The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (37 page)

“I don’t suppose Tresslar told you how to find the entrance to this secret passage,” Ghaji said as they ran through the outskirts of the goblin city.

“He gave me directions, but I don’t think we’ll need them,” Diran said.

Ghaji frowned. “Why not?”

In answer, Diran pointed to a section of cavern wall where Tresslar stood, dragonwand tucked beneath his tunic belt. The artificer had his hand pressed to the stone, and when he removed it, a semicircular door swung open.

“At least he didn’t have to kiss this one,” Ghaji said.

Tresslar must’ve heard them approaching, for her turned, a wary expression on his face, but when he saw who it was, he relaxed.

Diran and Ghaji came to a stop as they reached the open passageway.

“What are you doing here?” Ghaji asked.

“I don’t know,” Tresslar admitted. “I … I just had to come.”

Diran nodded to the open passageway. “This is it?”

“Yes. The catacombs lie at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Ghaji and I will go first,” Diran said. “Remember, whatever happens, Erdis Cai must not be allowed to gain control of those warriors.” With that, Diran headed down the winding stairs into darkness, Ghaji and Tresslar following close behind.

Waiting for them at the bottom of the stairs was a scene out of nightmare. The chamber was just as Tresslar had described it: recessed areas housing the upright corpses of the ancient hobgoblin warriors carved into the circular wall, blood pool in the center of the room, stone walkway and dais rising out of the crimson liquid. Four braziers of burning green fire illuminated the chamber with eerie light, and the blood in the pool—the sheer volume of it was staggering—roiled and swirled around the dais as if alive. Onkar and the raven-haired woman stood at the edge of the pool, gazing upon their master. Erdis Cai stood on the walkway next to the dais, holding in one hand a knife formed from the Mark of Vol, its blade dripping crimson. In his other hand, he held a young man upside down by the ankle. The youth’s throat had been slashed open and blood gushed from the wound, raining down to join the swirling mass of liquid in the pool. When the flow diminished to a trickle, Erdis Cai gave the youth’s body a shake, like a man determined to get the last few drops from a bottle of wine. Then with an ease that was horrible in its casualness, the vampire lord tossed the drained corpse to the other side of the chamber where it fell to the floor, joining the body of an older woman who’d already been bled.

Two of the final sacrifices had been completed. The last lay bound hand and foot atop the dais, still very much alive. Makala.

Though Diran wanted to call out her name, let her know that help had arrived at last, he didn’t waste time on talk. He drew one of his few remaining daggers from his cloak, a silver one that he had saved especially for Erdis Cai. The removal of the Mark of Vol from the vampire lord’s breastplate had left an open gap in
his obsidian armor, an opening Diran was determined to exploit. He hurled the dagger, but just as the blade was about to strike its target, Erdis Cai deflected Diran’s dagger with his blood-smeared sacrificial knife. The silver dagger flew to the other side of the chamber, struck the stone wall, and fell to the ground.

The vampire lord smiled. “A gallant attempt, priest. You’re fast—for a mortal.”

Onkar snarled and started toward Diran. “I owe you for what you did to my hand, priest! I’m going to enjoy—”

The undead sailor never got to finish his sentence. Diran drew the silver arrowhead symbol of his order from his shirt pocket, and with a flick of his wrist, sent it spinning toward Onkar. The holy object wasn’t a dagger, but it
was
silver, and what’s more, it was consecrated in the name of the Silver Flame. The arrowhead flew into Onkar’s open mouth, and its sharp edges sank into the flesh in the back of his throat. The vampire let out a gurgling scream as smoke curled forth from his mouth, immediately followed by a gout of black blood. Onkar clawed at his throat with his remaining hand, tearing away chunks of his own flesh as he desperately sought to remove the holy object. Eyes wild with panic, the undead sailor flew toward the stairs, tendrils of smoke trailing from his mouth, and black blood spilling over his charred lips.

As Onkar rushed past them, Ghaji swung his flaming axe, but the vampire was moving so swiftly that all Ghaji managed to do was lop off his good arm. Onkar staggered under the blow as his severed arm flopped to the ground, but he kept going, now entirely bereft of hands. He gained the stairs and rapidly ascended them, howling in pain all the way.

Erdis Cai showed no reaction to his second-in-command’s
agonized flight. He was too busy staring past Diran and Ghaji with a puzzled expression.

“That old man with you … he seems somewhat familiar to me,” the vampire lord said.

“That because I used to sail with you, Erdis.”

The undead explorer’s eyes widened in recognition. “Tresslar? Is that really you?”

“It is.”

Erdis Cai grinned in delight, and when he next spoke, his tone was warm and filled with affection. “By the Sovereigns, how you’ve changed! But then, it’s been quite some time since we saw each other last, eh, lad? Now I understand how the priest and the half-orc found their way here. They had you for a guide.”

“You’ve changed, too, Erdis,” Tresslar said sadly.

Erdis Cai’s grin relaxed and some of the former coldness crept back into his voice. “It’s a pity that you jumped ship when you did. You missed out on the greatest adventure of all.”

“What adventure?” Tresslar challenged. “Becoming a monster? Serving a goddess of evil?”

Erdis Cai’s smile disappeared and his voice was now devoid of emotion. “For an artificer, you always did display a surprising lack of imagination. I’ve become something more than human, Tresslar—something
better
. I found what I had been searching for all those long years that I sailed the world’s seas: something greater than myself to believe in.”

“Spare us your rationalizations,” Diran said. “You’re not more than human. You’re nothing but a dead shell that contains only faint traces of the man called Erdis Cai. You’re a vessel for Vol’s evil, nothing more.”

The raven-haired woman spoke for the first time. “Spare
us
your hypocrisy, Diran Bastiaan. In the process of determining whether Makala’s mind and spirit were strong enough to make her a suitable sacrifice, I learned all about you, priest. You are a killer at heart, a predator in cleric’s clothing. You may pretend that you slay those beings you deem ‘evil’ in order to protect the innocent … whoever
they
are, but deep down you’re no different from Erdis, Onkar, or me.” As she spoke, Jarlain began walking toward Diran, reaching out as if she wanted to take his hands in hers. “You kill because it’s your nature … because you’re good at it …” The woman was almost close enough to touch Diran now. “Most of all, because you
love
it.”

Diran wanted to deny Jarlain’s words, but how could he when at times he’d thought the very same thing himself?

Jarlain reached out to touch him, but before her hand could make contact, Ghaji stepped between them.

“Shut up,” the half-orc growled and swung his axe in a flaming arc toward the raven-haired beauty.

Diran saw the surprised look in Jarlain’s eyes for only an instant, then her severed head flew away from him. Blood fountained upward from the stump of her neck, and her body slumped to the ground, lifeless. Blood continued to gush from her corpse, spreading toward the edge of the pool.

Tresslar ran to Jarlain’s body, grabbed it by the ankles, and began pulling it away from the pool. “We have to move her before—”

It was too late. Jarlain’s blood ran over the edge and poured down into the pool where it merged with the roiling mass of liquid. The pool’s level rose only the merest fraction of an inch, but that was enough. Blood began flowing along the twenty-five
runnels toward the alcoves where the withered corpses of the goblinoid warriors stood waiting. The corpses’ desiccated feet stood in the runnels, and as the blood flowed around their ankles, the first of them began to move.

Diran looked at Ghaji.

“Damn,” the half-orc said.

T
he undead hobgoblins opened their eyes, revealing empty sockets—no, not empty, rather filled with pulsating shadow. Arms that were little more than bone covered by dried parchment-like skin lifted swords, spears, halberds, and war hammers, dark magic supplying the strength their withered muscles couldn’t provide. The goblinoid warriors stepped forth from the stone alcoves where they had stood throughout the long years waiting with the patience that only the dead can know. Leathery lips parted for the first time in centuries as the living corpses let out silent battle cries.

Erdis Cai laughed. “You’ve failed, priest!”

The vampire lord turned his back on them, and still holding onto his sacrificial blade, he stepped closer to the dais where Makala lay staring at him with wide, fear-filled eyes and shaking her head in denial. As if it were an afterthought, he said, “Slay the intruders, my warriors, while I tend to more
… pleasant matters.” His teeth drew back from his fangs in a hideous parody of a smile and Makala screamed.

Diran turned to Ghaji.

“Tresslar and I will deal with the goblins,” Ghaji said. “Go save Makala.”

Diran nodded, drew the last wooden dagger from his cloak, and ran for the walkway that crossed over to the dais. Behind him, he heard Tresslar said, “What do you mean
we?”

“Be quiet and put that dragon-stick of yours to work, old man!” Ghaji shouted, then Diran heard the sound of clashing metal and he knew the battle had been joined.

“Old?” Tresslar sounded quite affronted, then there came the crackle of released mystic energy as the artificer did as Ghaji advised.

Trusting his companions to take care of the resurrected hobgoblins, which were now striding forth from their alcoves by the dozens, Diran ran across the walkway toward the dais. Erdis Cai leaned over Makala, clearly intending to sink his teeth into her neck and infect her with his vampiric contagion. Though she looked terrified, Makala remained motionless as the vampire lord bent down over her. Diran guessed that Erdis Cai must have placed her in some sort of paralytic state, for such simple bonds as those encircling her wrists and ankles would never have prevented her from fighting otherwise. Diran held his wooden dagger in a tight grip, but Erdis Cai was standing at an angle to him, depriving Diran of a clear shot at the opening in his breastplate. He heard Emon Gorsedd’s voice then.

If you can’t take your best shot, take your second-best
.

Diran hurled the wooden dagger at Erdis Cai’s unprotected
neck. The blade severed the vampire’s artery as it pierced his undead flesh, and black slime spurted from the wound. Erdis Cai spun around, eyes aflame, fangs bared in a feral snarl. He made no move to withdraw the dagger jutting out of his neck as Diran approached. Instead he raised his own knife, the one formed from the unholy Mark of Vol, and lunged forward to meet Diran’s advance.

Diran stopped and raised his right hand. It was empty at first, but then a glimmer of silvery light appeared. The glimmer burst into brilliant radiance and Diran Bastiaan held the power of the living Silver Flame in his hand.

Erdis Cai broke off his attack and raised an arm to shield his eyes, dropping the sacrificial blade as he did so. The weapon fell into the roiling blood pool, which was slowly draining, its thick crimson liquid flowing up the sides of the pit and into the runnels as it continued to restore life to the hobgoblin army.

“It’s over, Cai!” Diran said. Energy blazed through every fiber of the priest’s being, but there was no pain, only a sensation of strength and rightness as the Silver Flame did its holy work through him. He was the weapon, and the Silver Flame, which was the power of Life itself, was the hand wielding him. Some called Diran the Blade of the Flame, and that title was never more appropriate than at this very moment. “Surrender, and I promise your destruction will be swift and merciful!”

Erdis Cai cringed from the intense illumination radiating from Diran’s hand, and the priest stepped closer, reaching back into his cloak for a dagger—any dagger—that might end the vampire’s foul existence, but before Diran could locate a suitable blade, Erdis Cai turned and clamped his gauntleted fingers around Makala’s throat.