Thief of Lives

by J. C.

  Chane pulled Wynn after him until he reached an intersection where the tunnel connected with a wider passage. It looked to be one of the main flow routes down to the bay with elevated stone walkways along its sides. At one far corner was an iron ladder mounted into the stone that led up a vertical shaft. It likely led to a grate in one of the city's streets. Chane lifted Wynn onto the walkway to the left of where they had come out and stepped up beside her.

  "Be silent," he said. "And put the crystal out of sight."

  "Chane, do not do this," she urged.

  He shot her a glare and held up the long sword between them. Wynn cowered back against the wall and tucked the crystal into her pocket. Chane settled in front of her near the corner, watching the far wall of the tunnel they'd come down for reflections of light that would tell him the pursuer drew near.

  So far, this dhampir had proved less than effective in his scheme to destroy Toret. He was through with schemes.

  * * * *

  Toret dropped out of the cellar's passage and down into the sewer tunnel. He looked both ways through the dark but couldn't detect any sign of Sapphire. She had a good start, and he now had a decision to make.

  He could head toward the poor districts of the outer ring or closer to the exits to the bay. But which way had Sapphire taken? He'd told her to head for the sea, but she could be… unpredictable.

  As her maker, he could sense her presence for a limited distance. His powers had never developed like Teesha's or Rashed's, but he could almost "feel" where Sapphire was if he focused.

  Toret closed his eyes, pictured Sapphire—and felt nothing.

  Sapphire wouldn't head toward the poor side. She liked the rich districts after nightfall. He'd hoped she might try for somewhere with fewer people out and about. Perhaps the middle merchant district, where most shops would be closed for the night. He turned south along the tunnel.

  Wading through mucky water slowed his progress, but with Sapphire's blue velvet gown soaked, it would slow her as well. He traveled more quickly than she would, and yet neither saw nor sensed her. Perhaps he'd chosen the wrong way? Was she foolish enough to head upslope to the inner ring?

  When he turned about to reconsider, there was torchlight down the tunnel behind him.

  Sapphire wasn't carrying a torch.

  Had the hound led the half-blood to the cellar? That beast had tracked Rashed straight to the warehouse back in Miiska. It made sickening sense. He tensed, caught between fear and anger.

  Leesil, with his cursed luck, was onto him.

  Toret fled along the tunnel, searching for a place to lie in wait. If he was to escape this time, he had to make sure no one could track him again.

  He would see that hound rot with the refuse beneath the city.

  * * * *

  Chap jumped from Toret's cellar and landed with a splash in the center of the sewer.

  "Which way?" Leesil asked.

  The hound growled and headed southward against the flow of water. Leesil hopped down, the stench assaulting his nose. Beneath the smell of waste was the distinct odor of brine. He shifted the sack with Sapphire's head to the back of his belt, and quickly followed Chap.

  Ratboy wouldn't leave this city—at least not in one piece.

  The fine white hairs on Leesil's neck prickled with the strange sensation of being watched. He looked behind, holding the torch out. The light revealed only dank walls and slow-running water. He tried putting the torch behind himself, so his half-elven eyes could sift more easily through the shadows, but he saw nothing.

  Chap waded onward, and Leesil followed again, each passing moment a sharp edge sliding across his nerves.

  And still they moved on, approaching numerous intersecting tunnels. Each time, he called Chap back long enough to check them carefully. When the way was clear, he let Chap lead again, watching to see if the hound turned. But the dog continued straight south, even at the occasional wider flow ways leading down toward the bay.

  After a while, Leesil wondered if Chap truly followed a trail. Magiere's topaz, hanging about his neck, glowed with only a dim aura. There was an undead down here, but they weren't gaining any ground. How could Chap track Ratboy through running water?

  Ahead, the tunnel floor slanted sharply upward beyond a wide archway. As he came closer, he spotted a line of jagged points along the opening's top edge and a matching archway at the top of the slope. Raised stone walkways lined both sides of the rise, and Leesil could hear the continuous splash of running water from somewhere above. Chap passed through, working his way up, and a yellow shimmer reflected off the dank walls around Leesil. He looked down.

  The topaz brightened right before his eyes.

  "Chap, come back!" Leesil called.

  A rattle of chains echoed down the rising passage, and the archway's spikes descended rapidly toward Leesil's head. He lurched back in reflex.

  Leesil thought he glimpsed a flickering shape roll under the iron gate's edge just before it splashed into the water, and then a spray of salt water made him shield his face. Up-slope, Chap broke into battle cry, and the eerie wail echoed through the sewers.

  Holding his torch high, Leesil peered through the gate up the passage. Past the upper archway, the floor leveled off out of sight in a large, round chamber. He couldn't see if there were other entrances or passages leading into it. Chap's snarl sounded from above, but the hound was beyond view over the slope's top lip.

  A familiar voice echoed down to him.

  "Too bad the gate missed you." Ratboy's high-pitched laugh rolled along the walls. "But now you get to watch me slaughter your beast, and you'll never track us again."

  "Chap, come back to the gate!" Leesil shouted, but he already heard the splashing of feet in shallow water and knew Ratboy was closing.

  Chap was a born tracker and fighter, like the bear hounds of the Warlands, bred by petty lords and tyrants for hunting mountain bears. Those hounds would go to any length to track their prey and threw themselves headlong into battle if not controlled. Many died on their first hunt. Chap was even more willful than those mere beasts.

  The gate was here for a reason, though Leesil couldn't fathom why. Deeper inside the sewers, it had been overlooked by the city guard when they sealed the outer spillways. He looked about for a way to open it but only spotted brackets on the walls to either side. Jamming his torch into one, he gripped the gate with both hands and strained to lift it. The barrier wouldn't budge.

  Chap's snarl grew loud again amidst a flurry of splashes.

  "Leave him," Leesil shouted. "Back away to me."

  Even if Chap did as he commanded, Ratboy wouldn't abandon this chance to kill the hound.

  A flicker of shadow across the upper archway made Leesil pause from straining at the gate. The chamber's darkness above was too severe even for his eyes. He snatched the torch and threw it through the gate onto the left walkway, as far up as he could. Framed in the upper archway was the capering figure of Ratboy maneuvering around Chap, the hound's silvery coat tinged to gold in the torchlight.

  Ratboy dodged and swung down with a thick short sword, barely missing Chap's neck.

  "Valhachkasej'a!" Leesil cursed, wishing he'd grabbed Vatz's crossbow before the boy had left.

  Chap dashed inside Ratboy's guard. Spinning around behind, the hound snapped teeth along the back of Ratboy's knee. The undead cried out but turned with the dog and kicked out hard, catching Chap in the side. The hound tumbled back out of sight with a cascade of splashes.

  Snarling, Ratboy faced into the chamber with sword raised.

  Leesil drew his right blade and chopped down on the gate's crossbars. Steel clanged against iron, leaving only a minor gash.

  Ratboy glanced toward him, sharp teeth bared in a sneer, and then turned back to Chap. Leesil struck the gate again and again, but Ratboy gave no more notice.

  From beyond the upper archway's right side, a silvery flutter skimmed through the air.

  Ratboy's head snapped sideways as h
e staggered. He righted himself and reached up with his free hand.

  A stiletto of bright metal protruded from the base of his neck.

  Leesil stopped his assault, lost in confusion. He'd have done that himself if he'd thought it would do any good.

  "Stop," a smooth, lilting voice ordered.

  The echo from the upper chamber made it impossible for Leesil to tell where the voice came from. A gray specter slid forward into view.

  Standing to the upper archway's right was a gray-clad figure, cowl up and cloak corners tied around its waist. Coiled between the fingers of its left fist was a silvery wire glinting in the torchlight. It was like the garrote in Leesil's own toolbox, and recognition filled him.

  This was the anmaglâhk from the previous night.

  The elf had followed him and must have been the shadow he'd glimpsed slipping under the gate before it closed. The stiletto had been nothing more than a ploy to gain Ratboy's attention.

  "What's this?" Ratboy uttered, as he slid the stained blade from his neck. "A new playmate?"

  "You are not my concern," the elf said calmly. "Leave the hound."

  At those words, Ratboy appeared uncertain, but Leesil couldn't believe what he was hearing. He unsheathed his second blade.

  "Kill him!" he yelled at the elf. "Fire or decapitation is the only way."

  The elf gave him no notice. His cowled head turned toward the back of the chamber as he said, "Please, stand with me."

  Chap came into view as he circled in to stand a pace or two back on the elf's side of the archway. The man looked to the hound, holding his hands open to his sides, and said something in Elvish that Leesil couldn't follow.

  "He's an undead," Leesil spit in frustration. "Take his head, now."

  The torch's crackle was the only sound for the span of two breaths.

  Ratboy screamed out, dropping his sword and stiletto as he lunged at the elf. He collided into the elf, and both collapsed down in a spray of water.

  Leesil expected Chap to fly into the battle, but the hound held his place, snarling in frustration as he watched the two flail. Ratboy's hand rose up, fingers hooked, and he slashed down at the elf's neck, fingernails shredding the side of the cowl. The elf's gray-clad leg whipped up and around the front of Ratboy's throat.

  Leesil's view was obscured again by the splash of Ratboy toppling, and he saw little more than a whirl of wet bodies and water thrown into the air. When it ended, the elf was behind Ratboy, who sat or knelt with the garrote whipped around his neck.

  The elf's hands jerked apart, and the wire closed instantly, cutting into Ratboy's throat.

  "Don't let go," Leesil called out. "Finish it."

  Even with just torchlight, Leesil saw the line around Rat-boy's throat darken as black fluids began to seep out.

  Ratboy reached back and grabbed the sides of the elf's cloak. He jerked the elf over the top of himself. As the elf passed in front, Ratboy kicked out, sending the taller man slamming against the side of the archway. But the elf lost only one grip on the garrote handles, and as the wire lashed free of Ratboy's neck, it bit deeper.

  Ratboy scuttled back, holding his throat. His gaze never strayed from the tall gray figure as he fumbled in the water to recover his sword.

  "Go," the elf said again. "Go hunt humans. Leave the majay-hi."

  Chap inched toward the wiry undead.

  Still clutching his throat, Ratboy passed one last hateful glance toward Leesil, turned, and ran out of view.

  "No!" Leesil screamed out and smashed his blades against the gate.

  * * * *

  Hunger boiled up from Magiere's stomach.

  Torch held high, she slowed at the intersection ahead and aimed her crossbow toward the arched opening. When the blade flashed out from her left, she quickly swiped it aside with the torch and sidestepped into the intersection.

  Chane stood on a walkway with Wynn directly behind him. He pulled her around in front of himself with one hand clamped over her mouth. The sage was so small that her head barely reached his collarbone. Magiere felt her teeth begin to ache.

  "Let her go," she ordered.

  She tossed the torch to the far side walkway and drew her falchion. To her surprise, his voice was calm and polite.

  "Is Toret dead?"

  She didn't care about his questions or anything but seeing his head come off, and she took two steps toward him through the water.

  "Take your hand off her. Unless you want to fight with one arm."

  "I doubt you could accomplish that without severely wounding your friend."

  For an answer, Magiere squeezed the crossbow's firing lever. The quarrel pierced Chane's exposed calf, already marred from Chap's teeth, and he cried out as smoke rose around the embedded shaft. Chane's grip faltered as he folded in pain, reaching for the quarrel, and Wynn lunged away along the wall.

  Magiere threw the empty crossbow onto the walkway at the sage's feet. It would have been a perfect moment to press Chane, but until Wynn was better protected, Magiere couldn't afford to rush the tall undead. As Chane jerked the quarrel from his leg and stepped into the tunnel's running water, Magiere cut the quiver's strap with her falchion and tossed the quarrels after the crossbow.

  "Load it," she ordered Wynn, stepping forward to put herself between the sage and the undead nobleman.

  She could feel a shift in Chane's presence. Before, at the inn and in the house, she'd sensed hunger and evasion. She saw a hint of determination.

  "Stop it! Both of you," Wynn called. "Chane, she is unique—do not harm her. Magiere, none of this is his fault. Toret took him without permission."

  Pointless words, but as Magiere glared over to silence her, Wynn was fitting one of the last two quarrels into the crossbow.

  "When I tell you," Magiere said, "shoot him."

  It was unlikely Wynn had any skill with the weapon, but the words would play upon Chane well enough. The undead circled, looking for an opening.

  "She will not fire at me," he said with quiet certainty. "You are wasting your breath."

  "At least I have breath to waste," she replied.

  It had never occurred to her that Wynn was anything other than a hostage, but there was apparently something more between these two. But as Magiere matched Chane's maneuvers, she saw the sage point the crossbow at the undead.

  He rolled his arm over and up and swung downward, trying Rashed's old trick of brute strength to crash through Magiere's guard. The force was immense, and Magiere dropped halfway to one knee as she blocked. He wasn't playing anymore.

  But she never had been.

  Magiere deflected and slashed low at his legs. When he retreated, she spun backward through the water for distance. He charged immediately, swinging the sword down as she rose to her feet. This time she dodged and slashed again for his leg. He tried to step away, but the falchion's tip cut across his left knee. He grunted, and as he buckled from the burn of her blade, he slashed upward.

  The long sword's point cut partway through Magiere's hauberk below the collar and sliced her left shoulder. She staggered back, regaining her feet as the pain flared.

  Chane favored his wounded leg, and Magiere felt blood seeping into her shirt at the shoulder. She needed him off guard for a moment.

  "Wynn, shoot him!" she called.

  Chane tried to circle but was now limping. At the sight of her blood, his irises dilated, turning crystalline. She felt hunger grow in him, and something else as well.

  Desire.

  Chane took pleasure in killing, in feeding, in the last moments of his victim's lives.

  Why hadn't Wynn fired?

  He rushed forward and, at the last second, swung low with his sword.

  When Magiere dipped her falchion to block, his free hand snapped out around her wrist. On momentum, he thrust her back against the wall.

  Magiere let the hunger rash through her flesh. She thrust her fist into his jaw.

  His head snapped back so hard that his body arched away fro
m her, and he lost his grip on her sword arm. His eyes widened as he reeled, and his teeth were stained with his own black fluids.

  Magiere swung her freed blade down at his head.

  Chane blocked, and the steel clang echoed sharply. He pressed on her throat, forcing Magiere into the wall again.

  Blades locked between them, Magiere slapped her free hand around his throat, and her fingers squeezed into cold flesh. Her back came away from the wall.

  Chane slowly lost ground, and then set himself, pushing harder, trying to lever the long sword around her falchion toward her face.

  In a quick spasm, his eyes and seeping mouth widened as he cried out and pulled away.

  The sudden release threw Magiere off balance, and she stumbled. When she regained her footing, Chane was trying desperately to reach a smoking quarrel protruding from his lower back. He looked overwhelmed with shock more than pain as the smoke rose up from his body.

  "Wynn… ?" he whispered in confusion.

  Magiere saw the young sage already reloading the last quarrel. In that moment of distraction, Chane slashed out wildly with his sword and sliced Magiere across the right thigh.

  Her weight gave, and she splashed down to one knee. But Chane staggered as well, smoke still rising from the quarrel in his back. He moaned, clutching at the shaft.

  Magiere braced with the falchion to get back up, but she couldn't keep weight on her wounded leg for too long. Chane was in no better shape. If she could get close enough for one swing…

  "Aim for his head!" she yelled to Wynn.

  But Wynn stood frozen in place. Tears ran down her cheeks.

  The world slowed to a stop and all three stared at each other in silence.

  If Wynn would simply fire, there would too much pain for Chane to defend or flee. If Wynn did not, Magiere's wounded leg might stop her from catching him.

  Chane searched Wynn's face as if looking for something in it.

  "If you take a step toward Magiere—or try to cast your magic," Wynn whispered, "I will shoot."