Yvka thanked her rescuers then hurried over to where Hinto lay shivering on the deck. The little girl sat next to him, holding his hand and telling him that everything was going to be all right. As Yvka knelt by the halfling’s side and took his other hand, she didn’t know if the girl’s soothing words would turn out to be prophetic, but at least now they had a chance. It was all up to Diran and Ghaji.
She smiled down at the trembling halfling. “Thanks.”
“You’re… you’re…” Hinto gritted his teeth and forced out the last word. “Welcome.”
As Yvka stroked Hinto’s hand, she looked around for Tresslar, but she didn’t see the artificer. She wondered what had happened to the irritable old man. Wherever he was, she hoped he was safe and not doing anything foolish. Yvka and the girl continued tending to Hinto, trying to restore him to a state of calm, while below them the multitude of crabs finished what remained of their grisly repast. Now all that remained was for them to wait and see if Diran and Ghaji succeeded. Yvka prayed that they would.
* * *
Diran held the arrowhead of the Silver Flame in his left hand while he threw daggers with his right. Ghouls shied away from the holy symbol, its power preventing them from getting too close. A single bite or scratch from one of the loathsome creatures was enough to cause paralysis, or worse, ghoul fever. Diran could heal either Ghaji or himself if they were struck, but they couldn’t afford to waste the time.
Ghaji wielded his new flaming axe to devastating effect, hacking off heads, arms, and legs, and setting ghouls afire in the process. In his left hand, Ghaji gripped his old axe, and though it was smaller and lacked the enchantment of his more recently acquired weapon, the half-orc warrior still caused quite a bit of damage with it.
Diran was rapidly using up his supply of daggers. He sent blades hurtling into ghoul eyes, throats, and hearts with lightning speed and deadly accuracy, but only the silver daggers struck with mystical effect, the ghouls’ mottled hides blackening and rotting away where they’d been wounded. Diran could summon forth the pure essence of the Silver Flame to repel the ghouls, but he feared if he did so, he might not be able to draw on that power again in time to use it against Erdis Cai.
Fortunately for the two companions, if not for the denizens of Grimwall, the ghouls attacked anything that moved and preferred easy prey. Since most of the black-clothed men and women put up no resistance as they attempted to flee, the ghouls fell upon them like ravening hounds on rabbits, raking flesh with black claws, and tearing off chunks of meat with razor-sharp teeth. He felt pity for the men and women who died at the savage claws of the ghouls. Few deserved such a hideous death as many of Erdis Cai’s followers now suffered.
Diran and Ghaji had thinned the number of ghouls considerably by the time they reached the opposite side of the amphitheater floor, and those men and women who hadn’t died or been injured by the ghouls’ attack had fled, a number of the cannibalistic undead racing after them. Ghaji split the skull of one last ghoul with his fire axe, and the creature burst into flames and collapsed in a heap of burning flesh. The two companions then sprinted up the amphitheater’s steps as they went in pursuit of Erdis Cai.
* * *
Makala didn’t want to leave the darkness—not because it was pleasant or comforting, but because she suspected that cold and lonely as it was, it was still preferable to what waited for her on the other side of consciousness.
She opened her eyes anyway.
Stalactites hung above her like spears of rock, poised to fall and impale her any moment. Flickering green light illuminated the stalactites, casting dancing shadows on the cavern ceiling. Makala was lying on a smooth hard surface, and when she tried to sit up, she found she couldn’t move. She could feel that her wrists and ankles had been bound by what felt like rope, but that was not what prevented her rising. She wanted to sit up, but her body refused to obey her commands.
You’re still under Erdis Cai’s spell, she told herself, at least partially.
Her mind began to clear then, and she realized where she was and what was happening. She was lying on the stone dais in the center of the blood pool, in the catacombs where the corpses of the ancient goblinoid warriors awaited the final three sacrifices that would restore them to life.
“I woke you, Makala, because I would not have you go to your death unaware. I would never dishonor your warrior’s spirit like that.”
Though she was unable to move the rest of her body, she was able to turn her head in the direction of Erdis Cai’s voice. In doing so, however, she saw the two others who shared the dais with her. One was a young man who looked to be in his early twenties, and the other was a woman about ten years older. Both were bound like Makala, and both were dressed in black tunics fashioned from thin, light cloth. Makala couldn’t see how she was dressed, but from the feel of the cloth on her skin, she knew she wore a similar tunic. The other two candidates for sacrifice lay still, eyes closed, lost in Erdis Cai’s hypnotic trance, a trance from which neither of them would ever awaken.
Erdis Cai, Onkar, and Jarlain stood near the narrow walkway that stretched across the blood pool to the base of the dais. Jarlain smiled at Makala with smug satisfaction, her eyes gleaming in anticipation. Onkar glared at her, eyes burning with crimson fire as he cradled the stump where his right hand had once been. Makala didn’t know what had happened to Onkar, but whatever it had been, she hoped it had hurt.
Erdis Cai had no expression on his face. His features were as cold and impassive as those of a marble statue. The vampire lord cocked his head to the side as if listening to a voice only he could hear.
He looked up at the cavern roof, his gaze seeming to penetrate the stone and see far beyond it. He lowered his head and though his expression didn’t change, his voice held the merest hint of excitement as he said, “It’s time.”
He reached up to the crimson blood-drop symbol on his breastplate, grasped its edges, and plucked it free of the metal. As the Mark of Vol detached from the armor, a blade snicked out of the bottom and a handle jutted from the top. Erdis Cai wrapped his fingers around the handle and the Mark of Vol had become a sacrificial dagger.
The vampire lord stepped onto the walkway and began crossing the blood pool. The thick crimson liquid bubbled as if in excitement as he passed by.
Makala watched as her death drew closer.
* * *
“I don’t suppose Tresslar told you how to find the entrance to this secret passage,” Ghaji said as they ran through the outskirts of the goblin city.
“He gave me directions, but I don’t think we’ll need them,” Diran said.
Ghaji frowned. “Why not?”
In answer, Diran pointed to a section of cavern wall where Tresslar stood, dragonwand tucked beneath his tunic belt. The artificer had his hand pressed to the stone, and when he removed it, a semicircular door swung open.
“At least he didn’t have to kiss this one,” Ghaji said.
Tresslar must’ve heard them approaching, for her turned, a wary expression on his face, but when he saw who it was, he relaxed.
Diran and Ghaji came to a stop as they reached the open passageway.
“What are you doing here?” Ghaji asked.
“I don’t know,” Tresslar admitted. “I… I just had to come.”
Diran nodded to the open passageway. “This is it?”
“Yes. The catacombs lie at the bottom of the stairs.”
“Ghaji and I will go first,” Diran said. “Remember, whatever happens, Erdis Cai must not be allowed to gain control of those warriors.” With that, Diran headed down the winding stairs into darkness, Ghaji and Tresslar following close behind.
* * *
Waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs was a scene out of nightmare. The chamber was just as Tresslar had described it: recessed areas housing the upright corpses of the ancient hobgoblin warriors carved into the circular wall, blood pool in the center of the room, stone walkway and dais rising out of the crimson liqu
id. Four braziers of burning green fire illuminated the chamber with eerie light, and the blood in the pool—the sheer volume of it was staggering—roiled and swirled around the dais as if alive. Onkar and the raven-haired woman stood at the edge of the pool, gazing upon their master. Erdis Cai stood on the walkway next to the dais, holding in one hand a knife formed from the Mark of Vol, its blade dripping crimson. In his other hand, he held a young man upside down by the ankle. The youth’s throat had been slashed open and blood gushed from the wound, raining down to join the swirling mass of liquid in the pool. When the flow diminished to a trickle, Erdis Cai gave the youth’s body a shake, like a man determined to get the last few drops from a bottle of wine. Then with an ease that was horrible in its casualness, the vampire lord tossed the drained corpse to the other side of the chamber where it fell to the floor, joining the body of an older woman who’d already been bled.
Two of the final sacrifices had been completed. The last lay bound hand and foot atop the dais, still very much alive. Makala.
Though Diran wanted to call out her name, let her know that help had arrived at last, he didn’t waste time on talk. He drew one of his few remaining daggers from his cloak, a silver one that he had saved especially for Erdis Cai. The removal of the Mark of Vol from the vampire lord’s breastplate had left an open gap in his obsidian armor, an opening Diran was determined to exploit. He hurled the dagger, but just as the blade was about to strike its target, Erdis Cai deflected Diran’s dagger with his blood-smeared sacrificial knife. The silver dagger flew to the other side of the chamber, struck the stone wall, and fell to the ground.
The vampire lord smiled. “A gallant attempt, priest. You’re fast—for a mortal.”
Onkar snarled and started toward Diran. “I owe you for what you did to my hand, priest! I’m going to enjoy—”
The undead sailor never got to finish his sentence. Diran drew the silver arrowhead symbol of his order from his shirt pocket, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it spinning toward Onkar. The holy object wasn’t a dagger, but it was silver, and what’s more, it was consecrated in the name of the Silver Flame. The arrowhead flew into Onkar’s open mouth, and its sharp edges sank into the flesh in the back of his throat. The vampire let out a gurgling scream as smoke curled forth from his mouth, immediately followed by a gout of black blood. Onkar clawed at his throat with his remaining hand, tearing away chunks of his own flesh as he desperately sought to remove the holy object. Eyes wild with panic, the undead sailor flew toward the stairs, tendrils of smoke trailing from his mouth, and black blood spilling over his charred lips.
As Onkar rushed past them, Ghaji swung his flaming axe, but the vampire was moving so swiftly that all Ghaji managed to do was lop off his good arm. Onkar staggered under the blow as his severed arm flopped to the ground, but he kept going, now entirely bereft of hands. He gained the stairs and rapidly ascended them, howling in pain all the way.
Erdis Cai showed no reaction to his second-in-command’s agonized flight. He was too busy staring past Diran and Ghaji with a puzzled expression.
“That old man with you… he seems somewhat familiar to me,” the vampire lord said.
“That because I used to sail with you, Erdis.”
The undead explorer’s eyes widened in recognition. “Tresslar? Is that really you?”
“It is.”
Erdis Cai grinned in delight, and when he next spoke, his tone was warm and filled with affection. “By the Sovereigns, how you’ve changed! But then, it’s been quite some time since we saw each other last, eh, lad? Now I understand how the priest and the half-orc found their way here. They had you for a guide.”
“You’ve changed, too, Erdis,” Tresslar said sadly.
Erdis Cai’s grin relaxed and some of the former coldness crept back into his voice. “It’s a pity that you jumped ship when you did. You missed out on the greatest adventure of all.”
“What adventure?” Tresslar challenged. “Becoming a monster? Serving a goddess of evil?”
Erdis Cai’s smile disappeared and his voice was now devoid of emotion. “For an artificer, you always did display a surprising lack of imagination. I’ve become something more than human, Tresslar—something better. I found what I had been searching for all those long years that I sailed the world’s seas: something greater than myself to believe in.”
“Spare us your rationalizations,” Diran said. “You’re not more than human. You’re nothing but a dead shell that contains only faint traces of the man called Erdis Cai. You’re a vessel for Vol’s evil, nothing more.”
The raven-haired woman spoke for the first time. “Spare us your hypocrisy, Diran Bastiaan. In the process of determining whether Makala’s mind and spirit were strong enough to make her a suitable sacrifice, I learned all about you, priest. You are a killer at heart, a predator in cleric’s clothing. You may pretend that you slay those beings you deem ‘evil’ in order to protect the innocent… whoever they are, but deep down you’re no different from Erdis, Onkar, or me.” As she spoke, Jarlain began walking toward Diran, reaching out as if she wanted to take his hands in hers. “You kill because it’s your nature… because you’re good at it…” The woman was almost close enough to touch Diran now. “Most of all, because you love it.”
Diran wanted to deny Jarlain’s words, but how could he when at times he’d thought the very same thing himself?
Jarlain reached out to touch him, but before her hand could make contact, Ghaji stepped between them.
“Shut up,” the half-orc growled and swung his axe in a flaming arc toward the raven-haired beauty.
Diran saw the surprised look in Jarlain’s eyes for only an instant, then her severed head flew away from him. Blood fountained upward from the stump of her neck, and her body slumped to the ground, lifeless. Blood continued to gush from her corpse, spreading toward the edge of the pool.
Tresslar ran to Jarlain’s body, grabbed it by the ankles, and began pulling it away from the pool. “We have to move her before—”
It was too late. Jarlain’s blood ran over the edge and poured down into the pool where it merged with the roiling mass of liquid. The pool’s level rose only the merest fraction of an inch, but that was enough. Blood began flowing along the twenty-five runnels toward the alcoves where the withered corpses of the goblinoid warriors stood waiting. The corpses’ desiccated feet stood in the runnels, and as the blood flowed around their ankles, the first of them began to move.
Diran looked at Ghaji.
“Damn,” the half-orc said.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE
The undead hobgoblins opened their eyes, revealing empty sockets—no, not empty, rather filled with pulsating shadow. Arms that were little more than bone covered by dried parchment-like skin lifted swords, spears, halberds, and war hammers, dark magic supplying the strength their withered muscles couldn’t provide. The goblinoid warriors stepped forth from the stone alcoves where they had stood throughout the long years waiting with the patience that only the dead can know. Leathery lips parted for the first time in centuries as the living corpses let out silent battle cries.
Erdis Cai laughed. “You’ve failed, priest!”
The vampire lord turned his back on them, and still holding onto his sacrificial blade, he stepped closer to the dais where Makala lay staring at him with wide, fear-filled eyes and shaking her head in denial. As if it were an afterthought, he said, “Slay the intruders, my warriors, while I tend to more… pleasant matters.” His teeth drew back from his fangs in a hideous parody of a smile and Makala screamed.
Diran turned to Ghaji.
“Tresslar and I will deal with the goblins,” Ghaji said. “Go save Makala.”
Diran nodded, drew the last wooden dagger from his cloak, and ran for the walkway that crossed over to the dais. Behind him, he heard Tresslar said, “What do you mean we?”
“Be quiet and put that dragon-stick of yours to work, old man!” Ghaji shouted, then Diran heard the sound of cl
ashing metal and he knew the battle had been joined.
“Old?” Tresslar sounded quite affronted, then there came the crackle of released mystic energy as the artificer did as Ghaji advised.
Trusting his companions to take care of the resurrected hobgoblins, which were now striding forth from their alcoves by the dozens, Diran ran across the walkway toward the dais. Erdis Cai leaned over Makala, clearly intending to sink his teeth into her neck and infect her with his vampiric contagion. Though she looked terrified, Makala remained motionless as the vampire lord bent down over her. Diran guessed that Erdis Cai must have placed her in some sort of paralytic state, for such simple bonds as those encircling her wrists and ankles would never have prevented her from fighting otherwise. Diran held his wooden dagger in a tight grip, but Erdis Cai was standing at an angle to him, depriving Diran of a clear shot at the opening in his breastplate. He heard Emon Gorsedd’s voice then.
If you can’t take your best shot, take your second-best.
Diran hurled the wooden dagger at Erdis Cai’s unprotected neck. The blade severed the vampire’s artery as it pierced his undead flesh, and black slime spurted from the wound. Erdis Cai spun around, eyes aflame, fangs bared in a feral snarl. He made no move to withdraw the dagger jutting out of his neck as Diran approached. Instead he raised his own knife, the one formed from the unholy Mark of Vol, and lunged forward to meet Diran’s advance.
Diran stopped and raised his right hand. It was empty at first, but then a glimmer of silvery light appeared. The glimmer burst into brilliant radiance and Diran Bastiaan held the power of the living Silver Flame in his hand.
Erdis Cai broke off his attack and raised an arm to shield his eyes, dropping the sacrificial blade as he did so. The weapon fell into the roiling blood pool, which was slowly draining, its thick crimson liquid flowing up the sides of the pit and into the runnels as it continued to restore life to the hobgoblin army.
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