The Jewel of Turmish (29 page)

Kneeling, the skeleton grabbed a fistful of mud and slung it toward the druid’s face. Ettrian dodged and darted for the gem lying in the mud. Before he could reach it, the jewel blazed with unholy crimson light and a bolt of power crackled through the air. When the bolt touched Ettrian, the force lifted him from his feet and threw him backward more than two dozen paces.

“No!” The word ripped from Haarn’s lips in full-throated agony.

Stumbling, obviously wracked with debilitations of its own, the skeleton reached down and picked up the jewel.

Ettrian used his quarterstaff to push himself up. His hide armor had protected him from part of the magic attack, but it was charred and torn, showing raw, red meat underneath. Spotting the horrendous burns covering the druid’s flesh, Druz didn’t understand how he was still conscious, much less able to move.

Balancing on his quarterstaff, Ettrian reached back into his cloak. Pulling his hand out, he flung it at the skeleton. Druz was close enough that she saw the small objects released from the druid’s hand.

Despite his wounds, Ettrian had thrown with accuracy. The four small pellets all landed within the vicinity of the

skeleton, and Druz was sure that at least two of them had struck the undead creature.

The four objects exploded, throwing out huge gouts of fire. The concussion blasted hot air over Druz and knocked her from her feet. She rolled to her side, her head spinning from the exertion and the lack of air as her lungs ached and burned from the acrid smoke.

Staring through the smoke, she saw Haarn pushing himself back to his feet only a few feet away. Soot stained the half-elfs face and arms, broken by splashes of yellow and orange mud.

“Silvanus’ mercy,” Haarn whispered, “will this dead thing not return to the grave?”

Looking through the billowing smoke, Druz stared in disbelief at the skeleton. One of its arms had been blown off by the series of explosions and one foot was missing, but still it stood on the stump and reached out again for the jewel.

“Haarn,” Ettrian called, “don’t let it take the jewel.”

The elf hobbled toward the skeleton, a look of dark intent on his soot-stained face.

The skeleton hobbled away from him, stumbling on one good foot through the craters that had been left by the explosive spell. It folded the jewel up under its remaining arm and bared its fangs, showing spaces where even more teeth had been knocked out. As it continued moving, the skeleton’s lower jaw dropped away, giving a clearer view of the fragile spine holding the cracked skull in place.

Haarn, still limping, rushed forward, his scimitar bared in his fists. Closing on the skeleton, the half-elf raised his blade and drew back to swing. Instead of slicing through the spine as he’d obviously intended, Haarn swung through open air. The jewel glowed fiercely, and the ground opened up and sucked the skeleton down. Only a small mound remained to mark the skeleton’s passage.

Reversing his blade, Haarn drove it deeply into the ground. It stopped when only half the length of the blade had sunk into the mud, but Druz knew the skeleton wasn’t there. Whatever magic had flared from the jewel had taken it away.

“Haarn?” the elf asked.

Looking up, his eyes looking haunted in his scorched and soot-stained face, Haarn shook his head.

“We’ve let it escape,” the elf said. “We had our hands on it and could have prevented some of this madness, but we let it escape. There’s only one place that thing would be headed.”

Ettrian swayed drunkenly as he balanced on his quarterstaff. Glancing to the east, he pointed with his chin.

“It could only have been called forth by Borran Kiosk,” Ettrian said, his voice growing weaker.

The name stirred more fear inside Druz. Even before the horror stories of the Taker spread over the Vilhon Reach there were stories of Borran Kiosk. The legend of the evil mohrg rang through every alehouse and tavern. When men gathered to tell stories of what might have been and what might be, Borran Kiosk’s name was never far from their hps.

“Borran Kiosk is dead,” Druz said.

“Yes,” Ettrian agreed, “and returned yet again. I was given word from the Elder Circle only this morning. Every druid who can answer has been called to Alaghôn to stand against the evil.” He paused. “It looks like you might yet live to see a city as you’ve desired, Haarn.”

Druz listened to the exchange, noting the resentment in the elf druid’s words despite his weakness and pain.

“No,” Haarn said. “I told you I never wanted to see a city, never wanted to be—”

“There’s a part of you that belongs to your mother, isn’t there?” Ettrian challenged, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell.

Haarn raced to the elf druid’s side.

Druz joined him and watched as Haarn pried at the burned armor covering Ettrian’s midsection. She was surprised at the anxiety flashing in Haarn’s eyes.

Fresh blood spilled from the cracked and open blisters that had mottled the elf s lean frame. The stink of burned meat clogged Druz’s nostrils. She put a hand over her mouth and nose.

Gently, Haarn moved the elf aside and reached for the cloak. The garment’s magical nature was further revealed by the fact that it had taken little damage from the mystic bolt. Haarn reached into one of the pockets sewn into the inside of the cloak.

Even though she knew the cloak was magical, it still amazed Druz at the way the druid sank his arm into it up to his elbow. He searched frantically, and pulled a potion from the pocket. He held the glass bottle up and surveyed the pale blue liquid contained within.

“A healing potion?” Druz asked.

She marveled at the bottle. Had it been kept in a regular pouch, it would surely have been shattered.

Haarn broke the seal then reached down and cradled the elf. Tilting Ettrian’s head back, Haarn struggled to pour the liquid into him.

“Open his mouth.”

Grimly, Druz placed her hands on the wounded elf s face. Skin and flesh tore under even the slight pressure she put on him. She almost drew her hands back.

“I’m afraid I’m going to hurt him.”

Haarn looked up at her and said, “He’s dying.”

Druz had held men who’d died on battlefields, but none of them had been cooked the way the elf had. The exposed flesh on his arms cracked open in places. She couldn’t help thinking that if she pulled at the meat it would fall off the bone. Steeling herself, she took shallow breaths and held the elf s head.

Working cautiously and tenderly, Haarn pushed a finger against the elf s lower lip. The flesh split and bright red blood beaded over Ettrian’s mouth and chin.

“Do it,” Druz said.

Haarn pulled the Up farther down, causing flesh to tear at the corner and reveal the elf s crimson-stained teeth. Uncorking the potion bottle with his teeth, Haarn poured the blue-tinged liquid slowly into the elf s throat.

For a moment, the healing potion only pooled in the elf s mouth. Then, with a convulsive swallow, Ettrian drank the liquid. Haarn waited patiently then poured

more liquid into the elf s mouth. This time, the elf swallowed more quickly, showing signs of regaining strength. Though Druz hadn’t believed it was possible, Ettrian drained the contents of the bottle. “What now?” Druz asked.

“We wait,” Haarn answered in a hoarse voice. His eyes never left the unconscious elf. “Is he a friend?

Haarn hesitated then shook his head slowly and said, “Ettrian is my father.”

In the shadows of Mistress Talia’s cargo hold, Barnaby waited to die. At least, he wanted to die a quicker death than the monsters that prowled the merchanter promised. The huge spider-shaped woman was the most terrifying thing he’d ever seen, but it was the dead man with the purple tongue that was the most lethal. Never in his twelve years of life had Barnaby ever given much thought to dying.

Another scream echoed through the hold and Barnaby cringed even tighter into the narrow space. He was small for his age, and often the butt of jokes for it, but this night he was glad of his small stature. If he hadn’t been so small he Would never have been able to fit between the crates.

The screaming man stopped with an abruptness that left no doubt in Barnaby’s mind that he was dead.

The merchanter was only a day out from Alaghôn, headed south across the mouth of the Vilhon Reach. At least four men, two of whom had been on watch, had been lost during the first night. The captain had blamed the uncommonly rough seas and the storm winds that still racked the coast of Turmish.

“Hand me that damn lantern, I tell you!”

Barnaby recognized Ridnow’s voice, but not the fear that echoed within it. Ridnow was a seasoned

sailor, a man who’d sailed the length and breadth of the Sea of Fallen Stars dozens of times, and he didn’t scare easily.

“I said, give me that gods’ damned lantern, boy, and ye had damn well best be quick about it.”

“Ye’re gonna set fire to the ship,” a younger voice shrilled.

“Ain’t ye got it through that thick knob of yers, boy? That there’s Borran Kiosk an’ he ain’t here to take none of us back alive. It’s yer choice whether ye dies like a man or ye end up spitted on that foul tongue of his.”

Gathering his courage, knowing Ridnow and the younger man were close by, Barnaby peered around the corner of the crate. He stayed so close to the crate that the effort earned him a new splinter in his cheek.

Lantern light threw dancing shadows against the walls of the cargo hold. Ridnow stood near a stand of wine barrels. He was a man of normal height but deep-chested and broad-shouldered. Clutching the lantern in one fist, Ridnow held a bloody, double-bitted dwarven battle-axe in the other. The younger man was Deich, a sailor Barnaby knew but not well.

To see the fear so clearly etched on the sailor’s face was disheartening. Tears came to Barnabya eyes and he wiped them away with the back of one arm.

“There’s going to be more of them, you know,” the young man said. “Every one of us he slays rises up against the rest.”

A crooked grin twisted Ridnow’s lips. “Well, that damned corpse ain’t killed us yet, Deich. Ye an’ me, we still got a chance to be heroes.”

“I don’t want to be a hero,” Deich said. “I just want to get off this ship alive.”

Thunder rumbled outside the ship and Mistress Talia heeled over hard to port. Deich stumbled and almost fell but caught himself against the line of crates that Barnaby hid behind.

Another man screamed, this one closer.

“They’re coming for us now,” Deich said.

He shifted, taking up a position to the left and behind Ridnow. The younger sailor’s only weapon was a skinning knife.

“Aye,” Ridnow growled, “won’t be long now an’ well see if them damned monsters bleed, too.”

As Deich tried to stand firm and Ridnow made his preparations, Barnaby realized that an unaccustomed silence had descended inside the ship’s hold. The roaring noise of the storm hadn’t quieted, of course, nor the creaking protests of the merchanter as she still managed to dive and glide between the hills and valleys of the raging sea.

There were no more screams.

“C’mon then, ye great gout o’ black air an’ pestilence!” Ridnow challenged. “C’mon an’ see if n ye got the guts what’s needed to take the life of a true fightin’ man!”

Barnaby glanced around the crate. There, at the other end of the cargo hold, stood Borron Kiosk. The light from Ridnow’s waving lantern illuminated the skeletal figure, highlighting the naked bone.

“I killed your captain, your ship’s mage, and the rest of your crew,” Borran Kiosk said.

The purple tongue flipped out of the grinning jaws and flicked the air.

Tears leaked down Barnaby’s face, but he didn’t know how he could be crying without knowing it. Pain knotted his guts.

“Mayhap ye have,” Ridnow acknowledged, “but ye ain’t finished with ol’ Talia yet, an’ she ain’t proper finished with ye.”

Borran Kiosk started forward. Barnaby saw no undue haste in the monster’s movements, but his thoughts were immediately drawn to the unseen spider-woman. Where was she?

Borran Kiosk came on as if unconcerned about the dwarven battle-axe the sailor held.

Movement high above the cargo, trapped for a moment in the dulled glow of the lantern Ridnow held, captured Barnaby’s attention. He glanced up just in time to spot the

spider-woman scuttling across the beams above. She had an insect’s head with only vaguely human features. He didn’t know how he’d ever thought her beautiful when he’d first laid eyes on her.

He thought only briefly of calling out a warning to Ridnow and Deich, but he knew it wouldn’t be enough to save them. Ridnow and Deich were going to die. It was better not to die with them.

The spider-woman dropped, sliding along a length of gossamer. Her fat body fell over Deich and her eight legs wrapped tight around him. Deich screamed but only once.

Horrified, Barnaby watched as the spider-woman bent down and seemed to kiss Deich’s neck. When she brought her ugly head away, crimson stained her mouth and dribbled down her misshapen chin. Barnaby clapped both hands over his mouth and tried not to scream. He hoped the muffled noise that escaped him would be lost in the sounds of the storm and the creaking ship.

“Deich!” Ridnow called helplessly.

“You lost him,” Borran Kiosk said. “Now you stand nearly alone.” His purple tongue flicked the air. “Only one more remains after you.”

He knows! He knows! The panicked thought filled Barnaby’s mind.

He was scarcely able to restrain himself from hurling out of the hiding place he’d found and—and—

Only the fact that he had nowhere to go stopped him.

“Aye, monster,” Ridnow said fiercely. “Mayhap I have lost me captain and me crew, but I ain’t a-gonna let ye have leave o’ this ship. In case ye ain’t been proper piped aboard, welcome to yer own death!”

Whirling, he turned and smashed his axe through the end of a barrel. The astringent smell of alcohol laced the cargo hold and burned Barnaby’s nose.

Ridnow swung the battle-axe again, completely destroying the keg. Amber liquid spilled out across the cargo hold deck, running first in one direction, then another as the ship shifted.