Keith Baker - Son of Khyber

Callestan Lharvion 15, 999 YK

Rain mingled with blood on the floor of the alley, pooling around the corpse and the hatchet that lay next to his outstretched hand. Thorn pulled her blade free from the dwarf’s body and searched the walls around her for some avenue of escape. Nothing. The walls of the dead-end street were high, smooth, and slick with rain. The nearest window was far beyond her reach. And her enemies had already found her.

“Well. This is unfortunate.” The man paused in the mouth of the alley, considering the scene before him. His teeth flashed in the dim light of the cold fire torches. “Until now you were a simple cutpurse, dipping your fingers into our territory. A lesson was called for, certainly, but you would have survived it. Now… well, I can’t let you walk away from this.”

“He attacked me,” Thorn said. She held Steel in a loose grip, ready to throw the dagger. “I didn’t want this.”

“You can’t expect me to believe that.” The man was too well dressed for this district-his cloak enchanted to repel the rain, and beneath the cloak a shimmering glamerweave. He carried no weapons that Thorn could see. No one would come into Callestan without a weapon. From what Thorn had heard, the infants teethed on knives. That this man had no weapon meant that he had no need of one.

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” the man said. “I’m told you took four purses in the market, and a locket from a lady’s neck. All that and no one the wiser. No one except my man, of course. I know you’re not from Sharn, but you don’t develop such skills without learning how things work in the big city. We’ve made the arrangements with the watch. You make your arrangements with us. Everyone gets a taste, and everyone’s happy.”

Not yet, Steel whispered in Thorn’s mind. Keep him talking.

“I’ll give you the coins,” Thorn said. “Just let me keep the necklace. I’ve got to get something for this.”

The man laughed. “My dear, what backwater are you from? You’ve killed one of my men. It’s not a question of you keeping that trinket you stole. It’s whether we start by breaking your neck or begin at your ankles and work our way up.”

“You keep saying we,” Thorn said. “I just see you. And him, of course.” She prodded the dwarf’s body with her toe.

“Yes, well,” the man said. “Allow me to clarify.”

He snapped his fingers, and an ogre moved into the alley. Half again as tall as the man, the brute was a wall of muscle clad in black leather. His tiny eyes gleamed down at his prey, and thick, gray lips drew back from yellow fangs.

“Steel?” Thorn said, taking a step back. The back wall was painfully close.

The ogre’s smile widened. “Grogan prefers to work with his hands,” the man said. “He enjoys playing with his food.”

Thorn had actually been speaking to the dagger. Not yet, he repeated.

“We’re running out of time,” she muttered.

The ogre charged. The stench of him assailed Thorn’s keen senses, and as she rolled to the side, she felt the wind from his massive fist.

Thunder rolled through the alley. It was the ogre’s laughter, mocking her as she dodged a second blow. She caught a momentary glimpse of the man standing behind the brute, not even bothering to assist his enforcer. She had surprised the dead dwarf, but no pickpocket was going to beat this monster.

But Thorn was no mere pickpocket, despite her talent for the work. She was a Dark Lantern of the King’s Citadel, one of the hidden blades of Breland-and she’d already passed up two chances to bring the beast down. This wasn’t the first time she’d faced an ogre. Ducking beneath another swing, she had a clear path to bury her blade in his heart. A swift kick to the back of the knee could send him tumbling to the ground, where she could draw her knife across his throat. But she had a mission, and she’d invested too much time to let it go to waste now.

“Unnh!” His fist slammed into her shoulder. Pain lashed through her arm, and the force of the blow sent her reeling into the wall. For all her skill, Thorn couldn’t dodge the ogre forever. Before she could clear her head, Thorn felt a vise tightening on her injured shoulder-the beast had caught hold of her.

“Done now!” His breath was worse than the pain. He raised his free hand for a finishing blow.

The target is present, Steel whispered. You know what to do.

The ogre expected Thorn to pull away from the blow; instead she threw herself into it, putting all of her weight forward. At the same time, she struck the brooch securing her cloak, snapping it open. The beast’s grip tightened around the empty cloak, and his fist swept over her.

Thorn had a clear line to the ogre’s heart. But instead of striking with her blade, she reached out with her left hand, pressing her palm against his chest. Light flared from a bloody pattern of red and black lines around Thorn’s right eye. Pain lashed through her, a burning river that flowed from her eye down to her palm. For a moment the agony consumed the world, blocking out all other thought. And then it burst out of her, pouring into the ogre. As agonizing as it had been for her, Thorn knew it would be far worse for the beast.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

The ogre howled and fell to its knees. Arcs of crimson energy were flaring around his body. “I’m sorry.”

An excellent performance, Steel said. The ogre moaned and collapsed. The tears are a nice touch.

Thorn hadn’t even noticed her tears. Just a reaction to the pain, she told herself. She’d done worse than this. The ogre wasn’t even dead. But Steel was right; the tears served the needs of the moment. Thorn dropped to her knees beside the ogre, taking a deep, sobbing breath as she leaned against its quivering chest. “Not again,” she murmured.

The man was stunned by the defeat of his champion. “What have you done?” he cried.

He traced symbols in the air. Thorn’s fingers tightened around her dagger as arcane energy crackled and burned around his hands. But even as the man opened his mouth to speak a word of power, he stiffened. Closing his mouth, he carefully lowered his hands to his sides.

“Better.” The new voice was raspy and dry, the rustling of sand against parchment. “Understand now. The blade against your spine is the lesser threat. Raise your hand against me, and your fingers will fall from it. Seek to invoke power, and you will choke on your tongue. I have placed my mark upon you, and your very blood obeys my will. Tell me this is understood.”

Thorn remained pressed against the unconscious ogre, convulsing with forced sobs. But from the corner of her eye, she could see that the wizard’s face had paled and shone with sweat. He nodded sharply, his hands pressed against his hips.

“Tell me.” The unseen man spoke quietly, yet his sandpaper voice seemed to fill the alley. “Open your mouth and speak, praying that I do not turn your tongue against you.”

“I understand,” the wizard stammered.

“Then understand further. You live only to carry this message. You and yours are never to threaten one of my kin. I do not care about her trespasses against you, nor the number of knives you command. You do not touch my kindred. Tell me this is understood.”

“I didn’t know she was related to you,” the man said. “How could I? She’s new to the city, new, and sheaaaah-” He cried out in pain, stiffening in response to the unseen torture.

“She wears her blood on her face,” the voice said. “You should have known. Never threaten my kin. Tell me this is understood.”

“I understand!” the wizard cried, dropping to the pavement.