dagger embedded in its chest. Should we attempt to remove it?' From the tone of Makala's voice, she didn't relish the idea.
Skarm didn't blame the woman. While silver had no particular ill effects on barghests, it was poison to a vampire. And this was no ordinary silver dagger; it had been wielded by a priest of the Silver Flame, one that Skarm had encountered before. Perhaps the priest had put some sort of blessing on the blade that would cause it to be harmful to any creature, undead or not.
Nathifa considered Makala's question for a moment. 'Don't bother with the dagger. We can always remove it later, and if it currently is keeping the statue's power in check, it'll make it that much easier for us to transport.' She smiled. 'Like a cork contains the contents of a bottle and prevents them from spilling. Just be careful not to touch the damned thing.'
Makala nodded. 'One more thing. I know you told Skarm that Haaken is yours, but if you're just going to let the man bleed to death anyway…' She trailed off, her point made. She was a vampire, and she wanted Haaken's blood as badly as Skarm wanted his flesh and soul.
Skarm couldn't help it; he turned to look toward Haaken's body. The great shark was gone, the creature having presumably returned to the dark sea depths that had spawned it. Haaken lay motionless at the edge of the shore, both of his legs gone beneath from mid-thigh down. Even in his barghest form, Skarm could smell the blood flowing from the ragged stumps where the man's legs had been attached only moments before. His stomach gurgled, and he prayed that Nathifa wouldn't punish him for it.
'You can both forget about making a meal of Haaken,' Nathifa said. 'Though our toothsome friend has finished his work, the man's not going to die.' The lich's dry lips drew away from her yellow teeth in a hideous mockery of a smile. 'I have plans for him.'
CHAPTER TWO
The sun hung just above the eastern horizon as the small fishing boat sailed along the coast toward Kolbyr. The water was calm, the sky cloudless, and wind filled the sails. All in all, a good day to be out on the Lhazaar, even with the chill of approaching winter in the air.
A tall man with long raven-black hair, lean wolfish features, and intense blue eyes stood at the ship's stern, holding onto a rigging line with one hand to steady himself. He was garbed entirely in black, and though at first glance he appeared to be unarmed, the fur cloak he wore did not stir in the breeze kicked up by the ship's passage. An experienced observer would've guessed the cloak was weighted down, most likely by some manner of concealed weapon or weapons-and they'd have been right.
Diran Bastiaan inhaled the brisk salt air and exhaled with a sigh of contentment. Though born in the Principalities, he'd been sold into slavery as a child and had grown into adulthood in Karrnath, far from the sea. Still, Lhazaarite blood flowed through his veins, and he only truly felt at home when standing upon the deck of a ship, even one as small and humble as Welby's Pride. The Pride was a shallop, a single-masted fore and aft rig propelled by both oars and sails, designed for inshore fishing and limited coastal traveling. Hardly stylish transportation, but serviceable.
Diran turned and made his way back to the center of the deck where the rest of his companions stood huddled together in a circle. A red gem covered with a lattice of copper wire hovered in the air between them, and though it gave no sign of emitting energy-no glow of light, no shimmer in the air surrounding it-the gem exuded the warmth of a small campfire.
The others shifted to make room for Diran as he rejoined them, and he held his chilled hands out toward the gem. Diran rarely wore gloves, no matter how cold it was, for they interfered with his knife-throwing grip.
The crew of the fishing vessel-who'd been well paid to ferry Diran and the others to Kolbyr-ignored their passengers as they went about their work. Just because the crew had paying guests didn't mean they would pass up the opportunity to fill their fishing nets with additional profit as they sailed. The Lhazaar Principalities were a harsh, unforgiving realm, and its inhabitants had long ago learned to be both practical and frugal if they wished to survive. The animals in the Principalities were no exception: a mass of gulls hovered on the air currents around the vessel, hoping to snatch a free meal from the crew's nets. Whenever a fish fell out flopping onto the deck, the more aggressive of the birds swooped in, only to be shooed away with waving arms and shouted curses.
Ghaji, Diran's long-time companion in arms, stood to the right of the priest.
'Being a fisherman really stinks.' The half-orc wrinkled his nose. 'On multiple levels.'
Ghaji's green-tinged features were a fairly even blend of orc and human, but he chose to accentuate the more bestial aspect of his heritage because of the edge it gave him. Ghaji was a seasoned warrior, a veteran of the Last War, and he knew that a soldier had to make full use of whatever advantages he possessedif he hoped to survive to see another sunrise. Thus Ghaji kept his black hair in a shaggy tangle and had a vertical strip of beard that drew attention to his large sharp teeth. He kept his prominent brow in an almost permanent scowl-though in truth this had more to do with his natural temperament than any conscious strategy on his part. The numerous scars that he'd acquired on the battlefields of the Last War served to make him look even more imposing than he already was.
Ghaji wore a battered breastplate-another souvenir of his soldier days-as his only armor, and he carried two axes tucked into his belt. One was a simple hand-axe he used as his back-up weapon, but the other served as his primary-an axe imbued with an elemental that, when Ghaji wished, became wreathed in mystical flame. It was on unofficial and-if Ghaji had anything to say about it-permanent loan from the prison island of Dreadhold.
Diran, his hands nicely warmed now, smiled at his friend. 'You get used to the smell after a time.'
Ghaji snorted as if to clear the stink out of his nostrils. 'Easy for you to say. Your parents owned a fishing boat.'
An elf-woman stood on the other side of Diran. Her brown hair was woven into an intricate pattern of braids, and she possessed the fine aristocratic features and pointed ears common to her people. Like the others, she wore a thick fur cloak, though she gave no sign that the cold bothered her.
'You grew up in marshlands, Ghaji,' Yvka said. 'Swamps have their own share of unpleasant odors.'
'Sure,' Ghaji said, 'but they're normal unpleasant odors-brackish water, decaying plants. Not this stench! It reminds me of… well, let's just say I find it less than pleasant and leave it at that.'
An elderly human male stood next to Yvka, and he frowned at Ghaji. 'Just be grateful that you're a half-orc. Your sense of smell would be even stronger if you were full-blooded.' A lean man in his sixties, Tresslar sported a scraggly white beard and mustache, but his eyes-though receded into the sockets somewhat and set above drooping bags-were intense, vital, and alive. The eyes of a much younger man, or a man who'd never forgotten what being young felt like.
'I can help alleviate your discomfort if you wish, Ghaji.' Solus stood next in the circle, though he had no need of Tresslar's magic gem to warm himself. The voice that issued from the construct's throat was hollow-sounding and devoid of emotion, though not altogether inhuman. 'I can temporarily reconfigure the sensory pathways in your mind so that you cannot detect the smell of fish. Or, if you'd prefer, I can cause you to experience any scent you desire, such as roses or perhaps a freshly cooked steak.'
Solus wore a hooded gray robe with oversized sleeves to hide his three-fingered hands. He also wore a fur cloak, though it wasn't necessary since temperature extremes proved no discomfort for him. He had decided to wear the cloak for the same reason as he'd donned the robe: in order to disguise his true nature. Warforged were more common in the Five Nations than the Principalities, but they weren't unknown here. But Solus wasn't simply any warforged; he was special. Physically, he resembled a typical specimen of his kind. Roughly humanoid, body a composite of iron, stone, silver, obsidian, and darkwood. Glowing green eyes-though his were slightly dimmer than usual for a warforged-three-fingered hands, two-toed feet, and a hinged jaw.
But what made Solus stand apart from others of his kind were the crystals of various sizes, shapes, and colors embedded in the surface of his body. The crystals weren't simply decoration. They possessed the ability to absorb, channel, and intensify psionic energy. Solus was a psiforged, capable of astounding feats of psychic prowess-telekinesis, telepathy, illusion-casting and more. But he was untrained in the use of his abilities and thus potentially a great danger to those around him. Keeping his true nature concealed was necessary to prevent others from focusing their attention-and more importantly, their thoughts-on him. Until he learned a greater measure of
