Forge of the Mindslayers: Blade of the Flame Book 2 by Tim Waggoner Read Free Book Online Page B

Ghaji was about to ask his friend what was wrong, when the door to the common room burst open and a group of men and woman entered, bringing a chill breeze with them. There were six of them—four male, two female. Garbed in thick red waterproof cloaks, they carried long-swords belted around their waists, though Ghaji doubted the swords were the sole extent of their weapons. As the six red-cloaks came inside, they pulled back their hoods to reveal they all bore the same tattoo on their forehead: a stylized blue skull.
    One of the newcomers, a broad-shouldered man with a blond beard, appeared to be the leader. He looked around the room, taking the measure of its patrons, and then said, “I bring you greetings from your neighbors across the Gulf of Ingjald! The Coldhearts have just made port and we have a ravenous thirst for some fine ale, but since the best drink can only be found in the taverns of Kolbyr, I suppose we’ll have to make do with the piss-water you people serve!”
    Blond-Beard’s companions laughed as if their leader had just made the funniest jest in the history of the Principalities. But none of the King Prawn’s customers came even close to smiling.
    Diran looked at Ghaji. “How long do you think it’ll be before a fight breaks out?”
    “Less than a minute. Better get ready.” Ghaji drew his axe, though he didn’t activate its flames. Diran’s hands disappeared beneath the tabletop and remained there, out of sight. Ghajiknew the priest had drawn a pair of daggers and was ready to use them should the need arise.
    Tresslar sighed. “I’ll say one thing. My life hasn’t been dull since I joined up with you two.” The artificer left his dragonwand tucked beneath his belt—for the moment, at least. Tresslar wasn’t one to expend magic unless it was absolutely necessary.
    Ghaji glanced at Hinto, but the halfling showed no signs of panic. He was a sailor, and to him this was just another tavern fight in the offing. Nothing out of the ordinary and thus nothing to fear.
    Yvka leaned close and whispered in Ghaji’s ear. “First a thoroughly invigorating greeting, and now a swordfight in a seedy tavern. You sure know how to show a woman a good time.”
    “What can I say? Only the best for my girl.”
    That’s when the first drunken fool leaped up from his table, drew his sword, and ran at the leader of the Coldhearts, bellowing a battle-cry.
    “Let’s go,” Diran said.
    As Ghaji and the priest jumped to their feet, the half-orc was glad to see that his friend smile grimly. Whoever Aldarik Cathmore was, they could worry about him later. Right now they had work to do—the kind they did best.
    Weapons in hand, the two companions rushed forward, side by side.

CHAPTER

FOUR
    I t’s cold.”
    “Nonsense. This chamber is directly above a thermal vent. If anything, it’s sweltering in here.”
    Cathmore drew his bearskin cloak tighter around his cadaverously thin frame. He didn’t reply to Galharath because he knew the kalashtar was right. Though he couldn’t feel the heat himself, he could see the sweat running down the other man’s slightly angular face. Cathmore was envious. It had been a long time since he’d felt warm, and he almost couldn’t remember what it was like.
    Galharath possessed the physical traits common to kalashtar men—tall, slim, clean-shaven, and handsome. He wore his long brown hair in a braid with crystal shards of various colors woven in. Open-fingered leather gloves covered each hand, with eight more crystals affixed to the knuckles. Yet another crystal—this one large and emerald green—was embedded in the center of the black leather vest worn over his gray tunic. Cathmore didn’t fully understand the nature of the crystals or how they aided Galharath in his work, but then he knew little of magic andeven less of the psionic artificer’s craft—and he didn’t care to learn. All that mattered to him were results.
    The two men stood surrounded by the darkness of a