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

  They waited an hour longer, telling time by the movements of the stars and moons, and then Chagai signaled for them to stand and follow him. Together, the three orcs and one half-blood drew their weapons and silently loped down into the valley toward the wood-wright’s cottage. Ghaji wore a simple leather armor vest for protection and carried a hand axe, both of which he’d retrieved from the first soldier he’d ever killed, back before joining Chagai’s group. Murtt and Eggera wore mail armor and helmets and carried broadswords which, with their strength, they could wield one-handed. Ghaji was stronger than a human, but not strong enough to wield a broadsword one-handed for very long. Chagai, as their leader, possessed the best equipment. His broadsword was of higher quality than the others, forged of finer steel and made with more skilled craftsmanship. His polished helm was adorned with two metal horns that jutted forward and which the orc commander could use as stabbing weapons if he wished. Best of all was the new breastplate he wore. Its shiny surface was smooth and unscratched, and Medard had given it to Chagai as a bonus for the numerous raids they’d conducted on supply caravans last month. Ghaji thought the breastplate looked magnificent, and he wondered what it would feel like to wear such a fine thing.

  As they ran across the grass-covered ground, muscles moving in fluid harmony and hearts pounding in excitement, Ghaji felt as if he inhabited a timeless moment of perfection. The cool night air rushing past him, the moons and stars above, fellow orcs running by his side … well, running several steps ahead of him, as was only proper, but still, running together, at least … he didn’t think anything could be better. If he were to die this night, he would die happy.

  The odds of any of them dying tonight seemed slim indeed, though. Ruelo was a wood-wright, one known, among other things, for his ability to mystically craft arrows whose shafts were nigh unbreakable, and which flew faster and farther than ordinary arrows could. Medard had once purchased vast quantities of arrows from Ruelo, but the wood-wright claimed to have grown sick of the seemingly endless War, sick of using his skills to create instruments of death, and had sworn to never make another weapon of any sort ever again. Medard, however, believed that Ruelo was simply making an excuse, that the shifter had gotten a better deal with another of the bandit lords that harried the Eldeen Reaches. As far as Medard was concerned, if he couldn’t have Ruelo’s arrows, then no one could.

  As the orcs drew near the cottage, Chagai motioned to Murtt and Eggera to head around the back. They veered away. When Ghaji had been younger, he would’ve thought it a mark of honor that their leader wished him to remain by his side. Now he knew it was because Chagai felt Ghaji needed watching. When they reached the cottage, Chagai—barely slowing—slammed his shoulder into the door, causing it to burst open in a shower of splintered wood. Chagai rushed inside and Ghaji followed, the thunder of his pulse sounding a bloodsong in his ears. The hunt was finished, and it was time for the killing to begin.

  The one-room cottage was empty, save for simple wooden furniture—dining table and chairs, a long bench and several stools arranged in front of a cold hearth. A wooden ladder led to a sleeping loft just below the thatched ceiling. Atop the dining table was an everbright lantern that only a short time ago had been warming the cottage with its glow, along with a scattering of materials used in the wood-wright’s art: narrow wooden shafts, feathers for fletching, metal arrowheads. Ghaji grinned. It appeared that Medard’s suspicions about the shifter were correct after all.

  Chagai rushed toward the ladder, and Ghaji followed, eager to wet his axe-blade in shifter blood, but before they could take more than a few steps, a male shifter wearing only a breech cloth stood up behind the loft’s wooden railing. The shifter’s fur was tinged with gray, but his muscles were still lean and strong. His full bestial aspect was upon him—face hirsute, features animalistic, fangs bared. The shifter held a bow with an arrow nocked, and his eyes blazed with fury as he lifted the weapon and aimed the shaft at Chagai’s heart.

  Ghaji didn’t think. He hurled his axe at the shifter. The weapon flew upward, tumbling end over end, and the blade buried itself with a hollow thunk in the man’s forehead. The shifter’s eyes widened in surprise and he released his grip on the arrow. The shaft, regardless of any mystical properties it might have possessed, flew wild, missing Chagai entirely. Blood poured down the shifter’s face, spattered onto his chest, but the wood-wright remained standing long enough to fix Ghaji with an accusing stare before the man’s gaze dimmed and he pitched forward over the railing to fall with a dull thud on the dirt floor below.

  Ghaji turned to Chagai, hoping to hear appreciation for the well-thrown strike that might very well have saved the orc leader’s life, but a crash came from the roof of the cottage then, immediately followed by screams of terror. Ghaji knew what had happened: Murtt and Eggera had climbed onto the roof, torn through the thatch, and forced their way into the loft. Now they had begun their slaughter of the wood-wright’s family.

  Chagai leaped over the wood-wright’s body, and rushed to the ladder, eager to join in the killing above. Ghaji hesitated only a second before following after Chagai. The walls of the loft were drenched with blood, as were Eggera and Murtt. They were practically covered from head to toe, as if they’d been bathing in gore. Chagai stood over the body of a female shifter lying on the loft’s floor, her body nearly cut in two by his broadsword. Chagai’s chest heaved with excitement, and his eyes were wild, those of a predator intoxicated by the thrill of bringing down its prey. There were four pallets in the loft, two of them small. Murtt and Eggera each stood over one of the small pallets, their swords slick with blood. Lying below them on the crimson-soaked bedding were the hacked-up remains of what had once been two shifter children, their bodies so mutilated that Ghaji couldn’t even begin to guess their gender.

  The female shifter—the children’s mother, Ghaji supposed—lifted a trembling hand in the direction of her children, as if she still hoped to do something, anything to save them, or perhaps simply wanted to offer one last bit of motherly comfort to their departing souls. Chagai noted the movement and with a swift motion thrust his sword blade into the back of the woman’s head. She shuddered once and then fell still.

  Chagai then turned to Ghaji and gave him a wide grin. “Good sport tonight, eh?”

  Ghaji knew the camaraderie in the orc leader’s tone was meant as both a compliment and a thank-you for his slaying of the wood-wright. Chagai was, for the very first time, treating Ghaji as if he were an equal. It was what Ghaji had wanted so long and worked so hard for, so why didn’t it mean anything to him now?

  He stared at the red wet chunks of meat that only a short time ago had been a pair of children sleeping peacefully in their beds. Then he forced himself to return Chagai’s grin, though he feared it came out more like a grimace.

  “Good sport.”

  Ghaji felt a small elbow jab him in the ribs, and he looked down to see Hinto frowning at him.

  “Unless you want your lady love to think you’re losing interest in her, you’d best pay more attention, Greenie,” the halfling whispered.

  Ghaji hated it when Hinto called him that, but he was so grateful to be pulled out of the memory of that awful night at the wood-wright’s cottage that he nodded, took another sip of his bilge-water ale, and refocused his attention on Yvka. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t completely chase away the image of the mother’s trembling hand, reaching out to her children one last time before she died.

  Skarm thanked whatever dark powers watched over barghests that the elf-woman had gotten up from her table, taken up a position in a corner of the common room, and started juggling. Her companions—including the elderly artificer—were watching her with rapt attention, providing him with a perfect distraction. He’d been observing the elf-woman’s act along with the rest of the audience, and he noted that her tricks had become increasingly more complex, and she performed them with increasing speed. He sensed that she was building toward the climax of her act, and o
nce she reached it …

  The elf-woman was currently juggling a quintet of spheres that appeared to be formed of solid light. She hurled all five toward the ceiling of the common room, and they merged together, forming a large light sculpture of a dragon in flight. The drake’s eyes blazed and a glittering stream of what seemed to be diamonds poured forth from its open mouth. There were awed murmurs of appreciated from the audience as the diamonds swirled through the air, circling the room above the people’s heads, the illusion so realistic that more than a few men and women reached up to try to snag a diamond for themselves. The light dragon then began to glow bright as a summer sun, and all in attendance were utterly transfixed by the sight, breathless with anticipation of what would happen next …

  Now! Skarm thought, and made his move.

  Hinto knew that Yvka was performing a trick, that the dragon wasn’t real and couldn’t hurt him, but that knowledge did nothing to prevent the feeling of panic that coiled tight within his belly and which threatened to spring free any instant. As the light dragon glowed more intensely, he averted his gaze and stared down at the surface of the table, gripping its wooden edge tight. He told himself to hold on, to ride the panic out. He’d spent his lifetime on the sea, and he’d learned how to weather storms before he could walk. And not just any storms—those on the Lhazaar were rougher and deadlier than anywhere else in all the vast oceans of Eberron. If he could survive the Lhazaar’s fury, he should be able to withstand something as simple as his own fear.

  Since his time shipwrecked in the Mire, fear was no longer so simple for Hinto. Intense, overwhelming, paralyzing … it grabbed hold of him with ice-cold hands and crushed him in its grip, reducing him to a quivering mass of terror. He knew his friends understood—even Ghaji, who pretended to be gruff and unfriendly much of the time—and while Hinto appreciated their understanding, he didn’t want them to pity him, and he didn’t want his fear-attacks to cause him to let them down when they needed him, like yesterday in the lich’s lair, the latest in a string of similar incidences over the last several months. So far, his panic and resultant inability to act hadn’t caused injury or death to any of his friends, but Hinto feared that it was only a matter of time before it did. He had to get control of himself, had to learn to master his fear—not just for himself but for his friends.

  Hinto was not looking at Yvka’s light dragon when a cloaked and hooded goblin crept up next to Tresslar and snatched the artificer’s dragonwand from under his belt. As soon as the goblin had the wand in hand, he dashed for the door.

  Hinto cried out, “Tresslar, your wand!” and leaped out of his seat in pursuit of the thief. A lifetime at sea had kept Hinto strong and lean. He weaved between tables and chairs—sometimes ducking under tabletops if necessary—and caught hold of the goblin’s cloak before the thief could reach the door.

  Hinto spun the goblin around and took hold of his shoulders with a firm grip to make sure he didn’t try to run again. “Here, now, what do you think—”

  Hinto broke off as he saw the goblin’s scarred visage, the eyes that blazed with orange fire, the mouthful of teeth far sharper than any ordinary goblin’s should be. The halfling felt a sudden cold fluttering in his stomach and in his mind he saw tentacles rising out of the sea, swaying slowly in the darkness as they cast about in search of prey. The tentacles ended in tiny mouths that opened and closed hungrily …

  Hinto let out a soft cry and released his hold on the goblin. He staggered back, his entire body shaking, his knees gone weak as water. His head swam, the world titled, and he collapsed to the earthen floor and shook like a leaf caught in a gale-force wind. He struggled to regain control of his body, but it was no good. His fear held him completely in thrall, and all he could do was watch in despair and shame as the goblin—or whatever it was—made for the door.

  He’s going to get away with Tresslar’s wand, and it’s all my fault!

  Just as the goblin’s hand—a hand that was now clawed and covered with gray fur—reached for the door handle, a small sphere came arcing from the far side of the common room. Yvka had hurled one of her juggling balls at the creature. The goblin looked up in time to see the smooth wooden sphere coming at him, and in reflex he lifted his free hand and caught the ball before it could strike him.

  The goblin sneered. “Is that the best you can—” Crackling tendrils of blue-white energy erupted from the ball, ran up his arm and covered his entire body. There was an acrid smell of burning fur, and the goblin let out an animalistic howl of pain. He dropped the dragonwand, but though he tried to let go of the lightning-ball, it seemed affixed to his hand, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake it loose.

  Diran and Ghaji were up and moving toward the wounded goblin, weapons drawn and ready. Hinto tried once more to rise to his feet so he could help his friends, but his body still refused to obey him and all he could do was continue to lie trembling on the floor and observe.

  Diran and Ghaji reached the goblin, and the creature slammed his wrist into the wall. There was a sickening sound of bones snapping, but the impact was sufficient to break the lightning-ball’s hold, and the sphere tumbled from the goblin’s hand. As soon as the ball was no longer in contact with the goblin’s flesh, the lightning cocoon that surrounded him winked out, and he was free. He bent down to snatch up the dragonwand once more, but Diran hurled a dagger. The blade thunked into the ground next to the wand, sinking into the earth up the hilt, the cross-piece pinning the mystical object to the floor. The goblin looked up at Diran and snarled, and the orange light in his eyes seemed to blaze outward as if it were tongues of angry flame. The goblin’s form blurred and shifted, and when it came into focus once more, the goblin had become a humanoid wolf-creature that Hinto recognized as a barghest—the barghest, he realized, the one they’d encountered yesterday in the lich’s lair.

  Ghaji stepped forward to attack the beast, his elemental axe bursting into flame, but the barghest, whose body still bore burnt patches from the wounds he’d suffered during their last battle, howled in frustration and threw itself back against the door. Already shaky from the appearance of the Coldhearts earlier, the door gave way easily beneath the barghest’s weight, and the creature tumbled out into the street. Ghaji ran outside after it, Diran following close behind.

  Tresslar ran past Hinto and crouched down next to his wand. He pried Diran’s dagger free, then reclaimed his most prized mystical object, gripping it tight as if he feared someone else might attempt to steal it. Yvka came over and knelt down next to Hinto. The elf-woman slowly stroked his sweaty hair with one hand, while she gently took hold of his with the other.

  “It’s all right, Hinto. The creature didn’t get Tresslar’s wand, and Diran and Ghaji will take care of him.”

  Hinto gritted his teeth as a fresh wave of tremors wracked his body. It wasn’t all right, and he didn’t know if it was ever going to be again.

  The fog still blanketed Perhata’s dockside, and if it hadn’t been for the light given off by Ghaji’s blazing axe, Diran wouldn’t have been able to see anything. As it was, he could see very little, and he certainly didn’t see any sign of the barghest.

  “I can’t get his scent,” Ghaji said. “Too many other smells here—the ocean, dead fish, and other odors I’d rather not discuss, so either you call upon the Silver Flame for guidance, or we pick a direction and start searching.”

  Diran considered. Barghests were infernal creatures, and while they were hardly all-powerful, they were swift—especially in full wolf form. The odds that he and Ghaji would be able to track a wolf, and an intelligent one at that, on a fog-shrouded night such as this were hardly favorable.

  “We stopped it from taking Tresslar’s dragonwand and drove it off,” Diran said. “That’s enough for one night, don’t you think?”

  Ghaji doused the flames of his axe, and the darkness closed in around them. “It galls me to let the creature go, especially since this is our second encounter with him. You think he followed us
into town just to get hold of Tresslar’s wand?”

  “Perhaps. The barghest might wish to take revenge on the ones who destroyed his mistress and wounded him.”

  “Why try to steal the wand? That doesn’t seem like much of a revenge to me.”

  “Barghests are magical creatures, and it’s not unreasonable to think this one might have some mystical knowledge of his own. Perhaps he intended to use the dragonwand as a weapon against us.” Even as he said it, Diran didn’t think much of his theory. He sensed there was something more to the barghest’s attempted theft of Tresslar’s wand, but he couldn’t say what. “Whatever the case, I think that we should make tracking down and slaying this barghest our next order of business.”

  Ghaji grinned and tightened his grip on his axe. “Where do we start?”

  “I think you may have to put your plans on hold for a time—say, forever.”

  Diran still had hold of one of the daggers he’d drawn when Hinto had alerted them to the barghest’s presence. Now he didn’t hesitate; he threw the dagger in the direction the voice—Haaken’s voice—came from, but before Diran could tell whether his blade had found its target, a large shape came at them out of the darkness, and he felt the heavy mesh of a fishing net descend upon them. The net was heavy enough on its own, but it was weighted down with lead balls at the edges to help it sink into the sea more effectively. It forced Diran and Ghaji to their knees. Ghaji’s axe flared bright, and Diran knew his friend intended to burn their way free of the net. Not one to wait on someone else to save him, Diran pulled a dagger from one of the hidden sheathes sewn into the inner lining of his cloak and began sawing away at the net’s mesh. They only needed a few seconds, and then they would—

  Haaken stepped forward until Diran could make out the dim outline of his form. “You don’t really think we’d give you a chance to escape, do you?”

  His hand shot forth, and he released a fine amber powder into the air. The powder diffused into a small yellow cloud that surrounded Diran and Ghaji, and though the two companions knew enough to hold their breath, Haaken and another of the Coldhearts stepped forward—they had scraps of cloth tied over their noses and mouths, Diran saw—and kicked them in the ribs. Breath exploded from their lungs, and then in reflex, they breathed in. Whatever the drug was, it was powerful, and it took effect immediately. Diran saw Ghaji’s axe-flame extinguish as the half-orc lost consciousness.