Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 (11 page)

“… hear me, Diran?”

“Hmm?” The priest looked at Yvka as if just realizing she was present. “Sorry. I was just thinking about the first time I met Cathmore. My parents were fishers, and one day out on the Lhazaar, we were attacked by raiders. They killed my mother and father, but they let me live, not because they couldn’t bring themselves to slay a child, but because they could make a profit on me. They sold me to a slaver who specialized in procuring children, and I ended up for sale in a secret slave market in Karrnath. It was Cathmore who bought me.”

“What did Cathmore want with you?” Tresslar asked.

“Aldarik Cathmore is an assassin. He’s also Emon Gorsedd’s half-brother. They were partners—or at least, they were back then. Cathmore’s job was to find new students for Emon’s academy in Atur. Quite often these students were purchased from slavers, but sometimes they were simply abducted or in rare cases adopted after one of Emon’s operatives killed the rest of their family. Cathmore did more than just find students for Emon, though. He also taught the new recruits, introducing them to life in the Brotherhood of the Blade.”

“Then what’s he doing in the Principalities?” Ghaji asked.

For that was the news that Yvka had come to deliver: the Shadow Network had learned that a man called Aldarik Cathmore had passed through Perhata several weeks ago, accompanied by an orc and a kalashtar. They’d purchased numerous supplies in Perhata, and the orc still made an occasional supply run, but as for Cathmore, no one—not a single operative in the entire Network—had any inkling of why the man was in the area or what he was doing.

“I can help a bit with the why,” Diran said. “Cathmore and Emon had a falling out when I was still a child. Neither of them agreed on the best way to run the academy. Emon believed in keeping his organization small, lean, and mobile, while Cathmore
wanted to expand the Brotherhood. Business was good during the final years of the Last War, and Cathmore hoped to establish his own academy elsewhere in Khorvaire. When Emon refused to support him financially, Cathmore tried to have him killed. After he failed, Emon gave his half-brother a choice: leave or die. Cathmore left.” Diran paused, remembering. Then he pushed the memories aside and turned to Yvka. “What I don’t understand is how you knew of my connection to Cathmore.”

Yvka smiled. “I make it my business to know. I probably know things about you that you don’t know yourself.”

“Do you think Cathmore’s running an assassins’ academy here in Perhata?” Ghaji asked.

’It’s possible. He’s had twenty years to set himself up in business, and since Emon operates out of Karrnath, perhaps Cathmore decided to carve out his own territory here in the Principalities.” Diran smiled grimly. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he did so as a way of getting back at me, at least in part. He knew I hailed from here. Perhaps he even had hopes of luring me back.”

“Why would he want to do that?” Hinto asked. “Because I’m the one who stopped him from killing Emon Gorsedd.”

Eneas staggered down the street, but he had no trouble remaining on his feet. Like most Lhazaarites, he’d spent his lifetime on the deck of one sailing vessel or another, and he actually felt more at home on dry land when he was drunk. The way the world spun around him and the ground dipped and rolled beneath his feet felt not only natural but comforting, and Eneas could use some comfort right now. Not because of his run-in with the thrice-damned Coldhearts or the man in black
with the steel-gray eyes—Eneas wasn’t one to back down from a fight—especially when he’d swallowed a bit too much ale. Even so, though the man in black had interfered and sent him on his way, Eneas wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t realize the man had done him a favor. What bothered Eneas right now was what waited for him at the docks. That was the real reason he’d been drinking so heavily throughout the day.

The sun had already dipped below the Hoarfrost Mountains to the west, and night was settling over Perhata. Shadows lengthened, thickened, and deepened, like chill dark waters slowly seeping through the streets. The wind blowing in off the Gulf of Ingjald cut into Eneas’s skin like tiny slivers of ice, and though he was a Lhazaarite born and bred, and cold normally didn’t bother him overmuch, he shivered. He was a free-hire merchant, which meant that he’d haul any cargo for the right price and no questions asked. He owned a small sailing craft called the
Boundless
, and his boat—and the freedom she represented—meant more to him than anything in this life. Even so, he considered turning around, walking away from the docks, heading inland, and never returning to the sea or his beloved boat.

The shadows were omnipresent now, and though purple tinged the sky, it was beginning to edge toward black. Eneas used to love the night, used to love being out on the Lhazaar, sail billowing in the wind as he charted his course by gazing up at the canopy of stars above, but he didn’t like the night anymore. He doubted he ever would again.

He reached the main docks of Perhata. There were private docks elsewhere, of course, but these were the ones where most residents and visitors moored their craft. This was also where the fishmarkets were located, as well as taverns so seedy they made the common room of the King Prawn look like the most elegant Sharn teahouse. Normally Eneas patronized these taverns—the ale was lousy, but there was always a rowdy good time to be
had, along with an invigorating fight or two. Today, however, he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of remaining close to the docks, so he’d been forced to go further into the city in search of refreshment. He wouldn’t be returning now if he hadn’t needed to. No, been
compelled
to.

He reached up, pulled down the collar of his tunic, and scratched at a pair of small bite marks positioned along the thick blood vessel between shoulder and neck. The marks itched and throbbed, but no amount of scratching provided relief. Eneas wondered if he’d ever know relief again.

By the time he’d walked down the dock to the slip where he’d moored the
Boundless
, full night had descended. At least he wouldn’t keep his passenger waiting. Perhaps she’d release him out of appreciation for his promptness. Unfortunately, he feared she had other plans for him.

Fog was rolling in off the Lhazaar, and though everbright lanterns stationed at periodic intervals lit the dock, their softly glowing light did little to penetrate the mist. If anything, they only made visibility worse by coloring the fog an eerie, sour green, but Eneas didn’t need to see to find his boat. He could feel it, or rather he felt
her
, calling to him, impatient for his return. He reached the slip where his vessel was moored. The
Boundless
wasn’t anything special: one mast, small hold, even smaller cabin. The boat had a few minor touches added by a shipwright who was also an artificer, but nothing extraordinary—spells to make the mast stronger, the hull barnacle-resistant, the sail less prone to tears, that sort of thing. The
Boundless
was hardly an elemental galleon or a shard-racer, Eneas knew, but he loved the old boat as fiercely as he’d ever loved anything in his life. All he wanted now was to get rid of the creature that lay within her hold and have the
Boundless
all to himself again.

Eneas jumped onto the deck with a surprising grace that belied both his heavy frame and drunken state. The fog was moving in
so fast now that he could barely see more than a foot in front of his face as he moved toward the hull, but he was on the
Boundless
and could find his way around her with both eyes put out if he had to. The fog seemed to cling unnaturally to his body, forming a slimy cold film on his flesh that set him to shivering. He opened the hatch and still trembling—though perhaps not entirely from the fog’s chill now—he climbed down the short ladder into the hold.

Once inside, he reached into his tunic pocket and brought out a small light gem. He waved his hand over it, and the gem began to give off a flickering orange light not unlike that produced by a candle, though there was no heat. The hold was empty, save for a large obsidian object that resembled a coffin, only with rounded edges. Strange runes were carved around the sides of the sarcophagus, and if Eneas looked at them too long, his head would start to hurt.

He told himself that he didn’t have to do it. Without him to unlock the sarcophagus and deactivate the enchantment suffusing the obsidian stone, she couldn’t get out. She would be trapped forever, and he would be safe. He could haul the coffin out by a winch and dump it in the sea. If worse came to worst and he couldn’t offload his strange cargo, he could scuttle the whole damned ship and let her go down to the bottom, taking the obsidian box and its inhabitant along as she descended into the cold, dark depths of the Lhazaar. He didn’t have to obey—he didn’t!

Nevertheless, he stepped forward, took hold of the lid’s edge and raised it up an inch.

Eneas stepped back quickly as pale white fingers—feminine fingers—emerged. They curled around the edge of the lid and lifted it the rest of the way off the sarcophagus. The lid wasn’t attached, and the heavy stone cover fell off to the side, striking the floor of the wooden hull with a loud thump that made Eneas
wince. Then
she
sat up and stared straight ahead, motionless, unblinking, as if she wasn’t aware of his presence. Then slowly she turned to look at Eneas, her head pivoting on her neck with unnaturally smooth precision, as if she weren’t a being of flesh and blood but rather some sort of mechanical construct in human form. She blinked once, twice, and then awareness returned to her gaze. She recognized him, and she smiled, displaying long, white incisors.

Then, moving with the speed and grace of a jungle cat, she leaped out of the coffin and rushed at Eneas. He dropped the light gem, and as physical contact with the mystical object was broken, its illumination winked out. Eneas felt the woman’s small hands take hold of him in grips of iron, felt her teeth sink into the soft flesh of his neck, and then a darkness far worse than the absence of light came for him and he felt nothing more.

Makala raised her head and with the back of a hand wiped a smear of blood from her mouth. She looked down at the fat man lying on the floor of the hold next to her, his skin pale, breathing shallow, blood oozing from the twin puncture marks on his throat. Without realizing it, she leaned forward, intending to lick the wounds clean, but she stopped herself. She might not be human anymore, but that didn’t make her an animal.

She stood and took three steps back from Eneas, lest she be tempted to feed on him further. What she’d already taken from the man would have to suffice; if she drank anymore, there was a good chance he would die. There was a time when that wouldn’t have made a difference to her, a time when she would’ve taken his life as casually as she might snap her fingers and for lesser reason than ensuring her own survival. Regardless of what she’d become, she was no longer a killer, at least, not a mindless one.
If she was going to kill, then she would do so when and where she chose and for justifiable reasons—not simply because she was hungry.

She felt Eneas’s blood suffusing her body, lessening but not alleviating the pervasive chill in her undead flesh. In many ways, that was the worst part about being a vampire. No matter the temperature, no matter how much she fed, she was always cold. She felt the boat rock beneath her feet as a wave rolled in to shore, and sudden nausea twisted her gut, threatening to make her vomit the blood she’d taken from Eneas. She clamped her mouth shut tight, and though she no longer had any reason to breathe, she took slow, even breaths until the boat stopped rocking and her nausea subsided.

For all their strengths, vampires had a surprising number of weaknesses, as Makala had found out over the last several months. One of those was an aversion to crossing running water. Why that should be, she didn’t know, but she’d experienced the discomfort too often to dismiss it as merely her imagination. She’d been lucky, though. She’d discovered the obsidian sarcophagus on one of the elemental galleons that Diran and the others had left behind when they’d departed Grimwall after defeating Erdis Cai. Once a vampire lay inside and the sigil of Vol affixed to the lid was activated, he or she could cross running water without the least discomfort. She believed that the vampire sailor Onkar—once Edris Cai’s first mate and the one who’d changed her—had employed the sarcophagus in order to continue plying the waters of the Lhazaar Sea. Unfortunately, the sarcophagus had one serious drawback: once the lid was sealed and the enchantment activated, it could not be opened from within. Whoever rested inside the sarcophagus was dependent on someone outside to release her, hence her need for Eneas. Not only did he transport her across water, he also released her when they arrived at their destination.