Sea of Death: Blade of the Flame - Book 3 Read Online Free Page A

Diran’s long-time companion in arms, stood to the right of the priest.
    “Being a fisherman really stinks.” The half-orc wrinkled his nose. “On multiple levels.”
    Ghaji’s green-tinged features were a fairly even blend of orc and human, but he chose to accentuate the more bestial aspect of his heritage because of the edge it gave him. Ghaji was a seasoned warrior, a veteran of the Last War, and he knew that a soldier had to make full use of whatever advantages he possessedif he hoped to survive to see another sunrise. Thus Ghaji kept his black hair in a shaggy tangle and had a vertical strip of beard that drew attention to his large sharp teeth. He kept his prominent brow in an almost permanent scowl—though in truth this had more to do with hisnatural temperament than any conscious strategy on his part. The numerous scars that he’d acquired on the battlefields of the Last War served to make him look even more imposing than he already was.
    Ghaji wore a battered breastplate—another souvenir of his soldier days—as his only armor, and he carried two axes tucked into his belt. One was a simple hand-axe he used as his back-up weapon, but the other served as his primary—an axe imbued with an elemental that, when Ghaji wished, became wreathed in mystical flame. It was on unofficial and—if Ghaji had anything to say about it—permanent loan from the prison island of Dreadhold.
    Diran, his hands nicely warmed now, smiled at his friend. “You get used to the smell after a time.”
    Ghaji snorted as if to clear the stink out of his nostrils. “Easy for you to say. Your parents owned a fishing boat.”
    An elf-woman stood on the other side of Diran. Her brown hair was woven into an intricate pattern of braids, and she possessed the fine aristocratic features and pointed ears common to her people. Like the others, she wore a thick fur cloak, though she gave no sign that the cold bothered her.
    “You grew up in marshlands, Ghaji,” Yvka said. “Swamps have their own share of unpleasant odors.”
    “Sure,” Ghaji said, “but they’re
normal
unpleasant odors—brackish water, decaying plants. Not this stench! It reminds me of … well, let’s just say I find it less than pleasant and leave it at that.”
    An elderly human male stood next to Yvka, and he frowned at Ghaji. “Just be grateful that you’re a
half-orc
. Your sense of smell would be even stronger if you were full-blooded.” A lean man in his sixties, Tresslar sported a scraggly white beard and mustache, but his eyes—though receded into the sockets somewhat and set above drooping bags—were intense, vital, and alive. The eyes of a much younger man, or a man who’d never forgotten what being young felt like.
    “I can help alleviate your discomfort if you wish, Ghaji.” Solus stood next in the circle, though he had no need of Tresslar’s magic gem to warm himself. The voice that issued from the construct’s throat was hollow-sounding and devoid of emotion, though not altogetherinhuman. “I can temporarily reconfigure the sensory pathways in your mind so that you cannot detect the smell of fish. Or, if you’d prefer, I can cause you to experience any scent you desire, such as roses or perhaps a freshly cooked steak.”
    Solus wore a hooded gray robe with oversized sleeves to hide his three-fingered hands. He also wore a fur cloak, though it wasn’t necessary since temperature extremes proved no discomfort for him. He had decided to wear the cloak for the same reason as he’d donned the robe: in order to disguise his true nature. Warforged were more common in the Five Nations than the Principalities, but they weren’t unknown here. But Solus wasn’t simply any warforged; he was special. Physically, he resembled a typical specimen of his kind. Roughly humanoid, body a composite of iron, stone, silver, obsidian, and darkwood. Glowing green eyes—though his were slightly dimmer than usual for a warforged—three-fingered hands, two-toed