Thief of Lives nd-2

by Barb Hendee

  He sighed and arose, picking up his punching blade and lifting his bed against the wall.

  Dressed only in loose breeches, he maneuvered around the small room in his bare feet. He almost never took off his stilettos, so he practiced with those strapped to his forearms as well. It would do no good to adjust to his new weapons, and then have to compensate midbattle for additional weight on his arms.

  He spun around, kicking up swiftly behind a swipe of the blade. He repeated this several times and then shifted the weapon to his other hand, preparing to go again on his other side. The door to his room swung open.

  "What in the seven hells are you doing in here?" Magiere asked, rubbing her eyes.

  Leesil froze, legs slightly bent from a finished spin and his arm straight out with the new blade.

  Magiere blinked, half-awake, but her eyes fully opened as her gaze slipped along his bare arm and the weapon.

  "Sorry," Leesil said quickly, lowering the blade to his side. "Didn't mean to wake you."

  Magiere didn't seem to hear him as she stepped into the room. She still wore her faded white shirt from the day. Except for her amulets, she wore nothing else that Leesil could see. Her bare feet seemed small for her height, and her legs were the same pale, near-white of her face and hands, from ankles across smooth, muscled calves to just above…

  "Is that what the smith made?" she asked. "I was wondering when you'd get around to showing me."

  Leesil faltered a moment before catching her question.

  "A punching blade, of sorts," he answered. "With some changes of my own."

  He lifted the weapon, holding up the wing that extended back along his forearm.

  "Stand back and watch," he said, and Magiere returned to the doorway.

  He spun again and kicked and then shot out throat-high with his bladed hand. A quick punch with his free hand followed, and he whipped around again. The blade scythed an arc through the air at neck level.

  "Might not decapitate on the first strike," he said. "But it'll get the job the done. Wait till the twin is finished. Heads will fly."

  Magiere stepped close again, studying the bright steel more closely. A soft smile on her face was barely visible beneath the shadow of her hair.

  "Soon you won't even need me," she said.

  "Nonsense, I'll always need you," he answered instantly.

  A brief and embarrassed silence followed. Again, Magiere's gaze followed the blade along his arm, and this time continued up along his shoulder.

  Leesil had a sudden urge to touch her face and caught himself halfway to reaching for her cheek. He pushed his white hair out of his eyes instead.

  "I'll be quiet now. You should get some more sleep."

  Magiere stepped back to the door.

  "It's all right if you need to practice. I don't think anyone but me would hear, but you should get some sleep yourself."

  She reached for the latch to pull the door closed.

  "Good night," he said.

  She looked at him a moment longer and then closed the door, saying, "Good night," in return.

  Leesil set his blade on the table and jerked the bed back down with both hands. Dropping on it, he puffed the candle out and lay in the dark, eyes closed, trying to clear his thoughts. He lay quietly for a long time-how long, he didn't know-and listened to the click-tick against his window.

  Late night to early morning in Miiska always brought a coastal breeze through the trees. Large firs and pines out back of the tavern were old and long limbed, occasionally fingering the tavern's rear walls and shutters. He'd listen to the settling sound reminding him that they'd made a place in the world away from the cold outside. Click-tick, they whispered.

  He wasn't in Miiska.

  And there were no trees in the back alley behind this inn.

  Someone was trying to break into his room.

  Toret hung down from the roof to the window's edge and opened his vision to its full extent. The crescent moon provided enough light for his undead eyes, but when he peered into the inn's small room, the bed to the left was pushed too near the window's wall for him to see it clearly.

  Using hardened fingernails, he hooked and pulled the window's frame outward just enough to slip a blade into the crack. An early-evening visit by Chane to the Burdock had revealed that it boasted four private guest rooms and only the first two were occupied. Although still shaky from the previous night's events, Toret could wait no longer. The dhampir and her sly half-elf would be caught in their beds tonight and quickly killed.

  The newest members of his "family" were Tibor and Sestmir, both of whom showed him a good deal more respect than Chane ever had. They treated him as they would a captain at sea, and this was a benefit he hadn't expected. Chane wasn't accustomed to orders or to looking after anyone but himself. Tibor and Sestmir expressed confusion and fear regarding their new existence, but once taught to feed and given their orders, they had adapted and even shown a dutiful attention to their master's welfare.

  Tibor, tall and lanky with close-shaven brown hair and clear brown eyes, was skilled with the hook-tipped saber, and now waited while Toret worked the latch. Sestmir had gone with Chane to the next window down the inn's alley side.

  "Don't forget about the dog," Toret whispered to Tibor. "It's fierce and unnatural. And its bite burns like fire and leaves scars."

  The window latch gave and he paused, listening for any sound inside the room. Nothing.

  "Let me enter first, master," Tibor whispered.

  "No," Toret answered. "Whichever one is in here will die quickly in bed. But if a fight breaks, you watch for any chance to kill from behind. Do you understand?"

  "Yes."

  Toret swung the window open and slipped down lower along the wall. He pivoted his grip on the sill and let his feet settle quietly on the ledge. Slipping his long sword out, he stepped down into the room.

  The bed's blankets were wrinkled but flat. The bed was empty.

  From his right, he caught a glint in the dark arcing toward his head.

  Toret lifted his long sword and felt the resounding clang of steel against steel as a foot slammed into his side and propelled him across the small room. He hit the wall near the door and pushed off, swinging the sword back to force his opponent away. Legs slightly bent, sword straight out, Toret faced his skulking attacker.

  Out of the corner came a slender man wielding a strange blade along one arm, naked to the waist. His skin was golden brown, and white-blond hair hung to his shoulders.

  Toret hesitated as recognition flowed into his mind.

  "Elf," he whispered.

  The half-blood's eyes widened. His jaw dropped ever so slightly in disbelief.

  "You?" he hissed.

  Tibor dropped in through the window, saber in hand.

  "Magiere!" the half-blood shouted. "Get up!"

  And Toret charged.

  Chane saw Toret slip through the window and knew he had to move quickly. He hoped the half-elf would be waiting inside the room he would now enter. As much as Toret feared the half-blood, Chane preferred to have his master battling the dhampir. Chane wasn't remotely afraid. He could handle almost any kind of fight, but he felt potential freedom lingering close. The dhampir had a better chance of finishing Toret.

  "Stay here unless I call for you," he said to Sestmir.

  The mindless minion nodded. Although pleased that the creation of these new slaves had weakened Toret, Chane found them almost as annoying as Sapphire. It was sickening the way they groveled so before their maker. He dropped through the window and landed without a sound.

  A low, rumbling growl filled the room.

  Chane turned to lock gazes with an enormous blue-gray hound glaring at him with crystalline eyes. Its coat almost shimmered in the dark room.

  The bedcovers shifted, someone turning beneath them. All Chane could see was dark hair around a pale woman's face as she groaned in annoyance.

  "Chap…?"

  The dog leaped, wailing, and
struck Chane hard at the waist.

  Its teeth sank through his cloak into his sword arm. Shock and pain hit him as his forearm began to burn as if ignited from the inside.

  A loud thud came through the wall from the next room, and a voice shouted, "Magiere, get up!"

  Blankets flew off the bed into the air. From behind the flurry of cloth, the woman scrambled for the near corner of the room. This was happening too fast.

  Chane punched the dog in the head, and it tumbled away and rolled back to its feet. Its snarling and wailing pounded in Chane's ears.

  The black-haired woman stood near the door, an unsheathed falchion in her hand. Dressed only in a loose shirt, she had pale skin like one of his own kind. A light below her throat pulled his gaze to a small stone on a chain that glowed brightly, casting her features in yellow tones. He had not expected her to be lovely.

  Thumping footfalls and scraping metal sounded from the next room, and the dog's attention shifted. It looked quickly at the woman. Without taking her eyes from Chane, she flipped the door's latch and flung it open, and the dog raced out.

  Saliva filled Chane's mouth, and he willed himself into tight control. If she was the dhampir, then Toret now faced the half-blood. Chane needed to make this look like a true fight, without killing her or allowing her to kill him. No small feat.

  She was poised, blade at guard, waiting and watching. Grunts and cries and the dog's wail sounded from the other room, and then another loud thud, but the dhampir remained fixed upon him.

  "Come for me," he said, throwing his torn cloak off.

  She took in the sight of him, and her gaze settled on his leather gloves.

  Chane felt unsettling confusion as her dark brown irises flooded to pitch black. She hissed at him, her mouth lined with elongated canines among sharp-edged teeth.

  Cold wrath coiled inside Leesil. Ratboy? How was that possible?

  He'd seen the little undead vanish into Miiska's woods with a wooden branch through his chest. Now he was somehow in Bela? The sly little creature looked different, well dressed and groomed, and brandishing a crafted long sword fit to his size. But it was indeed Ratboy, and he wasn't alone.

  Leesil wanted to rush the door and get to Magiere, but Ratboy stood in the way, and an armed sailor dropped through the window. No doubt some undead was slipping into Magiere's room as well.

  If two faced him, how many had come for Magiere?

  Ratboy hesitated, and Leesil feinted with his blade at the sailor, keeping him at bay. He was about to call out to Magiere again, when the door slammed inward as the jamb splintered. The snarling mass of Chap charged past Ratboy and into the sailor.

  Leesil quick-stepped toward Ratboy. He slammed the arm blade down hard against the undead's lunging thrust, and then spun and kicked Ratboy in the face. The scrawny undead grunted as his head whipped to one side, and Leesil stepped in tight, driving his blade's point at Ratboy's throat.

  The space in front of Leesil was empty. Steel flashed down from his right.

  A quick twist of shoulder and arm, and Leesil blocked. The long sword screeched along his blade's edge. Snarling and the sound of a man's painful cry filled up the room. Chap had gotten past the sailor's guard and connected with his teeth. Ratboy settled back into the room's center, blade out.

  It struck Leesil as bizarre that this creature, who'd fought so viciously with teeth and fingernails, now relied on a weapon.

  With a wrist flick, Leesil slipped a stiletto into his empty left hand.

  "Remember these?" he said, holding the thin blade out in plain sight. "I think you still have one. Been bothering your guts much lately?"

  Ratboy hissed and charged. Someone had taught him to wield the sword, but a man with a sword was just that and nothing more, if he didn't keep his wits. The second Ratboy lunged, Leesil spun again, low beneath the thrust.

  His foot caught the inside of a knee, and Ratboy's balance faltered.

  Leesil hooked the long sword's crossguard with the stiletto blade. He didn't need to hold it off but only guide it away on Ratboy's momentum. Rising up, he pushed off the floor with his legs, snapping his arm blade forward.

  At the last moment, a sudden lurch by Ratboy made Leesil's blade point miss its mark at the undead's throat, and pierce just below his collarbone. Leesil drove forward and up with his entire weight.

  Ratboy stiffened as his slender body was slammed against the wall and his feet left the floor. Unable to cry out, he stared in shock at the blade buried nearly to its grip in his upper chest.

  Mundane weapons might not even slow down an undead, but a gaping wound in any creature's body would cause confusion if not outright panic. At least that was in Leesil's mind when he'd first conceived his new weapons. Now he only wished he had the second blade to take this little vermin's head. His left hand arched up, driving the stiletto through Ratboy's left eye.

  The small undead screamed this time and dropped his sword. He slashed with his fingernails, catching Leesil across throat and shoulder. Pain burned Leesil's skin, and he retreated, losing hold of the stiletto, but keeping his grip on the punching blade.

  Ratboy dropped to his feet and jerked the stiletto out, flinging it away as he stumbled along the wall to the corner, dark trails running down his cheek from his mangled eye socket. Leesil clutched at his own throat, but saw the surprise on Ratboy's face as the undead looked down at himself.

  Black fluids poured from his chest wound, soaking his split tunic and dripping down to the floor.

  Leesil hesitated in shock. Had his blade gone so deep?

  Chap and the undead sailor toppled to the corner beyond the window, the sailor's saber lost in the scuffle. With Chap's teeth clamped around his wrist, claws tearing at the man's face, the sailor resorted to his own teeth and nails.

  Before Leesil could move, Ratboy reeled toward them and kicked the hound in the side. Chap tumbled back against the foot of the bed with a yelp, and the sailor snarled as he tried to seize the dog. Leesil started to rush in.

  A snap and hum sounded behind him, and something whipped past him through the air.

  The sailor lurched back on his knees. The feathered end of a quarrel protruded from his throat, its metal head sticking out below the back of his skull. He clutched at it, as his throat began to smoke.

  Leesil glanced back to see Vatz in the doorway with an empty crossbow in his hands. He was trying to recock the string, his face scrunched in determination.

  "Run!" Ratboy shouted, clambering through the window. "Now."

  Chap lunged after the sailor, but his front leg gave way. Ratboy suddenly reached back through the window from outside, grabbed the undead sailor's arm, and they both were out the window and gone.

  "Vatz, stay with Chap," Leesil snapped.

  He pushed the boy aside and dodged into the hallway. Magiere's door was half-open, and the room inside burst into flames.

  Too many impressions spilled into Magiere's awareness at once.

  She didn't need to look down, for the topaz amulet's glow filled the space in front of her. Leesil had shouted and was likely under attack as well. She felt relief when Chap charged out the door, and inwardly willed Leesil to stay alive until she could get to him. A tall undead with a long sword, dressed like a nobleman, stood in her room by the window. He was broad-shouldered and clean-shaven, his red-brown hair tucked behind his ears. She didn't know him, but marked him as someone of means.

  And his black gloves fit well.

  A gnawing began in her stomach and raced up her throat as the ache spiked through her jaw.

  "Come for me," he said, throwing his cloak off.

  Instinct flooded Magiere, and the room lit up in her sight until she could clearly see its darkest corners. A hiss escaped her throat, followed by hunger rising from her stomach.

  His cold face was void of emotion or thought. He simply stood, waiting as she charged.

  Magiere swung the falchion for his neck. He blocked and turned his own sword at the point of contact,
trying to slide hers away. She shifted and pulled her slash to the right. His long sword's tip cracked down on the bed's end, and Magiere rammed her knee into his rib cage, sending him tumbling over the bed and his own sword. She sidestepped to the room's center to go after him, but he'd already righted himself with his sword at guard.

  Emotion now registered on his face. Hunger. Arousal.

  Flickering sensations passed through Magiere. She'd felt this enough times before that it was now familiar.

  His desire to feed on her slipped inside her head. When she'd fought Rashed or Teesha, the only impressions she'd felt were hatred and the wish to see her dead. But this creature hungered for her.

  Magiere fought down the answering desire to tear him open with her teeth. She matched his stance, blade at ready, and her wits returned.

  She had to get back inside his guard and take his head, but a flesh wound might give her an opening. Her falchion had proven painful to undeads in the past, though she didn't understand why. If she could just slice his chest or sword arm…

  He made a fast slash, slipping over the top of Magiere's sword before she could counter, and she was forced to retreat. At that he circled near the window again. He straightened slightly, his features smoothing to a calm, calculating expression.

  His hunger faded from Magiere's awareness, leaving nothing in its wake.

  Instead of the impressions themselves, the instant loss of them broke Magiere's concentration. A small panic set in. She could no longer feel what drove him.

  She feinted to his right, and when he moved to block, she reversed and slashed him across his upper left arm. He didn't cry out but reared backward in shock, and she swung at his throat.

  His swiftness surprised her as he dropped and crab-stepped back to her right, and her falchion cleaved through empty air. He kicked out, and his booted foot caught her in the side and stomach. Magiere's bare feet slipped, and she fell back against the wall beside the window.