Барб Хенди - Dog in the Dark

—Why—lock?— ... —A blade—now—

Leesil reached for his right winged blade.

—No— ... —Anmaglâhk—blade—

Leesil hesitated. In Calm Seatt, Brot’an had given him anmaglâhk weapons—a stiletto and a curved bone knife—when they’d gone to get Wynn out of her own guild’s keep. He hated those weapons and had disposed of his own long ago. For some reason, he’d kept the ones Brot’an had given him.

The stiletto was hidden in a sheath in his boot.

Leesil had to trust his old friend’s greater instincts. He drew the stiletto and palmed the hilt, with the blade flattened behind his wrist and forearm. Exhaling slowly, he reached quietly for the door lever and turned it with a light push.

The door opened, and he fixed on two figures before a porthole at the chamber’s rear.

Beyond the broad desk covered in charts, Captain Bassett stared at him with wide eyes. Someone nearly as tall as Brot’an stood behind him and held a curved bone knife against his throat.

The anmaglâhk, with a long braid of hair, looked at Leesil and then glanced down at Chap. He had to have known someone was outside the door, but clearly he hadn’t known who would enter.

Leesil realized Brot’an had been right, that the anmaglâhk team had taken their ship and likely murdered half the crew to set a trap for Magiere and him. More people suffered and died because of them.

“Let him go,” Leesil said dully in Belaskian.

Chap entered the cabin and veered left as Leesil followed, sidestepping the other way.

“You for him,” the anmaglâhk answered in perfect Belaskian. “A fair trade ... and I let him live. But the majay-hì leaves now.”

Leesil took another step along the cabin’s far side. Hope and fear crossed Bassett’s face, and Leesil shriveled inside. He could not imagine the cruelties that had taken place on this ship. One more innocent suffered because of him, because of a task Magiere felt compelled to complete....

Because of those damned orbs.

“Let him go with Chap,” Leesil said. “And I’ll leave with you.”

The anmaglâhk’s expression remained unreadable. When Leesil glanced aside, Chap’s eyes were already on him.

—Save—the captain—if you must— ... —But—you are—an assassin—facing—an assassin—

Those words, what Chap had called him, made Leesil sick inside.

—Act—like one— ... —You—we—are—better than him—

It took great effort for Leesil not to let his expression change. Could he save the captain and kill an anmaglâhk?

“If we are agreed,” the anmaglâhk said, “discard your weapons.”

—Wound—the captain—

Again Leesil fought to kept his expression blank, but a part of his old self began awakening.

—Do—this— ... —I will—go over—the desk—before—the anmaglâhk—can react—

In years past, serving Lord Darmouth, Leesil had helped hunt down the warlord’s enemies. Now and then one of his targets took a hostage as this one did now, someone Leesil didn’t need or want to kill to get to the one he’d been ordered to kill. He knew what to do and needed no further prompting from Chap.

“All right,” Leesil answered.

He leaned down, unstrapped his left winged blade, and let it drop to the floor. As it fell, he watched for the anmaglâhk to relax even slightly. It didn’t happen. He twisted over the other way, but because of the stiletto hidden behind his right hand, undoing that other sheath wouldn’t be easy. He feigned difficulty and leaned farther across to work the straps with his left hand.

His right blade started to come loose.

“Kick them away,” the anmaglâhk ordered.

“All right, all right,” Leesil grumbled.

The right winged blade hit the floor, and the stiletto slipped down his right wrist. He snatched its tip as he toed a fallen winged blade as if to nudge it away.

Leesil shifted his weight in a step and snapped his right hand out as his eyes locked on Bassett’s shoulder.

The stiletto struck low, piercing the captain’s upper right arm.

Bassett cried out, twisting from the wound. His left shoulder struck the anmaglâhk’s chest as his legs buckled, and his weight dropped. The anmaglâhk automatically tried to get a grip on his crumpling hostage.

Chap was already in midleap as Leesil scooped up his right winged blade.

Chap landed atop the desk and lunged. He hit the captain’s chest and slammed Bassett and the anmaglâhk back against the central porthole in the rear wall.

Leesil rushed in as Chap and the captain tumbled away, and the anmaglâhk had no choice but to turn on him. Leesil’s first swing missed, and he hadn’t even had time to strip the sheath off his blade. In the same instant, he saw two straightened fingers thrust toward the hollow of his throat, and he barely twisted his head away.

The strike hit the hollow between his collarbone and shoulder, and his left arm went numb. The pain came as the force made him topple against the desk. One thought filled his awareness in that instant.

The anmaglâhk didn’t use his bone knife.

Leesil knew his opponent wanted him alive; he had no such notion in kind.

The space between the desk and rear wall was tight, and he let himself fall back atop the desk. The pain in his shoulder told him that the muscle had been torn by that finger-strike. Wounds didn’t matter—all that did was who died.

Leesil saw the anmaglâhk’s empty hand lead the man’s next attack. The bone knife came as well, but wide and to the side. That was a mistake, for Leesil wasn’t alone in this. He kicked at the man’s hand, and his foot slid in along that forearm to the anmaglâhk’s elbow.

That stall was all Chap needed as the dog lunged up from behind the desk.

Chap’s jaws snapped closed on the wrist above the bone knife. As the anmaglâhk tried to wrench free, Leesil levered himself up off the desktop.

The sheathed point of his winged blade rammed the base of the anmaglâhk’s throat. Force made the sheath’s tip split. Blood squirted across the leather.

Leesil grabbed the man’s other wrist and threw his weight against his blade to grind the tip in. The anmaglâhk tried to gasp but only choked, and his eyes filled with shock. The wrist in Leesil’s grip began to go limp.

The tall anmaglâhk’s eyes never closed as he slid down the wall.

Chap released his grip, but Leesil did not until ...

—Enough— ... —It is—done—

Still the man’s eyes were open, staring out.

Leesil didn’t know what to feel as his other arm weakened. His sheathed blade merely slid from the bloody gash in the man’s throat and down his victim’s chest.

“Léshil!”

When he spun, Brot’an was inside the cabin door. Dirken followed with a few others behind him.

The shadow-gripper’s gaze dropped, likely looking to one of his own left dead against the back wall. Something flickered across Brot’an’s face. Was it pain or regret?

No, neither, not in him.

“Captain!”

The first mate pushed around Brot’an and rushed to crouch near Bassett, but Leesil found the captain glaring up at him. Pain didn’t hide the wounded man’s growing fury.

“They were after you?” Bassett accused, his voice sharpening. “Those killers were after you ... on my ship!”

“They saved us,” the first mate said, tilting his head at Brot’an as he pulled Leesil’s stiletto from the captain’s arm. “This one let the rest of the men out.”

It was all too much for Leesil. He didn’t want to recognize what was inside him: put there by his mother and his father, used by Brot’an to kill a warlord, and still lingering even though he tried to smother and forget it.