Thieves of Blood botf-1 Page 8

“The Black Fleet,” Ghaji said.

  “The Fleet always struck at night and chose a different target every time,” Flotsam continued, “but their raids, as swift and devastating as they were, left behind survivors-not many, perhaps, but enough. They told of raiders dressed in gray and black, men and women with shorn heads, and they told of the fleet commander, a man named Onkar.”

  Diran slapped his hand on his knee. “I knew that name was familiar! Onkar was the name of Erdis Cai’s first mate!”

  Ghaji frowned. “Are you saying that the Onkar we faced was the same man who sailed with the Seastar forty years ago? That would make him eighty years old at least!”

  “If Onkar is a vampire, his age would be irrelevant since he would not physically grow older,” Diran said. “You should know that by now, Ghaji, given how many undead you’ve slain at my side.”

  “True,” Ghaji said, “but then again, Onkar isn’t all that uncommon a name. Our Onkar doesn’t have to be the Onkar, if you know what I mean.”

  “It could be coincidence,” Diran allowed, “or a simple mistake on the part of the survivors. Terrified people don’t always make the best witnesses.”

  “I cannot dispute your words,” Flotsam said. “I can only pass along what I have learned.”

  “Let’s assume for a moment that Erdis Cai is behind the Black Fleet raiders,” Diran said, “perhaps as the master vampire with Onkar as his disciple?”

  Ghaji shrugged. “I suppose Erdis Cai and his crew wouldn’t be the first adventurers to stumble upon a nest of vampires.” The half-orc let out a snorting laugh. “Look how often it happens to us.”

  “Except when they stumbled out again, they were transformed,” Diran said, “and not for the better.”

  “So Erdis Cai and his crew are vampires and the other raiders are their human servants?” Ghaji asked.

  “I believe so,” Diran said. “Perhaps Erdis Cai has promised to reward them with immortality if they serve him well.”

  “If all this is true,” Ghaji said, “why go about raiding as the Black Fleet? Why draw attention to yourself at all? If the Lhazaar Princes were to pool their resources and go after the Fleet, which they will likely soon do if the raids keep up, the Fleet would be crushed. There has to be an easier, less risky way for Cai to obtain their food.”

  Diran thought for a moment. “Perhaps they aren’t abducting people for their blood, or at least, not only for it. Perhaps they have another reason, one that’s worth the risks they take.”

  A dark scowl came over Diran’s face, and Ghaji knew he was thinking about Makala and wondering if she was still alive. Ghaji wished he could say something to reassure his friend, but he could think of nothing.

  “That makes sense,” Yvka said. “Over the months the Black Fleet has been striking at increasingly larger targets. Port Verge was the largest so far.”

  “Maybe the raiders are simply getting more confident,” Ghaji said.

  “Perhaps they’re working to some manner of timetable,” Diran said, “and they need to abduct as many people as they can as swiftly as possible.”

  “This talk is all well and good,” Ghaji said, “and who knows? Some of it might even be true, but what use is it to us? If Erdis Cai is the vampire lord of the Black Fleet, how does knowing this held us find him?”

  “It doesn’t,” Yvka said.

  Flotsam cocked his head in a way that made him seem as if he were thinking. “I believe I might know of someone who might be able to lead you to Erdis Cai. He is a human named Tresslar, an elderly artificer who serves on Dreadhold. According to rumor, as a young man he sailed with Erdis Cai. If anyone could tell you more about Cai, it would Tresslar. Assuming the rumors are true, of course.”

  “Very well,” Diran said. “Then we shall set sail for Dread-hold at once. Thank you, Flotsam, for…” The priest broke off, his eyes widening. “The shifter is trying to steal the Zephyr!”

  Ghaji, Yvka, and Flotsam turned to look seaward. Sure enough, the shifter who had taken the shark from Flotsam was now aboard the Zephyr, swiftly hauling up the anchor. Two others stood on the deck of the sloop: A bare-chested, dark-skinned man covered with brightly colored concentric tattoos and a half-elven female with long blond hair who wore a green skirt and a top that left her midriff bare. They were all dripping wet, and it was no great leap of logic to guess that the shifter and his compatriots had swam silently from their ship to the Zephyr and stealthily climbed aboard. As the shifter worked to bring up the anchor, his two companions, both armed with bows, kept watch. The message was clear: if anyone tried to stop the thieves, they’d make the sudden acquaintance of the business end of an arrow.

  Flotsam started to rise, but Yvka grabbed his arm and pulled him back down.

  “Why did you do that?” the warforged asked, sounding mote puzzled than angry. “Arrows can’t harm me.”

  “True,” Yvka said, “but you’d never reach the Zephyr in time. They can’t activate and control the air elemental, but they can use the oars to row the boat far away enough that you won’t be able to get to it.”

  Ghaji figured the thieves would tie the Zephyr to their two-master then tow the elemental sloop someplace where they could sell it for a handsome price.

  “They can’t have it,” Diran said. “I need that craft if I’m to have any hope of finding Makala.” A wild gleam came into Diran’s eyes then, and Ghaji groaned, for he knew his friend had just had an idea.

  Without taking his gaze from the thieves, Diran said, “Ghaji, your axe is still aboard the Zephyr, isn’t it?”

  “Under one of the seats,” the half-orc confirmed.

  “Get ready to grab it as soon as you’re back aboard.”

  Before Ghaji could ask his friend just what he was talking about, Diran spoke to Flotsam. “When I give you the signal, I want you to pick Ghaji up and hurl him onto the Zephyr. Are you strong enough to do that?”

  “Yes,” Flotsam said, without any hint of ego or boasting, merely stating a fact.

  “Well then,” Diran said, “get ready.”

  Ghaji wished they had time to discuss alternative plans, especially ones that didn’t involve him being thrown like a ball by a barnacle-encrusted warforged, but there was no time. A quick glance showed Ghaji that the crew of the two-master was already frantically scurrying about, preparing to set sail and leave Nowhere, and the rightful owner of the Zephyr, far behind.

  “Now!”

  Diran stood, drawing a pair of daggers from the leather strap around his chest as he did. As he straightened to his full height, he hurled the daggers toward the Zephyr and the thieves who now trod her decks. Ghaji presumed the blades streaked toward their targets, but he didn’t see if they did, for Flotsam scooped him up with his thick metal and stone arms as if the half-orc were but an infant. The huge warforged spun around twice to build up momentum, then he released Ghaji into the air.

  The world became a rushing blur as Ghaji ascended, and it felt as if his stomach sank to the bottoms of his feet. He straightened his arms out before him, his legs behind, as if he were preparing to dive into water. Though there was plenty of the wet stuff for leagues in all directions, he was hoping to land on a soarwood deck. He reached the apex of his flight and began to plunge downward. Now his stomach felt as if it were pressing against the back of his throat, perhaps in a desperate attempt to escape before the fool who controlled their mutual body managed to get both of them killed.

  Ghaji saw the deck of the Zephyr rapidly approaching. The tattooed man clutched the hilt of a dagger protruding from his left shoulder, blood streaming from the wound and pouring over his fingers. The half-elf had crouched down to make herself a smaller target and was swiftly drawing arrows from her quiver, nocking and loosing them with speed and grace. If she’d been wounded by one of Diran’s daggers, she showed no sign of it. The shifter had gotten the anchor up and was now fitting the oars to the oarlocks. Of the three thieves, Ghaji would’ve liked to take out the half-elven archer first, but his trajector
y wasn’t carrying him toward her. It was, however, taking him straight toward the wounded man.

  Flying half-orcs can’t be choosers, I guess, Ghaji thought, then he balled his hands into fists and slammed into the tattooed man.

  The dark-skinned thief howled in pain and fury as he and Ghaji crumpled to a heap on the deck. Ghaji heard the harsh, brittle sound of snapping bones, and he hoped they weren’t his. The impact had, however, knocked the wind out of Ghaji, and gasping for breath, he rolled off the tattooed man and reached for the compartment where he’d stowed his axe. He managed to close his fingers around the haft just as he heard the twang of a released bowstring. He rolled to the side as an arrow sank into the wooden deck after passing through the space where his throat had been an instant before. As he came up onto his feet, he brought the flat of his axe head up and deflected another arrow.

  The half-elf stood facing him, already nocking another arrow. Ghaji was about to throw his axe at her, when her eyes went wide and she stiffened. She released her grip on her bow and it clattered to the deck, arrow undrawn and unreleased. The woman took a step toward Ghaji, her mouth working but no sound coming out. She pitched forward, and as she fell to the deck, Ghaji saw the hilt of a dagger protruding from between her shoulder blades.

  Ghaji knew he had Diran to thank for saving him, but he had no time to spare for even a grateful wave. He heard a growl and turned just in time to meet the shifter’s charge. The man had assumed his more bestial aspect; his eyes were feral yellow, his teeth longer and sharper, fingers now hooked into deadly claws, and his body hair had grown wild and shaggy, more like wolf fur than human hair. Often the mere sight of such a transformation was enough to startle a shifter’s opponent, causing him or her to hesitate for one fateful second… and a second was all any shifter needed.

  Ghaji had faced many shifters on the battlefields of the Last War, and he’d fought far more fearsome foes since joining up with Diran. Thus the half-orc didn’t hesitate as the shifter came lunging toward him. He didn’t have time to swing his axe, but he was able to bring it up in time for the shifter to slam face-first into the flat of the axe-head. The shifter staggered back, nose gushing blood.

  “Leave now and I’ll forget I ever saw you,” Ghaji offered. “Stay and die.”

  The shifter glared at Ghaji with his amber eyes and licked at the blood covering his upper lip.

  “Big talk from a half-breed,” the shifter snarled.

  Ghaji’s grip tightened on his axe. “Now that was the wrong thing to say.”

  He stepped forward and swung his axe in a vicious arc at the shifter’s neck. The shifter leaned backward just in time to avoid having his throat sliced open. He countered with a swipe of his claws aimed at Ghaji’s face, but the half-orc brought his left arm up to block the blow. Ghaji had allowed the momentum of his failed axe swing to bring the weapon around, and now he brought the axe up over his head and slammed it down on the shifter’s. The sharp blade sliced through the shifter’s scalp, shattered the top of his skull, and bit into the soft pulpy mass within.

  The shifter stopped fighting and stood looking at Ghaji, blinking several times in an expression of bewilderment, as if he couldn’t quite understand what had happened to him.

  “Oh,” the shifter said, as if something profound had just occurred to him. Then his eyes rolled white and he collapsed to the deck, his ruined brain making a wet sucking sound as gravity drew it away from Ghaji’s blood-smeared axe-head.

  Ghaji didn’t pause to savor his victory over the shifter. He turned to check on the tattooed man, and good thing, too, for the wounded thief was on his feet and moving toward Ghaji, his features twisted into a mask of rage, Diran’s dagger still embedded in his shoulder.

  Ghaji waited for the man to get closer, and when he was near enough, the half-orc stepped aside from the railing. Unable to stop his approach, the tattooed man slammed into the railing, pitched over, and fell toward the water, bellowing his anger and frustration. His bellow didn’t last long, however, for it was cut off as soon as he plunged into the sea.

  Still holding his axe, Ghaji stepped back to the railing and looked over. A series of ripples spread out from where the tattooed man had sunk. Ghaji watched, waiting for the man to swim back up to the surface, planning to offer him the same choice he’d given the shifter. Ghaji waited… and waited…

  A fountain of bubbling froth broke the surface, and an instant later the foamy white turned crimson. The tattooed man’s head bobbed above the water, and his mouth opened wide to scream. Before any sound could come out, the maw of a large grayish-white shark much larger than the one Flotsam had caught rose up behind the man and snapped its jaws down on his head. The shark then disappeared beneath the water, taking the tattooed man with it and leaving behind nothing but a roiling mass of blood and seafoam.

  Looks like the shark Flotsam caught wasn’t the only one plying the waters around Nowhere, Ghaji thought. He had a sudden thought and turned to look at the dead bodies of the shifter and the half-elf. The corpses needed to be disposed of, so why not a burial at sea? Maybe the big shark had a few hungry friends.

  Ghaji started toward the bodies.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Interesting?”

  Diran looked up from the large book spread open on the table before him. Makala stood on the other side, leaning forward, hands pressed to the smooth, polished surface of the table. She was wearing a low-cut white dress, and the way she was standing afforded Diran an excellent view. He tried not to look, especially because he suspected Makala wanted him to look, but he couldn’t help sneaking a quick glance. Makala smiled.

  “It’s diverting enough,” Diran said, instantly regretting his choice of words. Ever since he’d passed his final test almost a year ago, Makala had taken to teasing him in ways that made him uncomfortable, and he didn’t want to make it any easier for her by providing straight lines like that.

  For once Makala let the opportunity pass.

  “What is it?”

  “A history of the Lhazaar Principalities where I spent my early childhood. I suspect much of it’s hyperbole, especially the more recent sections devoted to the exploits of the explorer Erdis Cai, but…” Diran trailed off as Makala burst out laughing. He scowled. “What’s so amusing?”

  “You,” she said, her tone half-affectionate, half-teasing. “You always were something of a bookworm, but you’ve been spending so much time in here lately that you’re starting to talk like one of these musty old tomes!”

  Diran couldn’t help smiling. “I like it here in the library. It’s quiet and peaceful, and it provides an opportunity for me to gather my thoughts. It’s somewhat like meditation for me, I guess.” He shrugged. “Besides, you know Emon encourages us to spend as much of our spare time reading as possible.”

  “I know. ‘There is no such thing as useless information, my darlings.’” She did a passable imitation of Emon’s voice, and though Diran had heard her do it before, he laughed just as he always did.

  “Sometimes I think you’re more suited for the life of a scholar than that of an assassin,” Makala said, clearly teasing now.

  Diran didn’t rise to her bait this time, for truth was, he sometimes thought the same thing himself.

  The library was the second largest room in Emon Gorsedd’s manor home, the first being the room where the warlord’s charges trained in the deadly arts of assassination. Emon was a firm believer that a well-honed mind was an assassin’s most important weapon, so he collected books and scrolls on every subject conceivable, and he expected his disciples to master the knowledge contained in the written word just as he expected them to master their blade work.

  The library’s walls were lined with bookshelves that reached all the way to the room’s high ceiling almost thirty feet overhead. Numerous ladders were stationed throughout the library to provide access to reading material stored on the higher shelves. Painted on the ceiling was a detailed mural of the great dragons that represented the three p
arts of the world: Siberys, the Dragon Above; Khyber, the Dragon Below; and Eberron, the Dragon Between. Polished mahogany tables with soft leather chairs were spread throughout the room, but while there usually were at least two or three others present reading and doing research, today Diran and Makala were the only ones. In the middle of the room was a round table with an intricate map of Khorvaire carved into its surface. Whenever an assassin’s mission took him or her far enough from the manor grounds, Emon would always brief them on their travel route using the map table. Though he’d passed his final test, Diran had never been assigned a mission that took him that far away from home, but perhaps one day soon…

  “I bet I can think of something more interesting to do than reading history.”

  Makala came around to Diran’s side of the table and sat on the arm of his chair. She crossed her legs, the motion revealing that her white skirt was slit up the side to her mid-thigh. This time Diran didn’t even try to pretend that he wasn’t interested in the sight of Makala’s bare leg.

  “What sort of things?” he asked.

  Makala leaned forward and closed the book Diran had been reading. She then turned back to him and said, “I was thinking of something like this.” She put her arms around Diran’s neck and kissed him. The kiss was long and slow and altogether wonderful. Diran had no idea how long the kiss lasted; he only knew that he was sorry when it was over.

  Makala pulled away, but she kept one arm draped over his shoulders.

  “You’d better be careful,” Diran said. “Quellin might suspend both of our library privileges if he catches us like this.”

  Quellin was an elderly scholar whom Emon employed to oversee and maintain his collection of volumes. He was a quiet man with a sour disposition who acted as if Khorvaire would be a much finer place if all the people vanished overnight so there’d be no one to get fingerprints on the vellum pages of his precious books or mis-shelve them once they were finished reading. There was something else about Quellin that bothered Diran, though he couldn’t quite pin it down. Sometimes Diran would catch the elderly scholar looking at him with an expression of dark amusement, as if the man harbored a secret that he couldn’t wait to share.