The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (39 page)

“Did it work?”

Diran glanced over his shoulder and saw Ghaji standing there, worry in his eyes.

Diran avoided his friend’s question. “Where’s Tresslar?”

“While you were … busy, I decapitated Onkar and dragged the two halves of his corpse outside. I used my fire axe to set the
remains aflame. Tresslar’s watching the body burn. We’re going to make sure the bastard is completely destroyed.”

Diran nodded. He’d been so focused on Makala that he hadn’t noticed the foul stink of burning flesh, but he smelled it now.

Ghaji nodded toward Makala. “Is she hurt?”

Diran turned back to look at her. Though her body and clothes were stained with blood from Onkar’s attack, she looked peaceful and relaxed, as if she were only sleeping.

“I don’t know,” Diran admitted. “What I tried has never been attempted, as far as I know. If I got to her in time …” He trailed off and reached into a pocket and brought forth the silver arrowhead that was the symbol of his faith. He reached out, placed the arrowhead in Makala’s palm, and closed her fingers around it.

At first nothing happened. Then came a soft sizzling sound, as of meat cooking over an open flame. Diran opened Makala’s hand and removed the holy token.

On her palm was a scorch mark in the shape of an arrowhead.

Makala opened her eyes.

“Welcome back,” Diran said.

She sat up and reached for her throat. She ran fingers over smooth, unbroken skin and sighed with relief. “Did you heal me?”

Only a few feet away, Diran sat cross-legged on the stone floor. The domed building contained a single large room, crudely furnished with a wooden table, chairs, and sleeping pallet set against a curved wall.

“I tried,” Diran said, his voice hollow, “but we found you too late. Onkar hadn’t quite … finished yet, and I destroyed him, but he’d nearly drained you dry by that point, and the vampiric contagion had already begun its work inside you. Despite my best efforts, I could not reverse its effects. I am … so sorry.”

Makala stared at Diran, as if she couldn’t comprehend what he was saying. Then she reached up and gingerly felt her elongated canine teeth.

“No … No!”

She began to cry, and cold tears trickled down her cheeks. She wiped the tears away with her fingers then looked at her hands. Her fingertips were smeared with crimson—the tears of a vampire. Without thinking, she started to bring her hands to her mouth to lap up the blood, but when she realized what she was doing, she shuddered in disgust and wiped her hands on the dirt floor.

Diran reached out to embrace her, but she scuttled away from him. She wanted Diran to hold her, but at the same time she feared his touch. The hurt Diran felt at seeing her recoil from him was plain in his eyes, but she couldn’t control herself. It was as if she were an animal acting on instinct. She was now an unholy thing, and Diran was a priest. No matter how much she wanted to, she couldn’t bring herself to go near him.

“It took a day for the transformation to complete itself. I’ve sat here the entire time, waiting.”

“Waiting for what? To destroy me?”

“If that’s what you wish.” Diran lifted his hand and showed Makala the wooden stake he held.

“I don’t understand.”

“Remember what you said just before Onkar attacked you?
You were telling Tresslar that you knew two examples of people crossing from darkness over to light, from evil to good. You were talking about us, Makala.”

“Yes.”

“We both found the strength to do without our dark spirits, and we both stopped killing people for profit. If you could do those things, perhaps you will be able to resist the darkest aspects of your new … condition. You may carry evil’s taint within your blood now, Makala, but that doesn’t mean you have to let it control you. I will not slay you, not unless you want me to.”

A silence fell between them then, and it was some time before Makala finally broke it.

“I can hear the blood pulsing in your veins, Diran. I can
smell
it. The thirst is so strong …” She began crawling toward Diran, the first flickers of red flame dancing in her eyes. As she drew near, she pulled her lips back from her teeth and opened her mouth wide.

Diran made no move to stop her. He simply sat and waited for whatever would happen next.

Makala paused. Slowly, the crimson light in her eyes dimmed and she closed her mouth. “I don’t want to live like this,” she said, “yet … Sovereigns help me, I don’t want to die, either.” She forced a laugh. “Emon would be proud of me, don’t you think? I’ve become the ultimate assassin. I no longer need another spirit to share my body—I
am
an evil spirit all by myself.” She felt as if she was going to cry again, but she fought back the tears. She didn’t want Diran to see her weep blood.

“No matter what else you have become,” Diran said, “you are still Makala, and I will always love you.”

Makala gave Diran a sad smile, then came forward and pressed her cold lips to Diran’s.

“Farewell, my love.”

Her form blurred then, and with a sudden rush of wind, she was gone.

Diran remained sitting there, alone, for quite some time.

“Is it done?” Ghaji asked as Diran stepped onto the deck of the
Zephyr
.

Diran didn’t answer, and Ghaji decided not to press the matter. Whatever had occurred, Diran would share it in his own good time.

The priest stepped over to the starboard railing and looked out upon the moonlight reflecting silver off the water. Ghaji walked over and joined him.

“The
Nightwind
is ready to sail, but Hinto thinks we should wait until daylight to depart. It’ll be easier to navigate the winding passage out of the cove then.”

Diran nodded, though Ghaji didn’t think his friend had really heard him.

Their plan was simple. The
Zephyr
would lead the
Nightwind
—piloted by Hinto and Tresslar and crewed by a number of former prisoners—along the shoreline of Orgalos until they found a suitable place to set anchor. They would then begin ferrying the freed prisoners onto land.

The half-orc wasn’t certain what would become of Grimwall. Tresslar wanted to pick through Erdis Cai’s collection to retrieve whatever magic items might be of interest, while
according to Yvka, her employers in the Shadow Network would most likely wish to do the same. Hinto wanted them to take over Grimwall and use it as their base of operations, just at the crew of the
Seastar
had so many years ago. Ghaji had tried pointing out to the halfling that there was no
them
, and thus they had no need for Grimwall—not to mention there were still undead hobgoblins lurking about somewhere—but Hinto had ignored him.

“How much longer until sunrise?” Diran asked.

Ghaji looked up at the sky. “A little less than two hours.”

“Where’s Yvka?”

“In the cabin, meditating.”

“Why don’t you go join her and get some rest,” Diran turned to Ghaji and managed a smile, “or whatever. I think I’ll stay here and wait for dawn.”

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather let her be. Though she won’t admit it, piloting the
Zephyr
takes a lot out of her, and she’ll need her rest for tomorrow.”

“As you wish,” Diran said.

The two companions stood silently side by side as they waited for the first rays of sunlight to come chase away the darkness.

Preview chapter for
VOYAGE OF THE
MOURNING DAWN

Book 1 of the Heirs of Ash

By Rich Wulf

Avaliable June 2006!

Chapter One

As far as Seren Morisse was concerned, Wroat wasn’t the sort of place people lived on purpose. It was just where you ended up. There you were, living a normal life, minding your own business, and one day you found yourself in Wroat. Didn’t matter if you were rich or poor, Wroat just sort of snuck up on you. You came here thinking it might be a good idea to visit for a time, maybe make money or contacts before moving on to somewhere better, but the city found a way of sinking its hooks into you. Wroat made you need it. It made it easier to stay than to leave, and every day you stayed, the city got a little less pretty. The flaws became a little more apparent. The stink became a little more cloying. The people showed you who they really were, and by then it was too late.

Wroat became a part of you, and you were a part of Wroat.

The King of Breland lived in Wroat. As Seren hauled herself onto the rough stone ledge, she looked at the towering spires of the palace and wondered if the King ever felt the same way. He probably did, maybe even more so than anybody. After all, who had less say in his own future than a king? Maybe she wasn’t that different from old Boranel. Let him enjoy his prison of silk, jewels, and fine food. At least Seren had her freedom … precariously huddled on a loosely tiled ledge on the second floor of the d’Cannith guild house with rain pouring down around her.

Seren sighed deeply.

No, on second thought, she would most certainly trade him.

Seren peered over one shoulder, around the edge of the window. Within, she saw a richly appointed study, illuminated by a roaring fireplace and a single lamp. A large wooden desk stood near the window, buried under heaps of unfurled scrolls and books, left lying open and stacked in heaps. The walls were lined with shelves stuffed with even more volumes. The number of books was somewhat surprising considering the inhabitant’s reputation; he didn’t seem the scholarly type. A few plates of half-eaten food and glass tumblers, some still half-filled with wine, sat heaped on the desk and even scattered on the floor. Small models of airships, lightning rail engines, and even the adamantine faceplate of a warforged decorated the walls and shelves in a random, haphazard manner. The decorations were covered with dust, but the books were clean and well maintained.

Seren knew this house had plenty of servants—she had watched them enter and leave the house for the past four days to learn their routine—but they obviously had not touched
this room in some time. Perhaps the things kept here were too valuable to trust in the presence of servants. If so, this was exactly what she was looking for. If not, then this was as good a place as any to start. Seren reached for the window, but she drew back as the door within opened. She huddled back against a nearby gargoyle, wrapping her arms around her knees to stay warm in the chilling rain. She tried once again to console herself with the fact that she was so much better off than King Boranel.

How did it happen? How did she end up here? Good question. Seren’s answer was easy. Stupidity. Her father had been a soldier. The end of the War had been a good thing for a great many families—but not for Seren’s. Other fathers returned to joyous reunions with loving families. Seren’s family received only a black envelope delivered by an apologetic young messenger in a travel-stained uniform. Seren remembered her mother dropping the envelope and bursting into tears. She remembered how the messenger hurried away—he had many more messages to deliver that day.

The army had provided a small stipend to support the families of veterans who had died in the war—but it wasn’t much, just enough to get a family back on its feet or support a single widow. Seren’s mother never complained, but with each day that passed the worried lines around her eyes grew a little deeper. Finally, one night, Seren decided to set out and find her own fate. Her mother would miss her, that was certain, but she knew if she stopped to say good-bye she would lose her nerve, and the two of them would starve together.

In any case, running off to the city seemed a romantic enough notion. How could she fail?

Oh, she had heard all the stories, all the warnings. Her mother had always told her how it was dangerous for a young girl to find a life on her own. Her father, when he was home, always warned her how runaways ended up doing the most terrible things to survive. It wasn’t that she didn’t listen, or didn’t believe them. Quite the opposite, she believed that sort of fate was exactly what could befall a foolish person, and she took their warnings to heart. Seren knew she was not a foolish person, so clearly she was secretly exempt. She ran away from Ringbriar to find a dazzling future somewhere, maybe as an artist or a diplomat. The fact that she had no talents in either art or politics was irrelevant. Those kinds of things weren’t hard. It was all a matter of finding the right opportunity.