by Tim Waggoner
By the time he’d walked down the dock to the slip where he’d moored the Boundless, full night had descended. At least he wouldn’t keep his passenger waiting. Perhaps she’d release him out of appreciation for his promptness. Unfortunately, he feared she had other plans for him.
Fog was rolling in off the Lhazaar, and though everbright lanterns stationed at periodic intervals lit the dock, their softly glowing light did little to penetrate the mist. If anything, they only made visibility worse by coloring the fog an eerie, sour green, but Eneas didn’t need to see to find his boat. He could feel it, or rather he felt her, calling to him, impatient for his return. He reached the slip where his vessel was moored. The Boundless wasn’t anything special: one mast, small hold, even smaller cabin. The boat had a few minor touches added by a shipwright who was also an artificer, but nothing extraordinary—spells to make the mast stronger, the hull barnacle-resistant, the sail less prone to tears, that sort of thing. The Boundless was hardly an elemental galleon or a shard-racer, Eneas knew, but he loved the old boat as fiercely as he’d ever loved anything in his life. All he wanted now was to get rid of the creature that lay within her hold and have the Boundless all to himself again.
Eneas jumped onto the deck with a surprising grace that belied both his heavy frame and drunken state. The fog was moving in so fast now that he could barely see more than a foot in front of his face as he moved toward the hull, but he was on the Boundless and could find his way around her with both eyes put out if he had to. The fog seemed to cling unnaturally to his body, forming a slimy cold film on his flesh that set him to shivering. He opened the hatch and still trembling—though perhaps not entirely from the fog’s chill now—he climbed down the short ladder into the hold.
Once inside, he reached into his tunic pocket and brought out a small light gem. He waved his hand over it, and the gem began to give off a flickering orange light not unlike that produced by a candle, though there was no heat. The hold was empty, save for a large obsidian object that resembled a coffin, only with rounded edges. Strange runes were carved around the sides of the sarcophagus, and if Eneas looked at them too long, his head would start to hurt.
He told himself that he didn’t have to do it. Without him to unlock the sarcophagus and deactivate the enchantment suffusing the obsidian stone, she couldn’t get out. She would be trapped forever, and he would be safe. He could haul the coffin out by a winch and dump it in the sea. If worse came to worst and he couldn’t offload his strange cargo, he could scuttle the whole damned ship and let her go down to the bottom, taking the obsidian box and its inhabitant along as she descended into the cold, dark depths of the Lhazaar. He didn’t have to obey—he didn’t!
Nevertheless, he stepped forward, took hold of the lid’s edge and raised it up an inch.
Eneas stepped back quickly as pale white fingers—feminine fingers—emerged. They curled around the edge of the lid and lifted it the rest of the way off the sarcophagus. The lid wasn’t attached, and the heavy stone cover fell off to the side, striking the floor of the wooden hull with a loud thump that made Eneas wince. Then she sat up and stared straight ahead, motionless, unblinking, as if she wasn’t aware of his presence. Then slowly she turned to look at Eneas, her head pivoting on her neck with unnaturally smooth precision, as if she weren’t a being of flesh and blood but rather some sort of mechanical construct in human form. She blinked once, twice, and then awareness returned to her gaze. She recognized him, and she smiled, displaying long, white incisors.
Then, moving with the speed and grace of a jungle cat, she leaped out of the coffin and rushed at Eneas. He dropped the light gem, and as physical contact with the mystical object was broken, its illumination winked out. Eneas felt the woman’s small hands take hold of him in grips of iron, felt her teeth sink into the soft flesh of his neck, and then a darkness far worse than the absence of light came for him and he felt nothing more.
Makala raised her head and with the back of a hand wiped a smear of blood from her mouth. She looked down at the fat man lying on the floor of the hold next to her, his skin pale, breathing shallow, blood oozing from the twin puncture marks on his throat. Without realizing it, she leaned forward, intending to lick the wounds clean, but she stopped herself. She might not be human anymore, but that didn’t make her an animal.
She stood and took three steps back from Eneas, lest she be tempted to feed on him further. What she’d already taken from the man would have to suffice; if she drank anymore, there was a good chance he would die. There was a time when that wouldn’t have made a difference to her, a time when she would’ve taken his life as casually as she might snap her fingers and for lesser reason than ensuring her own survival. Regardless of what she’d become, she was no longer a killer, at least, not a mindless one. If she was going to kill, then she would do so when and where she chose and for justifiable reasons—not simply because she was hungry.
She felt Eneas’s blood suffusing her body, lessening but not alleviating the pervasive chill in her undead flesh. In many ways, that was the worst part about being a vampire. No matter the temperature, no matter how much she fed, she was always cold. She felt the boat rock beneath her feet as a wave rolled in to shore, and sudden nausea twisted her gut, threatening to make her vomit the blood she’d taken from Eneas. She clamped her mouth shut tight, and though she no longer had any reason to breathe, she took slow, even breaths until the boat stopped rocking and her nausea subsided.
For all their strengths, vampires had a surprising number of weaknesses, as Makala had found out over the last several months. One of those was an aversion to crossing running water. Why that should be, she didn’t know, but she’d experienced the discomfort too often to dismiss it as merely her imagination. She’d been lucky, though. She’d discovered the obsidian sarcophagus on one of the elemental galleons that Diran and the others had left behind when they’d departed Grimwall after defeating Erdis Cai. Once a vampire lay inside and the sigil of Vol affixed to the lid was activated, he or she could cross running water without the least discomfort. She believed that the vampire sailor Onkar—once Edris Cai’s first mate and the one who’d changed her—had employed the sarcophagus in order to continue plying the waters of the Lhazaar Sea. Unfortunately, the sarcophagus had one serious drawback: once the lid was sealed and the enchantment activated, it could not be opened from within. Whoever rested inside the sarcophagus was dependent on someone outside to release her, hence her need for Eneas. Not only did he transport her across water, he also released her when they arrived at their destination.
The attack of nausea had taken the edge off her hunger, so she felt safe in approaching Eneas and kneeling next to him once more.
“You’ve done well,” she said in a soft, almost dreamy voice. “Now I want you to remain on the ship until I return. You will then seal me into the sarcophagus before dawn and release me once again the following sunset. Do you understand?”
Eneas’s eyes fluttered open. They were wide and staring, but he nodded once.
“Very good. Rest now—you’ve earned it.”
Eneas’s eyes closed and a moment later he began snoring.
Makala stood and regarded her—for lack of a better word—servant. Then she turned toward the open hatch above her, crouched, and with an effortless grace leaped onto the deck. She silently disembarked the Boundless and walked down the dock to shore, her footsteps making no sound on the weathered wooden planks.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
What are we going to do?” Ghaji asked.
He and Diran stood in the street outside the King Prawn. The others were still inside, watching as Yvka performed a juggling act for the inn’s patrons. While the elf-woman was an operative of the Shadow Network—which officially didn’t exist—she posed as a wandering player. It might be a disguise, but she was nevertheless a damn fine entertainer, and Ghaji wished he was inside watching her along with everyone else. Diran had asked him to step outside for a breath of fresh air,
and since fresh air was difficult to come by in this part of Perhata, Ghaji had known his friend really wanted to talk to him alone, so here Ghaji was, standing next to Diran, his back against the stone wall of the inn, trying to ignore the sounds of laughter and applause drifting from the common room as Yvka performed.
Full night had fallen and a clammy fog was rolling in off the Gulf of Ingjald, turning the world into an indistinct ghostly image of itself. The fog muffled sound and defied even Ghaji’s orcish night vision. He had the sensation that he and Diran were the only two living people left in Perhata, and though he knew it was only his imagination, the feeling was an eerie one and not easily dismissed.
“About what?” Diran said.
“Cathmore. Where do we start looking for him?”
Diran gazed into the fog, and Ghaji wondered what his friend saw in its roiling gray murk. “I’m not sure we should—at least not right away.”
“I’m surprised. I thought you’d be ready to set out on the hunt right away.”
Diran turned and smiled. “You’ve come to know me too well, Ghaji. You’re right; ordinarily I would want to begin searching for Cathmore immediately, but I’ve been thinking about Asenka.” He gave Ghaji a sideways look, then hurried to add, “I mean, ah, about what she told us regarding the origins of the enmity between Perhata and Kolbyr. Remember?”
“Sure, I remember. I especially remember the way the two of you looked at one another.”
Diran scowled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Ghaji grinned. “Of course you don’t.
In truth, he was pleased that Diran seemed attracted to the commander of the Sea Scorpions and she to him. The priest hadn’t shown any interest in women at all since the night Makala had died and been reborn as a vampire. While Ghaji regretted what had happened to Makala, he knew it wasn’t healthy for his friend to mourn her loss forever. Perhaps Diran was finally showing signs of putting his grief behind him and getting on with his life. Ghaji could only hope so.
“What about the conflict between the cities?” Ghaji asked.
Diran looked relieved that Ghaji had abandoned his teasing. “Asenka said it stems from a curse—a curse that has been carried down to this day. If the curse could somehow be removed …”
“The conflict might end,” Ghaji finished.
Diran nodded. “Or at least peace negotiations might become possible. It seems to me that we would do more immediate good by investigating this curse than by haring off after Aldarik Cathmore.”
Ghaji considered this. “Perhaps, but the curse has lasted for almost two centuries. What would a few more days or even weeks matter?”
Diran smiled gently. “Don’t you think two centuries is more than long enough for the people of two cities to be at war?”
Ghaji and Diran had both seen their share of conflict during the War—the half-orc as a mercenary soldier, the priest as a hired assassin—and both of them had participated in far too much mindless slaughter.
“Yes, I do.” Ghaji sighed. “Very well, now that Yvka’s here, perhaps she’ll ferry us over to Kolbyr on the Zephyr. Once there …”
His voice trailed off as a familiar scent came to his nose: thick, musky, and earthy. He hadn’t smelled this scent for close to twenty years, but he remembered it just the same. Orcs—even half-orcs—never forget a smell.
“Something wrong?” Diran asked.
“I’m … not sure. There’s something I need to check out, Diran. Alone, if you don’t mind.”
The priest frowned, but he said, “Of course, but if you should need me …”
Ghaji nodded. “I’ll let you know.” He turned away from his friend and moved off into the fog, following the scent of a ghost from the past.
Diran watched his friend disappear into the gray murk, torn as to what he should do. It wasn’t like Ghaji to run off on a whim, so something was up, and that something might well prove dangerous. Whether Ghaji wanted to admit it or not, there was a good chance he’d need Diran’s help. But Ghaji had asked to go alone, and Diran had acquiesced. To follow Ghaji now would be to break a trust between them, and Diran didn’t wish to do that if he could avoid it.
As he stood outside the King Prawn trying to make up his mind, he heard footsteps approaching. At first, he thought Ghaji had returned, but the sound of the boots scuffing against dirt sounded wrong—lighter, the stride measured and patient. Diran had no idea whether whoever it was approaching was friend or foe, but at the Perhata Docks, one encountered more criminals than anywhere else in the Principalities. He drew a dagger from his belt sheath and palmed it, just in case.
The footsteps continued coming closer until the vague outline of a human body could be seen. A woman.
Diran’s heart seized in his chest, and he whispered, “Makala?”
“Is that a dagger in your hand, or are you just glad to see me?”
The woman took a few more steps toward him, and Diran could make out enough of her features to recognize the commander of the Sea Scorpions. With a fluid motion, Diran returned the dagger to its sheath. If Asenka had heard him call her by a different name, she made no remark on it.
“Good evening, Asenka. Don’t tell me you’ve returned because you can’t get enough of the King Prawn’s delicious ale.”
Her laugh was warm and cheerful, and the sound helped diminish the fog’s chill. “Hardly. Today wasn’t the first time I have run off Haaken and his crew. In the past, they’ve been known to sneak back and cause further trouble. I’ve been keeping on eye on the King Prawn, figuring that if they did come back, they’d come for you and your friend.”
Diran felt a sudden pang of worry. Could Ghaji have detected the Coldhearts lurking about? His half-orc senses were sharper than Diran’s human ones, so it was quite possible, but why would Ghaji have gone off on his own to investigate? The man could be impulsive at times, but he wasn’t foolish.
“Any sign of the Coldhearts?” Diran asked, trying not to let the worry he felt for his friend creep into his voice.
Asenka shook her head. “Aside from the usual drunken scuffles between sailors, it’s been quiet tonight. It looks like Haaken may have actually gotten the message this time.”
Diran was relieved to hear that. Hopefully, whatever had lured Ghaji away was something the half-orc warrior could deal with on his own.
A silence settled between them then, more companionable than awkward, despite the fact that this was only their second meeting. After a bit, Asenka said, “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh? It’s a good thing I’m a priest then.”
She smiled, but she didn’t laugh this time. “Earlier, I acted as if I didn’t know you, but I did. I’ve heard of you and your friend. The two of you have been in the Principalities only a short time, but you’re already gaining quite a reputation in certain circles.”
“What circles would these be?” Diran kept his tone light, but he was on guard.
Since coming to the Principalities, he and Ghaji had done what they could to battle evil, but neither of them was overly concerned about whose toes they had to step on—or on occasion, cut off—in order to get the job done. That meant that they’d managed to make more than a few enemies among the Lhazaarites, and it was possible that Asenka was one of them.
“Let’s just say that word has spread among the barons to keep a sharp eye out for a dagger-wielding priest and a half-orc who carries an elemental axe. It’s said that whenever they sail into port, trouble comes blowing in after them.”
It was Diran’s turn to smile. “I wouldn’t dispute that, though I’d argue any trouble is present long before we arrive.”
Asenka narrowed her eyes and regarded Diran. “Are you saying there’s trouble in Perhata?”
Diran thought about what Yvka had told him regarding Aldarik Cathmore. “I’m not sure yet.”
“Promise me something: when you are sure, you’ll let me know before you start hurling daggers about and turning the citizens of Perhat
a into pin cushions.”
“Why? So you can run Ghaji and me out of town, like you did the Coldhearts?”
“No, silly.” She stepped forward until only a few inches of foggy air separated their bodies. “So I can help you.” Then she pressed her lips against his and kissed him. Diran was surprised, but not as surprised as when he found himself returning her kiss.
Asenka pulled away, gave him a last smile, then turned and walked away until she was swallowed by the fog. Diran stood staring into the gray nothingness where she had vanished, glad that Ghaji hadn’t been present. If he had been, the half-orc never would have stopped teasing him.
Makala crouched on the roof of the King Prawn, fingernails sharp as claws digging into the thatch. Though she was unaware of it, her mouth was open and her fangs bared. Thick as it was, the fog was no impediment to her inhuman senses, and she’d been able to see, hear, and smell everything that had occurred between Diran and that … that woman. Cold fury gripped her, so strong that it was all she could do to keep from launching herself into the air and following after Asenka. She’d already fed tonight thanks to Eneas, but her belly was far from full, and she still hungered, and who better to slake her thirst than that overeager tramp? The woman’s words to Diran echoed in Makala’s mind like a mocking whisper. No, silly. So I can help you.
Makala’s muscles tensed, and she was about to fling herself from the roof, but she stopped herself. She hadn’t seen Diran since that night in Grimwall when she’d become a vampire, and it had been years before that since they’d been lovers. Though she still loved Diran Bastiaan, she had no claim on him—could have none as long as he was human and a priest of the Silver Flame, dedicated to eradicating evil in all its myriad forms. As a vampire, she definitely qualified as one of those forms, though she had done her best these last several months to keep the evil inherent in her nature from controlling her, so while the predator in her might like nothing better than to tear out Asenka’s throat and guzzle her hot, sweet blood, she would restrain herself.
