Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2

by Tim Waggoner

  Diran took off down the passageway at a run, Ghaji at his side, Hinto and Tresslar following close behind.

  The tunnel curved twice more—right then left—before opening up into a crudely hewn stone chamber a dozen feet high and a hundred feet across. Hanging from the ceiling was a colony of sleeping bats, each one the size of a small rat-hound. Though it was not yet dark outside, already the bats were stirring, shifting their bodies, stretching out wings, yawning mouths wide to expose sharp fangs. The chamber floor was covered with the creatures’ droppings, along with parts of dismembered skeletons, dozens of them—skulls, rib cages, spines, arms, legs, pelvises—most human, some not. The bones protruded from the thick layer of muck created by the bat-droppings. The stench was unbearable, and Ghaji was glad that all they’d had to eat this day was trail rations, for if his stomach had been any fuller, he’d have been forced to empty it now. He wished his elemental axe produced mundane fire instead of magic. If so, the flame might’ve produced enough smoke to leaven the stink—but then, it might have also ignited some of the gases protruding from the muck.

  Rising above the horrid muck in the middle of the chamber sat a large rock about three feet high. The goblin crouched on top, obviously unharmed. He fixed them with a baleful amber-eyed gaze and grinned maliciously.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid, but then I suppose I shouldn’t complain, should I? For if it wasn’t for idiots like you, my mistress and I wouldn’t have any fun.”

  Diran gave no sign that he was upset at having fallen for the goblin’s ruse. “I give you fair warning, goblin. I’ve come to slay the lich that inhabits this lair. If you get in my way, I’ll kill you, too.” Diran’s tone was matter-of-fact, as if he were discussing something of no more import than the weather, and was all the more chilling for it.

  The goblin let out a snuffling laugh. “You could try.” His form blurred, and orange skin and mismatched scraps of leather armor shifted, melded, and reformed until the creature that crouched atop the rock was no longer a goblin but instead a lupine beast with blue-tinged fur, humanoid hands, and a goblinish face.

  “He’s a werewolf!” Hinto cried out.

  “No,” Diran said. “The priests of my order hunted Khorvaire’s lycanthropes to extinction many years ago. That creature is a barghest—though it’s just as deadly as any lycanthrope and in some ways more so.”

  The barghest inclined its head as if acknowledging a compliment. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that there are four of you.” The barghest’s voice had become a rumbling growl. “That means my mistress might give me one of you when she’s done. It’s been so long since I’ve had a juicy soul to feed upon. So very long.” The barghest licked its muzzle with a long black tongue that appeared more serpentine than wolf-like.

  “You keep speaking of this mistress of yours,” Diran said, “yet aside from your leather-winged friends hanging from the ceiling, you appear to be alone. Only moments ago you attempted to deceive us by pretending to be in danger. Perhaps the lich and her treasure are also part of your deception, nothing more than stories designed to lure prey to you.”

  The barghest laughed, the sound emerging from its lupine throat as a snuffling whine. “You aren’t that fortunate, I’m afraid.”

  As if in response to some unseen signal, the entire colony of bats released its grip on the ceiling and took flight. The ebon creatures swirled around the chamber, black wings beating wildly as they darted through the fetid air. The four companions held their weapons at the ready, but none of the creatures made a move to attack them. As the bats continued to fly, they began to lose definition, their features becoming smooth and indistinct, their color darkening even further until they were nothing more than patches of deep shadow whipping about the chamber. Then the shadow-fragments came together and coalesced into a single dark form that hovered in the air next to the still-laughing barghest.

  Burning orbs of crimson light blazed at them from within hollow eye sockets, and desiccated bone-white lips stretched into a hideous parody of a smile.

  “I am Nathifa, and you are trespassing in my home.” The lich’s voice was cold and whisper-soft, a winter wind blowing across a barren field filled with unmarked graves. “Now your lives belong to me.”

  Ghaji knew what was coming next, but even so, the knowledge didn’t insulate the half-orc from the terror that crashed into him like a frigid wave. Paralyzing fear engulfed him, threatening to force him to his knees and reduce him to a trembling, mewling child, but Ghaji had faced fear more times than he could count—both on the battlefield and off—and if it wasn’t exactly an old friend, he knew it well enough not to let it get the better of him. This terror, though, wasn’t natural; it was created by the lich’s dark magic. The undead fiend was burrowing into their minds, attempting to drive them mad with fear and render them helpless so that she might dispose of them at her leisure, a spider spinning a web of terror to ensnare four hapless flies. Still, he gritted his teeth and fought back the fear with all his strength.

  Ghaji heard Hinto cry out as he fell, caught in the grip of the lich’s presence. Tresslar held his mystic rod before him, a thin sheen of blue light glimmering around the dragonhead. The artificer’s eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed, and sweat beaded on his forehead as he used the magic stored within the dragonwand to attempt to ward off the lich’s magic. From the look of it, Tresslar was only having partial success.

  Ghaji concentrated on drawing back his fire-axe and hurling it toward the lich. He knew his weapon wouldn’t kill the fiend, but a blow from the flaming axe might distract her long enough to allow the four of them to break free of her fear casting. The half-orc’s body refused to obey him. Even using the full force of his will, it was all he could do to pull the axe back a couple inches. The lich’s power was simply too strong.

  Ghaji managed to turn his head just far enough to see Diran drop the dagger he held in his right hand and slowly reach into one of his tunic pockets. The priest’s face was contorted with the strain of resisting the lich’s fear-spell as his fingers groped for the object within the pocket. His hand closed around the object, and then, as if touching it granted Diran the strength to further resist the lich’s power, he pulled it out swiftly and held it out toward the lich. The object was a metallic arrowhead, the symbol of the Order of the Silver Flame.

  The lich’s crimson-fire eyes narrowed to tiny pinpoints as she looked upon the holy object, and the tatters of black shadow that cloaked her body stirred restlessly as if a sudden wind passed through the chamber.

  “Is that the best you can do, priest?” she said, her voice dripping with contempt.

  “Not … at … all …” Diran gritted the words through clenched teeth and then closed his eyes. Bright silver light burst forth from the arrowhead and washed over the lich in a brilliant spray of blue-white illumination.

  The undead fiend shrieked as the power of the Silver Flame struck her. She spun away from the light, raising an arm of her shadow-cloak to shield herself from its holy power.

  “Skarm!” she cried out. “Attack!”

  Ghaji felt the lich’s fear-spell begin to dissipate just as the barghest leaped off the rock to do its mistress’s bidding. Eyes glowing orange in excitement, the lupine creature bounded across the chamber floor toward them, splashing through horrid muck and scattering skeletal fragments as it came. Ghaji knew the barghest would attack Diran first, for if the creature could knock the metallic arrowhead from the priest’s grip—or better yet slay him—then the silver light would be extinguished, and the lich would be free to kill the rest of them.

  Diran still held a dagger in his left hand. Ordinarily he’d be able to defend himself with it, but the lich’s fear-spell, while weakening, still affected them. Channeling the power of the Silver Flame through the arrowhead, there was no way he’d also be able to fight off the remnants of the fear-spell fast enough to employ his dagger. However, Ghaji wasn’t as preoccupied as his friend.

  As the barghest leaped
for Diran’s throat, Ghaji broke free of the lich’s power and swung his flaming axe at the lupine creature. The blade struck the barghest in the neck and sank into its flesh. Black blood burst from the wound, and the barghest’s blue-tinged fur caught fire. The creature howled with pain as the momentum of Ghaji’s strike sent it slamming to the floor. The mystic flames spread rapidly across the surface of the barghest’s body, and the creature rolled about in the muck that covered the chamber floor in an attempt to extinguish the fire and save itself. The elemental flames, however, were stronger than ordinary fire, and the barghest was only partially successful in putting them out. Its agonized howls rose an octave as it rolled to its feet and rushed past the four companions into the passageway, trailing flames behind it as it fled.

  Ghaji looked to Diran, and the priest gave the half-orc a grateful nod before turning his attention back to the lich. The light pouring forth from the silver arrowhead doubled its intensity, and the lich screamed, the sound so loud and high-pitched that it felt as if red-hot spikes had been shoved into Ghaji’s ears. Just as Ghaji thought he might go deaf from the noise, the lich burst apart into shadow-fragments that resolved into dozens of small black mice that scurried toward the chamber walls and swiftly squeezed into thin cracks in the stone and disappeared.

  The light blazing from the arrowhead winked out, and Diran lowered a hand that trembled from the effort he’d expended. The four companions then stood in silence, waiting to see if the lich was truly gone. After several moments passed without hint of another attack, Diran tucked the holy symbol into his tunic pocket and turned to Ghaji.

  “It’s over.”

  The half-orc warrior looked down at Hinto. Though the danger had passed, the halfling remained curled into a ball on the chamber floor, pale and shivering.

  Not for all of us, Ghaji thought.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The lich was only banished, not destroyed. To finish the job, they had to find her phylactery, Diran said.

  “Her what?’ Hinto was still pale, but at least he was able to move and speak once more, though his eyes kept darting about, as if he were expecting the shadows to come to life any second and try to slay him. Ghaji had deactivated his fire-axe after the lich fled, and now Hinto held an everbright lantern to illuminate the chamber for them. The soft green glow made the chamber seem even more eerie than it had when they’d first entered—a detail, Ghaji was certain, that wasn’t lost on the halfling.

  “Phylactery.” Diran was slowly walking around the chamber, slogging through the muck that covered the floor as he ran his hands over the walls. “Part of the process of transforming oneself into a lich requires that one’s life force be preserved in a mystic container of some sort. That container is called a phylactery.”

  Ghaji stepped through the foul-smelling ooze to the nearest wall and joined Diran in examining the stone surface.

  “The only way to completely destroy a lich is to destroy its phylactery,” said Diran, “but liches don’t keep their phylacteries in plain sight—though they do keep them nearby. She must have a hidden chamber behind these walls or perhaps beneath the floor.”

  Hinto looked down at the layer of muck. “You mean we’re going to have to search under that?”

  “If we must,” Diran said. “We cannot allow the lich to continue preying on travelers.”

  The halfling grimaced. “I don’t suppose any of you thought to bring a shovel?”

  “No,” Tresslar said, “but I do have this.” He held up his dragonwand. “And I believe I have a spell or two that might suit our needs.”

  Tresslar had been traveling with them for several months now, but even after all that time, Ghaji still didn’t understand how the artificer’s magic device worked. He knew that Tresslar was able to absorb magical energy and store it inside the rod for later use, but how Tresslar released that power—or by what method he was able to choose which specific spell came forth—the half-orc had no idea.

  Tresslar held the rod out at arm’s length, closed his eyes, and concentrated. At first nothing happened, but then wisps of smoke curled out of the golden dragonhead’s nostrils. The tendrils of smoke lengthened and extended from the dragonhead and began undulating through the air like serpents, going first this way then that, searching, searching …

  Finally the smokewisps stopped at a section of wall that neither Diran nor Ghaji had examined yet. The ends of the tendrils brushed against the stone, seeming almost to caress it before finally dissipating in the air.

  Tresslar lowered the dragonwand. “Search there.”

  Diran and Ghaji made their way to the section of wall that the smoke-wisps had indicated, and before long they found a section of stone the size of a man’s palm that gave slightly when pushed. Ghaji pressed hard on the spot, and the wall swung slowly inward with a sound of grinding stone. They’d found the lich’s hidden chamber.

  Diran turned to Tresslar. “Well done. Can you use another such spell to locate the phylactery?”

  “I could, but I’d rather we search by more mundane means first. I’d hate to waste a spell.”

  Ghaji shook his head. “You have to be the stingiest artificer I’ve ever meant. Most of them are only too happy to show off what their toys can do.”

  Tresslar snorted. “Such artificers are idiots. Magic is a tool that should be employed wisely and sparingly.”

  “I’m only too happy to look in there,” Hinto said, eyeing the open doorway suspiciously. “As long as the floor isn’t covered with bat droppings.”

  “Shall we find out?” Diran asked.

  Hinto nodded and slogged through the muck, holding his breath the entire way. When he reached the doorway, he held the lantern forth and shone its greenish light into the chamber beyond. Hinto’s hand trembled, causing the light to waver, but the halfling held his ground and did his job.

  Ghaji and Diran had no problem looking over Hinto to peer into the hidden chamber. The room was smaller than the outer chamber—about half the size, Ghaji guessed—though the ceiling was just as high. No bats or other creatures were hanging from the ceiling, but that didn’t mean other dangers weren’t waiting for them.

  Ghaji turned to Diran, and the priest shook his head. “I sense no evil within.”

  Ghaji knew his friend spoke of supernatural evil, not mundane, but he saw no reason to mention this with Hinto close by.

  “I’ll go first,” said Ghaji.

  The half-orc gripped his elemental axe as he stepped through the doorway and into the hidden chamber. The floor was blessedly free of muck, save what Ghaji tracked in on his boots, so if he had to fight, at least he’d have decent footing. Not that he’d have a lot of room to maneuver, for the chamber was filled with clothing, armor, and weapons, all cast about the room in haphazard piles—the possessions the lich had taken from her victims. The barghest had spoken of treasure, though from what Ghaji could see there was little of value in the piles.

  Even so, that didn’t stop Hinto from rushing into the chamber before Ghaji could tell his companions that it was safe to enter.

  “Look at all this!” Hinto raised the everbright lantern higher to better illuminate the room’s contents. The halfling’s eyes gleamed in the greenish lantern light as he gazed upon the items. Before becoming trapped in the Mire, Hinto had been a sailor. Life was harsh in the northern waters of the Principalities, and those who plied the Lhazaar Sea did what was necessary to survive. No sailor—even one as prone to panic as Hinto—would be foolish enough to pass up an opportunity for salvage.

  The halfling started toward a pile of clothes, but before he could reach it, Diran took hold of his arm and stopped him.

  “Be careful,” the priest said. “Just because these items once belonged to mortal men doesn’t make them safe. If this chamber is where the lich keeps her phylactery, then it’s likely that she’s set traps to protect it. We must proceed with caution.”

  Hinto nodded, a chastened look on his face.

  “What
precisely should we look for?” Tresslar asked. “I assume the lich wasn’t considerate enough to label her phylactery for us.”

  “Heh. No. You’re right about that. Often an object that was important to a lich in life serves as the phylactery, but it could be anything,” Diran said. “Something as simple as a locked chest or as ornate as a piece of sculpture. We won’t know for certain until we find it, but whatever object is used, it is always cold to the touch.”

  “Then let’s get to it,” Ghaji said, nose wrinkling as he caught a whiff of the muck clinging to his boots. “I want to destroy the phylactery and get out of here before my sense of smell is completely gone.”

  With that, the four companions began carefully searching through the collection of items in the lich’s hidden chamber. There was no treasure, though they did find purses containing various types and amounts of currency.

  “I think we should take some of this money, Diran,” Hinto said. “We’re always short on funds since you refuse to charge for your services.”

  “Sorry, my friend,” the priest said. “While I appreciate your Lhazaarite frugality, the money is tainted by the lich’s evil, thus we must leave it.”

  With a regretful sigh, Hinto nodded.

  While they looked for the phylactery, Tresslar also kept an eye out for magic items whose power he could absorb with his dragonwand, but the artificer found none. Either the lich’s victims hadn’t possessed such items or she’d done something else with them besides storing them here.

  It was Ghaji who finally found the phylactery. The only armor he wore was a battered breastplate that he’d had since his days as a soldier. Despite Diran’s warning to Hinto about the items in the chamber being tainted, when he came across a cuirass that looked to be his size—one that was better-made than his breastplate and relatively unscathed—he couldn’t help picking it up to admire it. That’s when he noticed three things: the front and back plates of the cuirass had been welded together, the openings for the wearer’s head, arms, and trunk had been sealed with plugs of wax, and most telling of all, the metal was cold to the touch.