Vory grunted, unable to speak, and shook his head.
“What’s true, you Conarckian whore?”
“Yes, Serina Greywynne lives. She’s free once again.”
The sound that came from the old man’s lips sounded like coughing, but she realized in horror it was a dry cackle of glee.
“I knew it. Stron didn’t kill her. The Dark One blessed her. There’s no way a mortal could have defeated her, even with an Illthori weapon. I should have known. If I had only realized, I’d have sent an army to free her. So many years lost. I’ve grown so old. But all is not yet lost. She’s coming here, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know,” said Danika in a small voice.
“She is, she’s coming here. Why? Why is she interested in you?”
And then something occurred to her: not once had he asked her about Sight-Bringer. He knew what the weapon was; he had just mentioned it. If he had killed Owen, he’d have it, and there would be no mistaking it. The moment anyone touched it, they’d feel its power.
Could Owen and Fioni have escaped?
If so, they still had the means to destroy Serina—if they could find Torin Island. Her eyes darted to Vory, blood streaming down the side of his neck.
“Mmmnnaaga…nothin’,” Vory mumbled, shaking his head. “Rrrarr… arselings.”
“Enough of this. Take his tongue.”
“Aye, my lord,” said the fat torturer, turning away to pick up a pair of glistening pincers from a worktable.
Danika grasped through the bars, reaching out for Kalishni’coor’s knee. “Wait! I’ll tell you.”
“You’ll tell me anyhow, whore.” The old man’s dark eyes danced with glee. “Do it!”
Vory roared, rising up and throwing off the men holding him, his wrists suddenly free. He had broken the ropes!
The man was a giant!
Vory went after the guards and the two torturers, tossing them about. She heard a bone snap as he broke one guard’s leg by standing on his ankle and yanking the screaming man up. The fat torturer who had cut off his ear tried to flee, but Vory grabbed him and lifted him into the air by his balls and throat, holding him above his head like a sack of grain. The fat man’s eyes bulged in terror as Vory threw him into the servants who had carried Kalishni’coor’s litter up the stairs, scattering them. One of them fell into Kalishni’coor, knocking the old man and his litter to the floor.
Good! I hope he broke his neck.
Vory advanced on Kalishni’coor, clearly intent on finishing him. But somehow the old man rose, supporting himself on an elbow, the stick-thin arm looking as if it might snap under the strain. He held his other hand out, pointing clawlike fingers at Vory, as if he could somehow stop the massive warrior.
And then Vory did stop.
He froze in place, a stunned look of disbelief on his face. His arms fell to his sides, and she realized Kalishni’coor—the old man and not the white-haired boy—was chanting in a tongue she didn’t recognize.
A spell!
A dark malevolence filled the chamber, a dark shadow that pushed in upon her, as if she were underwater. Vory’s eyes widened in abject agony. Without moving his head, he opened his mouth and began projectile vomiting huge gouts of blood…and…something else. A long, thin, gleaming pink tube hung from his mouth, and he fell to his hands and knees and continued to gag up more and more of the sausage-like object, long piles of it.
His intestines.
She screamed, unable to stop.
Vory’s eyes met hers, filled with unbearable agony. They seemed to be pleading, asking her for help. When he finally fell over, his eyes glazing over in death, it was a blessing.
The servants rushed to pick up Kalishni’coor, to set his litter back, and to carefully place the frail old man back upon his pillows. As they did, Danika saw that his blanket had fallen off, revealing his pale, thin body—a torso that was completely covered in intricate blue tattoos—the same otherworldly tattoos that covered Serina’s forehead.
She remembered her dream of Brice and his warning to her.
Beware the Blue Man.
Chapter 32
Owen
The throbbing pain in Owen’s skull pulled him from the oblivion of sleep. As he came awake, the sudden realization that he couldn’t move his arms or legs sent a wave of panic coursing through him, fully waking him. He lay on his back, surrounded by darkness. His arms were bound behind his back, his ankles tied together. He strained to pull his wrists free, grunting.
“Owen, stop,” Fioni whispered from just beside him.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw her on his left side. Like him, her arms and legs were bound with rope. Her lower lip was badly swollen, and a trickle of blood had run down her forehead, into her eyebrow, where it had matted and dried.
She rolled onto her side and put her lips near his ear. Her breath was hot, her voice filled with urgency. “If you struggle, you’ll draw their attention.”
He closed his eyes and forced himself to be still, to breathe deeply, and slow his pounding heart. When he was calm again, he focused on their surroundings. They were in a dark warehouse filled with barrels and boxes. The stench of shit from the manure that coated them filled his nostrils, but intermingled with the sharp stench was the faint salt tang of the sea, and when he lay still and listened carefully, he could just make out the soft crashing of waves upon a barrier.
We’re near the docks. Still in Docktown.
A dozen paces away, seated around a wooden barrel and sharing a wineskin, were their captors—the female pickpocket who had driven the wagon, the young man who had drawn away the guards, and a second young man. A single lantern hung on a peg attached to a wooden support beam beside the barrel. In the light of the lantern, Owen saw a sliver of whiteness gleaming from beneath a dark cloth.
Sight-Bringer.
They have us. They have the sword. Now what?
The young woman with the straw-colored hair abruptly stood up, her gaze locked on Owen. She moved away from the table and approached Owen and Fioni. Instantly, the two young men were also on their feet, following her.
“Owen,” whispered Fioni. “Their hooks are in our mouths. Let me do the talking.”
He sighed, studying their captors. All three wore simple clothing, not the bright, colorful robes so commonly worn by other Hishtari. These three were clearly laborers, or at least they wished to blend in among such people. The young woman stood near Owen’s feet, staring down at him, holding a wooden jug in her hand.
“You have thirst?” she asked in trade common.
“Aye,” answered Fioni. “Thank you.”
The young woman knelt next to Fioni and held the jug for her while she drank. Owen became aware now how parched his throat was. She moved next to him and held the jug for him, lifting the back of his head with her other hand. The water was cool and clean, and although he drank greedily, she pulled it away again all too soon.
“Thank you.”
The young man who had tricked away the guards stood beside her, his hand on the small of her back. He was a good-looking lad, Owen saw, with dark curly hair and clever eyes. The other man, with pronounced acne and a sad-looking patchy beard, stood behind the other two. None of them seemed more than seventeen, maybe even younger. Up close, he saw that while the young woman did indeed resemble his sister, Tanda, there was a hard gleam to her eyes that wasn’t in Tanda’s.
“The sword is…holy?” she asked, looking from Fioni to Owen, a single thin eyebrow raised.
“It’s ours,” said Fioni.
“No.” The young woman shook her head. “It is ours—and you—are ours as well.”
“What do you want?”
“Silver. Much silver. Then you”—she paused, pointing at Fioni and Owen—“go back to Corcas Island with your holy sword. I’m sure Erland would be happy to see you again.”
She knows the Otter, Owen realized. We may get out of this yet.
Fioni considered the young woman for
a long moment, the faintest trace of a smile upon her swollen lips. “Deal, yes. Silver for you and your friends—much silver. But we need to go to Corcas Island this night. Now.”
The young woman said something to the men in Hishtari, no doubt translating Fioni’s words. The curly-haired man asked a question, but the woman shook her head quickly and looked back to Fioni. “How much silver?”
“You get us to Corcas Island this night, and I’ll pay you more silver than you’ve ever seen in your entire life.”
“How much silver?” the young woman repeated, squatting down now and resting a knee upon the dirt floor.
Fioni stared at her silently for several moments then said: “Twenty thumb pieces of silver, enough to buy a house.”
Just for a moment, Owen saw the surprise in the young woman’s eyes before she hid it again. A thumb piece of silver was equivalent to ten kingdom crowns, a considerable sum—a month’s wage as a man-at-arms. From the way they were dressed, he very much doubted they had ever seen such a sum at once. When the young woman translated for the other two—and he saw the excitement in their faces—he was certain of it. The curly-haired youth whispered something to the young woman.
“Twenty silver thumbs each.” She held up three fingers. “Sixty thumbs.”
Fioni shook her head. “No, but I’ll pay you ten silver thumb pieces each. Thirty thumbs, a lot of silver.”
“No.” The young woman shook her head. “Palace guards pay more.”
“Fioni,” Owen said, “we need to get back now.”
Fioni ignored him. “The soldiers won’t pay you that much, if they pay you at all. More likely, this time they’ll cut away your pretty nose and lips, finish what they started earlier.”
The young woman cocked her head and smirked. “I’ll send someone else to make deal.”
Fioni’s face was expressionless. “Ten each. Five for the sword.”
The young woman stood up, placed her hand on her hips. “Ten each. Ten for the sword.”
Forty thumb pieces of silver, a fortune. Holding his breath, Owen watched the two women.
Fioni smiled. “Okay, we have a deal. If you take us to Corcas Island this very moment.”
Their captors spoke quickly to one another in hushed tones, then the young woman faced Fioni again, her expression guarded. “One more thing. You make deal with Erland. Tell him we stay on Corcas Island now, too. We work for him now.”
“I can’t make that promise, but I’ll talk to him.”
“We can’t stay here, not after helping you. You make him take us.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Fioni repeated. “And if he doesn’t agree, I’ll take you and your friends to any port you wish to go to in the Promiscuous Sea. You’ll be safe—and rich.”
The young woman translated to the men, who eagerly bobbed their heads. Hope soared in Owen’s heart. This is going to work out after all, thank the Craftsman.
A brilliant smile lit up the young woman’s face, once again reminding him of Tanda. “We have deal. Forty thumbs of silver. I am Gali.” She gripped the arm of the curly-haired good-looking young man. “This is Bohan. Other is Kurp. We’re friends now.”
“The very best,” said Fioni. “Now cut us—”
A heavy banging caused them all to jump. Someone pounded again on the far wooden door, making it shudder in place. Owen saw the sudden fear in their faces. An angry, demanding male voice called out from the other side of the door, which Owen now saw was bolted.
“Cut us loose,” Fioni insisted.
Gali, Bohan, and Kurp stared at the door and then each other. Bohan took a step toward the door, but Gali gripped his sleeve, stopping him. He shook his head, saying something in Hishtari, and pulled his arm free before turning back toward the door.
“Gali,” Fioni said, urgency in her voice. “Cut us free.”
Gali glanced at her. “Wait. Be silent.”
The three of them moved away, hesitatingly, in the direction of the door.
“What’s going on?” Owen asked Fioni.
“I don’t know.”
He strained on the ropes, causing them to creak and strain in protest. One of the strands tore slightly, but the bonds held. Kurp, the bearded youth, raised the wooden bar. The door flew open. Four people, three men and a woman, stormed through the doorway. One of the men, a bald, scarred, broad-shouldered brute with a huge gut, shoved Kurp with both hands, sending him flying backwards to the ground. Then the bald man proceeded to kick the youth savagely in the ribs. Kurp rolled up into a ball, pleading and trying to protect himself. Another of the men, a short, fat one with piglike eyes, walked up to Bohan and punched him in the face. Gali shrieked, pleading with them in Hishtari, until the woman, one of the hardest and ugliest women Owen had ever seen, with a nose cut in half by a white scar, twisted her arm up behind her back, forcing her up onto her toes and causing her to howl in pain.
“Fioni,” Owen said.
“Don’t say a word, Owen,” she whispered. “We’re caught in a tempest here.”
The last man—tall and handsome, with a bright, flowing yellow shirt, blue vest, and knee-high polished leather boots—stalked past the others. He gave an order in Hishtari, and the man who had been kicking Kurp stopped and closed the door, securing it once more with the bar. Bohan, blood streaming from his nose, pleaded to the well-dressed man, his hands held out to stop any further bloodshed. Ignoring the three youths, the well-dressed man stood before Owen and Fioni, considering them.
“Well, well, well,” said the man in excellent trade common. “It is the Red Wolf. When our little Gali said she recognized you earlier down by the docks, I thought she had to be mistaken—particularly given the price on your head.” He paused, his face twisting into a grimace. “Are you covered in shit?” He spun to face Gali and the others. “Why are they covered in shit?”
“I don’t know you,” Fioni said softly.
The man laughed and let his eyes roam over her body appraisingly. He bent down on one knee and lifted the bottom of her shirt, peeking at her belly beneath it. “Would you like to get to know me better, Fioni Ice-Bound?”
The short, fat man giggled and began to stroke himself through his pants.
“Get your filthy hands off her.” Owen tried to rise but fell back.
The man ignored Owen and shook his head at the short, fat man, who immediately stopped groping himself. “My name is Igrimor,” he said to Fioni. “I am the Master of Docktown. This beautiful young lady,” he said as he indicated the woman holding Gali, “is Bowsprit Bale. You don’t want to get on her bad side. This”—he pointed to the short, fat man—“is Coops. He doesn’t talk much, but I think he likes you. My large friend is Kale. Kale likes to hurt people, especially women—especially beautiful Fenyir women.”
“We’re in your city with the permission of Erland,” said Fioni. “We’re friends, good friends. I do much business with the Bent Men.”
He shrugged and dropped the edge of her shirt and then pulled a small whittling knife from his pocket. “Don’t move, or I may cut you,” he said as he began to open a long slit, beginning at the bottom of her pant leg and up, exposing her still-bound leg to the top of her thigh, where he carefully peeled back the cut pant leg. He stared at her well-formed thigh muscles and then reached forward, trailing the point of the knife along the tender skin on the inside of her thigh. Fioni’s face went red, but she remained silent and unmoving. Igrimor watched her for some moments, his eyes shining with amusement, before sitting back, his breathing noticeably heavier. “Yes, well, you see, there’s a problem here. This is my territory, not the fucking Otter’s. And you’ve stirred up a spider’s nest with the palace guards, caused all sorts of trouble for me, trouble that’s cost me profit. Again, me and not Erland.”
Owen saw the three youths were all being held now. Gali, her arm still twisted behind her back, was vibrating with fear. The large bald man sat atop Kurp, a huge smile on his ugly face as he petted Kurp’s head.
Fioni in
haled deeply, her voice strained. “Erland arranged—”
“Erland arranges nothing in Docktown!” Igrimor snapped, spittle flying from his mouth.
“I understand,” said Fioni softly. “We’ll pay you, then. Just get us to Corcas Island.”
Igrimor stood up and sighed. “How much?”
“More than enough to compensate you for your effort, for the difficulty our…presence has caused you.”
Igrimor shook his head. “You have no idea of the trouble you’ve caused me. There are soldiers everywhere. Docktown is deadly quiet—especially near the foreign merchant vessels. What’s worse, the sailors are all too frightened to go out and drink and fuck my whores.” He snorted, tossing his head. “Sailors not wanting to drink and fuck. It’s like a bad joke.”
“I’ll pay you a hundred thumbs of silver to get us to Corcas Island.”
That is a lot of silver, Owen thought. A fortune. How much is in her father’s hoard?
Igrimor’s eyes tightened. “Three hundred thumbs of silver.”
She inhaled deeply. “Done, but it has to be this night.”
His face was unreadable as he stared at her for long moments. “Why are you here? Why was that Dain woman with you? What reason did she have for meeting with Kory’ander Dey?”
“That’s our business,” said Owen.
Igrimor glanced disdainfully at him, as if he were something stuck to the underside of his boot. When long moments passed and Fioni had yet to answer, he glanced over his shoulder and spoke in Hishtari to Kale, sitting atop Kurp’s chest. The faces of the three youths paled, and they all began to struggle—especially Kurp. In a moment, Kale had drawn a large knobbed club from his belt and rested it against Kurp’s forehead. Kurp’s eyes were wide with terror.
“Wait,” blurted out Fioni. “You don’t need—”
Kale lifted his club high and brought it down with all his strength on the young man’s face with a resounding crack. Blood splashed onto Kale’s grinning face as the large man hit Kurp repeatedly, now grunting with the effort, caving his face in further with each blow. The youth’s hands and feet shuddered as he died. Kale stood, blood dripping off his chin and club.
The Vampire Queen Saga: Books 1-3: (The Vampire Queen Saga Boxset) Page 48