01 - Thieves of Blood

by Tim Waggoner - (ebook by Undead)

  Diran couldn’t help smiling himself. “I admit we have a tendency to stand out at times, so… how much do you know about us?”

  “One of the primary goods my employers traffic in is information,” the elf-woman replied. “It would be simpler for me to tell you what I don’t know about the two of you.”

  “I see.” Diran paused for a moment before going on. “In that case, yes, I had similar training, but I’ve learned how to trust over the years.” He cast a glance back at Ghaji, but the half-orc was still asleep.

  “You two make a good team,” Yvka said. “Is Ghaji also a follower of the Silver Flame?”

  “Ghaji tends mote to the orcs’ belief in the divinity of nature, when he thinks about religion at all, that is.”

  “I would think that might prove a source of conflict between the two of you.”

  “Why? My order believes that the Silver Flame is the source of all that is Good in existence and that in the end, all good things will rejoin the source from which they came and become one with the Silver Flame. Ghaji’s belief in the sanctity of nature is simply a belief in one aspect of the Silver Flame. At least, that’s what I keep telling him. I don’t think he believes me, though.”

  Yvka laughed softly. “I’ve never met a priest like you before Diran.”

  Diran replied in all seriousness. “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

  They sailed on in silence for a time after that, and Diran found himself thinking again of his dream. Though he was glad to be free of the dark spirit Quellin had implanted in him, part of him still missed its presence within his soul and always would. Not for the first time he wondered if by devoting his life to the Silver Flame, especially with its belief in rejoining the source of all good after one’s death, he simply wasn’t trying to replace the loss of his dark spirit with a different brand of spiritually. He knew what Tusya, his mentor in the Church and the priest who exorcised the dark spirit from his soul, would say.

  When in doubt, look to your heart, Diran. Your heart is your connection to the Silver Flame, and you’ll always find the answers you need there.

  He also knew what Emon Gorsedd would say. You’ve just traded one addiction for another, Diran, that’s all. You’ve never truly been your own man and you never will be. You’ll always be one of my children.

  To take his mind off these troubling thoughts, Diran resumed his conversation with Yvka. “Do you truly believe we’re on the right track?”

  “If you mean, will we find an old artificer named Tresslar working at Dreadhold who supposedly sailed with Erdis Cai’s crew on their last journey, despite the fact that no other survivors had come forward, then yes. My employers have been aware of the man’s claims since before he joined the warders of Dreadhold, but did the man truly sail with Erdis Cai, and even if he did, does he have any idea of where Cai may be holed up today? I don’t know, but this is the only lead we have, so we must pursue it.”

  If anyone could lead them to Erdis Cai, it would be Tresslar, assuming the man wasn’t a lunatic or a liar. The only way to know for certain was to sail to Dreadhold, the toughest, most isolated prison in Khorvaire, and see for themselves.

  “Tell me, Yvka, why are you helping us? I was under the impression that the Shadow Network was completely mercenary.”

  “If by mercenary, you mean we look after our interests along with those of our clients, then of course. We’re a business like any other, and you’re not one to talk lightly about mercenary motives, Diran Bastiaan. Despite your earlier claim to be a soldier in the Last War, the truth is you were an assassin-for-hire.”

  The elf-woman’s tone of derision stung more than her words.

  “What you say is true, though for a time I deluded myself into believing that my actions served a greater good than profit. So you’re saying someone has hired the Shadow Network to discover the secrets of the Black Fleet?”

  “I didn’t say anything of the sort. Your goals and my goals happen to coincide at the moment.” She glanced at Ghaji’s sleeping form. “Besides, I’m starting to grow fond of your cantankerous friend.”

  Diran smiled. “He does have a tendency to grow on you.”

  A large dark form broke the water’s surface a dozen yards off the port bow. Both Diran and Yvka tensed, for many large aquatic creatures swam the depths of the Lhazaar Sea, and precious few of them were benign, but the dark shape released a spray of water from a blowhole, and both the priest and the elf-woman relaxed. Just a whale. The animal continued swimming close to the surface as the swift elemental sloop left it behind.

  When they’d put a good amount of distance between themselves and the whale, Yvka spoke once more. “I have another question for you, Diran, but given my own reticence to answer yours, I’ll understand if you prefer not to respond.”

  “Go ahead and ask.”

  “Back at Nowhere, when the thieves tried to steal the Zephyr…”

  “Yes?”

  “The way you killed that half-elf woman… given your former profession, I’m not surprised that you possessed the skill to slay her with such a dagger throw, but for a priest who supposedly reveres life…”

  “You expected a little more mercy.”

  “I suppose so, yes.”

  Diran thought for a moment as he decided the best way to address Yvka’s concern.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m assuming that you’ve received training similar to mine, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you had occasion to use it.”

  Yvka didn’t dispute this, so Diran went on.

  “Then you know that it’s much more difficult to subdue a foe than kill him. The half-elf was going to strike Ghaji with an arrow. If I could’ve stopped her without killing her, I would have, but at that range, and with her so close to releasing her arrow, I had to make certain she didn’t harm Ghaji. The only way I could do that was to slay her.”

  “You don’t sound particularly remorseful,” Yvka said.

  “The woman chose to attempt to steal the Zephyr, and she chose to draw her bow on Ghaji.” Diran shrugged. “I chose to protect my friend.”

  “As simple as that, eh?”

  A parade of faces flashed quickly through Diran’s mind, the half-elf woman’s the last in a long line. “Killing is never simple,” he said softly.

  “Does your faith make it any easier to deal with?” Yvka asked. “Do you truly believe in absolute good and absolute evil?”

  “It does and I do,” Diran answered.

  “So certain creatures are just inherently evil and must be slain?”

  “Since becoming a priest, I’ve encountered all manner of demons, spirits, and undead. Some were most definitely evil and had to be put down. Others fought the evil in their natures but ultimately failed, and there have been a precious few who, while suffering evil’s taint, were able to keep the darkness within them from dictating their actions. Were these latter creatures evil? Some of the more fanatical in my order would deem them so, but I’m not certain.”

  “Have you ever spared any such creatures and later regretted doing so?” Yvka asked.

  “Only once,” Diran said, “and it nearly cost Ghaji and me not only our lives but also our very souls.”

  Once more, he heard Emon Gorsedd’s voice in his mind. You talk a good game, Diran, but we both know that deep down, you’re nothing but a killer. It doesn’t matter if you slay men or monsters, or whether you do it for money or for some abstract ideal called “Good.” You enjoy killing and you’re damn good at it. End of story.

  “Enough of such talk,” Diran said, more to himself than to Yvka. “How much farther is it to Dreadhold?”

  Yvka looked up at the stars and did a quick mental calculation. “I’d say another four hours, three at the earliest.” She sniffed the air. “A storm’s in the offing, though, and might slow us down some. In any event, you should try to get some sleep, Diran. You’ll need your full strength when we reach Dreadhold.”

  “If it’s all the same to you, Yvka, I’d
rather stay up. It’ll give you a chance to tell me what I need to know about Dreadhold.”

  “As well as prevent your having any more nightmares?” the elf-woman asked.

  Diran smiled. “That too.”

  “Very well. Dreadhold was first established long ago by Karrn the Conqueror as a facility for exiling deposed rulers and courtiers that fell from favor. Over the centuries…”

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  “Wake up, child. We’ve arrived, though I can’t tell you where.”

  Makala opened her eyes to darkness. She started to panic, but then she remembered: the voice belonged to the old shifter woman Zabeth, and they, along with numerous others, were being held prisoner in the hold of the raider ship Nightwind.

  Makala felt no vibrations in the wood beneath her. Zabeth was right: the elemental galleon had docked.

  “How long did I sleep?”

  If she knew, she might be able to make a rough guess how many leagues the Nightwind had traveled, though she wasn’t certain what the ship’s top speed was. Before Zabeth could answer her question, there came the sound of a lock pin being pulled back, then a rectangular patch of darkness above them was replaced by stars and a partial view of a moon as the raiders opened the hold’s hatch. Nighttime—that meant she’d been on the Nightwind at least a full day, if not more.

  A moment later, a rope ladder was tossed down. Makala entertained a brief fantasy of rushing over to the ladder, climbing up, leaping onto the Nightwind’s deck and strangling the closest raider with the chain between her two wrist manacles, but she knew she was too weak, and she was only one person. Even with all of Emon’s training, she’d likely be killed before she could slay even a single raider, so she sat and waited, Zabeth crouched next to her.

  Archers ringed the opening, providing cover for two of their fellow raiders who began climbing down. Neither of the raiders carried a lantern, and no one on the deck shone one into the hold for them. It was difficult to tell in the hull’s gloom, but one raider appeared male, the other female. When they reached the bottom of the ladder, they stepped off and drew their swords.

  “Up the ladder one at a time,” the male commanded. “If anyone even looks like they’re thinking of causing trouble, they’ll taste steel.”

  “Or get an arrow through the heart,” the woman added.

  “How can we climb in these manacles?” one of the prisoners, a man, asked.

  “There’s enough slack in the chains for you to make it if you go slowly,” the male raider said.

  “What if we fall?” someone else asked.

  “I suggest you don’t,” the female raider said. “Now move it!”

  It took a little prodding from the raiders’ swords, but the prisoners closest to the ladder began climbing. Some cried as they ascended, others mumbled prayers, but most were quiet, as if resigned to whatever fate awaited them topside. Since Zabeth and Makala were next to the wall of the hold, they were among the last to stand and start toward the ladder.

  “After you, Grandmother,” Makala said to Zabeth.

  The elderly shifter gave her a smile, a wink, then started up the rope ladder with surprising agility for one of her years. Makala didn’t like seeing that wink. Earlier, Zabeth had said something about waiting for the right moment to take action against the raiders. The old woman couldn’t be foolish enough to try something now… could she?

  Makala hurried up the ladder after Zabeth. She didn’t think about the raiders still in the hold with their swords drawn, didn’t think about the archers with their arrows nocked and aimed at her. Her only concern was to remain as close as possible to Zabeth so she could intervene if the woman tried anything heroic and stupid.

  The cool night air deckside came as a shock after spending an unknown number of hours imprisoned in the Nightwind’s hold. At first Makala found it bracing, but then, weak from hunger and still hurting from the injuries sustained during her abduction, she began to shiver. The prisoners from the raid on Port Verge were already being offloaded one at a time, directed by armed raiders to “Move along now,” in single file down a gangplank onto a wooden dock. There was enough light from the moons and the Ring of Siberys for Makala to get a basic idea of their surroundings.

  She took her place in line and followed Zabeth down the gangplank. The three elemental galleons of the Black Fleet had docked next to a steep cliff that Makala estimated v as a hundred feet high. She could make out the striations in the craggy stone of the cliff wall, as well as the silhouettes of trees lining the top. An opening in the shape of a half circle was carved into the base of the cliff, and the dock continued through the opening and stretched into the darkness beyond. All three of the ebon ships had dropped anchor and were disgorging their prisoners, all of whom were being herded along the dock and inside the cliff, prodded by the point of a raider’s sword if they moved too slowly. People sobbed and chains jingled as the prisoners shuffled toward whatever waited for them within the darkness of the cliff. Makala glanced back over her shoulder. They appeared to be in a secluded cove of some kind, the cliff curving around to cut off the view of the sea and hide the Black Fleet’s home port from any passing ships. Despite her current situation, Makala was impressed. This looked to be a perfect base of operations for the Black Fleet.

  The light from the moons gleamed on the dark water of the cove. Makala had the impression of shadowy forms moving near the edge of the dock just beneath the water’s surface, but perhaps it was just her imagination. The lingering after-effects of her head injury conspired with the night and moonlight to create an illusion. Still, she decided not to get too close to the dock’s edge.

  “Eyes front,” a raider growled and pricked her lower back with his sword.

  Makala had to bite her lip and curl her hands into fists, fingernails digging into the palms, to channel her anger so she wouldn’t whirl around and break the sword-happy idiot’s neck.

  Ahead of her, Zabeth moaned and stumbled to her knees.

  “Get up!” one of the raiders snapped.

  Makala stepped forward to help the old shifter woman, but the same raider who’d pricked her back said, “Mind your place, missy, or you might find yourself taking a moonlight swim, and believe me, that’s something you’d prefer to avoid.”

  The raiders nearby who had caught the comment laughed, and Makala knew she hadn’t been hallucinating when she thought she’d seen something swimming in the cove.

  As much as she wanted to go to Zabeth’s aid, she knew the raiders would never permit it and that she’d likely just cause trouble for Zabeth and the other prisoners by attempting to defy their captors. She gritted her teeth and remained where she was while the sword-happy raider stepped around her. Zabeth knelt with her head hung low, trembling and swaying from side to side, as if she were going to faint any moment. The raider toed her in the rump, not gently, but not hard enough to be considered a kick, either.

  “Come on, old woman, get on your feet. We’re not going to carry you in.”

  “That’s not a woman!” another of the raiders shouted. “Can’t you see she’s a shifter?”

  “Nothin wrong with that!” yet another raider called out. “Ernard likes ’em old and hairy!”

  More raiders burst out laughing this time, and Ernard, less than thrilled at being the source of amusement for his companions, kicked Zabeth again, much harder this time.

  There was only so much that Makala was willing to let pass. She started forward, intending to fulfill her earlier fantasy about wrapping her manacle chains around a raider’s throat and strangling him. Before she could do so, Zabeth turned to look up at her tormentor, her face transformed into a more savage, bestial aspect. She bared her fangs, growled, and brought her claws up into the juncture between the raider’s legs. The man screamed, blood gushed onto the dock, and Zabeth grinned.

  Though the raider had been severely wounded, the man still possessed enough presence of mind to raise his sword so that he might strike back at Zabeth. M
akala lunged at the raider and caught his sword arm with her manacle chains. She shifted her weight, yanked hard, and the bleeding raider dropped his sword as he spun off the dock and into the water. He hit with a loud splash and disappeared beneath the surface. Makala saw movement under the water as several large somethings swam from under the dock toward the spot where the raider had sunk. Everyone on the dock, raider and prisoner, watched the water now, and one of the raiders said, “That’s it for Ernard, then,” without the slightest hint of sorrow.

  “Better this way,” another raider said. “Who’d want to go on livin’ after gettin’ tore up down there?”

  The water burst into a foaming froth as Ernard broke the surface, shrieking in agony and terror. Several large dark shapes had attached themselves to his body, and it took Makala a moment before she recognized what they were—crabs, but not ordinary crabs. These were much bigger, about the size of a large shield. The creatures tore vigorously as the raider’s flesh, oversized claws cutting like razor-sharp blades through skin and muscle, all the way down to the bone. At the rate they were going, it wouldn’t take long for them to strip Ernard’s body clean.

  The dock shuddered as if something huge moved beneath it, and a shadow slid out from under the dock toward Ernard, a big shadow.

  “Looks like Mama’s hungry,” a raider said, and though the woman’s tone was one of dark delight, there was an edge of queasiness to her voice as well.

  The crabs, as if reacting to some silent signal, abandoned their prey and disappeared into the water. Still screaming and bleeding from dozens of wounds, Ernard sank beneath the surface, but he didn’t stay down for long. Water roiled and Ernard burst back into view, caught within the claw of a gigantic crustacean. This, then, was Mama.

  The claw squeezed and Ernard’s screams were silenced as the raider fell back into the water as two separate pieces. The surface surged upward and Makala had the impression of a dark craggy shell, a pair of beady hate-filled eyes, and ferociously working mouth parts. Then Ernard was gone, and Mama submerged. The dock shuddered again, and Makala realized the gigantic she-crab had once again taken het roosting spot among the dock supports beneath their feet. How many of the she-crab’s children clung to the supports along with the mother, hungry and ever alert, hopeful that another tasty morsel would fall off the dock and into their waiting claws?