Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 (5 page)

Nathifa continued stroking Espial’s gleaming black surface. “Indeed.”

Skarm frowned and winced as the blisters on his brow burst. He wiped away the serum that threatened to drip into his eyes. “But if the man was here and he had the dragonhead, why didn’t you take it from him?”

The temperature took a sudden sharp drop, and Skarm could see his breath mist in the air.

“The old man had companions. I … wished to take their measure before I acted.”

Skarm understood. Nathifa hadn’t expected one of those companions to be a priest and such a powerful one at that. She hadn’t taken the dragonhead because she couldn’t. It seemed that Espial didn’t know—or at least didn’t tell Nathifa—everything. Skarm would’ve smiled if he hadn’t feared it would anger Nathifa further.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“We
don’t do anything. Espial says the old man and his friends are bound for Perhata. You will go there and keep watch on them for me, learn what you can about them, and if the opportunity presents itself for you to take the Amahau—the dragonhead—do it and bring it directly to me.”

Skarm didn’t relish the prospect of trekking to Perhata—especially in his current condition. “I would be most happy to do as you bid, Mistress, but the old man and the others have already seen me. I fear they will recognize me if I attempt to spy on them.”

“They saw you because they were distracted by the orc watching from the western mountainside. I sent you out to lure them in before they could head off to investigate who was tracking them.” She glanced at the barghest. “And might I add that your performance was clumsy at best.”

Skarm bristled. “But you must admit it was sufficient to draw them in.”

Nathifa waved Skarm’s words away. “Yes, yes.” She sighed, the sound like winter wind whistling through hollow bone. “It’s not like the orc to venture this close to our domain. Our neighbors on Mount Luster must be up to something. The question is, will it interfere with my plans?”

Skarm smiled, revealing teeth larger and sharper than a goblin should possess. “If it does, I am certain you will make them regret it, my mistress.”

Nathifa placed her hands on either side of the ebon skull before her, cradling Espial’s face in her hands as if it belonged to a loved one, and her dry dead lips slowly stretched into a bloodless smile.

T
he four companions—their boots now relatively clean—sat around a small fire, huddled in their heavy cloaks against the cold night air. They ate a supper of tasteless trail rations while they debated whether to make camp for the evening or continue on to Perhata. Since they were no longer searching through the foothills, they could head directly to the city and reach it in a few hours’ time. The moons were bright, and though the area was draped in shadows cast by the hills and small mountains all around them, both Ghaji and Hinto would be able to guide the other two with little trouble. Fatigue wasn’t an issue, either, for since Diran had dispelled Tresslar’s weariness, the older man was fresh and full of energy. Hinto didn’t care one way or another, but the way the halfling kept gazing nervously into the darkness, as if he expected some terrible monster to come roaring out of the night, told a different story.

“I’m inclined to make camp,” Diran said, “if for no other reason than that we haven’t located the body of the barghest that Ghaji set aflame. It’s possible the foul creature survived, and if
so, it would need to feed right away in order to begin healing its injuries. If we remain here in the foothills, there’s a good chance the barghest might attack our camp during the night, giving us an opportunity to finish it off.”

Diran waited for the others to react, but no one said anything right away. Hinto kept his gaze cast downward as he nibbled without enthusiasm on a biscuit. Tresslar stared into the fire, his lips pressed together tight as if he were fighting to hold back words. Only Ghaji looked directly at him, and the half-orc was scowling. Of course, a scowl was Ghaji’s most common facial expression, but even for him, this was an especially angry one.

Ghaji rose to his feet. “Before we decide one way or the other, we should check the area to make certain it’s a suitable campsite, and by
we
, I mean you and I, Diran.”

Without waiting for Diran to respond, Ghaji turned and walked away from the fire.

Diran waited a moment before standing. He looked at Tresslar and Hinto and said, “We’ll be back soon.”

Neither of them responded, and they still pointedly avoided meeting the priest’s gaze. Something was obviously wrong, but Diran had no idea what it might be. He followed after Ghaji, who by now was only a silhouette in the darkness. Diran caught up with his friend, but Ghaji continued apace, saying nothing. He just kept walking. Diran fell into step beside the half-orc, knowing that his friend would speak when he was ready and not before.

When they had walked far enough that the campfire seemed but a candle flame on the horizon, Ghaji stopped and turned to Diran.

“You’re driving them too hard, Diran. Tresslar and Hinto … especially Hinto.”

Diran frowned. “What do you mean? We took periodic rest breaks throughout the day, and when Tresslar grew too weary, I restored his strength.”

“I’m not talking about today, at least, not just about it. You’ve always been dedicated to combating evil, but ever since Grimwall, you’ve become almost obsessed with it. In these last few months, I think we’ve slain more undead creatures and fought more than in all the time I traveled with you before we battled Erdis Cai. I’m not complaining, mind you. Who likes a good fight more than me? But the constant traveling and ceaseless slaying have taken a toll on Tresslar and Hinto. It’s affected the halfling even more than the artificer. At least Tresslar was an adventurer in his youth, but as you’ve pointed out to me on more than one occasion, Hinto was mentally scarred by his time shipwrecked in the Mire, and he’s traveled with us ever since. He’s had no time to rest and recover from his ordeal—how can he when we’re always racing to kill one monster after another?”

Diran felt anger rising within him, and he struggled to keep an even tone as he replied. “Neither Tresslar nor Hinto has been forced to accompany us. They’ve done so of their own free will.”

“They’ve done so because they believe in you, Diran … in what you do. Hinto most of all.” Ghaji’s voice softened. “He practically worships you. He’d follow you anywhere, do whatever you ask of him, regardless of the price to his mind and soul.”

Diran thought about the way the halfling had fallen to the floor in the lich’s chamber, how he’d lain there shivering, unable to fight, unable even to defend himself. If Diran and the others hadn’t been able to draw the attention of both the barghest and the lich, Hinto would’ve been easy pickings for either of the foul creatures. This hadn’t been the first time that Hinto’s fear had gotten the better of him at a dangerous moment. Far from it.

Diran’s anger faded to be replaced by guilt. As if sensing his friend’s change of emotion, Ghaji put a hand on Diran’s shoulder.

“You’re not to blame for what happened to Makala,” the half-orc said. “You did everything you could to save her.”

“My
everything
wasn’t enough, was it?” Diran said. He wanted to pull away from Ghaji and stalk off into the night. But instead he took a deep breath, centered himself, and let the air out slowly. When he spoke again, his voice was calm and more than a touch weary. “Are you suggesting I’m driving us all so hard because I’m trying to make up for failing her?”

Ghaji smiled. “I’m just a dumb half-orc, remember?”

Diran laughed. “Very well. We shall leave it up to Tresslar and Hinto. If they want to stay the night, we shall. If not, we’ll start back for Perhata. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” Ghaji’s smile fell away then. “At the risk of straining our friendship even further, I think you should consider having a talk with Hinto. If he continues to accompany us on our ‘hunts,’ he’s going to get hurt, perhaps even killed.” The half-orc paused before adding, “Or worse.”

Diran didn’t have to ask his friend what he meant by
or worse
. He meant something like what had happened to Makala. Diran remembered the last time he’d seen her face—skin pale, canine teeth elongated, eyes blazing with hunger …

He’d already failed one of his companions. He wasn’t going to fail another.

“I’ll talk to him the next chance I get,” Diran said.

Ghaji nodded and the two companions started back toward the campfire, walking together, but each alone with his own thoughts.

Hinto and Tresslar opted to remain camped for the night and get an early start come dawn. They spread out their bedrolls around the fire and decided in what order they’d stand watch. As a priest, Diran could erect certain wards about their camp—some mystical, some physical—but these would only fend off
undead or infernal creatures. More mundane threats would have to be detected by eyes and ears and met with cold steel. Diran selected the first watch, Ghaji the second, Tresslar the third, and Hinto the last. As the others settled into their bedrolls and drifted off to sleep, Diran sat cross-legged on the ground and concentrated on entering a meditative trance that would allow him to remain in a state of semi-wakefulness, senses alert, mind vigilant, for the entire night. Letting his friends have their sleep might not make up for the way he’d been driving them the last few months, but it would be a start. On the morrow, Ghaji would likely accuse Diran of taking the entire night’s watch as a way to punish himself, and the half-orc would be right, but then, Diran thought with a smile, a little self-flagellation was good for the soul. He closed his eyes halfway, slowed his breathing, and settled in to keep watch over his friends.

And so the night passed.

The four companions reached the outskirts of Perhata by noon. Their journey back had been uneventful, and if it hadn’t been for the cold winds blowing down from the north, it might have been almost pleasant.

Though the citizens of Perhata referred to their home as a “city,” in truth it was more like a ramshackle village. The docks were old and badly in need of repair or complete replacement. The outer buildings were unpainted shacks, their wood worn and weathered, the structures so rickety they looked as if a strong rainfall might batter them to the ground. The buildings in the center of Perhata were somewhat sturdier, though hardly more attractive: square gray-stone buildings of one or two stories. Even the baron’s “palace” was of similarly plain construction, though it stood three stories high and was surrounded by a
stone wall topped with rusty iron spikes to discourage unwanted visitors. The streets of central Perhata were paved, though their brick surface was often cracked and warped. The streets in the rest of the city were nothing but dirt and mud—given the city’s proximity to the sea, more of the latter than the former. A cold breeze wafted in off the Lhazaar, filling the air with the salty tang of seawater. From any point in the city one could hear the cries of gulls, the shouts of sailors, and the lap of waves breaking against the pier.