Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3

by Tim Waggoner

  Ghaji had no sympathy for Skarm, and he certainly wasn’t sorry the creature was dead. But he worried about the effect of Asenka’s death on Diran. The priest had worked long and hard to put his former life behind him, to become something new, something better, and he’d inspired Ghaji to do the same. To one degree or another, in ways great or small, Diran had inspired the others as well. Now Ghaji feared Diran would turn his sorrow, anger, and guilt over Asenka’s death inward, until the emotions fused into self-hatred. Ghaji was afraid his friend would return to killing for the sake of killing, slaying out of a need for revenge rather than to protect others. And if that happened, the good man Diran Bastiaan had fought to become might well be lost forever.

  They’d built Asenka’s pyre on the other side of the hill near the entrance to Paganus’s cavern. They’d found another tunnel leading out of the crypt and had followed it to the surface. The outer entrance was just large enough for a humanoid to slip through—or a tomb spider, if she drew her legs in close to her body. They’d discovered a small semi-permanent camp at the base of the hill: lean-tos and simple shacks, most of which had fallen into disrepair. The camp was deserted, and from the few meager possessions they’d found inside the crude shelters, they guessed that this had been the temporary home for an expedition that had fallen on bad luck, perhaps even been shipwrecked and stranded upon the island. The adventurers had experienced even worse luck when they’d chosen to make camp near a tomb spider’s lair. Ghaji felt confident those hapless adventurers had been taken by the giant arachnid, impregnated with her eggs, and transformed into the web mummies the companions had encountered in the crypt. Poor devils.

  They kept silent vigil while Asenka’s body was reduced to bones, and when the fire died out, they buried her remains on the site of the pyre. Solus used the last dregs of his psionic energy to levitate a rock from the hillside and onto the grave to serve as a marker. The psiforged apologized for not having enough energy to chisel words into the stone, but Diran told him it didn’t matter. Asenka’s soul had joined with the Flame, and she was beyond the need for words now.

  And then Diran turned and walked away from Asenka’s grave, and one by one the companions followed. Of them all, only Diran never glanced back. Not once.

  It was noon by the time the companions reached the Turnabout. They all took turns rowing since Solus could no longer use his psionic abilities to power the craft. And it was another hour after that before the elemental galleon set sail for the island of Greentarn, where Regalport was located. The trip would take a day and a half, though Hinto, who volunteered to serve as first mate in Thokk’s absence, promised that he’d do everything he could to motivate the crew to squeeze as much speed as possible out of the ship. Onu, wearing his guise as a human sea captain, accompanied the halfling, speaking good-naturedly with the Turnabout’s sailors and offering them words of encouragement. Hinto wasn’t as harsh as taskmaster as Thokk had been, but Ghaji thought the crew responded better to the halfling for he seemed more like one of them than the dwarf ever had. Ghaji had no idea what would happen to the ship with Thokk’s death. The dwarf had been the vessel’s owner and true captain, but none of the crew knew that. As far as they were concerned, the ship belonged to Onu. Ghaji supposed she did now, at least until any of Thokk’s heirs could be notified. The changeling might be a good actor, but he was a lousy seaman, and the half-orc didn’t see how Onu could make a go of commanding the Turnabout on his own. But that would be something for the changeling to worry about in the future. Right now, all Onu and Hinto had to do was keep the crew working hard until the ship reached the island of Regalport.

  All during the first day back at sea, Diran stood at the ship’s prow, face expressionless, blue eyes fixed on the horizon, speaking only when spoken to, and even then only responding in one or two word phrases. Ghaji tried to get his friend to open up several times, but without any success. The half-orc asked Solus if he could speak to Diran, hoping the psiforged might be able to somehow employ his mental powers to reach the priest. But Solus demurred, saying that Diran’s desire for solitude was obvious, even to one bereft of psionic abilities. Ghaji didn’t bother asking Yvka to speak with Diran. The elf-woman had been avoiding Ghaji ever since their return to the ship, as if she sensed he was upset about keeping her dragonmark secret from him and wished to avoid discussing the subject as long as possible. Tresslar was no good, either. The artificer was holed up in his cabin, working. Tresslar had recovered several magical artifacts from Paganus’s hoard that Nathifa hadn’t had time to drain the power from, and the artificer was attempting to adapt their mystic energy in order to repair Ghaji’s elemental axe.

  That left only one person for Ghaji to turn to: Leontis.

  Reluctantly, Ghaji went to the priest’s cabin and knocked on the door. A moment later, Leontis answered.

  “What is it, Ghaji?”

  Leontis’s hair and beard had grown back, and despite all the injuries he’d suffered, the man looked healthy and strong. He had on a new set of clothes, a simple white tunic, leather belt, brown trousers, and black boots he’d borrowed from Onu. It turned out the changeling had a wide variety of clothing—for both men and women—in numerous sizes to accommodate whatever masquerade he might be called upon to perform, and these clothes were the closest to a perfect fit for the priest.

  “I wanted to say I’m sorry for what I did back on Trebaz Sinara … you know, when I split your head open.”

  Leontis smiled faintly. “No need to apologize. I have no memory of it.” The priest’s smile fell away. “My only regret is that your weapon wasn’t forged from silver.”

  Leontis’s words took Ghaji by surprise. “You want to die?”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t you if you were in my place? That’s why I sought out Diran: to ask him to kill me.”

  “Diran talked you out of it.”

  A ghost of Leontis’s smile returned. “He always was persuasive. And he believes that I have some role to play in the events to come.”

  “You sound doubtful.”

  “The visions of the future Diran saw were given to him by a demon desperate to remain on our plane and thus cannot be trusted. But even if the visions are true, I cannot see how any good can come from the evil that taints my soul.”

  Ghaji was beginning to see Leontis in a new light, and he felt his resentment and suspicion of the priest beginning to fade. “I once asked Diran how he could still use his assassin’s skills in the service of good. Can you guess what he told me?”

  Leontis nodded. “That while Good and Evil are real forces in the world, it isn’t always easy for us to know which is truly which. It’s the sort of thing our teacher Tusya would’ve said.”

  “I think it would be wise of you to try to remember that,” Ghaji said. “I also think our mutual friend could use a reminder himself right now. I have a feeling it might mean more coming from you.”

  Leontis hesitated. “I don’t know …”

  “Maybe this is part of the reason you were destined to come along on this voyage,” Ghaji pointed out. “But forget destiny and visions. Diran’s hurting, and regardless of whatever else you may be, you are still a priest of the Silver Flame. Our friend needs healing.”

  Leontis looked at Ghaji for several moments before finally nodding his acceptance of the half-orc’s words.

  Diran’s face and hands had long ago gone numb from the constant buffeting of frigid sea winds, but he scarcely noticed. He’d taken no food or water since Asenka’s burial, but as a priest he was used to privation, and so he ignored the empty ache in his stomach, the weakness in his limbs, and the pounding in his head. He concentrated on the waves ahead of them, mentally ticking off the miles as the Turnabout raced toward Regalport, going over the visions the Fury-demon had revealed to him and attempting to divine some insight into Nathifa’s ultimate plan.

  “Punishing yourself isn’t going to help make Asenka’s loss hurt any less.”

  Diran didn’t turn to look at Leontis
as his fellow priest joined him at the prow.

  “Ghaji has already tried to speak with me several times since we departed Trebaz Sinara,” Diran said. “I’m surprised he hasn’t told you that I’m poor company right now.”

  “Who do you think suggested I take a turn at you?”

  The two priests stood for a time, listening to the waves breaking against the ship’s hull and the wind whistling past their ears. Eventually, Leontis spoke again.

  “Though I did not spend my youth near the sea, I must confess that I find its sights and sounds soothing. The water seems almost to be calling me, whispering something that I can’t quite make out …” Leontis shook his head. “But you’re a Lhazaarite born and bred. The sea probably holds little mystery and even less attraction for you.”

  Diran gazed out upon the slate-gray surface of the water, knowing that this time of year the Lhazaar was cold as liquid ice. “You might be surprised …”

  Leontis changed the subject. “Ghaji is a good man, and the two of you make an effective team. He’s worried about you, and truth to tell, so am I.”

  “There’s nothing to worry about. I’m preparing for the battle that lies ahead of us … weighing various strategies, calculating odds …”

  Leontis laughed. “I hope you were a better liar back when you were an assassin.”

  Despite himself, Diran smiled. “I guess I’ve fallen out of practice.”

  “It’s not your fault that Asenka died, Diran. If I wanted to, I suppose I could blame myself. After all, if the werewolf hadn’t gone after Haaken, the wereshark wouldn’t have thrown him across the crypt, and he wouldn’t have collided with Asenka—”

  “That’s ridiculous!” Diran snapped. “You had no control over your lupine half, and you certainly had no control over what Haaken did or didn’t do.”

  “And you had no control over whether Asenka was bitten by a spiderling.”

  “I should’ve checked. If I’d known …”

  “She would’ve died anyway. Her injuries were too severe. Without the benefit of healing magic, it was only a matter of time. Though you didn’t mean to end her life, by doing so swiftly, you saved her from suffering any further.”

  Diran’s tone hardened. “That’s cold comfort, Leontis.”

  “Do you remember what Tusya used to say about that? ‘Sometimes cold comfort is the only kind we get in this life.’”

  “I remember. I found it a rather facile saying at the time, and I find it even more so now.”

  “As an assassin, your training centered entirely on control,” Leontis said. “Control of your emotions, your body, your weaponry, your victim, and the circumstances under which you would confront him … Control is also vital to the Purified. We attempt to purge ourselves of negative emotions and desires, and strive to adhere to a strict code of moral behavior. Control is even more important for priests. It allows us to open ourselves to the power of the Silver Flame so that we might become effective conduits for its holy energy. But we mustn’t forget what Tusya taught us.”

  Diran didn’t want to say the words. He wanted to hold onto the icy fury that had encased his heart. But he found himself speaking them nevertheless. Words he’d first heard years ago around a campfire near the bank of the Thrane River. “Fire consumes wood for its fuel, and in so doing, the wood is transformed. It becomes one with the fire, fulfilling its true purpose. To serve the Flame well, we must willingly give ourselves over to its heat and light.”

  “I’ve been thinking about this a great deal lately—for obvious reasons.” Leontis gave Diran a rueful smile. “Evil attempts to control the fates of others for its own selfish ends. That’s what you did when you were an assassin. You killed because Emon Gorsedd accepted money for your services and sent you forth to slay whoever his client chose. Good, on the other hand, seeks to preserve the rights of individuals to choose their own fates. It tries to teach by example, rather than force others to order their lives as it wishes. That’s who you are now, Diran. You are Purified, a servant of the Flame, and a force for Good in a world that sorely needs people like you. Don’t let your grief turn you back into a heartless killer. You have a choice in this matter. Some of us do not.”

  Leontis put his hand on Diran’s shoulder and squeezed once before turning and walking away.

  Diran remained standing at the prow for some time after Leontis’s departure, thinking over all that his fellow priest had said. He had a good idea what Asenka might say if she were present, could almost imagine hearing her speak the words.

  We had little time together, Diran Bastiaan, but what we had was good. Don’t spoil it by turning my memory into a millstone around your neck. There are people—good people—depending on you. Don’t you dare let them down because you’re too wrapped up in sorrow and self-pity. You’re a Lhazaarite, and you know our way: Live hard, love hard, die well. As far as I’m concerned, I did all three. Mourn me if you must, but you’re still alive and you have work to do. So get to it!

  Despite his grief, Diran smiled. He then turned away from the sea and the wind and headed off toward the passengers’ quarters.

  Diran knocked on the door to Tresslar’s cabin.

  “Go away! I’m busy!”

  “It’s me,” Diran said.

  Tresslar opened the door. The artificer gave the priest an appraising frown. “Did you finally realize you aren’t to blame for what happened?”

  “I could ask you the same, holed up in your cabin, working feverishly on your magic items …” Diran smiled to take any sting out of his words. “You aren’t to blame, either. None of us are.”

  Tresslar’s frown eased, and he looked haggard, far older than his sixty-odd years. “If I hadn’t lost the Amahau, none of this would’ve happened.”

  “My former teacher used to say that if is like a double-edged blade: it cuts two ways. It can spark imagination and creativity or cause regret and sorrow. It all depends on how you wield it.”

  Tresslar smiled. “Wise words.” The artificer let out a long sigh. “Very well. Let us look to the future, eh? I’m still working on restoring Ghaji’s elemental axe. I think I’ve found a way to infuse a fire elemental within the metal, but I still need some time.”

  “That’s good, but I’ve come to speak with you about a different magical artifact. One that I believe you removed from Thokk before we buried him.”

  Tresslar looked suddenly uncomfortable. “You speak of the Oathbinder. To an artificer, burying a mystic object with the dead is a terrible waste. We would rather our greatest enemies take the devices we create than have them never used again. It’s a way for a small piece of ourselves to live on after our deaths.” He lowered his gaze. “I didn’t say anything about taking the Oathbinder because I didn’t want anyone to think I was robbing the dead. None of you are artificers … I was afraid you wouldn’t understand.”

  “I do understand,” Diran said, “and I’m glad you had the foresight to salvage Thokk’s medallion. I think I know how we might put it to use.”

  Ghaji found Yvka in their cabin. She sat cross-legged on their sleeping pallet, her left sleeve rolled up to expose her dragonmark. She gazed down upon the swirling design, the fingers of her right hand poised above it, as if she wanted to touch the mark but was afraid to.

  She looked up as Ghaji closed the hatch and crossed over to the pallet. The cabin was small, but compared to the cramped quarters on the Zephyr, it was nearly palatial. Ghaji sat next to Yvka. He wanted to give her a kiss and put his arm around her, but he didn’t. They had things to discuss, and one kiss would lead to another, which in turn would lead to something else, and before long all thought of talk would be forgotten. Better to maintain a certain distance for now. But before Ghaji could say anything, Yvka spoke.

  “This changes everything, you know.”

  Ghaji understood that she was talking about her dragonmark, but that was all he understood. “No, I don’t know. Tell me.”

  Yvka looked at Ghaji for a long time, her face
unreadable, but her eyes revealed the inner struggle she was going through. Finally, she told him everything—about going to the Culinarian to meet with Zivon, how the Fury struck while she was there, and how her dragonmark had manifested during her fight with the half-elf.

  “Zivon not only wanted me to regain possession of the Zephyr—for though I’ve used the vessel for decades, she belongs to the Shadow Network—he also wanted me to deliver Tresslar’s dragonwand to them … as well as Solus.”

  Ghaji wished he was shocked by Yvka’s words, but he wasn’t. The Shadow Network had a reputation for absolute pragmatism in all things, but most especially when it came to the acquisition of the organization’s twin loves: power and profit.

  “And what did you tell him?” Ghaji asked.

  “I tried to put him off by pretending that I wanted to negotiate a better reward for myself. But then the Fury overwhelmed Zivon and our discussion ended when he tried to kill me. After Diran exorcised the Fury-demon, Zivon regained his senses. He was so pleased by the appearance of my dragonmark that he said no more about Solus or the dragonwand.”

  “But that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten about them, does it?”

  Yvka shook her head. “The Network never forgets anything. If they want Solus and the wand, they will stop at nothing to get them. Whether I deliver them or not. They’ll simply send someone else, and if that person fails, they’ll keep sending new people until someone finally succeeds. But a dragonmark, even a Lesser one, raises my status in the Network. I may be able to bargain with the Hierarchs so that they’ll … overlook their interest in Solus and the dragonwand.”

  Ghaji didn’t like where this was headed. “Bargain with what?”

  “My services. I’ve worked hard for more years than you’ve been alive to earn the freedom to roam the Principalities as I wish. And the Network has allowed me to retain my liberty as long as I furthered its interests. But dragonmarks are a valuable commodity, and the Hierarchs prefer to keep a tight rein on those individuals who possess them. I’ve given the Network both Grimwall and Mount Luster. Now I will give them myself—but only if they’ll leave Solus and the dragonwand alone.”