a year tracking them and the wench they’d picked up in Mulmaster, north through the unfriendly towns of Turmish, and then following them across borders and back again. By chance she had met one of would-be Baron Berendel’s men in a roadside inn and heard the tale of a mad ex-sailor who wanted possession of a cursed piece of barren rock.
Hard on their trail, she lurked in the cover of the sprawling forest. When she ventured close enough to see their faces, a fierce joy burned in her veins. It was them, after all-Gareth Jadaren and Ivor Beguine, traitors and cowards who had not only abandoned the ship she loved but set those dreadful avengers on her wake.
That had been more than a year ago now. The second she had found Din and Barneb sprawling on the deck in the early morning, still groggy, she knew something was wrong. She knew Gareth and Ivor were on third watch, and their absence was suspicious. A few quick slaps across Din’s face and a knife beneath his jaw elicited the information that the Turmish man and his friend had come last night with wine. She considered knifing the hapless easterner and dropping him over the side.
Instead, she dropped him in disgust and went to tell Ping of the deserters. She’d just reached his chambers when she heard the chaos on deck.
It was too much of a coincidence. Gareth and Ivor had jumped ship and betrayed them in Mulmaster. I never trusted that Gareth, she thought, as she drew her knife. I should’ve cut his throat when he signed on.
She expected to see a fighting ship and a pack of Mulmaster bullies, recruited by what passed for the law in that scabby dock town. Instead, she saw a confused mass of crew, some of them sprawled on the deck, unmoving. Standing on the forecastle deck was a tall figure, armed with a heavy bow. He looked rooted in place, his boots wide-side on the boards. The graceful motion of his upper body as he drew his long black-feathered arrows from the quiver strapped to his back, nocked them to the string, pulled back effortlessly, and loosed into the shambles, finding his mark every time, spoke of long practice and a mastery of the art.
On the deck below, the shifting bodies gave her a glimpse of Krevlak, a burly half-orc they’d picked up near Thay, swinging a mace at another combatant. Krevlak’s opponent ducked, and the mace swung wide, sending the half-orc off balance. As the figure straightened, Helgre saw it was a woman, dusky skinned with a pale mask across her eyes, and hair braided away from her face.
She held a greatsword two-handedly, and, as Krevlak stumbled, she brought it up in a killing stroke across his torso. The half-orc fell in a red spatter, and the woman leaped across his body with insolent ease, engaging another pirate.
The rest of that nightmare day was a blur. She remembered seeing Ping’s head jerk back as an arrow slammed into his throat, and the pain as another ripped into her shoulder as she tried to duck away. She remembered a red-orange ball of fire, like a miniature sun, streaking toward the archer on the deck and the easy movement he made with his hand, as if he were turning away a blow, dispelling it so it sputtered against the rigging. She remembered the sickening impact of the water against her rib cage as she dropped over the side. A man-it was Barneb-had gone the same route and clung to a board floating in the water. With her remaining strength she shoved him away and pushed him under, kicking at him until he sank. She prayed the predatory fish that followed the
But she had lived, and now she waited, patiently, until their guard dropped and they separated for the first time. She took the girl first as opportunity offered.
That’s the penalty, my girl, for consorting with traitors.
Now she would track Ivor down as he scavenged for wood. Then she would wait, concealed in the trees, for Gareth to return.
She licked her lips. She must kill Ivor slowly and let him know that his ladylove died first.
A fist knotted into her hair, jerking her head back. She gasped at the suddenness of it, too surprised to scream.
“I intended to take that morsel for myself, until you came and robbed me of my game,” a husky voice whispered in her ear. “But perhaps you’ll prove better sport.”
She tried to twist away from the grip on her hair, but her captor was unnaturally strong and had the advantage of surprise. She managed to get her knife halfway out of its sheath before a powerful hand found hers and wrested the weapon away with almost insolent ease, flicking it away from them both. She heard the metal clang against a stone.
Helgre fumbled for the garrote in her belt, feeling it slip through her fingers. In a desperate effort, she flailed at her assailant, trying to find any weak spot.
But suddenly a warm lassitude flowed through her limbs, as did an odd feeling of well-being. Her attacker still held her firmly but now didn’t seem so threatening.
A hand traced the raised line of her scar, caressingly, from the corner of her eye, down her cheek, and over her jawline.
“How does a lady come by such a thing? You must tell me someday.”
Helgre closed her eyes, enjoying the feeling. The hand brushed the ends of her hair back, tucking it behind her ear and leaving her neck exposed. She felt gentle fingers against her skin, tracing the line of her jugular down to the base of her neck, where her pulse jumped. There the light touch of the fingers paused.
She closed her eyes, enjoying the sensation.
No. Her eyes snapped open. Something was wrong. She shouldn’t feel like this.
Confused, she tried to shake off the feeling of contentment. Her life was in danger. She must fight for it.
Sharp teeth sank into her neck.
Gareth was within sight of the fire pit, a brace of quail on his belt, when he heard Ivor cry out. He ran. The limp birds, still warm, bounced against his hip.
In the gathering twilight his friend kneeled in front of the old oak, clutching something in his arms. The donkey stood a little way off, a load of firewood bound on its back. It stamped its front hoof and whickered.
Gareth stared at Ivor’s burden in confusion. Ivor was holding Jandi to his breast, and the mage was looking straight back at Gareth, her eyes wide and unblinking.
What was the matter with her? Gareth took a step forward, then another. He saw that Jandi’s eyes were bulging slightly and that her lips were blue.
“No,” he said, and took another step. “She’s not …”
Ivor looked up at him with red, streaming eyes. The horror of the moment flooded him. In an instant he was on his knees beside them.
“She’s gone,” said Ivor, looking into the mage’s dead face. “I came back and thought she was sleeping. I was going to rouse her, tease her about taking a nap all alone, but …”
He turned on Gareth with a snarl. “It was too much for her, all that mucking about with that key or bracelet or whatever that cursed thing is you brought from the
“I didn’t
He studied the body, trying to avoid eye contact. It was terrible to look into Jandi’s eyes when there was nothing, no soul or spirit, behind them. There was no blood, no sign of a wound. The he saw a bruise on her throat, under the curve of her jaw.
“See-look at her neck.”
Gently Ivor tilted her head back so she gazed at the sky. To Gareth’s great relief, he passed his hand over her eyes, closing them. With her throat exposed, they could clearly see the mark encircling it, where some sort of cord had bit deep.
Gareth touched her chill skin, hoping against hope to find a pulse. There was nothing. She was as dead as the quail he’d trapped.
“Resurrection,” gasped Ivor. “If we can reach Berendel’s people … If they have a priestess …”
Gareth shook his head. “It’s too late. She’s already cold. Even if they had someone powerful enough, or willing, by the time we got there …”
“I know,” said Ivor.
