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.”
CHAPTER
“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.
Diran frowned. “Onkar… why does that name sound so familiar?”
The commander stopped within ten feet of them, and though he seemed relaxed, Ghaji could sense an underlying tension building in the man, as if he were a predatory animal readying himself to strike.
“Seeing as how you’re all about to die, it doesn’t really matter where you heard my name, does it?” Onkar reached for his cutlass.
Makala took a step forward, though she did not attack. Ghaji judged the distance to Onkar’s head, preparing to hurl his axe and split the man’s skull if need be.
Onkar looked appraisingly at Makala, then he took his hand away from his cutlass and smiled at her.
“You step forward to draw my attention in hope of distracting me from what your friends are doing. You’re a spirited one, but I also see a coldness within your soul. You’re one who’s touched evil and been touched in return. Most interesting. I know someone who’d love to meet you.” Onkar turned to Diran, then gestured at the cart which was still half full of unconscious men and women. “Keep this lot if you want. I’ll be taking her.”
The Black Fleet commander stepped toward Makala, grinning, his eyes blazing like twin crimson fires.
Makala loosed a bolt from her crossbow, but before the shaft could strike Onkar, his hand lashed out in a blur and plucked the bolt from the air.
Onkar grinned, baring his teeth and displaying a pair of ivory fangs. “Surprise,” he said. He dropped the bolt. Moving almost faster than Ghaji’s eyes could track, the man, the vampire, struck Makala with a backhanded blow. The impact knocked Makala off her feet, and she fell hard and didn’t move.
“Makala!” Diran shouted. He started toward the still form of his former lover then stopped himself. He turned to face Onkar, features twisted into a mask of cold hatred.
While Onkar’s attention was on Diran, Ghaji hurled his axe toward the raider commander’s unprotected head. The weapon tumbled end over end as it flew at the grinning man. Though Onkar didn’t take his gaze off Diran, his hand reached out and snatched the axe out of the air as easily as if it were hovering motionless before him. Without turning to look at Ghaji, Onkar returned the axe with a simple flick of his wrist. The weapon came spinning back toward Ghaji, and the half-orc barely managed to jump out of the way before the axe struck. The weapon continued flying past him and eventually came to a clanging, skittering stop in the street a dozen yards away.
Onkar didn’t appear to move, but one moment he was just standing there and the next he had Makala tossed over his shoulder. “Well, it’s been lovely, but I have to take my leave. The Black Fleet’s style is hit and run, and now that we’ve finished hitting, it’s time to start running.”
