A Thirst For Vengeance (Book 2) Read online

  If I was careful – and very, very lucky – I could sneak up undetected from the side. Someone in the crowd might see me—would see me, no doubt. But even if they tried to raise a cry of alarm, their voice would be lost in the general cacophony.

  I shielded my eyes and looked up at the sky. The sun was crawling up to its noonday peak. Already, the air was hot. It would soon become sweltering. The guards around the carriage, in their heavy, metal armor, would be sweating like pigs on a spit.

  I saw one of them slump forward and quickly jerk back up. I smiled. Already, the heat was taking its toll.

  I could get by them, then, I knew. Approach from the side, where they wouldn’t see me. Slip through as their attention was waning. Dart toward the carriage. Hide behind it, out of sight, and when the opportunity came, pry one of those jewels out with my knife.

  I would have to use my knife. I touched the hilt. I was not eager to do so, but it was the only way to get the gems free.

  Would it really prove that easy? No. But, I had to plan for contingencies.

  For example, what if one of the cloaked soldiers in the crowd noticed me? That would prove disastrous. They were positioned to control the crowd, most likely, and their attention would be away from the carriage—but it was a stupid risk to take. Especially since I knew about them. Had I stayed on the ground, they would have been invisible. But I did not, and I knew of their presence. To dismiss them would make me a fool.

  It wouldn’t be an approach from the side, then. I could not just run out into the open. I’d have to go head-on, through the crowd. If I really wanted to steal one of the gems, I had to adapt to the situation at hand.

  I’d have to cause a disturbance in the crowd. Some sort of commotion that would occupy the hidden soldiers. In the ensuing confusion, I might find my chance.

  It was less certain this way—but more exciting. More reckless. If I could somehow ignite the passion of the crowd…

  Without warning, the captain of the guard thrust an arm in the air. People noticed, and the murmuring died down. Silence fell.

  The captain, sitting proud on his horse and flanked on either side by his men, stood tall in his stirrups. His hands came to his helmet and he lifted it off.

  He was neither a young man, nor old. He was somewhere in his middle years, with a face that would probably be considered handsome, were it not for the unfortunate scar that stretched from one eye down across his nose.

  He had loose, yellow hair that matted around his ears. I could not see the color of his eyes, but even from afar, I knew they were piercing. They were eyes that never missed a thing.

  They reminded me of Blackstone’s eyes.

  Would I have dared the caper if I knew Blackstone had command of the guard? No. Never. I would not succeed.

  But Blackstone was gone. This man—whoever he was—might possess a similar gaze, but Blackstone he was not.

  I would not let something as insignificant as familiar-looking eyes stop me from trying.

  A murmur arose in the crowd when the captain revealed his face. He held his hands up, and silence fell again.

  I tilted my head forward and listened.

  “Fair people of Hallengard,” he began. I noticed he did not use the designation of south Hallengard. That was smart. People here were prickly about the distinction. “It is my great honor to stand before you today. I am Marcus, first of the city watch, commander of the Watching Wolves, and leader of the guard protecting—“ he bowed his head as he swept one arm behind him, toward the carriage, “—his excellency, the esteemed Master of Hallengard!”

  One gloved hand darted out from the window of the carriage and offered a perfunctory wave.

  An explosion of noise rose from the crowd. A tsunami of voices, yells, and exclamations.

  “The Master!”

  “It’s the Master!”

  “He’s here! He’s here! The Master’s here!”

  Marcus sat back and watched, pleased by the reaction his announcement had received.

  I could not believe it. Were the people such fools? All they saw was one hand, and they were ready to accept that it was really the Master who sat in the cart?

  Something about the whole thing felt off. I looked down, and saw the men I had picked out. They were yelling and cheering with the best of them. In fact, I would have bet silver to iron that they were the ones who initiated the crowd’s response.

  Then it hit me: it didn’t matter if the Master was actually in the cart. By planting the shills in the crowd, whoever had organized this whole façade ensured the proper reaction. The city watch guarding the streets let just enough people in for stories of the event to be plausible. A story grows in the telling. Maybe all these people had seen was a gloved hand, but by nightfall half of south Hallengard would be convinced the Master had visited the grounds of the Arena. The other half would be grumbling that it was just a sham—no matter what the reality was.

  Just as the cheering was dying down, and Marcus looked ready to resume his speech, a third ripple ran down my back. At the same time, a sharp jolt of power sprang from the ivory knife beneath my fingers and rushed up my arm, to my collarbone.

  I was so surprised that I stumbled back. I lost my footing, tripped, and fell.

  I sprawled on the ground, arms outstretched, heart racing, as Marcus’s voice filtered up to me.

  “…the Master wishes all of you, his loyal subjects, health and prosperity for long days into the future. He thanks you for your cooperation in matters relating to…”

  Slowly, I pushed myself up. The shock of feeling that unexpected surge of magic had subsided, but not my sense of alarm.

  The knife hadn’t done that to me since the first time I pulled it from Blackstone’s chest. Blackstone said it was because I had a chip of another stuck in my shoulder.

  That chip was now gone. So what had caused the outburst this time?

  I suspected it had something to do with that unnerving ripple that had run down my spine at the same moment. The first two times it had happened, my knife was sheathed. This time, my fingers were caressing the hilt.

  I looked around. The rooftop was still empty. Marcus’s words floated up to me. But, they did not register. Something had triggered my knife. I had to know what.

  And then, as if in answer to my unspoken question, a man stepped out of the air in front of me.

  I simply stared. I was too shocked to do anything else.

  He wore heavy, dark robes. They may have been brown, once, but had long since dirtied with age. They did not flutter and flap around him as regular cotton robes would. They hung heavy and still, untouched by the wind.

  He was tall, and so close to me that I could reach out and touch him. I almost did, against my better judgment, just to prove to myself that he was real.

  What kind of man appears out of thin air, after all?

  In the back of my mind, I’d already formed an answer. I was not yet ready to acknowledge it.

  I remembered the story Blackstone had told me of the dark mage Helosis, and his battle with Xune. I remembered that the Black Brotherhood had formed originally as disciples of his teachings. I knew that Blackstone had once been one of them.

  He had told me that he had stolen the ivory blade I had on my waist from the only active cult of sorcerers in existence.

  The tall man’s attention was directed away from me, over the short ledge of the building. His back was turned, so I could not see his face. All I could see were those heavy, unmoving robes.

  I started when he took a step forward, and an edge of the robe brushed over my fingers. It was icy cold. Deadly cold. The sun above did not touch it.

  To be completely frank, I was too astounded to think. Here was a man whom I had to assume was from the Black Brotherhood. I had seen him appear from literally nowhere. It was not a trick of smoke and explosions like the assassin who had come after Blackstone had used. This was magic. Real, unadulterated, magic.

  Why had he come? For me?

  The robed figure peered over the edge for a long, quiet moment. I felt an oppressive heaviness press onto me. The sounds of the crowd below and of Marcus’s words faded away into nothing.

  They did not matter. Nothing mattered, aside from the man who stood before me.

  I debated running. Even my interest in the jewels was overshadowed by an immediate need for self-preservation.

  There was an aura around the man. It was a sort of palpable energy, encircling him like wisps of thin, dark clouds.

  Don’t get me wrong. The aura was not strong. It was nothing like the surge of power I’d felt come from my knife.

  Nonetheless, it was undeniable.

  I had never encountered anything of the sort before. Blackstone had told me that he had been in the Black Brotherhood. But he also said that he did not possess my natural gift for magic. My body was attuned to it. The reservoir each of us carries on his person was strong in me.

  I suspected, at the time, that it was what allowed me to discover the Flame of Souls by myself. I later found out I was right. Real control of magic required one to be intimately in touch with the expanse of one’s mind. It is more than simply having the ability to be introspective. It is being able to distinguish your own thoughts and channel them into multiple, simultaneous streams. It is coaxing the sleeping mind out of hiding and allowing yourself conscious control over its processes. It is having the ultimate amount of willpower, determination, dedication, and clarity of thought. There is no room for delusions. If you want to know magic—real magic—you cannot lie to yourself. You must be clear in your understanding of both your strengths and limitations. In short, you have to know who you are. If you don’t, the smallest stray thought could overwhelm you.

  Those are the things I learned later, of course. Magic is not a gift or a privilege, but an angry foe. It does not want to be tamed. It does not want to be directed. It does not want to be manipulated. It wants only to remain in its natural form, full of disorder, commotion, and disarray.

  That is why it was feared, and why people conspired to lock it away. It was unpredictable. When it roamed free, and anybody could access it, precious few were able to do anything grand with the ability. Precious few had the strength of mind required to tame the beast.

  I did not know any of that as I sat there, sprawled on my ass, staring at the mysterious figure before me with a mixture of apprehension and awe.

  I was not an idiot. Blackstone had taught me well. I could hold my own in a fight against even grown men. The experience in the Arena had proven that. But I could not fight Blackstone, for example. I could not fight those actually trained in the art of combat.

  Blackstone had been trained by the Black Brotherhood. Here was a man of the Black Brotherhood. A man whose command of magic far exceeded what Blackstone’s had ever been.

  If he had come to kill me, I could not fight him. Well, I could, and pride would demand that I do, but I could not win. Not against someone who knew real magic. Not against someone like him.

  And yet, I did not think he had come to kill me. If he really wanted to, he could have stepped out behind me and slipped a knife through my heart before I could even blink. The way he’d just appeared…

  The man spoke.

  “You have an ancient blade on you,” he said. Hearing his voice made me bolt upright. It was a deep baritone, with the slightest hint of a lisp.

  But, those were not the qualities of his voice that surprised me so. It was its projection. It came from the man, but somehow was magnified. It seemed to bounce off the air around me, almost as if we were enclosed by an invisible sphere. I glanced over my shoulder. I could see far into the distance.

  Yet I felt that if I tried to flee, I would run face-first into some kind of invisible barrier.

  “It is a blade of great power. Few know its true worth.”

  My fingers wrapped protectively over the hilt.

  “It was given to you by one who did not have it in his right to give. Therefore, the gift was false. The blade does not belong to you.”

  I clutched it harder and glared at the back of the figure’s head. “It is mine.”

  “It is not!” The man whipped around and flung his hood back. The face that looked at me belonged to no creature of this earth.

  Red eyes, contained in two vertical slits, bore into my skull. The skin on his cheeks was like flaking leather. A faint impression of dark scales extended from under his chin, down his neck and onto his body.

  His lips were non-existent. Whether burned or cut off, I did not know. The skin around his mouth simply ended in a smooth, featureless ridge.

  He was a man, of course. But he was also something else. Or maybe, halfway to becoming something else.

  All control failed me. As did all my training. It was impossible to look into those eyes and not feel fear. They were evil eyes, possessed by an evil man, dabbling in evil magic.

  If the Black Brotherhood were all like this, I understood why Blackstone wanted to get out.

  The eyes rooted me to the spot. I could not move. I could not speak. I could not do so much as utter a squeak.

  Desperate, I tried to claw my way into the Flame of Souls. There, I could be far enough removed from the situation to govern my body again.

  I tried—and hit a wall. The man sneered. I tried again. Reaching the Flame was impossible. It was like groping at the glass protecting a golden necklace. I could see it, but I could not reach.

  “I do not think you should retreat from this, Dagan,” the man whispered.

  I started at him. He knew my name. Of course, if he knew about the narwhal knife, it should come as no surprise that he would also know my name. But having him say it out loud cemented the reality—and urgency—of the situation in my mind.

  He had not come here for anybody else. He had come—I swallowed—for me.

  “Who are you?” I finally managed. “What do you want?”

  “I am called Vilture,” the man told me. His lisp emphasized the soft ‘t’ sound. “What I want, Dagan,” his mouth curled into a bloodless smile, “is your attention.”

  He had it. Nobody could see a face like that and look away. The aura of magic around Vilture hissed and swirled faster.

  “I am also here… on an errand.” He took a step toward me. A slow, leisurely, unhurried step.

  Suddenly, I felt very cold. The sun beating down on the rooftop offered no heat. When I breathed out, a mist formed in front of my mouth.

  Vilture looked at me. His eyes had control over my body. I could not do anything to get away.

  “Do I frighten you?” he asked softly.

  Once, I might have lied and said no. But this man did frighten me. Very much so. He would frighten anybody.

  Moreover, I had a feeling he knew the answer based on my reaction alone. Or maybe by seeing into my mind. He had, after all, known that I had tried to enter the Flame of Souls.

  How?

  I nodded, ever so slightly.

  “Good.” The man smiled. He turned away, breaking eye contact.

  Suddenly the sensation of fear was gone. The feeling of cold had vanished. It was like a great weight had been lifted off my chest. I felt like I could take my first real breath in ages.

  Vilture brought his hood back up. “In time, you can learn to do the same, Dagan. We can teach you. The Black Brotherhood would welcome one as talented as you into our ranks.”

  “You’re from the Black Brotherhood,” I said. It was not a question.

  “Yes,” Vilture answered. “And we have been watching you, Dagan. Do not think your actions have gone unnoticed. There are higher powers in this word than your meager mind can comprehend. There are more eyes on the street than you know.”

  “What—” with the cold gone, I was starting to regain my courage. “What do you want from me?”

  “Compliance,” the man said simply.

  I did not understand. “Compliance?” I asked.

  “You have something of ours,” he continued, speaking as he looked over the ledge. “I have come to get it back.”

  Again, my fingers curled around the ivory knife’s hilt. I would die before giving it up.

  “You cannot have it,” I growled.

  Vilture turned to me. His eyes were hidden in the cowl of his robe. I breathed easier, knowing that I would not need to face them now.

  “Not that,” he said dismissively. And then, he moved.

  He moved faster than I could believe. He moved faster than any man had a right to. He moved with the speed of a dark thunderbolt. With the grace of a leaping cheetah. He moved so fast that by the time my brain had told me to react, he was already back in his original position.

  He had, in the tenth of a second, ducked toward me, produced a knife, slit the upper part of my pant leg open, and ripped free the dirty red rag I had hidden there.

  I sat, shocked. I could have done nothing to stop him. By now, Vilture was already striding away, toward the edge of the roof.

  Outrage was slow in the coming. I felt awe, more than anything. Awe that he could strike so fast.

  I brushed trembling fingers over the hole in my pants. My skin was smooth. Untouched. Vilture’s cut had been absolutely perfect.

  Such precision, coupled with unnatural speed, left me breathless.

  And then, slowly, like the delayed groan that announces the falling of an axed tree, the magnitude of what he’d just done barreled into me.

  He’d stolen the amulet. Blackstone’s amulet. The only piece of him I had left.

  Rage erupted inside me in a white-hot pillar of flame. I leapt to my feet, snarling, already in the process of pulling my knife from its sheath.

  Vilture had his back turned, and gave no indication that he had noticed me move. I surged forward, blade in hand, ready to die to get the amulet back—

  And was felled when a sudden, enormous onslaught of pain exploded in the arm holding the knife.

  I toppled over. The pain was unbearable.