Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 (4 page)

Ghaji wore a battered breastplate—another souvenir of his soldier days—as his only armor, and he carried two axes tucked into his belt. One was a simple hand-axe he used as his back-up weapon, but the other served as his primary—an axe imbued with an elemental that, when Ghaji wished, became wreathed in mystical flame. It was on unofficial and—if Ghaji had anything to say about it—permanent loan from the prison island of Dreadhold.

Diran, his hands nicely warmed now, smiled at his friend. “You get used to the smell after a time.”

Ghaji snorted as if to clear the stink out of his nostrils. “Easy for you to say. Your parents owned a fishing boat.”

An elf-woman stood on the other side of Diran. Her brown hair was woven into an intricate pattern of braids, and she possessed the fine aristocratic features and pointed ears common to her people. Like the others, she wore a thick fur cloak, though she gave no sign that the cold bothered her.

“You grew up in marshlands, Ghaji,” Yvka said. “Swamps have their own share of unpleasant odors.”

“Sure,” Ghaji said, “but they’re
normal
unpleasant odors—brackish water, decaying plants. Not this stench! It reminds me of … well, let’s just say I find it less than pleasant and leave it at that.”

An elderly human male stood next to Yvka, and he frowned at Ghaji. “Just be grateful that you’re a
half-orc
. Your sense of smell would be even stronger if you were full-blooded.” A lean man in his sixties, Tresslar sported a scraggly white beard and mustache, but his eyes—though receded into the sockets somewhat and set above drooping bags—were intense, vital, and alive. The eyes of a much younger man, or a man who’d never forgotten what being young felt like.

“I can help alleviate your discomfort if you wish, Ghaji.” Solus stood next in the circle, though he had no need of Tresslar’s magic gem to warm himself. The voice that issued from the construct’s throat was hollow-sounding and devoid of emotion, though not altogether
inhuman. “I can temporarily reconfigure the sensory pathways in your mind so that you cannot detect the smell of fish. Or, if you’d prefer, I can cause you to experience any scent you desire, such as roses or perhaps a freshly cooked steak.”

Solus wore a hooded gray robe with oversized sleeves to hide his three-fingered hands. He also wore a fur cloak, though it wasn’t necessary since temperature extremes proved no discomfort for him. He had decided to wear the cloak for the same reason as he’d donned the robe: in order to disguise his true nature. Warforged were more common in the Five Nations than the Principalities, but they weren’t unknown here. But Solus wasn’t simply any warforged; he was special. Physically, he resembled a typical specimen of his kind. Roughly humanoid, body a composite of iron, stone, silver, obsidian, and darkwood. Glowing green eyes—though his were slightly dimmer than usual for a warforged—three-fingered hands, two-toed feet, and a hinged jaw.

But what made Solus stand apart from others of his kind were the crystals of various sizes, shapes, and colors embedded in the surface of his body. The crystals weren’t simply decoration. They possessed the ability to absorb, channel, and intensify psionic energy. Solus was a psiforged, capable of astounding feats of psychic prowess—telekinesis, telepathy, illusion-casting and more. But he was untrained in the use of his abilities and thus potentially a great danger to those around him. Keeping his true nature concealed was necessary to prevent others from focusing their attention—and more importantly, their thoughts—on him. Until he learned a greater measure of control over his powers, the fewer minds he came in close contact with, the better.

“I’ll stick with the stench,” Ghaji said. “Nothing personal, but I’d rather not have my head explode if something goes wrong.”

Hinto came next in the circle after Solus.

“That’s not fair! Solus has gotten a lot better as using his powers!” Hinto smiled mischievously. “Though as homely as you are, Greenie, I doubt anyone would notice if your head
did
explode!”

Though in his early adulthood, Hinto stood no taller than a child, but he was of average height for a halfling. His skin was nut-brown,
the result of a lifetime spent sailing the Lhaazar, and he wore a long-knife tucked under his belt, a weapon he wielded as if it were a sword built specially for someone his size. He wore a red bandana on his head, along with a long-sleeved shirt and pants, both woven from thick brown material. Sturdy boots, a scarf, and glove with the tips of the fingers cut off completed his outfit. A hardy Lhaazarite, he didn’t bother wearing a fur cloak. As he’d said before they left Perhata, “I don’t need one. It’s not full winter yet.”

Ghaji glared at the halfling sailor. “You’re not exactly what I’d call handsome. And neither is your jewel-encrusted friend.”

Hinto patted Solus’s hand. “Don’t mind him. He’s always in a sour mood.”

Hinto never strayed far from Solus’s side. Ever since the construct had joined the companions, the instant bond the two had formed had only grown stronger. And, as Solus’s eyesight had been damaged beyond Tresslar’s ability to repair, the halfling served as the psiforged’s eyes. His physical eyes, at any rate, as Solus had senses other than sight with which to navigate his environment.

The last member of the circle—standing between Hinto and Ghaji, which at the moment wasn’t the safest place aboard
Welby’s Pride
—was Asenka.

“I, for one, think a man covered by jewels is
quite
attractive,” she said. “Even if he isn’t human.” She gave Diran a quick wink to show she was joking. She and Diran weren’t lovers, not yet, but they were more than friends. Diran wondered if their relationship would continue to grow and deepen, and he surprised himself when he realized that he hoped it would.

Asenka had close-cropped strawberry-blond hair and a tattoo of a scorpion on the back of her right hand. Instead of the red cloak she normally wore with her uniform of black tabard over mail armor, she had on a fur cloak as protection against the cold. She was armed with a long sword, and though at first glance she didn’t appear muscular enough to wield it effectively, Diran had seen her use the weapon to good effect on more than one occasion. Asenka served as commander of the Sea Scorpions, Baron Mahir’s elite cadre of warriors, and it was she who had delivered Diran’s proposition to the baron: the
priest and his companions would travel to Kolbyr and see if they might be able to lift the curse that had hung over the ruling house for a hundred years. Mahir had been skeptical at first. After all, the Barons of Kolbyr had doubtless attempted to have the curse removed numerous times over the years, and without success. Not only would another attempt most likely prove futile, the fact that it originated from Perhata might well lead to an escalation of hostilities between the two cities. Especially since Diran and Ghaji had been responsible for the destruction of the
Maelstrom
and the Coldhearts. That action hadn’t been authorized by Mahir—not that he wasn’t pleased by it—but Baroness Calida might not see it that way.

In the end Asenka had managed to convince Mahir to sponsor the journey to Kolbyr. It helped that it wouldn’t be too expensive, of course, and that they planned to conduct their mission as unobtrusively as possible. But Mahir’s main reason for agreeing was a practical one. The longstanding enmity between the two cities had prevented both from progressing the way they might have otherwise. Mahir didn’t exactly want to become friends with Calida, but the periodic clashes between their two cities were costly. If those Lhazaarites who made their homes in the Gulf of Ingjald ever hoped to compete economically with the rest of the Principalities, the feud between Perhata and Kolbyr had to end.

So with Mahir’s approval—and more importantly, his money—Asenka was able to hire a cargo vessel to bear Diran and his companions to a small fishing village not far from Kolbyr. They couldn’t use the
Water Dragon
—the Sea Scorpions’ ship—lest she draw too much attention and be seen as an attack on Kolbyr, especially now that the Coldhearts were no longer there to protect the city.

After arriving at the village, they disembarked and hired
Welby’s Pride
to take them the rest of the way. It was common for independent fishing boats to bring their catch in to either Kolbyr or Perhata, depending on which was closer and which happened to be paying more for fish at any given time. It was true that Diran, Ghaji, and the others didn’t much resemble local fisherfolk, but then even in this less-than-cosmopolitan backwater of the Principalities, it wasn’t
unknown to see groups of odd strangers, and while some eyebrows might get raised, few questions would be asked.

“It seems like we’ve been sailing for days,” Ghaji complained. “At this pace, we may not reach Kolbyr until summer.”

“We wouldn’t have to use this leaky wreck at all if we still had the
Zephyr,”
Yvka said. “In the time it’s taken us to get this far, we could’ve already reached Kolbyr, lifted the curse, and be halfway back to Perhata.”

Tresslar frowned. “You’re not the only one who’s lost something, you know.”

The artificer had been in a foul mood for the last several days, ever since his dragonwand had been stolen at Mount Luster by the barghest. The elderly artificer had searched for the device night and day, forgoing both sleep and meals in his obsessive quest to regain the dragonwand. Diran couldn’t blame the old man. The golden dragonhead affixed to the tip of the wand was a magical artifact of great power, enabling its user to drain mystical energy from enchanted objects and rechannel it to create whatever effects the user desired. Tresslar had possessed the dragonwand for forty years, ever since he’d sailed with the legendary explorer Erdis Cai in his youth. Tresslar was determined not to give up the dragonwand easily, but so far all his attempts to locate the artifact had met with failure.

Yvka’s face reddened with anger at Tresslar’s comment, and Ghaji—as he so often did—stepped in to lighten the mood. “I think you’ve been spoiled by your elemental sloop, Yvka. Now you’re frustrated because you have to travel as slowly as the rest of us ordinary mortals.”

But Ghaji’s words had the opposite effect. Yvka’s face turned a deeper red, and her delicate elvish brow furrowed into a scowl. “It’s not a joking matter.”

Her voice had a sternness to it that Diran had seldom heard before, like she was an adult lecturing a small child, and an annoying one at that. Yvka was an elf, and therefore older than Ghaji, perhaps quite a bit older. Diran forgot that sometimes.

Ghaji’s jaws muscles tensed, and Diran knew his friend was fighting to keep from becoming defensive.

“I’m sure Ghaji didn’t mean to make light of your loss,” Diran said.

Yvka smiled and reached out to pat Ghaji’s hand. “I know. It’s just that the
Zephyr
doesn’t belong to me. It’s a loan from my associates.”

The elf-woman had never directly admitted to any of them—not even Ghaji—that she worked for the Shadow Network, had in fact never acknowledged that the secret organization of spies and assassins even existed. But it was an open secret among the companions, though they avoided speaking of it out of respect for their friend.

The crew hauled another net full of fish out of the water and dumped the catch onto the deck. The fish, still alive and flopping, were mostly cod, Diran noted, and good-sized ones at that, each nearly the length of a man’s arm. The fish would bring in good money once the crew put in to Kolbyr, Diran thought, and he found himself thinking of the path his life might have taken if his parents hadn’t been killed, if he’d grown to adulthood fishing the waters of the Lhazaar. Certainly it would have been a simpler path than the one he now trod—he glanced at his companions and smiled—but a far less rewarding one.

Several of the crystals on Solus’s forehead began to glow, and though the psiforged didn’t possess the physiognomy to frown, the tone of his voice conveyed his concern.

“Something is wrong.”

Before Diran could ask Solus to clarify, a chorus of shrill cries cut through the air, and a white mass descended upon
Welby’s Pride
. The gulls, excited by the cod flopping on the deck, had abandoned making individual sorties to snatch fish in favor of a group assault. The crew yelled and cursed, flailed their arms, punched, kicked, even drew knives and struck out at the birds. But instead of frightening off the gulls, the crew’s actions only served to further embolden the raucous scavengers. At first it proved to be an almost comical sight: grown men and women, toughened sea-hands all, battling birds that were little more than flying feathered rats for possession of a pile of flopping codfish. But then the gulls became more aggressive, forgetting the cod and turning their attention toward the crew. The birds pecked at every hand that came near them, flew past heads and
dug their beaks into scalps. At first the crew merely yelped and swore, the injuries inflicted by the gulls little more than annoyances. But then the birds began to strike harder, sharp beaks drawing blood, and the crew’s shouts of anger became cries of pain.

At first the gulls ignored Diran and his companions, presumably because none of them were standing near the fish, but that didn’t last long. A single gull broke away from the flock and came flapping toward them, beady black eyes glittering with almost human hatred. The bird made straight for Asenka, clearly aiming for the woman’s eyes, but before it could reach her, the commander of the Sea Scorpions drew her long sword, swung, and the gull’s body fell to one portion of the deck while its head landed on another.

More gulls broke off their assault on the crew and came flying at the companions, harsh cries full of rage, as if they intended to avenge their flock-mate’s death. Without a word, Diran and the others turned around, remaining in a circle but facing outward to meet the gulls’ attack. Ghaji activated his elemental axe, and mystic fire burst forth from the metal. The half-orc warrior swung the enchanted weapon in wide, sweeping arcs, flames trailing from the axe head as he cut down one bird after another. Asenka continued striking out with her long sword, while Hinto did the same with his long knife. Yvka reached into the leather pouch that hung from her belt and withdrew a slender steel spike upon which three white acorns had been skewered. With a graceful flick of her wrist, she flipped the object—a product of the ever-inventive and always-devious artificers of the Shadow Network—toward the attacking gulls. The steel spike disintegrated in mid-air, and the acorns became ivory streaks as they shot off in three separate directions to bore large, bloody holes in the chests of three different gulls.