by Tim Waggoner
Diran was a fisherman's son, and before coming here, he'd never seen anything as fine as the highly polished wood the chest was made from, but Emon Gorsedd was a man with, as he put it, "refined" tastes. Diran had quickly learned that refined really meant expensive. Diran wished Emon was here now. The man was warmer than Cathmore, and while Diran didn't exactly trust Emon, he wasn't terrified of him, not like he was of Cathmore. The man's eyes were cold and lifeless, like those of a dead fish, and his voice was flat and emotionless. Cathmore didn't seem altogether human to Diran, and he found it hard to believe that the man was Emon's half-brother. The two didn't seem to have anything in common at all.
Cathmore's eyes narrowed as he regarded Diran more closely, and Diran fought to suppress a shiver. "None of the other students told you what was going to happen to you in this room? Not even so much as a hint?"
Diran shook his head again. He'd been at the manse for two weeks, and during that time the other students, almost all of them older than Diran, had barely looked at him, let alone spoken to him. One girl around his own age had smiled at him a few times, though. He thought he'd heard another student call her Makala, but he wasn't sure that he'd heard right.
Cathmore's lips stretched into a thin lizard-like smile. "Good. That's as it should be."
Diran was startled by Cathmore's response, and for the first time since his arrival he wondered if the real reason none of the other students spoke to him wasn't because they were unfriendly but rather because they were afraid.
Diran wore a simple gray tunic and sandals; the outfit seemed to be the unofficial uniform of Emon Gorsedd's students. Cathmore, however, wore a light brown long-sleeved shirt, tan pants, and boots. Diran had noticed that Cathmore tended to dress in colors similar to his surroundings, and today his clothing matched well with the wood that this chamber had been made from. During his years on the Lhazaar fishing with his mother and father, Diran had witnessed how the octopus could blend into its surroundings by altering the color and even the texture of its skin. He wondered if Cathmore made his wardrobe choices for the same reason: protective coloration.
"What are you thinking right now?" Cathmore asked.
Diran didn't think it a good idea to share his observations about Cathmore's manner of dress, but he knew he couldn't remain silent any longer, not now that he'd been asked a direct question.
"I'm thinking about my parents." Saying the words turned the lie into reality, and he was filled with a sudden mixture of sorrow and anger.
"Do you miss them?"
Diran thought this an odd question. Was Cathmore simply asking as some sort of test? He sounded sincere, almost as if he didn't quite comprehend how one human being could mourn the loss of another.
Diran decided to put up a brave front. "I was raised in the Principalities. My parents taught me that life was harsh and death is only ever a heartbeat away."
Cathmore nodded slowly, as if considering Diran's reply. "Wise words, but I don't imagine such knowledge makes you miss your parents any less."
Diran didn't think Cathmore meant that as a question, but he responded anyway. "That's true."
"I doubt they're any more effective in quelling the anger surging within you… anger toward the raiders that killed your parents."
Diran gritted his teeth and balled his hands into fists. "Also true."
"There is one thing that will help, though, one thing that will give you the peace that you seek." Cathmore stepped toward Diran and when next he spoke, his voice was almost a purr. "Would you like to know what it is?"
Diran sensed that Cathmore had some sort of trick planned, but he knew he had no choice but to go along. Moreover, part of him-a cold dark part that had been born the day his parents died and their bodies left for the sharks-wanted to know.
"Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Cathmore smiled, displaying his teeth, and Diran thought that not all sharks lived in water. Cathmore clapped his hands loudly and the door on the far side of the chamber opened. A pair of men garbed entirely in black entered carrying between them a naked man whose wrists and ankles were bound by leather thongs. The man was gagged, and though he struggled to break free from his captors, the men in black were too strong. The prisoner was bald, his bare scalp covered with a concentric tattoo, and he had a drooping black mustache. He was broad-shouldered and well-muscled, his skin bronzed and leathery from decades of living and working outside. His flesh was marked with criss-crossing scars which spoke of a life lived in conflict. The men in black dragged the prisoner to Cathmore then unceremoniously dumped him onto the floor. They then looked to Cathmore as if awaiting further instructions. "That will be all."
The two men bowed then returned the way they'd come, closing the door behind them. The man got to his knees and glared at Cathmore, who paid him no attention. He stared at Diran with a penetrating gaze, as if he were trying to see inside Diran's mind.
"Do you recognize this man?" Cathmore asked.
Diran had trouble hearing Cathmore over the pounding of his pulse in his ears. His vision went gray around the edges, almost as if everything else had ceased to exist, save for the naked man bound before him. "He's the captain of the raiders who killed my parents."
"Yes, he is."
"How… why…?" Diran was barely aware of speaking, but Cathmore answered, stepping closer to Diran and leaning down next to his ear, as if he understood that Diran might have difficulty hearing him.
"How scarcely matters, but I assure you, it wasn't difficult to locate him."
Diran stared into the raider captain's eyes. The man glared back at him with impotent fury but also, Diran thought, with growing fear. "What about his crew?"
"They're dead, as I ordered."
Diran looked at Cathmore, not comprehending what the man said.
"Think of it as a welcoming gift, but this one-his name is Bruk, by the way-I saved for you."
Diran frowned. "I–I don't…"
"Remember what I told you? That there was one thing that could make the pain and anger of losing your parents go away? It's called revenge."
Cathmore turned and walked to the mahogany chest. He flung the doors open and Diran saw that the chest was filled with all manner of weapons mounted inside: swords, maces, spears, hammers, axes, garroting wire, flails, whips, throwing stars… and daggers. So many daggers. Daggers with long blades, short blades, curved blades, straight… Daggers with golden pommels inlaid with jewels, and daggers with simple handles wrapped in leather, but no matter their differences in design and decoration, every one was sharp and deadly.
They were beautiful.
"Come here, boy," Cathmore said. "Take a closer look."
Diran hesitated, but he couldn't help himself. He joined Cathmore at the open chest.
"In your short time here, you've learned that we call ourselves the Brotherhood of the Blade," Cathmore said, "and you know what we do."
Though this was phrased as a statement, Diran understood that a response was required of him. "Yes. You kill people for money."
Cathmore looked at Diran for a moment without expression, and Diran feared that he was to be punished for his response, but then Cathmore's mouth stretched into a cold, mirthless smile. "I'll say one thing for you boy, you're direct. I like that. Allow me to be equally direct in turn. We are a brotherhood of assassins, and these-" Cathmore gestured at the chest's contents-"are the tools of our trade. You may choose any one of these weapons and slay Bruk. You may do the deed swiftly or take as much time as you wish. Whatever you prefer."
Cathmore reached into the bottom of the chest with both hands and brought forth a black laquer box. He cradled the box with one arm while he opened the lid with his free hand. Inside, resting on a bed of crimson velvet, were a dozen unmarked glass vials, each containing a different color of liquid: cerulean, amber, mauve, aquamarine and more.
"There are many approaches to the dark art of assassination. Some prefer to deal death with steel, while othe
rs-such as myself-prefer the refined subtlety to be found in the use of poisons." Cathmore gazed down upon the vials he displayed to Diran, his eyes gleaming with barely restrained excitement. It took an obvious effort for the master assassin to look up from his beloved poisons and meet Diran's gaze once more. "Still, as I said, it is your choice."
Diran pretended to consider his options for several moments, and then he stepped past Cathmore and his vials and reached into the chest. Almost of their own volition, his fingers stroked the cool, sleek metal of a dagger. Gently, almost reverently, he removed the blade from its niche on the inside of the chest door and gripped its handle tight. He expected the dagger's hilt to warm within his hand, but it remained cool, not cold, but soothing, almost as if it were trying to tell him that everything was going to be all right. Diran gazed down upon the blade, drinking in the way light played across the polished surface of the metal.
Then he lifted his head and turned to look at Bruk.
The sea raider remained on his knees, but he no longer glared at Diran. His eyes were now filled with fear and he was trembling. Diran recalled Bruk's face as he rammed his swordpoint into his father's chest, once more heard the cry of agony as blood bubbled past his father's lips… saw the light dim in his father's eyes as death came to claim him. Then Diran remembered what the raiders had done to his mother. Bruk had been the first to use her, but he had been far from the last.
Diran stepped toward Bruk, pulse pounding in his ears, dagger gripped tight in a palm slick with sweat. He stopped before the sea raider and looked deeply into the man's eyes. What he searched for, he didn't know. Some sign of remorse or regret, perhaps. An acknowledgement that here, at the end of his life, Bruk realized the grief he had caused so many and was sorry, but all Diran saw in the man's gaze was raw, naked fear.
He relaxed his grip and the dagger thunked to the wooden floor. He turned to Cathmore. "I know what this man did… I saw it, but I cannot kill him. To do so would make me no better than him."
Cathmore's face betrayed no hint of emotion as the master assassin regarded Diran for a long moment. Finally, he nodded and walked over to where Diran stood. Cathmore bent down and picked up the dagger that Diran had dropped. Diran feared that he had failed the assassin's test, and now Cathmore was going to kill him, but Diran didn't turn away, didn't avert his gaze from Cathmore. If the man intended to slay him, then so be it. Death would be preferable to a life as an acolyte in the Brotherhood of the Blade.
Cathmore turned and knelt next to Bruk, and with two swift, efficient strokes of the dagger, severed the bonds around the sea raider's wrists and ankles. Cathmore removed the man's gag, then stood and tossed the dagger onto the floor next to Bruk.
"Kill the boy and you can go free."
Diran stared at Cathmore in shock. Bruk looked confused for a moment, then he grinned and reached for the dagger.
Ghaji lay next to Diran in the darkness of the ship's hold. His half-orc physiology was doing its best to fight off the effects of the drug the Coldhearts had used on him and Diran, but it was strong stuff, and he had no more success than his friend did, and like his friend, Ghaji found his semiconscious mind drifting on the tides of memory…
Ghaji walked into the clearing, his stride purposeful, head held high. Inwardly, he was afraid, but he knew that if he were to have any chance of surviving the next several moments, he couldn't afford to show it.
It was midmorning after the bloody raid on the wood-wright's cottage. The day was shaping up to be a pleasant one-sunny and mild, with a gentle breeze blowing. The trees were full and lush, their green leaves whispering in the wind. Birds sat on their branches, singing a counterpoint to the trees' whispering, their musical voices light and cheerful. After what the orcs had done last night, Ghaji found the beauty of the day revolting. It should be raining, the air cold, the sky overcast and gloomy. It was as if the world had taken no notice of the deaths of the wood-wright and his family… or worse, as if the world were actually celebrating their murders.
Eggera and Murtt reclined against the thick trunk of an old oak tree, eyes closed, chests rising and falling slowly as if they were napping. Ghaji knew better, though. The two orcs might appear to be resting, but Ghaji had fought alongside them for too many months not to know better. Both were surely aware of his approach and ready to leap up in an instant and fight if need be. Neither had bathed since last night's grisly work, and their clothes and armor were covered with dried blood, their fur matted with it. Flies buzzed around the pair, drawn by the rank stench of old blood, but if the insects bothered the orcs, they did nothing about the pests.
Chagai sat cross-legged in the middle of the clearing, hands on his knees, eyes closed, broadsword unsheathed on the ground at his side. He appeared to be meditating, and while the practice wasn't uncommon among certain orcs, Ghaji had never seen Chagai do it before. He guessed the mercenary leader was simply waiting… for him.
Ghaji crossed the clearing and walked up to Chagai, though he was careful to stop four feet from the orc. Coming any closer would be considered a challenge. Before Ghaji could say anything, Chagai spoke, though he did not open his eyes.
"Where have you been? We'd begun to think that you'd deserted us."
After the raid on the wood-wright's house, Ghaji hadn't been able to bring himself to spend the night with the other orcs, so he'd gone off on his own. He'd spent the time wandering mostly, though he finally did climb up into the branches of an elm tree a few hours before dawn and catch some fitful, restless sleep.
"Sneaking off in the night would not be honorable."
In truth Ghaji had contemplated doing that very thing, but while it might have been the wiser course, he hadn't been able to do it. He knew that Chagai and the others would have blamed what they saw as his betrayal on his half-blood nature. Plus, he knew that they would never allow him to break away from the company like that. They'd hunt him down, no matter where in Khorvaire he went and no matter how long it took. So both pride and pragmatism prompted Ghaji to return to speak with Chagai one last time.
"So you've come to tell me you're leaving."
Chagai still didn't open his eyes, but seeing the orc's muscles begin to tense up, Ghaji knew he had to be on his guard. Ghaji glanced over at Eggera and Murtt. They remained reclining against the oak tree, but both were now watching Ghaji with amused interest and, he thought, the beginnings of bloodlust.
"Yes."
Chagai at last opened his eyes. He looked up at Ghaji, his gaze unreadable. "I suppose this has something to do with last night's raid."
"It does."
Chagai unfolded his legs and rose to his feet. Though the mercenary captain left his broadsword lying on the ground, Ghaji still took a step backward, cursing himself for displaying such weakness.
Chagai's eyes narrowed and his lips curled back to display his teeth. "What's wrong? Spilling a little blood last night make you queasy?"
Eggera and Murtt barked out harsh laughter, but Ghaji didn't turn to look at them. He knew that taking his attention off Chagai even for a second could well prove to be a fatal mistake. "You have seen me in battle many times. Have I ever given you cause to doubt my courage?"
"Before last night? No." Chagai took a step toward Ghaji, a definite challenge. "But then perhaps you managed to keep your human half in check up to this point."
Ghaji gritted his teeth, but he refused to allow Chagai to bait him into attacking. "Orc, human, or in-between, it makes no difference. There was no honor in what we did last night. It was not a battle nor a hunt. It was slaughter, pure and simple."
Chagai shrugged. "That's what we were paid to do." He gave Ghaji a sharp-toothed grin.
"Strength without honor is meaningless. Killing without conscience or need is murder. I can no longer serve with you, Chagai. I'm leaving."
Ghaji had done what honor demanded and spoken directly to his commander before leaving. Now all that remained was to see if he could get out of here alive. He turned his back on Ch
agai and began walking toward the edge of the clearing, trying to hurry without looking like he was hurrying.
He heard a soft rustle of grass and knew that Chagai was coming for him. He feinted right then dodged left just as Chagai's broadsword whisked through the air where his neck had been an instant before. Ghaji hit the ground, rolled, and drew his axe as he came up onto his feet. He raised his weapon just in time to block Chagai's second swing. Chagai was a full orc and stronger than Ghaji, and the impact nearly caused Ghaji to lose his grip on his weapon. The broadsword was forged of superior steel and it cut a notch in Ghaji's axe-blade.
Chagai stepped back. "You're a disgrace, Ghaji. You never should have been born in the first place. The only way to redeem yourself is to surrender and allow me to end your misbegotten life."
Ghaji tightened his grip on his axe handle. "Maybe I shouldn't have been given life, but I was, and I'll be damned if I'll let the likes of you take it from me." He lifted his axe, bellowed a war-cry, and charged.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Yvka, Tresslar, and Hinto had run out of small talk and were getting tired of drinking the King Prawn's lousy ale. The broken door of the common room slammed inward.
As Asenka dashed in and ran over to their table, the three companions rose to their feet.
"Where are they?" Yvka demanded.
Asenka frowned in confusion. "Who?" she said between gasps for breath.
"Diran and Ghaji," Tresslar said. "We haven't seen them for a while, and from the way you burst in, it's obvious they're in trouble."
"She can tell us on the way!" Hinto said as he started for the door. "Come on!"
