Thieves of Blood

CHAPTER THREE

Once Diran and Makala were outside the tavern, Makala didn’t take her hand from his arm, and he made no move to pull away from her. Though it was full night, everbright lanterns mounted on iron poles illuminated the streets. The light was a soft yellow-green that gave off an eerie glow, especially when, as now, mist from the sea rolled in. There were others on the street-couples like themselves, drunken revelers who’d likely been thrown out of one tavern and were searching for another, beggars who sat against buildings, holding forth wooden bowls and asking for whatever small coins passersby could spare.

Though it was summer, the night air was cool, and Makala drew her cloak around herself and walked closer to Diran, her hip pressed against his. Diran tried not to think about how good her body felt next to his, but he failed dismally.

“You still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Port Verge,” Diran said.

“Neither have you,” she countered.

Diran smiled. “True enough.”

An awkward silence fell between them, and they continued to walk for several moments without saying anything. Finally, Makala said, “Port Verge is a pleasant town-not so large or modern as Regalport, perhaps, but it has its charms.”

“Prince Kolberkon wouldn’t agree with you, I’m afraid,” Diran said. “He’s somewhat jealous of Regalport’s standing as the jewel of the Principalities. Rumor has it that he desires to build the town up until it challenges Regalport’s claim to the title.”

“What a shame,” Makala said. “I rather like it the way it is.”

Diran stopped and pointed northward. “Do you see that manor high on the northwestern hill overlooking the sea?”

The land Port Verge proper was built on was flat for the most part, with a gradual slope down to the sea, but the nobles who lived there-Prince Kolberkon chief among them-lived in luxurious manors in the hills that lay just outside the town limits. While the manors themselves were little more than shadowy shapes at this distance, lights burned in their windows, dotting the hills with points of illumination.

Makala looked where Diran was pointing and nodded.

“That’s the manor home of Prince Kolberkon. It’s said that from up there he can keep an eye on the entire town as well as the sea beyond.”

“There are few lights burning in the prince’s manor,” Makala said. “I doubt he’s keeping watch on much of anything tonight.”

Diran smiled. “Probably not.”

Though he hadn’t planned it, Diran realized they were headed for the eastern docks. The tang of salt in the air grew stronger, accompanied by a slight fishy odor that Diran, who’d spent his early childhood in the Principalities, though not in Port Verge, knew came from the old fishing boats moored at the docks. Since Port Verge was a seatown, the docks were the main hub of all activity. The eastern docks were where the fishing boats put in, and numerous fish markets were located nearby. The central docks were reserved for merchant and trading vessels, with warehouses and shops located a bit further inland. The western docks were where the town’s higher-ranking merchants and noble families kept their private vessels, and past those were the prince’s docks, where not only Kolberkon’s personal vessels were berthed but also the ships of his fleet, the aptly named Diresharks.

As they continued toward the docks, it was Diran who first broke the silence.

“So… why are you here?”

“Believe it or not, looking for you.”

Diran was momentarily taken aback. Of all the answers she could’ve given, he hadn’t anticipated that on. He tried to keep his tone light as he replied.

“I thought you said I wasn’t a target.”

“I did and you’re not. Just like you, I’m no longer an assassin. Well, not just like you. I haven’t entered into the priesthood or anything, but I no longer work for Emon.”

Emon Gorsedd was a mercenary warlord who specialized in training assassins that he would then hire out to the highest bidder. Actually Emon did more than merely recruit his trainees; he acquired children, sometimes through legal means, most often not, and made them his slaves. He then trained them ruthlessly in the art of killing, transforming them into highly skilled and completely amoral murderers. To solidify his control over his young charges, Emon manipulated them into allowing evil spirits to share their physical forms. These spirits not only helped dampen the children’s natural empathy so they could kill more efficiently, they made it impossible for Emon’s assassins to even think about leaving him.

Diran and Makala had both been among Emon’s “children.” They had grown up together, as close as brother and sister. When they reached adolescence, they’d become even closer, much closer, but soon after his last mission for Emon, they’d had a falling out. Once he was free of Emon’s control and studying the way of the Silver Flame, he’d often entertained thoughts of returning to Emon’s compound and attempting to free Makala, though he’d never acted on those thoughts. He’d still harbored hurt feelings over their parting, and more, he feared she’d only send him away or worse, try to kill him on sight. Now he wished he’d put his resentment and fear aside and at least made the attempt.

“How did you manage such a feat?” Diran asked. “I thought I was the only one who’d ever escaped Emon by any means other than death.”

“You still are. Two years ago, Emon sent me to kill a rival warlord named Grathis Chessard who’d been stealing much of his business.” She smiled grimly. “Since the end of the Last War, there isn’t as much work to go around for assassins as there used to be. Somehow, Chessard knew I was coming-perhaps he had a spy in Emon’s service-but whatever the reason, the warlord was prepared, and when I entered his bedchamber one night, the man slew me with a single sword-thrust to the heart.”

“You look awfully good for a dead woman,” Diran said.

Makala laughed. “I didn’t remain dead for long. Chessard’s sister was a priestess, and he had her resurrect me. His plan was to place me under his control and send me back to slay Emon.”

Diran nodded appreciatively. “Sounds like a good plan. What went wrong?”

“When I died, the spirit that possessed me fled my body, so when I was returned to life, my mind and soul were once more my own. The priestess tried to cast some sort of control spell on me, but I resisted and the spell failed. I killed both the priestess and Chessard then fled the warlord’s home. Afterward, I made sure the word reached Emon that while I’d succeeded in my mission, I’d died in the process. As far as I know Emon believes it. At least I’ve never had one of his assassins come for me.”

“I wish I could say the same. I also wish it had occurred to me to fake my own death. It would’ve saved me a lot of trouble over the years.”

They’d reached the docks by now, but instead of walking alone the shoreline, as if by unspoken mutual consent they stepped onto the dock and began walking down it. Makala let go of Diran’s arm and took his hand. Diran didn’t discourage her.

“I knew that you’d escaped Emon too, though I had no idea you’d become priest of the Silver Flame. Once I was free as well, I had nowhere to go, nothing to do, and no idea how to go about making a life for myself. I’d spent my entire childhood learning to kill people for my master. I knew nothing else.”

Diran understood.

“I was tempted to continue working as an assassin-even went so far as to accept a job in Sham, but without the spirit inside me…”

“You couldn’t kill your assigned target,” Diran finished.

“That’s right.”

They reached the end of the dock and stood looking out across the sea. The wooden dock bobbed gently beneath their feet as waves rolled in toward shore, and gulls drifted on the air around them, calling softly as if in deference to the night. While sea-mist hovered close to the water, the sky was clear and cloudless. The golden Ring of Siberys was clearly visible, as were a number of Eberron’s twelve moons, some full and glowing bright, others only slivers. The illumination they cast down upon the ocean made the sea-mist seem to glow with soft, pulsing light.

Makala continued. “Do you ever miss it, Diran?”

Even though he’d been expecting it, the word hit him like a jolt. For an instant his mind and body remember what it had felt like to play host to another entity. How every fiber of his being, every muscle and nerve-ending, every thought and emotion, had been intertwined with his dark spirit. The strength, the confidence, the clarity of thought and purpose were far more intoxicating than any drink or drug.

“Of course not,” Diran said. “You?”

“Never.”

They each knew the other was lying, but they also understood why and chose to let the matter rest there.

“Once I was free, I could no longer do the only work I was trained for,” Makala said. “I no longer wanted to do it, so I decided to try and find the only thing in my life that had ever been good.” She turned to look into Diran’s eyes and placed a gentle hand on his cheek. “You.”

They stood like that, gazing into one another’s eyes for a long moment. Then Diran leaned forward and kissed Makala. The kiss was slow and lingering, and he savored the sweet softness of her lips. He’d feared he would’ve forgotten their feel, their taste, but he hadn’t. Finally they broke apart and Makala put her arms around Diran and lay her hand on his chest. Diran wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

“I knew you’d been born in the Lhazaar Principalities, so I came here, hoping that one day you might return and that our paths would cross once more. I’ve been in the Principalities for almost a year now, wandering around, taking whatever honest-or nearly honest-work I could find, waiting and searching. Now at last my search is over.”

She moved in to kiss him once more, but he drew back, though without breaking their embrace. She frowned. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I still… care for you, but so much has happened since we last saw each other… we’ve both changed so much…”

Makala pulled out of his arms and took several steps away from Diran. She turned her back on him, folded her arms, and stared out at the glowing ocean mist.

“What are you saying? That you don’t love me anymore?” Her voice was tight with anger, hurt, and fear.

Diran felt incomplete without her in his arms, but though he ached to go to her side, he remained where he was.

“I’m saying that I don’t know if we can simply pick up where we left off.” He stepped up behind her and put his hands on her shoulders. “You tried to kill me, Makala.”

Her shoulders stiffened beneath his touch, but she didn’t reply. He opened his mouth to speak, intending to say something, anything, but no words came to him. Instead, his attention was diverted by the sight of three large shadowy forms out on the water. At first he thought they might be a trio of creatures, sea dragons, perhaps, or even gigantic water striders, but as they came closer, he was able to make out their shapes more clearly and realized that he was looking at a trio of three-masted ships. The galleons were black, gliding across the glowing sea mist swift and silent. Huge towers rose from the stern of each vessel, supporting trapped air elementals bound into the form of rings. The elementals powered the ships, sending them across the surface of the water with great speed, the finlike structures that extended from the hulls of the ships slicing through the waves like finely honed blades.

The changeling’s words came back to Diran then. Tonight the streets of Port Verge will run thick with blood.

“I think we should leave,” he said. And go get Ghaji, he added to himself. He had a feeling the two of them would soon have work to do.

“Give up, orc!”

“Half-orc,” Ghaji said through gritted teeth. With a surge of strength, he slammed his opponent’s arm to the table.

The crowd of men and women gathered around Ghaji’s table cheered, and more than a few coins exchanged hands as bets were settled.

Ghaji’s opponent-one of Redbeard’s companions, a black-haired bear of a man with brownish skin who went by the name of Machk-sat back in his chair and rubbed his sore shoulder. “Best three out of five?” he said, almost begging.

“Nothing personal, friend, but I’m not sure your shoulder could take it.”

Machk glared at Ghaji for a moment, then he relaxed and sighed. “Aye, you’re probably right. Besides,” he grinned, “this is my drinking arm, and I’m going to have further need of it tonight!”

The crowd cheered the man’s good sportsmanship, and none cheered louder than Redbeard, whose real name was Barken. Ghaji grinned in appreciation of Machk’s joke, though it was one he’d heard before, and with slaps on the back from Barken, Machk got up and headed back to his table. The crowd began to disperse as well, no one evidently game to arm-wrestle Ghaji after seeing someone as strong as Machk lose to him.

Ghaji drained the dregs of ale from his mug then set it down. Diran and Makala had been gone for a while now, and he wasn’t sure whether he should continue to wait for them here. Makala had left her traveler’s pack, crossbow, and quiver, and he couldn’t just leave them here, but he didn’t feel like sitting here arm-wrestling all night either. He was still trying to decide what to do when the brown-haired elf-woman approached his table.

“Mind if I join you?”

Ghaji had always liked elvish voices. They were warm and mellifluous, with a rhythm and cadence to the words that was almost like music.

“Please, but don’t you have work to do? This lot might get restless if they’re deprived of entertainment.”

The elf-woman laughed softly, the sound putting Ghaji in mind of wind wafting gently through branches covered with fresh green leaves.

“Believe me, after the entertainment you’ve provided them tonight, my juggling would only pale in comparison.”

She sat down opposite Ghaji and looked at him with the piercing gaze common to her kind. Though she was but a traveling player, she nevertheless carried herself with a regal air, as if she were one of the lords of creation. It was this seeming haughtiness of elves that made others so uncomfortable if not downright resentful toward them, but Ghaji had been prejudged too many times in his own life to do the same to others.

“My name is Yvka.”

“Ghaji.”

“I was quite impressed with how you handled yourself tonight.”

“What do you mean?”

“You started your evening here with people insulting you and wishing to fight you. After a relatively short time you’ve become, if not their friend, at least someone they respect enough to no longer taunt.”

Ghaji smiled. “I guess it’s just my sunny personality.”

“I would say it was due to your keen observation of human behavior and motivation,” Yvka said.

Ghaji shrugged at the compliment, though inwardly it pleased him. “Being half human does give one a certain insight, so for that matter does being half orc, but I can’t take full credit. I have a friend who’s far more observant than 1.1 guess some of his qualities have rubbed off on me during our time together.”

“The man in black?” Yvka said.

Ghaji nodded. “Diran Bastiaan is his name, and a finer man I’ve never met, though if you tell him I said that, I’ll deny it. Neither of us is big on sentiment.”

“Your secret is safe with me. I saw both of you earlier in the day, though I doubt you noticed me. In the merchant quarter, near the warehouses?”

“I don’t remember seeing you.”

“I wasn’t performing at the time, just going from one tavern to another, hoping to line up some more work for the next several days. Port Verge gets its fair share of visitors, but it’s still a small enough town that outsiders get noticed, especially when they’re as… intriguing as you and your friend.”

Ghaji couldn’t help but feel flattered, though he knew if the elf-woman felt any romantic attraction to either of them, it was most likely Diran.

The elf-woman simply seemed curious. Still, Ghaji’s instincts urged him to lie, and he hadn’t survived the battlefields of the Last War, let alone his battles alongside Diran since, by ignoring his instincts. “Diran’s a scholar from Morgrave University. He travels throughout Khorvaire, gathering tales and legends from each region. He hopes to eventually collect them all in a book, perhaps even a series of volumes.” The lie came easily, for it was a cover story that Diran and Ghaji used whenever their activities called for a certain amount of anonymity.

Yvka’s smile might or might not have held a trace of slyness, as if she recognized the fabrication for what it was. “I see. And you?”

“I protect him. He is, as I said, a scholar and not a warrior.”

“Strange. He certainly seemed to have the mien of a warrior to me.”

“Can’t always judge by appearances.”

Yvka nodded. “Indeed not.”

At that moment, as if Diran had somehow known what Ghaji had said and had decided to prove his friend a liar, the tavern door burst open and the priest rushed in, followed by Makala.

“Arm yourselves!” Diran shouted. “The city is under attack!”

The taverngoers fell silent upon hearing Diran’s dire pronouncement. Some of the customers looked to the priest while some looked to each other, all of them trying to determine if the man garbed in black was playing some sort of distasteful joke.

Ghaji turned back to Yvka and shrugged. He then jumped out of his chair and hurried to Diran’s side, drawing his axe as he ran. Makala rushed past him, hurrying to their table to retrieve her crossbow and bolts.

“How bad is it?” Ghaji asked.

“Three elemental galleons, with at least twenty hands apiece… say sixty raiders in all. They’ve likely already made landfall.” Diran turned from Ghaji to address the whole tavern. “Arm yourselves or flee! And someone tell the City Watch!”

Everyone sat in stunned silence for a moment longer, until Ghaji roared, “Move, damn you!”

They moved. Chairs and tables were overturned as men and women began running in panic for the tavern door. Ghaji stepped between Diran and the onrushing crowd, feet planted wide, axe held at the ready, lower incisors bared. The fleeing taverngoers parted around the orc and the priest like rushing river water around a boulder lodged in midstream.

The tavern was soon empty, save for Ghaji, Diran, and Makala, who hurried over to join them, crossbow in hand, a bolt nocked and ready.

“Who are we up against?” Ghaji asked.

“I’m not certain, but I think it may be the Black Fleet.”

Ghaji’s expression turned grim. “Sixty raiders, you say?”

Diran nodded. “Perhaps more.”

“One thing certainly hasn’t changed about you, Diran,” Makala said. “You never were one to be overly concerned about the odds, but three against sixty?”

“Four,” Yvka said. She walked over after Makala. Instead of appearing afraid, the elf-woman seemed calm, though alert. Ghaji noticed that she’d taken a trio of red wooden balls from a pouch that hung from her belt, and though he knew the idea was ridiculous, he couldn’t help but think that somehow she intended to use them as weapons.

Both Diran and Makala turned to look at the elf-woman, as if only just noticing her.

“This is Yvka,” Ghaji said. “She’s a… juggler.”

Diran glanced at Ghaji and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“I’m an acrobat as well,” Yvka said.

Makala rolled her eyes. “Both are extremely useful skills when you’re fighting for your life.”

“There’s no need for sarcasm,” Yvka said. “I don’t see anyone else who’s remained behind to help you.”

It was true. Aside from the four of them, the tavern was now empty.

“What is this Black Fleet?” Makala asked.

“Pirates who fly under no flag,” Yvka said, “they ply the Lhazaar Sea, plundering villages and ships. But their main prey is people. Young, old, men, women… it doesn’t matter. They take gold, but it’s said what they really want is blood.”

Screams erupted from the street, followed by the sound of clashing steel. The raiders had come.

Without a word, Diran drew a pair of daggers and raced for the door. Ghaji ran after him, axe gripped tightly, Makala and Yvka close on his heels. The four of them burst out into the night and into a scene of complete chaos.