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

  Yvka leaned close and whispered in Ghaji’s ear. “First a thoroughly invigorating greeting, and now a swordfight in a seedy tavern. You sure know how to show a woman a good time.”

  “What can I say? Only the best for my girl.”

  That’s when the first drunken fool leaped up from his table, drew his sword, and ran at the leader of the Coldhearts, bellowing a battle-cry.

  “Let’s go,” Diran said.

  As Ghaji and the priest jumped to their feet, the half-orc was glad to see that his friend smile grimly. Whoever Aldarik Cathmore was, they could worry about him later. Right now they had work to do—the kind they did best.

  Weapons in hand, the two companions rushed forward, side by side.

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  It’s cold.”

  “Nonsense. This chamber is directly above a thermal vent. If anything, it’s sweltering in here.”

  Cathmore drew his bearskin cloak tighter around his cadaverously thin frame. He didn’t reply to Galharath because he knew the kalashtar was right. Though he couldn’t feel the heat himself, he could see the sweat running down the other man’s slightly angular face. Cathmore was envious. It had been a long time since he’d felt warm, and he almost couldn’t remember what it was like.

  Galharath possessed the physical traits common to kalashtar men—tall, slim, clean-shaven, and handsome. He wore his long brown hair in a braid with crystal shards of various colors woven in. Open-fingered leather gloves covered each hand, with eight more crystals affixed to the knuckles. Yet another crystal—this one large and emerald green—was embedded in the center of the black leather vest worn over his gray tunic. Cathmore didn’t fully understand the nature of the crystals or how they aided Galharath in his work, but then he knew little of magic and even less of the psionic artificer’s craft—and he didn’t care to learn. All that mattered to him were results.

  The two men stood surrounded by the darkness of a vast mountain cavern, awash in an island of pale green light cast by a series of everbright light-poles bolted to the stone floor. The light-poles surrounded and illuminated a large spherical structure twenty feet high and ten feet wide. The object was fashioned from thousands of hair-thin crystalline strands woven together to form a solid, gleaming surface. Four large crystal struts extended from the top of the sphere and stretched up into the darkness where they were embedded in the ceiling’s rough stone. A dozen smaller struts protruded from the sphere’s base, curved downward, and penetrated the cavern floor. Though Cathmore had never asked, he assumed these smaller struts connected the sphere to the thermal vent that was making his kalashtar associate sweat so. In the middle of the sphere was an eight-foot by four-foot opening, and visible within—for the sphere was hollow—lay a crystal table with a series of indecipherable runes carved into its sides.

  Galharath stood before the sphere’s entrance, eyes closed, hands held out before him, his thin, graceful fingers moving through the air as if he were a musician delicately plucking the strings of an invisible, silent instrument.

  Cathmore disliked being near Galharath when the kalashtar was working, which was why he stood a dozen feet away from the artificer at the edge of the pool of light. The atmosphere always felt charged like after a violent thunderstorm, and there was an irritating insect-like drone in the air that Cathmore sometimes thought seemed to issue from inside his own mind. These visits often left him with a headache, but Cathmore had made an investment of both time and resources in this project—a great deal of each, as a matter of fact—and he was determined to oversee its progress.

  “So? Have you managed to repair it?”

  Galharath didn’t open his eyes as he replied. “I’ve fixed the outer shell, but that’s the easy part. There’s also a lattice of psionic energies that must be perfectly aligned in order for the forge to function. Adjusting this lattice is painstakingly delicate work, requiring as much instinct as skill, and despite what you might think, that process isn’t sped up by you constantly looking over my shoulder as I work.”

  Cathmore clenched his jaw in anger. There had been a time when someone who spoke to him like that would’ve been well advised to hire himself a food taster, but though the kalashtar was technically employed by Cathmore, the psionic artificer viewed himself as an equal partner in this endeavor, and since Cathmore had need of the man’s undeniable expertise, he chose not to make an issue of Galharath’s impertinence. This time.

  Forget the fool, you don’t need him. You don’t need anyone or anything … except me.

  The voice that whispered in Cathmore’s mind was a familiar one, and he knew it as well as he did his own, in many ways better.

  It would be so simple. All you’d have to do is remove the vial of yellow death-spores from your doublet pocket, pry out the cork, and release a few into the air. You took the antidote years ago and are immune, but Galharath isn’t. All the kalashtar’s psionic abilities couldn’t prevent the spores from seeking him out, finding their way into his lungs, and swiftly beginning to reproduce. In only a few moments, Galharath would die gasping for air, his throat and lungs filled with newly born spores.

  Without even realizing he was doing so, Cathmore’s hand reached toward the pocket of his brown doublet.

  Galharath’s hand motions stopped. He opened his eyes and turned to face Cathmore. “Don’t do it, old man. I’m well aware of the dark voice that speaks to you and what it urges you to do. It would only take me an instant’s thought to reduce your brain to steaming jelly.”

  At first Cathmore had no idea what the artificer was talking about, but then he realized his fingers had slid inside his pocket. It took an effort of will, but he withdrew them and allowed his hand to drop to his side. Though Cathmore’s hands weren’t visible beneath his bearskin cloak, Galharath nevertheless relaxed.

  “You’re bluffing,” Cathmore said. “You don’t possess that kind of power.”

  The kalashtar gave him a thin smile.

  They locked gazes for several moments, but it was Cathmore who looked away first. “I … apologize, Galharath. It was a momentary lapse of control on my part. It won’t happen again.”

  The kalashtar’s smile took on a mocking edge. “It will happen again, and more frequently. Hosting an entity such as the one that dwells within you comes with a price. Just look at you. How old are you? Sixty? Seventy? You look closer to a hundred, and not a very healthy hundred at that.”

  Cathmore was fifty-nine, but he knew Galharath wasn’t overstating the case. He was a skeleton of a man, little more than parchment-thin skin stretched tight over brittle bone. He had only wisps of white hair clinging to his bald pate, and a patchy white beard that refused to grow any fuller. Most telling of all were his eyes. They were a sour yellow-green, like pus-filled wounds ready to burst at any moment. Cathmore was struck anew by the irony that he, a master of poisons, had been infected with a toxin. That this toxin wasn’t derived from a chemical but was instead of a spiritual nature didn’t matter. In the end, poison was poison: the only question was how long it took to kill, and the dark spirit that shared Cathmore’s body hadn’t killed him yet.

  “How much longer do you think you can go on, Cathmore?” Galharath asked.

  Cathmore’s reply was as cold as steel. “As long as I must.” He continued in a softer tone, surprising himself by how weary he sounded. “I’ll leave you to your work. Keep me informed of your progress.”

  Without waiting for the kalashtar’s reaction, Cathmore turned and walked away from the crystalline sphere, his footsteps echoing in the cavern air. The mountain cave was huge, and as far as Cathmore could tell, completely natural. The ceiling was so high and the walls so far apart that the everbright light-poles stationed around the sphere couldn’t illuminate the entire place. Galharath had told him that the cavern needed to be this large, that its shape and size—not to mention the mineral deposits within its stone—made it perfect for channeling and focusing psionic energy. That might be, Cathmore thought, but i
t still seemed like a waste of space to him.

  He was halfway to the stairs that led to the facility’s upper levels when he saw the dim form of Chagai coming toward him out of the cavern gloom. Cathmore’s mouth wrinkled in distaste. While the orc made an effective servant, his attitude left a great deal to be desired. Cathmore wasn’t particularly fond of the creatures. Oh, they could fight well enough and they were cunning, he’d give them that, but they possessed precious little stealth and even less self-control. Worse, they stank like a wet hound that had rolled back and forth over a dead animal carcass several dozen times.

  Chagai stopped when he reached Cathmore and nodded once. It was as close as the orc mercenary would get to a sign of respect. “I’ve laid in supplies for the next several days. Salted meat, fresh water. I’ve also checked all the levels and made certain they’re secure. I’m going into Perhata for some other things. Fruits and vegetables, maybe some fish, and we’re running low on wine. I’ll bring back a few bottles.”

  Cathmore didn’t trust the orc to tell the difference between a fine wine and basilisk urine. “There’s no need to go into the city. We’re getting by well enough on what you provide, Chagai, and the less any of us are seen outside Mount Luster, the better—at least until we get this facility operational.”

  The orc scowled, but he didn’t bare his teeth, so Cathmore knew that he wasn’t angry, merely thinking. “I’ll be cautious. Perhata is a rough town where people know better than to ask too many questions. No one will pay any attention to a lone orc buying a few supplies.”

  “Your … people aren’t that common in the Principalities. You might draw more attention than you think. I prefer that you remain in the facility.”

  Chagai’s scowl deepened, and this time he bared his teeth. “And I prefer to go.”

  Cold anger gripped Cathmore. There had been a time when he wouldn’t have had to associate with such a creature, let alone put up with one defying him.

  You still have that vial of death-spores, reminded the dark spirit that shared his soul.

  Cathmore struggled to control his anger, always a difficult task when the dark spirit goaded him. He thought of the facility, of the riches it would bring him once it was up and running again, but most of all, he thought of the revenge that would be his after he’d become the Lord of Mount Luster. He imagined the look on his dear half-brother’s face when one of Cathmore’s creations stalked into his bedchamber one night—after having penetrated the supposedly impregnable security of his manor home—just before the creature stopped his heart with but a single thought.

  It was an image that Cathmore hoped to make reality sooner rather than later. It was a gentler death than Emon deserved, Cathmore supposed, but he preferred his kills to be clean and tidy. Poisons were so much more subtle and elegant than the garish brutality of the blade.

  “I’m going now.”

  Cathmore was startled out of his thoughts by Chagai’s declaration. Without another word, the orc turned and began walking toward the stairs. The fury that Cathmore had worked to suppress flared bright and strong then, and he reached out and grabbed hold of Chagai’s shoulder. He hadn’t the strength to stop the orc, let alone turn him around, but the mere act of laying his hand upon Chagai’s person was enough to make him halt.

  The orc didn’t turn to face Cathmore, but the emaciated old man could feel Chagai tremble with rage beneath his touch.

  “I may work for you, but that does not give you the right to insult me,” the orc growled. “Remove your hand or I will tear your arm from its socket.”

  The death-spores … urged the dark spirit.

  With his free hand, Cathmore reached into his doublet pocket and closed his skeletal fingers around the vial within, but before he could remove the spores, Galharath was suddenly standing next to them. Cathmore hadn’t seen or heard the artificer cross the cavern to reach them, and he wondered if that was because he had been too caught up in his anger to notice, or because the kalashtar had used his psionic abilities to mask his approach.

  “I’m tempted to let you two kill each other,” Galharath said, “but then I wouldn’t get paid. Take your hand away from the orc’s shoulder, Cathmore … and Chagai, don’t use the opportunity to spin around and attack.”

  Cathmore took a deep breath, released it, then did as the kalashtar asked.

  The orc turned slowly to face Galharath. “I don’t like having my mind read, artificer.”

  The kalashtar laughed. “I didn’t need to pry into your thoughts to divine your intent. You are an orc, after all.”

  Chagai’s upper lip curled in irritation, but he didn’t dispute Galharath’s statement.

  Cathmore decided to start over. “I understand that you wish to go to Perhata, Chagai.”

  “I am going,” the orc corrected.

  Cathmore ignored the comment and continued. “I doubt simply buying a few supplies could inspire such … determination on your part. Why not tell us the true reason for your trip?”

  Chagai glanced back and forth between Cathmore and Galharath, and then let out a disgusted snort.

  “When I was out hunting yesterday, I caught a familiar scent.”

  The orc spoke for a while, and when he was finished, it was Galharath’s turn to be angry.

  “You spotted strangers snooping around the foothills, and you didn’t bother to tell us?” The crystals affixed to the kalashtar’s gloves began to pulse with smoldering light, as if responding to the strength of their wearer’s emotion.

  “Peace, Galharath,” Cathmore said, barely able to contain a sense of mounting excitement. “I understand something about wishing to settle old grudges, and to that point, it would appear that our orc associate and I have something in common. Based on his description of the four men who entered the lich’s lair, I believe that I also know one of them, though he was but a child when last I saw him. Still, I’ve made it my business to keep informed of his activities over the years, and I know that of late he’s been traveling with a half-orc. I wonder if it truly is him …”

  Cathmore trailed off in thought. As much as he wished to have revenge on Emon Gorsedd, he also had a score to settle with this man in black who traveled with a half-orc warrior.

  “Who is this man?” Galharath asked.

  “Diran Bastiaan,” Cathmore said. “One of the finest assassins I helped train”—he paused—“and the only one who ever killed me.”

  Enshrouded within the cavern’s darkness, a large figure stood watching the three talk. He tried to understand their words, but it was so difficult for him to concentrate with the voices swirling around in his head like a multitude of leaves tossed about in a windstorm. The voices were always with him, shouting, whispering, screaming, but never silent. Never.

  He wasn’t concerned that the strangers would detect him, not even the kalashtar. The three had come to the Mount Luster weeks ago, and he’d been observing them ever since, and not once in all that time had any of them noticed him. Their eyes saw him, of course, the kalashtar’s included, but their minds refused to acknowledge his presence—precisely as Solus wished it. He understood that they intended to repair the forge and activate it once more, but he was unclear on their reasons for doing so. Didn’t they understand the dangers involved? Didn’t they know what had happened the last time?

  Solus knew. He was the only one left alive who did. And the voices, of course. They knew, and they never let him forget it, not for a single second.

  He watched as the strangers finished their conversation and headed for the stairs. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he followed, his iron footsteps loud on the stone floor, yet still unheard.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The man attacking the leader of the Coldhearts was a short, portly sailor with an unkempt black beard and one milky-white eye. He brandished a long knife whose dull blade looked to be in dire need of sharpening. Even if the weapon had been well cared for, it wouldn’t be a match for the Coldheart’s sword. The blon
d-bearded warrior watched in amusement as the sailor came barreling toward him, gut bobbling seismically with every step he took. The warrior deliberately waited to draw his sword to show his contempt for his fat opponent.

  Diran knew that while the fat man might be able to give a good enough account of himself in a normal tavern brawl, he’d prove no challenge to the blond-bearded warrior. Diran also knew that no matter how fast he and Ghaji moved, they couldn’t reach the two in time to keep the fat man from getting spitted on Blond-Beard’s sword. Diran held a pair of daggers in his hands, and as he ran toward the two men, Ghaji at his side, the priest hurled one of his blades at the fat man. The gleaming dagger streaked through the air and struck the fat man’s long knife with a loud clang of metal. The impact knocked the weapon out of the man’s hand and both blades tumbled to the filthy dirt floor.

  The sailor stopped and stared mystified at his empty hand, as if he’d just witnessed his long knife disappear into thin air and couldn’t believe it. The man was still trying to puzzle out what had happened when Diran and Ghaji finally reached him.

  Diran put a hand on the fat man’s shoulder. “Collect your weapon and go.”

  The sailor looked at Diran, his one good eye struggling to focus on the priest’s face. The man was obviously drunk, which hardly came as a surprise. A sober man would’ve thought twice about trying to attack a half dozen well-armed warriors by himself.

  “Yeah … sure …” the sailor mumbled.

  He bent down to retrieve his long knife, tucked it into his belt sheath, and then without another look at Diran or the blond-bearded warrior, he staggered to the common room’s door, opened it to a cold blast of wind, and stepped out into the street, drunk but still alive.

  “You spoiled my fun, friend.”

  Diran turned to the blond-bearded warrior. The man was glaring at him, and while he hadn’t yet drawn his sword, his hand lay on the pommel.