by Tim Waggoner
Asenka gazed upon the golden dragonhead, its ruby eyes and crystalline teeth, and realized she was in the presence of a great mystery. After a time, she said, “Maybe it’s better that you don’t know more than you do.”
“I’ve often thought the same,” Tresslar replied.
They both fell silent after that and stood at the railing, side by side, watching the waves as the Zephyr sped across the water toward Perhata.
Inside the obsidian sarcophagus, Makala lay in darkness. The coffin’s power insulated her from the effects of sea travel, so much so that she had no awareness that the ship was even moving. She wasn’t asleep, at least not in the way that mortals understood the term. Just as vampires existed in a shadowy nether region between the worlds of the dead and the living, when resting, they hovered in a state between awareness and unconsciousness. The closest mortals could come to this experience was the delirium that accompanied a dangerously high fever. Makala’s mind drifted in this ethereal twilight, images and sensations coming unbidden and leaving only distorted, fragmented memories of their visit upon departing.
Her reunion with Diran dominated her thoughts. The images that paraded through her mind were mostly of him, but at the extreme edge of her semi-awareness a voice whispered to her, as it had every day since she had been transformed into a vampire by Onkar, Erdis Cai’s first mate. When she awakened, she would have no memory of this voice—she never did—but she would be changed a bit more by the dark words it spoke.
Makala … blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh … Soon you will be ready. Soon you will be worthy. Soon we shall be one….
And then the voice—feminine, cruel, and so very, very cold—laughed.
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
Diran stood at the Zephyr’s bow as the elemental sloop approached Perhata. His lips were dry, the skin hard and cracked, and his cheeks were red-raw from windburn. He could’ve easily healed himself, but he didn’t bother. He had long ago gotten used to ignoring pain.
“You should do something about those lips before they start bleeding. You don’t want to be more of a temptation to our slumbering beauty than you already are.”
Diran replied to Ghaji without turning to look at him. “I’m not in the mood for jokes.”
“Since when has that ever stopped me?” The half-orc stepped up next to Diran and leaned forward onto the railing. “Sorry if my attempt at humor fell flat. It’s the orcish way to try and cheer up a companion by provoking him.”
Diran’s cracked lips did their best to form a smile. “What’s the companion supposed to do in response?”
“There are several acceptable responses, but the most common is to kill the idiot who’s dumb enough to provoke an upset orc.”
Diran couldn’t stop himself from laughing.
Ghaji smiled. “From your reaction, can I assume you’re not going to kill me?”
“Maybe later,” Diran said.
It was late afternoon, and though the sky was clear and the sun shone bright, the air remained cold as ever. Ships of various types—two and three-masted merchant vessels, fishing boats, and small, sleek pleasure craft—plied the waters around Perhata as their owners went about their business. The wind rushing over Diran’s face began to die down, and he realized the Zephyr was slowing. He glanced back and saw that the sails weren’t as full as they had been a moment ago, and he knew that Yvka had commanded the wind elemental to decrease its output so that they could approach the dock at a safe speed.
“How are you?” Ghaji asked.
Diran faced forward once more. “Ever since that awful night in Grimwall, I’ve tried to imagine what it would be like to see Makala again … how I would feel …” He shook his head. “I didn’t even come close.”
“How do you feel?”
“As if I’ve betrayed her. I never should have let her go the night she was changed. I was too weak to do what had to be done.”
“You loved her, Diran,” Ghaji said. “Still do, unless I miss my guess. That’s not a weakness.”
“I am one of the Purified, and I swore an oath to fight evil in whatever from it might take.” Diran paused. “Even if that form is my love for Makala.”
“I don’t understand.”
Diran turned to look at Ghaji. “If I truly loved Makala, I never would’ve allowed the corruption of undeath to take hold in her. I would’ve slain her the moment I knew her transformation was inevitable. By allowing her to continue existing as a vampire, I’ve condemned her to something far worse than natural death. She might seem to be the same person now, but eventually her spirit will succumb to the darkness that dwells within her and she will be lost.”
“Makala’s as strong-willed a person as I’ve ever met,” Ghaji said. “If anyone can resist becoming a monster, it’s her.”
“That’s what I’ve tried to tell myself these last few months,” Diran said, “but think of Erdis Cai. The man was a legendary adventurer who faced numerous perils and always managed to survive them one way or another. He had a strong spirit too, but that didn’t prevent him from being consumed by evil after his transformation into a vampire.”
“That’s different. Erdis Cai wasn’t simply bitten on the neck by another vampire. He was changed by Vol herself. No mortal can resist her power.”
“But that’s just it, don’t you see? Onkar was Erdis Cai’s first mate, and he was transformed by Vol at the same time Cai was. Onkar changed Makala, which means she’s also infected with Vol’s darkness, and as you said, no mortal can resist her power.” He glanced over his shoulder, and though he couldn’t see Makala’s obsidian sarcophagus from where he stood, he nevertheless sensed its foul presence. “At least, not forever.”
“If you truly believe that, then why don’t you walk aft, open the coffin’s lid, and expose Makala to the light of the sun? You wouldn’t be killing her; you’d be setting her free.”
Diran knew his friend was right. He also knew that he couldn’t do it.
“I told you—because I’m weak.”
“No, because you’re human.” Ghaji put his hand on Diran’s shoulder. “No offense intended.”
Diran couldn’t help smiling. “So what’s your excuse? You’re only half human, after all.”
Ghaji shrugged. “I guess I’m the half that can’t bring himself to kill a friend …even when he should.”
The two companions spoke no more on the matter, and the Zephyr continued toward Perhata’s docks.
Rather than finding a berth for the Zephyr at the docks, Yvka dropped off the others then sailed away. She planned to return the elemental sloop to the secluded location where she’d hidden her before—both to conceal her from those who might be tempted to steal the priceless craft as well as to protect Makala while she slumbered. Yvka promised to meet up with the others later at the King Prawn. Ghaji felt a bit nervous about the idea of Yvka being alone with Makala, even if the latter was sleeping, but he reassured himself that Yvka could deal with whatever threat came her way, including an attack by a vampire. Besides, Yvka would be safe enough as long as the sun was up … he hoped.
As Ghaji, Diran, Hinto, Tresslar, and Asenka walked down the dock to shore, Ghaji said, “So where were we before being so rudely interrupted by Haaken and his crew?”
“We’d decided to track down the barghest that attempted to steal Tresslar’s dragonwand,” Diran said.
“A worthy goal, if I do say so myself.” Tresslar yawned, “but perhaps it might be best if we got some sleep first. We spent most of the night chasing after you two, and while we dozed aboard the Zephyr, I wouldn’t exactly call a few catnaps a restful sleep.”
“I’m not tired,” Hinto said, “but then I’m not an old man like you, Tresslar.”
“Old?” The artificer gave a derisive snort. “I prefer to think of myself as seasoned.”
The others laughed, but Ghaji had to admit Tresslar had a point. Even though Diran’s healing powers had countered the effects of the amber sleep, Ghaji still
felt a weary ache in his bones. Diran’s ability to heal could work miracles, but it didn’t replace the need to attend to one’s natural functions. Ghaji could use a soft bed right now, even if he was alone in it.
Ghaji expected Diran to protest, for the priest could drive himself quite hard at times, but instead Diran let out a weary sigh. “I suppose you’re right, Tresslar. Much as I hate to postpone our hunt for the barghest, it has been an eventful couple of days. Besides, we’ll be all the sharper after a bit of rest.”
“I’ll return to the Scorpions’ barracks and have my people put the word out about the barghest,” Asenka said. “Perhaps they can learn something of the creature’s whereabouts.”
Diran gave the woman a grateful smile. “That would be helpful. Thank you.”
They held each other’s gaze a few moments longer than necessary, and it was clear to Ghaji that Makala’s return hadn’t diminished Diran’s attraction to the commander of the Sea Scorpions nor hers to him. Ghaji wondered if that was a good sign, or a sign of trouble to come. Both, he decided.
“I think we might have to postpone our rest,” Hinto said. The halfling’s voice held a note of fear, and everyone turned to see what had disturbed the diminutive pirate.
From the far end of the dock, a wolf came bounding toward them at terrific speed. It leaped at Tresslar and its jaws snapped closed around the dragonwand. The impact spun Tresslar sideways, and as the artificer hit the worn, wooden planks, the wolf yanked the wand free of his belt and dashed off.
Ghaji drew his axe, intending to hurl it at the fleeing barghest, but before he could draw back his arm to throw his weapon, a pair of silver daggers flashed through the air. Diran’s knives struck the barghest between the shoulder blades, and the creature howled in agony. The barghest stumbled, its forelegs slid out from under it, and the dragonwand fell from its mouth as the beast collapsed.
Ghaji ran to the barghest without waiting to see if the others followed. He knew they would. The half-orc willed his elemental axe to burst into flame, and as he saw the wounded barghest scrabbling toward the dragonwand, clearly intending to retrieve it, Ghaji hurled his weapon. The axe tumbled end over end, flame trailing behind as it streaked toward its target. The axe blade struck the barghest in the side of its neck, and when the creature opened its mouth to scream, a gout of blood fountained forth instead.
“Ghaji!” Diran shouted. “Decapitate the beast!”
By the time Ghaji reached the barghest, its fur had caught fire. The flames rapidly spread across its body, which became slightly more humanoid as the barghest reverted to its natural form. Even wounded as it was, the beast continued to attempt to regain the dragonwand, now reaching for it with clawed fingers. Ghaji had no idea whether the barghest could command the wand’s magic, but he wasn’t about to let the creature get hold of it. He jammed his foot against the barghest’s side to hold the beast in place, reached down, and yanked the axe free from the creature’s neck. Blood gushed from the wound, and the barghest once more tried to cry out in pain but only managed to release a bubbling gurgle. Ghaji intended for it to be the last sound the beast ever made. He raised his flaming axe, ready to bring it down and end the barghest’s infernal life.
Diran Bastiaan!
Ghaji grimaced as the voice thundered within his mind. He felt sudden pressure inside his skull, as if his brain were swelling rapidly, like a huge boil getting ready to burst. He forgot about the barghest, forgot he was holding his axe. All he could think about was the voice, and how much it hurt.
Return what you have stolen from me!
Ghaji’s grip on his axe loosened, and he possessed just enough presence of mind to deactivate its fiery aura before the weapon fell to the dock. Ghaji followed his axe down, landing hard on his knees, though he barely felt the impact. He clapped his hands to his head, as if he were trying to hold his skull together, and clenched his jaw against the pain tearing through his mind.
Where are you? Thief! Monster! Face me!
Each word was like a hammer blow to the head, and Ghaji fell over onto his side, moaning, tears streaming from his eyes. He felt something warm and wet on his upper lip, and realized that blood trickled from his nostrils. He tried to rise but his body refused to listen. All he could do was lie there and wait for the voice of thunder to kill him and bring his agony to an end.
Skarm was aware of the voice speaking in his mind, but he had more pressing concerns to deal with at that moment—like putting out the flames that were rapidly consuming his body. He had lost a great deal of blood and was very weak, but he was a supernatural creature, and though it remained an effort for him to do so, still he could move, if only barely. He pushed himself to the edge of the dock inch by tortuous inch—practically dragging his half-severed head—until he felt himself teeter and then slip over the side. The frigid water came as a welcome shock to his pain-ravaged body, and the flames snuffed out.
Skarm floated in the soothing embrace of the sea for several moments before his lungs began to scream for air. He swam toward where he judged the dock to be, and surprised himself when his clawed hands actually came in contact with wood. He grabbed hold of the support and climbed painfully to the surface. When his head broke water, he drew a gasping breath and then clung tight to the wet wood of the support as he continued to breathe. Hidden from sight by the dock above him, he was safe—for the moment, at least, but if the half-orc and his friends thought to search under it …
Then he heard the voice again, a voice speaking in his mind, he realized, calling for Diran Bastiaan. The barghest’s mind was not like that of a natural creature, and though he heard the psionic shout, it caused him little discomfort—a blessing considering that every other part of his body was in utter agony. He had one other thing to be grateful for as well: whoever or whatever the psionic communication issued from, the voice was calling for the priest. That meant Bastiaan and the half-orc had bigger problems to worry about then tracking down a wounded barghest—and that suited Skarm just fine.
Diran possessed no priestly powers that would allow him to block the shout in his mind, but he did know numerous meditation techniques—some learned at Emon Gorsedd’s academy, some when he was studying for the priesthood—and he employed them now. He closed his eyes and pictured a pond, its surface smooth as glass. The voice spoke again and the pond rippled, but Diran imagined a soft breeze blowing across the water’s surface, smoothing away the ripples until the pond was still once more. The pain the voice had caused receded, replaced by a feeling of peaceful calm. Then, and only then, did Diran reply to the voice.
I am at the docks. I shall await you here.
The voice didn’t reply, but Diran felt the pressure begin to ease, as if his head had been held tight within a giant vise grip that was finally being removed.
He opened his eyes.
Ghaji was struggling to his feet near a scorched section of the dock. Of the barghest there was no sign. Tresslar hung limp in Asenka’s arms as the woman worked to haul the artificer to a standing position. Hinto lay on his side, curled into a ball, trembling violently. All of them had bloody noses—Diran dabbed his fingers to his upper lip—as did he. His head ached as if he’d drank far too much of the bilgewater the King Prawn served in place of ale.
He hurried over to Tresslar. The artificer was unconscious, skin ashen, features slack on the left side of his face. Diran was no chirurgeon, but as a priest he’d been trained in both mystical and mundane aspects of the healing arts, and he knew the older man had suffered a stroke.
“Hold him as still as you can,” Diran told Asenka. The woman nodded, and Diran gently touched his fingertips to the artificer’s temples. He closed his eyes and allowed the healing power of the Silver Flame to surge through him and into Tresslar’s body. When Diran opened his eyes, he saw that Tresslar remained unconscious, but the muscles on the left side of the man’s face no longer hung slack.
“Let’s lay him down gently,” Diran said. “I’ve managed to heal the worst of
the damage, but it will be some time before he awakens.”
Together, Diran and Asenka lay down the unconscious Tresslar, then the priest turned his attention to the woman. “Are you hurt?”
Asenka gave him a weak smile. “A headache, and I feel weak as a kitten, but I’ll live.”
Diran returned her smile. He could alleviate the aftereffects of the psionic assault with his healing powers, but he wanted to check on Ghaji and Hinto first, in case they were injured more severely.
Ghaji walked up, axe tucked beneath his belt, Tresslar’s dragonwand held in his hand. “I’m really starting to get irritated with that barghest,” he growled. The half-orc’s complexion was a lighter shade of green than usual, and his upper lip was smeared with blood, but otherwise he appeared hale enough. Anticipating Diran’s next words, Ghaji said, “I’m fine. See to the halfling.”
Diran knew his friend would say he was fine even if he’d lost all four limbs and was about to lose his head in the bargain, but Diran agreed with Ghaji’s assessment, so he walked over and knelt at the Hinto’s side.
The halfling yelped when Diran placed a hand on his shoulder, but then he spoke in a stuttering, quavering voice, forcing out each word with an obvious effort. “I-I’m all right. J-j-just … afraid.”
Diran was glad Hinto wasn’t seriously injured, but he felt a wave of pity for his small friend. Maybe Ghaji had been right about the halfling not being able to endure Diran’s chosen quest.
“Just lie still until the fear passes, Hinto. All will be well.” Diran stood, wondering if he had just lied to his friend.
“Looks like we weren’t the only ones who heard the voice,” Ghaji said.
Diran saw what Ghaji meant. The docks were in an uproar, men and women shouting in confusion, crying out in pain, fleeing into the city streets or casting off lines in preparation of sailing away.
