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

  Leontis’s curse was proving to be a benefit to them now, but what would the werewolf do when there were no more shadowclaws to fight? Would he be so intoxicated with battle-lust that he’d turn on them? If so, then Diran would be forced to do as his friend had originally requested and free him from his curse by plunging a silver dagger into his heart. If that time came, then Diran vowed he would strike swiftly and without hesitation. He owed Leontis that much, at least.

  A single shadowclaw rushed at Tresslar, claw-hands held high and ready to strike. Diran stepped between the artificer and his ebon-skinned attacker and hurled a poisoned-coated dagger at the creature’s throat. The creature managed to bring down its right claw in time to deflect Diran’s dagger and knock it onto the ground. But in the short amount of time it took the shadowclaw to perform this action, Diran had already thrown his second dagger and the blade sank into the base of the creature’s throat up to the hilt. The shadowclaw gagged as the poison went swiftly about its work, coughed a spray of black blood, and collapsed onto the forest floor where it laid still, its life fluid soaking into the soil.

  Diran quickly moved forward to retrieve his blades. He picked up the dagger that the shadowclaw had knocked to the ground, and then yanked the second blade from the dead creature’s throat. He didn’t bother wiping the dagger clean, for he wished to keep as much poison on the blade as possible. He shot Tresslar a quick look. “I thought you said you made it through the forest without incident during your last journey!”

  “That was forty years ago,” the artificer said. He tapped the revealer’s metal ring in a rhythmic pattern with his light-picks, moving the tools back and forth rapidly across its surface. “And it was daylight when we crossed the forest—both coming and going. These things don’t look like the sort of beasts that enjoy light, do they? Not with those eyes and that coloring. At least, that’s what I’m counting on.” Tresslar stopped working on the revealer and held it up for inspection. Diran couldn’t see anything different about, but Tresslar must have, for he nodded and said, “That should do it.” The artificer then rose to his feet, groaning as his knee joints popped. “I really am getting too old for this sort of foolishness. Let’s go.”

  Diran slashed another shadowclaw’s throat with a pair of cross-handed strikes that nearly decapitated the ebon beast. “Go where?” he asked as the poisoned creature stiffened and fell to join his dead brethren littering the ground.

  “I need to reach Ghaji,” Tresslar said. “See what you can do to get me there in as close to one piece as you can manage.”

  Diran nodded grimly. “Yvka!” he called out. “Watch our backs!”

  The elf-woman had been flicking tiny seeds at shadowclaws, each one exploding and creating a fist-sized hole in the creatures as it detonated. Yvka ran over to Diran and Tresslar and the three companions started heading toward Ghaji. Yvka continued flicking her deadly seeds, and Diran’s hands became blurs as he slashed one shadowclaw after another with his poison-slick daggers. The poison was one of the deadliest that Diran knew—he’d learned how to make it from Aldarik Cathmore—and though little of the substance adhered to the knife metal by now, it remained potent enough to continue inflicting fatal wounds on their attackers.

  The companions’ situation was bad enough as it was, but to make matters worse, the light-spark orbs that Yvka and thrown into the air were beginning to sink toward, their magic nearly spent, their illumination dimming as they descended. Without the light to deter them, the shadowclaws were becoming bolder, attacking more swiftly and savagely, their numbers increasing. If the companions didn’t do something and do it fast, they were dead.

  “Everyone gather near Ghaji!” Tresslar shouted.

  Solus began making his way toward the half-orc, his psionic crystals still glowing, shadowclaws still flying this way and that as the power of the psiforged’s mind tossed them about like ebon dolls. Asenka, Hinto, and Thokk also headed for Ghaji, the halfling tugging on Onu’s sleeve to urge the sea captain to accompany them, Onu looking as if he were so enthralled by the battle taking place around him that he was reluctant to move lest he miss something good.

  Ghaji wielded his elemental axe in great flaming arcs, slaying shadowclaws with each swing. Dark bodies in various stages of scorched mutilation lay around him in great heaps, and the air stank of burnt flesh and boiling blood. As the companions drew near Ghaji, killing shadowclaws and relieving some of the pressure from the half-orc, Ghaji paused in his efforts to draw the back of his hand cross his sweat-slick brow.

  “This is too much like work,” he said.

  Diran didn’t know how many shadowclaws they had killed, but they seemed to have made no dent in their numbers. The creatures kept coming from all directions, vast waves of living darkness with but a single desire: to tear those who had invaded their forest into bloody ribbons.

  “Everyone keep close together and crouch down low,” Tresslar told them. “Except you, Ghaji. Start swinging your axe in a circle and keep swinging it. We need to create a ring of fire.”

  “What about Leontis?” Asenka asked. “He’s still fighting somewhere out there!”

  Diran didn’t think the others had witnessed Leontis’s transformation, but there was no time to explain now. The area was crawling with too many shadowclaws, and the werewolf was no longer visible. For all Diran knew, Leontis had been torn limb from limb by now, and as powerful as lycanthrope healing abilities might be, Diran doubted they’d save his friend if he were in too many pieces.

  “There’s nothing we can do for him right now,” Diran said. “Proceed, Ghaji.”

  Ghaji nodded, took a deep breath, and then spun, axe held in a two-handed grip, flames trailing behind the blade. The nearest shadowclaws drew back several feet, leery of the mystical fire generated by Ghaji’s weapon, but they did not withdraw far. They sensed their prey’s plight and knew it would be only a matter of moments until they would finally get to feed. The shadowclaws edged forward, growing braver by the second. A few more inches … a few more …

  Tresslar raised the revealer until the metal ring touched the flame trailing from Ghaji’s elemental axe.

  “Everyone face downward, close your eyes, and hold your breath!” the artificer shouted.

  The last thing Diran saw was the shadowclaws lunging at them, and then the priest shut his eyes as Tresslar commanded. A split-second later, the world exploded into heat and light, and even through eyelids squeezed closed, Diran saw a bright flash of yellow-white illumination. He felt the skin on the back of his neck burn, and smelled his hair begin to smoke. A loud whooshing sound filled the air, followed by the high-pitched screams of shadowclaws in agony. The heat, light, and noise seemed to go on forever, but eventually Diran realized the only sound he heard was a ringing in his ears, and the only light he saw came from afterimages floating in the blackness behind his eyes.

  “It’s safe now. You can open your eyes.” Tresslar’s voice quavered with weariness, but the artificer sounded otherwise unharmed.

  Diran opened his eyes onto a nightmarish scene. The forest had been decimated for dozens of yards in all directions. Smoldering stumps were all that remained of the trees, the ground was charred coal-black, and the shadowclaws had been reduced to blackened husks. Flames burned here and there, enough to provide sufficient illumination to see by, especially when their orange glow was added to that of the moons, for there was no longer any tree cover in the area to block the light of the celestial orbs from shining down upon the forest floor. Black snow drifted down from the sky … no, not snow, Diran realized. Ash.

  Beyond the radius of the fireblast, no shadowclaws could be seen. Perhaps all the beasts had been within range when Tresslar had unleashed the magic that had resulted in this destruction. Or perhaps the surviving shadowclaws had been blinded by the explosion and had fled in terror. Whichever the case, it appeared the companions were safe, for the moment, at least.

  One by one the companions stood, helping each other up as necessary. Ghaji
held his elemental axe limply at his side, the weapon’s flame extinguished, the metal cold.

  “Is anyone injured?” Diran asked.

  “I don’t believe so,” Tresslar said. “A few burns, some singed hair, that’s all. I was careful to direct the majority of the flame’s heat away from us.”

  “What did you do?” Ghaji asked. He lifted his axe and held it out for Tresslar’s inspection. “It feels heavier somehow, more awkward, and the surface has grown dull.”

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Tresslar said, “but I could think of no other way to stop those clawed monstrosities. I adapted my revealer so that it would function as an enhancer, a device that can temporarily boost another mystic device’s power. I used it to enhance your axe’s flame so that it would burn hotter and spread outward rapidly. I hoped the resulting flame-blast would destroy the ebon creatures.” Tresslar took a moment to survey the carnage he’d wrought. “Looks like it worked.”

  “Why apologize, Tresslar?” Hinto asked. “You saved us!”

  “But at a cost, my little friend,” Tresslar said. “Enhancers function by forcing a mystic object to expend all of its energy in a single burst. By employing the enhancer on Ghaji’s axe, I forced the elemental within to devote its entire strength into one fiery explosion. Unfortunately, the elemental was drained of the magic that sustained it and was destroyed. I’m afraid your axe is just an ordinary weapon now, Ghaji. I’m sorry.”

  The half-orc looked at his axe for a moment then shrugged. “I got along without an elemental weapon most of my life. I’ll get by now.”

  “I might be able to restore it some day,” Tresslar said. “I can’t make any promises, but if I can manage to—”

  Asenka broke in, her voice close to a sob. “I can’t believe you’re standing there talking so calmly about a stupid axe! Have you forgotten that Leontis was outside the circle?”

  “We haven’t forgotten,” Diran said. “Leontis is quite resourceful and not without his own defenses. It’s quite possible he managed to get beyond the range of the fire.” Diran wasn’t lying, precisely. Leontis did have the defenses of his lycanthropic metabolism, and there was a good chance that—assuming the shadowclaws hadn’t destroyed him—he’d either chased the beasts further into the forest or, when the fireblast happened, he’d reacted in animalistic fear and fled. Either way, Leontis would still be alive, though it was possible the werewolf he’d become would find itself at home in the forests of Trebaz Sinara and never return. That might well be for the best, Diran mused. Leontis could live out his life in seclusion, unable to hurt anyone or spread his curse.

  “Excuse me,” Onu said softly.

  Asenka ignored the man and continued. “We have to at least search for his body!”

  “How?” Yvka said. “I don’t wish to upset you any further, but there are hundreds of dead creatures surrounding us, and their corpses all resemble large lumps of charcoal. Leontis, if he was caught in the blast, will look no different. How will be able to tell his body apart from all the others?”

  “Excuse me,” Onu repeated, a trifle louder this time.

  Again, the sea captain was ignored. Solus spoke next.

  “I might be able to detect some faint traces of human intelligence yet lingering in Leontis’s mind,” the psiforged said. “Assuming at least some portion of his brain remains relatively intact. I’ll begin—”

  Onu shouted this time, an edge of hysteria in his voice. “Excuse me!”

  The companions turned toward the sea captain—or at least, toward a being who wore the captain’s garish red longcoat. This being had pale gray skin and thin fair hair. Its arms and legs were somewhat longer than natural for a humanoid, and its white eyes were disturbingly blank. It possessed only the merest hint of facial features—a nub of a nose, a suggestion of lips, and small bumps where ears should be.

  Ghaji was the first to give voice to what they were all thinking.

  “You’re a changeling?”

  Onu nodded. “But that’s not important right now.” His voice was soft and nearly devoid of emotion, completely unlike that of the Captain Onu they had come to know. He pointed with a slender gray finger.

  The companions turned to look where the changeling indicated and saw the still smoldering body of a shadowclaw a few yards away. In its oversized talons, the creature held the charred body of a small human-like being.

  Onu’s voice trembled with grief. “He … the creature grabbed him just before … when the fireblast …” The changeling trailed off, unable to say anything more.

  Diran understood what had happened. In the moment right before Tresslar had activated the enhancer, a lone shadowclaw had managed to get close enough to sink its talons into Thokk and drag the dwarf off. When the fireblast occurred, Thokk had been burnt to a crisp, along with everything else in range of the enhanced flames.

  No one said anything for several moments as the enormity of what had happened began to sink in. Finally, Onu spoke once more.

  “I guess this means I really am the captain now.”

  Makala felt no physical aftereffects of Nathifa’s energy blast, but she seethed with fury. As the lich led them across the cavern floor toward the skeletal remains of the dragon Paganus, it took all of the vampire’s self-control to keep from attempting to tear the sorceress’s head off.

  Bide your time, whispered a voice inside her. You’ll get your chance.

  Makala hoped so, and she hoped it would be soon.

  Nathifa walked up to the dragon’s skull and stopped. In the forty years since Paganus died, evidently nothing had disturbed his bones, for his skeleton was not only intact, all the bones remained in their proper places. During her mortal life as an assassin, Makala had had occasion to visit Morgrave University in Sharn. There she’d seen skeletons of ancient creatures displayed on metal frameworks, arranged in what the curators no doubt hoped were lifelike poses. Paganus’s skeleton reminded her of those displays. She could even imagine the placard that would accompany it: PAGANUS: ANCIENT GREEN DRAGON, COLLECTOR OF MAGICAL ARTIFACTS, SEEN HERE AT REST IN HIS CAVERN LAIR.

  Makala had never seen a live dragon, and the small part of her that was still human marveled at the site of Paganus’s bones. But her wonder was forgotten as she saw that the floor around the skeleton was stained a dull reddish-brown. Makala inhaled the rich scent of dragon blood, the odor faint but still tantalizing even after all these decades. She could smell the power in that blood, and she wondered what it would feel like to have a dragon’s strength flowing through her veins.

  “I want the three of you to stay back while I attempt to rouse the dragon’s spirit,” Nathifa said. “Such spells require a great deal of power and concentration, and there are … dangers. A dragon’s spirit is powerful, even in death, so do not interfere or draw attention to yourselves in any way.”

  Makala hated the way the lich spoke to them as if they were dull-witted children, but she resisted making a snide comment. She wanted to hear what the dragon’s spirit had to say—assuming Nathifa succeeded in summoning it.

  The lich began simply, lowering her head and whispering arcane words in a language unfamiliar to Makala—words formed of harsh consonants and guttural vowels, words that resonated with blasphemy, as if the sound of them alone was an affront to creation. Nathifa began gesturing with her hands, bone-white fingers contorting into intricate shapes and patterns. Her whispering rose in volume to become a chant, and tendrils of darkness slowly extruded from the hem of her shadowy robe. The tendrils lengthened as they snaked their way across the cavern floor, slithered up the sides of Paganus’s skull, and slid into the opening where the dragon’s ears had once been. For a long moment nothing happened, and then the tips of the tendrils emerged from the eye sockets and burst upward in sudden growth. The tendrils merged into a single black shape that stretched nearly all the way to the cavern’s ceiling. The shadowy substance rippled and pulsated, as if it was trying to assume some manner of form. And then Nathifa raised her arms and
gave a last shout that echoed throughout the cavern and resonated within the deepest recesses of her servants’ black souls.

  The mass of shadow took on the shape of a large dragon with glowing green eyes and wisps of vapor coiling forth from the nostrils. The acrid stench of poisonous gas filled the air, and Makala thought it fortunate that none of them was human, otherwise the dragon’s toxic breath might well kill them.

  Who summons me?

  The dragon’s voice wasn’t heard so much as felt, as if his spirit was speaking directly to theirs.

  Nathifa lowered her arms and spoke with a confident, commanding tone. “I did. I am the sorceress Nathifa, servant of her most great and terrible majesty Vol.”

  The dragon’s gaze fixed on Nathifa, and his eyes glowed a brighter green, as if he were examining her closely. After a moment, Paganus chuckled.

  You’re nothing but a lich, one of the bitch-goddess’s undead puppets. I am insulted that your mistress would send such a lowly creature to speak with me.

  Nathifa’s voice with tight with barely restrained anger as she replied. “Do not put on airs with me, dragon! You are no mighty lord of your kind. You are nothing but a common thief! You stole the Amahau from my Dark Lady, and though it took almost three thousand years, you paid for your transgression with your life!”

  I was happy to give up my life after enduring three millennia of pain. Death was no punishment for me, but rather a release from the prison of perpetual agony in which I was trapped. But enough talk. You have summoned me for a purpose, and the sooner I fulfill it, the sooner I can return to blessed Oblivion. So tell me what you want, lich. But be warned. If you have come for the Amahau you are too late. It was taken by those who granted me my deliverance.