Tim Waggoner - Thieves of Blood

“I’m not. Only a changeling could have assumed Emon’s aspect so completely.” Diran turned to the changeling. “I’m glad Emon was able to intercept my dagger, Rux.”

The changeling’s nearly nonexistent lips formed a vague suggestion of a smile. “As am I, Diran.”

Diran turned back to Makala. “You knew.”

Emon answered for her. “Of course she did, boy! The final test is always the same-will you be able to slay your assigned target no matter who it is?”

“What happens to those who fail?” Diran asked.

Emon’s only reply was a feral grin.

“Whose task would it have been to deal with me if I failed?” Diran looked at Makala. “Yours?”

She wanted to lie to him, but she couldn’t, not with both Emon and Rux here, so she said nothing.

“I see.” A hardness came into Diran’s eyes then, and Makala felt a surge of sorrow. He had just lost a part of his childhood, perhaps the last remaining part. He now understood that no matter how much he cared for someone, or someone for him, no one could be trusted, not entirely. It was a vital lesson for an assassin to learn if he not only wanted to be able to perform his job but stay alive while doing so, but Makala regretted having been instrumental in teaching Diran this cold hard lesson. The way he was looking at her now came near to breaking her heart.

Emon broke the mood by laughing. “Come, let us sit by the fire. We’ll share some drink and a few lies before we must start back home.”

As they settled around the campfire and Emon began passing around a wineskin, Makala tried to catch Diran’s attention, hoping that she might somehow be able to signal her feelings to him through her gaze. Diran, who’d made a point of sitting between Emon and Rux, didn’t look in her direction, nor did he look at her the rest of the night.

For a long time there was only darkness: black, cool, and soothing. Though the darkness remained, it was eventually joined by two other sensations. One was movement, a smooth, subtle sense of motion experienced primarily as a gentle vibration in the floor upon which she lay-rather pleasant, actually, until it was joined by the second sensation. Pain. Her whole body ached, but her head hurt worst of all. Her skull throbbed with every heartbeat, as if her brain was a forge, and some cruel blacksmith was furiously pumping the bellows until the heat and pressure became too much and the forge threatened to explode. The pain soon grew so intense that it drove away the last soothing shreds of darkness, and Makala opened her eyes.

She was lying on her left side, and while there was light, it was dim and she couldn’t see through the tears of pain that filled her eyes. Her muscles felt as if they’d turned to jelly.

Where was she? How had she gotten here? Makala tried to remember, but the throbbing in her head made it so hard to think. She remembered dreaming about Diran taking his final test, and she also recalled something about a wooden cart filled with bodies. While that was strange enough, she also remembered seeing Diran, not as a thirteen-year-old boy, but as a man twenty years older, different in so many ways yet so much the same. Had that been a dream, too? It was all too confusing, and she decided it was best not to worry about it for now. She closed her eyes and attended to her other senses.

The air was thick with the mingled smells of sweat and fear. She could hear people whispering and crying softly, bodies shifting in a vain search to a more comfortable position, chains clanking as they moved. She was a prisoner, that was clear enough, but where? Why?

She remembered the words of Emon Gorsedd, the man who had once been father, mentor, commander, and lord to her.

If you ever find yourself captured, sweetmeat, the first thing you must do is assess your situation, for only by knowing who and what you’re dealing with do you stand a chance of survival.

Makala hated Emon, hated what he’d made her become. Despite her feelings about the man, she’d never rejected his teachings. They’d saved her life too many times over the years. Best to start off small, she decided. She tried to move her hands, but she discovered they were bound at the wrists. She twitched them and heard the soft jangling of chains. Manacles. No surprise there. She tried to move her feet, and as she suspected, her ankles were encased in manacles as well. Was she also chained to the floor? If not, she’d have the capability of movement, however restricted it might be, and a length of chain stretched between two wrists could make quite an effective weapon if employed properly. She attempted to sit up. The throbbing in her skull grew more intense, and a wave of weakness overcame her. She started to collapse, but instead of falling to the floor, she slumped back against a wall that she hadn’t realized was there and managed to remain sitting.

She remained still to conserve her strength and breathed deeply and evenly. After a time, the pain in her head lessened until it became manageable, though it didn’t go away entirely. Her tears dried and she opened her eyes once more. The light was dim, but it was enough for her to make out the shadowy forms of a dozen people or more sitting on the floor around her. Though she couldn’t discern their individual features, she could tell by their sizes and shapes that they were a mix of men and women, adults, youth, and children. She had no doubt they were all wearing manacles and chains just as she was.

Makala was still dressed, though her crossbow had been taken from her or perhaps was lost somewhere along the way. The various smaller weapons she kept concealed on her person were gone as well. Though she’d been trained to kill a target with her bare hands as easily as she could with a weapon, she still felt naked, far more so than if she had been undressed.

She was trained in hand-to-hand combat, but what good were such fighting techniques when she could barely move?

“Poor girl. The raiders handled you pretty rough, did they?”

Makala was startled by the voice, and she turned toward it too fast, causing her head to throb anew. The voice was that of an elderly woman, but all Makala could see was a blurry outline of her form. Makala squinted, but her eyes refused to focus.

Knowledge can just be as powerful a weapon as any made of steel. Sometimes more so.

Emon’s advice again, and again Makala decided to heed it. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice coming out as a dry croak.

“You’re aboard one of the Black Fleet ships,” the old woman said. “I believe this one’s called Nightwind, though I don’t know for certain. I overheard a couple of raiders call her by that name, but my hearing isn’t what it used to be, so perhaps I’m mistaken.”

Black Fleet? Raiders? The words sounded familiar, but…

With a rush, Makala’s memories returned. Port Verge, Diran, Ghaji, Yvka, the raiders, and Onkar, who, it seemed, was a vampire. Obviously she’d been rendered unconscious and brought to the hold of this ship and put in manacles, along with the rest of the captives, but for what purpose? To be made a slave? She thought once more of Onkar’s glistening fangs and another more terrible possibility occurred to her. Maybe she, along with the others around her, were meant to be food.

Her vision had cleared to the point where she could make out the old woman’s features. She wore a simple white blouse, brown skirt, and a knit shawl over her shoulders. She had a lean face, wrinkled, but not overly so, along with curly white hair. Her eyes seemed to be yellowish, but Makala was certain that had to be a trick of the light or perhaps her own still-addled mind. The woman also had a pair of what looked like gray sideburns running down to the edge of her jaw. There was something about those eyes and sideburns that seemed significant to Makala, but she couldn’t think what it might be at the moment. Besides, she wanted to know about Diran and the others.