Skarm opened his mouth and extended his tongue, prepared to lap up the foul stuff when another scent drifted into his nostrils-the scent of living meat. Human meat. Skarm was always Skarm no matter his shape, but his thoughts were affected by the form he wore at any given time. As a barghest, he was cunning and cruel, as a goblin timid and scheming, and as a wolf a creature of appetite and instinct. Both of these latter qualities now combined into a single overpowering urge that told Skarm he must feed-now.
Skarm bounded off, nose to the ground, tracking this new scent. Others had been here not long ago, he knew-human, half-orc, elf, halfling-for their scents still clung to the rocks, but one scent, a human male's, was strong and fresh. Whoever the man was, he was still on the island and soon he'd be filling Skarm's belly. Skarm ran a zig-zag trail across the small island, heart pounding in excitement, air chuffing in and out of his nostrils as he searched for his prey. He heard voices yelling his name-both female-but he ignored them. Nothing mattered except filling the vast empty pit that lay at the core of his being.
Skarm found the man huddled behind a large outcropping of gray rock. He was blonde, bearded, broad-shouldered, and though half-frozen and trembling like a leaf caught in gale-force wind, the fact that he had survived exposure to the harsh elements on the island was testament to his great strength. This one would make a fine meal, indeed!
The man staggered to a standing position and brandished a knife as Skarm approached. He wore leather armor beneath a thick, red waterproof cloak, hood up as protection against the rain. Skarm's lupine vision was able to make out a tattoo of a stylized blue skull on the man's forehead. The image was meaningless to Skarm's wolf-mind, and he forgot it as soon as he saw it. The man's knife was a small, pitiful weapon, and his hand trembled so badly that Skarm doubted he would be able to do any serious damage with the blade. Not that it mattered if he did, for Skarm could heal with supernatural swiftness. But even if he had no special healing abilities, his hunger would still have driven him to attack, regardless of the risk of injury to himself.
Skarm ran at the man and leaped for his throat, already tasting the blood that would soon gush hot and sweet on his tongue.
But a strong hand grabbed hold of him by the scruff of the neck, stopping his attack in mid-leap. Skarm whipped his head around, growling and snapping at whoever dared to come between him and his prey.
"Easy, boy," Makala said, grinning, incisors longer and sharper than usual. "Nathifa would like a word with this gentleman before you tear out his throat."
Skarm writhed in Makala's grip, trying to twist free, but the vampire held him above the ground in a grip like iron, and there was nothing he could do.
Then Nathifa came gliding forward, the tendrils of her dark cloak probing the ground as she advanced like the feelers of a gigantic black insect. Her crimson-flame eyes burned with excitement as she regarded the bearded man, and her smile was a terrible thing to behold.
"Well, now. Who we do have here?"
Haaken tried to put up a brave front, but he'd been marooned on Demothi Island for several days now-ever since the Maelstrom, the vessel he'd commanded, had run aground on this cursed shore-and he was half-dead from exposure. But even if he were at full fighting strength, still he would've quailed before the creature that glided toward him now. The wolf didn't frighten him overmuch, nor did the vampire. The wolf was a simple beast, and while the vampire was a formidable enough foe, they'd met in battle before and he'd managed to get the best of her then. But this… this thing coming toward him-bone-white flesh, fire-pit eyes, shadowy cloak that seemed somehow alive-exuded an aura of such malevolence that, if Haaken had had any fresh water to drink over the last few days, he would've lost control of his bladder.
"His name is Haaken Sprull," the vampire said. She continued to hold onto the snarling wolf, the animal showing no signs of calming down. "He is-or rather, was-the commander of the Coldhearts, the supposedly elite warriors who served Baroness Calida of Kolbyr. He made the mistake of kidnapping some former friends of mine, and he lost both his crew and his ship as a result. Quite frankly, I'm surprised the fool is still alive."
The white-faced thing glided closer to Haaken and scowled as she examined him. He wanted more than anything to run, to put as much distance as possible between himself and this horrible apparition, but he was too transfixed with terror to move. Besides, Demothi Island was so small, there wasn't anywhere to run.
"Kolbyr, eh?" The words were carried on breath redolent of dust and ancient bone. She regarded him a moment longer before letting out a brittle laugh and clapping her skeletal hands together in glee. "My mistress displays an unexpected sense of whimsy this night! How delightfully appropriate that she would send a servant of Kolbyr to now serve me!"
Haaken had no idea what the witch was talking about, and he didn't want to know. Better to die like a man than serve a creature like her! Though it took every bit of inner strength remaining to him, Haaken tore his gaze away from the witch's burning red eyes, turned, and ran. He staggered toward the sea, boots slipping on ice-coated rocks, so weak that he was barely able to keep his footing, but he continued on, knowing that if he fell it would be all over, and he would belong body and soul to the shadow-draped witch with the red-coal eyes. As he ran, he heard the vampire speak.
"Should I let Skarm go after him?"
The wolf yipped with excitement, as if it understood what she'd said.
"No need," the witch said. "He can't escape."
The witch spoke these words with such calm assurance that Haaken almost gave up in despair and stopped running. But then he heard the sound of waves breaking against the rocky shore, smelled the tang of saltwater, felt sea-spray wet his face, and his heart soared. Haaken was a Lhazaarite born and bred, and he'd spent more hours plying the sea than he had treading upon land. As a son of the Lhazaar, he couldn't imagine dying anywhere else but in its cold embrace. The sea had sustained him in life; now it would be his deliverance in death.
His boots splashed in the foamy surf, and he laughed with relief. He'd made it! All he had to do now was dive into the water and let the Lhazaar have him. As cold as the sea was this time of year, and as weak as Haaken was, it wouldn't take long for him to die. A matter of minutes at most. It would be just like going to sleep, Haaken told himself. Peaceful, soothing…
Gathering what little strength he had left, Haaken crouched and prepared to dive into the welcoming waters of the Lhazaar and claim his deliverance.
But before he could enter the water, a large dark shape surged forth from the waves and slammed into him. The breath was forced from Haaken's lungs as he was driven backward toward shore. He reflexively grabbed hold of the creature that had attacked him. His hands clasped rough hide covered with barnacles, and he stared into a gaping maw ringed by triangular teeth-several rows of them-sharp and serrated. Shreds of ragged flesh were stuck between the beast's teeth, and its breath stank of rotting meat. Haaken saw an eye on the side of the creature's head, large as a dinner plate and black and cold as the bottom of the sea itself. Though the eye was inhuman, Haaken nevertheless had the impression that it glared at him with baleful intelligence.
At that moment the thought of death lost all appeal for Haaken.
In his terror to flee the white-faced witch, Haaken had unthinkingly held on to his knife. Suddenly realizing he still gripped the blade, the former commander of the Coldhearts decided to make good use of it. He rammed the knife into the beast's tough hide once, twice, three times.