Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  As soon as Leontis had passed across the mill’s threshold, Diran slipped inside after his friend with silent grace. The air inside the mill was even colder than outside, and the dust from the collapsing door had yet to settle, making visibility poor, even with the aid of the light gem. Leontis continued holding his bow at the ready, but he didn’t loose the arrow. Leontis wasn’t one to act on impulse.

  Inside, they saw only what they expected: a large room with floorboards warped and broken, sacks filled with old grain piled against the walls, millstone set in the middle of the floor, wooden rods and gears for turning the stone, ceiling beams overhead, missing roof tiles allowing shafts of moonlight to fall upon the dust-covered floor. But Diran noticed something else. The grain sacks had no holes from where hungry mice had nibbled their way inside, no bats hung from the ceiling beams, and there were no spiderwebs anywhere, only strands of cobwebs. There was no life of any kind within the abandoned mill.

  “Now what?” Leontis spoke in a low voice even though there was no longer any need to maintain secrecy, but Diran knew the man couldn’t help it. The mill’s atmosphere of dread inspired one to speak in soft tones.

  Now what, indeed? Up to now, Tusya had always taken the lead whenever they’d “bearded evil in its lair,” as the old priest half-jokingly referred to it. And whenever they’d done so, the evil had obligingly made its presence known—usually by leaping out and trying to slay them. But it appeared that the evil that infested this place had no intention of being so cooperative.

  “I suppose we could always try summoning the evil forth,” Diran suggested.

  Leontis kept his silverburn-coated arrow ready and swept his gaze slowly back and forth, continuous alert for danger. Diran noted with approval that Leontis’s hands were steady, and the tip of his arrow didn’t waver.

  “And how, pray tell, are we supposed to do that?”

  Good question. Diran knew such rites existed in Church lore. Tusya had spoken of them a time or two, and Diran had read about similar rituals during his years at Emon Gorsedd’s academy, when—at Emon’s encouragement—he’d read widely about all manner of subjects, including the supernatural. But to how those rites were carried out specifically, Diran had no idea. But that didn’t stop him from giving it a try.

  He knelt down and wedged the light gem into a small crack in the floorboard near his foot. He then straightened and, still gripping the silver dagger in one hand, he reached into his tunic pocket and withdrew an arrowhead. Leontis had once asked Diran why he chose to keep the symbol of his new faith hidden when it was the custom among the Purified to carry their arrowheads in plain sight. Diran had responded that it was a practical decision. Just as with smiling in the moonlight, displaying a piece of silver where light might glint off of it wasn’t conducive to approaching an enemy without being noticed. Leontis had seemed less than satisfied with this explanation, but he’d never challenged Diran on it again.

  Diran planted his feet apart, raised his hands into the air, and spoke in what he hoped was a commanding voice.

  “Spirits that inhabit this place, in the holy name of the Silver Flame, we beseech you to reveal yourselves!”

  Diran thought he could almost feel the mill tremble in response to his voice, but no unearthly voices answered, and no undead creatures came charging toward them out the shadows. After several moments passed without anything happening, Diran lowered his arms and looked to Leontis.

  “Beseech?” Leontis asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Diran shrugged.

  Despite the failure of Diran’s exhortation, Leontis continued to hold his bow steady. Just because nothing had responding to Diran’s summons didn’t mean nothing was present. After all, they could both still sense the evil permeating the mill.

  “So what do we do next?” Leontis asked. “Tear the place apart looking for hidden chambers? Rip up the floorboards to see if any bodies are hidden beneath?”

  Diran thought for a moment. “I say we burn the mill down.”

  Leontis looked at Diran as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “Are you possessed?”

  Diran smiled. “I hope not. If the evil will not come forward to confront us, then it must be because for whatever reason it’s hiding from us. So the best way to flush it out is to take away its hiding place.”

  Leontis mulled over his fellow acolyte’s suggestion. “It’s worth a try. Given how old this place is, we shouldn’t have any trouble getting a good fire going in short order. And who knows? Perhaps by destroying the mill we’ll also destroy the evil presence that inhabits it. I’ll keep watch while you start the fire.”

  Diran nodded. He slipped his dagger back into its sheath, then reached into his tunic for his flint and striker. He knew a way to release the fire elemental from the light gem if necessary, but he didn’t want to waste the little flame spirit if he didn’t have to. But as he brought out the flint, he felt a sudden chill gust of wind waft through the mill and enfold him in its icy grasp.

  No …

  It sounded like the mournful wail of a distant wind, but Diran knew he was hearing a voice. The coldness surrounding him intensified, and he thought he could feel delicate fingers gripping the wrist of the hand that held the flint. But when he looked down, he saw nothing but his own flesh.

  “Diran, what is it?”

  Diran tried to answer his friend, but his lips felt sluggish and numb, as if he’d been outside in winter cold for too long, and his voice refused to come. He felt his strength begin to ebb, and he knew that the unseen creature holding onto him was stealing his life essence.

  “Use your arrowhead, Diran! Thrust it toward the creature!”

  Excellent advice. Unfortunately, Diran couldn’t move. Whatever foul power the invisible creature possessed, it had rendered him immobile. But then again, perhaps not entirely. He tried to wiggle the fingers of his right hand—the hand holding the flint—and though his fingers were too numb for him to tell whether or not he succeeded, Diran was rewarded with the sound of the flint hitting the floor. Marshalling all the strength remaining to him, Diran concentrated on speaking a single word.

  “F … fffff … Fire …”

  Leontis understood. He dropped his bow and ran forward to snatch up Diran’s flint. He moved quickly away from Diran lest he be caught by whatever force had taken hold of his companion and then drew a fresh arrow from the quiver slung over his shoulder. Holding the arrow near the metal tip, Leontis knelt down close the floor and began using his makeshift striker on Diran’s flint. Sparks leapt forth from the flint, arcing into the air and landing on the mill’s wooden floor, only to fizzle out in the layer of dust covering the planks.

  Diran felt vertigo wash over him, and his vision was starting to go gray. As consciousness began to desert him, he prayed that Leontis would be able to get a fire started before their unseen attacker finished draining the rest of his lifeforce. If not … well, then Diran would just have to experience his reunion with the Silver Flame a bit earlier than he’d expected, wouldn’t he?

  Diran heard the spectral voice whisper mournfully once more.

  No … fire …

  And then the voice spoke a word that startled the young acolyte.

  Please …

  A spark hit the floor and ignited into flame, causing Leontis to let out a shout of triumph. The flame grew quickly, and Diran knew that within moments the mill would be beyond saving.

  Though he had virtually no strength remaining, Diran somehow managed to speak three more words. “Put … it … out …”

  They were little more than whispered exhalations, and Diran wasn’t sure that Leontis had even heard them, let alone that he would understand and heed them. But the other acolyte looked at Diran for a long moment before finally rising to his feet and stomping out the fire he’d just made. It took several tries, but Leontis managed to extinguish the flames.

  “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Diran Bastiaan.”

  Diran wanted to say, So do I, but he
couldn’t force out any more words. If he’d guessed wrong, he was dead, and perhaps Leontis was too. But if he’d guessed right …

  Diran felt the icy fingers let go of his wrist, and the cold that gripped his body began to recede. He was weak as a newborn, but he no longer felt dizzy and in danger of passing out. He looked to Leontis and gave his friend a reassuring, if somewhat shaky, smile.

  Before either acolyte could speak again, the air between them began to shimmer as strands of white mist appeared. The strands grew thicker, joined together, and coalesced into the ghostly apparition of a young woman in her late teens. She appeared solid enough, but her flesh and clothing—a simple dress with an apron tied over it, a cloth wrapped around her head to keep her hair in place—were both marble-white.

  She looked at the two acolytes and gave them what was unmistakably a grateful smile.

  “I take it we’re looking at a ghost,” Leontis said. He sounded oddly calm, given that a specter had just manifested before them, but then the priesthood did run in his family, and he’d been training with Tusya for a while now—long enough for strange sights not to seem so strange anymore.

  “That would be my guess,” Diran said. “I’ve seen a few in my time.” Caused more than a few as well, he thought wryly.

  “And she evidently would prefer that we don’t burn down the mill,” Leontis added.

  My mill … the ghost’s voice sounded clearer and more distinct now, though still very ethereal. But when she spoke, the movements of her lips lagged behind the sound of the words themselves, adding to the unearthly effect.

  Keeping his gaze firmly on the ghost-girl, Leontis tucked Diran’s flint into one of his pockets then retrieved his bow and silverburn-coated arrow. The spectral girl watched him, but made no move to stop him. Why would she? Diran thought. Silver had no effect on ghosts.

  “Why do you think she’s haunting this place?” Leontis asked, his arrow trained on the ghost-girl’s heart—or rather, where her heart used to be. Diran was certain Leontis knew the arrow would prove little more than an annoyance to the girl, but he supposed his friend felt a need to do something other than just stand there while they talked.

  The girl shook her head emphatically, the motion making her ghostly features blur a bit. Home … she said.

  Diran thought he was beginning to understand. “From the way she’s dressed, I’d say she used to work here. Perhaps she died here as well.”

  The girl nodded, the action again making her features blur.

  “All right, so this is her home,” Leontis said. “But what does that matter? She’s a creature of evil! You can feel it all around us! We shouldn’t be standing around here having a conversation with her. We should be destroying her!”

  “You said it yourself: evil is all around us. But do you sense any evil emanating from her?” Diran gestured at the ghostly mill girl.

  Leontis looked at her and frowned. “Actually … no, I don’t.”

  “She didn’t manifest when we first entered,” Diran pointed out. “And she didn’t appear when I attempted to summon her. She had ample opportunity to attack us if she wished to harm us, but she only acted when we attempted to burn down the mill … her home.”

  “That may be,” Leontis said, “but then where is the evil coming from? Is there another creature of some sort lurking here?”

  Though he’d had no formal training in how to do so, Diran attempted to stretch his senses outward, to feel what could not be seen. “I don’t think so. I think the mill itself is the source of the evil. Something wrong happened here … something that bound this girl’s spirit to this place and infused the structure itself with the echoes of the evil that was done here.”

  Leontis looked at the girl once more. “You mean she was … killed here?”

  “I believe so,” Diran said. “Remember what you said earlier, about tearing up the floorboards to see if any bodies were hidden under them?”

  The two acolytes lowered their gazes to the floor beneath their feet.

  Diran and Leontis sat atop the unmoving waterwheel, legs dangling over the side. The ghost-girl hovered in the air beside them, her malleable features contorted in an exaggerated mask of fear, her terrified eyes larger than a human’s could ever be, her mouth a grotesque slash of a grimace. Diran wondered how many ghosts assumed a hideous appearance not to frighten others, but simply because they were themselves afraid. The Thrane River rushed by less than thirty feet below them, moonlight sliding across the surface of the water like a liquid silver sheen. The river smelled clean and pure, but another scent hung in the air, growing stronger by the moment: the scent of smoke.

  “How did I let you talk me into this?” Leontis grumbled.

  “I believe all I had to do was ask,” Diran replied.

  It hadn’t taken the two acolytes long to find the girl’s skeleton hidden beneath the floorboards, along with the remains of a half dozen other unfortunates. Why hers should be the only spirit bound to the mill, Diran couldn’t say. Perhaps of all those who had died here—or at least been buried here—she was the one whose death had been traumatic. Dying in great grief, fear, or rage was often the cause of spirits becoming earthbound. At least the number of skeletons explained why the mill itself reeked of evil. Deeds of great wickedness had been performed here, and their spiritual taint had seeped into the wood and stonework of the mill, turning it into a Bad Place.

  Diran and Leontis had spent a couple hours digging graves well away from the mill and then transporting the skeletons as carefully and respectfully as they could to their new resting places. They’d attempted to lay the girl-ghost to rest first, but after they’d finished burying her and returned to the mill, they found her ivory-white form waiting for them. So they finished with the others and, after Diran had convinced the girl there was no other way, they’d set a fire inside the mill. But in order to get the girl to agree to let them start the fire, they had to acquiesce to one request: she didn’t want to be left alone while her home burned.

  The girl couldn’t leave the mill, and Diran and Leontis could hardly remain inside. But they could sit atop the waterwheel for as long as it was safe, and the girl could manifest outside the mill, as long as she remained close enough to reach out and touch it.

  Diran looked at the girl’s almost comically distorted features and reminded himself that he was looking not at a monster, but rather at the soul of a person who was afraid to die for a second time.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Diran said. “The destruction of the mill will not mean the destruction of your spirit. Instead, you will be released from your earthly prison. You will be free at last.”

  The smell of smoke was much stronger now, the wood beneath them began to feel hot, and a new sound joined that of rushing river water: the crackle of hungry flames.

  Phantom tears streamed down the girl’s face, wearing channels in her insubstantial flesh, as if her fear would literally be her undoing.

  Diran reached out to take the ghost-girl’s hand, and though he shouldn’t have been able to touch her, though it was more than likely only his imagination, he intertwined his fingers in hers and found them not cold and dead but very much warm and alive.

  The girl’s features returned to normal, and she gave Diran a grateful smile.

  “Uh, Diran …” The usually unflappable Leontis sounded as if he’d edged a step closer to panic. “It’s getting rather toasty up here.”

  Diran could feel sweat beading on his skin despite the coolness of the night air.

  “And in case you hadn’t noticed, breathing is becoming something of a chore …”

  Smoke billowed up around them now, obscuring his vision and making his eyes sting, and he could no longer see the ghost-girl. But he could still feel her hand entwined in his.

  Diran had to fight to keep from coughing as he answered. “I promised her we wouldn’t leave her until it was over.”

  Then the smoke parted and the girl’s ivory face came toward his. He felt soft lips br
ush his gently, and then she withdrew back into the smoke and was gone.

  Thank you …

  Diran tried to tell her she was welcome, but he burst out with a fit of coughing. He felt Leontis grab him by the shoulders and shove him off the waterwheel, and he tumbled down into the waiting waters of the Thrane, Leontis following right after.

  They climbed onto the bank many yards downriver, wet, shivering, and chilled to the bone. They flopped exhausted onto the grass and turned to view the bright orange glow of the burning mill set against the black of the night sky.

  “You lads might consider getting a bit closer to the mill so you can dry off. It’d be a shame to let a fire like that go to waste.”

  Only a smoldering pile of ashes and blackened stone remained by the time dawn pinked the eastern sky. When they’d first arrived, Tusya had added the last of his silverburn to the mill fire and spoke a series of prayers, asking the Silver Flame to forgive any impurities in the girl’s soul and accept her as part of the divine Flame. Diran and Leontis had prayed along with their teacher, and when the rite was concluded the three men sat in silence and watched the mill burn.

  It was Leontis who first broke the silence. “It’s too bad we finished the last of the wine, Teacher. I could use a drink right now.”

  Tusya smiled. “I’m proud of you boys. You served the Flame well tonight. So, though we’re all tired and could use some rest, I would be remiss in my duties as your teacher if I didn’t ask what you’ve learned here this night.”

  Both Diran and Leontis thought for a time before answering.

  “There are many kinds of evil in this world,” Diran began. “I’ve known this since I was a child. I once served one of those evils … carried it within me like the blood that flows within my veins. The evil we discovered in the mill tonight wasn’t of a supernatural nature. It was the result of someone who long ago could not restrain his own selfish need to wield the ultimate power over others—the power of life and death. I understand now that all evil—natural or not—comes from the same impulse to put one’s desires above all else, no matter the cost to others. Evil is the ultimate form of selfishness, and it must be opposed in all its manifestations, whether small or great, mundane or mystical. That is what the Silver Flame asks of us.”