Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 (32 page)

Skarm was aware of the voice speaking in his mind, but he had more pressing concerns to deal with at that moment—like putting out the flames that were rapidly consuming his body. He had lost a great deal of blood and was very weak, but he was a supernatural creature, and though it remained an effort for him to do so, still he could move, if only barely. He pushed himself to the edge of the dock inch by tortuous inch—practically dragging his half-severed head—until he felt himself teeter and then slip over the side. The frigid water came as a welcome shock to his pain-ravaged body, and the flames snuffed out.

Skarm floated in the soothing embrace of the sea for several moments before his lungs began to scream for air. He swam toward where he judged the dock to be, and surprised himself when his clawed hands actually came in contact with wood. He grabbed hold of the support and climbed painfully to the surface. When
his head broke water, he drew a gasping breath and then clung tight to the wet wood of the support as he continued to breathe. Hidden from sight by the dock above him, he was safe—for the moment, at least, but if the half-orc and his friends thought to search under it …

Then he heard the voice again, a voice speaking in his mind, he realized, calling for Diran Bastiaan. The barghest’s mind was not like that of a natural creature, and though he heard the psionic shout, it caused him little discomfort—a blessing considering that every other part of his body was in utter agony. He had one other thing to be grateful for as well: whoever or whatever the psionic communication issued from, the voice was calling for the priest. That meant Bastiaan and the half-orc had bigger problems to worry about then tracking down a wounded barghest—and that suited Skarm just fine.

Diran possessed no priestly powers that would allow him to block the shout in his mind, but he did know numerous meditation techniques—some learned at Emon Gorsedd’s academy, some when he was studying for the priesthood—and he employed them now. He closed his eyes and pictured a pond, its surface smooth as glass. The voice spoke again and the pond rippled, but Diran imagined a soft breeze blowing across the water’s surface, smoothing away the ripples until the pond was still once more. The pain the voice had caused receded, replaced by a feeling of peaceful calm. Then, and only then, did Diran reply to the voice.

I am at the docks. I shall await you here
.

The voice didn’t reply, but Diran felt the pressure begin to ease, as if his head had been held tight within a giant vise grip that was finally being removed.

He opened his eyes.

Ghaji was struggling to his feet near a scorched section of the dock. Of the barghest there was no sign. Tresslar hung limp in Asenka’s arms as the woman worked to haul the artificer to a standing position. Hinto lay on his side, curled into a ball, trembling violently. All of them had bloody noses—Diran dabbed his fingers to his upper lip—as did he. His head ached as if he’d drank far too much of the bilgewater the King Prawn served in place of ale.

He hurried over to Tresslar. The artificer was unconscious, skin ashen, features slack on the left side of his face. Diran was no chirurgeon, but as a priest he’d been trained in both mystical and mundane aspects of the healing arts, and he knew the older man had suffered a stroke.

“Hold him as still as you can,” Diran told Asenka. The woman nodded, and Diran gently touched his fingertips to the artificer’s temples. He closed his eyes and allowed the healing power of the Silver Flame to surge through him and into Tresslar’s body. When Diran opened his eyes, he saw that Tresslar remained unconscious, but the muscles on the left side of the man’s face no longer hung slack.

“Let’s lay him down gently,” Diran said. “I’ve managed to heal the worst of the damage, but it will be some time before he awakens.”

Together, Diran and Asenka lay down the unconscious Tresslar, then the priest turned his attention to the woman. “Are you hurt?”

Asenka gave him a weak smile. “A headache, and I feel weak as a kitten, but I’ll live.”

Diran returned her smile. He could alleviate the aftereffects of the psionic assault with his healing powers, but he wanted to check on Ghaji and Hinto first, in case they were injured more severely.

Ghaji walked up, axe tucked beneath his belt, Tresslar’s dragonwand held in his hand. “I’m really starting to get irritated with that barghest,” he growled. The half-orc’s complexion was a lighter shade of green than usual, and his upper lip was smeared with blood, but otherwise he appeared hale enough. Anticipating Diran’s next words, Ghaji said, “I’m fine. See to the halfling.”

Diran knew his friend would say he was fine even if he’d lost all four limbs and was about to lose his head in the bargain, but Diran agreed with Ghaji’s assessment, so he walked over and knelt at the Hinto’s side.

The halfling yelped when Diran placed a hand on his shoulder, but then he spoke in a stuttering, quavering voice, forcing out each word with an obvious effort. “I-I’m all right. J-j-just … afraid.”

Diran was glad Hinto wasn’t seriously injured, but he felt a wave of pity for his small friend. Maybe Ghaji had been right about the halfling not being able to endure Diran’s chosen quest.

“Just lie still until the fear passes, Hinto. All will be well.” Diran stood, wondering if he had just lied to his friend.

“Looks like we weren’t the only ones who heard the voice,” Ghaji said.

Diran saw what Ghaji meant. The docks were in an uproar, men and women shouting in confusion, crying out in pain, fleeing into the city streets or casting off lines in preparation of sailing away.

“Do you think everyone in the city heard it?” Asenka asked.

“I don’t know,” Diran admitted. “The voice called for me, so perhaps only those in my vicinity were affected.” He didn’t want to imagine the kind of power the owner of such a mental voice might wield if everyone in Perhata had heard the message.

“What do we do?” Ghaji asked. “Stand or run?”

“Stand,” Diran said. “I told the voice that I was waiting at the docks. Besides, I’m not sure there’s anywhere we could run even if we wanted to.”

“Good,” Ghaji said. “I’m too damned tired to run anyway.”

Diran turned to Asenka, but before he could speak, she said, “Don’t tell me this isn’t my fight, Diran Bastiaan. I command the Sea Scorpions, and this is my city. That makes it my fight.”

Diran smiled. “It seems as if our mysterious psion isn’t the only one who can read minds.”

“We should move away from Tresslar and Hinto,” Ghaji said. “Neither is capable of fighting at the moment.”

Diran hated to leave the two alone—Tresslar still unconscious and Hinto held tight in the grip of his fear—but they couldn’t draw danger to them, either.

“Very well, let’s—”

Return what you have stolen, thief!

The words lanced through Diran’s brain like white-hot spearpoints, and he heard someone cry out in pain. He wasn’t surprised when he realized it was him. Through eyes blurred with tears, he saw a large figure striding across the dock toward them. Man-shaped it was, made of stone and wood, the surface of its body encrusted with colorful crystal shards of varying sizes that pulsed with barely constrained energy. A warforged, Diran thought, but like none he had ever seen before.

Standing on shore, watching as the warforged advanced, were three other figures. Diran didn’t recognize either the orc or the lean, graceful man clad in black leather, but the third figure was known to him, as familiar to Diran as his own face. Swaddled in a thick fur cloak against the cold, grinning like a shark about to sink its teeth into its next meal, stood Aldarik Cathmore.

Before Diran had time to fully register Cathmore’s presence, a three-fingered hand made of stone closed around his throat, and he felt himself being lifted into the air. The warforged’s pinpoint eyes smoldered with fury as he slowly tightened his grip on Diran’s neck, and when next he spoke, its voice issued from its stone mouth.

“Return what you have taken, thief … or die!”

C
an we have a third choice?”

Ghaji swung his flaming axe at the crook of the warforged’s arm. During the Last War, he’d fought many of the living constructs, and he knew that they were most vulnerable at their darkwood joints, and though the darkwood was spelled to be fire-resistant on the surface, once that surface was broken, the wood underneath burned as easily as any other.

The axe blade bit into the joint of the warforged’s arm with a loud
chuk!
and held fast. The warforged’s head swiveled as he turned to look at Ghaji, but before the construct could react further, the half-orc hauled back on his weapon with all his strength, attempting to unbalance the warforged and break his grip on Diran. Given that the constructs were formed primarily of stone and metal, warforged were heavy and not easily moved, but Ghaji was determined to save his friend and gave it all he had. The half-orc’s arm and shoulder muscles blazed with pain, but he refused to let up.

The warforged, which up to this point had been immovable
as a statue, began to lean toward Ghaji, and the half-orc gave one last mighty pull, shouting with the effort. It felt as if his arm muscles were going to rip free of their bones, but the warforged stumbled, and the hand clutching Diran around the neck sprung open.

The black-clad priest fell to the dock and gasped for air. Ghaji feared that his friend’s throat had been crushed, but while he wanted to rush to Diran’s side and tend to him, Ghaji knew he couldn’t. The warforged would remain off-balance for only a second or two. Besides, Diran himself was best equipped to heal whatever injuries he might’ve sustained.

Ghaji’s axe was still partially embedded in the warforged’s arm, and he needed to pry the weapon loose to resume his attack, but before he could do so, the construct trained his pinpoint eyes of flickering energy on Ghaji, and the crystal shards affixed to his head—already pulsing with energy—shone more brightly. Ghaji felt himself rising into the air as if he was being lifted by powerful hands. He still had hold of his axe, and the blade slid free from the warforged’s arm with unexpected ease. Ghaji looked down at himself, but he could see nothing visible that was holding him aloft.

The construct’s eyes glowed like tiny twin suns, and Ghaji flew high up into the air and out over the sea.

Asenka watched as an unseen force lifted Ghaji into the air then hurled him far from the dock. The half-orc soared at least a hundred feet upward before starting to descend. From that height, hitting the water would be like slamming full force into a brick wall. If he hit the sea at the wrong angle …

Before she could see if Ghaji entered the water safely, a much closer splashing sound drew Asenka’s attention back to the
warforged. Thanks to Ghaji’s axe-strike, flames engulfed the construct’s arm, but now a stream of water rose forth from the sea to arc through the air and splash onto the flames, dousing them. Asenka knew that warforged wizards existed, though she had never encountered any, and she wondered if this construct was one. The warforged’s actions didn’t
seem
like magic though. He used no materials or tools, conducted no rituals, spoke no magic words … As near as she could tell this warforged simply willed something to happen, and it did. Disrupt a magic-user’s concentration, interrupt his rite, make him mispronounce his mystical phrases, take away or damage his artifacts of power, and you could fight him, but Asenka had no idea how to even begin to counter such power as the warforged possessed. But she knew who might.