[Blade of the Flame 01] - Thieves of Blood Read online

  It was a typical dockside tavern in Port Verge. Wooden chairs and tables were sticky with spilled ale, their surfaces scored with knife-carved graffiti. The floor, covered with sawdust, soaked up whatever liquids might spill upon it. The room was lit by everbright lanterns, windows open to allow in the cool evening breeze coming off the sea. The sole ornamental touch was a fishing net strung across the ceiling with shells and dried starfish hanging in its weave. Instead of a minstrel, tonight’s entertainment was an elf-woman who stood juggling in front of the empty stone hearth. She stood a touch over five feet, was slender, and had the pointed ears and elongated head common to her race. She wore her brunette hair in a pattern of complex braids, as was common in the Principalities, and was dressed in the typical garb of a traveling player: white blouse, brown tunic, green leggings, and brown boots. She was juggling ten red wooden balls in a circular pattern with graceful ease.

  “Don’t take it personally,” Diran said. “Ghaji and I have encountered similar treatment before. People are often uncomfortable in the presence of priests, let alone one who killed a changeling only a few blocks from here.”

  “They’re wondering if Diran really is a priest of the Silver Flame,” Ghaji added, “or if he’s just some lunatic who might well decide the next person who looks at him cross-eyed is a monster and start throwing daggers around the room. It doesn’t help that he travels with me either.”

  Makala frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “People find us a rather unlikely pair,” Diran said. “A priest and a half-orc … it gives them further reason to suspect I’m not truly a priest, or if I am, that I’m a mad, dangerous one.”

  “Well, you are dangerous,” Makala said. “As for mad…” She trailed off, smiling.

  “Forget about the others,” Ghaji said. “They’ll ignore us for a while and hope we get the message and leave. When we don’t, they’ll realize the best way to get rid of us is to serve us quickly. Then we’ll drink, eat, and go, and everyone will be happy again.”

  “This is ridiculous, Diran,” Makala insisted. “I’ll go talk to that wench and let her know that we’d like to be served—now.” Makala started to rise, but Diran took hold of her elbow and stopped her.

  “Don’t bother. The girl will attend to us or she won’t. In the end, it’s of no real importance which she chooses.”

  “It’s important to my stomach,” Ghaji muttered.

  The half-orc warrior didn’t like how the evening was going. So far, neither Diran nor Makala had seen fit to enlighten him any further on the details of their shared history. Had they once been lovers? Ghaji had no idea if Diran’s order discouraged or even forbade romantic relationships. During the time they’d traveled together, he’d never seen Diran show more than a clerical interest in women.

  Despite himself, Ghaji had to admit that Makala was an attractive woman. Her features tended toward pretty rather than beautiful, but she exuded a quiet strength and confidence that drew all male eyes toward her. She was surely a warrior, Ghaji guessed. That was no lucky strike she’d hit the changeling with. Some men found women who were as strong, if not stronger, than themselves off-putting, but not Ghaji, and neither, it seemed, did Diran.

  How did Diran know her? Ghaji wondered. Had they met during Diran’s early days as a priest, before Ghaji had become his companion, or had they met before, during the Last War when Diran had served a far different master than the Silver Flame? If so, just how dangerous did that make Makala?

  Whatever the nature of their past relationship, Makala had certainly disturbed the mental and emotional equilibrium Diran normally maintained. The priest sat more stiffly than usual, and when he spoke, his voice held an edge of tension.

  His manner was friendly enough but guarded, almost as if he suspected Makala might be yet another creature of darkness that they’d have to dispatch, and he was waiting to confirm the fact before striking.

  After they’d dispatched the changeling, an officer of the City Watch had finally appeared. He’d questioned Diran and Ghaji about the incident, but the man hadn’t seemed overly concerned about the changeling’s demise.

  “Just another urchin-sting addict with poor judgment,” he’d pronounced. The officer had taken down Diran and Ghaji’s names then told them to leave.

  “And try not to kill anyone else while you’re in town,” he’d added.

  Ghaji hadn’t replied. He didn’t like to make promises he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep.

  “What I don’t understand is why the changeling acted the way he did,” Ghaji said. “His kind usually prefer to avoid direct conflict whenever they can. Besides, when you mistook him for a rakshasa, all he would’ve had to do was show us he was a changeling, and we would’ve left him in peace. Instead, he transformed himself to appear like a rakshasa and attacked. Why?”

  “He was intoxicated,” Diran pointed out. “That could easily explain his erratic behavior.”

  “Maybe,” Ghaji said, “but then what about what he said right before he died? ‘Tonight the streets of Port Verge will run thick with blood.’”

  Makala shrugged. “An empty threat. The man was dying and wanted to strike out at Diran one last time with the only weapon he had left: words. I’ve heard such words many times before, and they meant no more than they do now.”

  “Last words always mean something,” Diran said.

  Makala looked at Diran as if truly seeing him for the first time. “You’ve really changed, haven’t you, Diran Bastiaan?”

  Diran smiled. “More than I could ever have imagined, but still not as much as I’d like.”

  Makala grinned. “Now that’s the Diran I remember. No matter what, he’s never quite satisfied.”

  Diran’s smile didn’t falter, but his voice became a trifle colder. “I like to think there’s always room for improvement, regardless of the person or the situation. How about you, Makala? Have you changed?”

  Makala’s grin fell away, and Ghaji felt himself becoming extremely uncomfortable. Thus it came almost as a relief when one of the sailors at the next table, the red-bearded one, said, “Hey! Ugly!”

  Ghaji ignored the taunt, so the man hurled another.

  “Tell me, what’s a beauty like her doing sitting at a table with a beast like you?”

  Makala started to say something, but Diran motioned for her to remain silent. The other two men sitting at Redbeard’s table laughed, but once again, Ghaji ignored the loudmouth, refusing to even look at him this time. A moment later came the sound of chair legs sliding on sawdust, and Ghaji knew Redbeard had stood up. The next sound was the clump of boots as the man walked over to their table and stood behind Ghaji.

  “What’s wrong, orc? You hard of hearing or just too stupid to understand?”

  Though Ghaji’s back was to the idiot, he could sense the man quivering with anger behind him. Still Ghaji didn’t react.

  Redbeard poked his index finger hard into Ghaji’s right shoulder. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”

  One of Redbeard’s companions shouted, “Hit him, Barken! That’s the only way to get an orc’s attention!”

  “Don’t punch him in the mouth!” Redbeard’s other friend said. “With those oversized choppers of his, you’d cut your knuckles to shreds!”

  Laughter followed this comment and not only from Red-beard’s companions. A good portion of the tavern’s other patrons joined in this time.

  Despite Diran’s urging, Makala couldn’t restrain herself any longer. “Shut your mouth before I shut it for you,” she said. Her voice was cold and hard as steel, and her eyes glittered like moonlight dancing along the edge of a knife blade.

  “Don’t bother,” Diran said calmly. “Let Ghaji have his fun if he wishes.”

  Makala looked at Diran as if he were crazy. “Fun?”

  “Stop jawing and hit the ugly bastard!” someone called out.

  “Not on the top of his head!” another added. “Orc skulls are supposed to be hard as rock!”

&n
bsp; “I thought all the rock was inside their heads!” yet another person shouted, eliciting a fresh round of laughter from the tavern-goers.

  Ghaji smiled as he stood and turned to face Redbeard. The man was short and stout, with curly red hair to go along with his bushy beard. He wore a leather vest, brown leggings, and worn brown boots. His hands were heavily callused and his face well weathered, indicating a life spent on the deck of a sailing vessel, but that was hardly a surprise. Folks in the Lhazaar Principalities viewed sailing the same way other people in Khorvaire viewed walking. Indeed, many were more comfortable at sea than on dry land.

  Redbeard carried no weapons, but his arms were thick, his chest broad and strong. Ghaji’s axe was tucked under his belt, but he kept his hand well away from it. He’d been in similar situations far too many times in his life. He knew that if it so much as looked like he was reaching for his axe, Redbeard, both of his friends, and most of the people in the tavern would draw their weapons and attack the “foul orc” in their presence.

  “May I help you?” Ghaji kept his tone neutral.

  Redbeard stared for a moment, as if Ghaji were a dog that had begun spouting epic verse. He quickly recovered his bearings, though.

  “Yeah, you can help me by hauling your stinking carcass out of here!”

  More laughter from crowd.

  Ghaji could smell more than ale on Redbeard’s breath. Obviously, the man had been drinking stronger spirits, and Ghaji doubted the man had started his day’s drinking here. Redbeard wasn’t just drunk, he was seriously, dangerously drunk.

  “Sorry, but I can’t oblige you,” Ghaji said. “I haven’t been served yet, and I’m very thirsty.”

  “Oh, well, in that case…”

  Redbeard grinned and stepped back to his table. He picked up a mug of ale, returned to Ghaji, and emptied it over the half-orc’s head.

  “There, that should quench your thirst!” Redbeard said.

  Laughter spilled from the crowd again, but a bit more subdued this time. People were beginning to realize how ugly this situation was becoming. A few got up and began making their way toward the door, but most settled into their chairs, preparing to view the fight to come.

  Ghaji stood calmly as ale dripped from his hair and ran down his face. He wiped ale from his face, then flicked the drops onto the sawdust-covered floor. “Not that it’s any of you business, but my mother was orc, my father human.”

  Redbeard barked out a nasty laugh, but he was the only one laughing now.

  “How in the name of all the Host did an orc woman manage to get herself with child by a human man? Was he ensorcelled? Or just blind and lacking a sense of smell?”

  Redbeard roared with mirth, holding onto his belly as if he feared his innards might burst out if he laughed too hard.

  Ghaji turned to Diran. “I’m going to be busy for a while.”

  Diran smiled. “Of course. Enjoy yourself.”

  Redbeard was still laughing when Ghaji’s hand fastened around his throat. The man’s laughter was instantly choked off, and Ghaji lifted him off his feet. Redbeard grabbed Ghaji’s wrist and tried to free himself, but strong as he was, Ghaji was stronger.

  Ghaji grinned at the drunken sailor. “Why don’t we continue our conversation outside?”

  Ghaji hurled Redbeard through the air toward an open window. Patrons ducked as the man sailed over their heads, though the window, and out into the night. Ghaji headed for the door at an unhurried pace. All eyes in the tavern were watching him, but no one was laughing now.

  * * *

  Once Ghaji had departed, Diran looked at Makala. “As you might have gathered, Ghaji’s had similar conversations before, and they always end the same way.”

  “With the other party sadder but wiser?”

  “Sadder at any rate. I’m not sure anything can make that sort wiser.”

  The serving girl made her way through the maze of tables toward them, carrying a tray with two mugs of ale. She stopped at their table, placed the mugs before them, and said, “On the house.” She waved a hand in the air over their drinks, casting a charm to cool them, then scampered off.

  “Do you often get free drinks after one of Ghaji’s conversations?” Makala asked.

  Diran took a sip of cool ale, then set his mug down. “Sometimes.”

  Makala drank as well, and then said, “I must say that I’m surprised that you and Ghaji are friends. The two of you seem so… opposite.”

  “That’s why we make such a good team,” Diran said. He resisted adding, Just like we did once.

  “I bet there’s a story to how you met one another.”

  “Isn’t there always?” Diran didn’t add anything more. He didn’t want to talk about Ghaji or himself right now. “Thanks again for helping us with the changeling. You’re just as skilled with the crossbow as ever. Perhaps more so.”

  “You’re just as deadly with a blade.” She gave him a teasing smile. “I didn’t realize priests were permitted to wield weapons.”

  “Weapons are merely tools in the battle against evil, though I’ll admit that some tools are more effective than others.”

  Makala laughed softly. “Indeed.”

  “Actually, the favored weapon of my order is the bow.”

  Makala frowned. “You’re not carrying one.”

  Diran smiled sheepishly. “I left it back in the room Ghaji and I rented at one of the nearby inns. I’m… still working on achieving proficiency with it.”

  “Which means you couldn’t hit the broad side of a cow if it were three feet away from you.”

  “Precisely.” He sighed. “Nevertheless, I continue to practice.” A pause in the conversation came then, and both Diran and Makala took the opportunity to drink more of their ale.

  When they’d put their mugs down, Diran said, “I assume you haven’t come to the Principalities to kill me. You had a perfect chance to send a crossbow bolt into my back during the fight with the changeling, but you didn’t. You could’ve simply let the creature claw me to death, but you didn’t do that either.”

  “Perhaps I didn’t want to take advantage of you while you were distracted.”

  “Perhaps, but I doubt it. You were never one to hesitate, Makala, no matter the reason, no matter the target.” Though he tried, Diran couldn’t keep bitterness he felt out of his voice.

  Makala looked him in the eyes and softly said, “I’ve changed, Diran.”

  “Have you? How much?”

  Makala paused to take a drink of her ale, and Diran knew she was stalling for time so that she might frame her reply to her best advantage. He knew this because he would’ve done the same thing. It was how the two of them had been raised.

  “I know what you’re asking, and the answer is I’m free, just as I assume you must be, unless the Order of the Silver Flame has taken to ordaining possessed priests.”

  Despite himself, Diran smiled. “You always had a way of approaching the most serious of subjects with humor.”

  She smiled back. “Is there any other way?”

  “Your assumption is correct. The dark spirit that once shared my body was cast out some time ago.” He almost said, A spirit you enticed me into accepting, but he didn’t, though it took an effort to hold his tongue.

  “As was mine,” Makala said.

  “Then you’ll have no objection to my making certain.”

  Makala continued to smile, but her eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong, Diran? Don’t you trust me?”

  “If our places were reversed, would you?”

  Makala’s smile faded. “What must I do?”

  “Give me your hand.”

  Her smiled returned. “If you wanted to hold my hand, Diran Bastiaan, all you had to do was ask.” She reached across the table and Diran gently grasped her hand.

  It was the first time that their flesh had come in contact in years, but Diran remembered the soft smoothness of her skin as if they’d touched only yesterday. For a moment he savored the sensation of her hand i
n his, and though he was tempted to look into her eyes and see if she felt the same, he didn’t. He had a task to perform.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, opening both his mind and his spirit, searching for some indication that Makala’s own spirit wasn’t the sole inhabitant of her body, but he sensed no other presence.

  He opened his eyes, but didn’t let go of her hand right away. “It’s true; you are free.”

  “Told you.” Makala allowed him to hold onto her hand a moment longer before she withdrew it.

  “There must be a story there,” Diran said.

  The tavern door opened and Ghaji came striding in, the unconscious form of Redbeard slung over his shoulder. Despite the man’s girth, Ghaji carried him easily across the common room to his table. The tavern fell silent as Ghaji pulled Redbeard off his shoulder and placed him in his chair. The man remained upright for a moment, eyes closed, face and lips swollen and already beginning to bruise. Then he slumped forward and his forehead hit the wooden tabletop with a loud smack.

  Ghaji nodded to Redbeard’s two companions, then turned and started back toward his own table.

  “Feel better?” Diran asked as the half-orc took his seat once more.

  Ghaji nodded. “We had a nice, civilized discussion and came to a mutual understanding.”

  Redbeard’s associates were glaring at them, faces contorted in expressions of murderous fury. The serving girl came by again, this time with a mug for Ghaji. She cooled the ale, gave Ghaji a wink, then departed. Ghaji watched her go, his gaze lingering on her swaying hips. Diran didn’t blame him; they were an impressive sight.

  Makala took Diran’s arm and pulled him to his feet. “It’s getting stuffy in here. I think I’d like to go outside and cool off in the night air.”

  Diran glanced around the tavern. More than a few of the patrons were scowling in their direction, and some had their hands on their weapons. Whoever Redbeard was, he was evidently well liked in Port Verge, or the other patrons were simply bored and looking for a fight to entertain themselves.

  “Sounds good to me.” Diran tossed a few coins on the table as a tip for their server. “Coming, Ghaji?”