Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 Read online

  Praise for Tim Waggoner’s

  Thieves of Blood …

  “Fans of adventure fantasy series like Salvatore’s Drizzt Do’Urden saga, Michael Moorcock’s Elric of Melniboné and Raymond E. Feist’s Midkemia sequence should definitely check out Waggoner’s Thieves of Blood: a pedal-to-the-metal thrill ride of a novel featuring some of the coolest fantasy characters to come along in years. Highly recommended.”

  —The Barnes & Noble Review

  Praise for Tim Waggoner’s

  Darkness Wakes …

  “A fast-paced, over-the-top, blood-and-guts thriller …”

  —Publishers Weekly

  THE BLADE OF THE FLAME

  BY ACCLAIMED AUTHOR

  TIM WAGGONER

  Thieves of Blood

  Forge of the Mindslayers

  Sea of Death

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Once again, I’d like to thank Mark Sehestedt for editorial guidance par excellence. Having an editor as good as you, Mark, means never having to write STET.

  DEDICATION

  For Robert L. Snead, Im Specialist U.S. Army infantry. Here’s something else for you to read, Rob!

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  Chagai crouched behind a rocky outcropping near the summit of a small mountain, a perfect vantage point to observe the party of four men traveling by foot through the canyon below. Two were human—one in the prime of his life, dressed all in black, with long ebon hair, while the other was a white-beard, thin of frame, and from the way he lagged behind his companions, not very strong. A halfling and a half-orc accompanied the humans. Chagai’s upper lip curled in disgust. Even from this height he could smell the half-blood’s stink, and without his realizing it, a growl rumbled deep in his chest.

  The half-blood paused and cocked his head. He gazed up at the mountain—directly where Chagai hid—eyes furrowed, nostrils flaring as he read the scents on the wind. Chagai stopped breathing and held himself as motionless as the rocks around him. The orc wore a mottled gray cloak over his chain-mail armor, and he had the hood up. The cloak’s color blended with the mountain’s surface, and Chagai was confident that the half-blood wouldn’t be able to detect him. Still, even a half-orc possessed senses far stronger than those of a human, and Chagai knew better than to underestimate him, especially this half-orc—for Chagai recognized the other’s scent, recognized the way he moved, even the way he breathed. The half-breed’s name was Ghaji, and years ago he had come close to slaying Chagai. Very close.

  Too bad for Ghaji that he’d failed.

  “Something wrong, my friend?”

  Ghaji didn’t take his gaze from the mountainside as he answered. “I’m not sure. For a moment, I thought I saw something up there, but now …”

  Diran Bastiaan came over and stood next to the half-orc. The black-garbed priest looked toward the spot on the mountain where Ghaji was staring, shielding his eyes with one hand to block out the rays of the setting sun. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and while the valley in which they stood was already draped in shadow, orange-red sunlight shone from behind the mountain, making it difficult to see.

  “It’s nothing,” Ghaji decided at last. “A trick of the light, nothing more.”

  Though they were but in the foothills of the Hoarfrost Mountains, the canyon terrain was rocky and barren, save for a scattering of scraggly trees and tufts of coarse scrub grass that had pushed their way up through the stony ground. It was late autumn, and in the Lhazaar Principalities that meant the air already held more than a hint of winter’s bite. The four companions were garbed in heavy clothes, fur cloaks, and thick, sturdy boots. Even so, Ghaji—the only one of the quartet not born in the Principalities—still shivered with every blast of wind, the cold air cutting through him like one of Diran’s daggers. Chalk up one more disadvantage to his half-blood status.

  The other two members of their party joined them. Though they’d been trekking through the foothills for the better part of a day, the halfling appeared as fresh as when they’d started out. The older human, however, looked as if he were about ready to drop from exhaustion.

  “Maybe it’s an animal of some kind,” Hinto said. The halfling sounded excited, as if he might race up the hillside any moment to go check.

  The human, whose name was Tresslar, spoke in a breathless, raspy voice. “The only animals we’ve encountered today are hares, foxes, and mountain goats.” He paused to catch his breath. “And we’ve seen precious few of those.”

  Ghaji turned away from the mountain to look at Tresslar. The artificer was in his late sixties, and while he was in generally good health, the day’s journey through the mountains had taken its toll on him. Though they’d rested regularly and drank often from their waterskins, Tresslar’s face was gaunt and pale. His legs trembled, and Ghaji feared the man might collapse any moment.

  Ghaji turned toward Diran, hoping to communicate to his friend that Tresslar was in dire need of his assistance, but Diran was already ahead of him. The priest carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and he now slipped them off his shoulder and placed them on the ground. Ordinarily, divesting one’s self of weapons while being stalked by a hidden opponent wasn’t the wisest of moves. Though Diran carried a bow and practiced with it, he did so only because it was the signature weapon of his order. In truth, he was only middling skilled at its use. While this fact vexed him, Diran wasn’t foolish or stubborn enough to rely on his unremarkable archery skills in a dangerous situation—not that he needed to, for he possessed other weapons with which he was far more proficient.

  Diran stepped to Tresslar’s side and laid a hand on the artificer’s shoulder.

  “I know what you intend to do,” Tresslar protested, “but I am hardly in need of healing.” The artificer reached up to push Diran’s hand away, but Diran caught his wrist with his free hand and gently but firmly kept him from doing so.

  “There is no shame in admitting one’s needs,” Diran said. “Besides, when we locate what we’ve come here for, we’ll need to be at our full fighting strength.”

  As a youth, Tresslar had sailed with the legendary explorer Erdis Cai, and though that had been many decades ago, the artificer sometimes pushed himself as if he thought only a handful of years had passed. Still, while Tresslar was a proud man, he was also a practical one, and he sighed and nodded his acceptance of Diran’s words. The priest smiled, released his grip on Tresslar’s wrist, and closed his eyes.

  Ghaji had seen Diran perform healings many times, and he’d been the beneficiary of the priest’s otherworldly powers on more than one occasion himself, but no matter how often he’d seen Diran at work, he was always impressed by the profound simplicity of the act. Diran never made a great show of healing. He didn’t speak prayers, didn’t wave his hands about in the air, didn’t loudly beseech the holy Silver Flame to work its wonders through him. All he did was touch the person he wished to heal, close his eyes, and then several moments later, it was done.

  It was at moments like those when Ghaji was struck afresh by the dichotomy his friend represented. During the Last War, Diran had served as a mercenary assassin—a damn fine one—and there was still much of the killer’s mien to him. His long black hair framed a face that was lean and wolfish, with eyes that were dark, cold, and calculating. He always wore black, and he moved with the precision and grace of someone whose body was the most important weapon he owned. But after the War, Diran abandoned the life of a killer-for-hire and became a priest of the Silver Flame, an order dedicated to purging evil from the world. It was this power Diran channeled when he healed others. At those times his touch was gentle, his voice war
m and soothing, his expression one of beatific contentment. It was almost enough to make a hard-headed skeptic like Ghaji take up the worship of the Silver Flame himself. Almost.

  Diran opened his eyes and removed his hand from Tresslar’s shoulder. “Better?”

  Tresslar’s face no longer looked so drawn, his color had returned to normal, and his legs were once more sure and steady. “Yes, thank you.” Despite his earlier protestation, the artificer sounded relieved.

  Diran smiled, nodded, then returned to Ghaji’s side.

  “Well, if it isn’t an animal,” Hinto said, “then maybe it’s the thing we’ve come hunting for. The lyke, lihk, however you pronounce it.”

  “Lich,” Diran said, “and I seriously doubt it. According to the stories we heard back in Perhata, this particular lich rarely strays from its lair.”

  “If you can trust a bunch of tall tales told by drunken sailors,” Tresslar muttered.

  They’d first heard tell of the lich in a seedy tavern in the seaside city of Perhata. It was an all-too-familiar story: an undead creature had holed up in cave somewhere in the mountains outside the city, where it used its hoard of fabulous wealth to lure greedy treasure-seekers to their unspeakably horrible dooms. If Ghaji had a copper crown for every time they’d heard a similar story …

  Of course, now that he thought of it, most of the time the stories had turned out to be true.

  “Are you sure it’s not a lich, Diran?”

  There was a small tremor to Hinto’s voice, and Ghaji gazed down with concern at the halfling pirate’s brown, sun-weathered face. Ever since his time shipwrecked in the Mire—where Hinto had watched his crewmates captured and devoured one by one—the halfling had been prone to sudden attacks of paralyzing panic. Over the last several months, Diran had been working with Hinto, teaching him meditation techniques that the Purified used to center and calm themselves. Diran’s tutelage had helped somewhat, but Hinto still suffered bouts of panic from time to time.

  “Positive,” the priest said. “As Ghaji said, what he saw was likely nothing more than a trick of light and shadow, caused by—”

  Diran’s words were cut off by the sound of a shrill scream, but the cry came from behind them, not from the mysterious figure on the mountainside.

  Ghaji whirled about, drawing his axe as he turned. With a thought, he activated the mystic weapon and flames wreathed the axe-head. Diran also spun around, a pair of silver daggers in his hands, the blades pulled from two of the many sheathes sewn into the priest’s clothing. Tresslar yanked a two-foot iron rod from beneath his belt and pointed the end—which terminated in a golden dragon’s head—toward the direction of the scream. Ghaji glanced at Hinto and was gratified to see that the halfling had drawn the long knife he used as a sword. Hinto trembled like a leaf caught in a windstorm, but he stood his ground, determined not to let his fear get the best of him.

  Before them the canyon wall rose at a sloping angle, the gray stone painted black by the shadow of the mountain opposite. A dozen feet above the ground was a cleft in the rock, and hanging half out of the narrow opening was a small humanoid figure with orange-tinted skin, a flat face, broad nose, pointed ears, and tiny fangs protruding from its lower jaw. The creature’s face was distorted by pain and terror, and it reached out toward them with long simian-like arms.

  “Help me, please! She’s going to kill me!” Its voice was a shrill whine, the words spoken with an odd accent that Ghaji couldn’t place.

  “It’s a goblin,” Hinto said. The halfling started forward, obviously intending to go to the creature’s aid, but Diran put a hand on the little pirate’s shoulder to stop him.

  “Perhaps,” Diran said. “Perhaps not.” The priest gazed intently at the distressed goblin, an appraising look in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong?” Tresslar asked.

  “It could be a trap,” Ghaji said.

  Tears streamed down the goblin’s face. “Please! I can pay you! There’s treasure in here, tons of it! I’ll share it with you! You can have it all, just don’t let her—” With a sudden motion the goblin disappeared into the cleft, as if something inside had violently yanked him backward. Another shriek echoed through the canyon, this one short-lived, and then there was only silence.

  Ghaji and Diran looked at each other, smiled, and spoke at the same time.

  “Definitely a trap,” they said.

  The sloping surface of the canyon wall provided enough hand and footholds that the four companions were able to climb up to the opening without any trouble. Even Tresslar had no difficulty, thanks to the fresh infusion of strength granted to him by Diran’s healing touch. Ghaji went first, elemental axe deactivated and tucked once more beneath his belt. Diran came second, daggers temporarily returned to their sheathes, then came Tresslar and Hinto.

  They didn’t attempt to enter right away. Diran and Ghaji remained to the right of the cleft, while Tresslar and Hinto stayed on the other side. Ghaji then eased toward the opening and activated his elemental axe. Flames flared to life, and he held the burning axe toward the cleft. The light chased away the shadows huddling around the entrance, and Ghaji could see that the opening was wider than it had first appeared from the canyon floor. They wouldn’t have any trouble getting inside, but then the intention had never been to keep them out.

  “How do you know it’s a trap?” Tresslar asked as they clung to the rocky surface.

  “It’s quite simple,” Diran answered. “A lone goblin could never have escaped from a lich to call out for help. He would’ve been too paralyzed by fear in her presence to speak, let alone move.”

  “Doesn’t it strike you as awfully convenient that the goblin just happened to get free while we were in the vicinity?” Ghaji added. “Not to mention all that talk about treasure. He’s just a lure, maybe even an illusion conjured by the lich.”

  Ghaji extended his axe into the opening and saw that beyond the cleft was a passageway large enough for two men to walk side by side, if only just. Of the goblin—or anything else for that matter—he saw no sign. He examined the floor of the passageway beyond the entrance and saw no scratch marks in the rock. A goblin fighting for his life would’ve scuffed the floor somehow, perhaps even torn his claws and left behind spots of blood, but the half-orc saw nothing.

  “Looks clear,” Ghaji said. “I’m going in.”

  “Be careful,” Diran warned, “and don’t go too far inside. Wait for the rest of us to join you.”

  Ghaji turned to his friend and gave the priest a withering look. “I’m not stupid, Diran. I’m not about to go dashing off into a monster’s lair on my own.”

  “That’s what you said last month,” Diran pointed out, “when we dealt with that nest of ghouls in the sewers of Skairn.”

  Ghaji scowled. “That was different. I—”

  Diran continued. “What about the time we went after the pack of yeth hounds that was attacking ships off the coast?”

  “All right, I’ll admit to that one, but I’d gotten our plan confused—”

  “And then there was that wraith on the isle of—”

  “Very well!” Ghaji snapped. “I’ll wait!”

  Hinto snickered, but the halfling instantly shut up when Ghaji glared at him. Muttering to himself, Ghaji climbed through the cleft and into the passageway beyond. It was a bit of a squeeze for the half-orc, but once he was inside, the tunnel opened up sufficiently to allow him to stand without slouching. The light cast by his fire-axe revealed the gray stone of the passage to be rough and uneven, but the tunnel’s shape was uniform enough for Ghaji to guess it wasn’t a natural formation. This passageway had been carved into the hillside, but who had done it—and how long ago—Ghaji couldn’t say. He took a breath and regretted it as the stench of ancient rot and decay assailed his nostrils. Ghaji had fought evil alongside Diran long enough to recognize the stink of undeath when he smelled it. If this wasn’t a lich’s lair, it was surely home to some creature equally as foul.

  The axe-flame il
luminated the passageway for a good dozen feet. Beyond that, the tunnel veered to the left, cutting off Ghaji’s view. Anything might be around that bend—and probably was.

  He turned to speak over his shoulder, keeping one eye fixed on the passageway before him. “The entrance is clear,” he told his companions then stepped forward to make room for them in the tunnel.

  Diran entered first, followed by Tresslar and then Hinto. There wasn’t enough room in the passage for the four of them to walk shoulder to shoulder, so Ghaji and Diran went first, with Tresslar and Hinto coming after. They moved into the tunnel slowly, all of them armed, senses alert for the slightest sign of danger.

  As they neared the bend in the tunnel, Ghaji glanced back at Hinto to see how the little pirate was doing. He was trembling, and his lips moved soundlessly as he mouthed one of the calming meditative prayers Diran had taught him. Not for the first time, Ghaji questioned the wisdom of allowing the halfling to join them on this hunt, but Hinto had insisted, and Diran had finally agreed, saying the journey might help the halfing further progress in mastering his fear. Ghaji’s own fear was that Hinto might get one or more of them killed should he suffer a bout of panic while they were within the lich’s lair. Ghaji trusted Diran with his life, but in this case he hoped the priest knew what he was doing.

  As they rounded the bend, a low moan drifted from somewhere ahead of them, and Ghaji recognized the sound of the goblin’s voice. The cry was soft and weak, as if the goblin was near death.

  Diran started forward, but before the priest could take more than a single step, Ghaji reached out with his free hand and grabbed hold of his friend’s elbow.

  “It’s probably a trap, remember?” the half-orc said.

  “I know, but if there’s even a chance that it isn’t, I must go to the goblin’s aid.”

  Diran’s face was mask of grim determination, and Ghaji knew there would be no arguing with him. “Very well then. Let’s go.”