Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 (37 page)

Makala had been flying in bat form for hours. Had she been a natural creature, she would have become weary long ago, but weariness was for mortals. Of course, hunger was also a mortal sensation, and being undead did not spare her from it. It had been more than a day since last she had fed—she felt a pang of guilt for poor dead Eneas—and while her strength and endurance hadn’t diminished appreciably in that time, the emptiness gnawing at the core of her being was becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. She could feel her tenuous control over the Hunger beginning to slip, and she knew that if she postponed
feeding too long, the Hunger would take control of her. If that happened, she would become a wild creature, an animal concerned only with satisfying the basest of desires.

She pushed such concerns from her mind. Thinking of the Hunger would only make it stronger. Like Diran she had once been an assassin in the Brotherhood of the Blade, and like all in the Brotherhood, she had played host to a dark spirit implanted within her in order to blunt her natural human empathy and make her a cold and utterly dispassionate killer. She had been freed of her dark spirit some time ago, but she remembered what it was like to co-exist with evil. That experience helped her live with the Hunger without giving herself over to it, and she would have to rely on that experience once again this night.

Besides, she would feed once she found Cathmore … and then when she was finished, she would leave his desiccated corpse for the mountain scavengers to feed upon, and there would be a little less evil in the world.

Makala continued flying through the night air, allowing her senses to guide her rather than consciously choosing her direction. She could detect the scent of blood over great distances, whether it had been spilled or was still contained within a living body. She’d already sniffed out a band of elven hunters as well as a small enclave of kobolds who made their home in the mountains. Both times she’d been tempted to stop and feed a little to tide her over until she found Cathmore, but she’d resisted. She preferred to save her appetite for the main course.

She had other senses than smell to rely on, however. Her hearing was so sharp that she could pick up the soft whisper of blood as it pulsed through living veins, and she could feel the warmth radiating from a living body as if it were a miniature sun. If Cathmore was anywhere within these mountains, she’d find him.

She flew on, preternatural senses searching, searching …

As she flew, she tried to imagine the taste of Cathmore’s blood as it filled her mouth and ran down her throat.

Like most orcs and half-orcs, Ghaji wasn’t fond of horses—unless they were on a plate. That was all right, though, since by and large the beasts didn’t care for him either. As much he disliked the smelly nags, he’d rather be sitting on the back of the most odiferous, foul-tempered horse than the so-called steed he currently rode: a nine-foot tall bird with long, powerfully muscled legs and tiny useless wings. The creature was called a stone-stepper because of its ability to gracefully navigate the rough terrain here in the foothills of the Hoarfrost Mountains, but Ghaji thought a better name would’ve been ass-breaker because of how uncomfortable it was to ride the monstrous avian. Asenka had supplied the mounts for them. The Sea Scorpions served as Baron Mahir’s elite warriors on both sea
and
land, and when they needed to negotiate the mountainous terrain to the west of the city, they relied on the giant birds. According to Asenka, in the wild the creatures were fearsome predators and had phenomenal eyesight, during both the day and the night.

“Enjoying the ride, love?”

Yvka rode behind Ghaji, her arms wrapped around the half-orc’s waist. Ghaji held tight to the stone-stepper’s reins, though he knew he didn’t have any real control over the creature. Luckily, the giant birds seemed content to move as a flock—or herd, or whatever—so he didn’t have to do much more than hold on, which was hard enough given the stone-stepper’s swiftly lurching gait.

“I’ve taken sword-thrusts to the gut that I’ve enjoyed more.”

Yvka laughed and snuggled against his back. “At least it’s cozy.”

“That’s the only good thing about it,” Ghaji grumbled.

They traveled in a group of four stone-steppers. Diran and Asenka rode the lead bird, then came Hinto and Solus, then Tresslar who rode alone, and Ghaji and Yvka brought up the rear on their mount. All of them were dressed warmly against the cold night air—all save Solus, of course. Warforged needed no protection against temperature extremes. The stone-steppers’ saddles were designed to carry two riders per bird, and the stone-steppers were both large enough and strong enough to carry a pair of riders with ease. Ghaji would’ve preferred to ride in a group formation rather than single file for better security, but Asenka had said that the birds wouldn’t travel any other way. As the kidney-jarring journey wore on, Ghaji had to admit that single file worked best while navigating the uneven, craggy ground and squeezing through narrow mountain passes.

“I hope Solus knows where he’s going,” Ghaji said. “I’m not convinced Tresslar put the pieces of the warforged’s head back together in the right order.”

“Solus has done well enough so far,” Yvka said.

The warforged had been calling out directions to Diran ever since they’d left Perhata, and though the construct occasionally seemed unsure which way to go, most of the time he spoke with confidence.

“Do you really think Solus can track the kalashtar’s ‘psychic trail,’ whatever that means?”

“I’m no expert,” Yvka said, “but I’ve seen psionic crystals before, and Solus is covered with them. They alone make him a very valuable piece of property.” As if realizing she’d misspoken, the elf woman hurried to add, “I mean the crystals themselves are worth quite a bit. There would be no purpose to building a warforged with such crystals if he couldn’t use them.”

“I suppose,” Ghaji said, “but possessing a tool is not the same as being skilled in its use.”

Yvka didn’t reply, and Ghaji didn’t know if that meant she agreed or disagreed with him or simply didn’t have anything to add. They continued to ride in silence, and Ghaji found himself remembering a conversation he and Diran had had while the Sea Scorpions’ groom was getting the stone-steppers saddled.

“Do you trust this warforged?” Ghaji had asked. “He did almost kill you.”

“Yes,” Diran replied. “Solus managed to fight off the kalashtar’s control and restrain himself. He showed mercy.”

“Maybe, but what if Cathmore planned for Solus to fail? Maybe the old bastard knew Solus wouldn’t kill you, and he only intended for the attack to lure you into coming after him.” Ghaji thought of his encounter with Chagai, and how the orc mercenary had avoided engaging him in fight to the finish. “Lure the two of us. We could be riding into a trap.”

Diran smiled. “What else is new?”

The seven companions rode on, the only sounds the scrabbling of clawed avian feet on rock, the creaking of leather saddles, and the strangely soothing trill the giant birds made as they traveled.

The stone-steppers’ group song, along with the heat given off by their mount’s feathered body, had almost lulled Ghaji to sleep when Solus called out, “There!”

Ghaji’s eyes flew open, and he looked to see the psi-forged pointing toward a small mountain that rose like a black shadow against the night sky.

Asenka called out a command in a language Ghaji didn’t recognize, and the stone-stepper she and Diran rode came to a halt. Though she gave no other command, the rest of the birds also stopped.

“It’s called Mount Luster,” Solus said, his normally emotionless voice tinged with excitement. “That’s where I was created, and that’s where we shall find Cathmore and the others.” The psi-forged paused, and when he spoke again, his tone was almost apologetic. “At least … I think so.”

Diran looked to the others. “Well? Do we give it a try?”

“Let’s go,” Ghaji said. “The sooner we get there, the sooner I can get off this damned bony-backed chicken.”

G
alharath stood within the mouth of the psi-forge, his back to the table where Solus had been born, his hands grasping a pair of crystalline rings that hung in the air over his head. To the uninitiated, it would’ve appeared as if the kalashtar was simply holding the rings, but in truth they were bound to the invisible psionic energies surging through the forge, and if Galharath let go of them, the rings would continue to hold their position, as if held aloft by magic, but the power the rings allowed Galharath to tap into was far greater than any mere thaumaturgy; it was the full, unfettered strength of his own mind, made all the stronger by its connection to the psi-forge. The forge was powered by vast geothermal energies surging beneath Mount Luster, and now Galharath could draw upon that power too.

The sensations were beyond anything the kalashtar had ever experienced before. He felt intimately connected to all of creation while at the same time feeling as if he didn’t exist. He knew pleasure beyond conception along with agony so intense
there were no words for it. He was All, he was Nothing, he was
Everything
.

This must be what it feels like to be a god, he thought.

With the merest fraction of his awareness, he detected the presence of living beings approaching Mount Luster. The aura of one of these beings far outshone the others, like a blazing bonfire burning in the blackest of nights, and Galharath knew it was Solus.

“They’re here,” the kalashtar said, his voice a dreamy singsong, as if he were halfway between sleep and wakefulness.

Cathmore stood outside the psi-forge’s entrance, Chagai at his side. The old man rubbed his claw hands together with undisguised glee upon hearing Galharath’s news.

“Excellent! Is everything in readiness?”

Galharath was barely aware at first of the old man’s question.

Cathmore repeated Galharath’s name more sharply, and the psionic artificer reluctantly allowed himself to recall the old man’s existence.

“The psi-forge has been fully reconfigured into its defense mode. The inner walls of the facility have been shielded so that the psionic energies cannot be detected from outside. Solus will not be able to warn the others until it’s too late. You may take up your positions now. I’ll do the rest.”

Chagai growled. “Who are
you
to be giving
us
orders, kalashtar?”

Galharath turned to look at Chagai. Through the orc’s eyes, Galharath could see that his own eyes blazed with white light. He was pleased to see that the effect was quite intimidating.

Chagai stomped off to the corner of the chamber that had been assigned to him. Cathmore, however, lingered a moment.

“Be wary, Galharath,” the elderly assassin said. “For most of my life, I have shared my body with my dark spirit. I know how difficult it can be to keep from becoming subsumed by power
and losing one’s individual identity. Make certain that it is you who controls the forge’s energy, not the other way around.”

With that, the old man hobbled off in the opposite direction from Chagai. Normally, Galharath would’ve been irritated by Cathmore’s suggestion that he wasn’t strong or skilled enough to maintain contol of the psi-forge, but the kalashtar was beyond such petty emotions now. Such things were a limitation of the flesh, and here, within the forge, he was pure intellect. All there was to do now was to enjoy this blissful state and wait for Diran Bastiaan and his companions to arrive, and once they had been dealt with, perhaps Galharath would take care of Cathmore and Chagai as well.

Galharath smiled, his teeth glowing from the psionic energy that surged like molten liquid through his body.