’s question, a figure came shuffling out from the sloop’s cabin. Haaken appeared much stronger than the last time Makala had seen him, and she could tell by the scent of his blood that not only had he recovered from his injuries, but he was fairly bursting with health and vitality. She took a step toward Haaken but stopped when she remembered Nathifa was present. No doubt the undead bitch wouldn’t let her take any of the man’s blood either.

  Haaken’s legs had regrown, but they weren’t human limbs, and he was having trouble walking. He moved like a baby that had only recently taken his first steps and still doesn’t trust his legs to keep him upright for more than a few seconds at a time.

  “I told Skarm to deactivate the elemental come nightfall,” Nathifa said. “We don’t want to be moving too fast when Haaken takes his first swimming lesson.”

  The man gave Nathifa a horrified look. “What do you mean?”

  “You now possess abilities I wish to make use of,” the lich said. “But in order for me to do so, you must learn to master them. It is time for you to start.” She turned to Makala. “Throw him overboard.”

  Before Haaken could protest, Makala stepped forward, took hold of the man’s left arm, and flung him over the railing. Haaken yelled as he soared through the air, but his voice was soon cut off as he hit the water and sank.

  Makala grinned. Serving Nathifa had its good points from time to time.

  The Lhazaar Sea is always cold, but it becomes far more so in winter. A sailor who falls overboard without a protective charm of some sort will be dead soon after plunging into the deadly winter waters. It was only late autumn, but the open sea was still cold enough to
kill, and Haaken—who’d sailed aboard one vessel or another all his life—knew this with the same certainty that he knew which way was up and which was down. He was dead as soon as Makala hurled him into the air—it would just take his body a few minutes more to realize it.

  When Haaken struck the frigid waters of the Lhazaar, he wished he had died the moment Makala grabbed hold of him. The shock made his heart seize up in his chest, and his teeth clamped down so hard he thought they might shatter. If his tongue had been between them, he would’ve bitten it in two. Every nerve in his body went numb, and his thoughts became unfocused, gray, and sluggish. He could feel the cold of the sea penetrate his bones and begin to freeze the marrow within.

  Not much longer now, he thought. A few more moments, and it’ll all be over.

  In a way, it was a relief. Life in the Principalities was harsh and unforgiving, and from the day Haaken Sprull was born, he’d lived a life of constant struggle and battle. At least now he’d finally have a chance to rest.

  Cold numbness was replaced by comforting warmth as oblivion slowly began to claim him.

  But then he felt a spark deep within the core of his being, as if something new was being born inside him. Energy surged through his body, giving him a strength that he had never known before, had never even conceived was possible. He felt his body begin to grow long and sleek, his legs merge into a single limb, his arms retract, fingers joining together, hands flattening, eyes sliding to the sides of his head, nose and mouth lengthening, jaws growing wider, teeth becoming sharp and pointed. The transformation was agonizing beyond belief, and he tried to scream, but all that escaped his mouth was a fount of bubbles. His clothes tore, fell away, and were lost to the depths. He was free to move, to swim, to glide through the water like an arrow through air. The sea no longer seemed cold, no longer felt like a hostile force intent on claiming his life … it felt like home.

  Haaken no longer relied on sight as his primary sense. Smell was far more useful here in the sea, and he had new senses upon which to draw as well. He could detect the slightest change in the currents around him, could feel the vibrations of other bodies moving through the water, creatures of various kinds and sizes, and his instincts automatically sorted them into two categories: prey and not-prey. A large not-prey moved ahead and above him, and from its vibrations, he understood that whatever this Not-Prey was, it wasn’t alive, which meant it was not food, and thus of absolutely no interest. And yet, he felt compelled to swim toward it, and so he did, not questioning his instincts, not even possessing the ability to question them. He surged through the water, moving swift and sure, angling upward, toward the place where the surface of the sea touched the Great Nothing beyond. He felt a twinge of reluctance and almost veered off. The Great Nothing was not a place for his kind, but his instincts continued to insist he head for the Not-Prey, and so he did, tail fins thrashing wildly, impelling him higher, higher …

  His dorsal fin cut the surface, and then with a final effort he leaped forth from the water and into the air. For an instant his body—all seventeen feet of it—hung suspended above the waves. He saw the Not-Prey in front of him, tantalizingly close, but just out reach of his massive jaws. But Haaken was determined to reach the Not-Prey, and he felt the power within him respond to his desire. His body reshaped itself once more, lateral fins becoming arms and hands, tail fin shortening as legs and feet sprouted from his trunk. As Haaken reached the apex of his leap and began to arc downward, he lunged forward with clawed hands, grabbed hold of the Zephyr’s aft railing, and heaved his bulk onto the deck.

  He stood near the empty pilot’s seat and the deactivated containment ring, his cold black eyes focused on three beings staring at him from the center of the deck. Haaken regarded the trio warily, his gills opening and closing as his newly grown lungs drew in oxygen, trying to decide if the strangers were prey or not-prey. An aching pit of hunger lay at the core of his being, and he decided he might as well take a bite out of one of the strangers to see what they tasted like. He took a step forward, thick strands of saliva dripping from his tooth-filled maw and spattering onto the soarwood deck.

  The white-faced stranger cloaked in living shadow spoke then. “That’s enough, Haaken.”

  Haaken …

  The noise was familiar to him for some reason, and hearing it made his head hurt. Then he remembered: that sound was his name.

  The man-shark’s form blurred and shifted, and Haaken Sprull—naked and dripping with freezing cold seawater—stood upon the deck of the Zephyr. The frigid late autumn wind began to turn the water coating his body to a shell of ice, but Haaken barely noticed. He no longer felt the cold. He was powerful and strong … stronger than he’d ever been before, than he’d ever imagined was possible.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Makala said, “but do we really want him going about naked?”

  Nathifa looked at the vampire as if she had no idea what the woman was talking about, but then she took hold one of her robe’s dark tendrils and tore it free. She flung it toward Haaken, and the tendril flew toward him like an ebon leaf tumbling in the wind. The patch of darkness grew as it came toward him, then it wrapped around his groin and rear, sealing itself to his body to form a pair of black trunks.

  “Not the most stylish solution, perhaps,” Makala said, “but I suppose it’ll do.”

  Haaken ignored the vampire’s words, and he was only distantly aware of the clothing provided by the lich sorceress. His thoughts were filled with the memory of water, strength, and hunger so intense it was almost agonizing.

  He smiled, displaying teeth that still very much resembled those of a shark. He was looking forward to his next lesson.

  Later that night in Kolbyr’s palace, Diran, Ghaji, and the others slept in comfortable—if not quite luxurious—rooms provided for them by a grateful Baroness Calida. The captain of the Turnabout had been only too happy to accept Calida’s money, and they would be embarking for Trebaz Sinara at dawn’s first light. Everyone had turned in early, agreeing they should all get a good night’s rest before they set out on the morrow. Each companion had his or her individual room, save for Solus who had no need of sleep. The psiforged stood outside in the inner courtyard, watching heated water bubble forth from the enchanted fountain as he used his psychic abilities to cleanse the last traces of Fury from the palace.

  Sometime near midnight there was furtive movement in the palace corridors, followed by two knocks—one on Diran’s door, and one on Ghaji’s. Both doors were opened, guests were welcomed, and four people got little sleep that night.

  And hundreds of miles to the north in a frozen palace made of ice and bone, a claw-like hand stroked the pate of a glossy black skull, and a pair of bloodless lips stretched into a satisfied smile.

  Everything was proceeding exactly as planned.

  So when am I going to meet Captain Onu?” Diran asked.

  “I’m not sure you want to,” Ghaji replied. “He … takes some getting used to.”

  Diran gave his friend a quizzical look, but Ghaji just shook his head. “It’s difficult to explain. You’ll have to experience the good captain for yourself. As for his first mate Thokk … well, he’s as night to the captain’s day. Where Onu is honey-tongued and effusive, Thokk is plain-spoken and all business.” In fact, it was the dwarf who’d negotiated the terms of their passage while Onu drank ale and regaled the tavern-goers with sea stories, each more outrageous than the last.

  It was an hour after sunrise, and the Turnabout sailed eastward into the Gulf of Ingjald, Kolbyr little more than a speck in the distance off their aft bow. The slate-gray surface of the Lhazaar was choppy today, but not so bad that the galleon rode rough across the water. A strong wind blew from the northwest, filling the three-master’s sails with bitterly cold air that seemed to waft straight down from the Fingerbone Mountains. Gray clouds blocked the sun, casting an oppressive pall over the Turnabout. The crew worked in silence for the most part, men and women making a point of staying out
of each other’s way as they tied lines, worked sails, scraped ice from deck planking, any of the thousand and one never-ending tasks that defined a life a sea as much as the motion of the waves and the tang of saltwater in the air. The crew were of various races, which was unusual for the Principalities, where ships were manned primarily by humans. There were a scattering of half-elves and gnomes and—despite his people’s dislike for water in general—a lone dwarf who served as first mate. The crew dressed for practicality in heavy wool clothing and fur-lined cloaks.

  The Turnabout was a typical three-masted galleon with bowsprit, forecastle, main deck, quarterdeck, and poop. And two balconies at the rear, one above the other, with large stern windows. Longboats were stacked upside down on the main deck, tied down and covered with burlap to prevent them from sliding around and hurting anyone if the sea became too turbulent. The sails billowed. Ghaji hoped the wind would last for the eight days or so it would take the vessel to reach Trebaz Sinara. He wished they still had the Zephyr. The sloop was smaller than the galleon, but because her sails were perpetually full, thanks to the magic of the elemental bound within the containment ring bolted to the deck, and also because of the soarwood runners, the vessel could skate across the surface of the water with astounding speed. If Yvka still had possession of the Zephyr, they could reach Trebaz Sinara in—Ghaji did a quick mental calculation—two, maybe three days at the most. But if wishes were hippogriffs …

  Diran and Ghaji stood on the port side of the main deck. The others remained below in their quarters, doing their best to stay warm. So far, they’d seen no sigh of Onu, and Ghaji was wondering if the captain simply had no interest in meeting Diran and Sir Leontis, or if the man was still sleeping, exhausted after staying late at the tavern last night after Ghaji and the others had departed. Onu had certainly seemed the type to spend the night carousing.

  Ghaji looked at Diran and gave his friend a sly smile. “So, did you sleep well last night?”