by Tim Waggoner
Karnil froze, a hesitant smile on his lips. Had he imagined it or—There! The hand moved again!
Slowly, awkwardly, the construct sat up. It looked at the four observers, tiny pinpoints of light, of life, flickering deep within its eyes.
“We’ve done it!” Banain shouted. “It’s alive!”
But before the others could echo the telekineticist’s feeling of triumph, the crystals embedded in the psi-forged’s body began to glow with multicolored light. The four observers screamed in a single voice, shrieking at the top of their lungs. Even after their bodies collapsed lifeless to the cavern floor, their minds continued screaming, only now the sound emerged from the throat of the newborn creature that stumbled forth from the crystalline forge.
Though it took every ounce of will and every iota of knowledge he possessed, Galharath managed to separate his awareness from the psi-forged’s mind. Before the creature could pull him in again, he reached up to one of his braids and removed a small green crystal. He flicked it at the psi-forged, and as the shard flew, Galharath took hold of it in a telekinetic grip and drove it straight into the psi-forged’s forehead. The creature’s anguished bellow came out of its mouth in a blend of five different voices, then the crystals affixed to its body stopped glowing and the psi-forged froze, motionless as a statue. The shard that Galharath had struck the creature with, however, continued to glow a soft but steady green.
A wave of weakness washed over the kalashtar, and he collapsed to his knees, lungs heaving, heart pounding, body slick with sweat. He’d survived but it had been a near thing … too near.
“Have you neutralized it?” Cathmore’s tone was casual, as if he were asking Galharath what time it was.
The master assassin didn’t offer to help Galharath up, and the psionic artificer struggled to his feet on his own.
“For now. The shard I used enabled me to redirect the creature’s higher brain functions inward.” He wiped sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. “Eventually he’ll be able to free himself. How long it’ll take, I can’t say. Not long. He’s extremely powerful.”
Cathmore stepped up to the motionless psi-forged, displaying no fear of the creature whatsoever, but then Galharath knew the man didn’t experience fear, thanks to the dark spirit that shared his body. “I assume this construct was produced by the psi-forge.”
Galharath nodded. “The first and only one. The facility’s original builders succeeded in creating a psi-forged, but they failed to take one thing into account: an organic psionicist is born as an infant, with parents to shepherd its mental development. They place psychic safeguards and blocks within the infant’s mind to help protect the child—and those around it—as it grows and learns to master its abilities. The psi-forged was born fully developed in terms of power, but it was as an infant in terms of control. Its psychic abilities manifested wildly in the first few moments of its life, slaying its makers, or rather, their bodies. Their minds, their souls, if you will, were absorbed by the creature and still dwell within it to this day.” Galharath stared at the motionless psi-forged. “What you see before you is five separate beings trapped within a single form.”
It would have been six if Galharath hadn’t managed to resist the psi-forged’s power. As it was, the creature had nearly claimed his mind as well.
Cathmore looked into the psi-forged’s eyes. The sockets were dark now and would remain so until Galharath freed the construct from the psychic trap that ensnared it.
“Fascinating,” the old man said in a voice barely above a whisper. “In a sense, this is a child, isn’t it?” He smiled. “How appropriate. I’ve always been good with the young ones.” He turned to Galharath. “Did you learn anything else about our new friend?”
“A few things. He calls himself Solus. When representatives of House Cannith came to investigate why they’d ceased to receive communications from this facility, Solus hid, cloaking himself from their perceptions, just as he did with us. They found the bodies of the others, decided the project was a failure, and closed down the facility. They departed, unaware of Solus’s existence. Solus has remained within Mount Luster ever since, rarely venturing outside. I’m not certain, but I got the sense that he’s been trying to learn how to control his abilities so that he won’t endanger anyone else. He has obtained a modicum of mastery over the years, but he still has quite a way to go.”
Cathmore reached out and placed an arthritic claw on Galharath’s shoulder. The assassin’s touch was cold as ice. “Excellent, Galharath. Well done.” The old man turned to regard Solus once more. “Remember what I told you about Fate? It appears that Fate has granted us an opportunity to learn more about psi-forged before we begin producing our own. There is much we can learn from our new friend. Much indeed.”
If he doesn’t destroy us first, Galharath thought.
CHAPTER
TEN
Rocking, swaying … wood creaking, wind howling, cold seeping into his bones, slowly turning them to ice. A ship—they were on a ship.
Diran struggled to open his eyes, but whatever drug the Coldhearts had used upon him and Ghaji was strong, and its hold was not easily broken. He fought to escape the black numbness that held him in its grip, but like a drowning man on the verge of going down for the third and final time, he was too weak. Despite his efforts he felt himself sink back down into nothingness.
“Do you know why I summoned you here?” Cathmore asked.
Diran shook his head. He hadn’t been in his new home long, but he’d already learned through painful experience that if he didn’t know the right answer to a question, it was better not to say anything at all. He felt an urge to reach up and touch the bruised and swollen flesh of his face, but he resisted, not wishing to risk adding another injury by displaying weakness before Cathmore.
The two of them—man and boy—stood within a large room located on one of the lower levels of Emon Gorsedd’s manor home. Diran had never been here before, but he’d heard of this place from the other students. It was called the Proving Room, though why it was named so, or what took place inside, no one would say. The ceiling was high, the walls and floor wooden and bereft of decoration of any sort. They weren’t even painted. The only features in the room save for the cold fire globes hovering near the ceiling were a door on the far wall opposite from the one through which Diran had entered and a wide mahogany chest with double doors set against one wall.
Diran was a fisherman’s son, and before coming here, he’d never seen anything as fine as the highly polished wood the chest was made from, but Emon Gorsedd was a man with, as he put it, “refined” tastes. Diran had quickly learned that refined really meant expensive. Diran wished Emon was here now. The man was warmer than Cathmore, and while Diran didn’t exactly trust Emon, he wasn’t terrified of him, not like he was of Cathmore. The man’s eyes were cold and lifeless, like those of a dead fish, and his voice was flat and emotionless. Cathmore didn’t seem altogether human to Diran, and he found it hard to believe that the man was Emon’s half-brother. The two didn’t seem to have anything in common at all.
Cathmore’s eyes narrowed as he regarded Diran more closely, and Diran fought to suppress a shiver. “None of the other students told you what was going to happen to you in this room? Not even so much as a hint?”
Diran shook his head again. He’d been at the manse for two weeks, and during that time the other students, almost all of them older than Diran, had barely looked at him, let alone spoken to him. One girl around his own age had smiled at him a few times, though. He thought he’d heard another student call her Makala, but he wasn’t sure that he’d heard right.
Cathmore’s lips stretched into a thin lizard-like smile. “Good. That’s as it should be.”
Diran was startled by Cathmore’s response, and for the first time since his arrival he wondered if the real reason none of the other students spoke to him wasn’t because they were unfriendly but rather because they were afraid.
Diran wore a simple
gray tunic and sandals; the outfit seemed to be the unofficial uniform of Emon Gorsedd’s students. Cathmore, however, wore a light brown long-sleeved shirt, tan pants, and boots. Diran had noticed that Cathmore tended to dress in colors similar to his surroundings, and today his clothing matched well with the wood that this chamber had been made from. During his years on the Lhazaar fishing with his mother and father, Diran had witnessed how the octopus could blend into its surroundings by altering the color and even the texture of its skin. He wondered if Cathmore made his wardrobe choices for the same reason: protective coloration.
“What are you thinking right now?” Cathmore asked.
Diran didn’t think it a good idea to share his observations about Cathmore’s manner of dress, but he knew he couldn’t remain silent any longer, not now that he’d been asked a direct question.
“I’m thinking about my parents.” Saying the words turned the lie into reality, and he was filled with a sudden mixture of sorrow and anger.
“Do you miss them?”
Diran thought this an odd question. Was Cathmore simply asking as some sort of test? He sounded sincere, almost as if he didn’t quite comprehend how one human being could mourn the loss of another.
Diran decided to put up a brave front. “I was raised in the Principalities. My parents taught me that life was harsh and death is only ever a heartbeat away.”
Cathmore nodded slowly, as if considering Diran’s reply. “Wise words, but I don’t imagine such knowledge makes you miss your parents any less.”
Diran didn’t think Cathmore meant that as a question, but he responded anyway. “That’s true.”
“I doubt they’re any more effective in quelling the anger surging within you … anger toward the raiders that killed your parents.”
Diran gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. “Also true.”
“There is one thing that will help, though, one thing that will give you the peace that you seek.” Cathmore stepped toward Diran and when next he spoke, his voice was almost a purr. “Would you like to know what it is?”
Diran sensed that Cathmore had some sort of trick planned, but he knew he had no choice but to go along. Moreover, part of him—a cold dark part that had been born the day his parents died and their bodies left for the sharks—wanted to know.
“Yes,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cathmore smiled, displaying his teeth, and Diran thought that not all sharks lived in water. Cathmore clapped his hands loudly and the door on the far side of the chamber opened. A pair of men garbed entirely in black entered carrying between them a naked man whose wrists and ankles were bound by leather thongs. The man was gagged, and though he struggled to break free from his captors, the men in black were too strong. The prisoner was bald, his bare scalp covered with a concentric tattoo, and he had a drooping black mustache. He was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, his skin bronzed and leathery from decades of living and working outside. His flesh was marked with criss-crossing scars which spoke of a life lived in conflict. The men in black dragged the prisoner to Cathmore then unceremoniously dumped him onto the floor. They then looked to Cathmore as if awaiting further instructions. “That will be all.”
The two men bowed then returned the way they’d come, closing the door behind them. The man got to his knees and glared at Cathmore, who paid him no attention. He stared at Diran with a penetrating gaze, as if he were trying to see inside Diran’s mind.
“Do you recognize this man?” Cathmore asked.
Diran had trouble hearing Cathmore over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. His vision went gray around the edges, almost as if everything else had ceased to exist, save for the naked man bound before him. “He’s the captain of the raiders who killed my parents.”
“Yes, he is.”
“How … why …?” Diran was barely aware of speaking, but Cathmore answered, stepping closer to Diran and leaning down next to his ear, as if he understood that Diran might have difficulty hearing him.
“How scarcely matters, but I assure you, it wasn’t difficult to locate him.”
Diran stared into the raider captain’s eyes. The man glared back at him with impotent fury but also, Diran thought, with growing fear. “What about his crew?”
“They’re dead, as I ordered.”
Diran looked at Cathmore, not comprehending what the man said.
“Think of it as a welcoming gift, but this one—his name is Bruk, by the way—I saved for you.”
Diran frowned. “I-I don’t …”
“Remember what I told you? That there was one thing that could make the pain and anger of losing your parents go away? It’s called revenge.”
Cathmore turned and walked to the mahogany chest. He flung the doors open and Diran saw that the chest was filled with all manner of weapons mounted inside: swords, maces, spears, hammers, axes, garroting wire, flails, whips, throwing stars … and daggers. So many daggers. Daggers with long blades, short blades, curved blades, straight … Daggers with golden pommels inlaid with jewels, and daggers with simple handles wrapped in leather, but no matter their differences in design and decoration, every one was sharp and deadly.
They were beautiful.
“Come here, boy,” Cathmore said. “Take a closer look.”
Diran hesitated, but he couldn’t help himself. He joined Cathmore at the open chest.
“In your short time here, you’ve learned that we call ourselves the Brotherhood of the Blade,” Cathmore said, “and you know what we do.”
Though this was phrased as a statement, Diran understood that a response was required of him. “Yes. You kill people for money.”
Cathmore looked at Diran for a moment without expression, and Diran feared that he was to be punished for his response, but then Cathmore’s mouth stretched into a cold, mirthless smile. “I’ll say one thing for you boy, you’re direct. I like that. Allow me to be equally direct in turn. We are a brotherhood of assassins, and these—” Cathmore gestured at the chest’s contents—“are the tools of our trade. You may choose any one of these weapons and slay Bruk. You may do the deed swiftly or take as much time as you wish. Whatever you prefer.”
Cathmore reached into the bottom of the chest with both hands and brought forth a black laquer box. He cradled the box with one arm while he opened the lid with his free hand. Inside, resting on a bed of crimson velvet, were a dozen unmarked glass vials, each containing a different color of liquid: cerulean, amber, mauve, aquamarine and more.
“There are many approaches to the dark art of assassination. Some prefer to deal death with steel, while others—such as myself—prefer the refined subtlety to be found in the use of poisons.” Cathmore gazed down upon the vials he displayed to Diran, his eyes gleaming with barely restrained excitement. It took an obvious effort for the master assassin to look up from his beloved poisons and meet Diran’s gaze once more. “Still, as I said, it is your choice.”
Diran pretended to consider his options for several moments, and then he stepped past Cathmore and his vials and reached into the chest. Almost of their own volition, his fingers stroked the cool, sleek metal of a dagger. Gently, almost reverently, he removed the blade from its niche on the inside of the chest door and gripped its handle tight. He expected the dagger’s hilt to warm within his hand, but it remained cool, not cold, but soothing, almost as if it were trying to tell him that everything was going to be all right. Diran gazed down upon the blade, drinking in the way light played across the polished surface of the metal.
Then he lifted his head and turned to look at Bruk.
The sea raider remained on his knees, but he no longer glared at Diran. His eyes were now filled with fear and he was trembling. Diran recalled Bruk’s face as he rammed his swordpoint into his father’s chest, once more heard the cry of agony as blood bubbled past his father’s lips … saw the light dim in his father’s eyes as death came to claim him. Then Diran remembered what the raiders had done to his mother. Bruk had be
en the first to use her, but he had been far from the last.
Diran stepped toward Bruk, pulse pounding in his ears, dagger gripped tight in a palm slick with sweat. He stopped before the sea raider and looked deeply into the man’s eyes. What he searched for, he didn’t know. Some sign of remorse or regret, perhaps. An acknowledgement that here, at the end of his life, Bruk realized the grief he had caused so many and was sorry, but all Diran saw in the man’s gaze was raw, naked fear.
He relaxed his grip and the dagger thunked to the wooden floor. He turned to Cathmore. “I know what this man did … I saw it, but I cannot kill him. To do so would make me no better than him.”
Cathmore’s face betrayed no hint of emotion as the master assassin regarded Diran for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and walked over to where Diran stood. Cathmore bent down and picked up the dagger that Diran had dropped. Diran feared that he had failed the assassin’s test, and now Cathmore was going to kill him, but Diran didn’t turn away, didn’t avert his gaze from Cathmore. If the man intended to slay him, then so be it. Death would be preferable to a life as an acolyte in the Brotherhood of the Blade.
Cathmore turned and knelt next to Bruk, and with two swift, efficient strokes of the dagger, severed the bonds around the sea raider’s wrists and ankles. Cathmore removed the man’s gag, then stood and tossed the dagger onto the floor next to Bruk.
“Kill the boy and you can go free.”
Diran stared at Cathmore in shock. Bruk looked confused for a moment, then he grinned and reached for the dagger.
Ghaji lay next to Diran in the darkness of the ship’s hold. His half-orc physiology was doing its best to fight off the effects of the drug the Coldhearts had used on him and Diran, but it was strong stuff, and he had no more success than his friend did, and like his friend, Ghaji found his semiconscious mind drifting on the tides of memory …
