Forge of the Mindslayers

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

They searched the Coldhearts' ship and found Ghaji's axe and Diran's cloak and daggers in one of the cabins-the one belonging to Haaken, Ghaji guessed, or perhaps that should be belonged, for since the Maelstrom had run aground, they'd seen no sign of the wounded man. If Haaken had been tossed overboard by the impact, he wouldn't have lasted long in these frigid waters, and even if he'd made it to shore, without a fire to dry and warm him, he'd succumb to the cold soon enough. Still, Ghaji would've preferred seeing Haaken's dead body for himself. He'd been a warrior too long to take anything for granted-especially the death of a foe.

Diran slipped his daggers into the various sheaths sewn into the inner lining of his cloak. The priest carried blades fashioned from all manner of materials: finely honed steel, polished silver, sturdy iron, carved wood, smooth-hewn rock, delicate crystal… each useful for battling creatures with varying weaknesses. Many of the blades had been purchased-though as a wandering priest Diran was hardly rich-while some had been gifts and a select few had been crafted by Diran himself. The priest had a specific place for each dagger, though how he kept their locations straight, Ghaji didn't know. Give him a single weapon to keep track of, and maybe a second for back-up, and that was all he needed.

Ghaji also wore a pack containing supplies they'd scavenged from the Maelstom: rope, some rations, a few light-stones that while not as reliable as everbright lanterns, would serve well enough in a pinch. Diran didn't carry a pack, for it would interfere with drawing daggers from inside his cloak, but he did carry a waterskin looped to his belt, as did Ghaji. The half-orc had scouted their landing place from the ship's railing earlier, and from the look of the barren island, he doubted they'd find any fresh water there.

"Ready?" Diran asked when he was finished replacing his daggers.

"All ashore that's going ashore," Ghaji said.

They left the cabin and made their way back out onto the uneven deck. Dark clouds filled the night sky, blocking out the moons and stars. Waves crashed against the ship's hull, causing the slanted deck beneath their feet to shudder, making walking even more treacherous as they moved toward the ship's stern. Once there, Ghaji removed the rope from his pack and tied one end to the railing.

"You go first," he said to Diran. "I'll lower you down."

The half-orc was far stronger than Diran, who was a lean man at any rate. He knew he would have no trouble performing this maneuver.

Diran nodded, took hold of the other end of the rope, and looped it around his left hand. He then drew a steel dagger-just in case a very unwelcoming welcome committee should appear-and climbed over the railing. The priest kept watch on the shore as Ghaji lowered him, but the precaution, wise as it was, turned out to be unnecessary. Diran's feet came down in the surf at the edge of the shoreline safely. The priest let go of the rope and Ghaji hauled it in. He gauged the distance from the railing to the ground once more, then untied the rope, rolled it up, and replaced it in his pack. He then stepped up onto the railing and jumped.

The half-orc landed with a splash next to Diran. The priest gave him a look and Ghaji shrugged. "I figured we might need the rope later."

Diran nodded, Ghaji drew his axe, and together they walked onto Demothi Island.

As soon as his boot touched the shore, Diran drew in a hissing breath.

"What's wrong?" Ghaji asked, almost activating his elemental axe out of reflex.

"I sensed an aura of evil emanating from this place while we were still on the ship, but now that we're here, it's even stronger-as strong as anything we've ever encountered."

A chill shivered down Ghaji's spine. Considering some of the evil, both supernatural and mundane, they'd faced together over the years, that was saying something.

As Ghaji took in his surroundings, he could easily believe that Diran's foreboding was well founded. The island was craggy and rough, the stony ground cracked and covered with jagged rocks. The only signs of life were tufts of dry grass that had managed to shove their way through the narrow fissures in the ground, along with twisted, gnarled trees that looked as if they'd never grown leaves or borne fruit, regardless of the season. Though Ghaji had no priestly training, he was half-orc and thus strongly attuned to the natural world, and all his senses were screaming that there was nothing natural about this place-nothing at all.

"We might be better off if we went back to the ship." Ghaji said.

Diran considered Ghaji's words. "You make a good point, but it's difficult to know how stable the Coldhearts' ship is after running aground. It might well collapse under us in the middle of a battle."

Ghaji glanced back at the Maelstrom. The ship listed to starboard, and there was a large hole near the bow, but otherwise the vessel looked as if she would hold together well enough. Diran had grown up in the Principalities and therefore knew far more about sea-going than Ghaji did, so the half-orc decided to defer to his friend's judgment.

Diran gazed inland and scowled. "Besides, if there's evil here, it is our duty to seek it out and destroy it."

Ghaji sighed. "I hate it when you say things like that."

The half-orc gripped the haft of his axe more tightly. He wasn't about to activate it now. Doing so would give away their location to whatever might be lurking on the island, and the light would also render his night vision almost useless. They'd proceed with stealth for now, and Ghaji would ignite the axe's flame when necessary.

Diran exchanged his steel dagger for a silver one, and the two companions began walking. Ghaji kept an eye out for threats while Diran, who only had the extremely limited nocturnal sight of a human, remained close to his friend and followed his lead. Ghaji knew that Diran wasn't without other resources to draw on, however. His training as assassin had taught him to pay close attention to all his senses, not just sight. Diran was doubtless listening for any noises beyond the pounding of the surf against the shore, scenting the wind for any smells in addition to the tang of sea salt, feeling for vibrations juddering through the rocky ground beneath his boots with every step… Diran might not have orc blood in him, but thanks to the training he'd gained at Emon Gorsedd's academy, the priest's senses were honed to as fine an edge as that possessed by any of his blades.

Diran had his priestly powers to draw upon as well. When Diran said he sensed evil, he wasn't speaking metaphorically, nor was he expressing the vague sensation that intuitive people sometimes had in dangerous situations. As one of the Purified, Diran sensed evil with the same clarity and certainty as someone else might see an object placed directly in front of their eyes.

They walked for some time across Demothi's barren landscape without encountering any signs of life beyond the dry grass and twisted trees dotting the island. No animals, no birds, no lizards-nothing-yet Ghaji couldn't shake the feeling that numerous eyes were monitoring their progress-malicious, hungry eyes.

Ghaji was so caught up in his thoughts that he nearly jumped when Diran spoke.

"This is it-the place where the evil that permeates this island is centered."

Diran pointed toward a dark object silhouetted against the night sky. The object was perhaps six, seven feet tall and wrought in the rough shape of a man. Ghaji was no priest, but now that they were this close, he could feel the waves of malevolent power emanating from the man-shaped obelisk.

"What is it?" Though he didn't intend to, Ghaji spoke in a hushed voice.

"I'm not sure. I'm not as familiar with the legends of this part of the Principalities as I am with others. Still, I vaguely recall reading something once about a dark priest who sailed to an island… a priest who was transformed into stone." Diran stepped closer to the stone figure to examine it. Ghaji made to accompany his friend, but Diran held up a hand to stop him.

"I appreciate your willingness to follow me, Ghaji, but it's best if only I approach."

Though he knew Diran was only taking a precaution, and a sensible one at that, Ghaji nevertheless felt a surge of anger at the suggestion he hang back. Remaining out of harm's way while a companion strode forth into danger was not the orc way, and it wasn't Ghaji's.

As if sensing his friend's feelings, Diran said, "Please. If this object is as powerful as I suspect, I'll need all my skill and power just to protect myself. I won't be able to safeguard us both."

Ghaji wanted to argue that he could look after himself just fine, thank you, but in the end he recognized the wisdom of Diran's words, gritted his teeth, and nodded.

Diran gave his friend a grateful smile before turning and walking toward the stone figure once more. Ghaji remained standing where he was, but he kept his axe at the ready, prepared to command it to burst into flame the instant anything even looked as if it was about to go wrong.

When he was within a foot of the statue Diran stopped, raised his free hand, and held it above the stone surface of the figure. Formed of the same dark rocky substance as the island, it didn't look as if it had been carved so much as arisen naturally from the surface of Demothi. While the statue possessed rudimentary human features-head, torso, arms, and legs-from the knees down it was nothing more than a mound of rock. The eyes were its most striking feature. Glittering black gems as large as an egg protruded from the statue's stony sockets.

"This is indeed the center of the evil on Demothi," Diran said. "The power radiates from this figure down through the ground and then spreads throughout the entire island, perhaps even extending for some distance beyond its shores, but for what purpose, I cannot say."

Ghaji heard a shuffling noise from behind him, and he whirled around to see what had caused it, elemental axe erupting in flame as he spun. The sudden light from his blazing weapon momentarily rendered his night vision useless, but his eyes quickly adjusted, and he saw a staggering humanoid shape lurching out of the night toward them. The creature was a bloated, wet thing, flesh puffy and discolored, body draped with dangling strands of seaweed. Its eyes and tongue were long gone, in their place clusters of tiny crabs that used the dead thing's skull as a home. The rancid stink of the creature assaulted Ghaji's nose-a sour reek of saltwater, dead fish, and rotting vegetation. It was fortunate that the half-orc hadn't eaten lately, because the gagging stench would've caused him to empty the contents of his stomach right then and there.

"Walking dead man," Ghaji said. He relaxed a bit upon seeing the undead creature shambling toward them. He'd encountered such creatures during his time as a soldier in the Last War, and he'd fought even more alongside Diran since then, though offhand he couldn't remember seeing any quite as disgusting as this one. Still, the living corpses, while unpleasant, were easy enough to dispatch. Diran could always repell the creature with his priestly powers, and if for some reason that didn't suffice, Ghaji's axe would make fast work of it.

"Don't you mean dead men?" Diran asked.

For a moment, Ghaji didn't understand what his friend was talking about. Then he noticed that the water-logged zombie wasn't alone. He'd brought some friends with him-several dozen, from the look of it. Ghaji squinted as he peered into the night beyond his axe's fiery illumination. Make that several hundred. The half-orc turned in a slow circle and saw that an entire army of walking dead was coming toward them from all directions, shuffling, stumbling, moving with spastic, jerky motions as if they were ill-fashioned marionettes controlled by a puppeteer with severe arthritis. While they varied in size and race-humans, elves, dwarves, shifters, gnomes, changlings-they were all in the same bloated, wet condition as the first zombie Ghaji had seen.

"It would appear that Demothi Island is a trap of sorts," Diran said, his tone emotionless and cool. "The undead wait underwater off shore, and once visitors reach the center of the island and are cut off from their vessel, the foul things rise forth to slay them. Clever."

"You'll forgive me if I don't share your admiration," Ghaji said. "Please tell me that you can repell a horde of zombies."

"We'll find out." Diran still held a silver dagger in one hand, and with the other he reached into a tunic pocket and brought forth the arrowhead-shaped object that was the symbol of his order. He held the silver arrowhead out toward the closest of the advancing sea-zombies and the metal glowed with an aura of blue-white light.

"In the name of the Silver Flame, I command you to turn aside!" Diran's voice boomed out, far louder than normal. Ghaji wouldn't have been surprised to learn the priest's words could be heard echoing across the entire island.

Several of the undead creatures stopped, hesitated, then resumed shambling forward.

Diran scowled. The aura shimmering around the silver arrowhead blazed more brightly, and this time when he spoke, his voice was loud as thunder.

"Be gone!"

The zombies didn't even pause.

The light surrounding the arrowhead winked out, and Diran lowered the holy symbol to his side. "The evil power emanating from the statue is too strong. We have no choice. Fight or die."

"I've been making that choice since the day I drew my first breath," Ghaji said. Elemental axe held high with its flames trailing bright against the night sky, the half-orc ran forward to meet the first wave of walking dead.

Diran watched his friend hack zombies apart. Normally, undead flesh was dry, which made Ghaji's flaming axe a perfect weapon, but these zombies had come from the sea, and their skin, while just as lifeless as that of any other undead creature, was too wet to burn. Indeed, their entire bodies were suffused with saltwater, and only magical fire of a very high order could harm them. Too bad Tresslar wasn't here. He might well have a powerful flame spell stored in his dragonwand.

Diran drew another silver dagger from his cloak and turned to face the zombies approaching on his right. He'd had a great deal of experience fighting the undead, and not just as a priest. During the Last War, Karrnath had fielded armies of undead soldiers. The acolytes in the Brotherhood of the Blade employed zombies for quite a different purpose: as living mannequins on which to practice their deadly arts, so Diran was well aware that this was the sort of battle in which he was next to useless. If he couldn't repel the zombies by channeling the power of the Silver Flame, there was little else he could do. He could hurl one dagger after the other with deadly accuracy, but it would scarcely matter if his targets weren't alive in the first place. One zombie he could handle by deftly slicing through undead muscles and tendons until the creature, though still possessed of its mockery of a life, was unable to move, but more than one zombie came at them now, many, many more. Diran knew that if he and Ghaji were going to make it off Demothi Island alive, he would have to use his mind instead of his blades.

Ghaji grunted and Diran watched his friend slice through the torsos of three zombies with his axe. The top halves of the undead creatures flopped to the ground, but the bottom halves stood there for a moment as if stunned. The trunks and legs then began stumbling around erratically, lost without even the simple commands of a rotted zombie brain to give them direction. Ghaji ignored the meandering legs and attacked the next zombie that came at him.

Diran was grateful that none of the undead was recently reanimated, else their bodies would be too fresh and they'd move far more swiftly than these water-logged abominations, but even at their slow, shuffling pace, Diran estimated that he had only a few moments more before any of the zombies reached him. He'd have to think fast.

While Diran didn't know the specific details of the evil priest's identity or his motivations for raising an army of the dead, it was clear that something had gone wrong during the process. Maybe the priest was supposed to have been transformed into stone so that he would become the focal point for the necromantic energies that powered the army of sea-dead. If the statue was the source of the magic that animated the zombies, perhaps they could be stopped by destroying the statue.

Diran examined the stone figure of the evil priest once more, trying to determine if it had an obvious weak point. The dark gems that served in place of eyes? Doubtful. More than likely they were there in order to lure foolish treasure-seekers, greedy artificers, or power-hungry priests to the island. Diran wouldn't be surprised if there was a curse on the gems as well, but what else could there be? The statue had no other obvious features. No runes were carved into its surface, and there were no others gems or items of any sort embedded in the stone.

Diran glanced away from the statue and saw that a zombie-one with limp octopus tentacles dangling out of its open mouth-was nearly upon him. His thinking time was up.

After the priest's transformation, the statue had remained in human shape. Perhaps that was a hint as to its weakness. With no time left to consider, Diran gripped the silver dagger in his right hand tight and concentrated on summoning the power of the Silver Flame, willing the power to suffuse the dagger. Argent light blazed forth from the blade. Diran stepped forward, and using all his strength, he rammed the knife into the statue's chest. The impact sent a jolt of pain shooting through his hand and up along his arm, and he released the dagger's hilt. He stepped back and saw that an inch or so of the blade had penetrated the statue, but that was all. The dagger still shone with the power of the Silver Flame, though, and Diran could sense the statue's evil aura reacting to the holy energy, massing its strength at the point of penetration and attempting to nullify the blade. Diran could also sense that if he didn't do something more and do it fast, the statue would succeed in resisting the Silver Flame.

Diran turned to call out to Ghaji, but his voice was choked off as a pair of slime-coated hands fastened around his throat. The priest found himself staring into the empty eye sockets of the tentacle-mouthed zombie. The undead creature possessed strength far greater than that of a normal zombie, undoubtedly due to its proximity to the ebon statue. Diran felt the creature's hands tightening around his throat, heard a roaring in his ears as the blood to his head was cut off, saw gray closing in on the edges of his vision, and he knew he was on the verge of death.

Diran still held a dagger in his left hand, and as his consciousness ebbed, he sliced at the zombie's right wrist with a single swift strike, then sliced its left. Instead of blood, brackish seawater spilled from the wounds, but Diran knew the injuries wouldn't pain the zombie. Despite the damage done to the zombie's wrists, the slimy fingers clasped around Diran's throat did not lose their strength. Consciousness began to ebb, and Diran prepared for his spirit to join with the Silver Flame.

Then a swatch of darkness detached itself from the night and swooped down to the zombie throttling Diran. His vision was too blurry for him to make out what the thing was, but it grabbed hold of the zombie's shoulders and yanked the undead creature away from the Diran. The zombie's skeletal fingers scratched Diran's neck as its grip was broken, and the priest drew in a gasping breath. He could feel himself on the verge of passing out, but he held onto consciousness through sheer force of will. He looked around to see who or what had saved him, but he only saw Ghaji some yards away, the half-orc swinging his elemental axe in great fiery arcs as he annihiliated one zombie after another.

Diran didn't have time to worry about how he had been saved. The zombies had to be stopped. He tried to call out Ghaji's name, but the word came out as little more than a raspy whisper. He sucked in another breath and tried again. "Ghaji! Drive home the dagger!"

Ghaji turned toward Diran, frowning in confusion, but then he saw the glowing dagger protruding from the statue's chest, and his gaze lit up with understanding. Ghaji rammed aside an attacking zombie with his elbow and ran to the statue. Diran stepped aside as his friend approached and swung the flat of his axe at the dagger's pommel. A loud clang split the air, followed closely by the chuk! of metal being driven into stone.

The silver aura surrounding the dagger spread across the ebon statue until the stony remains of the evil priest glowed bright blue-white. The zombies stopped and stood frozen. Then, one by one, their slimy, sodden flesh began to liquefy and slide off their bones. Seconds later, the army of undead had been reduced to a collection of upright skeletons. Their bones quickly lost cohesion, fell apart, and tumbled to the ground, landing with wet plaps in the puddles.

The silver glow around the statue flared bright one last time before dimming and finally going out. Diran lowered his head and uttered a prayer to the Silver Flame. "Thank you for bringing us victory." When he lifted his head, he smiled at Ghaji. "Well struck, my friend."

"Looks like you're out another dagger. Unless you want me to try and pry it loose."

Diran shook his head. "Leave it where it is. The statue might become active again if the dagger's removed."

"Suits me," Ghaji said.

Diran reached into one of his cloak's hidden pockets, removed a bit of silver dust, and sprinkled it into the statue's eyes. "Divine light, ensure this being never rises again, and protect this island and the surrounding waters from the taint of its evil."

As Diran finished the rite of the Death of the Foe, Ghaji looked at him and frowned. "You're bleeding from scratches on your neck."

"I'm fortunate to still be alive. I was being strangled by one of the zombies when something pulled it away from me. I'm not sure what it…" Diran trailed off as coils of white mist drifted toward them on the night breeze. The coils joined to create a roughly human shape, and then the mist thickened and distinctly feminine features began to emerge. Within moments, a blonde-haired woman stood before them.

Diran felt his heart seize up in his chest, and he tried to say Makala's name, but he couldn't get the word past the sudden lump in his throat.

Makala smiled. "What's wrong? Zombie got your tongue?"