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

  “Are you upset that I stopped you from killing that man, or because I ruined your entrance?” Diran asked.

  “Both would be my guess,” Ghaji said.

  Diran knew his friend was right. Everyone in the common room was staring at the scene unfolding in their midst, and more than a few patrons were smirking at the Coldhearts where before they’d been either intimidated or angered.

  The blond-bearded warrior leaned toward them, though he didn’t actually take a step in their direction. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in a low, threatening voice.

  “A loudmouth who’s starting to annoy me,” Ghaji growled.

  The man’s face turned crimson. “I am Haaken Sprull, leader of the Coldhearts.” He nodded toward his five companions. “We are the warrior fleet of Baroness Calida, ruler of Kolbyr.”

  Diran understood now why the men and women in the common room had reacted so negatively to the Coldhearts’ entrance. The barons of Perhata and Kolbyr had been vying for control of the Gulf of Ingjald for decades, and there was little love lost between the peoples of the two cities.

  “Now tell me who you are,” Haaken demanded. “Whenever possible, I like to learn the names of the men I’m going to kill.” Haaken glanced at Ghaji. “Well, one man and one halfbreed, in this case.”

  The other Coldhearts laughed at their leader’s dazzling display of wit.

  Ghaji sighed. “Do you have any idea how many variations on that joke I’ve heard over the years? Bad enough that you’re stupid, but do you have to be unoriginal too?”

  Haaken clenched his teeth. “Listen, you filthy—”

  Diran’s hand blurred and Haaken found a daggerpoint dimpling the flesh just above his throat apple.

  “I am Diran Bastiaan, and my companion’s name is Ghaji. Now that the introductions are over, please continue with what you were about to say to my friend.”

  A hiss of steel filled the air as the other Coldhearts drew their weapons.

  “You saw Diran disarm that drunk,” Ghaji said. “Do you really think any of you are fast enough to stop him from giving your commander a second smile? Not to mention that you’d have to get through me first.”

  One of the Coldhearts—a woman with a patch over her left eye—sneered. “You’re not so tough, halfbreed.”

  Ghaji’s axe erupted in flames.

  The Coldheart didn’t say anything, but her sneer fell away, and her remaining eye widened in surprise.

  Diran took the opportunity to glance over at their table. Tresslar, Hinto, and Yvka were still sitting and watching, but they all had weapons in hand now. Tresslar held his dragonwand, Hinto gripped the long knife he used in place of a sword, and Yvka held three playing cards—all the triad of shards. Diran knew they were no ordinary cards but rather mystical weapons of some sort designed by Shadow Network artificers. Precisely what the cards would do, Diran had no idea, but whatever it was, he knew from experience that it was bound to be deadly. He also knew his companions were merely waiting for a signal from him or Ghaji to come to their aid, but Diran hoped to resolve this conflict without bloodshed, so he gave the others a quick shake of his head. They nodded to acknowledge his signal and remained seated, but they didn’t put away their weapons.

  Diran returned his attention to Haaken Sprull. “Now are you going to finish insulting my friend, or are you and your subordinates going to leave peacefully?”

  “I’ll give you a hint,” Ghaji said. “Pick the right one and you get to live a little longer.”

  Haaken’s eyes darted back and forth between Diran and those Coldhearts that were in range of his vision. Diran could see the man weighing his options. Haaken wanted to live, but he also didn’t want to lose face in front of the men and women he commanded. Unfortunately, given the increasing desperation in his gaze, the Coldheart leader was beginning to realize that those two goals were mutually exclusive.

  Before Haaken could reach a decision, the door to the common room burst open and a woman with close-cropped strawberry-blond hair entered, followed by a half dozen others. Including the strawberry-blonde, there were three women and four men in the group, all of them armed with long swords and wearing red cloaks and black tabards over mail armor. Each bore the tattoo of a scorpion on the back of the right hand.

  The newcomers quickly surrounded the Coldhearts—as well as Diran and Ghaji—and drew their swords. The patrons in the common room grew deathly silent, and more than a few of those sitting at tables closest to the red-cloaked warriors stood and began backing away with slow, precise steps.

  “Greetings, Haaken,” the strawberry-blonde said. “I see you and your crew have finally realized what a rancid tide pool Kolbyr is and have come to settle here in Perhata.”

  The woman’s tone was flippant, but her gaze was cold and steady, just like the sword held in her relaxed grip. Diran marked her at once as a professional warrior who was all business: the opposite of an arrogant blowhard like Haaken. Diran also noted, almost without realizing it consciously, that the woman was quite attractive.

  Haaken responded to her without taking his gaze off Diran, careful to remain still so he wouldn’t cut himself on the priest’s knife point. “Hello, Asenka. Wish I could say it’s good to see your Sea Scorpions again, but then it never is. My crew and I happened to be in the vicinity of Perhata’s waters when we realized we were out of wine. We decided to make berth at that collection of rotting driftwood you call a dock, and visit one of the oversized latrines you call taverns.” He gave her a mocking smile. “All in the interests of furthering good relations between our two cities, of course.”

  Asenka seemed unfazed by Haaken’s taunts. She looked at Diran next. “And you are …?”

  “Diran Bastiaan.”

  “And the reason you have a dagger pressed to Haaken’s throat is …?”

  Ghaji answered for Diran. “Because he’s the southbound end of a northbound jackass.” The half-orc paused. “Haaken, I mean. Not Diran.”

  Asenka looked at Ghaji for a moment as if trying to decide whether he was feeble-minded or not. Finally, she said, “I can’t argue with that.” She turned to Diran once more. “As much as I would like to see Haaken’s blood soaking into the floor, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to remove your dagger from his throat.”

  Diran did as she asked, returning the blade to its hidden pocket within his cloak with an unnecessary flourish. Ghaji raised a curious eyebrow, but Diran, embarrassed at having been caught showing off, ignored him.

  Asenka nodded to Ghaji, or more accurately, to his axe. “And if you wouldn’t mind dousing your weapon before you set the whole place aflame?”

  Ghaji nodded and with a thought extinguished the elemental axe’s fire.

  Asenka turned her attention back to Haaken. “I suggest that you and your people forget about procuring wine, head back to the dock, get in your sorry excuse for a ship, and leave as swiftly as wind and tide can take you.”

  Haaken, emboldened once more now that he no longer had a dagger-point touching his throat, asked, “And if we don’t?”

  “My people and I will leave and let these two”—she nodded to Diran and Ghaji—“do whatever it was they were going to do before we interrupted them.”

  Haaken glared at Asenka, then at Diran and Ghaji. “Sheathe your swords, Coldhearts,” he said, eyes blazing with fury, jaw muscles tight. “Time to set sail.”

  His people did as they were told—though not without casting a few glares of their own at those who had insulted their commander—and then Haaken turned and walked out the door into the bitterly cold air, his men and women following behind. The last Coldheart to leave slammed the door so hard it tore halfway off its hinges.

  Asenka addressed her people. “Why don’t you go along to make sure they reach the docks without any more trouble? I’ll stay here. I have a few more questions to ask these two.”

  The six warriors under her command sheathed their weapons and, without saying a word, left the inn to carry out thei
r orders. Asenka then turned to Diran and Ghaji. “I assume you two have a table?”

  Skarm sat alone, huddled within a thick cloak. Though his burns had mostly healed by now, as a precaution he wore the cloak’s hood up to conceal his features. Even if the priest and his companions marked him as a goblin, he thought it unlikely that they’d recognize him for who and what he truly was. While goblins weren’t common in the Principalities, they were hardly unknown. There were two other goblins in the room right this very moment. Of course, those were true goblins and not barghests in disguise.

  His table was only two away from where the priest and his friends sat—close enough for him to overhear what they talked about, but not so close that they’d notice him … he hoped.

  Following the priest and his companions back to Perhata without being seen hadn’t been difficult for a creature of his abilities, especially since they had chosen to spend the night in the foothills. Skarm had been grateful for a chance to rest, for it had given him time to heal the worst of his burns, but now that he was here, with the dragon-headed wand so close, he wasn’t certain how to go about getting his hands on it. He’d been too weak to make a try for it last night, but he’d since fed on a pair of unfortunate drunkards who’d had the misfortune to pass out in an alley not far from here, and their flesh, blood, and most importantly, their life energy, had restored his strength. Still, now that he was back to his full power, he couldn’t come up with a suitable plan for snatching the wand, at least not one more sophisticated than grab-it-and-run-fast. That was the problem with being a shapeshifter. Not only did he change outwardly, but his mental and emotional state transformed to suit his new shape. As a wolf, he was a cunning hunter primarily interested in running free through the wild and filling his belly. As a goblin, he was crafty but cautious to the point of timidity. As a barghest, he was a ravenous killer that devoured its prey body and soul.

  Skarm wore the shape of a goblin now, which meant that caution was his byword. It would do him—or his mistress—no good if he attempted to snatch the dragonwand only to be caught before he could make off with it. Better to sit, listen to the priest and the others talk, and hope that he learned something that would be of use to him in obtaining his goal.

  So he sat and listened.

  “You’re a priest?” Asenka said, then laughed at herself. “My apologies. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that.”

  Diran smiled. “I’m used to that reaction.”

  “It’s just that when you see a man holding a dagger against another’s throat, ‘priest’ isn’t the first profession that you associate him with.” Asenka looked at Ghaji. “Let me guess: you’re a bishop.”

  Yvka snorted, and Ghaji frowned at the elf-woman in irritation. He then replied to Asenka. “Diran’s the only one of us who’s taken vows, holy or otherwise.”

  The commander of the Sea Scorpions smiled with amusement. “Just asking. So the five of you were sitting here, talking and minding your own business, when Haaken and his crew came in and started to stir up trouble, and when trouble began, you”—she nodded to Diran—“decided to intervene.”

  “I’m a priest of the Silver Flame, one of the Purified. It’s my job to combat evil wherever I find it.”

  Asenka looked at him for a long moment, and Diran wondered if he’d said something wrong.

  “If anyone else told me that, I’d say they were full of bilge water, but you sound so … sincere.” She stressed this last word as if it were foreign to her.

  “Is that so hard to believe?” Diran asked.

  “In Perhata, yes,” Asenka answered. “In this town, people would slit their own mother’s throats to make a few extra coppers. That is, if dear old Mommy didn’t cut theirs first. Qualities like honesty and sincerity are in short supply around here.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Diran said. “You’re being both right now, aren’t you?”

  “I suppose,” Asenka admitted, “but it comes with the territory. I’m commander of the baron’s fleet, and Mahir doesn’t take kindly to his servants lying to him.”

  “You strike me as someone who does what she believes is best, regardless of what anyone else thinks. Barons included.”

  Asenka smiled then and gazed into his eyes. Diran returned both her gaze and her smile, and they sat like that for several moments until Diran became aware that they were being stared at. He broke eye contact with Asenka and turned to see that his companions were looking at him and smiling pleased, knowing, almost smirking smiles. Diran scowled, but his friends only smiled wider.

  Irritated, though unsure exactly why, he returned his attention to Asenka. “I take it that it’s not uncommon for you to have trouble with the Coldhearts.”

  “Every few months they sail into Perhata, stroll into the city, and make some noise, but they usually depart before causing any serious damage. They do it just to prove they can—and to annoy us, of course. As soon as they make port, the dockmaster sends a runner to inform me, then I bring some of my people around to tell Haaken to weigh anchor, and that’s the end of it. Out on the open water, it’s a different story. The Coldhearts periodically stage raids on our fishing and cargo ships, and they harass merchant vessels in an attempt to deter them from coming here to trade.”

  “Do you harass back?” Ghaji asked.

  Asenka shook her head. “Mahir’s father believed in striking back, a raid for a raid, a life for a life, but Mahir has more restraint. When he became baron, he decreed that we were only to strike back at the Coldhearts themselves, and that Kolbyr’s fishing and trading vessels were to be left in peace.”

  “He sounds like a reasonable man,” Tresslar said. “For a baron, that is.”

  “It must be frustrating for you and the Sea Scorpions,” Diran said to Asenka, “unable to fight back as completely as you might wish.”

  “I’ll admit it’s not much fun at times,” she said, “but I can see the wisdom in Mahir’s thinking. We’ve been at undeclared war with Kolbyr for close to a century now, and while both cities still survive, neither has been able to thrive the way others in the Principalities have. Mahir isn’t foolish enough to believe that we’ll become friends with Kolbyr anytime soon, but he hopes to eventually establish a truce, one that will allow both cities to conduct their business without interference—at least from each other.”

  “I would think that progress toward such a truce would be difficult at best,” Yvka said, “given how strong the enmity between your two cities is, and how long it’s lasted.”

  Hinto nodded. “Every salt on the Lhazaar knows that the Gulf of Ingjald is rough sailing—and not because of the waters.”

  Asenka sighed. “Progress has been minimal, to say the least. I’m afraid that while Mahir has good intentions, a truce simply isn’t possible until something can be done about the curse.”

  “Curse?” Diran asked.

  “A hundred years or more ago, a trio of sea raiders sailed into the gulf. There were only a few fishing villages here at the time, and the three newcomers—impressed with the quality of fishing in the gulf—decided this would be an excellent location to settle and begin building their own empire. The three were family, two brothers and a sister, and their surname was Ingjald. As you might guess, they named the gulf after themselves. They selected a suitable village, one that wasn’t too small but which also wasn’t large enough to put up much resistance. They took over the village and renamed it after the oldest brother: Perhata. Perhata grew swiftly under the guiding hands of its new rulers, and the people, who had been unhappy at first to have their village usurped by the three raiders, became content.”

  “The younger brother, Kolbyr, had never really gotten along with Perhata, and he wanted a city of his own, so after convincing his sister to join him, he sailed across the gulf with her. They found a village to conquer and set up their own domain. The newly named city of Kolbyr also grew swiftly, and its people also eventually accepted their new rulers. The two cities competed for control of
the gulf, but their forces were equally matched, so a balance of power was struck, and aside from the occasional raid by one side or the other, things were peaceful enough for the next several decades.

  “As Kolbyr grew older it became clear that, despite a succession of wives, he was unable to produce an heir. His sister, however, had married and had a son, and she tried to convince Kolbyr to make him the next baron, for the boy was, after all, of his bloodline. Kolbyr had accumulated a great deal of power over the years, and he was determined not to share it with anyone other than his true heir. To make certain his sister’s offspring could never succeed him, he had her son killed, as well as her husband. He tried to have her killed as well, but she managed to escape and fled to Perhata where she sought refuge from her other brother. Perhata was a more forgiving man than Kolbyr, and he gladly took his sister in.

  “The deaths of her husband and son had driven the sister mad with desire for revenge. She began studying dark magic and eventually sought the help of infernal powers to gain her vengeance. Those powers listened. Kolbyr became fertile, and his latest wife had a child, but the child was born a misbegotten monstrosity, one that could not be slain by any known means, whether mundane or mystical. Kolbyr commanded that the creature be imprisoned, locked away to never more see the light of the sun. His wife became pregnant with another child, and though they feared the worst, this baby was born normal, as were her others. Only the firstborn was cursed. Though nothing could kill the creature, it eventually died of old age, and everyone thought that was the end of the curse, until Kolbyr’s heir took over as the new baron of the city and had a child.

  “For the last century, the firstborn child of each one of Kolbyr’s descendents who’ve ascended to the barony has been born just like the first: a horrible, indestructible monster. Because the sister was living in Perhata as she learned the dark arts—and because she made no secret of who had laid the curse on her brother’s house and why—the barons of Kolbyr knew exactly who was to blame for their misfortune. Over the years, the citizens of Kolbyr came to transfer the blame for the curse from the sister to the barons of Perhata, until now the cities simply hate each other on general principles. The curse of Kolbyr continues to this day, and the current baroness will not even consider peace as long as her firstborn remains a monster.” Asenka smiled sadly. “So you see why peace is just a dream in the Gulf of Ingjald.”