Tim Waggoner - Thieves of Blood

“Flying rats,” Ghaji muttered.

Many of the people on the island cast interest-filled glances at the Zephyr, while others gaped at it with undisguised avarice. Could be trouble, Ghaji thought. They’d have to keep a close eye on the elemental sloop as long as they remained anchored here.

Yvka stood in the midst of the crowd, talking to a gnome dressed in the white shirt, black pants, and head scarf of a common sailor. Yvka evidently asked the gnome a question, for he pointed toward the water, and she nodded. The elf-woman then turned away from the gnome and began picking her way through the crowd toward shore. When she reached the water’s edge, she dove in without hesitation and swam over to her sloop. She treaded water on the vessel’s starboard side as she spoke to them.

“My friend’s here, but he’s out fishing right now. We’ll have to wait a bit.” Without pausing for them to reply, Yvka turned and swam back to the obsidian island.

“Looks like we’re going to get wet, my friend.”

Diran took several daggers from their hidden pockets in his cloak and slipped them into his boots. He then removed his cloak, rolled it into a bundle, and stored it in the open compartment under his seat. He then sat on the port railing and allowed himself to fall backward into the water. Diran might have been taken from the Principalities as a child, but he still possessed a Lhazaarite’s grace in the water. He swam quickly and confidently to shore, barely disturbing the water as he went. As Diran climbed onto the island’s craggy surface, he glanced back at Ghaji and raised a questioning eyebrow.

Ghaji sighed. Best to get this over with.

He removed his breastplate and slid it beneath the seat next to Diran’s cloak. He then climbed up onto the railing and jumped off. As he hit the water, sudden shock ran through his body, for the slate gray sea was so cold here that it felt as if he’d plunged into the deepest depths of an arctic ocean. The splash he’d made upon entering the water was so loud and the spray so voluminous that everyone on the obsidian island turned to look. One wit shouted, “There she blows!” and laughter rippled through the crowd. Cold seeped into Ghaji’s bones as he swam for shore, and his limbs began to feel slow and heavy. He emerged from the frigid sea, swearing and shivering.

Both Diran and Yvka stood waiting for him, and the elf-woman gave him a look as Ghaji joined them, cold water dripping off him like freezing rain.

“Don’t say a word,” the half-orc snarled through chattering teeth.

“Not a peep,” Yvka said.

Neither Diran nor Yvka seemed affected by their time in the chill water, but then both were Lhazaarites and presumably used to the cold sea.

“If the water’s this bad in summer,” Ghaji said, “what’s it like in winter?”

“Deadly,” Diran answered without the slightest trace of humor. “Winter storms churn the sea, and the water is so cold that if one falls in unprotected and isn’t quickly rescued, death occurs within moments.”

“Delightful,” Ghaji muttered and tried not to shiver anew as a breeze wafted over his wet body. He noted a number of rowboats that had been pulled onto the shore around the small island, the craft no doubt having provided passage for those from the larger vessels anchored nearby. Not everyone was forced to swim to shore. Lucky bastards, Ghaji thought.

Waves lapped at the shore, and the black rocky ground was littered with bits of seaweed, shells, and the carcasses of small crabs.

“Depending on the tides and the season, the isle is sometimes submerged,” Yvka said, stepping over a dead eyeless fish. “Don’t worry, though. This time of year, the isle won’t be underwater again until nightfall.”

“What exactly is this place?” Diran asked Yvka.

“Nowhere,” the elf-woman replied.

“If you’re trying to make a joke,” Ghaji said, “it’s not funny.”

“I’m not joking. That’s what this place is called: Nowhere. As Diran guessed earlier, it appears on no chart, not because it’s unknown to mapmakers, but because the Lhazaar princes wish it that way.”

Diran frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“This small isle is neutral ground and has remained thus for centuries. Legend says that Lhazaar herself originally established it as a place to meet in secret with other princes, as well as to broker political and business deals with representatives of other powers. Anyone can come here to talk about anything without fear of discovery or reprisal.”

Ghaji looked around. “So all these people…”

“Aren’t here officially,” Yvka said. “At the moment there are representatives present from Princes Ryger and Mika, various Dragonmarked Houses, as well as a group of merfolk who are meeting beneath the waves.”

Diran looked impressed. “And no violence breaks out?”

“As I said, this is neutral ground and those who come here are dedicated to keeping it that way,” Yvka replied, “though, as with so much else in life, Nowhere isn’t perfect and the tradition of neutrality is sometimes breached. We must remain on our guard at all times.”

“Tell me,” Diran said, “among those currently present on the isle, are there any representatives of the Shadow Network?”

One corner of the elf-woman’s mouth lifted in a half-smile. “Perhaps.”

Ghaji looked at Yvka. “Since Diran and I first came to the Principalities, I’ve heard talk-mostly whispers spoken in the backrooms of taverns-about a secret organization of spies and assassins called the Shadow Network. I’d thought the stories nothing more than lies told to pass the time and impress outlanders.”

Diran didn’t take his gaze off Yvka as he replied to his friend. “Perhaps because that’s what the Network prefers people to think.”

Yvka’s mouth stretched into a full smile but she didn’t comment otherwise.

Their mysterious elf friend had just become even more mysterious, Ghaji thought.

“Who have you brought us here to meet?” Diran asked.

Yvka was about to answer when there was a loud splashing just offshore.

“Him,” the elf-woman said, pointing.

Diran and Ghaji turned toward the commotion and saw a large gray figure emerge from the water and come trudging toward shore. The cause of the commotion was readily apparent. The gray figure had hold of a shark’s tail and was dragging the thrashing beast behind him.

“Shark,” Diran said. “Twelve, maybe fourteen feet long.”

The being that dragged the very unhappy shark behind him was warforged, an artificial construct created to fight in the Last War and imbued with intelligence and sentience. Like all warforged it was constructed from a composite of materials: iron, stone, silver, obsidian, and darkwood. It had three-fingered hands and two-toed feet, and its face possessed glowing green eyes and a hinged jaw to form a mouth. In addition, this particular warforged was larger and bulkier than most and had obviously been built for strength. Crusty growths dotted the surface of its body, and Ghaji realized they were barnacles. Evidently this construct spent a significant amount of its time underwater. The warforged had to have some sort of protection against the corrosive effects of sea-water, and Ghaji wondered if the creature had been adapted for underwater maneuvers by some artificer during the Last War. Ghaji had fought alongside and against numerous warforged during his years as a soldier, and he’d seen many built for specific tasks, but he’d never seen one like this. As big and strong as this warforged looked, Ghaji had no trouble imagining it striding across the sea bottom and ramming a fist into the hull of a ship to sink it.

The construct stepped onto shore and continued onto the island, dragging the writhing shark behind him.