Tim Waggoner - Forge of the Mindslayers

"Ghaji!" Diran shouted. "Decapitate the beast!"

By the time Ghaji reached the barghest, its fur had caught fire. The flames rapidly spread across its body, which became slightly more humanoid as the barghest reverted to its natural form. Even wounded as it was, the beast continued to attempt to regain the dragonwand, now reaching for it with clawed fingers. Ghaji had no idea whether the barghest could command the wand's magic, but he wasn't about to let the creature get hold of it. He jammed his foot against the barghest's side to hold the beast in place, reached down, and yanked the axe free from the creature's neck. Blood gushed from the wound, and the barghest once more tried to cry out in pain but only managed to release a bubbling gurgle. Ghaji intended for it to be the last sound the beast ever made. He raised his flaming axe, ready to bring it down and end the barghest's infernal life.

Diran Bastiaan!

Ghaji grimaced as the voice thundered within his mind. He felt sudden pressure inside his skull, as if his brain were swelling rapidly, like a huge boil getting ready to burst. He forgot about the barghest, forgot he was holding his axe. All he could think about was the voice, and how much it hurt.

Return what you have stolen from me!

Ghaji's grip on his axe loosened, and he possessed just enough presence of mind to deactivate its fiery aura before the weapon fell to the dock. Ghaji followed his axe down, landing hard on his knees, though he barely felt the impact. He clapped his hands to his head, as if he were trying to hold his skull together, and clenched his jaw against the pain tearing through his mind.

Where are you? Thief! Monster! Face me!

Each word was like a hammer blow to the head, and Ghaji fell over onto his side, moaning, tears streaming from his eyes. He felt something warm and wet on his upper lip, and realized that blood trickled from his nostrils. He tried to rise but his body refused to listen. All he could do was lie there and wait for the voice of thunder to kill him and bring his agony to an end.

Skarm was aware of the voice speaking in his mind, but he had more pressing concerns to deal with at that moment-like putting out the flames that were rapidly consuming his body. He had lost a great deal of blood and was very weak, but he was a supernatural creature, and though it remained an effort for him to do so, still he could move, if only barely. He pushed himself to the edge of the dock inch by tortuous inch-practically dragging his half-severed head-until he felt himself teeter and then slip over the side. The frigid water came as a welcome shock to his pain-ravaged body, and the flames snuffed out.

Skarm floated in the soothing embrace of the sea for several moments before his lungs began to scream for air. He swam toward where he judged the dock to be, and surprised himself when his clawed hands actually came in contact with wood. He grabbed hold of the support and climbed painfully to the surface. When his head broke water, he drew a gasping breath and then clung tight to the wet wood of the support as he continued to breathe. Hidden from sight by the dock above him, he was safe-for the moment, at least, but if the half-orc and his friends thought to search under it…

Then he heard the voice again, a voice speaking in his mind, he realized, calling for Diran Bastiaan. The barghest's mind was not like that of a natural creature, and though he heard the psionic shout, it caused him little discomfort-a blessing considering that every other part of his body was in utter agony. He had one other thing to be grateful for as well: whoever or whatever the psionic communication issued from, the voice was calling for the priest. That meant Bastiaan and the half-orc had bigger problems to worry about then tracking down a wounded barghest-and that suited Skarm just fine.

Diran possessed no priestly powers that would allow him to block the shout in his mind, but he did know numerous meditation techniques-some learned at Emon Gorsedd's academy, some when he was studying for the priesthood-and he employed them now. He closed his eyes and pictured a pond, its surface smooth as glass. The voice spoke again and the pond rippled, but Diran imagined a soft breeze blowing across the water's surface, smoothing away the ripples until the pond was still once more. The pain the voice had caused receded, replaced by a feeling of peaceful calm. Then, and only then, did Diran reply to the voice.

I am at the docks. I shall await you here.

The voice didn't reply, but Diran felt the pressure begin to ease, as if his head had been held tight within a giant vise grip that was finally being removed.

He opened his eyes.

Ghaji was struggling to his feet near a scorched section of the dock. Of the barghest there was no sign. Tresslar hung limp in Asenka's arms as the woman worked to haul the artificer to a standing position. Hinto lay on his side, curled into a ball, trembling violently. All of them had bloody noses-Diran dabbed his fingers to his upper lip-as did he. His head ached as if he'd drank far too much of the bilgewater the King Prawn served in place of ale.

He hurried over to Tresslar. The artificer was unconscious, skin ashen, features slack on the left side of his face. Diran was no chirurgeon, but as a priest he'd been trained in both mystical and mundane aspects of the healing arts, and he knew the older man had suffered a stroke.

"Hold him as still as you can," Diran told Asenka. The woman nodded, and Diran gently touched his fingertips to the artificer's temples. He closed his eyes and allowed the healing power of the Silver Flame to surge through him and into Tresslar's body. When Diran opened his eyes, he saw that Tresslar remained unconscious, but the muscles on the left side of the man's face no longer hung slack.

"Let's lay him down gently," Diran said. "I've managed to heal the worst of the damage, but it will be some time before he awakens."

Together, Diran and Asenka lay down the unconscious Tresslar, then the priest turned his attention to the woman. "Are you hurt?"

Asenka gave him a weak smile. "A headache, and I feel weak as a kitten, but I'll live."

Diran returned her smile. He could alleviate the aftereffects of the psionic assault with his healing powers, but he wanted to check on Ghaji and Hinto first, in case they were injured more severely.

Ghaji walked up, axe tucked beneath his belt, Tresslar's dragonwand held in his hand. "I'm really starting to get irritated with that barghest," he growled. The half-orc's complexion was a lighter shade of green than usual, and his upper lip was smeared with blood, but otherwise he appeared hale enough. Anticipating Diran's next words, Ghaji said, "I'm fine. See to the halfling."

Diran knew his friend would say he was fine even if he'd lost all four limbs and was about to lose his head in the bargain, but Diran agreed with Ghaji's assessment, so he walked over and knelt at the Hinto's side.

The halfling yelped when Diran placed a hand on his shoulder, but then he spoke in a stuttering, quavering voice, forcing out each word with an obvious effort. "I–I'm all right. J-j-just… afraid."

Diran was glad Hinto wasn't seriously injured, but he felt a wave of pity for his small friend. Maybe Ghaji had been right about the halfling not being able to endure Diran's chosen quest.

"Just lie still until the fear passes, Hinto. All will be well." Diran stood, wondering if he had just lied to his friend.

"Looks like we weren't the only ones who heard the voice," Ghaji said.

Diran saw what Ghaji meant. The docks were in an uproar, men and women shouting in confusion, crying out in pain, fleeing into the city streets or casting off lines in preparation of sailing away.

"Do you think everyone in the city heard it?" Asenka asked.