Sea of Death

CHAPTER SIX

I didn't know what to expect, but this surely wasn't it," Ghaji whispered.

Diran couldn't help but agree with his friend. The two companions, led by Asenka and flanked by a pair of guards, walked down a corridor in the palace of Baroness Calida. Up to this point, the architecture they'd seen in Kolbyr had been austere at best and forbidding at worst, and the outside of the palace had been no exception. The face it presented to the world was that of a severe-looking edifice of gray stone bereft of ornamentation or humanity. No windows or battlements, no towers or crenellations… nothing but featureless cold sterility. The air around the palace felt heavy and stale, making every breath an effort, and worst of all, the palace itself exuded an aura of sheer malevolence, as if waves of hate emanated from the stonework.

But inside was a very different story. The walls were painted soothing colors-soft yellows, placid greens, and gentle pinks. Potted ferns rested in corners, vases filled with aromatic blooms sat on tables, and hanging plants dangled from ceilings. Tiny bright-feathered songbirds flew through the air, free to sing wherever they pleased. Musicians performed at strategic locations throughout the palace-soloists, trios, and quartets-all playing their instruments with deft, light touches, producing tunes both soft and tranquil. The air smelled of sweet incense, and where breathing outside had been a chore, inside breathing was a pleasure and every inhalation filled one's body with a sensation of peace and contentment.

"Obviously, the palace's interior has been designed to soften the effects of the Fury," Diran whispered. "An absolute necessity, as this is where the curse is centered."

Neither of the two guards-tall, broad-shouldered men wearing chainmail vests and longswords belted at their waists-reacted to the two friends' exchange. But Diran could feel the tension radiating from both men. Their muscles were tight, jaws tense, lips pursed, brows furrowed, and their breathing was labored, as if some great struggle was taking place within them.

Ghaji must've sensed the guards' anger as well, for he drew his lower lip back to better display his bottom incisors. Diran had seen his friend perform this action on numerous occasions, and he'd also seen the aftermath. It usually involved a great deal of blood being spilled.

The priest laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Peace, Ghaji. Don't let the curse of Kolbyr take hold in you." Diran concentrated on projecting a sense of calm, not only in his manner, but also spiritually. As one of the Purified, Diran could mystically soothe a turbulent soul in much the same way that he could heal an injured body.

Ghaji sighed then nodded to show he was all right, and Diran was relieved. He doubted Baroness Calida would grant them an audience if they began brawling with her guards in the palace corridors.

Diran looked to Asenka, and though she appeared tense, she seemed to be handling the urgings of the Fury well enough. She was made of stern stuff, that woman: strong steel with a sharp edge. And yet she was also one of the most genuinely warm people Diran had ever met, with a gentle loving gaze and a delightfully earthy laugh. He was older than she by a few years, but the difference in their ages wasn't that great. But the gulf between them was much wider in terms of experience. Asenka had spent her life in Perhata, training to be a warrior, joining Baron Mahir's Sea Scorpions, and eventually becoming their leader. She had seen her fair share of battle, no doubt, but Diran had lived the first part of his life as an assassin. He had killed heartlessly, efficiently, and without remorse. So many men and women had felt the deadly kiss of his daggers that he'd lost count of the number he had slain. As one of the Purified, he knew death was not to be feared, for the passing away of the mortal shell allowed one's spirit to join with the Silver Flame in the afterlife. But as wondrous as that joining was, as much as it was to be desired, never should it be hastened. It should take place in its own time, and not be dictated by the desires of the rich and powerful, those with money enough to pay to have their enemies slain.

But after becoming a priest of the Silver Flame and dedicating his life to using his assassin's skills to combat evil in all its myriad forms, Diran had seen sights far worse than anything he'd ever experienced during the war. Purified he might be, but that didn't mean he was unaffected by the evil he battled, and he wondered if the shadows that had touched his soul over the years had changed him too much, set him apart from ordinary men to the point where he couldn't love and be loved the way he wanted to. The way Asenka deserved.

As they continued toward the Baroness's court, Diran found himself thinking back to a time when he'd learned what it truly meant to be touched by shadow, when he began to realize that he'd only thought he'd understood what evil was…

When his education as a priest of the Silver Flame began in earnest.

Nighttime along the banks of the Thrane River, southwest of Sigilstar, a week shy of Victory Day in the month of Barrakas. A priest and two acolytes sat cross-legged around a campfire, cloaks draped around their shoulders against the night's chill, heavy travel packs lying on the ground at their sides, bedrolls spread out behind them. The flames of their campfire burned with a silver tint, but the fire produced little smoke. A cloud of insects, mostly moths, hovered over the flames, drawn by the light, encouraged to come closer by the absence of smoke. The three men had finished a tasteless meal of travel rations and were now watching the silvery flames dance, thinking whatever thoughts happened to drift through their minds.

"Pass the wineskin, Diran, if you would be so kind."

Diran did as his teacher asked. Tusya shook the wineskin once, then frowned.

"That's all we have left? There can't be more than a couple swallows in there."

Diran smiled. "I have even worse news: that's the last of the wine."

Tusya slapped a hand to his chest. "Say it isn't so! Your words strike me to the very quick!"

Diran chuckled, but Leontis only continued staring at their campfire, scowling as he stirred the silvery-white coals with a stick. Tusya had added silverburn to the fire, a common-if somewhat expensive-practice among the Purified. It symbolized the Silver Flame offering light to its followers and warding off the darkness. Diran had been surprised by their teacher's largesse. Normally, he was by necessity a thrifty man, for wandering priests possessed little but what they could carry with them on their travels. Indeed, this was the first time Diran had known Tusya to use silverburn, and he wondered what the occasion might be. For certainly there was some reason; despite Tusya's seemingly haphazard way of approaching life, he always had a reason for the things he did, even if that reason wasn't readily apparent to those around him.

Like Diran, Leontis Dellacron was in his mid-twenties. His brown hair hung almost to his shoulders and was in need of a good trimming, and he'd recently begun growing a beard that looked as if it might never fill in properly. Both Diran and Leontis had served as acolytes under the tutelage of Tusya Vanarden for the last six months. Before petitioning for admission to a seminary, acolytes of the Silver Flame were required to serve under a priest for an undetermined period of time, learning the basics of the faith. When the sponsoring priest thought they were ready-and only then-could acolytes be accepted as seminarians. During their time as Tusya's students, Diran and Leontis had become companions, if not the closest of friends. Leontis tended to be moody and withdrawn, while Diran, due to his training in the Brotherhood of the Blade, was stoic and guarded.

Leontis's longbow sat within easy reach, but though it was the signature weapon of the order of the Silver Flame, neither Tusya nor Diran carried one. Diran had practiced with bow and arrow on occasion, but he had yet to develop any skill with them. Instead he carried a dozen daggers-the tools he'd employed in his previous life-secreted about his person. Tusya, however, carried no weapons at all. Diran had once asked his teacher why he chose to go about unarmed. Tusya had simply given Diran a mischievous smile and replied, "What makes you think I'm unarmed?"

The best word to describe Tusya, Diran thought, was nondescript. There was nothing physically about the man to make him stand out in any way-a quality that would serve an assassin well, Diran mused, but could at times be something of hindrance to a priest engaged in the holy task of ridding the world of evil. Tusya was hardly a commanding or intimidating presence, and thus it struck Diran as no surprise that he had chosen to serve in the Order of Friars as opposed to becoming a templar. Tusya was in his late sixties, of medium height, and carried a rather sizeable paunch, especially considering how much he walked. Only a few wisps of snow-white hair clung to his bald pate, but he'd grown a full beard as if to make up for it. He smiled easily and often, and he spoke with a soft, gentle voice though his laugh was loud enough to scare the birds out of the trees. His eyes were kind, but if you looked beneath the surface, you could see a sharp, calculating intelligence that belied the priest's easygoing veneer.

"Is something brothering you, lad?" Tusya asked Leontis. His tone remained good-humored enough, but his voice now held an edge of seriousness.

Leontis continued stirring the coals for a moment longer before responding. "Forgive me for saying so, Father, but your… fondness for wine confuses me."

Diran wasn't surprised to see Tusya grin at Leontis's words. Where others might take offense at being challenged-even in such a mild way-Tusya always seemed delighted, as if he thrived on conflict. No, that wasn't right, Diran amended. In his former life as an assassin for hire, Diran had seen many men and women who lived for conflict… and died because of it. What energized Tusya was the chance to engage in a lively dialogue.

"How so?"

Leontis glanced up from the fire to look at Tusya for a moment, before turning his gaze back to the flames. Diran liked Leontis, even considered him a friend, the first real one he'd made-not counting Tusya himself, of course-since the priest had cast out the dark spirit that Diran had shared his soul with for so many years. But though Leontis and Diran were close in age, they were very different in terms of experience. Diran had begun training as an assassin during childhood, and he'd been a full-fledged member in the Brotherhood of the Blade for over a decade before turning away from the dark path of the killer and embarking on his studies to become one of the Purified. Leontis, on the other hand, had grown up as a cobbler's son in Danthaven and had become interested in the priesthood because his maternal aunt served as a priest in a temple of healing there.

Leontis continued looking at the fire as he spoke. Diran had long ago noted his friend often had trouble meeting others' eyes when he was discussing what he thought were sensitive matters. "You are Purified, are you not? Strong drink can impair one's judgment, causing one to lose control of one's emotions. As you've taught us, becoming Purified-and staying so-requires the constant vigilance of both a strong mind and a strong heart."

Tusya finished off the last of the wine before answering his young charge. "I'm not sure I'd call this vintage particularly strong, either in alcohol content or taste." He smiled as he laid the empty skin on the ground next to him. "There are many lessons to be learned from the symbol of our faith, many truths and insights to be gained. For example, Leontis, what shape is our campfire?"

Leontis turned to Tusya and frowned. "What?"

"The shape, son. It's a simple enough question. Square, round, triangular… which is it?"

Leontis scowled. "Forgive me for saying so, Teacher, but sometimes I wish you would just come out and say what you mean." But the acolyte looked back to the fire and answered. "It has a general shape, one that's not like anything else except other fires. Our campfire is smaller than some, larger than others. Its specific size and dimensions vary with the amount of wood used to fuel it, and the flames themselves dance and move about."

"So would you say that while the essential nature of the fire remains the same, its particular shape varies from one moment to the next?"

"Yes," Leontis answered.

"And thus it is with Purification. The shape it takes varies from person to person, depending on their personalities"-Tusya glanced sideways at Diran-"and what demons drive them. Some men drink alcohol as if it were water, without experiencing any significant lasting effects. Others merely take a few sips of strong drink and become its lifelong slave. For these latter souls, resisting their need for alcohol is a struggle far greater than battling couatls or lycanthropes. You have little taste for wine, Leontis, so abstaining from it would be no hardship for you. I enjoy wine, so abstaining would be more difficult for me, but I could do so with minimal effort. So it would be no great feat for either of us to forgo strong drink. And the lesson in this, Diran, is…?"

Now it was Diran's turn to smile. "Without struggle, there is no Purification, and what defines the struggle is different for each person."

Tusya nodded, pleased. "And it also varies for individuals in different circumstances and at different times in their lives."

Leontis frowned, as he so often did after one of Tusya's lessons, but it was an expression of contemplation rather than consternation.

Diran noticed a moth dip precariously close to the fire. "What insight might that insect have to offer us, Teacher?"

Before Tusya could answer, the moth dove too close and ignited in a bright silvery flash. Its charred remains fell into the fire and were quickly consumed.

Tusya's smile was grim this time. "I think that speaks for itself, don't you, boy?"

"I suppose it does," Diran said softly. He thought of the upcoming Victory Day, and the lycanthropic purge it commemorated, when the followers of the Silver Flame had at last rid Khorvaire of the scourge of the evil shapeshifters. Some of the templars, believing that the ends justified the means, had used rather questionable methods to reach this holy goal. In the end, a few priests had become just as evil as any lycanthrope they had ever fought. They had flown too close the flame, and instead of being Purified, they'd been consumed by its heat.

"But as I said earlier, the symbol of our faith can reveal many truths," Tusya said. "Forget the moth for a moment and consider instead the wood that feeds our campfire. Fire consumes wood for its fuel, and in so doing, the wood is transformed. It becomes one with the fire, fulfilling its true purpose. To serve the Flame well, we must willingly give ourselves over to its heat and light."

For a time after that the three men sat quietly, listening to the crackle of the fire, the leaves of nearby trees rustling in the night breeze, and the gentle rushing waters of the Thrane River. It was peaceful and soothing, and soon Diran found himself becoming drowsy. He was about to say goodnight to his companions and crawl into his bedroll when a strange sensation began to come over him. The training he'd received at Emon Gorsedd's academy of assassins had honed his senses to a razor-fine edge, and on more than one occasion those senses had saved his life on a mission. The feeling he had now was something like that, an awareness of danger, but there was more to it. He also felt a sense of wrongness.

Diran was instantly alert. "Teacher, I feel something…"

Tusya raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Diran turned in the direction of the river. "That way… on the bank of the Thrane. But upstream a ways, I think."

"What are you going on about, Diran?" Leontis asked. "I sense nothing."

Tusya kept his gaze focused on Diran as he spoke to Leontis. "Our friend lived with a demonic spirit inside him for many years, lad. Thus he is more sensitive to evil's presence than most people, even though he has yet to have any tutelage in the ways of dealing with such dark powers."

Diran turned to look at Tusya. "Surely you were aware of this evil long before I was."

Tusya shrugged. "Perhaps."

"You have many fine qualities, Teacher," Diran said. "But acting talent isn't chief among them."

Tusya grinned but said nothing.

Leontis sighed as he reached for his bow and quiver of arrows. He withdrew half a dozen shafts and began rolling their tips in the silvery ashes scattered around the burning wood.

"What are you doing?" Diran asked.

"Getting ready. Obviously Tusya wants us to investigate the source of this evil. Why else would he have insisted we camp here for the night? And why else would he have added silverburn to the fire unless he wished for us to make use of it?" Leontis finished coating the last of his arrowheads with ash and then returned the shafts to their quiver. He strung his bow, stood, and slung the quiver over his shoulder.

"Shall we?" Leontis asked.

Diran looked at his friend and fellow acolyte with newfound respect. Leontis might not have Diran's life experience, but that didn't make him stupid by any means.

Diran nodded to Leontis and stood. He turned to Tusya and asked, "Will you be joining us?"

During their travels through Thrane with Tusya, they'd had occasion to encounter evils both mundane and supernatural. But while the young acolytes had assisted their teacher in whatever capacity he required, Tusya had always been the one to take the lead when dealing with anything otherworldly.

The priest appeared to consider for a moment. "I'm a bit tired. I believe I'll just stay here and warm my old bones by the fire."

Diran and Leontis exchanged glances. Their teacher's message was clear: he wished them to go alone this time.

"We'll be back as soon as we can," Diran said. He nodded to Leontis, and the two acolytes began walking away from the silvery flames of the campfire and into the dark of the night. When they were almost out of earshot, Diran heard Tusya speak in a voice close to a whisper.

"Go with the Flame, lads. But be careful not to fly too close."

Baroness Calida took her time examining the letter of introduction from Baron Mahir. Not, Ghaji thought, because she had trouble understanding the missive's meaning or doubted its authenticity. Rather, because she was uncertain how to respond to the words before her.

Ghaji, Diran, and Asenka stood quietly in front of Calida while she thought. Calida's chamber was nothing like what Ghaji had expected. There was no throne on a raised dais to put the Baroness above her audience, no large open area for courtiers to gather, gossip, backstab, and generally attempt to curry favor with their ruler. The chamber resembled nothing so much as a private sitting room, with chairs and couches that looked almost too comfortable. Paintings of placid landscapes hung on the walls, and a woven rug of gentle sea-green covered the floor. As elsewhere in the palace, flowers and hanging plants were located throughout the chamber, their aromas mingling with the smells of the scented candles that lit the room, the combined odors keeping the air pleasantly perfumed.

Calida herself didn't look particularly regal. In fact, if Ghaji had to pick a single word to describe her, it would have been tired. At first glance, he guessed Calida to be somewhere in her forties, but on closer inspection he realized she was likely ten years younger. The Baroness's weariness added years to her appearance. Her eyes were red and sore, the flesh beneath them puffy and discolored. Her long flowing brunette hair was shot through with strands of gray, and she was so thin she looked as if she might be suffering from malnutrition. Calida's simple yellow dress hung on her emaciated frame like a blanket someone had tossed carelessly over her to keep her warm.

She looked up from the letter and attempted to focus her gaze on them, though she seemed to have trouble doing so. She kept blinking as if to clear her eyes, and her head swayed from side to side slightly, as if she were having difficulty staying awake Ghaji wondered if Calida's condition was entirely due to weariness, or if perhaps, living so close to the center of the Fury, she was forced to take narcotics simply to function. Perhaps both were true, he decided.

"Others have tried to remove the curse on the House of Kolbyr. What makes you think you can succeed where so many have failed before?" Calida's voice was surprisingly strong, and Ghaji's estimation of her went up a notch. It was the voice of a woman who was used to ruling, a woman whose inner reserves of strength, while depleted, were not yet exhausted.

Ghaji looked to Diran, expecting his friend to make their case to the Baroness. But to the half-orc's surprise, it was Asenka who spoke first.

"I'm Perhaten, Baroness, and a faithful servant of Baron Mahir. As a Sea Scorpion, I have fought against your Coldhearts on numerous occasions, and I've slain more than my fair share. I think it safe to say that I hold little love in my heart for Kolbyr or its citizens."

Ghaji grimaced. "I'm just an ignorant half-orc, Asenka, so feel free to correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it generally a good idea for diplomats to speak diplomatically?"

Calida held up her hand to silence Ghaji then nodded to Asenka. "Go on."

Asenka bowed her head to the Baroness. "Forget for the moment that Mahir thought enough of these two men to write them a letter of introduction and send me, the captain of his Sea Scorpions, to accompany them. Forget for the moment that the citizens of Kolbyr have lived with the curse upon their city for the last hundred years. Forget that, should the curse be lifted, it may well lead to improved relations between our two cities, and perhaps a better life for all who inhabit the Gulf of Ingjald. All that matters is that within this generation, the curse has manifested itself in your firstborn child, Calida. Do you really want to hear assurances that Diran and Ghaji can help you? You already know you're going to allow them to try. As a mother, you won't pass up any chance, no matter how slim, to save your child?"

The Baroness regarded Asenka for a long moment, the expression on her weary face unreadable. Finally, she rose out of her overstuffed chair, picked up a scented candle mounted in a pewter holder off of the end table, and began shuffling toward the door.

"Come with me," she said.

As the three companions followed the Baroness, Asenka gave Ghaji a grin as if to say, Was that diplomatic enough for you?

Ghaji grinned. He was beginning to understand what Diran saw in this woman.

Ghaji expected Calida to lead them down into the bowels of the palace, where they'd find the cursed child sealed away in a subterranean cell, dwelling in darkness, forever denied the light of day. But instead the Baroness-along with the two guards-led them up a flight of stairs to the uppermost floor of the palace. At the end of a long featureless corridor lay a single door made entirely of metal, an iron crossbar set firmly in place to seal the room shut from the outside.

It must be a very lonely way to grow up, Ghaji thought. Curse or no curse, he felt sorry for the child forced to live behind the metal door. Strange and unfamiliar sigils and runes had been scratched into the surface of the door, dozens of them over the long years since the curse first took hold. Ghaji was by no means an expert, but he felt certain the markings were all protective charms of one kind or another. A glance at Diran, a nod from his friend, and Ghaji's suspicion was confirmed.

As they drew near the iron door, Ghaji could feel waves of anger radiating from the chamber within, so strong that it was nearly a physical force. It took an effort to move forward, almost as if they were walking into a strong wind. He clenched his jaw tight and concentrated on ignoring the Fury that buffeted him, but he could feel it sinking into his mind, making itself at home, and beginning to grow.

They hate you, you know. Half-orc. Half-human. Haifa man… Show them how strong you are. Take hold of your axe. Will its flames to life. Strike swiftly and without mercy…

Ghaji's hand reached for his elemental axe. But before he could draw the weapon, Diran laid his hand on the half-orc's shoulder, and Ghaji felt soothing calm spread through him. The Fury was still there at the core of his being, but its urgings were quieter now, more easily ignored.

Ghaji gave his friend a nod of thanks then looked to Asenka. From the strained expression on her face, it was clear the woman was fighting her own battle to resist the Fury, but he saw that Diran held her hand tight, and Ghaji knew that his friend was also helping Asenka hold the Fury at bay.

When they reached the door, Calida stopped and turned to regard the three of them.

"I'm impressed. Most outsiders can't make it this far without trying to kill each other… or themselves."

"What of you?" Diran asked. "You seem unaffected."

The Baroness gave the priest a lopsided smile. "Unfortunately, I am used to resisting the Fury… as are all who serve me." She nodded to the two guards that had accompanied them. "Do not underestimate my son's power. After Taran was born, he… his father was gripped by the Fury. My husband was driven to slay me, but enough presence of mind remained to him that he took his own life rather than harm me." She then looked away from them, as if suddenly embarrassed, and gestured at the door. "I do not have the strength to unbar it. If you wouldn't mind…"

Ghaji stepped forward. As soon as he slipped away from Diran, he felt the Fury whelm into him anew, but because he knew what to expect-and because of the lingering influence of Diran's calming touch-he was better able to withstand it this time. With a grunt of effort he raised the heavy iron crossbar then took hold of the door handle. He didn't open it yet, though. He looked to Diran to see if his friend was prepared to enter the chamber.

The priest looked at Asenka. "I think it best if Ghaji and I go in alone," he said. Asenka started to protest, but Diran cut her off. "I mean no insult, but we have much more experience dealing with this sort of thing. If we fail to withstand the Fury, we might well end up attacking one another… or you."

"I'm not afraid," Asenka said.

"It's not your fear that's at issue," Diran said. "It's mine. I will not be able to fully devote myself mind and soul to the task ahead if I'm distracted by concern for your safety. Remain in the corridor and guard the door. If we need you, we'll call out." When Asenka didn't answer right away, Diran added, "Please?"

For a moment, Asenka looked as if she might protest further, but she assented with a single curt nod. "Very well, I'll remain. But don't even think of asking me to lower the crossbar while you're inside. I won't do it."

Now it was Diran who looked as if he might protest, but like Asenka, he merely nodded.

"I shall return to the chamber where we first spoke," Calida said. Her tone was flat, her gaze dull. "Let me know how you fared… assuming any of you survive." Without further comment, she turned and began shuffling back down the corridor.

The guards said nothing as they took up positions on either side of the door. Ghaji had thought at first that the guards' impassive silence was just an intimidation act. Now he understood that they were concentrating on resisting the Fury.

"Call if you need me," Asenka said. She then leaned forward and gave Diran a quick kiss on the lips. "For luck," she explained.

Ghaji expected his friend to say something suitably pious and heroic, such as Thank you, but I have no need of luck as long as I have my faith to sustain me. Instead, Diran simply smiled at Asenka before turning to Ghaji and giving him a nod.

Time to go to work.

Ghaji opened the door and stepped inside. Diran followed and moved past the half-orc, slipping into the room as silent as a shadow, and Ghaji closed the door behind them.

The room was dark, so much so that even Ghaji's orcish night vision couldn't make out any details. There were no windows, no candles or lamps. Knowing an attack might come at them any instant, Ghaji drew his elemental axe and willed it to activate. Mystic flames burst into life around the blade, revealing a stone room devoid of furnishings, the only exceptions being a rumpled bedroll in the middle of the floor and a chamber pot that smelled as if it hadn't been emptied in a while located in one corner. Sitting on the floor next to the bedroll, cross-legged and looking at them with an almost serene expression on his face, was a boy who couldn't have been more than ten. He was completely naked, the flesh of his body crisscrossed with scratches-some scabbed over, some fresh and bleeding-as if the boy had been clawing at his own flesh. The child's resemblance to Calida was obvious both in his face and brunette hair. But as disturbing as the boy's appearance was, the aspect that bothered Ghaji the most was his eyes: they were completely black, moist and glossy, like the eyes of a beast.

"Are you Taran, son of Baroness Calida?" Diran asked. The priest's voice was firm, but kind.

The boy's beatific smile grew wider and became sinister, almost mocking. "She thinks so. The stupid cow."

Ghaji remembered an important element of the curse of Kolbyr. "Diran, wasn't the firstborn child supposed to be an indestructible monster? This boy may be in dire need of a lesson in manners, but he looks human enough… except for those eyes."

Diran smiled grimly, but he kept his gaze fixed on the child. "It appears the details of the curse have become distorted over the last century, starting with its very name. You see, my friend, the Curse of Kolbyr isn't a curse at all. This boy is possessed by a demon-one that has cast a foul enchantment over the city, causing the Fury."

Ghaji could feel waves of hatred and fury rolling off the naked boy, and he had no trouble believing Diran's words. Then a thought occurred to him, and he frowned. "But what of all the other firstborns that preceded Taran? Were they possessed by demons as well?"

"My guess is they were," Diran said. "But not by other demons: by the same demon. That's why each cursed firstborn is reputed to be indestructible. They're individual bodies may perish, but the demon that possesses them simply waits to return in the next generation."

The boy's grin grew even wider, his mouth stretching farther than was humanly possible. The corners of his mouth tore and thin lines of blood ran down past his chin. "Well done, priest. I knew when I first sensed you and your friends approaching the city-and by the way, I did send those gulls to attack you as a greeting-I knew you would prove to be a worthy adversary. Perhaps the most worthy I've faced since first being summoned."

Ghaji snorted. "Spare us. Your kind always thinks you can put opponents off balance by alternately complimenting then castigating them. We've heard it all before."

The boy turned to regard Ghaji with his glossy black eyes, and despite his earlier courage, the half-orc warrior felt a chill shiver down his spine.

"Is that so? Then perhaps you'd like to hear something new. My body may be locked away in this chamber, but my mind roams free. I know many things… things you and your companions would dearly love to know."

Ghaji rolled his eyes. "And now you're trying to make deals with us. Is there some kind of infernal school where they teach you this sort of thing, or are demons bereft not only of souls but of imagination as well?"

The demon grinned even wider, and this time Ghaji thought he could hear the boy's mouth tear. The blood flow increased, and now drops fell from Taran's chin to patter onto his claw-marked chest. "Let me give you a sample of my wares. I know where your elven lady-love is right now, half-orc. I know who she's talking to and what they're talking about. I could relate their conversation to you word for word, if you wish. It would be as if you were standing there beside her, listening unseen."

Ghaji clenched his teeth in anger. "Shut up."

The demon continued speaking, its voice a hideous parody of sympathy and concern. "She's such a mystery to you… you have so many doubts. You keep them to yourself, struggle to tell yourself that you understand and that not knowing doesn't matter. But it does matter to you, doesn't it, half-orc? It matters very much indeed."

Ghaji's gripped the haft of his axe tighter, and without realizing it he took a step toward the possessed child. Diran took hold of his arm and stopped him.

"He's just trying to goad you," the priest said. "If you slay the demon's host body, the Fury will be dispelled, but Calida will lose her son. The demon will be banished, but only until such time as the next Baron or Baroness produces an heir."

"As long as that ruler is a descendent of the House of Kolbyr," the demon said. "When the line of Kolbyr ends, so too ends the curse, and I shall return to your world no more. Needless to say, I hope that doesn't occur for many, many years. I'm having too much fun playing with the city and all the foolish mortal toys that inhabit it. I love to make them angry, make them fight each other, kill each other… I'm a naughty child, I suppose, always breaking my toys." The boy shrugged. "But no matter. There are more where those came from, are there not?"

"The one who summoned you was Kolbyr's sister," Diran said. "Nathifa was her name."

"I should make you barter for confirming that information, but I'm in an especially good mood today. Yes, that's true."

"She must've have been an especially powerful sorceress to call forth a demon of your strength," Diran said.

The demon's laugh was so much like that of a normal little boy that it startled Ghaji.

"So now it is your turn to attempt to appeal to my vanity, eh? What fun! You amuse me, so here's another free tidbit: the sorceress is powerful, yes, but the one she serves-and from whom her power flows-is far stronger."

Diran frowned. "You speak of the sorceress in present tense, but she summoned you a century ago. Are you telling us that she still lives after all this time?"

A sly look came over the boy's face, as if he were hiding a secret. "She is not alive, and that's the last thing I shall tell you without receiving payment first."

Ghaji glanced at Diran. "Not alive isn't the same thing as being dead."

"Indeed," Diran agreed.

"Are you now convinced that the information I have to offer is worth the cost?" the demon said. "Are you ready to bargain with me?" The demon sounded almost as if it were pleading, like a child begging an adult to play.

Diran appeared to consider the demon's offer. "I don't know… you haven't really told us anything new. And quite frankly, you could be making up what you have told us. Demons aren't known for their scrupulous adherence to the facts."

"My friend means you're a bunch of damned liars," Ghaji translated. "Literally."

The demon scowled, and the waves of anger pouring off of him became more intense. "Do not push me, half-orc. Cease to amuse me, and it will go all the worse for you." The demon considered for a moment. "Very well. Another sample for you, but I warn you, this is the last. I know where your vampire lover is, priest. I know who she travels with and where they are bound. Not only do they sail the vessel the half-orc's love lost, they also carry with them an object that your artificer friend is most anxious to regain possession of." The fiend's smile returned. "Now are you interested in bargaining with me?"

Ghaji was stunned by the demon's words. He'd learned a great deal about infernal creatures since beginning his travels with Diran, and he knew that demons did far worse than simply lie. They seasoned their falsehoods with truth, mixing the two together until you couldn't tell where one began and the other ended. It was this diabolical tactic that ensnared more fools than any other, and even though Ghaji knew better, he found himself tempted by the demon's offer.

If I could return the Zephyr to Yvka…

Ghaji turned to Diran, looking to his friend for support. Diran wouldn't be tempted by the demon's sly words. He'd take hold of his silver arrowhead, the sacred symbol of the Silver Flame, and he'd thrust it toward the demon's face, and in a commanding voice reject the fiend's offer.

But Diran said nothing. The priest only stared at the demon wearing the face of a young boy, his gaze dark, jaw clenched as if he were struggling to hold back his voice. He made no move to reach into his vest pocket and remove his silver arrowhead. His arms remained slack at his sides, hands empty.

Ghaji couldn't believe it. Was Diran actually considering the demon's offer?

The demon, like a hunter sensing weakness in its prey, pressed on. "I can tell you much more if you wish, priest. I can reveal to you secrets about Emon Gorsedd, about your teacher Tusya… secrets that would completely shatter your views of them and forever change the way you see yourself. It will be my great privilege to share my knowledge with you… for a price."

Ghaji knew that all it took to seal a bargain with a demon was a single word of assent. Sometimes, with the most powerful demons, even speaking aloud wasn't necessary; simply the desire to make the bargain was enough.

Ghaji didn't want to harm the child whose body the demon possessed, but he couldn't allow his friend to damn his soul in a moment of weakness. He owed Diran his life a dozen times over, and he'd do anything to protect the priest-even if it meant taking the life of an innocent.

Ghaji raised his flaming ax high and stepped forward to strike. But just as he was about to swing, he saw a flash of motion out of the corner of his eye. A dagger slammed hilt-first into his axehead with a metallic clang, throwing off the weapon's trajectory and sparing the child's life.

Ghaji looked back at Diran and saw the priest held a second dagger in his left hand. In his right he held a silver arrowhead. The flames from Ghaji's axe should've coated the arrowhead's metal surface with orange-red light, but the holy symbol shone with a bright silvery illumination of its own.

"Your honeyed words are laced with poison, demon," Diran said, "and they fall on deaf ears."

Ghaji grinned. Now that was more like it!

The demon squinted against the light from the arrowhead, but it didn't look away. The creature then let out a long, theatrical sigh. "Oh, well. You can't blame a fiend for trying. To be honest, I was getting rather tired of that game anyway. I'd much rather play another, one that I've always wanted to try but somehow have never gotten around to."

Ghaji knew the demon wanted them to ask What game? But the half-orc warrior was done playing. "The fun's over. It's time for you to return to whatever hellhole you crawled out of, and this time you're going to stay there."

The demon did not appear overly impressed with Ghaji's taunt. "I don't think so. You see, the game I've always wanted to play is called the Destruction of Kolbyr. And I'm going to start playing it with you two."

Before either Ghaji or Diran could do anything, the demon's black eyes turned a baleful crimson, and rage unlike anything the half-orc had ever experienced surged into his heart. All positive emotions were driven out of him, along with the memory that he had ever experienced such feelings. All that remained was hate and fury and the lust to kill.

Ghaji turned to see the man garbed in black glaring at him with a hatred bordering on madness. Ghaji knew just how the bastard felt.

The man in black dropped the sliver arrowhead to the floor and grabbed a dagger. He now held a blade in each hand.

For a moment, the two partners stood glaring at each other, and then the demon said, "Let the games begin."

Ghaji and Diran shouted their Fury and rushed toward one another to the accompaniment of the demon's dark, delighted laughter.