Tim Waggoner - Thieves of Blood

“Close your eyes,” Yvka said, then one by one she tossed the glowing red balls toward the assembled raiders in rapid succession.

As the balls moved away from them and closer to the raiders, Ghaji found the hypnotic pull of the glowing orbs lessening, and he was able to do as Yvka ordered. He closed his eyes just as the first of the balls exploded in a soundless burst of bright red light over the raiders’ heads. So intense was the light-burst that Ghaji saw the crimson flare through his closed eyelids, as well as the two other bursts that followed. He also heard the raiders cry out in pain and surprise, the sounds of their distress all too human despite their appearance.

Ghaji opened his eyes. Crimson afterimages danced in the air before him, but he could see well enough, which was more than the squad of raiders could say. They’d remained mesmerized and wide-eyed as the balls came toward them, thus they got the full dazzling effect of the triple light-burst. They stood hunched over, rubbing tear-filled eyes as they moaned and cursed. Most of the raiders had dropped their weapons when the light-bursts occurred, and swords and cudgels littered the alley floor around them.

“Attack!” Makala raised her crossbow to her shoulder and loosed a bolt at the raiders.

Ghaji didn’t need to be told twice. With a roar, he raised his axe, ran forward, and began fulfilling his silent promise to Barkan’s spirit.

Pandemonium ruled the streets of Port Verge. People ran screaming as raiders pursued them. Some got away, but many more were clouted on the head by a raider’s cudgel, picked up and carried away, unconscious. Officers of the City Watch fought raiders sword to sword, but though the watchers inflicted their share of wounds, they were no match for the savagery of the shaven-headed warriors. The city’s defenders fell, one after the other. Those offices who valued survival over duty broke off the battle and escaped the deadly kiss of the raiders’ steel, but most didn’t, earning a sword strike in the back for their cowardice. Not all the citizens of Port Verge fled or remained barricaded indoors though. Men and women of varying races took to the streets, weapons in hand, and fought to repel the gray-garbed raiders, but though many of these brave people were experienced fighters, they fared little better than the City Watch. The Black Fleet raiders were simply too numerous, too fierce, and too skilled. Of the Prince’s Diresharks there was as yet no sign. Perhaps they were on the water, attacking the galleons themselves, or, and Ghaji considered this most likely, word had yet to reach either Kolberkon or the commander of the Diresharks.

Ghaji, Diran, Makala, and Yvka continued fighting the raiders, and the half-orc lost track of how many they’d dispatched. The exact number didn’t matter. As long as even one raider survived, there was still work to do.

Ghaji saw several raiders gang up on a half-elf sailor armed only with a long knife. While the other raiders attacked the sailor, another hit the sailor on the head with a cudgel hard enough to stun him but not hard enough to kill. The raider then hoisted the unconscious victim onto his shoulder as his or her companions went off in search of fresh game. At first, Ghaji had no idea what was happening, then he heard the sound of iron-rimmed wheels on paving stones as a wooden cart rounded the corner. Two raiders pulled it-large, muscular men as well they needed to be, for the cart was laden with unconscious bodies.

“Demon-scales,” Ghaji swore. “They’re harvesting people!”

“So it would seem,” Diran said.

In unspoken agreement, the half-orc and the priest finished off the raiders they were fighting then sprinted toward the cart. Ghaji didn’t look back to see if Makala or Yvka followed. He knew they would.

As the raider carrying the half-elf dumped the unconscious man on top of the other victims, Diran and Ghaji arrived. A moment later, the raider had been felled by Ghaji’s axe. The two raiders pulling the cart reached for the swords sheathed at their sides, but a dagger from Diran and a bolt from Makala’s crossbow stopped them. The two men dropped to the ground, as dead as their companion.

“Makala and Ghaji, stand guard while Yvka and I see to the unfortunates in the cart.”

Makala frowned. “Diran, I don’t remember you being quite so…”

“Commanding?” Ghaji offered.

“Bossy.”

Diran smiled, and he and Yvka headed for the rear of the cart while Ghaji and Makala watched for raiders. The street was littered with bodies, many of them raiders dispatched by Diran and the others, but otherwise it was empty. The fighting had moved on to other sections of the city, but it hadn’t moved far. Ghaji could still hear ringing steel, defiant shouting, and agonized screaming.

Diran and Yvka began pulling the raiders’ unconscious victims out of the cart and laying them prone on the street. When only four more people remained in the cart, Diran said, “That’s enough. We can arrange the others so they’ll be comfortable enough where they’re at.” They did so then turned their attention to those on the ground.

Nine people altogether, Ghaji thought. He wondered just how many men and women the raiders would’ve crammed into the cart before deciding they finally had a full load.

Yvka began attempting to rouse a young woman barely out of her teenage years by patting her hands and cheeks, but the woman didn’t respond.

“Allow me,” Diran said. “Once her head injuries are healed, she should awaken without much difficulty.”

Yvka looked up at the priest with a frown, as if she wasn’t used to being ordered and didn’t particularly like it, but she moved away from the woman. Diran knelt. The priest placed his right hand on the girl’s chest directly over her heart then bowed his head and closed his eyes.

No matter how many times Ghaji had witnessed Diran perform a healing, he never ceased to be awed by it. Most of the time he thought of Diran as just a man, albeit an extraordinary one, but when Diran invoked the power of the Silver Flame to turn undead or perform a healing, Ghaji was reminded that his friend wasn’t merely some variant of magician. He was a conduit through which the holy force of Good could work its will in the physical word.

Diran’s hand glowed with a soft silvery light, but before the healing could be completed, a voice cut through the night air.

“Take your hand off the girl, priest. She’s our property now.”

Ghaji turned to see a man striding toward them down the street. He was dressed like a common sailor-white shirt, black pants, boots-and carried a cutlass tucked beneath his belt. He was of medium height, stoutly built, bald, with a black beard shot through with gray. He appeared to be in his late fifties, though he moved with the confidence and grace of a much younger man.

The glow that enveloped Diran’s hand winked out, and the priest stood to confront this newcomer.

“Who might you be?” Diran demanded.

The man’s eyes seemed to smolder with crimson fire.

“Onkar, commander of the Black Fleet, and you four are interfering with our business.”

“Interfering in others’ business is one of our specialties,” Ghaji said.

Onkar came toward them, moving with a fluid grace that that seemed more serpentine than human. “So I’ve heard. Reports of you practicing your ‘specialty’ made it back to my ship. Seems you killed one of our people earlier today, a changeling. He was a good scout but something of a discipline problem. Liked his fun a bit too much, if you know what I mean. Still, problem or not, he was one of us, and I’ve come to settle accounts with his killers.”

So the changeling that had masqueraded as the rakshasa had been one of the Black Fleet. It made sense they’d use a shape-shifter as a scout, Ghaji thought. Too bad for them that they hadn’t been able to find one that could hold his urchin-sting better.