The Thieves of Blood: Blade of the Flame - Book 1 (8 page)

“Climb aboard,” Yvka said.

Diran started toward the craft, but Ghaji took hold of the priest’s arm and stopped him.

“A moment, Diran. I know you’re eager to rescue Makala,” when Diran frowned, Ghaji hastily added, “along with the other prisoners, of course, but this boat gives us all the more reason for suspicion. There’s no way that a traveling player would be in possession of such a vessel.” He glanced at Yvka.

“Undoubtedly,” Diran concurred.

Ghaji regretted having to speak his next words, but he had no choice. “Yvka’s not a simple juggler, and since she won’t tell us what she
is
, we have no choice but to assume she’s a criminal of some sort, a smuggler or perhaps even a spy for one of the other Lhazaar Princes.”

“I am offering to help you,” Yvka said with more than a hint of exasperation. “What more do you need to know?”

“At the moment, nothing,” Diran said. He turned to Ghaji. “You’re wrong, my friend, but not about being suspicious, though, for our elven friend is quite a mystery. You were wrong when you said we have no choice but to think her a criminal. There is another choice.”

“And what’s that?” Ghaji said, unable to keep the words from coming out in a growl.

Diran smiled gently. “To have faith.”

Ghaji scowled.

T
hey had spent the hour picking their way through the night forest, slowly and deliberately, making no sound and disturbing none of the animals busy with their nocturnal foraging. They were shadows, creatures formed of air and darkness, phantoms flitting from tree to tree, silent and unseen.

Makala was impressed. She and Diran had been friends since childhood, and she’d known he was one of Emon Gorsedd’s most talented charges. After all, hadn’t it been
she
who’d told the warlord that Diran was ready for his final test? She’d never realized the profound depths of patience and concentration that her childhood friend was capable of summoning. Emon had chosen her to accompany Diran during his test and evaluate his performance, but though she was fifteen, two years older than Diran, and had passed her own final test
three
years ago, she found herself hard-pressed to match his stealth. Diran was going to make a great assassin one day,
perhaps even greater than Emon himself.
If
he passed his final test, that is.

The woods were thick here, and the canopy of leaves above them blocked out all light from the moons and stars. The forest was so dark it was as if the air was filled with solid shadow, but after a time a glint of orange light became visible off in the distance. They headed toward the illumination, Diran leading, Makala following. The glint grew larger, the trees sparser, until they at last found themselves at the edge of a small clearing. Diran and Makala crouched behind a thick hawthorn bush and peered into the clearing. Actually, only Diran looked into the clearing; Makala was watching his face, waiting for him to react to what she knew waited for them here.

In the clearing, a man sat before a campfire, bedroll spread out beside him, an open traveler’s pack on the ground nearby. He had no steed, which wasn’t surprising given how dense these woods were, but what
was
surprising was the man’s identity.

Diran’s eyes widened and his lips parted as if he were about to say something, utter a whispered exclamation, perhaps, or turn to her and ask how such a thing could be possible. Sitting before the fire was their lord and master, Emon Gorsedd. To Diran’s credit, he said nothing. He closed his mouth, and his eyes narrowed as he assimilated and assessed this unexpected turn of events.

As Diran’s observer for the test, Makala had been the one to relay Emon’s instructions, and they’d been clear enough. Enter the Wood of Erlaigne at midnight, make your way to the center as swiftly as possible without making any noise, and slay the person you find sitting before a campfire. Makala had given Diran no other information about his target, and he understood
enough about the rules of the final test to know that she’d given him all the details he could and that any requests for further detail would go unanswered. Diran hadn’t even known whether his target would be young or old, male or female, but now he knew. The target was male, middle-aged, medium height and somewhat stout, bald, with a thick black mustache and beard. He wore a dark crimson tunic with gold trim at the neck, sleeves, and hem, and black pants and boots made of the finest leather. Emon’s weapon belt had been removed but lay on the ground within close reach.

It wasn’t difficult for Makala to guess what Diran was thinking. She’d been his only contact for this “job.” Perhaps for some reason known only to her, Makala was using him to assassinate Emon and this wasn’t his final test at all. Maybe the test wasn’t to see if he would kill Emon but rather spare him, to show that Diran didn’t blindly follow orders and could think for himself. Perhaps it was simply a test of his ultimate loyalty. In the end, was his loyalty to the job or to Emon Gorsedd?

Bird and insect song drifted on the cool night air, occasionally punctuated by the pop and crackle of the campfire. Diran had paused for several seconds so far, and Makala expected him to hesitate further. She herself had paused nearly an entire minute before finally acting during her test, but Diran waited no longer. He drew a dagger from his belt, gripped it in a throwing position, then stood. His hand blurred as he hurled the blade toward Emon Gorsedd’s unprotected back. The knife hissed through the air, but before it could bury itself between Emon’s shoulder blades, another dagger flashed out of the darkness and knocked Diran’s off course with a loud clang of clashing metal. Both knives tumbled to the ground without
doing any damage, and Emon turned and glowered in Diran’s direction.

“Step out into the light where I can see you, boy!”

Without saying anything to Makala, Diran walked into the clearing until he stood within three yards of Emon Gorsedd. He didn’t look back at Makala, and she didn’t step forward to join him. Diran had to face this part of the test alone.

“What do you think you’re doing? Who hired you to betray me?”

Though Diran was just beginning his teenage years, he stood before his master with the calm, relaxed dignity of a far older man. “No one hired me. I came here on my own to take my final test.”

Emon stood, teeth clenched, face red, hand balled into fists. “You fool! Why would I order my own assassination?”

“You wouldn’t,” Diran said, “but then, you are not Emon Gorsedd.”

There was laughter, deep and masculine, from somewhere in the woods. Diran didn’t seem to notice it as he continued.

“Emon would never wear such a fine tunic for traveling, nor would he wear such expensive boots. He’s far too practical a man. There’s also one thing that Emon Gorsedd would never do as long as breath remained in him: he would never ever remove his weapons belt. Besides, only Emon is skilled enough with a dagger to deflect another blade in flight.”

“Especially when it’s hurled by one as skilled as you, lad!”

Emon Gorsedd walked into the clearing from the opposite side, beaming at Diran like a proud father. The warlord was garbed in a dark brown tunic and leggings, along with a hooded forest-green cloak. Makala took Emon’s appearance as her cue
to step out of concealment, and a moment later she stood near the campfire with Diran and the real Emon, while the other one looked on.

Emon clapped Diran’s shoulder. “Congratulations, my boy! You’ve passed the test!”

As soon as those words left the real Emon’s mouth, the features of his double began to blur and shift. A moment later, the being that sat before the campfire no longer resembled the bearded warlord. In fact, it no longer appeared human. It wore the same clothing, but it now possessed gray skin and thin, fair hair. It had large blank white eyes, but the remainder of its facial features seemed unfinished with only a hint of nose and lips.

“A changeling,” Diran said upon witnessing the creature’s transformation back to its natural form.

“You don’t sound particularly surprised,” Makala said.

“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.