Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 (15 page)

Diran felt a cold, foul wave of infernal power wash over him, and he knew that the demon had been forced out of the boy and was seeking to enter the next closest body available: his.

Such a nice strong, body … and there’s already a place for me here! Once you’ve played host to darkness, it leaves a hollowed-out space inside your soul, Diran Bastiaan. All sorts of nasty things can find their way inside you and make themselves right at home
.

Diran felt the demon’s spirit attempting to wriggle its way inside him, like a worm invading the flesh of a potential host. But Diran
wasn’t without his defenses, and he fought back with all the spiritual strength at his command.

It goes both ways, demon
, Diran thought.
I once shared my soul with one of your kind, and that does make me more susceptible to possession. But I also know what it’s like to resist evil and cast it out of my heart
.

Diran closed his eyes. In his mind he saw the fiend as a cross between a spider and a squid, with a touch of boar tossed in for variety. He didn’t recognize the demon’s species, but that wasn’t important. What
was
important was the thin dark thread that emerged from the demon’s back and trailed off into the distance. It was this astral thread that connected the demon to the physical world, and more particularly, to the House of Kolbyr. The mystic connection had been created by the sorceress who had originally summoned the demon a century ago, and it was what allowed the fiend to continue returning generation after generation to possess one innocent child after another.

Diran visualized a dagger forged from purest silver, a stylized flame etched into the blade. He imagined the dagger positioning itself over the ebon astral thread, imagined the blade rising to strike …

Wait! I wasn’t lying when I said I can show you things! I can reveal to you important information about the present, even draw aside the veil that conceals the future …

New images flashed through Diran’s mind, obscuring the demon, the astral thread, and the silver dagger. He saw the
Zephyr
, sailing across the choppy waters of the Lhazaar, an obsidian sarcophagus resting on the deck, its lid sealed shut. Sitting behind the elemental containment ring and guiding the vessel was an orange-skinned goblin wearing a gray cloak. No, not a goblin. A barghest. The one who served the lich Diran and the others had destroyed in the foothills outside of Perhata … the one who’d stolen Tresslar’s dragonwand in the psiforge facility housed within Mount Luster. Diran tried to look up at the sky so that he might note the position of the sun and perhaps get an idea of which direction the craft was headed, but the image faded too soon. It was replaced by a vision of a dank cave where the skeleton of a dragon lay in final repose, and as swiftly as that image appeared, it was supplanted by another. A city
at night: cobblestone streets, fine architecture, everbright lanterns illuminating the way for crowds of well-dressed pedestrians … Diran recognized the city as Regalport, the gem of the Principalities. And though he wasn’t certain how, he knew he was looking at a scene not far off in the future.

Sudden alarm crossed the faces of the men and women in the vision, and though there was no sound to accompany the images, Diran could tell from the pedestrians’ terrified expressions that they were screaming. He soon saw why: creatures emerged from the alleys and poured into the street, half-human monstrosities with smooth gray skin, mouths filled with rows of triangular teeth, and eyes black and cold as death. The monsters attacked anything that moved, rending flesh with sharp claws, tearing away bloody hunks of meat with their teeth … and though the vision showed one street only, Diran knew that the scene was being repeated throughout Regalport. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of the half-human creatures swarmed throughout the city, killing wherever they went.

One last image superimposed itself on the horrible scene: the face of a brown-furred wolf, teeth bared in a snarl, human intelligence shining in its eyes …

The vision faded and once more Diran saw only the demon, the thread, and the blade.

Let me in, and I’ll serve you well! All these visions will I reveal to you in full, and far more besides! Think of all the good you could do, priest, with the knowledge I can provide!

Diran’s only reply was to imagine the blade slicing downward. The astral thread was severed, and the demon’s form faded with a last echoing cry of despair.

Diran opened his eyes.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of him was Calida’s son. The boy’s skin was smooth and unmarked, his eyes clear but confused. Diran could feel the lingering taint of the Fury hanging in the air about them, but he could sense no evil from the child. The demon was gone; the curse of Kolbyr lifted.

Diran took his hand away from the boy’s forehead and tucked the silver arrowhead back into his pocket. He then reached out and
smoothed a lock of hair from the child’s forehead. “Everything’s going to be all right now, Taran.”

The boy’s eyes went wide as he stared at a point beyond Diran. The priest heard the faint scrape of boot leather on stone and turned to see Ghaji staggering toward him. The half-orc’s right arm dangled useless at his side, and he dragged his left leg behind him, the dagger still embedded in muscle. He held his elemental axe in his left hand, though he had not activated its flame, perhaps because he lacked the presence of mind to do so. His face was contorted with furious hate, and Diran knew that even though the demon had been banished, the Fury had not released its hold on his friend.

“It’s over, Ghaji. You don’t have to do this.” Diran didn’t want to harm Ghaji any further, but if the Fury continued roiling within his soul unabated, he might well prove a danger to the child, and Diran couldn’t allow that. More to the point, Ghaji—the
true
Ghaji—would want Diran to stop him.

Diran reached back into his cloak’s inner lining and withdrew a dagger.

“Please …” Diran pleaded. “Don’t make me do this.”

Ghaji frowned in confusion and looked at Diran as if truly seeing him for the first time since being gripped by the Fury. But then the hate returned to Ghaji’s face and he lifted the axe over his head.

Diran, his heart breaking, was just about to hurl the dagger toward the point just below Ghaji’s throat apple when he heard the unmistakable
twang
of a bowstring. Ghaji stiffened, took a stagger-step forward, then dropped his axe. The half-orc turned around to face the chamber’s entrance, and as he did, Diran saw the end of a feathered shaft protruding from between the half-orc’s shoulder blades.

Standing in the open doorway was a bearded man in a ragged cloak. He held a bow at the ready, another arrow already nocked and trained on Ghaji. The half-orc took three hesitant steps toward the door before his knees buckled and he collapsed.

Leontis gazed at Diran, his expression unreadable.

“Greetings, my brother. Looks like I arrived just in time—as usual.”

As the artificers attacked, Tresslar wished he’d foregone the Tinker’s Room tradition of not entering with a weapon in hand. The Fury-crazed men and women would be on them in seconds—not nearly enough time for Tresslar to rummage around in his pack for a device to defend himself and his friends.

“Solus?” Tresslar shouted.

“The Fury has too strong a hold on them,” the psiforged said, sounding eerily calm in the face of the artificers’ murderous fury. “I cannot reach their minds.”

Tresslar was about to suggest Solus try telekinesis, but before he could say anything, Illyia spread her arms and the mystic bubbles that comprised her outfit burst outward in a shower of translucent spheres. Separate bubbles flew toward each of the attacking artificers, growing larger as they went. The spheres molded around the artificers’ heads without popping and sealed themselves tight.

The men and women stopped their attack, frowning and blinking in confusion, as if they had just woken from some manner of strange group dream.

Solus nodded in appreciation. “Very impressive.”

Tresslar looked to Illyia, who now stood completely and unashamedly naked. He opened his mouth to echo the psiforged’s comment—though with an entirely different meaning—but then Hinto, as if his short time as Solus’s companion had granted him telepathic powers of his own cut off the artificer.

“Don’t you dare say it!”

Tresslar scowled at the halfling while Illyia laughed.

Yvka prepared to send the mystic quill streaking into Zivon’s heart, and damn the consequences. Either the Grand Hierarchs of House Thuranni would understand or they wouldn’t, but whatever final judgment they might render upon her, she wasn’t going to die at the end of a glutton’s fork.

She danced aside as Zivon swiped his improvised weapon at her, but in so doing she lost her grip on the quill, and the enchanted feather fell to the floor. Zivon tried one more strike, this one coming closer to landing, and the elf-woman barely avoided being skewered.

“Bilge-rot!” Yvka swore, and reached into her pouch to find another weapon. But as her fingers rifled through the remaining objects within, Zivon lunged at her a third time, the tines of his fork aimed for her jugular.

Yvka prepared to throw herself to the side to avoid Zivon’s strike, but she felt a sudden burning sensation on the inner flesh of her left forearm, and she winced, momentarily distracted by the pain—but a moment was all Zivon needed.

But before Zivon could plunge the fork into Yvka’s neck, a patch of darkness appeared in front of the man’s face and sealed itself tight to his features, as if it were an ebon mask. Zivon broke off his attack, dropped his fork, and clawed at the darkness clinging to his face. He staggered backward. His foot landed on some kind of bright-red glop that Yvka thought might have once been sorbet, and his legs flew out from under him. He fell backwards and landed on his rump with a tailbone-jarring thud.

Yvka realized then that the sounds of fighting—angry shouts, cries of pain, blows landed by fists, feet, and utensils—had ceased. The Fury was over.

The dark mask covering Zivon’s face was gone, and he sat looking up at Yvka as if he didn’t quite recognize her, his expression no longer contorted by madness, his features calm, if confused.

The burning sensation on Yvka’s forearm had subsided somewhat, but it still hurt. She rolled back her sleeve to examine her forearm, and for a moment she stared in stunned disbelief at the stylized blue mark on her flesh.

Sovereigns! She’d manifested a dragonmark! She recognized it as the Mark of Shadow, one of the dragonmarks carried by both House Phiarlan and House Thuranni.

Zivon recognized the mark, too, and smiled. “Well, well, well … the Hierarchs will most definitely be interested in
this
development!”

Zivon held out his hand and, after a moment’s hesitation, Yvka reached out to help him up.

T
wo dagger wounds and an arrow in the back … and not one of the blows came from an enemy.” Ghaji shook his head in disgust. “If someone is ever foolish enough to write our adventures, Diran, I hope they leave this chapter out.”