No one made a sound as the ripples caused by the submerging she-crab slowly subsided, but once the water was calm again, one of the raiders stepped forward, grabbed Zabeth by the elbow, and hauled the elderly shifter woman to her feet. Makala expected Zabeth to attack the man just as she had Ernard, but her bestial features were gone. She was just a frightened, exhausted old woman who could barely remain on her feet.
“I don’t know who captured you,” the raider said, “but whoever it was is an idiot. We don’t have any need for shifters, let alone any as old as you.” With his free hand, the raider unsheathed his sword. “Ernard was no friend of mine,” the man said with a slowly widening smile, “but I’m going to enjoy taking revenge for him.”
“No!” Makala shouted.
She tried to put herself between Zabeth and the raider, but someone reached out and grabbed hold of the chain connecting her wrist manacles. The raider was female, and Makala recognized her as one of the pair that had climbed down into the Nightwind’s hold. Steel whispered and the woman pressed the point of a dagger to the underside of Makala’s chin.
“Careful, you’re about to make yourself more trouble than you’re worth,” the raider warned.
Makala wished her mind wasn’t dulled by hunger and her reflexes slowed by weariness. She knew she couldn’t just stand here and let Zabeth be slaughtered, but her brain refused to offer up any alternatives.
The raider who had hold of Zabeth raised his sword high, preparing to bring it down in a killing stroke. Makala hoped that Zabeth might be able to once more unleash the bestial side of her shifter, but the old woman just looked at the sword blade gleaming in the moonlight with tired resignation and waited for death to claim her.
“Hold!”
The voice echoed through the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The raider holding Zabeth froze, an expression of stark terror on his face. Makala glanced at the woman holding the dagger to her throat and saw a similar expression mirrored on her face. All the raiders looked scared, and they all stood motionless as statues, heads turned toward the entrance in the cliff wall where the dock disappeared into darkness. Makala turned and watched as two figures came striding forth from the shadows. She recognized the one on the left as Onkar. The raider commander was grinning, displaying his sharp vampire teeth, and his eyes glowed red like two smoldering fires.
At first she thought the woman walking next to Onkar was also a vampire. She was beautiful: tall, thin, and pale, with a slightly angular face and long raven-black hair. She was garbed in a red leather bustier and black skirt, but as Onkar and the woman drew closer, Makala could see that she was human after all. Her eyes didn’t burn with crimson fire, and though her flesh was pale, it wasn’t fish-belly white like Onkar’s. While the sea captain moved with the fluid grace of a large predatory cat, the woman, graceful enough in her own right, couldn’t match the vampire’s eerie litheness.
As Onkar and the raven-haired woman stepped before Zabeth and the raider holding his sword over the old woman’s head, Makala thought she’d have to revise her estimate. Onkar’s companion might be mortal, but the raiders had shied away from her presence as much if not more than Onkar’s.
The man holding Zabeth slowly lowered his sword, as if he didn’t want to risk making any sudden movements near Onkar or the woman. He bowed his head.
“Commander Onkar, Lady Jarlain,” the man said in a quavering voice. “How may I serve you?”
“You can release the shifter woman,” Onkar said, “unless you’d like to take her place.”
The raider paled and shook his head. He released his hold on Zabeth, quickly sheathed his sword and scurried off to lose himself among his fellow raiders.
The black-haired woman—Lady Jarlain—turned to look at the raider holding the dagger against Makala’s neck. “You, too, dear. Put the knife away and go before I decide you could use a session or two alone with me in my chambers.”
Though there was no overt menace in Jarlain’s tone, the raider made a terrified choking noise and pulled the blade away from Makala’s throat. She sheathed the dagger, bowed low to Onkar and Jarlain, and departed at a near run.
Jarlain might not be a vampire, Makala thought, but she certainly inspired as much fear in the raiders as one.
Onkar turned to address his crew. “Stop standing around and get these prisoners inside!” When no one moved right away, he shouted, “Now!” in an inhumanly loud voice that made the wooden boards of the dock shudder beneath their feet.
That broke the raiders’ paralysis, and they hurriedly resumed herding prisoners down the dock and into the cliff tunnel. After all that had occurred since they’d arrived, the prisoners gave their captors no trouble and went along quietly.
Makala put her hands on Zabeth’s shoulders, intending to help the shifter woman rejoin the rest of their fellow prisoners, but Onkar held up a hand to stop her.
“Not you. You’re not going to the holding pen with the rest of the rabble like this old wolf.”
The vampire took hold of Zabeth’s arm and shoved her toward the line of marching prisoners. The elderly woman stumbled and Makala feared she would fall, but Zabeth managed to maintain her balance. She gave Makala a last look, said, “Take care of yourself now,” then fell into line with the other prisoners.
“You too,” Makala replied, though she knew it would be far easier said than done for both of them. She turned to Onkar and Jarlain, trying not to look as frightened as she felt. “Where am I to go?”
Onkar’s lips stretched into a smile wider than any human mouth could make, and his fangs glistened wet in the moonlight. “You’ve been granted a great honor,” the vampire said. “You get to meet the master.”
Jarlain’s smile was smaller than Onkar’s but no less sinister. “We’re taking you to see Erdis Cai.”
CHAPTER
TEN
Trembling with excitement, Ghaji crouched behind a tall tuft of swamp grass near an ancient elm tree. He could hear the snuffle-snorts of the wild boar that he and the others had been tracking all morning. He was the first to find it, and while this filled him with pride, he also felt a certain trepidation. Now that he’d found the beast, what should he do?
He couldn’t signal Esk, Murtt, and Warg. If he made the least sound he risked scaring off the boar, and if that happened the others would be angry with him, especially given how many hours they’d already devoted to this hunt. He supposed he could attempt to bring down the boar himself. If he did, it would be an impressive feat, especially since the four of them had agreed at the outset of the hunt to use no weapons. Ghaji had only just entered his twelfth year, and though he had grown much in the last several months, he was unsure if he were strong enough to tangle with a swamp boar by himself. The animals had hides tough as boiled leather and dispositions mean as a swamp serpent with a bad case of scale rot, which- was of course why hunting the boar barehanded was a favorite pastime of young orcs. This was the first time Ghaji had ever been allowed to come along on a boar hunt, and if he ever wanted to come again, he couldn’t afford to mess this up.
Foliage was abundant here in the swampland: white cedars, red and silver maples, black spruce, elm and ash trees, along with ferns and numerous species of colorful wildflowers. Birds abounded as well: swallows, warblers, blackbirds, grackles, larks, and larger birds such as herons, egrets, and cranes. Ghaji loved it here. The swampland was alive and vibrant, bursting with energy but at the same time peaceful and tranquil. He could spend the rest of his life here and be content.
A cloud of biters drifted toward Ghaji, reminding him that even a place as wonderful as the swamp wasn’t perfect. The annoying insects didn’t much like the taste of orc. Unfortunately, Ghaji was only half-orc, and the pests loved to jab their needle-like mouths into him even more than they seemed to love doing so to humans. Ghaji sighed. It was the story of his young life; he always seemed to get the worst of both worlds. Maybe if he was lucky, the biters would pass him by for a chan
ce to sink their needles into a fat, juicy swamp boar.
He wasn’t lucky. It was a humid day, and to make matters worse, the sun’s bright light was oppressively hot. Ghaji always seemed to sweat more than both orcs and humans combined, and perspiration was an irresistible lure for biters. Drawn by the beads of sweat forming on his greenish skin, the miniature swarm descended on Ghaji and began drilling greedily into his flesh. Swamp biters grew large as a man’s thumb and their attack stung worse than being stuck by a black briar thorn. Ghaji gritted his teeth as the insects went to work, but maddening as it was, he made no sound and didn’t attempt to shrug them off. An orc always wore his battle scars proudly, and though all Ghaji would receive were biter welts, he’d bear them with just as much pride as he would any other injury. Whatever the cost, he would not permit anything to interfere with the boar hunt.
Ghaji did his best to ignore the buzzing whine of those biters that had yet to select which portion of his skin they’d like to penetrate and listened for the boar. Its snuffling was muted now, and he could hear it scratching at the ground around the elm tree with its hoof not ten feet from the tall swamp grass where Ghaji hid. Swamp boars loved to eat grub worms, and one of the varieties they considered especially delicious lived in the soil near the base of elms—precisely the reason Ghaji had chosen this spot to hide and wait in the first place.
From the muted snuffling, Ghaji guessed the boar had already uncovered some worms and was busy gobbling them up even as the beast scratched around for more. Ghaji knew that if he had any intention of attacking the boar alone, he wasn’t going to get a better opportunity. He tensed and visualized himself leaping out from behind the grass and running toward the boar, but as he was about do so, he heard loud shouting and the heavy pounding of feet. The boar squealed in alarm, and Ghaji stood just in time to see Esk, Murtt, and Warg converging on their prey from separate directions.
Each of the full orcs was a year or two younger than Ghaji, but they were already larger than he and better coordinated. They came at the boar like wild animals themselves, all three shouting and waving their hands in the air to confuse the boar so it would have no idea where to flee. The orcs had shaggy black manes and thick body hair. Their eyes were reddish, and their ears pointed. Their jaws jutted out more prominently than Ghaji’s, and their lower incisors were larger and sharper. The orcs were garbed in simple tunics of brown, black, and gray, unlike Ghaji’s tan one, and sturdy brown boots. Ghaji thought they were magnificent, and for perhaps the thousandth time he wished he looked like them.
Angered at having his plan ruined by the others but determined not to be left out, Ghaji pushed through the grass and dashed toward the boar. He didn’t want the animal to run away from him. He wanted it to run at him, so he didn’t wave his hands or shout. Instead, he would let the others drive the beast to him.
Ghaji had seen the boar while they were tracking it but only from a distance. Up close the animal looked even larger, and it had seemed big enough before. It was sixty pounds and likely heavier. The beast was dashing this way and that, foamy saliva bubbling past its snout and dripping from its long yellowed tusks. Its eyes shone with desperate fury as it cast its piggy gaze back and forth, searching for a way out of this trap it found itself in. Normally a boar would charge an attacker, but the orcs came at the beast from different directions, confusing it. Ghaji’s companions closed in, still shouting and gesturing wildly, but Ghaji stood still, hoping to draw the boar’s attention by not making a commotion.
His ploy worked. The boar saw a target for its fury and dashed at him, hooves churning the moist swamp soil, head swinging wildly so its tusks could do as much damage as possible. Ghaji’s instincts screamed for him to assume a defensive posture—the thought of fleeing never occurred to him, for he was half-orc, after all—but he forced himself to stand calmly as the boar charged at him. Just as the beast was about to gore him, Ghaji jumped straight up. His plan was to come crashing down feet-first on the boar’s head, driving its face into the ground, and if fortune was kind, breaking its neck.
Ghaji had never hunted swamp boar before, let alone killed one, and his inexperience caused him to misjudge the animal’s speed. Instead of landing on the boar’s head, he came down on its back. His weight caused the beast to stumble, but it had enough momentum to remain on its feet and keep going. For a moment, Ghaji managed to stand upright on the boar’s back, then his right foot slid off the boar’s bristly hide, and Ghaji fell to the ground, landing on his right side with teeth-jarring impact. The boar had had enough of this foolishness; it put on an extra burst of speed and raced away across the swampland.
Ghaji lay there for a moment, more upset than hurt. He’d been so close…
He looked up to see Esk, Murtt, and Warg glaring down at him with expressions of supreme disgust.
“You let it get away,” Warg growled.
“Why did you jump on it?” Esk demanded. “You think you’re a swamp hare?”
“You should’ve hit it!” Murtt said, slamming a fist into his open palm for emphasis.
Warg thumped his chest. “I would’ve tackled it!”
“Anything would be better than jumping,” Esk said. “That was stupid.”
Ghaji gritted his teeth as he sat up. He wanted to tell these three that if they’d tried using a little stealth and cunning, along with some teamwork, instead of relying on dumb brute strength, their families would’ve gotten to dine on roast boar tonight, but he said nothing. These were the closest things to friends that he had, and he didn’t want to offend them, even if the idiots deserved it.
Ghaji rose to his feet. He didn’t expect any of the others to help him up. That wasn’t the orc way. Toughness, self-reliance… those were the things orcs valued.
Warg, the biggest of the three orcs, though he was the youngest, stepped toward Ghaji until they were standing almost nose to nose. For an orc, this intrusion into another’s personal space was a major act of aggression and disrespect.
“The hunt has failed, thanks to you, Smooth-skin.”
Smooth-skin was a slur used to insult half-orcs, since the latter typically had far less body hair than full orcs.
Warg went on. “You’re a disgrace to your mother. You’d be a disgrace to your clan, too, if you had one.”
As a half-orc, Ghaji wasn’t permitted to be in a clan, not that any would have him. His mother, Aneen, had been raised in the Gliding Heron clan, but she had been ostracized after Ghaji’s birth, and ever since had remained as clanless as her son.
Ghaji slammed his fist against his chest so hard that for an instant his heart seemed to skip a beat. “You cannot speak like that to me! I am orc!”
“No,” Warg said, still standing with his face right in Ghaji’s. “You’re not.”
The words cut through Ghaji more easily and with more force than any bladed weapon ever could.
Ghaji said, “Very well, I am half-orc.”
The other three laughed.
Esk sneered. “Not to us, you aren’t. To us, you’re half-human.”
The orc emphasized this last word as if it were a particularly noxious variety of swamp fungus, the kind that invaded the hidden recesses of body and made itself at home in the nooks and crannies that it found there.
Ghaji felt as if he’d been slapped in the face. Though he didn’t want to risk driving away his companions, an orc would never let such an insult stand.
“I challenge you to single combat, Esk. Hand to hand or weapons. Your choice.”
Esk laughed. “There is no honor to be gained from fighting a smooth-skin!”
Ghaji was so hurt and angry that he intended to push Esk to the ground and start pummeling him, whether the orc felt like fighting or not, but before Ghaji could make his move, Esk stepped away from him and turned his back. Murtt and Warg did the same, then the three young orcs walked away from Ghaji as if he didn’t exist.
Ghaji stood and watched them go, too hurt and prideful to go after them and apologize for spoi
ling the hunt. Their insults echoed in his mind. Smooth-skin… half-human… but worst of all was the thought that he had disgraced his mother. Despite the fact that Ghaji had been the product of her rape by a drunken human soldier, Aneen had always loved and cared for him—the only person in the world who’d ever done so. Esk, Murtt, and Warg all belonged to Gliding Heron clan—Aneen’s former people—and when they returned home, they would spread the story of how Ghaji had failed this day, thereby bringing further disgrace upon Aneen in the eyes of her one-time clan.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” Ghaji whispered.
Tears welled in his eyes, and though orcs considered crying an unforgivable sign of weakness, he couldn’t stop himself. Teardrops rolled down his cheeks, dripped off his jaw, and fell to the ground, only to be absorbed by the soft swamp soil.
* * *
Ghaji felt a drop strike his hand, and he was surprised by how cold it felt. Tears were supposed to be warm, weren’t they? He felt another strike his forehead, and now he was really confused. Since when did tears fall upward?
He opened his eyes and saw a full sail billowing before him and beyond it a pitch-black sky. Wind whistled through the sloop’s rigging, and raindrops pattered onto the boat’s wooden surface, only a few at first, then the sky opened up and rain poured down. It looked like the weather had taken a turn for the worse while he’d slept, but he was actually grateful for the storm since it had awakened him from that dream. He’d dreamed of hunting the swamp boar many times since that day, and he wished the storm had let loose a few minutes earlier so he might have awakened without having to relive his failure yet again.
[Blade of the Flame 01] - Thieves of Blood Page 11
