Diran reached out to put his hand on Leontis's shoulder, but the other priest jerked away, as if he feared Diran's touch.
"I… I would prefer that you do not lay hands on me," Leontis said.
Diran frowned, but he withdrew his hand. "Of course." He waited several moments for Leontis to continue speaking, but his fellow priest remained silent, and Diran knew that whatever matter was plaguing his friend was so serious that Leontis couldn't bring himself to discuss it, even though that was surely why he had come to Diran.
"May I see your arrowhead?"
Diran was puzzled by Leontis's request, but he removed the holy symbol from the pocket where he kept it and held it out for his fellow priest to take. But instead of reaching out for the arrowhead, Leontis turned his palm up and waited. Even before he dropped the silver symbol into his friend's hand, Diran had a bad feeling, and once the metal touched Leontis's flesh that feeling was confirmed by the sound and smell of sizzling meat. Diran quickly snatched back the arrowhead, but the damage was done: a blackened scorch mark in the shape of the holy symbol had been seared onto Leontis's palm.
As Diran stared at the mark in horror, Leontis gave him a sad, grim smile.
"I've come to ask you to kill me, my friend… for old times' sake."
CHAPTER TEN
The setting sun cast an orange sheen on the gray water of Kolbyr's port, creating an illusion of warmth. A poor illusion, Ghaji thought, considering the wind felt as if it were blowing down from the top of a glacier. The half-orc, Yvka, Tresslar, Hinto, Solus, and Asenka were walking down Kolbyr's dock back toward the wharf, their destination a tavern called the Ill Wind.
Asenka had already spoken with the harbormaster about hiring a ship, and since they had a letter of credit from Baroness Calida, the man was only too happy to make recommendations-especially since the letter promised him a substantial finder's fee if he could find them transport as quickly as possible. He'd given Asenka several names, but he'd told her that if it what she was looking for was a swift vessel, the Turnabout was their best bet.
"She's a galleon," Asenka explained to the others when she rejoined them. "A fast one, too. Faster than she should be given her size, according to the harbormaster. He suspects magical enhancement of some sort, though there's nothing obvious about the ship to indicate what kind. She's anchored not far offshore. The harbormaster is going to send the captain a message to let him know we'd like to hire his vessel and how much we're willing to pay. The harbormaster seems to think the captain will at least want to talk with us, and he suggested we wait for him at a nearby tavern."
After that, they walked to the end of the dock to take a look at the Turnabout. She lay at anchor a quarter mile from the port-a bit farther than convenient, Ghaji thought. Almost as if the captain wanted to keep people from getting a close look at his vessel. Or perhaps so the ship was far enough out to sea in case there was a sudden need for hasty departure. A pirate ship, he decided, though in the Principalities any vessel might suddenly fly raider's colors if the need-or for that matter, the whim-arose. Lhazaarites were nothing if not pragmatic, and given the harsh environment in which they lived, Ghaji supposed he couldn't blame them.
Despite the harbormaster's words, the Turnabout didn't look like anything special, just a typical three-masted galleon. She didn't leave the shipyard yesterday, but she wasn't ready to be scuttled and sent to her final rest at the bottom of Lhazaar, either. Ghaji figured it likely that the harbormaster had made up the ship's mysterious reputation for speed in the hope that they'd book passage and he'd get his finder's fee before they discovered the vessel was slower than a leaky tugboat with a broken rudder and a hold full of lead ingots.
None of the others were impressed by the galleon's appearance, either, but they agreed that they might as well head for the Ill Wind and hear what the Turnabout's captain had to say. They found the tavern easily enough, and though it was crowded, once Ghaji stalked in glaring, a table near the back suddenly became free. The companions sat, ordered drinks that only a man with his tongue cut out would've believed was ale, and settled in to wait for the Turnabout's captain to show-assuming he was interested in doing business with them at all.
The atmosphere in the tavern was subdued due to the aftereffects of the Fury. Patrons talked quietly among themselves or sat silent and alone, struggling to come to terms with the violence that had occurred-and which they'd all participated in one way or another. Tresslar, Hinto, Yvka, and Solus talked for a while, sharing stories of the difficulties they'd experienced during the Fury, but instead of contributing to the conversation, Ghaji only listened in moody silence.
After a while, Yvka had had enough of his being withdrawn, and she elbowed him in the side none too gently to get his attention. She then learned close to his ear and whispered, "What's bothering you?"
Ghaji remembered how uncomfortable Yvka had seemed around him in the palace courtyard after the Fury had ended. "I know that your… profession prevents you from telling me certain things, and I accept that. But if there was anything that I really needed to know-about us, I mean…"
Yvka smiled and touched his cheek with her long, delicate fingers. "Come now, Ghaji. You know how I feel about you."
Yvka gave him a quick kiss, a smile, and a wink. Ghaji returned the smile, but inside he was thinking: Does anyone ever truly know how another feels about them?
The harsh, unforgiving light of the desert sun blazed down upon the Talenta Plains, causing sweat to pour off Ghaji's body as the half-orc hacked away at one zombie after another. One good thing about fighting the undead creatures-the only good thing, as far as Ghaji was concerned-was that they were slower than living foes. Unfortunately, no matter how much damage you inflicted on the undead warriors, they couldn't be killed, only disabled. Decapitation was the most efficient way of putting a zombie out of action, even though losing something as minor as a head didn't destroy it. The body would continue to fight on, but since the zombie could no longer see to direct its attack, it could only flail about, hoping to score a blow by accident. It was then a relatively simple operation to remove the zombie's arms and, if necessary its legs. The detached body parts would continue to move, but they could do little damage in and of themselves.
The Karrnathi zombie masters weren't fools, though. Each of their zombies wore metal collars around their necks and flexible but tough leather bands around their shoulders, elbows, and wrists. One of Ghaji's duties was to inspect this protective armor on a regular basis, which he'd just done this morning, and he knew the zombies' gear was in good order.
Fire was an effective weapon against zombies, though the undead warriors would continue fighting until enough of their muscles and tendons had been destroyed to render them immobile. But the Karrns had thought of this as well, which was why all their zombies were alchemically treated to be resistant to flame. Not that Ghaji could afford to take the time to get a flint and striker and start a fire at the moment. He was too busy hacking away at zombies with his axe and trying to stay alive for a few moments longer.
Ghaji wasn't concerned with the finer points of combat, nor did he employ a carefully thought-out battle strategy. Given the sheer number of zombies that were trying to kill him-two dozen in all-Ghaji knew the only hope he had of survival was savage brute strength. Luckily for him, that was his specialty. He stood in the midst of the attacking horde of zombies, his war-axe gripped in both hands, swinging it from side to side as if he were a woodcutter trying to fell two dozen murderous, animated trees. Zombies came at him, wielding scimitars as if the curved blades were extensions of their arms. Ghaji bled from numerous cuts and slashes, but he'd been wounded in combat before and he ignored the pain. Every warrior knew that the only wound that mattered was the one that killed you.