As if sensing his friend's feelings, Diran said, "Please. If this object is as powerful as I suspect, I'll need all my skill and power just to protect myself. I won't be able to safeguard us both."
Ghaji wanted to argue that he could look after himself just fine, thank you, but in the end he recognized the wisdom of Diran's words, gritted his teeth, and nodded.
Diran gave his friend a grateful smile before turning and walking toward the stone figure once more. Ghaji remained standing where he was, but he kept his axe at the ready, prepared to command it to burst into flame the instant anything even looked as if it was about to go wrong.
When he was within a foot of the statue Diran stopped, raised his free hand, and held it above the stone surface of the figure. Formed of the same dark rocky substance as the island, it didn't look as if it had been carved so much as arisen naturally from the surface of Demothi. While the statue possessed rudimentary human features-head, torso, arms, and legs-from the knees down it was nothing more than a mound of rock. The eyes were its most striking feature. Glittering black gems as large as an egg protruded from the statue's stony sockets.
"This is indeed the center of the evil on Demothi," Diran said. "The power radiates from this figure down through the ground and then spreads throughout the entire island, perhaps even extending for some distance beyond its shores, but for what purpose, I cannot say."
Ghaji heard a shuffling noise from behind him, and he whirled around to see what had caused it, elemental axe erupting in flame as he spun. The sudden light from his blazing weapon momentarily rendered his night vision useless, but his eyes quickly adjusted, and he saw a staggering humanoid shape lurching out of the night toward them. The creature was a bloated, wet thing, flesh puffy and discolored, body draped with dangling strands of seaweed. Its eyes and tongue were long gone, in their place clusters of tiny crabs that used the dead thing's skull as a home. The rancid stink of the creature assaulted Ghaji's nose-a sour reek of saltwater, dead fish, and rotting vegetation. It was fortunate that the half-orc hadn't eaten lately, because the gagging stench would've caused him to empty the contents of his stomach right then and there.
"Walking dead man," Ghaji said. He relaxed a bit upon seeing the undead creature shambling toward them. He'd encountered such creatures during his time as a soldier in the Last War, and he'd fought even more alongside Diran since then, though offhand he couldn't remember seeing any quite as disgusting as this one. Still, the living corpses, while unpleasant, were easy enough to dispatch. Diran could always repell the creature with his priestly powers, and if for some reason that didn't suffice, Ghaji's axe would make fast work of it.
"Don't you mean dead men?" Diran asked.
For a moment, Ghaji didn't understand what his friend was talking about. Then he noticed that the water-logged zombie wasn't alone. He'd brought some friends with him-several dozen, from the look of it. Ghaji squinted as he peered into the night beyond his axe's fiery illumination. Make that several hundred. The half-orc turned in a slow circle and saw that an entire army of walking dead was coming toward them from all directions, shuffling, stumbling, moving with spastic, jerky motions as if they were ill-fashioned marionettes controlled by a puppeteer with severe arthritis. While they varied in size and race-humans, elves, dwarves, shifters, gnomes, changlings-they were all in the same bloated, wet condition as the first zombie Ghaji had seen.
"It would appear that Demothi Island is a trap of sorts," Diran said, his tone emotionless and cool. "The undead wait underwater off shore, and once visitors reach the center of the island and are cut off from their vessel, the foul things rise forth to slay them. Clever."
"You'll forgive me if I don't share your admiration," Ghaji said. "Please tell me that you can repell a horde of zombies."
"We'll find out." Diran still held a silver dagger in one hand, and with the other he reached into a tunic pocket and brought forth the arrowhead-shaped object that was the symbol of his order. He held the silver arrowhead out toward the closest of the advancing sea-zombies and the metal glowed with an aura of blue-white light.
"In the name of the Silver Flame, I command you to turn aside!" Diran's voice boomed out, far louder than normal. Ghaji wouldn't have been surprised to learn the priest's words could be heard echoing across the entire island.
Several of the undead creatures stopped, hesitated, then resumed shambling forward.
Diran scowled. The aura shimmering around the silver arrowhead blazed more brightly, and this time when he spoke, his voice was loud as thunder.
"Be gone!"
The zombies didn't even pause.
The light surrounding the arrowhead winked out, and Diran lowered the holy symbol to his side. "The evil power emanating from the statue is too strong. We have no choice. Fight or die."
"I've been making that choice since the day I drew my first breath," Ghaji said. Elemental axe held high with its flames trailing bright against the night sky, the half-orc ran forward to meet the first wave of walking dead.
Diran watched his friend hack zombies apart. Normally, undead flesh was dry, which made Ghaji's flaming axe a perfect weapon, but these zombies had come from the sea, and their skin, while just as lifeless as that of any other undead creature, was too wet to burn. Indeed, their entire bodies were suffused with saltwater, and only magical fire of a very high order could harm them. Too bad Tresslar wasn't here. He might well have a powerful flame spell stored in his dragonwand.
Diran drew another silver dagger from his cloak and turned to face the zombies approaching on his right. He'd had a great deal of experience fighting the undead, and not just as a priest. During the Last War, Karrnath had fielded armies of undead soldiers. The acolytes in the Brotherhood of the Blade employed zombies for quite a different purpose: as living mannequins on which to practice their deadly arts, so Diran was well aware that this was the sort of battle in which he was next to useless. If he couldn't repel the zombies by channeling the power of the Silver Flame, there was little else he could do. He could hurl one dagger after the other with deadly accuracy, but it would scarcely matter if his targets weren't alive in the first place. One zombie he could handle by deftly slicing through undead muscles and tendons until the creature, though still possessed of its mockery of a life, was unable to move, but more than one zombie came at them now, many, many more. Diran knew that if he and Ghaji were going to make it off Demothi Island alive, he would have to use his mind instead of his blades.
Ghaji grunted and Diran watched his friend slice through the torsos of three zombies with his axe. The top halves of the undead creatures flopped to the ground, but the bottom halves stood there for a moment as if stunned. The trunks and legs then began stumbling around erratically, lost without even the simple commands of a rotted zombie brain to give them direction. Ghaji ignored the meandering legs and attacked the next zombie that came at him.
Diran was grateful that none of the undead was recently reanimated, else their bodies would be too fresh and they'd move far more swiftly than these water-logged abominations, but even at their slow, shuffling pace, Diran estimated that he had only a few moments more before any of the zombies reached him. He'd have to think fast.
While Diran didn't know the specific details of the evil priest's identity or his motivations for raising an army of the dead, it was clear that something had gone wrong during the process. Maybe the priest was supposed to have been transformed into stone so that he would become the focal point for the necromantic energies that powered the army of sea-dead. If the statue was the source of the magic that animated the zombies, perhaps they could be stopped by destroying the statue.