The priest didn't know what was happening inside the lich, but from the way her shadowy form was shaking, he assumed that Makala was doing something to attack the sorceress from within. Nathifa couldn't drain Makala's lifeforce, since she was a vampire and thus undead, but Makala couldn't hope to do any lasting damage to the lich, since the only way to slay her kind was to locate and destroy the phylactery in which she'd stored her essence. The best Makala could hope for was a stalemate, but even weakened as Nathifa surely was from the effort of casting her summoning spell, she was still a powerful sorceress, and Diran knew it was only a matter of time until Nathifa bested Makala. Diran hadn't driven the dark spirit from Makala's body only to abandon her now. He had to do something, and he had to do it fast.
He struggled to rise up on his left elbow, ignoring the throbbing in his skull, and the resulting wave of nausea that twisted his gut. He knew he had a severe head injury, but he couldn't afford to waste the time it would take to heal himself. He could tend to his wounds later-after Nathifa was defeated once and for all.
Diran retained his grip on the silver arrowhead. He held it lightly between the thumb and forefinger of his free hand and, though it wasn't a dagger, he'd sharpened its edges, and Nathifa's transformation into a giant tentacled monster had made her a satisfyingly large target.
Diran whispered a quick prayer and hurled the holy symbol toward Nathifa. The silver arrowhead spun through the air, struck the lich's ebon substance, and passed into her darkness.
Perhaps it hadn't been the most skillful throw he'd ever made, Diran thought, but he'd take it.
Nathifa felt Makala, in humanoid form now, clawing at her from the inside. The lich wished she had never transported the vampire within her body on Trebaz Sinara, for surely that had given the woman the notion to attack this way. Normally, Makala's efforts to harm her would have been laughable, but Nathifa's power had been greatly diminished by the events of the last several days, and it was taking her longer to muster the strength to deal with the vampire than she would've liked-especially considering the fact that Prince Moren had arrived to claim his due. If she were to have any hope of slaying Bastiaan and the others, she had to deal with Makala swiftly.
She felt a small sharp-edged object slice into her. Not only was the damnable thing fashioned from silver, it also bore a holy blessing, imparted by Bastiaan, no doubt. The object burned like white fire inside of Nathifa, causing so much agony that she could no longer hold onto Makala. She ejected the vampire from her dark substance and flung Makala onto the dock. The woman landed near the priest and his half-orc companion, but Nathifa had no more attention to give the vampire. She had to expel the silver object from her body before-
She sensed tendrils of green mist curl onto the dock, stretch toward the ebon tentacles that supported her, and gently, almost lovingly brush against her dark substance.
Her time was up.
In his quarters aboard the Ship of Bones, Prince Moren sat in a chair fashioned from the unfulfilled dreams of dead sailors. Resting before him atop a table made from memories of regret and betrayal was the obsidian skull named Espial. Nathifa had bartered the skull in order to obtain the material she needed to repair her damaged vessel, and Moren had agreed not to leave Espial alone for a short time to give the lich an opportunity to achieve her vengeance. Moren had kept his word. He hadn't laid a finger on the skull, though that hadn't stopped him from examining it in other ways. It was a most intriguing object. The lich used it to communicate with Vol-or rather the Lich Queen used it to pass along her orders to Nathifa. But Espial served a dual purpose: it was also the lich's phylactery.
Prince Moren reached out and lifted Espial off the table. The skull was about to serve a third purpose. Nathifa's lifeforce was contained inside, and Moren-like the rest of his cursed crew-fed on the life essence of others. And the Prince was hungry.
Moren raised the skull to his mouth and, as if Espial were nothing more than a piece of rotten fruit, he pressed his decayed teeth onto its obsidian surface and bit down hard.
He chewed, swallowed, and grinned as black juice dribbled over his dry, leathery lips and onto the exposed bone of his chin. Delicious.
He took another bite.
Nathifa screamed.
But not for very long.
Diran watched as the lich's form broke apart into scraps of shadow that swirled about like black leaves before dissipating like smoke. He didn't know how-his arrowhead certainly hadn't done the deed-but he knew that Nathifa had been destroyed. Tresslar rushed to Diran's side and helped him to a sitting position. The priest looked out over the bay. The greenish mist that had covered the water was receding, and Diran could sense the presence of an evil much greater than Nathifa withdrawing. He was too hurt to worry about it now. Whatever the mist was, and whatever role it had played in the events here tonight would have to remain a mystery for the time being. Diran had more important tasks to tend to. He placed his hand over his heart, closed his eyes, and willed the healing power of the Silver Flame to work its divine magic through him. He then repeated the procedure for Ghaji, and when both men were whole and healthy once more, Tresslar helped them both to stand.
Makala stood on the dock, gazing out to the sea. Diran didn't know what she was looking at, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. He turned to Leontis, fearing they would still have a battle on their hands if the lycanthropic priest remained in the grip of a killing frenzy. But Leontis stood apart from Haaken's ravaged body. He was covered with blood, but he was human once again, his fury spent. Without speaking, Diran, Ghaji, and Tresslar walked over to examine Haaken. Makala joined them a moment later.
Haaken had also returned to human form, but he was a grisly sight. His chest and abdomen had been ripped open, ribs broken, internal organs shredded or torn out and cast aside by Leontis in his bestial fury. There was blood everywhere, and Haaken was covered in it, so much so that his skin looked black in the moonlight. But even mutilated as he was, Haaken was not dead.
Haaken coughed, and a froth of blood oozed from between his lips. Then he spoke in a gurgling, wet whisper.
"I can… already feel myself… healing." He coughed again and swallowed. "Hurts. But… I can take it. I'm… going to kill every last one of you… bastards."
Ghaji had retrieved his axe, and with a thought he caused its flame to ignite. "Big talk from a man who's been gutted like a fish. Since Leontis has already gone to the trouble to fillet you, maybe I should go ahead and cook you." Ghaji started forward, but Diran placed a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder to stop him.
"Fire won't kill him, Ghaji. You know that."
"Maybe not normally," the half-orc growled. "But wounded as he is, flame just might kill him. Let's try it and see." He glared at Haaken. "If nothing else, it'll make me feel better."
Diran shook his head. "There's only one way to be sure." The priest walked over to the statue of Nerthatch and gripped the hilt of the silver dagger protruding from the chest. He pulled, and though the dagger was wedged tight, Diran managed to work it free. He then walked over to Haaken and stood by the lycanthrope's side. Haaken's heart was visible, and though it had several large gashes in it, the organ continued to beat, and Diran could see that the gashes were already beginning to heal over.