Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 Read online

  “It’s true,” Diran said, “but though I tried to get a sense of what direction the Zephyr was traveling, I failed.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Diran,” Tresslar said. “The demon was probably just trying to trick you.”

  “No,” Solus said. “The demon told the truth—at least, it believed it told the truth. If you will grant me permission, Diran, I can attempt to read your mind and see if the answer we seek is buried within.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Ghaji said. “Nothing personal, Solus, but you’re still learning to use your abilities. If you make a mistake while attempting to read Diran’s mind …”

  “He won’t!” Hinto said. The halfling smiled up at his psiforged friend and patted the construct’s stone hand. “Will you?”

  “I shall do my very best to ensure your safety, Diran,” Solus said.

  “It’s the very best part that worries me,” Ghaji muttered.

  Diran considered for a moment. “Even if there is a risk, I believe it is one worth taking. The demon showed me images other than the Zephyr. They made no sense in and of themselves, but I fear they might portend ill for the future. Any information we can learn about the demon’s visions might help us prevent them from coming to pass. Go ahead, Solus.”

  The psiforged nodded once, then lowered his hood and stepped toward Diran. He reached up and gently touched his blunt stone fingers to Diran’s temples, and his eyes glowed a brighter green. Diran gritted his teeth and winced a couple times, but otherwise he appeared to be in no discomfort. Within a few moments, it was done, and Solus lowered his hands.

  The psiforged then spoke two words. “Trebaz Sinara.”

  Haaken Sprull drifted in feverish delirium, his dreams filled with sharp teeth and the stink of fetid breath seasoned with rotted flesh. Over and over in his mind he saw cold-black shark eyes roll white, saw a tooth-filled maw clamp down on his legs, felt white-hot pain burn through his nerves as those teeth shredded meat, snapped bone, and spilled his life’s blood into the freezing surf …

  He screamed and his eyes snapped open.

  The Coldheart commander lay on a pallet in a darkened cabin, the sheet beneath him soaked with sour sweat. Haaken sensed motion and thought he might be at sea, but if so, the water must have been especially calm today, because the ship’s passage was smoother than any he’d ever experienced before. At first he thought he was aboard the Maelstom, the Coldhearts’ vessel, but this cabin was more cramped than his: the walls closer together, the ceiling lower, and the pallet softer than he preferred. Then he remembered—the Maelstrom had run aground on Demothi Island when he’d attempted to strand the priest and his half-orc friend there. Not one of his more brilliant schemes, he had to admit, considering how it had turned out. His crew dead, his ship destroyed, his legs …

  He sat up in sudden panic. He remembered everything: hiding out on the island when the undead rose from the waters surrounding Demothi, seeing Diran Bastiaan and the half-orc defeat the zombies, witnessing the arrival of the elemental sloop and the dark creatures that sailed upon it …

  He remembered the lich summoning a huge shark from the sea, remembered the foul beast biting off his legs. But he felt no pain … true, his legs felt odd in a way that was hard to define, but they didn’t hurt. The light in the cabin was too dim to see by, so—hands trembling—Haaken reached down slowly to feel his legs.

  They were still there, but that came as little relief to him. For what he felt protruding from below his knees were small, stumpy limbs, hardly longer than a child’s legs. What’s more, the skin felt smooth when he ran fingers down it, but rough when he slid his fingers back upward. Each foot had only three stubby toes, all with sharp claws. There was something familiar about this strange new flesh he possessed, but his mind refused to supply the answer to the mystery, almost as if Haaken was too terrified by the truth to allow himself to recognize it.

  “You’re awake. Good.”

  The voice sounded cold and hollow, like winter wind blowing between ice-coated gravestones. Haaken remembered that voice. It belonged to the lich.

  He turned toward the direction the voice came from, and in the darkness he saw two small pinpoints of crimson light. The lich’s burning eyes.

  A cold chill gripped his heart, and it was all he could do to force words out. “What … happened to me?”

  The lich made no noise as she moved, but her crimson-fire eyes grew larger as she came closer. Haaken wanted to flee, but he was too paralyzed with fear to do more than sit and watch as the undead sorceress approached his pallet.

  “You’ve been granted a great honor, Haaken Sprull,” the lich said in her whispery graveyard voice. “My mistress has chosen to include you as part of her glorious plan.”

  “Uh, and that mistress would be …”

  “Vol,” the lich said. “I am her most devoted servant. You also serve her … now.”

  Haaken couldn’t see in the dark, but he could hear the lich’s smile in her voice. He tried to put up a brave front as he responded. “I serve no one but Baroness Calida!” But despite his intention, his words came out sounding timorous and weak.

  The lich released a hissing laugh that sounded like a nest of venomous snakes had taken up lodging within her throat. “You have no choice but to serve Vol, Haaken. She’s in your blood.”

  The Coldheart commander thought of the loss of his legs and the strange limbs that had replaced them. “That shark you summoned …”

  “You are doubtless aware of what those who worship the Silver Flame call the Purge, when the so-called Purified caused the near extinction of Khorvaire’s lycanthropes. But even warrior-priests as mighty as those of the Silver Flame have their limits, and while the Purified carried out their Purge on land, they were unable to do anything about the lycanthropes that inhabit the seas. The creature that attacked you was a wereshark, Haaken. A very old and powerful one. It passed its curse on to you through its bite. Your new lycanthropic healing abilities are already in the process of regenerating your lost legs, and you should be completely healed well before midnight. At that time you will be able to begin your new life as a servant of our most dread mistress.”

  If Haaken hadn’t seen the ancient wereshark with his own eyes, he would’ve thought the lich was insane. But more than the evidence of his eyes, he could sense that the lich’s words were true. He could feel it in his blood.

  A wereshark … Haaken had heard of them, of course. Every sailor had. He’d never seen one before, but then again, maybe he had and just hadn’t realized it. He’d seen hundreds of sharks over the years, and any one of them might have been a lycanthrope. The thought that he was now such a creature should’ve filled him with loathing, but it didn’t. Instead, he felt curiously good, even excited. Like all Lhazaarites, Haaken was more at home on the water than off. Now he would know what it was like to be able to breathe underwater, to swim free and strong, to hunt prey, capture it, and devour it whole.

  Without realizing it, he smiled, revealing two rows of sharp white teeth.

  “What must I do?”

  And there in the dark, while Haaken’s new legs continued to grow, Nathifa told him.

  Diran, are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Ghaji asked. “You know a lot more about hiring ships than I do.”

  Dusk was approaching, and the inner courtyard of the palace was cloaked in shadow. Baroness Calida and Taran had gone inside a while ago. The boy had been eager to have his mother show him his bedroom; tonight would be the first night he’d ever slept in it. Their other companions had already left the courtyard for Kolbyr’s docks. Only Ghaji and Diran remained behind—and Leontis. The cloaked priest still sat on the edge of the fountain and stared into the water, as unmoving as any of the animal statues that ringed the fountain.

  “Asenka and Hinto know just as much as I, if not more,” Diran said. “And thanks to Calida’s generosity, we’ll be able to hire the fastest ship in port, no matter how much the captain charges. You’ll have
no difficulty finding a suitable vessel with or without me.”

  After Solus had identified a destination for them, Diran had told the Baroness that he’d changed his mind about accepting a reward from her. Calida had been only too happy to fund their expedition to Trebaz Sinara.

  Diran glanced at Leontis then lowered his voice. “There’s a reason my old friend has sought me out, and if I’m to discover what it is, I’ll need to speak with him alone.”

  Ghaji scowled—which didn’t surprise Diran since the half-orc scowled all the time, even when he was happy—then nodded once. “Very well. I’ll be down at the docks with the others … if you need me.”

  Diran smiled and clasped his friend’s shoulder. “When have I ever not needed you?”

  Ghaji grinned. “Truer words were never spoken.” Then with a last suspicious look at Leontis, the half-orc turned and left the courtyard.

  After Ghaji had departed, Diran stood for a moment regarding Leontis, whose attention was still fixed on the water within the fountain’s basin. It hadn’t been that many years since Diran had last seen Leontis, and the man looked almost untouched by the passage of time. Oh, there was some gray in his beard, but not much … a few more lines around the eyes, perhaps. But the greatest change in Leontis wasn’t physical. He seemed weary, as if he were weighed down by a heavy burden. Depression and spiritual malaise were hardly uncommon among the Purified, especially in those who took the most active role in combating the evils that plagued the world. There was a saying in the Church: “Gaze into the Darkness long enough, and you’ll see that the shadows you find there are your own.”

  And never had that bit of wisdom been driven home for Diran like that night many years ago by the banks of the Thrane River….

  “Do you see it?” Diran whispered. “There, up ahead.”

  There were enough moons in the sky to provide sufficient illumination to allow even someone without an assassin’s training for night-work to see. At least, there should have been.

  “Where?” Leontis whispered back, sounding vexed.

  Diran tried not to sigh. He was fond of Leontis, and they got along well, but he sometimes found it difficult to have patience with his fellow acolyte’s lack of experience. “Ahead of us on the riverbank, about a hundred yards away. A mill, I think. That’s where the evil is located.”

  Leontis’s teeth flashed white in the moonlight as he smiled. “How much are you willing to wager that Tusya knew about the mill long before we came to the area, and that’s why he chose to make camp here?”

  Diran smiled in response, but he didn’t draw his lips away from his teeth. Emon Gorsedd had taught him to be more cautious than that. A bit of moonlight reflected off one’s teeth at the wrong time could well mean the difference between success and failure for an assassin. And failure too often meant death, and not for one’s intended target.

  “Not a single coin,” he said.

  The river burbled on their left, its gentle sound accompanied by the soft whisper of the wind. Despite the lateness of the hour, birds sang to one another, perhaps stirred by the blue-white light of the moons, and their trills added notes of beauty to the night’s symphony. During his years as an assassin, Diran had learned not to be taken in by false appearances, and this lesson had only been reinforced during his time with Tusya. Just because all seemed peaceful here didn’t mean they weren’t in danger. Evil all too often disguised itself as innocence and beauty, a sweet-smelling poison waiting for someone foolish enough to drink it, as Aldarik Cathmore might have said.

  The two young acolytes approached the mill warily, walking side by side, their footfalls making no sound on the grass as they drew closer to the shadowy structure. Diran hadn’t had any formal training in sensing evil. Those sorts of priestly skills—assuming one had an aptitude for them—were taught in seminary. But he had a natural ability, Tusya said, honed by his previous life as a hired killer, and that sense was screaming now. He felt a tingle on the back of his neck, as if burrowing insects had dug their way beneath the skin and were crawling around. Diran had never sensed evil this strong before, and he paused, his gorge rising, and feared he was about to vomit.

  Leontis stopped and look at him with concern, but Diran focused his mind just as Emon Gorsedd had taught.

  Forget everything, boy. Forget where you are and what you’re doing. Forget even who you are, and just breathe. In and out, in and out … until your mind becomes clear.

  Diran did as his old teacher had instructed, and after several moments he felt better. He gave Leontis a reassuring nod, and the two of them continued approaching the mill.

  When Diran had first begun studying the ways of the Silver Flame with Tusya, he had been reluctant to make use of his assassin’s training in any way.

  I used those skills in the service of evil, Teacher, Diran had once asked. Doesn’t that make the skills themselves evil?

  Tusya, as always, had possessed a ready answer for Diran’s question.

  Skills are simply tools, the priest had said. It’s what we do with them that results in good or evil. It would be wasteful for you to abandon skills you already possessed just because you once misused them. Far better to redeem those skills by employing them for good.

  “Should we go in together or separately?” Leontis asked. He was well aware of Diran’s practical experience as an assassin and, just like Tusya, he didn’t hold it against Diran.

  Diran considered for a moment. His experience didn’t extend to entering lairs of evil without Tusya’s guidance.

  “Together, I think. If we were facing a mortal foe, it might make sense to approach from different directions. But as our foe is a spiritual creature of some sort, we will be stronger if we remain together and combine our faith against it.” Diran frowned. “Besides, I have a feeling that whatever evil lairs within the mill is already well aware of our presence.”

  “So much the better,” Leontis said. “Evil should be confronted head on.”

  Diran knew that life was never that simple. Sometimes the direct approach got you killed. But he saw no benefit to sharing this information with Leontis right now, and the two acolytes continued making their way steadily and cautiously toward the mill’s entrance. It wasn’t difficult to find.

  Now that they were up close, they could make out the mill’s features. There was nothing remarkable about it, nothing to differentiate it from dozens of others Diran had seen before. The mill had been constructed from wood and stone on the eastern bank of the river, and a waterwheel provided the motive force for grinding grain. Effective enough, Diran supposed, though a contained water elemental would’ve performed more efficiently. Not that it mattered anymore. The wheel hung slightly askew and was frozen in place, resisting the river’s current. The mill’s stonework remained in good repair, but its wood was weathered, a number of the planks cracked, broken, or missing altogether. The mill had been abandoned for some time, Diran judged. Decades, at least.

  Of course it’s abandoned, Diran thought. What self-respecting evil spirit would want to haunt a newly constructed mill?

  “Do you feel it?” Leontis asked. “The temperature is several degrees colder this close.”

  Diran nodded. He’d noticed. He’d also noticed that now that they stood at the mill’s threshold, Leontis seemed hesitant. Diran wondered if he were talking in order to postpone entering.

  Leontis went on. “Should we take a light with us?”

  If he were going in alone, especially to confront a mortal enemy, Diran would’ve wanted to use the darkness to his advantage. The shadows are an assassin’s greatest ally, Emon had always said. But Tusya had taught him that light could be a powerful weapon against spiritual evil. Besides, if Leontis were to make the most effective use of his bow, it would help if he could see what he was aiming his arrows at.

  Diran reached into a pocket and withdrew a light gem—a favorite tool of the Brotherhood of the Blade. Each gem contained a tiny fire elemental that began to glow in response to the t
ouch of a human hand. The gems provided light: not too strong or harsh, just enough to see by without giving away one’s presence unnecessarily. In addition, they were small and easily portable, and their light could be shut off simply by closing one’s hand or tucking the gem into a pocket. Of course, the gems had their drawbacks, chief among them being how easy it was to lose hold of the damned things. If Diran had a gold piece for every light gem he’d lost over the years …

  “I’ll go first,” Diran suggested, but Leontis shook his head.

  “You open the door for me, then I’ll go first. If you weren’t so tall, maybe I could shoot over you. As it is, you’ll be in the way of my arrows.”

  Diran nodded and Leontis—who already had an arrow nocked and ready—stepped back and raised his bow. Diran held the light gem steady as he took hold of the mill’s door handle, depressed the catch, and gently pushed.

  The handle tore free from Diran’s hand as the door fell inward with a thunderous crash. A cloud of dust billowed forth from the now open entrance, and Diran turned to regard his fellow acolyte.

  “If whatever is inside didn’t know we were coming before, it surely does now.”

  Leontis grinned wryly. “I suppose that means the time for stealth has passed.”

  Diran grinned back. “I’d say that was an accurate supposition.”

  He stepped aside so Leontis could enter the mill. As his companion stepped past, Diran slipped a silver dagger out of a hidden sheath in his cloak. He’d owned the dagger for years, having acquired it on a job when he was seventeen, when he’d been hired to assassinate a baron in Adunair who’d turned out to be a vampire. It had been Diran’s first and only encounter with one of the undead fiends, but he’d kept the dagger, just in case. It had come in handy on several occasions since he’d begun studying with Tusya, and he had the feeling he’d have further need of it this night.