Tim Waggoner - Sea of Death

Before the changeling could say anything more, Leontis stopped growling. His prominent brow furrowed, and a look of confusion came into his eyes. Then he spoke, his voice a gravely rumbling that was difficult to make out, but not impossible.

"Hinto… Onu…?"

Hinto grinned. "That's right, Leontis! It's us!"

The wolfshark's arm was completely healed now, and he rose to his feet. Hinto almost stepped forward to help Leontis up, but he restrained himself. Just because the priest recognized them didn't mean he was no longer dangerous.

Now that the weresharks had been deal with, they should go help Diran and the others. But before Hinto could broach the subject, he felt a chill breeze against the back of his neck. The cold seeped into his skin, penetrated his bones, and seemed to permeate his very soul. Coils of greenish mist slithered across the deck of the galleon, moving as if they were somehow alive, vaporous serpents probing, exploring, seeking something, though Hinto couldn't have said what. The halfling turned toward the ship's railing and there, out in the bay, he spied a dark vessel that every sailor who plied the waters of the Lhazaar Sea feared and prayed never to set eyes upon.

The Ship of Bones.

Nathifa felt the artificer's lifeforce draining into her body, and she welcomed it. Not only because it weakened one of her enemies, but because it helped restore a small portion of the power she'd lost on Trebaz Sinara by sacrificing her arm and her eye.

The old man was clever; she had to give him that. His mastery of mystic arts couldn't begin to approach hers, but he'd created a device that allowed him not only to take hold of the dragonwand while it was in use without being damaged, but also to dampen the Amahau's energy output. If he were allowed to continue, he might well be able to stop the Summoning and regain possession of the dragonwand. But he would be dead long before that came to pass.

A cold breeze wafted in from the sea, bringing with it tendrils of greenish mist, and Nathifa's feelings of triumph gave way to fear and despair. She looked out across the bay, knowing what she would see upon its waters. The Ship of Bones. Prince Moren had come to collect the debt she owned him.

The lich cast her thoughts out toward the dark vessel.

Not yet! I'm not ready!

She wasn't surprised when she received no answer.

Ghaji-singed and smarting from the burns he'd taken from leaping through the wall of fire-ran to the end of the dock, elemental axe held tight, flames trailing behind him. There were only three weresharks between the half-orc and his destination, but that was three too many as far as Ghaji was concerned. He whirled the axe over his head, bared his teeth, and roared as he came, trying to make himself into what he hoped was a fearsome apparition. He had no illusions that he'd frighten the weresharks off, but he hoped that his ferocity and the flames generated by his axe might give them enough pause so that he could get the first strike in as he attacked.

But the weresharks didn't appear intimidated in the slightest, and they matched Ghaji's display of ferocity with their own, showing their teeth, raising their claws, and bellowing a challenge. But then they stopped and as one turned to look toward the bay. A green mist that seemed almost to glow with a sickly illumination covered the surface of the water, and there was a sudden drop in air temperature. A moment later the trio of weresharks leaped off the dock, transforming into full shark form before they plunged into the water.

Ghaji kept running, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the sharks swim away, their dorsal fins cutting through the layer of green mist that hung over the water. He had no idea what the mist was or why it should frighten the weresharks so much, but he was too grateful to question it.

As the half-orc approached the end of the dock, he saw that his friends had already engaged Nathifa and her servants in battle. Solus gripped the head of the statue of Nerthatch, Diran was struggling with Makala, and Tresslar was trying to wrest the dragonwand from the lich who, in turn, had wrapped tendrils of darkness around the artificer's arm. Ghaji had faced enough liches alongside Diran to know that Nathifa was draining Tresslar's lifeforce. He knew what he had to do.

He raced toward Nathifa and Tresslar, raised his flaming axe, and brought it down upon the ebon tendrils protruding from the lich's body. The blade sliced through the shadowy substance of the sorceress's cloak, making the lich hiss in pain. The black coils around Tresslar's arm relaxed and fell to the dock, and the artificer gasped with relief. But he did not release his grip on the dragonwand. Ghaji knew they had only seconds before Nathifa unfurled more tendrils and renewed her attack, so the half-orc did the only logical thing: he swung his axe at the sorceress's wrist.

The flaming blade cut through Nathifa's undead flesh as if it were dry kindling, and Tresslar yanked the dragonwand away from her, the lich's hand still holding tight to the other end. The shaft of necromantic energy emanating from the mouth of the Amahau winked out the instant Nathifa's hand was severed from her body, and the lich shrieked in rage. Tresslar shoved the end of the dragonwand into the flames of Ghaji's axe, and the hand was instantly charred black. The fingers released their grip, and the blackened hand fell to the dock. Nathifa lurched forward, as if intending to retrieve her hand, but Tresslar kicked it out of her reach. The lich's hand flew into the water with a small splash and sank from sight.

Nathifa, her bleached-white features twisted into a mask of sheer hatred, lunged at Tresslar, but Ghaji stepped in front of her and barred her way with his flaming axe. The lich shrank back with an angry hiss, and Tresslar pointed the dragonwand at the statue of Nerthatch. Streams of black energy began to flow from the statue's stone surface and drift into the mouth of the golden dragonhead, almost as if the mystical device was devouring them. Ghaji understood what was happening: Tresslar was draining the magical power from the statue of Nerthatch.

"No!" Nathifa cried out.

Ghaji grinned. "Oh, yes."

Makala's body writhed as the burning light of the Silver Flame poured from the holy symbol pressed to her forehead. The Flame blazed through her being. She tried to dislodge Diran, but her strength had deserted her. She felt weak as a newborn kitten, and she feared the power of the Flame was going to consume her. She squeezed her eyes shut, and deep inside the inner recesses of her mind, Makala saw herself standing on Regalport's dock, but she wasn't standing alone. Before her stood an old man in a fur cloak with roiling pools of shadow where his eyes should be.

"Resist!" the old man shouted, blood-flecked spittle flying from his fanged mouth. "The priest is trying to drive me out! Fight him, damn you!"

Here within the core of her soul, Makala was still human, and she knew the dark spirit that she'd inherited from Aldarik Cathmore was desperate to maintain its hold on her.

You present yourself as a benefactor that provides both strength and coldblooded ruthlessness, Makala said. But you're nothing. Just a parasite afraid to be separated from its host. You heard what Diran said: begone!

The dark spirit threw back its head and roared its fury to the night sky. A small dot of silver light began to grow on the spirit's wrinkled forehead. It quickly assumed the shape of a glowing blue-white arrowhead, and then the light spread rapidly across the spirit, blazing brighter and brighter, until Makala could see nothing but its light… a light that no longer hurt to gaze upon.

She opened her eyes and found herself looking up at Diran's concerned face. The priest knelt beside her. He'd removed the arrowhead from her flesh, holding it clasped in his fist to hide it from her sight. Her forehead felt as if a white-hot branding iron had been pressed to it, but the pain was already beginning to recede.