Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 (2 page)

The lich smiled, impressed anew by her dark mistress’s wisdom at sending the vampire to her.

“Makala, I want you to give Skarm a measure of your blood,
enough to restore his strength until we reach Demothi Island.”

The vampire looked at Nathifa for a long moment, face as expressionless as a marble statue. Nathifa thought that the woman might defy her, but in the end Makala simply inclined her head, turned, and began making her way sternward.

Satisfied that the pecking order had been re-established—for the time being, at least—Nathifa faced into the wind once more and gazed out into the darkness with eyes of flickering crimson flame.

The dark shape of Demothi Island hove into view. Cold, desolate, barren, and rocky, it was a place of death and evil, though not entirely uninhabited. The island claimed one resident, and it was he whom they had come to collect.

They sailed toward the island’s western side, and Nathifa noted the wreckage of a ship just off shore. The vessel had been reduced little more than splintered planks now, thanks to the constant pounding of the waves, and within a few more days, perhaps a week at most, there would be no sign left that the craft had ever existed.

“Have you been here before?”

Nathifa hadn’t been aware of Makala’s approach. She turned to face the vampire, ancient neck bones grinding and cracking.

“I have never set foot on the island, but I did see it once before, many years ago. When I was mortal.” Though she had been undead far longer than she had drawn breath, Nathifa’s memories of her previous life were as clear and sharp as ever.

“My brothers and I sailed past Demothi when we first discovered the gulf. I wanted to investigate, but both Kolbyr and Perhata convinced me that we should avoid it. Even from a distance, we could sense the evil emanating from the place.” She smiled. “Of course, that was part of what intrigued me, but I deferred to my brothers.”

Perhata and Kolbyr … the mortal bodies of her brothers were long dead, but their memories lived within her still. Memories of love, adventure, and conquest, but most of all of betrayal.
Kolbyr’s
betrayal. After all these years, after everything Nathifa had sacrificed, she was
close to finally achieving her revenge against her hated brother.

You killed my husband, Kolbyr, killed my son … all because you were too selfish to allow
my
child—your nephew—to become the heir you couldn’t produce. Everything we built … everything you took from me … soon it will lie in ruins, and your name will become a curse upon the lips of all who inhabit the Principalities, until at last your name fades from all memory … even one as long as mine.

With a start, Nathifa became aware of Makala looking at her with a bemused expression. She feared Makala might take her momentary lapse as a sign of weakness, so to cover she said, “Tell Skarm to take us in.”

Makala nodded, glanced down at the soarwood railing, and smirked before she turned and walked back to the barghest. Nathifa looked down to see what had amused the vampire so and saw that, in her anger, she’d gripped the railing so hard that her talon-fingers had dug deep furrows into the wood.

A loss of control. Another sign of weakness. One that she could ill afford with Makala and her evil spirit about.

Lady, guide me, she prayed.

Hollow laughter came in reply, but Nathifa told herself it was simply an auditory illusion caused by the howling wind and the pounding surf, nothing more.

At the stern of the
Zephyr
, Skarm grunted as he lifted the vessel’s anchor. In his present form he possessed no more strength than an ordinary goblin, but this was the best shape for him to use when he needed to perform manual labor—which, as Nathifa’s servant, he had to do more often than he liked. In wolf shape, he had no hands, and while as a true barghest, he did have opposable thumbs, his spine wasn’t designed for standing upright. The anchor felt as if it weighed a ton or more, and sharp pain shot through his lower back as he tossed it over the aft railing, rope playing out behind. His muscles quivered, weak as jelly, and despite the thick fur cloak that he wore—made of wolfskin, of course—he couldn’t
stop shivering. Commanding the
Zephyr’s
wind elemental had taken a great deal out of him, and though the vampire’s blood, as bitter and foul-tasting as it was, had restored a certain measure of his strength, it hadn’t been nearly enough. He would’ve liked nothing better than to crawl into the sloop’s small cabin, curl up on a pallet and sleep for a decade or two. But not only wouldn’t Nathifa permit him a moment’s rest, she’d punish him severely for so much as asking. He had no choice but to keep going and hope he didn’t drop from exhaustion, for if he did, Nathifa would most likely slay him and simply transfer his duties to her new servant.

Not for the first time, Skarm thought back to his life before he’d become the lich’s slave—roaming free among the Hoarfrost Mountains, preying on unwary hunters and travelers, devouring sweet flesh and guzzling hot blood. But then one day he’d felt drawn to a series of caves located in the foothills just beyond the mountains. He’d tried to resist the pull, but he could not. He had no choice but to enter, and once he’d made his way through the tunnels to the cave system’s main chamber, he discovered Nathifa waiting for him. Ever since that moment, Skarm had been the lich’s slave, and he knew he would remain so until the day he died. He supposed there were worse lives for a barghest to lead, but offhand he couldn’t think of any.

He tied the anchor rope to a metal cleat bolted to the railing, then turned to inform his mistress that she could disembark. But before he could speak Nathifa, who stood at the
Zephyr
’s stern as she had since they’d sailed from Perhata, bowed her head. Her cloak of living darkness seemed to swallow her, and an instant later her form broke apart into dozens of smaller shadow-fragments that resembled rats. The night-black vermin surged toward the railing and scuttled over the side.

Makala, who’d been standing next to Nathifa, glanced back over her shoulder and gave Skarm a grin. Then her form darkened, blurred, and reshaped itself into a large bat. Wind filled the vampire’s leathery wings and bore her skyward.

Those two aren’t the only ones who can play at shape-shifting, Skarm thought.

He ran to the stern, leather boots thumping on the wooden deck.
Just as he reached the railing, his boots became padded lupine feet as his goblin body reworked itself into the form of a wolf. He leaped into the air with bestial grace and soared up and over the railing.

Beware, Demothi Island! Skarm thought as he descended. The mighty barghest has come!

Then he landed in the frigid roiling surf just offshore and howled in shock at the sensation of a thousand ice needles piercing his hide. He scrambled out of the water and onto the rocky shore, whining like a wounded pup, and lost no time in vigorously shaking his coat dry. Or at least as dry as it could get, considering that half-frozen rain pelted the island.

I hate winter in the Principalites, Skarm thought. And the worst of it was, this was only autumn.

Nathifa and Makala stood on the shore, both having resumed their humanlike shapes. The lich shot Skarm a crimson-flecked gaze of irritation before turning and proceeding inland. She moved with an eerie gliding motion, as if she were floating above the ground instead of walking on its surface. Maybe she
was
floating, Skarm thought. After all, he’d never actually seen her legs and wasn’t entirely certain she had any. Makala followed behind Nathifa, walking mortal-fashion, but moving with the serpent-like ease common to vampire-kind.

Skarm intended to shift into his barghest form then, for it was hardier than both his goblin and wolf shapes and thus better able to withstand the cold. But then his lupine nose detected a scent—a wonderfully rank odor of putrefaction that set his mouth to watering. Cold forgotten, Skarm padded toward the source of the tantalizing smell, a viscous mound of slime heaped onto the dark shore nearby. He lowered his snout to the ooze and drank in its deliciously foul stench. He judged the slime to be liquefied dead flesh—long dead, at that—and though barghests weren’t by nature carrion eaters, Makala’s blood had only done so much to restore his strength, and Skarm was still hungry … hungry enough to make even this muck seem like a fine banquet to him.

Skarm opened his mouth and extended his tongue, prepared to lap up the foul stuff when another scent drifted into his nostrils—the
scent of living meat.
Human
meat. Skarm was always Skarm no matter his shape, but his thoughts were affected by the form he wore at any given time. As a barghest, he was cunning and cruel, as a goblin timid and scheming, and as a wolf a creature of appetite and instinct. Both of these latter qualities now combined into a single overpowering urge that told Skarm he must feed
—now
.

Skarm bounded off, nose to the ground, tracking this new scent. Others had been here not long ago, he knew—human, half-orc, elf, halfling—for their scents still clung to the rocks, but one scent, a human male’s, was strong and fresh. Whoever the man was, he was still on the island and soon he’d be filling Skarm’s belly. Skarm ran a zig-zag trail across the small island, heart pounding in excitement, air chuffing in and out of his nostrils as he searched for his prey. He heard voices yelling his name—both female—but he ignored them. Nothing mattered except filling the vast empty pit that lay at the core of his being.

Skarm found the man huddled behind a large outcropping of gray rock. He was blonde, bearded, broad-shouldered, and though half-frozen and trembling like a leaf caught in gale-force wind, the fact that he had survived exposure to the harsh elements on the island was testament to his great strength. This one would make a fine meal, indeed!

The man staggered to a standing position and brandished a knife as Skarm approached. He wore leather armor beneath a thick, red waterproof cloak, hood up as protection against the rain. Skarm’s lupine vision was able to make out a tattoo of a stylized blue skull on the man’s forehead. The image was meaningless to Skarm’s wolf-mind, and he forgot it as soon as he saw it. The man’s knife was a small, pitiful weapon, and his hand trembled so badly that Skarm doubted he would be able to do any serious damage with the blade. Not that it mattered if he did, for Skarm could heal with supernatural swiftness. But even if he had no special healing abilities, his hunger would still have driven him to attack, regardless of the risk of injury to himself.

Skarm ran at the man and leaped for his throat, already tasting the blood that would soon gush hot and sweet on his tongue.

But a strong hand grabbed hold of him by the scruff of the neck, stopping his attack in mid-leap. Skarm whipped his head around, growling and snapping at whoever dared to come between him and his prey.

“Easy, boy,” Makala said, grinning, incisors longer and sharper than usual. “Nathifa would like a word with this gentleman before you tear out his throat.”

Skarm writhed in Makala’s grip, trying to twist free, but the vampire held him above the ground in a grip like iron, and there was nothing he could do.

Then Nathifa came gliding forward, the tendrils of her dark cloak probing the ground as she advanced like the feelers of a gigantic black insect. Her crimson-flame eyes burned with excitement as she regarded the bearded man, and her smile was a terrible thing to behold.

“Well, now. Who we do have here?”