Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2

by Tim Waggoner

  But that didn’t mean she couldn’t have a little fun.

  She concentrated and her body became insubstantial as mist. She merged with the fog and drifted on the breeze, following Asenka.

  Ghaji moved through the fog-enshrouded street silent as a shadow. He gripped his elemental axe in his right hand, but he hadn’t activated it yet. The flames would cut through the fog like a beacon, alerting the one he hunted to the half-orc’s presence, and if Ghaji was right about the identity of the man he tracked, then he would need every advantage he could get.

  He sensed more than heard movement from his left, and he spun away as a broadsword blade hissed through the air. The steel struck the stone wall of the building where Ghaji had been standing, hitting with a ringing clang and setting off sparks.

  Ghaji didn’t wait for his attacker to recover his balance. With a thought he activated his axe and stepped forward, flames erupting along the blade and haft of his weapon, though his hand felt no heat. He swung the axe in a sweeping sideways arc designed to connect with his attacker’s sword arm. A trail of fire followed the axe-blade, burning away the fog and illuminating the face of Ghaji’s would-be assassin.

  He was an orc—tall, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, an intimidating specimen even for one of his kind. His fur was thick and blackish gray, the skin underneath green. His beard was woven into a trio of braids, and a golden hoop earring dangled from his left earlobe. His lower incisors were massive, jutting up from his jaw and curving upward almost all the way to his small, hate-filled eyes. He wore a mail-shirt, black leather pants, and black boots, but his arms were bare to allow him freedom of movement in battle.

  There were more strands of gray in the orc’s fur than the last time Ghaji had seen Chagai of Striking Viper Clan, but otherwise he remained unchanged, which was too bad—Ghaji had hoped the son of a bitch would be dead by now.

  Chagai didn’t have time to bring his sword up to deflect Ghaji’s strike, so he turned and took the impact on his chest. Fire flared bright as the flaming axe blade slammed into the mail shirt, driving Chagai back into the stone wall. The orc grunted as he collided with the wall, but he didn’t cry out. There was no gushing blood, and worse yet, his mail-shirt didn’t show the slightest sign of damage.

  “Wearing enchanted armor these days, Chagai?” Ghaji said. “What would your clan say?” For an orc to use magical protection of any kind was considered a sign of weakness, an admission that one’s own strength and battle skill weren’t enough to defeat an opponent.

  Chagai grinned. “I had to find something to replace the breastplate you stole from me.”

  Chagai swept his sword upward and knocked Ghaji’s axe away from his chest. There was so much strength behind the blow that Ghaji had to move with the momentum lest he risk losing hold of his weapon. He took three steps to the side, giving Chagai the chance to move away from the wall and gain room to maneuver.

  “You’re a fine one to talk about my armor, half-blood,” Chagai snarled. “You wield an elemental weapon!”

  Ghaji turned to face Chagai and fell into a battle stance. “As you so often reminded me when we fought together, I’m only half-orc. I need every advantage I can get.” He smiled grimly at his opponent. “So to what do I owe the displeasure of smelling your tick-ridden carcass again after all these years?”

  “Unfinished business,” Chagai growled.

  He ran forward, broadsword raised, releasing the high-pitched cry known as the orc death scream. The sound was designed to terrify opponents so they died in fear. To an orc warrior, dying in a state of fright meant ultimate dishonor, denying one entrance to the afterlife. One’s spirit would wander the world aimlessly for all eternity unseen, intangible, unable to interact with the physical world in any way. For an orc, there could be no worse fate.

  Chagai, hardened warrior though he was, had always relied too much on his considerable strength and speed and not enough on skill, and the intervening years since they’d fought hadn’t changed this. Ghaji sidestepped Chagai’s attack easily, and the orc’s broadsword whistled through empty air. Ghaji swung his axe, hoping to hit Chagai in the armpit where his armor didn’t cover, but Chagai allowed the momentum of his failed strike to bring him around so that Ghaji’s weapon struck his right shoulder. Again, the enchanted chain-mail protected the orc from the worst of the blow, but the impact sent him stumbling off balance. He let go of his sword and fell forward onto the earthen street.

  Ghaji knew better than to give Chagai a chance to recover. He moved in for the kill.

  Chagai rolled as he hit, came up on his feet, spun around, and flung his hand outward. Ghaji saw a shower of dirt coming toward his face and realized that Chagai had grabbed a handful of earth as he’d pretended to fall—a dirty trick by any standard, but an unforgivable breech of honor to an orc warrior. Ghaji tried to close his eyes and avert his face, but he was too slow. Bits of dirt and mud struck him and got in his eyes. He swung his axe in a sideways figure eight in front of him to keep Chagai away as he blinked furiously, trying to clear his vision. Tears filled his eyes, washing away the worst of the dirt, and when his vision was finally clear again, Ghaji saw that Chagai was gone. Ghaji stopped swinging his axe, though he did not douse its flame. It seemed Chagai had chosen to abandon the fight rather than slay Ghaji while he was temporarily blinded. Well, well, well. It seemed that Chagai had some small speck of honor left after all.

  Then again, maybe Chagai doesn’t want you to be an easy kill, Ghaji thought. Maybe he wants to make you suffer before you die.

  Ghaji sighed. That sounded more like the Chagai he remembered.

  With a thought, he extinguished the axe’s flames and tucked the weapon handle-first into his belt. Chagai wouldn’t make another try for him. Not tonight. Tonight had simply been Chagai’s way of renewing their acquaintance and putting Ghaji on notice that he was being hunted. The real attack would come later, and Ghaji was almost looking forward to it. For the two of them indeed had unfinished business, and it was long past time that their account was settled.

  Asenka wondered if Diran had bought her story. She was commander of the Sea Scorpions, not the city watch, and while it was within the scope of her duties to keep an eye out for Haaken and his crew in case they decided to cause more trouble tonight, walking a foot patrol of Perhata’s dockside—and alone yet—wasn’t exactly standard procedure. She’d returned to the vicinity of the King Prawn for one simple reason: she’d hoped to encounter Diran Bastiaan once more. Still, in order to complete the illusion that she was doing her job, she headed for the docks to check if the Coldhearts had made port once more. Assuming they hadn’t, she would then head to the Scorpions’ dockside quarters, open a bottle of wine, and think about why she’d done what she’d done this night.

  It wasn’t like her to show such obvious interest in a man, let alone do so while pretending she was acting in her official capacity. If Baron Mahir found out, he’d strip her of her command and assign her to scraping barnacles off fishing boats for the rest of her life. But Diran wasn’t just any man, was he? Haaken and his crew might have been loudmouths, but they were as tough as they came. Diran and Ghaji had stood toe to toe with them without blinking … and made the Coldhearts back down. While Asenka had been impressed with Diran’s courage, that alone hadn’t stirred her interest in the priest. While speaking with him and his friends after the Coldhearts left the King Prawn, she’d sensed a sadness in the man, along with a gentleness that seemed at odds with his grim demeanor. It was a combination she found fascinating and, if she were to be honest with herself, irresistible.

  She laughed as she neared the entrance to the docks. Look at me: Asenka, hard-bitten leader of the Sea Scorpions, acting like a love-sick child! And I’ve only just met the man!

  Even so, she hoped Diran would remain in Perhata for a time. She’d like to see him again, though it would take some thought for her to come up with another excuse to visit the King Prawn. Maybe she could—

  “I was watchin
g you, Asenka.”

  The voice—a woman’s—was soft, little more than a whisper, and it seemed to come from all around her. Asenka’s long sword hissed as she drew it from its scabbard, and she held the weapon in front of her as she slowly turned in a circle, ready to meet an attack no matter from what direction it might come.

  “Who are you?” Asenka demanded. She couldn’t see anyone, but then the fog was so thick, an army could be surrounding her and she’d never know it.

  The voice was louder now, more substantial somehow, though Asenka still couldn’t see its owner. “Makala.”

  Asenka remembered that name: Diran had spoken it as she’d approached him back at the King Prawn. Foolish as it was, she’d experienced a tiny pang of jealousy that Diran’s first thought as she came toward him was of another woman.

  “What do you want?”

  “A closer look at you. I don’t blame you for showing interest in Diran. He’s a fascinating man.”

  Makala’s voice no longer seemed to be coming from all around her, but Asenka couldn’t pinpoint the precise direction it did come from. One instant it seemed to be in front of her, the next behind her, off to her right then on her left. It was as if the woman were circling her, but moving so swiftly and silently that Asenka couldn’t get a fix on her position. She had the eerie sensation that Makala was some sort of phantom, an ethereal presence without physical shape, but then a dark silhouette coalesced out of the fog in front of her, and Asenka could make out the woman’s form.

  Being able to see Makala—or at least her dim outline—allowed Asenka’s boldness to return. “And you’ve come to tell me that he’s yours, is that it?”

  “He was. Once.”

  Asenka was surprised by the depth of sorrow in the woman’s voice. Despite the situation, she found herself feeling sorry for Makala, though she wasn’t quite sure why. Still, she wasn’t about to relax her guard around the woman.

  “And now?”

  Makala didn’t answer right away. “I don’t know what we are to each other now, or if we can ever be anything to each other again. All I know is that I care for Diran and do not wish to see him hurt. If anyone does hurt him—for any reason—that person will have to answer to me.”

  Makala spoke these words calmly, but that made them all the more chilling, and Asenka had to suppress a shudder. “Brave talk from a woman hiding in the fog. Why don’t you step closer so I can get a good look at you? Or are you afraid of stepping into range of my sword?”

  “I’m afraid of very little anymore.” Makala didn’t approach, but twin pinpoints of crimson light flared within the fog, and Asenka knew she was looking at the woman’s eyes. “I do not want to harm you, but remember what I said. I’ll do anything to protect Diran.” Her crimson eyes flashed like twin flares. “Anything.”

  Then, as if the woman simply melted into the fog, she was gone.

  Asenka stood there for several long moments, gripping her sword in a trembling hand as she struggled to understand what she had just seen. Makala wasn’t human, that was certain. She was some manner of fiend, and though she professed to care for Diran, she might in truth be a threat to him.

  Asenka—her hand no longer shaking—sheathed her sword in a smooth, practiced motion.

  “Seems to me that you’re right,” she said softly. “Diran does need protecting, but not from me.”

  The fog remained silent, and Asenka continued on her way to the Sea Scorpions’ barracks. She was no longer contemplating having a bottle of wine, though. She intended to round up a squad of her people and keep watch on the King Prawn tonight. Just in case.

  CHAPTER

  EIGHT

  Diran was already seated at their table when Ghaji returned to the common room of the King Prawn. Tresslar and Hinto sat with him, watching Yvka perform a juggling routine for the crowd. The half-orc warrior was still brooding over his less-than-tender reunion with Chagai, but the sight of the elf-woman tossing small wooden balls through the air with almost preternatural grace caused him to smile. It had been far too long since he had seen her perform, and he was glad that he hadn’t missed it. He moved through the crowd, took the empty seat next to Diran, and waved for a mug of ale. While he waited for his drink to arrive, he concentrated on Yvka.

  She was performing a routine that he’d seen before but which he still found fascinating. She appeared to be juggling—he did a quick count—fourteen balls, but as she threw them, they began to disappear one by one, until only two remained. Then the reverse happened: balls began to reappear one by one until once again all fourteen were circling through the air. On more than one occasion, Ghaji had asked her how she did it, but Ykva would only grin and say, “Magic.” Ghaji supposed that was always a possibility, but he had the feeling she was teasing him. He watched her closely now, determined to figure out how she performed the illusion through concentrated observation. Of course, the fact that she was incredibly beautiful might have had more than a little to do with his intense scrutiny as well.

  A serving girl brought his ale, he took a deep draught, then he fixed his attention on one specific ball. If he could just keep his gaze on that one and follow it the entire time, he might able to finally figure this trick out.

  Despite his best efforts, and without his even realizing it was happening, his thoughts began to drift back across the years, to a small farm in the Eldeen Reaches …

  Four orcs crouched in the grass at the edge of the valley. Well, three orcs and one half-orc. The orcs kept their distance from their half-brother whenever possible, keeping a minimum of two feet from him at all times, as if they believed he were tainted and unclean and his foulness might contaminate them if they got too close. Ghaji acted as if their aversion to his physical proximity didn’t bother him, as if he accepted it as only right and proper, but inside he hated it—hated it like poison.

  The moons were out tonight and the sky was nearly cloudless. To orc eyes that meant the valley was lit almost as bright as if it were a sunny day. Nestled within the small valley was a humble cottage of stone, wood, and thatch. The cottage was dark, save for the warm glow of lamplight filtering through the shutters of a single window. The land around the cottage had been cleared, and a well-worn trail wound from the cottage’s front door, up and out of the valley. The trail was on the opposite side of the valley from where the orcs crouched. They were proud warriors and strong, but they weren’t foolish enough to remain in plain sight while they were hunting. There was no trail here, but there were plenty of trees—oak and elm, mostly—and more than enough brush to provide cover. Despite the lateness of the hour, birds sang, and Ghaji found their mindless joy distracting and irritating. He chuffed air through his lips to frighten the foolish creatures into silence, but as soon as the sound came out of his mouth, he saw a blur of motion out of the corner of his eye and fiery pain erupted on the side of his head.

  He turned to see Chagai glaring at him, teeth bared in fury. Ghaji’s face stung from where Chagai’s claws had raked the flesh, and he could feel blood trickling from the wounds. Though the scratches were deep and hurt like blazes, Ghaji was determined not to display any signs of discomfort. A real orc would scarcely feel the pain, let alone react to it.

  The other two orcs—a female named Eggera and a male named Murtt, the latter of whom Ghaji had known since childhood—snuffled silent laughter. Ghaji was an adult by orc standards, if only barely, and he knew better than to make noise during a hunt. He really did, but he had allowed his excitement to get the better of him, and he’d forgotten himself. No doubt the others were thinking that the stupid half-blood had fouled up again, and were once more questioning why they allowed him to hunt with them—Chagai especially. While the four of them were currently in the employ of the bandit lord Medard the Strong, Chagai was the leader of their group, and Ghaji was permitted to fight with them only as long as Chagai allowed it. If he made too many mistakes Chagai would banish him without a second thought, and while Ghaji could always find work fighting alongs
ide human mercenaries, he’d worked long and hard to get the chance to serve with full-blooded orcs. He was determined to stay with them no matter what it took, until they finally accepted him as one of their own.

  Ghaji remembered something Chagai had said on another occasion when he’d made a mistake.

  Too bad your father didn’t have the good sense not to rape an orc—or at least know enough to use a charm to keep from getting the stupid sow pregnant!

  Ghaji was grateful that all Chagai had done was strike him this time. Orc claws hurt far less than orc words.

  Ghaji cast his gaze to the ground and nodded to Chagai in apology and obeisance. He kept his gaze lowered and waited to see if Chagai were going to hit him again, for the orc commander was well within his rights to do so, but Chagai let out a snort that was scarcely quieter than Ghaji’s earlier chuff and then turned away. The message was clear: Ghaji wasn’t worth dirtying Chagai’s claws any further. Ghaji waited a few moments more, just to be sure, before raising his head.

  The orcs were waiting for the lamplight in the cottage to be extinguished and the occupants to settle in for the night. Such stealth wasn’t strictly necessary, of course. There were four of them, after all, and the man they had come to kill was only a simple wood-wright and not a warrior. Still, he was a shifter, and orcs respected the strength his kind were capable of summoning when need be, so they would try to gain every advantage they could before approaching the cottage. The wood-wright and his family would eventually go to sleep, then the orcs could take them by surprise. It wouldn’t be as much fun—or gain them as much honor—as a direct assault, but then Medard was paying them for results, not for them to increase their honor.

  The lamplight went out.