“I don’t know who captured you,” the raider said, “but whoever it was is an idiot. We don’t have any need for shifters, let alone any as old as you.” With his free hand, the raider unsheathed his sword. “Ernard was no friend of mine,” the man said with a slowly widening smile, “but I’m going to enjoy taking revenge for him.”
“No!” Makala shouted.
She tried to put herself between Zabeth and the raider, but someone reached out and grabbed hold of the chain connecting her wrist manacles. The raider was female, and Makala recognized her as one of the pair that had climbed down into the Nightwind’s hold. Steel whispered and the woman pressed the point of a dagger to the underside of Makala’s chin.
“Careful, you’re about to make yourself more trouble than you’re worth,” the raider warned.
Makala wished her mind wasn’t dulled by hunger and her reflexes slowed by weariness. She knew she couldn’t just stand here and let Zabeth be slaughtered, but her brain refused to offer up any alternatives.
The raider who had hold of Zabeth raised his sword high, preparing to bring it down in a killing stroke. Makala hoped that Zabeth might be able to once more unleash the bestial side of her shifter, but the old woman just looked at the sword blade gleaming in the moonlight with tired resignation and waited for death to claim her.
“Hold!”
The voice echoed through the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. The raider holding Zabeth froze, an expression of stark terror on his face. Makala glanced at the woman holding the dagger to her throat and saw a similar expression mirrored on her face. All the raiders looked scared, and they all stood motionless as statues, heads turned toward the entrance in the cliff wall where the dock disappeared into darkness. Makala turned and watched as two figures came striding forth from the shadows. She recognized the one on the left as Onkar. The raider commander was grinning, displaying his sharp vampire teeth, and his eyes glowed red like two smoldering fires.
At first she thought the woman walking next to Onkar was also a vampire. She was beautiful: tall, thin, and pale, with a slightly angular face and long raven-black hair. She was garbed in a red leather bustier and black skirt, but as Onkar and the woman drew closer, Makala could see that she was human after all. Her eyes didn’t burn with crimson fire, and though her flesh was pale, it wasn’t fish-belly white like Onkar’s. While the sea captain moved with the fluid grace of a large predatory cat, the woman, graceful enough in her own right, couldn’t match the vampire’s eerie litheness.
As Onkar and the raven-haired woman stepped before Zabeth and the raider holding his sword over the old woman’s head, Makala thought she’d have to revise her estimate. Onkar’s companion might be mortal, but the raiders had shied away from her presence as much if not more than Onkar’s.
The man holding Zabeth slowly lowered his sword, as if he didn’t want to risk making any sudden movements near Onkar or the woman. He bowed his head.
“Commander Onkar, Lady Jarlain,” the man said in a quavering voice. “How may I serve you?”
“You can release the shifter woman,” Onkar said, “unless you’d like to take her place.”
The raider paled and shook his head. He released his hold on Zabeth, quickly sheathed his sword and scurried off to lose himself among his fellow raiders.
The black-haired woman-Lady Jarlain-turned to look at the raider holding the dagger against Makala’s neck. “You, too, dear. Put the knife away and go before I decide you could use a session or two alone with me in my chambers.”
Though there was no overt menace in Jarlain’s tone, the raider made a terrified choking noise and pulled the blade away from Makala’s throat. She sheathed the dagger, bowed low to Onkar and Jarlain, and departed at a near run.
Jarlain might not be a vampire, Makala thought, but she certainly inspired as much fear in the raiders as one.
Onkar turned to address his crew. “Stop standing around and get these prisoners inside!” When no one moved right away, he shouted, “Now!” in an inhumanly loud voice that made the wooden boards of the dock shudder beneath their feet.
That broke the raiders’ paralysis, and they hurriedly resumed herding prisoners down the dock and into the cliff tunnel. After all that had occurred since they’d arrived, the prisoners gave their captors no trouble and went along quietly.
Makala put her hands on Zabeth’s shoulders, intending to help the shifter woman rejoin the rest of their fellow prisoners, but Onkar held up a hand to stop her.
“Not you. You’re not going to the holding pen with the rest of the rabble like this old wolf.”
The vampire took hold of Zabeth’s arm and shoved her toward the line of marching prisoners. The elderly woman stumbled and Makala feared she would fall, but Zabeth managed to maintain her balance. She gave Makala a last look, said, “Take care of yourself now,” then fell into line with the other prisoners.
“You too,” Makala replied, though she knew it would be far easier said than done for both of them. She turned to Onkar and Jarlain, trying not to look as frightened as she felt. “Where am I to go?”
Onkar’s lips stretched into a smile wider than any human mouth could make, and his fangs glistened wet in the moonlight. “You’ve been granted a great honor,” the vampire said. “You get to meet the master.”
Jarlain’s smile was smaller than Onkar’s but no less sinister. “We’re taking you to see Erdis Cai.”
CHAPTER
Trembling with excitement, Ghaji crouched behind a tall tuft of swamp grass near an ancient elm tree. He could hear the snuffle-snorts of the wild boar that he and the others had been tracking all morning. He was the first to find it, and while this filled him with pride, he also felt a certain trepidation. Now that he’d found the beast, what should he do?
He couldn’t signal Esk, Murtt, and Warg. If he made the least sound he risked scaring off the boar, and if that happened the others would be angry with him, especially given how many hours they’d already devoted to this hunt. He supposed he could attempt to bring down the boar himself. If he did, it would be an impressive feat, especially since the four of them had agreed at the outset of the hunt to use no weapons. Ghaji had only just entered his twelfth year, and though he had grown much in the last several months, he was unsure if he were strong enough to tangle with a swamp boar by himself. The animals had hides tough as boiled leather and dispositions mean as a swamp serpent with a bad case of scale rot, which- was of course why hunting the boar barehanded was a favorite pastime of young orcs. This was the first time Ghaji had ever been allowed to come along on a boar hunt, and if he ever wanted to come again, he couldn’t afford to mess this up.
Foliage was abundant here in the swampland: white cedars, red and silver maples, black spruce, elm and ash trees, along with ferns and numerous species of colorful wildflowers. Birds abounded as well: swallows, warblers, blackbirds, grackles, larks, and larger birds such as herons, egrets, and cranes. Ghaji loved it here. The swampland was alive and vibrant, bursting with energy but at the same time peaceful and tranquil. He could spend the rest of his life here and be content.
A cloud of biters drifted toward Ghaji, reminding him that even a place as wonderful as the swamp wasn’t perfect. The annoying insects didn’t much like the taste of orc. Unfortunately, Ghaji was only half-orc, and the pests loved to jab their needle-like mouths into him even more than they seemed to love doing so to humans. Ghaji sighed. It was the story of his young life; he always seemed to get the worst of both worlds. Maybe if he was lucky, the biters would pass him by for a chance to sink their needles into a fat, juicy swamp boar.
He wasn’t lucky. It was a humid day, and to make matters worse, the sun’s bright light was oppressively hot. Ghaji always seemed to sweat more than both orcs and humans combined, and perspiration was an irresistible lure for biters. Drawn by the beads of sweat forming on his greenish skin, the miniature swarm descended on Ghaji and began drilling greedily into his flesh. Swamp biters grew large as a man’s thumb and their attack stung worse than being stuck by a black briar thorn. Ghaji gritted his teeth as the insects went to work, but maddening as it was, he made no sound and didn’t attempt to shrug them off. An orc always wore his battle scars proudly, and though all Ghaji would receive were biter welts, he’d bear them with just as much pride as he would any other
