Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2

C
hagai crouched behind a rocky outcropping near the summit of a small mountain, a perfect vantage point to observe the party of four men traveling by foot through the canyon below. Two were human—one in the prime of his life, dressed all in black, with long ebon hair, while the other was a white-beard, thin of frame, and from the way he lagged behind his companions, not very strong. A halfling and a half-orc accompanied the humans. Chagai’s upper lip curled in disgust. Even from this height he could smell the half-blood’s stink, and without his realizing it, a growl rumbled deep in his chest.

The half-blood paused and cocked his head. He gazed up at the mountain—directly where Chagai hid—eyes furrowed, nostrils flaring as he read the scents on the wind. Chagai stopped breathing and held himself as motionless as the rocks around him. The orc wore a mottled gray cloak over his chain-mail armor, and he had the hood up. The cloak’s color blended with the mountain’s surface, and Chagai was confident that the
half-blood wouldn’t be able to detect him. Still, even a half-orc possessed senses far stronger than those of a human, and Chagai knew better than to underestimate him, especially
this
half-orc—for Chagai recognized the other’s scent, recognized the way he moved, even the way he breathed. The half-breed’s name was Ghaji, and years ago he had come close to slaying Chagai.
Very
close.

Too bad for Ghaji that he’d failed.

“Something wrong, my friend?”

Ghaji didn’t take his gaze from the mountainside as he answered. “I’m not sure. For a moment, I thought I saw something up there, but now …”

Diran Bastiaan came over and stood next to the half-orc. The black-garbed priest looked toward the spot on the mountain where Ghaji was staring, shielding his eyes with one hand to block out the rays of the setting sun. Dusk was rapidly approaching, and while the valley in which they stood was already draped in shadow, orange-red sunlight shone from behind the mountain, making it difficult to see.

“It’s nothing,” Ghaji decided at last. “A trick of the light, nothing more.”

Though they were but in the foothills of the Hoarfrost Mountains, the canyon terrain was rocky and barren, save for a scattering of scraggly trees and tufts of coarse scrub grass that had pushed their way up through the stony ground. It was late autumn, and in the Lhazaar Principalities that meant the air already held more than a hint of winter’s bite. The four companions were garbed in heavy clothes, fur cloaks, and thick, sturdy boots. Even so, Ghaji—the only one of the quartet not born in the Principalities—still shivered with every blast of wind, the
cold air cutting through him like one of Diran’s daggers. Chalk up one more disadvantage to his half-blood status.

The other two members of their party joined them. Though they’d been trekking through the foothills for the better part of a day, the halfling appeared as fresh as when they’d started out. The older human, however, looked as if he were about ready to drop from exhaustion.

“Maybe it’s an animal of some kind,” Hinto said. The halfling sounded excited, as if he might race up the hillside any moment to go check.

The human, whose name was Tresslar, spoke in a breathless, raspy voice. “The only animals we’ve encountered today are hares, foxes, and mountain goats.” He paused to catch his breath. “And we’ve seen precious few of those.”

Ghaji turned away from the mountain to look at Tresslar. The artificer was in his late sixties, and while he was in generally good health, the day’s journey through the mountains had taken its toll on him. Though they’d rested regularly and drank often from their waterskins, Tresslar’s face was gaunt and pale. His legs trembled, and Ghaji feared the man might collapse any moment.

Ghaji turned toward Diran, hoping to communicate to his friend that Tresslar was in dire need of his assistance, but Diran was already ahead of him. The priest carried a bow and quiver of arrows, and he now slipped them off his shoulder and placed them on the ground. Ordinarily, divesting one’s self of weapons while being stalked by a hidden opponent wasn’t the wisest of moves. Though Diran carried a bow and practiced with it, he did so only because it was the signature weapon of his order. In truth, he was only middling skilled at its use. While this fact vexed him, Diran wasn’t foolish or stubborn enough to rely on his unremarkable archery skills in a dangerous situation—not that he needed to, for he possessed other weapons with which he was far more proficient.

Diran stepped to Tresslar’s side and laid a hand on the artificer’s shoulder.

“I know what you intend to do,” Tresslar protested, “but I am hardly in need of healing.” The artificer reached up to push Diran’s hand away, but Diran caught his wrist with his free hand and gently but firmly kept him from doing so.

“There is no shame in admitting one’s needs,” Diran said. “Besides, when we locate what we’ve come here for, we’ll need to be at our full fighting strength.”

As a youth, Tresslar had sailed with the legendary explorer Erdis Cai, and though that had been many decades ago, the artificer sometimes pushed himself as if he thought only a handful of years had passed. Still, while Tresslar was a proud man, he was also a practical one, and he sighed and nodded his acceptance of Diran’s words. The priest smiled, released his grip on Tresslar’s wrist, and closed his eyes.

Ghaji had seen Diran perform healings many times, and he’d been the beneficiary of the priest’s otherworldly powers on more than one occasion himself, but no matter how often he’d seen Diran at work, he was always impressed by the profound simplicity of the act. Diran never made a great show of healing. He didn’t speak prayers, didn’t wave his hands about in the air, didn’t loudly beseech the holy Silver Flame to work its wonders through him. All he did was touch the person he wished to heal, close his eyes, and then several moments later, it was done.

It was at moments like those when Ghaji was struck afresh by the dichotomy his friend represented. During the Last War, Diran had served as a mercenary assassin—a damn fine one—and there was still much of the killer’s mien to him. His long black hair framed a face that was lean and wolfish, with eyes that were dark, cold, and calculating. He always wore black, and he moved with the precision and grace of someone whose
body was the most important weapon he owned. But after the War, Diran abandoned the life of a killer-for-hire and became a priest of the Silver Flame, an order dedicated to purging evil from the world. It was this power Diran channeled when he healed others. At those times his touch was gentle, his voice warm and soothing, his expression one of beatific contentment. It was almost enough to make a hard-headed skeptic like Ghaji take up the worship of the Silver Flame himself. Almost.