by Tim Waggoner
She reached into the pouch that dangled from her belt and withdrew what seemed to be a simple goose feather with tiny arcane symbols etched into the quill. Zivon still sat, face red, gasping for breath, but despite his discomfort, he continued to glare at her with undiminished hatred. She knew that he intended to kill her and that nothing would stop him—nothing except the mystical weapon she held in her hand.
Anger took hold of her. How dare Zivon attack her like that? He might rank higher on the Network hierarchy than she, but that didn’t give him the right to treat her with such disrespect! She was Yvka w’Ydellan, member of House Phiarlan by birth, now member of House Thuranni by choice. She allowed no one to lay hands upon her person—no one!
She began whispering the charm that would activate the poison-tipped quill-dart and send it flying straight into Zivon’s heart with all the swiftness and force of a crossbow bolt. But before she had gotten halfway through the spell, her voice died away. She saw that the room had descended into total pandemonium. Diners and servers alike were attacking one another, using utensils, bare hands, even morsels of food as weapons. They fought with wild-eyed ferocity, yelling with incoherent fury as they struck blows frenzied and savage.
Where had this sudden rage come from? It wasn’t like her to become so emotional, especially in the midst of a hazardous situation. It was her ability to think calmly and rationally during moments like these that had kept her alive for so many years. How …
Then it hit her. Sudden rage.
The Fury.
Something had happened to make the Fury intensify, and she had a good idea what: Diran and Ghaji had reached the palace of Baroness Calida and had begun their attempt to remove the curse on the House of Kolbyr. If that were the case, and the Fury was this intense here, how much worse would it be in the palace, the center of the curse? She feared for Diran, but most of all, she feared for Ghaji.
Gods be with you, love.
Perhaps it was the knowledge that her anger was false, forced upon her by foul magic. Perhaps it was the cool rationality that she had cultivated and relied on for her entire life. And perhaps it was simply concern for the safety of the man she loved. Whichever did the trick, the Fury lost its hold on her, and she no longer felt a burning desire to send a mystic missile shooting into Zivon’s heart.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean that Zivon had abandoned his desire to slay her.
The man had caught his breath at last. He grabbed hold of one of his utensils—a fork—and with a growl, he overturned the table, leaped to his feet, and charged.
Armed only with a magical quill she no longer wished to use, Yvka steeled herself to meet his assault and wondered how—or even if—she could stop Zivon without killing him.
The man in the ragged cloak stood in the street outside the palace home of Baroness Calida. He had tracked Diran, Ghaji, and Asenka here, but—as he had no excuse to allow him entrance—he had been forced to remain outside. He’d overheard enough of the three companions’ conversation as he’d followed to know what Diran intended to do, and he also knew that Diran, strong as he was, would have difficulty dealing with the evil that dwelled within the halls of the palace. And so he waited outside, bow in hand and strung, quiver slung over his shoulder, waiting for the moment his aid would be needed.
It didn’t take long.
He could sense the evil the palace radiated, could almost see it as a foul black cloud spreading outward in all directions from the building. More, he could smell it: like the carcass of an animal that had been gutted and cast into a sewage pit to rot. The stink offended him on a primal level, and—though it shamed him to acknowledge this—it excited a part of him, too. His mouth began to water and without his realizing it, a soft growl of desire began rumbling deep in his throat.
Then, like a sudden violent cloudburst, the dark energy emanating from the palace doubled, tripled, quadrupled in intensity. The cloaked man felt the evil power slam into him with almost physical force and then move past as it rolled like an ebon wave to inundate the streets of Kolbyr. For an instant, the cloaked man’s spirit was almost swept away by the dark tide, but he resisted the call of the Fury. He’d had much experience resisting such urgings over the last few months, and though it had been an ordeal, that experience saved him now.
Unfortunately, the citizens of Kolbyr, though used to withstanding the day-to-day effects of the Fury, had no preparation for dealing with it at full intensity. The Fury grabbed hold of their minds, instantly transforming them into murderous fiends intent only one thing: shedding as much blood as they could as swiftly as possible. The air filled with shrieks of fury, maniacal laughter, and cries of agony as the ensorcelled Kolbyrites began a sickening orgy of pain and death. The cloaked man hesitated, torn as to where his duty lay. He didn’t wish to abandon the people in the street to their fate, but if Diran and Ghaji failed to lift the curse, every man, woman, and child within the city would perish, and there would be nothing he, one lone bowman, could do to save them.
His duty was clear.
Leontis ran toward the palace’s main entrance.
The throat and the heart, Diran decided. Slash one, pierce the other … do it at the same time, and even a creature as strong as a half-orc would perish within moments. He’d have to make sure to stay clear of the beast’s flaming axe, but even if he did take an injury, as long as it wasn’t a mortal blow he would be able to heal himself after his opponent had been reduced to a cooling corpse. Then …
The half-orc swung his elemental axe in a wide arc designed to separate Diran’s head from his body. It was a clumsy attack, fueled by emotion rather than directed by skill, and Diran knew he could easily evade it and get in his planned strikes. But instead of lashing out at the half-orc with his daggers, Diran threw himself to the side, tucked in his right shoulder, rolled, and came to his feet. He spun around to guard against another attack by the half-orc, and—though his hands itched to hurl his daggers at the green-skinned half-blood—Diran stood and regarded his foe.
Something about what was happening bothered Diran. The situation seemed wrong somehow, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. On the surface, it all appeared simple enough: he hated the half-orc, the half-orc hated him, and each wanted the other dead. But …
You thought of healing yourself a moment ago. Your power to heal flows from the Silver Flame. You are a priest of the Silver Flame, one of the Purified. You do not kill without reason, and you certainly do not want to kill your friend.
Friend. It was a simple word, but a profound one, and as if it were a charm to counter to effects of the Fury, once he’d thought it, Diran found himself released from the demon’s influence.
Ghaji moved in for another strike, features contorted into a mask of pure hatred. Diran wanted to speak to his friend, to try to reach the real Ghaji, but there was no time. The demon had unleashed the full force of the Fury upon Kolbyr, and Diran knew that at this moment men, women, and children throughout the city were in the grip of the Fury’s killing madness. Innocents were dying, and Diran couldn’t afford to waste any more time.
With a bestial roar, Ghaji swung his axe in an upward arc designed to gut Diran from stomach to throat. Diran sidestepped the blow—the heat from the elemental axe’s flame stinging the skin of his face—then he moved in close and, wielding his daggers with surgical precision, he sliced through Ghaji’s right bicep with one blade while at the same time that he rammed the second into the half-orc’s right quadriceps, sinking the dagger into the leg muscle all the way to the hilt.
Ghaji bellowed in pain and released his grip on the axe. The weapon’s flames extinguished the instant physical contact with its wielder was broken, and the axe fell to the floor. Without the illumination provided by the elemental weapon, the windowless chamber plunged into darkness. Before Diran could move out of the way, Ghaji—maddened with pain—head-butted him, and bright light flashed behind the priest’s eyes. Diran staggered backward, struggling to hold onto consciousness,
knowing that if he passed out, the demon would be victorious and dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Kolbyrites would die. He reached into a pocket and withdrew a small light gem. It wasn’t very powerful, but when Diran activated it, the gem shone brightly enough for him to see.
Blood gushed from Ghaji’s wounds, but the half-orc limped toward Diran, teeth bared, eyes burning with a hatred born of madness and evil. Diran still held the dagger he’d used to slice Ghaji’s arm—the other was still embedded in Ghaji’s leg—and he flipped the dagger into the air, caught it by the blade-tip, and hurled it directly at the point between Ghaji’s eyes. The dagger hilt struck the half-orc a solid blow before bouncing off and falling to the floor. Ghaji stood, fighting to remain upright, but then his eyes rolled white and he collapsed.
“That’s a surprise. I would’ve put my money on the half-orc.”
Diran turned around to regard the demon. If Ghaji hadn’t been under the fiend’s spell and had been able to fight with a clear mind, Diran might well have died at the hands of his friend. It had been a near enough thing as it was.
Diran’s vision was blurred and his head swam, but he managed to keep on his feet. He walked over to where his silver arrowhead had fallen. He bent down to retrieve the holy symbol. Once his fingers closed about its cool metal surface, he felt renewed strength, and when he stood again his vision had cleared and his dizziness was gone.
“It’s over, Demon. Vacate the boy’s body now or I’ll eject you by force. This is your last warning.”
The demon chuckled, but the sound lacked confidence. “I have plagued the House of Kolbyr for a hundred years, and I’ll continue to plague it long after you’ve rejoined your precious Silver Flame, priest.”
Diran hadn’t expected a demon this powerful to give up easily. He glanced at Ghaji’s unconscious form to make certain that his friend wouldn’t rise and attempt to kill him while he worked to exorcise the demon, and then he started walking toward the naked scarred body of Calida’s son.
The demon made no move to defend itself—no physical move, that is. The body it inhabited was no stronger than that of an ordinary boy. But the fiend redoubled its efforts to ensnare Diran’s spirit with the force of its Fury. Diran felt as if he walked against gale-force winds, but he concentrated on the image of a silvery flame burning at the core of his being, and he continued moving step by tortuous step toward the demon. When he reached the boy, Diran knelt before him and pressed the silver arrowhead to his forehead. Silver light flashed bright as a lightning strike, and the demon let out an agonized shriek so loud Diran could feel the floor vibrate beneath his feet.
The priest began speaking the Rite of Exorcism in a strong, clear voice, and the demon’s howling increased in volume, as if it thought it could negate the rite by drowning out Diran’s words. But Diran continued praying aloud, silver light blazing forth from the arrowhead and filling the chamber with its pristine energy.
The demon’s screams reached a crescendo, and Diran knew from long experience that the rite had almost done its work. Just a little longer …
“Fine!” shrieked the demon. “If I can’t stay here, then I’ll just have to find myself a new home, won’t I?”
Diran felt a cold, foul wave of infernal power wash over him, and he knew that the demon had been forced out of the boy and was seeking to enter the next closest body available: his.
Such a nice strong, body … and there’s already a place for me here! Once you’ve played host to darkness, it leaves a hollowed-out space inside your soul, Diran Bastiaan. All sorts of nasty things can find their way inside you and make themselves right at home.
Diran felt the demon’s spirit attempting to wriggle its way inside him, like a worm invading the flesh of a potential host. But Diran wasn’t without his defenses, and he fought back with all the spiritual strength at his command.
It goes both ways, demon, Diran thought. I once shared my soul with one of your kind, and that does make me more susceptible to possession. But I also know what it’s like to resist evil and cast it out of my heart.
Diran closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the fiend as a cross between a spider and a squid, with a touch of boar tossed in for variety. He didn’t recognize the demon’s species, but that wasn’t important. What was important was the thin dark thread that emerged from the demon’s back and trailed off into the distance. It was this astral thread that connected the demon to the physical world, and more particularly, to the House of Kolbyr. The mystic connection had been created by the sorceress who had originally summoned the demon a century ago, and it was what allowed the fiend to continue returning generation after generation to possess one innocent child after another.
Diran visualized a dagger forged from purest silver, a stylized flame etched into the blade. He imagined the dagger positioning itself over the ebon astral thread, imagined the blade rising to strike …
Wait! I wasn’t lying when I said I can show you things! I can reveal to you important information about the present, even draw aside the veil that conceals the future …
New images flashed through Diran’s mind, obscuring the demon, the astral thread, and the silver dagger. He saw the Zephyr, sailing across the choppy waters of the Lhazaar, an obsidian sarcophagus resting on the deck, its lid sealed shut. Sitting behind the elemental containment ring and guiding the vessel was an orange-skinned goblin wearing a gray cloak. No, not a goblin. A barghest. The one who served the lich Diran and the others had destroyed in the foothills outside of Perhata … the one who’d stolen Tresslar’s dragonwand in the psiforge facility housed within Mount Luster. Diran tried to look up at the sky so that he might note the position of the sun and perhaps get an idea of which direction the craft was headed, but the image faded too soon. It was replaced by a vision of a dank cave where the skeleton of a dragon lay in final repose, and as swiftly as that image appeared, it was supplanted by another. A city at night: cobblestone streets, fine architecture, everbright lanterns illuminating the way for crowds of well-dressed pedestrians … Diran recognized the city as Regalport, the gem of the Principalities. And though he wasn’t certain how, he knew he was looking at a scene not far off in the future.
Sudden alarm crossed the faces of the men and women in the vision, and though there was no sound to accompany the images, Diran could tell from the pedestrians’ terrified expressions that they were screaming. He soon saw why: creatures emerged from the alleys and poured into the street, half-human monstrosities with smooth gray skin, mouths filled with rows of triangular teeth, and eyes black and cold as death. The monsters attacked anything that moved, rending flesh with sharp claws, tearing away bloody hunks of meat with their teeth … and though the vision showed one street only, Diran knew that the scene was being repeated throughout Regalport. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of the half-human creatures swarmed throughout the city, killing wherever they went.
One last image superimposed itself on the horrible scene: the face of a brown-furred wolf, teeth bared in a snarl, human intelligence shining in its eyes …
The vision faded and once more Diran saw only the demon, the thread, and the blade.
Let me in, and I’ll serve you well! All these visions will I reveal to you in full, and far more besides! Think of all the good you could do, priest, with the knowledge I can provide!
Diran’s only reply was to imagine the blade slicing downward. The astral thread was severed, and the demon’s form faded with a last echoing cry of despair.
Diran opened his eyes.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him was Calida’s son. The boy’s skin was smooth and unmarked, his eyes clear but confused. Diran could feel the lingering taint of the Fury hanging in the air about them, but he could sense no evil from the child. The demon was gone; the curse of Kolbyr lifted.
Diran took his hand away from the boy’s forehead and tucked the silver arrowhead back into his pocket. He then reached out and smoothed a lock of hair from the child’s forehead. “Everything’s going to b
e all right now, Taran.”
The boy’s eyes went wide as he stared at a point beyond Diran. The priest heard the faint scrape of boot leather on stone and turned to see Ghaji staggering toward him. The half-orc’s right arm dangled useless at his side, and he dragged his left leg behind him, the dagger still embedded in muscle. He held his elemental axe in his left hand, though he had not activated its flame, perhaps because he lacked the presence of mind to do so. His face was contorted with furious hate, and Diran knew that even though the demon had been banished, the Fury had not released its hold on his friend.
“It’s over, Ghaji. You don’t have to do this.” Diran didn’t want to harm Ghaji any further, but if the Fury continued roiling within his soul unabated, he might well prove a danger to the child, and Diran couldn’t allow that. More to the point, Ghaji—the true Ghaji—would want Diran to stop him.
Diran reached back into his cloak’s inner lining and withdrew a dagger.
“Please …” Diran pleaded. “Don’t make me do this.”
Ghaji frowned in confusion and looked at Diran as if truly seeing him for the first time since being gripped by the Fury. But then the hate returned to Ghaji’s face and he lifted the axe over his head.
Diran, his heart breaking, was just about to hurl the dagger toward the point just below Ghaji’s throat apple when he heard the unmistakable twang of a bowstring. Ghaji stiffened, took a stagger-step forward, then dropped his axe. The half-orc turned around to face the chamber’s entrance, and as he did, Diran saw the end of a feathered shaft protruding from between the half-orc’s shoulder blades.
