“Step out into the light where I can see you, boy!”
Without saying anything to Makala, Diran walked into the clearing until he stood within three yards of Emon Gorsedd. He didn’t look back at Makala, and she didn’t step forward to join him. Diran had to face this part of the test alone.
“What do you think you’re doing? Who hired you to betray me?”
Though Diran was just beginning his teenage years, he stood before his master with the calm, relaxed dignity of a far older man. “No one hired me. I came here on my own to take my final test.”
Emon stood, teeth clenched, face red, hand balled into fists. “You fool! Why would I order my own assassination?”
“You wouldn’t,” Diran said, “but then, you are not Emon Gorsedd.”
There was laughter, deep and masculine, from somewhere in the woods. Diran didn’t seem to notice it as he continued.
“Emon would never wear such a fine tunic for traveling, nor would he wear such expensive boots. He’s far too practical a man. There’s also one thing that Emon Gorsedd would never do as long as breath remained in him: he would never ever remove his weapons belt. Besides, only Emon is skilled enough with a dagger to deflect another blade in flight.”
“Especially when it’s hurled by one as skilled as you, lad!”
Emon Gorsedd walked into the clearing from the opposite side, beaming at Diran like a proud father. The warlord was garbed in a dark brown tunic and leggings, along with a hooded forest-green cloak. Makala took Emon’s appearance as her cue to step out of concealment, and a moment later she stood near the campfire with Diran and the real Emon, while the other one looked on.
Emon clapped Diran’s shoulder. “Congratulations, my boy! You’ve passed the test!”
As soon as those words left the real Emon’s mouth, the features of his double began to blur and shift. A moment later, the being that sat before the campfire no longer resembled the bearded warlord. In fact, it no longer appeared human. It wore the same clothing, but it now possessed gray skin and thin, fair hair. It had large blank white eyes, but the remainder of its facial features seemed unfinished with only a hint of nose and lips.
“A changeling,” Diran said upon witnessing the creature’s transformation back to its natural form.
“You don’t sound particularly surprised,” Makala said.
“I’m not. Only a changeling could have assumed Emon’s aspect so completely.” Diran turned to the changeling. “I’m glad Emon was able to intercept my dagger, Rux.”
The changeling’s nearly nonexistent lips formed a vague suggestion of a smile. “As am I, Diran.”
Diran turned back to Makala. “You knew.”
Emon answered for her. “Of course she did, boy! The final test is always the same—will you be able to slay your assigned target no matter who it is?”
“What happens to those who fail?” Diran asked.
Emon’s only reply was a feral grin.
“Whose task would it have been to deal with me if I failed?” Diran looked at Makala. “Yours?”
She wanted to lie to him, but she couldn’t, not with both Emon and Rux here, so she said nothing.
“I see.” A hardness came into Diran’s eyes then, and Makala felt a surge of sorrow. He had just lost a part of his childhood, perhaps the last remaining part. He now understood that no matter how much he cared for someone, or someone for him, no one could be trusted, not entirely. It was a vital lesson for an assassin to learn if he not only wanted to be able to perform his job but stay alive while doing so, but Makala regretted having been instrumental in teaching Diran this cold hard lesson. The way he was looking at her now came near to breaking her heart.
Emon broke the mood by laughing. “Come, let us sit by the fire. We’ll share some drink and a few lies before we must start back home.”
As they settled around the campfire and Emon began passing around a wineskin, Makala tried to catch Diran’s attention, hoping that she might somehow be able to signal her feelings to him through her gaze. Diran, who’d made a point of sitting between Emon and Rux, didn’t look in her direction, nor did he look at her the rest of the night.
* * *
For a long time there was only darkness: black, cool, and soothing. Though the darkness remained, it was eventually joined by two other sensations. One was movement, a smooth, subtle sense of motion experienced primarily as a gentle vibration in the floor upon which she lay—rather pleasant, actually, until it was joined by the second sensation. Pain. Her whole body ached, but her head hurt worst of all. Her skull throbbed with every heartbeat, as if her brain was a forge, and some cruel blacksmith was furiously pumping the bellows until the heat and pressure became too much and the forge threatened to explode. The pain soon grew so intense that it drove away the last soothing shreds of darkness, and Makala opened her eyes.
She was lying on her left side, and while there was light, it was dim and she couldn’t see through the tears of pain that filled her eyes. Her muscles felt as if they’d turned to jelly.
Where was she? How had she gotten here? Makala tried to remember, but the throbbing in her head made it so hard to think. She remembered dreaming about Diran taking his final test, and she also recalled something about a wooden cart filled with bodies. While that was strange enough, she also remembered seeing Diran, not as a thirteen-year-old boy, but as a man twenty years older, different in so many ways yet so much the same. Had that been a dream, too? It was all too confusing, and she decided it was best not to worry about it for now. She closed her eyes and attended to her other senses.
The air was thick with the mingled smells of sweat and fear. She could hear people whispering and crying softly, bodies shifting in a vain search to a more comfortable position, chains clanking as they moved. She was a prisoner, that was clear enough, but where? Why?
She remembered the words of Emon Gorsedd, the man who had once been father, mentor, commander, and lord to her.
If you ever find yourself captured, sweetmeat, the first thing you must do is assess your situation, for only by knowing who and what you’re dealing with do you stand a chance of survival.
Makala hated Emon, hated what he’d made her become. Despite her feelings about the man, she’d never rejected his teachings. They’d saved her life too many times over the years. Best to start off small, she decided. She tried to move her hands, but she discovered they were bound at the wrists. She twitched them and heard the soft jangling of chains. Manacles. No surprise there. She tried to move her feet, and as she suspected, her ankles were encased in manacles as well. Was she also chained to the floor? If not, she’d have the capability of movement, however restricted it might be, and a length of chain stretched between two wrists could make quite an effective weapon if employed properly. She attempted to sit up. The throbbing in her skull grew more intense, and a wave of weakness overcame her. She started to collapse, but instead of falling to the floor, she slumped back against a wall that she hadn’t realized was there and managed to remain sitting.
She remained still to conserve her strength and breathed deeply and evenly. After a time, the pain in her head lessened until it became manageable, though it didn’t go away entirely. Her tears dried and she opened her eyes once more. The light was dim, but it was enough for her to make out the shadowy forms of a dozen people or more sitting on the floor around her. Though she couldn’t discern their individual features, she could tell by their sizes and shapes that they were a mix of men and women, adults, youth, and children. She had no doubt they were all wearing manacles and chains just as she was.
Makala was still dressed, though her crossbow had been taken from her or perhaps was lost somewhere along the way. The various smaller weapons she kept concealed on her person were gone as well. Though she’d been trained to kill a target with her bare hands as easily as she could with a weapon, she still felt naked, far more so than if she had been undressed.
She was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but what good w
ere such fighting techniques when she could barely move?
“Poor girl. The raiders handled you pretty rough, did they?”
Makala was startled by the voice, and she turned toward it too fast, causing her head to throb anew. The voice was that of an elderly woman, but all Makala could see was a blurry outline of her form. Makala squinted, but her eyes refused to focus.
Knowledge can just be as powerful a weapon as any made of steel. Sometimes more so.
Emon’s advice again, and again Makala decided to heed it. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice coming out as a dry croak.
“You’re aboard one of the Black Fleet ships,” the old woman said. “I believe this one’s called Nightwind, though I don’t know for certain. I overheard a couple of raiders call her by that name, but my hearing isn’t what it used to be, so perhaps I’m mistaken.”
Black Fleet? Raiders? The words sounded familiar, but…
With a rush, Makala’s memories returned. Port Verge, Diran, Ghaji, Yvka, the raiders, and Onkar, who, it seemed, was a vampire. Obviously she’d been rendered unconscious and brought to the hold of this ship and put in manacles, along with the rest of the captives, but for what purpose? To be made a slave? She thought once more of Onkar’s glistening fangs and another more terrible possibility occurred to her. Maybe she, along with the others around her, were meant to be food.
Her vision had cleared to the point where she could make out the old woman’s features. She wore a simple white blouse, brown skirt, and a knit shawl over her shoulders. She had a lean face, wrinkled, but not overly so, along with curly white hair. Her eyes seemed to be yellowish, but Makala was certain that had to be a trick of the light or perhaps her own still-addled mind. The woman also had a pair of what looked like gray sideburns running down to the edge of her jaw. There was something about those eyes and sideburns that seemed significant to Makala, but she couldn’t think what it might be at the moment. Besides, she wanted to know about Diran and the others.
“Have you seen my companions? Were they captured, too?” Makala gave the old woman a quick description of Diran, Ghaji, and Yvka.
The old woman thought for a moment before answering. “I was conscious when the raiders brought me aboard, though I’m not sure I count that as a blessing. I don’t recall seeing any of your friends as the raiders packed us into the hold. It’s possible that they’re being held on one of the other two ships, but I have no way of knowing.”
So there was no guarantee that Diran and others had escaped the Black Fleet raiders, but then again, there was no indication that they’d been captured either. Until she had any evidence to the contrary, she would assume they were still free.
“Tell me, grandmother, what’s your name?” Makala asked.
“Zabeth. I work—worked—as a fish packer in one of the prince’s own warehouses. After the fish were filleted and smoked, it was my job to pack them in salt so they would be ready to travel. I had finished my work for the evening and was on my way home when the raiders struck.” Zabeth’s voice became low and dangerous. It was nearly a growl as she said, “When I was younger, they’d never have taken me alive. I’d have clawed their stinking guts out with my bare hands!”
Makala was taken aback by the woman’s sudden burst of anger, but then she realized—the fuzzy sideburns, the yellow eyes… Zabeth was a shifter. An elderly one, but a shifter nevertheless. Makala wasn’t all that comfortable around shifters. One never knew when the bestial aspect of their heritage would come to the fore, as witness Zabeth’s sudden outburst, but Zabeth had shown Makala kindness as she’d struggled to regain consciousness, and Makala decided to trust the elderly woman, for now, at least.
“So how does it look?” Makala asked.
Zabeth gave Makala a puzzled frown. “Excuse me?”
“Our situation,” Makala said. “How many of us are there? How many raiders? Are all of us shackled hand and foot? Is there a ladder or a set of stairs that will allow us to climb out of the hold? I assume they keep the hatch locked, but then again, they might not, not if they expect these shackles to keep us from trying anything.”
“Trying anything?” Zabeth said. “Like what?”
Makala couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Like an escape, for pity’s sake!”
“Escape?” Zabeth sounded both surprised and amused. “You must be joking! That, or your brains were scrambled when the raiders hit you on the head. There’s no way we can escape. We’re chained, and from the smell of blood in the air, I can tell many of us are wounded, and many more are afraid. Even if we somehow could get out of our shackles and reach the upper deck, we have no weapons and we’re on the water, so there’s nowhere to flee. Whether you like it or not, dear, and believe me, I don’t, there’s little we can do until we reach whatever destination the raiders have in store for us. Perhaps then an opportunity for escape shall present itself…” Her voice grew softer. “Perhaps.”
Makala realized that she still wasn’t thinking straight. Just because Zabeth was a shifter didn’t mean she was a warrior. The elderly shifter’s assessment of their situation struck Makala as right on the mark. There really wasn’t anything they could do right now, save perhaps rest, heal, and regain their strength while they waited for the Black Fleet to make port. Wherever they were going, since they traveled within the belly of an elemental galleon, they should get there soon enough.
“Maybe you’re right,” Makala said. “I should rest.”
“I’ll do the same,” Zabeth said with obvious approval. The old woman settled back against the wall of the hold, folded her hands over her stomach and closed her eyes.
Makala did likewise, and if she hadn’t been a prisoner chained in darkness, she might’ve found the gentle vibrations in the wood she lay against soothing. Before too long Zabeth was snoring softly, but despite what she’d told Zabeth, Makala refused to sleep.
It was as Emon always said. When you can’t do anything else, you can still think.
As the raider vessel Nightwind glided swiftly across the Lhazaar Sea to wherever it was bound, Makala thought. She thought through different escape scenarios and their various permutations so that if and when an opportunity presented itself at last, she would be ready.
Mostly she thought about Diran.
CHAPTER
SEVEN
“I don’t suppose that one of your priestly abilities allows you to locate sailing vessels?”
Diran’s eyes were closed and his arms crossed over his chest, but Ghaji knew he wasn’t sleeping. Without opening his eyes, the priest replied, “I’m afraid not.”
The Zephyr was headed southeast, and the first light of the coming dawn pinked the horizon just above their port bow. The sloop glided swiftly across the calm surface of the sea, her soarwood runners barely kicking up any spray. Ghaji didn’t particularly care for sea travel, but this trip was so smooth he was actually beginning to find it boring.
“We need to do something,” Ghaji said. “We’ve been sailing for hours without any sign of the Black Fleet. It’s a big sea, Diran. I doubt we’ll just happen to bump into Onkar and his crew out here.”
“Of course you’re right,” Diran said, eyes still closed, “but then we won’t need to. Since we’ve left Port Verge, our mysterious benefactor has been heading on a steady course southeast into what, on the seacharts, at least, is open water, but I believe Yvka has a specific destination in mind.”
Ghaji turned to look back at the elf-woman. She sat in the same position as she had for hours, one hand on the tiller, the other resting in the depression on the arm of the pilot’s chair that allowed her to control the air elemental that powered the Zephyr.
“Is this true?” Ghaji asked. “Don’t bother lying to me. I’m tried and hungry, and the only thing meaner than a tired and hungry half-orc is a tired and hungry full-orc.”
“It’s true,” Yvka confirmed. “When we didn’t pick up the Black Fleet’s trail right away, I realized we’d need some help to locate them. I�
�m taking us to see a friend of mine who might be able to provide us with some useful information.”
“Thanks so much for letting us know when we first set sail.” Ghaji’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“I’m not one to indulge in idle conversation,” Yvka said.
“Idle?” Ghaji growled. He reached for his axe as he started to stand, but Diran, still not opening his eyes, gently took hold of his friend’s wrist.
“Unless you know how to control an air elemental, I suggest you sit back down.”
Ghaji ground his teeth, but he removed his hand from his axe and did as his companion suggested.
“So we just sit here like good little boys and allow Yvka to take us wherever she feels like?”
“Unless you have a better suggestion.”
Ghaji glared over his shoulder at the enigmatic elf-woman, but she merely looked back, silent and unconcerned. He turned back to face the bow, folded his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes. “Wake me when we get there.”
* * *
“Ghaji, we’re here.”
The half-orc’s eyes snapped open, and he regretted it as they were stabbed by bright daylight. He half-closed his eyes again and squinted at Diran. The priest was shaking Ghaji’s shoulder and none too gently, either.
“Danger?” Ghaji asked in a voice barely above a whisper.
“No. Nothing immediate, at least.”
[Blade of the Flame 01] - Thieves of Blood Page 6