The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (5 page)

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 I. I 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.”

Ykva 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.

D
ozens of raiders were attacking men and women in the streets. Steel rang as swords struck sparks off one another, and screams of agony pierced the night as those who had no weapons or possessed little skill in their use fell to the ground.

The light cast by the moons revealed the raiders to be of similar aspect. They were human, most of them bald and clean-shaven, garbed in black leather armor and black boots. Each carried a long sword in one hand and a wooden cudgel in the other. Both males and females were represented in their ranks, though since the women were also bald, it was difficult to tell the genders apart.

Directly outside the tavern, a male raider crossed swords with Barkan, the red-bearded man Ghaji had arm-wrestled. Barkan was fast with a blade, but the raider was faster, and he carried two weapons. The raider slammed his cudgel into the side of the other man’s head, and Barken collapsed to the
ground, unconscious or dead.

Diran’s hand blurred as he hurled a dagger at the raider. The blade struck the bald man in the throat and blood sprayed the air. The raider dropped his weapons and reached up with a trembling hand to remove the dagger. Before his fingers could reach the hilt, a horrible gurgling sound escaped his mouth, and he fell to his knees, swayed, then slumped over onto his side next to Barken’s still form.

One corner of Diran’s mouth ticked upward in cold satisfaction. “It’s like Emon used to say: ‘You can always count on a well-honed blade.’”

A squad of raiders—three men and two women—had witnessed their companion’s death. They broke off what they were doing and came running toward Diran and others, clearly intending to avenge their fallen comrade.

Makala’s crossbow twanged and a bolt slammed into the left eye of one of the female raiders. Such was the force of the blow that the woman spun to the side and fell, dead before she hit the ground.

Four raiders were left.

Diran hurled another pair of daggers and two more raiders fell, leaving only two to press the attack. Unfortunately, they were too close for Diran to throw any more daggers or for Makala, who was still in the process of reloading her crossbow, to loose a bolt. That meant it was Ghaji’s turn.

The half-orc stepped forward and swung his axe at the nearest raider. The man blocked the blow with his cudgel, and flashing a sharp-toothed grin, he thrust his sword at Ghaji’s unprotected midsection. Ghaji twisted to the side to avoid the strike then swept his free hand, now curled into a fist, around in
a vicious arc that connected with the jaw of the second surviving raider. The man’s head snapped back, the motion accompanied by the sound of breaking bone. The second raider went limp and collapsed to the ground, neck broken, head lolling at an unnatural angle.

Ghaji didn’t have time to savor his victory, for he had the final raider to deal with. The man still had Ghaji’s axe blocked with his cudgel, and he’d pulled back his sword in preparation for a second strike. The man’s cudgel terminated in a round ball, through it was slightly hooked toward the end. Ghaji tried to pull his weapon free, but the cudgel had caught hold of the axe head in its crook, and he couldn’t easily dislodge it

Ghaji gritted his teeth and yanked his axe backward with all his strength. The raider was pulled off balance and was forced to relinquish his cudgel lest he lose his footing entirely. The raider still had hold of his sword, but without the cudgel, Ghaji was confident he could—