“In a moment, my friend,” Kylpin said. He ran over and grabbed the metal pry bar out of the large man’s lifeless hands. Jamming the bar under the lid, he pried it off. Inside were a dozen jungle Dulons.
The Islanders crowded around him, staring down at the weapons. Kin-Tar grabbed one of the two-bladed swords. He spun it dexterously in his hands, first with his right and then with his left. The curved blades whistled as they cut through the air.
“A good weapon,” Xo-Taro said.
“How are they carried?” Mai-Jun asked.
“The Scylthian natives don’t wear their weapons as we do. They carry these blades into battle strapped across their backs.” He pushed aside the packing straw and found what he was looking for. “In harnesses like these.”
Kin-Tar grabbed one of the elaborate harnesses and examined it.
Xo-Taro pointed toward the emblem painted on the side of the wooden crate. “And you know this symbol?”
“It belongs to a friend of mine. Lord Ian Weatherall. This is his dragon.” He glanced over at the elder Islander and saw his copper face grow cold. “Why, my friend, have you seen this symbol before?”
Xo-Taro shook his head. “Not seen.” He glanced over at Mai-Jun. Kylpin saw the barely perceptible nod of her head. Was she in charge?
“Lymarians say when the Bloody Fists first came to our islands they did not kidnap our kin. They say they came for trade. They say they needed strong arms and backs to fight some distant war. We don’t know about war. Our kin are hunters only.”
Kylpin glanced at the bloody corpses strewn around the warehouse. “I’d say you make good fighters too, my friend.”
“The Bloody Fists offer to pay the Lymarians well.” Xo-Taro ignored the compliment. “Lymarians have left their islands sometimes. They make trade. Men for crates of pretty strings of stones.” He reached into his black tunic and removed an intricately designed jeweled necklace. Kylpin’s eyes widened. “The Lymarians say the crates had the sign of a great black dragon.”
“I know that jewelry,” Kylpin muttered. “That was made in Scylthia.”
Xo-Taro’s hand dropped to his sword hilt. “Is your friend, Lord Ian Weatherall, a Bloody Fist?”
“No, of course not!” Kylpin glanced around the warehouse at a loss for words. All the crates bore the same symbol. “I don’t know why these are marked . . .”
He wrenched the lid off another crate. Gems spilled out onto the floor.
“This has to be the other shipment,” Kylpin said quickly. “Another ship left the jungle, Lipscombe’s ship.”
“Lipscombe and your friend work together?” Xo-Taro asked sharply.
“No! I swear.” He turned and found Kin-Tar crouching behind him, wielding the spinning Dulon in one hand, and his sword in the other. Kylpin took a step back. “No! No! No!” he shouted. “Listen, my friend, call off your son and I will explain everything!” He gestured over his shoulder toward the door. “We can walk to the brothel and see if Lipscombe is there, and if not, then we can check the other warehouse.”
Xo-Taro said something, and Kin-Tar scowled but took a step back. Kylpin took a deep breath and crossed his arms over his chest. “But before we go, let’s get one thing straight.” He shot the older Islander a sharp stare. “The next time he draws his sword on me, I’m finished being your guide. Do you understand?”
Xo-Taro’s flat face pinched tight, but after a moment, he nodded. “Trust is not easy for us.”
Kylpin snorted. “Trust works both ways. I won’t betray you. You have my word. But from now on, you need to start listening to me. We’re not on your island.”
Xo-Taro shot his son a long, hard stare.
“We shall do our best to do as you command,” Mai-Jun said, speaking for the three.
Kin-Tar’s face darkened, but he did not make a sound.
“Good,” Kylpin said. “Then let’s go find Lipscombe.”
chapter 26
Natham Lipscombe stood on the edge of the pier and watched the sea crane lift the metal cage out of the back of his wagon. Locked inside were dozens of young, wide-eyed, copper-skinned Islander girls. He smacked his lips and felt a churning in his balls. They were all unfucked gorgeous beauties with long black hair and long lean legs and curves in all the good parts. The hanging-on parts. Hips and tits and ass. His one good eye darted from one girl to the next, sizing each of them up and finding them all . . . fuckably perfect. Or was it perfectly fuckable? Gods-damned, it didn’t matter. They were flawless. Or, as the customer on the other end had requested, pristine virgins. Pristine virgins? Who the hell talked that way? Fuck all, he guessed it didn’t matter. The customer had been damn precise with his demands, so, despite his gnawing urge to take them all below deck and fuck them silly, he’d make sure they all stayed nice and pretty and tight the whole time they were on his ship. And if any of his men tried to slip them their dicks, he’d chop off their little fucksticks and shove them down their gods-damned throats. That might make them think twice about getting stupid.
But then again, it was going to be a long sea-voyage and men had urges. Urges that even a hand couldn’t always satisfy which was why he was bringing along a half-dozen whores too. Cheap used-up whores. Whores even the Toothless Whore didn’t want no more.
“Take the alacuoth too,” the Toothless Whore said, pointing to the best-looking one in the entire sorry-looking lot. “No charge.”
Lipscombe liked free, but he wasn’t completely sold. “The al-a-koo-what?”
“Alacuoth,” the Toothless Whore said. “O, she good at the hole work, she jus’makes too much mess ‘round ‘ere.”
“Wha’ kind o’ mess?”
The Toothless Whore stroked her thin mustache. Finally, with a shrug of her broad shoulders she said, “She shits when she fucks.”
“Wha’ the hell . . .”
“Don’t go knockin’ it if you ain’t tried it,” the Toothless Whore said with a cackle.
“I don’t need no bitch shittin’ on my balls to know I ain’t goin’ to like it.”
“I ne’er took you for bein’ picky.”
Lipscombe eyeballed the alacuoth again. She did have a pretty face and a good solid body and a real nice ass . . .
Fucking her had been a nasty stinking affair, what with shit flying all over the place, but the Toothless Whore had been right. She was damn good at the hole work.
So, now he was the not-so-proud owner of a half-dozen cheap, used-up whores and one alacuoth. The lads probably wouldn’t want nothing to do with most of them at first, but eventually, the hags would start looking better than their hands and the alacuoth . . . well, maybe they’d just make sure to fuck her topside and swab the poopdeck after. Either way, he’d make back his small investment and plenty more in no time, and if any of the seven quit working, he’d personally introduce their bare asses to the sea.
Once the two-month sail north-east across the Salarian Sea to Euclacia was over, he’d unload the Islanders and the hybrids, take on spices, slaves and maybe a few new whores and head north across the Gulf of Yowl to Bel’yowlye. There he’d drop off weapons and slaves and pick up a second machine for the factory, then it was west, back across the Salarian to Scylthia for more gems, weapons and campornil. In six months’ time, if the winds were fair, he’d return to Belyne rich beyond his wildest fucking dreams.
But that was still six long months at sea with the first two being the hardest to endure what with all those unfucked and unfuckable beauties onboard. Even that much gold couldn’t suppress his urges for that long!
This was why he was bringing a few extra Islander girls along just to satisfy his own needs. He’d keep them chained up in his cabin. The lads could use the whores and the alacuoth. He’d have his own . . . pristine virgins.
“Huh . . .” he muttered, surprised to find himself craving the virgins. Him! Wanting virgins! Of course, he blamed it all on Josephine Hewes. He’d watched that tall bitch play the seductress in that play . . . whatever the fuck it
was called . . . at the Rose and had assumed she wasn’t acting all that much. He’d figured she’d be broke-in and loose the way she moved all sexy-like on stage. Damned if he hadn’t been wrong! She’d been nice and tight last night. Almost a bit too tight at first, but once he got her going, she’d felt good. Real good. And her screams had only fueled his burning lust.
He reached down and adjusted his hardening crooked cock. For too long maybe he had screwed whores. Yeah, they had the ability to perform any trick he demanded, but they all tended to be . . .
Roomy. Even for a man of his size and shape.
If only he could find a virgin with a whore’s talent . . .
He adjusted himself again. Just the thought of the Hewes bitch brought a rise out of him. He snickered. He didn’t care what that prig Straegar said, he’d screw her again when he found her and to hell with anyone who told him otherwise. Hell, if he could, he’d bring her along and keep her chained in his cabin with his other pristine virgins.
The cage of beauties disappeared into Sharkbait’s cargo hold. He wiped the rain from his face. Four down, eight more to go, though most of the rest were just crates filled with those damn creepy frozen hybrids made over at the factory and one held someone or something called the Soul-Receptacle, whatever the fuck that was. When the loading was done, he’d search the docks again for the Hewes bitch, but if he couldn’t find her by dawn, he’d return to the warehouse where he’d stashed Evie and spend some time pretending hard she was a virgin.
Then, he was going to cut that piece out of her and bring it with him when he set sail later. He only wished there was a way for him to see the expression on that bastard Kylpin Caleachey’s face when he found his whore with no hole left in her.
Well . . . Lipscombe chuckled to himself as he watched the sea crane move onto the next cage . . . he supposed she’d have a hole left in her. A big fucking useless hole . . .
chapter 27
Lord Devin Ragget sat in the corner of the damp, shadowy cell and watched as the famed wizard, Stephano Di Rygazzo, worked his magic. A sickly, green-hued light emanated from the narrow palms of the torturer’s outstretched hands. His tapered fingers twitched and curled over Ian’s unconscious form, as if they danced to the rhythm of some unheard tune. Ragget studied both figures closely. Would this be the spell that finally broke Ian?
He leaned forward, his nose filling with the decaying scent of dead vegetation, and eagerly awaited the expected change, but Ian’s face remained the same as before, an odd mixture of pale skin and raised bruises. According to Di Rygazzo, many of his former patients, experiments all, had been altered not only mentally, but physically as well.
“What can I expect when you’re finished?” Ragget had asked him weeks ago. “Will he truly believe anything I want?”
The tall wizard had stood and paced around the sitting room. “I have spent my entire life perfecting this skill.” His voice was low, both in tone and volume. “No one else, not here, not in Bel’yowlye, is capable of doing what I can do for you.”
“Which is precisely why you were brought here,” Ragget said sharply. “You do not need to convince me of your dedication to your ‘art’ or worry about receiving a sizeable reward if you succeed. Just tell me plainly, what can you do?”
Di Rygazzo hesitated. “I combine the healing touch of . . . as your people call it, ‘earthen’ or ‘mud’ magic with my own unique ability to alter another’s perception.”
“How?”
Di Rygazzo smiled easily. “M’lord, I cannot divulge all my secrets. Not even Magna Han’taq the great leader of my land knows how I do what I do.”
Ragget tented his long fingers and leaned forward, resting his chin upon his joined fingertips. “Tell me or leave.”
Five minutes later, a smile spread across Ragget’s face.
“And it works every time?” he asked.
“Every time,” Di Rygazzo assured him. “The brain is tricked into accepting the false images with its healing. I have done this many times, and have never had any problems . . .”
But Ian was developing into a real problem. Although each session took only a few minutes to complete, Di Rygazzo had been working on him for hours. Soon, the new king would demand the prisoner be transferred to the royal dungeon to await the trial.
And still, the Gyunwarian Ambassador refused to believe he killed the king.
“Akz’eptiene di’Hel’ien stem’pendien Ge’nact,” Di Rygazzo chanted softly. “Akz’eptiene di’Hel’ien stem’pendien Mor’dren Ge’nact.”
Ragget recognized the magical phrases that signified the end of another session and he anxiously awaited the results. He remained seated until Di Rygazzo straightened, and then he quickly ushered the wizard out of the bare room.
“Did the images implant this time?”
Di Rygazzo stroked his long, black beard shot through with gray. “It is too soon to tell, M’lord. He has a strong will, and an even stronger mind. I believe his moral code is keeping him from accepting the images.”
“You’ve told me that before,” Ragget said crossly, already sensing the direction the conversation was going. “Does he believe he killed the king? Yes or no?”
Di Rygazzo pursed his lips and finally shook his head. “He has accepted many of my other suggestions, M’lord, but . . .” He spread his hands palms up.
“Keep trying.”
“I have spent the entire last hour alone on just that one image, M’lord,” Di Rygazzo replied. “I can make him remember wielding the dagger, raising it above his head . . .” The wizard shrugged. “And that is as far as his mind will allow me to go.”
Ragget shook his head. “That is not good enough. You told me the false images would stay. You told me his recollection of certain sequences of events would alter, and he would believe anything I wanted him to believe.”
“M’lord,” Di Rygazzo began softly. “Surely, the courts will find him guilty without him actually admitting . . .”
“I’m not worried about that!” Ragget said between clenched teeth. “I want him to believe he killed the king. I want him to suffer that guilt.”
Di Rygazzo crossed his arms over his chest. “Forgive me for saying so, M’lord, but you two are very similar I think.”
Ragget’s eyebrows rose. “You dare to compare me to . . . him?!”
“Just your minds, M’lord,” Di Rygazzo answered quickly. “Both of you are stubborn. It is much easier to alter a lazy mind.”
Ragget’s harsh face softened and his lips widened into a victorious grin. “Do that then. Make his mind lazy and then alter it.” He leaned in close. “And do it now!”
chapter 28
Brotherly love. Whatever the hell that was, Edgar figured it had to be the only reason he was out in the rain, in the middle of the night, digging a hole in the mud. Not just a hole, a grave, and a big one at that. Owen was huge. Always had been. Even when they were boys, he’d been big. Bigger, stronger, older.
And a real pain in the ass too.
All Edgar had going for him was his brain. Not that it helped him out much against Owen. Being smart didn’t stop him from having his face shoved in some dung heap ten days in a row one summer. He didn’t need to be bright to know he didn’t like shit lodged up his nose and, in his eyes, and down his mouth. What he needed was speed. And stamina.
This was why he’d spent so much time running while growing up.
At first, Owen’s size and strength gave him an edge, but eventually, Edgar’s quickness and endurance began to even things out. He still remembered the first time he’d eluded Owen. He was twelve or thirteen and for two hours, they’d run through the streets and alleys, along the docks, and at times even across the rooftops. Owen couldn’t get close enough to put a hand on him. Feeling cocky, Edgar had turned around to taunt his bigger, stronger, older brother. He was amid an especially good insult when he tripped over a loose stone in the road and lost his balance. Spinning around in hopes of catching himself, he’d landed
face first in a fresh pile of crap.
His brother had laughed so hard tears filled his eyes. That had been the first and only time he’d seen Owen cry. Even now, ten years later, the smell of horseshit reminded him of that near-perfect day.
As if on cue, the stolen horse attached to the stolen cart with Owen laid out in back lifted his tail and created a fresh steaming pile.
“I ain’t sure you improved the smell of things doing that,” Edgar grumbled, “but I ain’t sure you’ve made it worse either.”
He was on the southern edge of the Necropolis near the Annachie River and a strong hint of raw sewage, decaying fish and death already tainted the air. When he’d first arrived, it had been a welcomed change from smelling his own stench. He was in desperate need of a hot bath and a change of clothes and, his stomach grumbled, food.
Edgar tossed another pile of mud to one side and paused to lean on his stolen shovel. The pain in his side was hollering at him again. The knife wound wasn’t quite the deep gash he’d first thought it to be, but it wasn’t exactly a little scratch either. His apothecary friend could probably fix him up right . . . if he wasn’t too pissed about him not getting more of the campornil from his rival.
He sank the shovel into the mud, put a boot to it and struck something hard. Immediately, he fantasized about finding some long-forgotten treasure chest, but reality crashed in around him when he realized it was nothing more than a stubborn tree root. It probably belonged to the nearby willow.
“You’ve just discovered why this is not the smartest place to dig a grave.”
The rich baritone voice startled Edgar and he dropped his shovel. Spinning around, he found a man standing in the shadows behind him. He was an imposing figure and if Edgar had believed strongly in ghosts, he might have thought he was looking at Owen’s.
“You’re probably right . . .” he stammered.
“I am right,” the man corrected him. He peered into the back of the cart.
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