Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 (8 page)

The death-spores …
urged the dark spirit.

With his free hand, Cathmore reached into his doublet pocket and closed his skeletal fingers around the vial within, but before he could remove the spores, Galharath was suddenly standing next to them. Cathmore hadn’t seen or heard the artificer cross the cavern to reach them, and he wondered if that was because he had been too caught up in his anger to notice, or because the kalashtar had used his psionic abilities to mask his approach.

“I’m tempted to let you two kill each other,” Galharath said, “but then I wouldn’t get paid. Take your hand away from the orc’s shoulder, Cathmore … and Chagai, don’t use the opportunity to spin around and attack.”

Cathmore took a deep breath, released it, then did as the kalashtar asked.

The orc turned slowly to face Galharath. “I don’t like having my mind read, artificer.”

The kalashtar laughed. “I didn’t need to pry into your thoughts to divine your intent. You
are
an orc, after all.”

Chagai’s upper lip curled in irritation, but he didn’t dispute Galharath’s statement.

Cathmore decided to start over. “I understand that you wish to go to Perhata, Chagai.”

“I
am
going,” the orc corrected.

Cathmore ignored the comment and continued. “I doubt simply buying a few supplies could inspire such … determination on your part. Why not tell us the true reason for your trip?”

Chagai glanced back and forth between Cathmore and Galharath, and then let out a disgusted snort.

“When I was out hunting yesterday, I caught a familiar scent.”

The orc spoke for a while, and when he was finished, it was Galharath’s turn to be angry.

“You spotted strangers snooping around the foothills, and you didn’t bother to tell us?” The crystals affixed to the kalashtar’s gloves began to pulse with smoldering light, as if responding to the strength of their wearer’s emotion.

“Peace, Galharath,” Cathmore said, barely able to contain a sense of mounting excitement. “I understand something about wishing to settle old grudges, and to that point, it would appear that our orc associate and I have something in common. Based on his description of the four men who entered the lich’s lair, I believe that I also know one of them, though he was but a child when last I saw him. Still, I’ve made it my business to keep informed of his activities over the years, and I know that of late he’s been traveling with a half-orc. I wonder if it truly is him …”

Cathmore trailed off in thought. As much as he wished to have revenge on Emon Gorsedd, he also had a score to settle with this man in black who traveled with a half-orc warrior.

“Who is this man?” Galharath asked.

“Diran Bastiaan,” Cathmore said. “One of the finest assassins I helped train”—he paused—“and the only one who ever killed me.”

Enshrouded within the cavern’s darkness, a large figure stood watching the three talk. He tried to understand their words, but it was so difficult for him to concentrate with the voices swirling around in his head like a multitude of leaves tossed about in a windstorm. The voices were always with him, shouting, whispering, screaming, but never silent. Never.

He wasn’t concerned that the strangers would detect him, not even the kalashtar. The three had come to the Mount Luster weeks ago, and he’d been observing them ever since, and not once in all that time had any of them noticed him. Their eyes saw him, of course, the kalashtar’s included, but their minds refused to acknowledge his presence—precisely as Solus wished it. He understood that they intended to repair the forge and activate it once more, but he was unclear on their reasons for doing so. Didn’t they understand the dangers involved? Didn’t they know what had happened the last time?

Solus knew. He was the only one left alive who did. And the voices, of course. They knew, and they never let him forget it, not for a single second.

He watched as the strangers finished their conversation and headed for the stairs. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, he followed, his iron footsteps loud on the stone floor, yet still unheard.

T
he man attacking the leader of the Coldhearts was a short, portly sailor with an unkempt black beard and one milky-white eye. He brandished a long knife whose dull blade looked to be in dire need of sharpening. Even if the weapon had been well cared for, it wouldn’t be a match for the Coldheart’s sword. The blond-bearded warrior watched in amusement as the sailor came barreling toward him, gut bobbling seismically with every step he took. The warrior deliberately waited to draw his sword to show his contempt for his fat opponent.

Diran knew that while the fat man might be able to give a good enough account of himself in a normal tavern brawl, he’d prove no challenge to the blond-bearded warrior. Diran also knew that no matter how fast he and Ghaji moved, they couldn’t reach the two in time to keep the fat man from getting spitted on Blond-Beard’s sword. Diran held a pair of daggers in his hands, and as he ran toward the two men, Ghaji at his side, the priest hurled one of his blades at the fat man. The gleaming dagger streaked through the air and struck the fat man’s long knife with a loud clang of
metal. The impact knocked the weapon out of the man’s hand and both blades tumbled to the filthy dirt floor.

The sailor stopped and stared mystified at his empty hand, as if he’d just witnessed his long knife disappear into thin air and couldn’t believe it. The man was still trying to puzzle out what had happened when Diran and Ghaji finally reached him.

Diran put a hand on the fat man’s shoulder. “Collect your weapon and go.”

The sailor looked at Diran, his one good eye struggling to focus on the priest’s face. The man was obviously drunk, which hardly came as a surprise. A sober man would’ve thought twice about trying to attack a half dozen well-armed warriors by himself.

“Yeah … sure …” the sailor mumbled.

He bent down to retrieve his long knife, tucked it into his belt sheath, and then without another look at Diran or the blond-bearded warrior, he staggered to the common room’s door, opened it to a cold blast of wind, and stepped out into the street, drunk but still alive.

“You spoiled my fun, friend.”

Diran turned to the blond-bearded warrior. The man was glaring at him, and while he hadn’t yet drawn his sword, his hand lay on the pommel.

“Are you upset that I stopped you from killing that man, or because I ruined your entrance?” Diran asked.

“Both would be my guess,” Ghaji said.

Diran knew his friend was right. Everyone in the common room was staring at the scene unfolding in their midst, and more than a few patrons were smirking at the Coldhearts where before they’d been either intimidated or angered.

The blond-bearded warrior leaned toward them, though he didn’t actually take a step in their direction. “Do you know who I am?” he asked in a low, threatening voice.

“A loudmouth who’s starting to annoy me,” Ghaji growled.

The man’s face turned crimson. “I am Haaken Sprull, leader of the Coldhearts.” He nodded toward his five companions. “We are the warrior fleet of Baroness Calida, ruler of Kolbyr.”

Diran understood now why the men and women in the common room had reacted so negatively to the Coldhearts’ entrance. The barons of Perhata and Kolbyr had been vying for control of the Gulf of Ingjald for decades, and there was little love lost between the peoples of the two cities.

“Now tell me who you are,” Haaken demanded. “Whenever possible, I like to learn the names of the men I’m going to kill.” Haaken glanced at Ghaji. “Well, one man and one halfbreed, in this case.”

The other Coldhearts laughed at their leader’s dazzling display of wit.

Ghaji sighed. “Do you have any idea how many variations on that joke I’ve heard over the years? Bad enough that you’re stupid, but do you have to be unoriginal too?”

Haaken clenched his teeth. “Listen, you filthy—”

Diran’s hand blurred and Haaken found a daggerpoint dimpling the flesh just above his throat apple.

“I am Diran Bastiaan, and my companion’s name is Ghaji. Now that the introductions are over, please continue with what you were about to say to my friend.”

A hiss of steel filled the air as the other Coldhearts drew their weapons.

“You saw Diran disarm that drunk,” Ghaji said. “Do you really think any of you are fast enough to stop him from giving your commander a second smile? Not to mention that you’d have to get through me first.”

One of the Coldhearts—a woman with a patch over her left eye—sneered. “You’re not so tough, halfbreed.”

Ghaji’s axe erupted in flames.

The Coldheart didn’t say anything, but her sneer fell away, and her remaining eye widened in surprise.

Diran took the opportunity to glance over at their table. Tresslar, Hinto, and Yvka were still sitting and watching, but they all had weapons in hand now. Tresslar held his dragonwand, Hinto gripped the long knife he used in place of a sword, and Yvka held three playing cards—all the triad of shards. Diran knew they were no ordinary cards but rather mystical weapons of some sort designed by Shadow Network artificers. Precisely what the cards would do, Diran had no idea, but whatever it was, he knew from experience that it was bound to be deadly. He also knew his companions were merely waiting for a signal from him or Ghaji to come to their aid, but Diran hoped to resolve this conflict without bloodshed, so he gave the others a quick shake of his head. They nodded to acknowledge his signal and remained seated, but they didn’t put away their weapons.

Diran returned his attention to Haaken Sprull. “Now are you going to finish insulting my friend, or are you and your subordinates going to leave peacefully?”

“I’ll give you a hint,” Ghaji said. “Pick the right one and you get to live a little longer.”

Haaken’s eyes darted back and forth between Diran and those Coldhearts that were in range of his vision. Diran could see the man weighing his options. Haaken wanted to live, but he also didn’t want to lose face in front of the men and women he commanded. Unfortunately, given the increasing desperation in his gaze, the Coldheart leader was beginning to realize that those two goals were mutually exclusive.

Before Haaken could reach a decision, the door to the common room burst open and a woman with close-cropped strawberry-blond hair entered, followed by a half dozen others. Including the strawberry-blonde, there were three women and four men in the group, all of them armed with long swords and wearing red
cloaks and black tabards over mail armor. Each bore the tattoo of a scorpion on the back of the right hand.

The newcomers quickly surrounded the Coldhearts—as well as Diran and Ghaji—and drew their swords. The patrons in the common room grew deathly silent, and more than a few of those sitting at tables closest to the red-cloaked warriors stood and began backing away with slow, precise steps.

“Greetings, Haaken,” the strawberry-blonde said. “I see you and your crew have finally realized what a rancid tide pool Kolbyr is and have come to settle here in Perhata.”

The woman’s tone was flippant, but her gaze was cold and steady, just like the sword held in her relaxed grip. Diran marked her at once as a professional warrior who was all business: the opposite of an arrogant blowhard like Haaken. Diran also noted, almost without realizing it consciously, that the woman was quite attractive.

Haaken responded to her without taking his gaze off Diran, careful to remain still so he wouldn’t cut himself on the priest’s knife point. “Hello, Asenka. Wish I could say it’s good to see your Sea Scorpions again, but then it never is. My crew and I happened to be in the vicinity of Perhata’s waters when we realized we were out of wine. We decided to make berth at that collection of rotting driftwood you call a dock, and visit one of the oversized latrines you call taverns.” He gave her a mocking smile. “All in the interests of furthering good relations between our two cities, of course.”

Asenka seemed unfazed by Haaken’s taunts. She looked at Diran next. “And you are …?”

“Diran Bastiaan.”

“And the reason you have a dagger pressed to Haaken’s throat is …?”