by Tim Waggoner
Diran drew another silver dagger from his cloak and turned to face the zombies approaching on his right. He’d had a great deal of experience fighting the undead, and not just as a priest. During the Last War, Karrnath had fielded armies of undead soldiers. The acolytes in the Brotherhood of the Blade employed zombies for quite a different purpose: as living mannequins on which to practice their deadly arts, so Diran was well aware that this was the sort of battle in which he was next to useless. If he couldn’t repel the zombies by channeling the power of the Silver Flame, there was little else he could do. He could hurl one dagger after the other with deadly accuracy, but it would scarcely matter if his targets weren’t alive in the first place. One zombie he could handle by deftly slicing through undead muscles and tendons until the creature, though still possessed of its mockery of a life, was unable to move, but more than one zombie came at them now, many, many more. Diran knew that if he and Ghaji were going to make it off Demothi Island alive, he would have to use his mind instead of his blades.
Ghaji grunted and Diran watched his friend slice through the torsos of three zombies with his axe. The top halves of the undead creatures flopped to the ground, but the bottom halves stood there for a moment as if stunned. The trunks and legs then began stumbling around erratically, lost without even the simple commands of a rotted zombie brain to give them direction. Ghaji ignored the meandering legs and attacked the next zombie that came at him.
Diran was grateful that none of the undead was recently reanimated, else their bodies would be too fresh and they’d move far more swiftly than these water-logged abominations, but even at their slow, shuffling pace, Diran estimated that he had only a few moments more before any of the zombies reached him. He’d have to think fast.
While Diran didn’t know the specific details of the evil priest’s identity or his motivations for raising an army of the dead, it was clear that something had gone wrong during the process. Maybe the priest was supposed to have been transformed into stone so that he would become the focal point for the necromantic energies that powered the army of sea-dead. If the statue was the source of the magic that animated the zombies, perhaps they could be stopped by destroying the statue.
Diran examined the stone figure of the evil priest once more, trying to determine if it had an obvious weak point. The dark gems that served in place of eyes? Doubtful. More than likely they were there in order to lure foolish treasure-seekers, greedy artificers, or power-hungry priests to the island. Diran wouldn’t be surprised if there was a curse on the gems as well, but what else could there be? The statue had no other obvious features. No runes were carved into its surface, and there were no others gems or items of any sort embedded in the stone.
Diran glanced away from the statue and saw that a zombie—one with limp octopus tentacles dangling out of its open mouth—was nearly upon him. His thinking time was up.
After the priest’s transformation, the statue had remained in human shape. Perhaps that was a hint as to its weakness. With no time left to consider, Diran gripped the silver dagger in his right hand tight and concentrated on summoning the power of the Silver Flame, willing the power to suffuse the dagger. Argent light blazed forth from the blade. Diran stepped forward, and using all his strength, he rammed the knife into the statue’s chest. The impact sent a jolt of pain shooting through his hand and up along his arm, and he released the dagger’s hilt. He stepped back and saw that an inch or so of the blade had penetrated the statue, but that was all. The dagger still shone with the power of the Silver Flame, though, and Diran could sense the statue’s evil aura reacting to the holy energy, massing its strength at the point of penetration and attempting to nullify the blade. Diran could also sense that if he didn’t do something more and do it fast, the statue would succeed in resisting the Silver Flame.
Diran turned to call out to Ghaji, but his voice was choked off as a pair of slime-coated hands fastened around his throat. The priest found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of the tentacle-mouthed zombie. The undead creature possessed strength far greater than that of a normal zombie, undoubtedly due to its proximity to the ebon statue. Diran felt the creature’s hands tightening around his throat, heard a roaring in his ears as the blood to his head was cut off, saw gray closing in on the edges of his vision, and he knew he was on the verge of death.
Diran still held a dagger in his left hand, and as his consciousness ebbed, he sliced at the zombie’s right wrist with a single swift strike, then sliced its left. Instead of blood, brackish seawater spilled from the wounds, but Diran knew the injuries wouldn’t pain the zombie. Despite the damage done to the zombie’s wrists, the slimy fingers clasped around Diran’s throat did not lose their strength. Consciousness began to ebb, and Diran prepared for his spirit to join with the Silver Flame.
Then a swatch of darkness detached itself from the night and swooped down to the zombie throttling Diran. His vision was too blurry for him to make out what the thing was, but it grabbed hold of the zombie’s shoulders and yanked the undead creature away from the Diran. The zombie’s skeletal fingers scratched Diran’s neck as its grip was broken, and the priest drew in a gasping breath. He could feel himself on the verge of passing out, but he held onto consciousness through sheer force of will. He looked around to see who or what had saved him, but he only saw Ghaji some yards away, the half-orc swinging his elemental axe in great fiery arcs as he annihiliated one zombie after another.
Diran didn’t have time to worry about how he had been saved. The zombies had to be stopped. He tried to call out Ghaji’s name, but the word came out as little more than a raspy whisper. He sucked in another breath and tried again. “Ghaji! Drive home the dagger!”
Ghaji turned toward Diran, frowning in confusion, but then he saw the glowing dagger protruding from the statue’s chest, and his gaze lit up with understanding. Ghaji rammed aside an attacking zombie with his elbow and ran to the statue. Diran stepped aside as his friend approached and swung the flat of his axe at the dagger’s pommel. A loud clang split the air, followed closely by the chuk! of metal being driven into stone.
The silver aura surrounding the dagger spread across the ebon statue until the stony remains of the evil priest glowed bright blue-white. The zombies stopped and stood frozen. Then, one by one, their slimy, sodden flesh began to liquefy and slide off their bones. Seconds later, the army of undead had been reduced to a collection of upright skeletons. Their bones quickly lost cohesion, fell apart, and tumbled to the ground, landing with wet plaps in the puddles.
The silver glow around the statue flared bright one last time before dimming and finally going out. Diran lowered his head and uttered a prayer to the Silver Flame. “Thank you for bringing us victory.” When he lifted his head, he smiled at Ghaji. “Well struck, my friend.”
“Looks like you’re out another dagger. Unless you want me to try and pry it loose.”
Diran shook his head. “Leave it where it is. The statue might become active again if the dagger’s removed.”
“Suits me,” Ghaji said.
Diran reached into one of his cloak’s hidden pockets, removed a bit of silver dust, and sprinkled it into the statue’s eyes. “Divine light, ensure this being never rises again, and protect this island and the surrounding waters from the taint of its evil.”
As Diran finished the rite of the Death of the Foe, Ghaji looked at him and frowned. “You’re bleeding from scratches on your neck.”
“I’m fortunate to still be alive. I was being strangled by one of the zombies when something pulled it away from me. I’m not sure what it …” Diran trailed off as coils of white mist drifted toward them on the night breeze. The coils joined to create a roughly human shape, and then the mist thickened and distinctly feminine features began to emerge. Within moments, a blonde-haired woman stood before them.
Diran felt his heart seize up in his chest, and he tried to say Makala’s name, but he couldn’t get the word past the sudden lump in his throat.
&
nbsp; Makala smiled. “What’s wrong? Zombie got your tongue?”
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
I wondered if I would ever see you again,” Diran said.
“I wondered if you’d ever want to see me again.”
The two of them sat on a pair of rocks on the shore not far from where the Maelstrom had run aground. The Zephyr bobbed in the surf anchored nearby. The elemental sloop was both small and maneuverable enough that Yvka had been able to get her close to the island. The others—including Asenka, whom Diran was pleased had come along—were going through the wreckage of the Coldhearts’ ship. They searched for survivors—or in Hinto’s case, any plunder worth salvaging. Diran suspected at least part of the reason that everyone else aided in the search was to give Makala and him some time alone.
“You know, we all feel somewhat foolish for racing to your rescue.” Makala gestured at a mound of bones sitting in a puddle of foul-smelling slime close by. Similar mounds of liquefied zombie remains covered most of the island. “From the looks of things, you were doing just fine on your own.”
“This night would have had a very different outcome if you hadn’t arrived in time to pull that zombie off me.” He reached up to touch the scratches on the left side of his neck and found them tacky with partially dried blood. After the confusion following the zombies’ destruction, Diran had forgotten about the wounds and hadn’t gotten around to healing himself yet.
He saw how Makala’s gaze fixed on his scratches, how her pupils widened and her nostrils flared. He lowered his hand, but her gaze remained on his neck.
“Am I going to have to reach for my arrowhead?” He meant it as a joke, at least partially, but it came out sounding more like a threat.
Makala tore her gaze away from Diran’s neck with a start, and she shook her head as if to clear it. “I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“I understand. We both once played host to dark spirits of a different sort.”
“That experience does help me resist the Hunger,” Makala said, “but it’s not the same. The dark spirits Emon Gorsedd forced upon us dwelled within our bodies. They whispered to us … manipulated us, but even so, they remained separate from us. The Hunger is different. It’s always with me, and it never grows weaker, no matter how much I feed. The Hunger is me and I am it. We’re inseparable.”
Diran realized he didn’t understand, not really. “I take it that you have killed to sustain your life.”
She looked away from him and gazed out across the sea. Diran was struck by how pale she’d become. She’d always been fair-skinned, but now—here, in the moonlight—her flesh seemed white and smooth as marble. He wondered if he were to reach out and touched her if he’d find her skin cold as marble as well.
“I try to avoid taking life when I can,” she said in a soft voice. “Let’s leave it at that.”
“As you wish.”
They fell into an uncomfortable silence. They spent the next several moments watching the others crawl about the lopsided deck of the Maelstrom.
“The others are uneasy around me,” Makala said. “I knew they would be, but it hurts.” She gave him a quick smile. “At least you’re not treating me like a monster.”
“Try not to blame them,” Diran said. “None of them has known you for as long as I have—and Tresslar and Hinto barely know you at all.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “You forgot to mention Asenka.” A hint of ice had crept into her voice.
“We only met today.”
“She likes you, Diran. I can tell.” A pause. “Do you like her?”
Diran felt uncomfortable with the direction this conversation was taking. “As I said, we just met. She seems to be a competent commander.”
“Is that all you think of her?”
Diran looked at the eastern horizon and saw the first hint of dawn pinking the night sky.
“The sun will be rising soon.”
“I know. I can feel it.” Makala stood. She started to walk toward the water, but then she stopped and spoke without turning back around to face him. “I’ve learned a great deal about my … condition … over the last few months. It’s hard to live with the Hunger but not impossible. If I can do it, Diran, I know you can. We could be together. Forever.”
Without waiting for a response, Makala continued walking to the sea. Just as she was about to step into the water, her form blurred and she took to the air in bat form. She soared toward the Zephyr, once more assuming human shape as she landed upon the deck of the sloop. She then climbed into the obsidian sarcophagus and drew the lid closed over her. An instant later, a ray of sunlight broke over the horizon. It was soon followed by more, but despite their warmth, they did nothing to drive away the chill surrounding Diran’s heart.
Many miles to the west, across the Gulf of Ingjald and well into the foothills of the Hoarfrost Mountains, the first light of dawn also touched Mount Luster. Despite the mountain’s name, however, the sun’s rays did nothing to make its dull gray surface look any less dull or any less gray.
Inside the hollowed-out mountain, Aldarik Cathmore stood outside the workshop where Galharath continued to work on Solus. Chagai sat cross-legged on the floor, elbows propped on his knees, eyes closed, chin on his chest. The orc mercenary had learned long ago to rest when he could, and after his journey to Perhata and back—not to mention his “reunion” with Ghaji—his body needed it.
Chagai was unable to do more than doze fitfully, though, for Cathmore’s constant fidgeting and fussing kept waking him. For an elderly human, the man seemed to have a vast supply of energy. He put Chagai in mind of a flame that flares most brightly just before going out.
Chagai spoke without opening his eyes. “Galharath will be finished when he’s finished. Your pacing isn’t going to make things go any faster.”
Cathmore’s footsteps stopped. “I appreciate your advice, but you’ll forgive me if I ignore it. Your kind isn’t exactly known for its wisdom, after all.”
Chagai felt an urge to draw his lips back from his teeth, but he didn’t want Cathmore to know that he’d gotten to him, so the orc resisted the impulse. “Wisdom is where you find it,” he said.
Cathmore laughed. “It appears I have an orc philosopher on my hands!”
Employer or not, Chagai thought it high time that he taught the old man a lesson in respect. He leaped to his feet and rushed Cathmore, fist cocked and ready to strike. Chagai didn’t see Cathmore move, but the elderly assassin now held a dagger, and what’s more, it was pressed against the orc’s throat. An acrid smell floated to Chagai’s nostrils, and he knew that the blade as coated with poison. He didn’t recognize the scent, but he had no doubt that whatever the substance was, it was deadly.
Cathmore’s mouth stretched into a slow, wide smile, and his eyes glittered with an unsettling dark light that Chagai had never seen in the man’s gaze before.
“Lower your hand, orc, or you’ll be dead before your body hits the floor.”
Chagai had been the one to attack, and to back down now would bring much dishonor to him. On the other hand, honor didn’t mean a thing if you were dead.
Chagai lowered his hand.
Cathmore grinned at the orc a moment longer before slowly removing the daggerpoint away from his throat. “I assure you, Chagai, the next time you decide to test me will be your last. Do you understand?”
The orc answered through gritted teeth. “I do.”
“Very good.” With surprising deftness for one whose hands resembled vulture claws, Cathmore returned the dagger to its hiding place somewhere within the folds of his bearskin cloak. “At least your impetuosity has served to entertain me while we wait, and for that I thank you.” The master assassin turned his back on Chagai and began pacing once more.
Chagai stood there for a moment longer before returning to the spot where he had been resting. He sat but this time he didn’t lower his head or close his eyes. Instead he kept his smoldering gaze fixed on Cathmore and amused himself
by imagining all the different ways he could make the old man suffer before he died.
Solus stood high atop a mountainous peak, white clouds drifting past at astonishing speed, though the air seemed still. Solus had only left the interior of Mount Luster a handful of times since the facility had been abandoned, but during those brief excursions into the outer world, he had learned that he did not experience existence the same way flesh beings did. He felt changes in temperature, but they meant little to him in regard to his own personal comfort, and while he also felt wind, he experienced it only as varying degrees of pressure against his solid body. He knew from the swirling, confused tangle of memories belonging to the four minds that he had absorbed that such physical sensations as the feel of sunlight on skin, of a breeze ruffling one’s hair were far different and more intense that what he could experience on his own. He felt a pang of loss for something he had never known save through the memories of others.
Solus gazed down from his vantage point high upon the mountain and saw a city spread out below him, and beyond it, a slate-gray mass of water that stretched for mile after mile toward the eastern horizon. Though he had never seen such a sight before, the memories he had accidentally stolen from his makers whispered that he was looking at a vast body of water called the sea.
“Lovely, isn’t it?”
Solus turned to see that he wasn’t alone. Standing on the mountaintop next to him was a tall, lithe figure sporting a long brown ponytail braid woven with multicolored crystals. Solus felt no fear upon seeing the man, only mild curiosity blended with a sense of familiarity, as if he’d seen the man somewhere before, but that was impossible, of course. Aside from some representatives from House Cannith who’d come to investigate what had happened at the Mount Luster facility a few weeks after Solus’s birth, the psi-forged had never seen another living being … or had he?
“Who are you?”
