by Tim Waggoner
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 Chagai 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!”
Yvka and Tresslar followed after the halfling, running past Asenka and leaving the woman standing alone at their abandoned table. She shrugged, turned, took a deep breath, and ran after them.
They were halfway to the dock by the time Asenka told the others what had happened to Diran and Ghaji. From what she’d heard of the priest and his half-orc friend, they weren’t unfamiliar with trouble, and the speed at which their companions had reacted to Asenka’s appearance told the Sea Scorpion commander just how familiar with trouble they truly were.
Yvka stopped and motioned for the others to do the same. The elfwoman swiveled her head slowly as she scanned their surroundings. Asenka knew that elves’ vision was far keener than humans’, especially in the dark, but she nevertheless wondered if Yvka could actually see anything. Though the fog had dissipated somewhat, the night was still murky, so that even elf eyes might have difficulty penetrating the mist roiling through Perhata’s streets. Still, Asenka hadn’t survived in the Sea Scorpions as long as she had by ignoring potential danger.
“What’s wrong?” she asked as she drew her sword.
“I’m … not sure,” Yvka admitted. “There’s something …”
A figure stepped out of the fog then, seeming to coalesce out of the mist as if born of it. The figure came closer, and Asenka recognized the woman—if such a creature could be called a woman—who had confronted her before.
<
br /> Yvka reached into the pouch hanging from her belt and withdrew a wooden juggling ball. Asenka noticed that the elf-woman’s hand trembled. Tresslar stared open-mouthed at the blonde woman, his expression one of absolute shock. The old artificer recovered quickly and from his belt drew a wand that terminated in a golden dragonhead.
Asenka expected the halfling to react the same way as his two friends, but he didn’t reach for a weapon, didn’t gaze upon the blonde woman with fear. Instead, his mouth stretched into a wide grin.
“You’re Makala, right? Will Diran ever be surprised to see you! I never got a chance to meet you, at least not formally.” He stepped and held out his hand. “But I looked in on you a couple times while Diran tried to … tried to …” His hand began to shake then, and the tremors quickly spread to the rest of his body until the halfling was trembling so hard Asenka feared his small heart might burst.
The woman smiled sadly at Hinto. “While Diran tried to prevent my becoming a vampire.”
Hinto nodded, but he didn’t lower his trembling hand.
“There is no need to fear me,” Makala said. “I know what’s happened to Diran and Ghaji, and I wish to help.”
“How can we trust you?” Yvka said. Her voice was firm, but there was a trace of fear in her eyes. “You’re not human anymore.”
For an instant, Makala’s eyes flashed crimson, but then they returned to normal. “You’re not human either, but I don’t hold that against you.”
“Elves may not be human,” Tresslar said, “but they aren’t blood-drinking monsters.”
The vampire turned to the artificer. “If I wished to harm any of you, I could’ve done so long before now. All that need concern you—” she glanced at Asenka—“all of you, is that I wish to use my abilities to help rescue our friends. If you can’t accept what I’ve become, perhaps you can at least accept that.”
The tension in the air was far thicker than any sea fog could ever be. Yvka, Tresslar, and Hinto exchanged glances, and Asenka could guess what they were thinking: if it came down to it, could they stand against Makala without Diran and Ghaji’s aid?
“We’re wasting time,” Asenka said. “While we stand here talking, the Coldhearts are sailing farther out to sea. We can worry later about whether or not we can trust one another.”
The elfwoman, the halfling, and the artificer exchanged glances once more then nodded in silent agreement.
Makala smiled grimly. “Good. I’ll meet you at the Zephyr. I have something I need to put aboard first if I’m to sail with you.” The woman made no outward display of power, but her form grew hazy and indistinct, and then her body separated into shreds of mist that curled away and vanished into the night.
“What’s the Zephyr?” Asenka asked, but the other three were already running again, and she hurried to keep up with them.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Diran watched as Bruk picked up the dagger and rose to his feet. The boy raised his hands and took a step backward.
“But I spared your life!”
“You’re a fool,” the sea raider said as he slowly advanced. “You should’ve slit my throat from ear to ear and laughed as my life’s blood splashed onto the floor.” He smiled. “That’s what I would’ve done.”
Bruk lunged at Diran with the dagger, but the man’s balance was off, making Diran wonder just how long the Brotherhood of the Blade had held him captive and how often he’d been fed during that time. Bruk listed to the left, and his legs wobbled as if they were having a hard time supporting his weight. Diran lashed out with a foot and kicked Bruk’s left leg out from under him, causing the sea raider to fall to the floor. Bruk hadn’t completely forgotten his fighting skills, though, and managed to keep hold of the dagger and avoid skewering himself with it as he hit.
Bruk glared at Diran, baring his teeth as if he were a wild animal. Appropriate, Diran thought, considering what the bastard had done to his parents.
“Just for that, I’ll take my time gutting you, boy.” Bruk began to pull himself up on his feet.
Diran remembered something his father had told him—
Sometimes when you’re out on the water, everything will seem calm one moment, and then a storm will blow up out of nowhere. It’s times like those when you most need to keep your wits about you. Giving in to fear is the fastest way to find yourself at the bottom of the Lhazaar.
Diran forced himself to remain calm and consider his options, such as they were. He knew there was no point trying to reach either door. Even if they were unlocked, which he very much doubted, surely some of the older acolytes—such as the ones who’d brought Bruk in—were waiting on the other side to prevent him from escaping. He also knew that there was no point in trying to appeal to Cathmore’s sympathies, for the elder assassin had none. The only resources available to him were what lay inside the weapons chest … and in the box Cathmore held in his hands.
Diran ran toward Cathmore just as Bruk got to his feet and slashed out with the dagger. Diran heard the hiss of the blade parting air behind him and felt the breeze of its passage on the back of his neck. Bruk had missed, but not by much. As Diran approached Cathmore, the assassin stood motionless, though his gaze was riveted on Diran, almost as if he were studying the boy and assessing his actions.
Diran reached into the box and grabbed several vials at random. He turned to see Bruk charging, eyes blazing with anger, dagger raised for a killing strike.
Diran hurled the vials at Bruk’s face.
Without thinking, Bruk lashed out with the dagger to protect himself, and the blade struck several of the vials. Glass shattered, liquid splattered—some of it onto Bruk’s face and into his eyes. The other vials either missed him or bounced off his chest to burst apart harmlessly against the floor, but the poison that Bruk’s blow had released was more than sufficient.
The sea raider screamed, dropped the dagger, and clapped his hands to his face. The skin around his eyes, nose, and mouth turned greenish-black and began to swell. He collapsed onto his side, his body spasming wildly, as if the muscles were tearing free from his skeleton. Then Bruk made a strangled gurling noise deep in his throat, stiffened once, and went limp. The poison had finished doing its work.
Diran looked at the corpse of the man who was responsible for the deaths of his parents, and though he was shamed by it, he felt a deep sense of satisfaction mingled with relief.
I hope you can rest easier now, Mother and Father.
“Well done, lad.”
Diran turned to Cathmore and was surprised to see the assassin grinning.
“You didn’t have the training to fight Bruk hand to hand, so you used the only weapon that would even the odds between you.” Cathmore’s grin took on a hard edge. “That’s another reason I favor poison: it doesn’t matter how powerful or skilled its victims are. All must bow before its power.”
Diran didn’t respond. Instead he walked over to Bruk and knelt at the sea raider’s side. He retrieved the dagger Bruk had dropped and rubbed its blade in a puddle of poison created when one of the vials that the sea raider had missed had fallen to the floor, then he spun, rising to his feet as he did so, and hurled the dagger at Cathmore. The blade flew straight and true and embedded itself in the poison-master’s left shoulder. Cathmore’s eyes widened in surprise and he dropped the box holding the remaining poisons. It crashed onto the floor, spilling the rest of its contents in a mess of broken glass and foul-smelling liquid.
Blood welled forth from the wound and Cathmore reached up with a trembling hand, as if he intended to grasp the hilt and pull the blade free. Then he drew in a shuddering breath, his eyes rolled white, and he fell to the floor and lay still.
Diran stepped over to Cathmore’s body and looked down upon it, a grim smile spreading across his face. “I might not have the skill to fight someone like Bruk, but my father taught me how to use a knife. He said it was a good weapon for a fisherman to have. It was small enough to wield in tight quarters and you could al
ways use it to gut fish if necessary.”
Cathmore’s eyes moved to focus on Diran. “Your father was a wise man.”
Diran took several frightened steps backward as Cathmore sat up.
“I applaud your ingenuity and your ruthlessness,” the master assassin said, “but did you truly think that I wouldn’t have long ago made myself immune to my own poisons? Even if your dagger strike itself had killed me, Emon would’ve simply paid to have me resurrected, though my dear half-brother would undoubtedly insist I pay him back. Still, Diran Bastiaan, I am impressed. You alone of all the children I have taught have managed to come this close to killing me.” He chuckled, then drew in a hiss of air. “It hurts like blazes, though.” He held out his right hand. “Help me up and we’ll see about getting me to a healer, eh?”
Diran looked at Cathmore’s hand for a moment before finally taking it and steadying the man as he rose to his feet.
Ghaji swung his axe at Chagai’s unprotected neck. Orc necks were thick, their heads set close to their broad shoulders, so it wasn’t the easiest target to hit. That didn’t matter since Ghaji didn’t expect his strike to connect.
Sure enough, Chagai pulled away and brought his broadsword up to defect Ghaji’s blow, but at the last instant, Ghaji turned his axe downward, angled his shoulder toward Chagai, and slammed into the orc leader. Pain exploded through Ghaji’s right shoulder all the way down his arm as he hit Chagai’s breastplate, but the maneuver had the intended effect of throwing Chagai off balance. With his left hand Ghaji grabbed Chagai’s sword arm by the wrist and twisted as hard as he could. The sound of snapping bone cut through the air, followed instantly by Chagai’s agonized cry. His hand went limp and the broadsword slipped from his useless fingers.