Sea of Death

CHAPTER TEN

The setting sun cast an orange sheen on the gray water of Kolbyr's port, creating an illusion of warmth. A poor illusion, Ghaji thought, considering the wind felt as if it were blowing down from the top of a glacier. The half-orc, Yvka, Tresslar, Hinto, Solus, and Asenka were walking down Kolbyr's dock back toward the wharf, their destination a tavern called the Ill Wind.

Asenka had already spoken with the harbormaster about hiring a ship, and since they had a letter of credit from Baroness Calida, the man was only too happy to make recommendations-especially since the letter promised him a substantial finder's fee if he could find them transport as quickly as possible. He'd given Asenka several names, but he'd told her that if it what she was looking for was a swift vessel, the Turnabout was their best bet.

"She's a galleon," Asenka explained to the others when she rejoined them. "A fast one, too. Faster than she should be given her size, according to the harbormaster. He suspects magical enhancement of some sort, though there's nothing obvious about the ship to indicate what kind. She's anchored not far offshore. The harbormaster is going to send the captain a message to let him know we'd like to hire his vessel and how much we're willing to pay. The harbormaster seems to think the captain will at least want to talk with us, and he suggested we wait for him at a nearby tavern."

After that, they walked to the end of the dock to take a look at the Turnabout. She lay at anchor a quarter mile from the port-a bit farther than convenient, Ghaji thought. Almost as if the captain wanted to keep people from getting a close look at his vessel. Or perhaps so the ship was far enough out to sea in case there was a sudden need for hasty departure. A pirate ship, he decided, though in the Principalities any vessel might suddenly fly raider's colors if the need-or for that matter, the whim-arose. Lhazaarites were nothing if not pragmatic, and given the harsh environment in which they lived, Ghaji supposed he couldn't blame them.

Despite the harbormaster's words, the Turnabout didn't look like anything special, just a typical three-masted galleon. She didn't leave the shipyard yesterday, but she wasn't ready to be scuttled and sent to her final rest at the bottom of Lhazaar, either. Ghaji figured it likely that the harbormaster had made up the ship's mysterious reputation for speed in the hope that they'd book passage and he'd get his finder's fee before they discovered the vessel was slower than a leaky tugboat with a broken rudder and a hold full of lead ingots.

None of the others were impressed by the galleon's appearance, either, but they agreed that they might as well head for the Ill Wind and hear what the Turnabout's captain had to say. They found the tavern easily enough, and though it was crowded, once Ghaji stalked in glaring, a table near the back suddenly became free. The companions sat, ordered drinks that only a man with his tongue cut out would've believed was ale, and settled in to wait for the Turnabout's captain to show-assuming he was interested in doing business with them at all.

The atmosphere in the tavern was subdued due to the aftereffects of the Fury. Patrons talked quietly among themselves or sat silent and alone, struggling to come to terms with the violence that had occurred-and which they'd all participated in one way or another. Tresslar, Hinto, Yvka, and Solus talked for a while, sharing stories of the difficulties they'd experienced during the Fury, but instead of contributing to the conversation, Ghaji only listened in moody silence.

After a while, Yvka had had enough of his being withdrawn, and she elbowed him in the side none too gently to get his attention. She then learned close to his ear and whispered, "What's bothering you?"

Ghaji remembered how uncomfortable Yvka had seemed around him in the palace courtyard after the Fury had ended. "I know that your… profession prevents you from telling me certain things, and I accept that. But if there was anything that I really needed to know-about us, I mean…"

Yvka smiled and touched his cheek with her long, delicate fingers. "Come now, Ghaji. You know how I feel about you."

Yvka gave him a quick kiss, a smile, and a wink. Ghaji returned the smile, but inside he was thinking: Does anyone ever truly know how another feels about them?

The harsh, unforgiving light of the desert sun blazed down upon the Talenta Plains, causing sweat to pour off Ghaji's body as the half-orc hacked away at one zombie after another. One good thing about fighting the undead creatures-the only good thing, as far as Ghaji was concerned-was that they were slower than living foes. Unfortunately, no matter how much damage you inflicted on the undead warriors, they couldn't be killed, only disabled. Decapitation was the most efficient way of putting a zombie out of action, even though losing something as minor as a head didn't destroy it. The body would continue to fight on, but since the zombie could no longer see to direct its attack, it could only flail about, hoping to score a blow by accident. It was then a relatively simple operation to remove the zombie's arms and, if necessary its legs. The detached body parts would continue to move, but they could do little damage in and of themselves.

The Karrnathi zombie masters weren't fools, though. Each of their zombies wore metal collars around their necks and flexible but tough leather bands around their shoulders, elbows, and wrists. One of Ghaji's duties was to inspect this protective armor on a regular basis, which he'd just done this morning, and he knew the zombies' gear was in good order.

Fire was an effective weapon against zombies, though the undead warriors would continue fighting until enough of their muscles and tendons had been destroyed to render them immobile. But the Karrns had thought of this as well, which was why all their zombies were alchemically treated to be resistant to flame. Not that Ghaji could afford to take the time to get a flint and striker and start a fire at the moment. He was too busy hacking away at zombies with his axe and trying to stay alive for a few moments longer.

Ghaji wasn't concerned with the finer points of combat, nor did he employ a carefully thought-out battle strategy. Given the sheer number of zombies that were trying to kill him-two dozen in all-Ghaji knew the only hope he had of survival was savage brute strength. Luckily for him, that was his specialty. He stood in the midst of the attacking horde of zombies, his war-axe gripped in both hands, swinging it from side to side as if he were a woodcutter trying to fell two dozen murderous, animated trees. Zombies came at him, wielding scimitars as if the curved blades were extensions of their arms. Ghaji bled from numerous cuts and slashes, but he'd been wounded in combat before and he ignored the pain. Every warrior knew that the only wound that mattered was the one that killed you.

Ghaji wasn't sure how many zombies he'd taken out so far. Not enough, he figured as he continued hacking with his axe.

He was distantly aware of the halfling riders sitting on their clawfoot mounts, watching with grim interest as he fought for his life. When the halfling shaman had first cast his spell to make the zombies attack, Ghaji had been surprised. The Talenta halflings were consummate hunter-warriors, and he hadn't expected them to employ such a cowardly-though admittedly effective-tactic as getting the zombies to fight their battle for them. But then he'd realized that he wasn't thinking like a hunter. The halflings were using the zombies the same way that a houndmaster might use a dog: to flush prey out of its lair. The halflings knew they couldn't breach the Karrnathi tower, so instead they planned to make the zombies do it for them. The undead warriors would go inside, kill everyone they could, and if any Karrns were left alive when it was over, the halflings would finish them off. It was, Ghaji was forced to admit, a brilliant tactic. And one that looked as if it might have a chance of succeeding. There was no way that he could stop two dozen zombies on his own, and if the Karrns stationed inside the tower didn't emerge to aid him-and it looked like they wouldn't-then he'd be cut down soon. After that, the zombies would batter open the tower entrance, rush inside, and in close quarters the Karrns would have a difficult time trying to stop the zombies. They'd have a much better chance fighting them out here, in the open, where there was more room to maneuver. And if the door held and the zombies couldn't get inside, the halflings would order the zombies to surround the tower while they made camp, and the sly hunters would simply wait for hunger and thirst to drive the Karrns out.

At least Ghaji had managed to keep the zombies' attention on him so far. He hoped that Kirai would do the smart thing and try to escape while the battle raged on, but that hope-faint as it was-was dashed a moment later when he heard Kirai call out.

"Ghaji, close your eyes!"

Ghaji wanted to shout back, Are you insane? Closing his eyes in a fight like this was an excellent way to commit suicide. But he trusted Kirai, and so, after only a half-second's hesitation, he did as the alchemist instructed. Spinning around in a circle, axe held out before him to keep the zombies at bay, Ghaji closed his eyes.

He heard the sound of a clay pot breaking nearby, and then an acrid smell filled the air. The stench burned his nose and throat, and even though Kirai hadn't warned him to hold his breath, Ghaji did so anyway. The half-orc continued spinning around, and his lungs soon began to ache and he felt dizzy. He knew he had to take a breath soon or his body would give out on him. He'd fall unconscious, and the zombies would make quick work of him.

"The gas has dispersed enough!" Kirai shouted. "You can open your eyes!"

Ghaji did so, taking in a deep breath of air at the same time. The wisps of yellowish gas that filled the air stung his eyes and made them water. He stopped spinning and focused his attention on the nearest zombie. The creature stood near the broken shards of the clay pot Kirai had thrown, its normally brown-leather skin now the color of sun-blasted stone, and its movements significantly slower. The zombie still moved, but with obvious effort, as if trying to fight while deep underwater.

Ghaji grinned. Kirai had done something to reverse the effects of the unguent she used to prevent the zombies' flesh from drying out in the heat of the Talenta Plains. The zombies' skin and muscles had hardened, rendering them nearly immobile. As slowly as they now moved, Ghaji would have no trouble destroying the lot of them. But even if the zombies were no longer a threat, the clawfoot riders-and especially their shaman-still would be.

Ghaji stepped out of the way of a torturously slow scimitar strike and sought out the halfling shaman among the gathered riders. Ghaji picked out the shaman right away, sitting on his red-marked clawfoot mount at the forefront of the hunting party, rune-carved bone staff held high, still chanting in a lilting foreign tongue. The half-orc warrior took careful aim and, though his arm and shoulder muscles ached from fighting the zombies, he put every bit of his remaining strength into hurling his axe at the shaman.

The weapon spun through the air, hit the bone staff, and broke it in two. The top half tumbled to the ground and the bottom joined it an instant later, as the impact of the striking axe knocked it out of the shaman's grip.

The shaman stopped chanting and cradled his injured hand to his chest. The zombies, whether because Kirai's potion had dried their muscles completely or because the shaman's spell was broken, froze where they stood, now little more than undead statues. Ghaji bent down to pick up a scimitar dropped by one of the zombies he'd managed to dismember. If the halflings planned to attack, he would be ready for them.

The shaman glared at Ghaji with a mixture of fury and respect, then with his good hand he took hold of his clawfoot's reins, urged the giant lizard to turn, and the beast bore him away from the tower at a quick trot. The rest of the hunting party followed, and soon the halflings and their clawfoot steeds were nothing more than a distant cloud of dust moving toward the horizon.

Ghaji dropped the scimitar with a weary sigh before turning to check on Kirai. The alchemist rushed to him, threw her arms around him, and hugged him with a fierce strength that he wouldn't have thought her slender body capable of.

"We did it!" she cried. "We stopped them! Just the two of us!"

Tentatively, Ghaji raised his arms and hugged Kirai back.

"I guess we did."

The sun had almost set for the night, and the temperature on the Talenta Plains had become nearly bearable, though evening did bring out clouds of gnat-like pests that seemed to find Ghaji's skin particularly tasty. Kirai knelt next a small fire across which she'd erected an iron spit. A trio of metal pots hung from the cross-rod, their foul-smelling contents bubbling as the chemicals they held simmered.

Ghaji-his wounds smeared with healing ointment and bandaged by Kirai-approached the fire, carrying a clay bowl filled with stew. He crouched next to the alchemist and held out the bowl to her.

"I figured you weren't cooking dinner for yourself out here, so I brought you something to eat. I have to warn you, though: don't ask where the meat in the stew came from."

Kirai laughed. "I don't have to ask. It's plains rat. What else would it be?" Still, she took the bowl and the wooden spoon Ghaji had brought and gave the half-orc a grateful smile.

Ghaji was silent while she ate, and he gazed up at the twilight sky. A palette of colors spread above them-pink, red, orange, blue, purple, and more-all swirled together as if the gods were in an artistic mood and had decided to use the sky as their canvas this evening. He looked at Kirai's face, and though she might be plain by human standards, he found her every bit as beautiful as the gods' sky-painting. He'd been trying all day to think of a way to tell her how he felt about her, but he still had no idea how to express his feelings without sounding like an idiot. Maybe if they started talking about something else first, the words he truly wanted to speak would come to him.

"Any luck with the zombies?" he asked.

Kirai swallowed a mouthful of plains-rat stew before answering. "Not yet. It's possible that their musculature has desiccated to the point that they cannot be made to function again. It's too early to tell for sure, though. I still have a few more tricks that I can try. That's why I'm brewing more of my 'foul-smelling glop.'" She gave him a wink, and Ghaji felt his heart lurch in his chest.

Tell her now…

He cleared his throat, not that he had any real need to. "Kirai… there's something I want to tell you. Or maybe ask you." He scowled, irritated at himself. "Something like that."

Kirai paused, another spoonful of stew halfway to her mouth. She raised a curious eyebrow. "From the tone of your voice, whatever it is must be serious. Is the commander angry about the zombies? Did you explain that we didn't have any choice but to immobilize them?"

In truth, the Karrnathi commander was less than thrilled, but that wasn't what Ghaji wanted to talk about right now. "It's not that, it's… about earlier. After we stopped the zombies."

Kirai frowned and laid her stew bowl on the ground. "I don't understand."

"The way you hugged me, it…" Ghaji gazed upon the fire, unable to look Kirai in the eyes. "No one ever hugged me like that before."

"I was just so relieved that we'd won. I couldn't believe it!" A teasing tone crept into her voice. "Don't tell me that I hugged you too tight! Did I bruise the big strong warrior?"

He smiled but still didn't look at her. "I think I'll survive. I liked how hard you hugged me. It was… nice."

Kirai didn't respond right away, and for several moments the only sound was the bubbling of her chemicals in their pots. And then Kirai began to laugh.

"I'm sorry, Ghaji, really! I know I shouldn't laugh, but it's just too funny! I mean, you know… I'm human and you're an ore!"

Ghaji stiffened and his heart turned to a cold lump in his chest. Though it was the hardest thing he had ever done in his life-harder by far than fighting a horde of blood-thirsty zombies-he forced out a hollow laugh.

"I was just joking. Enjoy the rest of your stew." Before Kirai could say anything else, Ghaji rose to his feet and walked away from the fire, heading north as night continued its descent upon the Talenta Plains.

Come sunrise, he was still walking.

Ghaji was just about to suggest that they give up on the Turnabout's captain and seek passage elsewhere when the tavern door burst open and a tall, broad-shouldered man walked in, followed by a dwarf wearing a heavy cloak.

All eyes turned toward the newcomers. The dwarf stood with a taciturn expression on his face, while the tall man met the patron's curious gazes with a broad grin. "Good evening to you all! Word has reached me that there are good people present in this establishment who seek to hire a vessel swift and true!" His voice was a warm, honeyed baritone, and he sounded as if he had come for a reunion with old friends rather than a meeting with potential passengers.

The man was in mid-fifties, with sea-weathered skin, a hook nose, and a bushy black beard. A gold earring hung from his left ear, and he wore his hair in a small pony-tail tied with a tiny red ribbon. He wore an overlarge black tricorner hat with gold trim and a large red feather sticking up from the back. His red long coat was unbuttoned over a green tunic with a white ruffled collar and a purple sash around his waist. The coat had large black gauntlet-like cuffs, past which his ruffled white shirt sleeve collars were visible. He had thick-fingered, calloused hands, and wore gaudy jeweled rings on all ten of his fingers. Black trousers, brown boots, and a cutlass sheathed at his waist completed his outfit.

Ghaji took one look at the man and burst out laughing.

"You have got to be joking!"

Diran stared at the blackened arrowhead shape seared onto the flesh of Leontis's palm.

"I assume you have a good reason for asking me to kill you."

"Isn't it obvious?" Leontis closed his fingers and made a fist to hide the scorch mark, as if he were ashamed of it. "I've been cursed."

Diran didn't reply. He knew his old friend would speak when he was ready. After several moments, Leontis took a deep breath and began.

"Six months ago I was traveling in the Principalities near Tantamar, at the behest of a village priest who'd contacted the cathedral. Livestock in the area were being slaughtered by some kind of animal, and there were rumors of a strange beast prowling the hills at night. The priest feared that a lycanthrope might be active in the area, and he asked that a priest with battle experience be sent to investigate. The Order of Templars chose me, and I was dispatched immediately. The Templars didn't expect me to discover anything more than some rogue beast or another-quite possibly nothing more sinister than a normal wolf-that had found an easy source of food to fill its belly. You know as well as I that lycanthropes of all kinds have been extinct in Khorvaire since the days of the Purge… or nearly so."

"But it's that nearly so that caused the Templars to send you," Diran said.

Leontis nodded. "In the years since you last saw me, I've made something of a specialty of investigating reports of lycanthropy. I'd always been fascinated by tales of the Purge-the heroics and the atrocities the Purified committed in the name of the Silver Flame. It sounds foolish now, but I thought that I could help balance the scales for the Flame, help redeem the Purified that were involved in the Purge by investigating lycanthropy now with a clear head and a pure heart… fighting evil with strength, determination, but also with compassion." Leontis smiled at Diran. "Just as you taught me by the banks of the Thrane River so many years ago."

"It doesn't sound foolish to me at all," Diran said. "And I know Tusya would agree."

Leontis shrugged. "Perhaps. At any rate, during my investigations over the years I'd discovered and fought any number of creatures, both mystic and mundane, but not once had I encountered a true lycanthrope."

"Until you went to the village near Tantamar."

Leontis nodded. "Despite the rarity of true lycanthropic outbreaks, the Templars take no chances when a report comes in. They dispatched me to the region by airship, and within a few days of the village priest making his report, I was scouring the woods near his village for signs of lycanthrope activity. For two weeks, I roamed those woods, hiking by day, camping at night, my senses ever alert for even the merest hint of supernatural evil. I didn't find any, nor did I find any physical signs. I found no tracks, and no animals were killed during my time there. Then one night-my last night in the area, I'd already decided-as I was about to drift off to sleep in my bedroll I finally felt it: the presence of true evil. I grabbed my bow and strung it, then slipped the quiver of silver-tipped arrows I'd brought over my shoulder. Then I walked off in into the night to begin the hunt."

"But you weren't the only hunter stalking the darkness," Diran said.

Leontis let out a bitter laugh. "Hardly! There's always something hungry roaming the night, isn't there? But you're right. As I was hunting the lycanthrope, so too was it hunting me. I suppose it was my arrogance that proved my undoing. After all, I was one of the Purified, a warrior of the Silver Flame… I'd battled evil on so many occasions, faced creatures so powerful that ordinary men and women would've been driven to the brink of madness merely to gaze upon their dire countenances. How could a single lycanthrope compare to that?" Leontis shook his head. "Pretty damned well, as it turned out.

"Lycanthropes are different than other evil beings, Diran. They combine the best and worst aspects of both man and beast. Intelligence and cunning, savagery and cruelty, instinct and forethought… that's what makes them so deadly, and that's why the Purified fought so hard to eradicate them during the Purge. If their contagion were allowed to spread, Khorvaire-perhaps all of Eberron-might be lost."

Diran waited for Leontis to continue, but when the man had remained silent for a time while he stared into the fountain's basin, Diran said, "So you encountered the lycanthrope."

"Yes. It came at me out of the darkness, moving far more swiftly than I would've thought possible. I had an arrow nocked and managed to release it before the beast was upon me, but I had no idea whether I had struck the monster. It knocked me to the ground, clawing, biting…" Leontis shuddered at the memory, grimacing as if he felt the pain of the attack anew. "I couldn't even tell what kind of lycanthrope it was. All I knew was that it had fur, claws, and teeth, and that it was doing its best to tear me into ribbons. The agony was incredible, but I fought to ignore it and reached for the silver knife sheathed at my belt. And that's the last thing I remember before awakening to see a canopy of trees above me and beyond their leaves the blue sky of morning.

"My clothes were shredded and caked with dried blood, but I had no wounds. Lying next to me on the grass was a young man who most likely hadn't seen his twentieth year. He was naked, his skin covered with blood-some of it his, but much of it mine, I warrant. The shaft of my arrow protruded from his shoulder, and my blade was lodged in his heart. He had a number of stab wounds on his chest and abdomen, and I was amazed that I had been able to strike so many times as I was losing consciousness."

Diran smiled sadly. "You've never understood just how much inner strength you possess, my friend."

Leontis ignored Diran's comment and went on. "I disposed of the boy's body, first performing the Rite of the Death of the Foe, then burning the corpse. Afterward, I buried the bones in an unmarked grave and prayed over them. Then I returned to the village priest to tell him what had happened. The priest was relieved, thanked me for my service, and told me he was glad I had received no injury during my battle with the werewolf. I didn't… couldn't tell him the truth. And so I left the village and began the journey home."

Diran wanted to ask Leontis why he hadn't tried to prevent the lycanthropic infection from taking hold in his body. There were rites that could be performed using silverburn, flame, and priestly magic… but then Diran realized what had happened. Leontis had fallen unconscious before he'd had the opportunity to attempt such rites. Even when conducted immediately after infection, the rites didn't always prove effective, but after several hours, they would've been useless. The curse of lycanthropy had transformed Leontis, and there was no going back.

"I wanted time to think, so I decided to walk back to Flamekeep instead of returning by airship. Several days into my journey, I… changed for the first time. I don't recall exactly what I did while in beast form, but I know that I roamed the countryside without encountering anything more than rabbits and deer which I killed and… devoured. When I awoke the next morning, I was human once more. I considered attempting to take my own life, but I knew that, once unconscious, I could not perform the rites to make certain I did not rise again. And so I've been wandering ever since, avoiding cities and villages, anywhere that people might congregate, lest I harm anyone or worse, pass my curse on to some other unfortunate, and allow the evil of lycanthropy to begin spreading throughout the land once more."

"What kind of beast do you become?" Diran asked.

"A werewolf. Or so I believe, based on tracks I've made while in my lycanthropic state. I have memories of what I do when I change, but they're different than human thoughts… not words or ideas, but rather images and sensations."

"I assume you've continued to change," Diran said.

Leontis nodded. "I always try to fight it, though, and sometimes I'm successful." His voice grew softer. "But only sometimes."

Diran was filled with sorrow and sympathy for his friend. "It sounds horrible."

Leontis gave a hollow chuckle. "If only it were that good."

The two men were silent for a time, but then Diran asked the question he feared to speak, but which he knew he had to.

"Have you killed anyone?"

Leontis's answer was swift and sure. "No. I have hunted and slain only animals and other night creatures. Never have I taken an intelligent life."

Diran wondered how, if Leontis's memories of being in his wolfstate were unclear, how the priest could know for certain that he had never killed a person. But he decided to let the matter go for now.

"I've spent the last several months trying to find a Knight of the Flame, one with the strength to slay me and make certain I don't rise again. And, as fate would have it, you're the first priest I've encountered." Leontis gave Diran a sad smile. "In truth, I'm glad it's you, for if I must die, I prefer it be at the hands of a friend. I first saw you in Perhata. I almost caught up with you there, but you left the city before I could make contact. I learned you and your companions had left for Kolbyr, so I booked passage on a swift sailboat. Evidently you traveled by slower means, for I arrived in the city a full day before you did and have been searching for you ever since." The templar rose to his feet. "So, now that we're finally reunited, let us tarry no longer, Diran. Strike and be swift about it."

Diran stood and drew a silver dagger from its cloak-sheath. Leontis's jaw was set in a firm line, and his gaze was strong and clear. Diran gripped the handle of the dagger tight. He had no need to think about where to strike. He knew from long experience exactly which ribs to slide the blade between to pierce the heart in an instant. Leontis would be dead before he even knew the dagger had entered his body. Diran's muscles tensed, and he was about to lunge forward, but he hesitated. He remembered the last vision the demon had shown to him-the face of a wolf with a man's eyes. He then thought of the ghost of the mill girl that Leontis and he had encountered so many years ago. There were many ways to purge evil, and not all of them required a dagger-thrust to the heart. At least, not immediately.

Diran sheathed his blade with a fluid, graceful motion and smiled.

"Before I kill you, what do you say to going on a little trip with me and my friends?"