A Thirst for Vengeance (The Ashes Saga, Volume 1) (17 page)

“What we’re doing for you,” the banker’s voice filtered up to me, “is highly suspect. The contents we’re moving around are attracting attention. People are starting to ask questions.”

“Deal with it,” Three-Grin growled. “I don’t pay you to complain. I pay you to care for my investments.”

The other man swallowed. “Yes. About that. You see…”

Three-Grin leaned close. “You wouldn’t be suggesting that you’re having...
problems
?” There was an undeniable threat held in the final word.

“No, no, not problems exactly,” the banker corrected quickly. He tugged on the neck of his shirt. “It’s just… more difficult than we expected. Moving that type of cargo around the city arouses curiosity, and curiosity turns to rumor, which filters up to the city guard…”

“Then make sure it doesn’t,” Three-Grin hissed. “Because if you fail me... Xune will know.”

The other man started stammering placating words. I stopped listening. My fingers hovered over the sheaths of my throwing knives.

Blackstone forbade me from using those knives unless my life was at risk. He made me swear an oath that I would use them only in case of life or death.

I pulled one out and idly ran my thumb over the edge.

Three-Grin was completely vulnerable. I burned with hatred for him. The six men who came with him ensured that nobody approached from within the pub. They did not protect him from enemies above.

All it would take was one well-aimed throw, and the monster who defined my childhood would finally be dead.

Or would he?
I remembered the uncanny way he sensed my last attack against him. Three-Grin was a large man, and I was still a boy. Hearing his voice brought me back to all the times I had hidden when I heard him approach. I remembered his drunken ramblings, and the way he killed for
pleasure
.

Would one knife be enough? Could I trust myself to throw the blade straight and true?

I saw his heavily-muscled neck. My throw had to be absolutely perfect if I intended to kill him. And after, could I get out in time?

I glanced back the way I came. The window was far—too far for me to make a quick exit. The moment the knife left my hand, everybody would know where it came from.

I would not escape.

That was the reasoning that ran through my head as I perched on the beam, still as a statue. You would think that logic would be enough to convince me not to strike.

But logic was secondary to the strength of my hatred for the man. I hated Three-Grin for what he did to his daughters. I hated him for what he did to his slaves. I hated him for who he was and what he represented.

I wanted revenge for Alicia. That feeling had subdued somewhat in the nearly two years I’d spent with Blackstone, but seeing Three-Grin again rekindled it with a searing passion.

I wanted revenge
now.

If I could take this monster out of the world, my ambitions would be complete. Perhaps it didn’t matter if I did not escape. Perhaps this was what I was meant to do.

Maybe, just maybe, this was fate’s way of ensuring that my life could mean something.

If I attacked Three-Grin, I would die. I saw the crossbows slung across the shoulders of two of his guards. As soon as the knife left my hand, they would look up, see me, and fire…

But maybe I would be redeemed in death. It would be a glorious way to go.

I took another throwing knife out of its sheath. My eyes focused on Three-Grin’s bulging neck. Two knives. Two chances. If I could sever his spinal cord—

My thoughts were interrupted when a commotion rose amongst the men standing guard.

Quickly, I pressed myself to a vertical beam. Then, I tilted my head and peered down.

There was a seventh man in the group. A drunk, if his lurching movements were any indication. He wore a hood so I could not see his face.

He was trying to break through the human wall and get to Three-Grin and the banker.

“Hoy!” he called out. “Hoy, it’s me, Johnny! Don’t you remember me? Johnny!”

Three-Grin turned back and shot a disgusted look at the man. He flipped his hand, and one of the guards pushed Johnny down.

He stumbled and fell. His hood dropped from his head. I saw his face, and an immediate tightness exploded in my chest.

It was Blackstone.

His eyes darted up to me at that moment. I saw, for the flicker of a second that our gazes crossed, that he was fully lucid.

Then he resumed his act.

“It’s me! You don’t remember Johnny?” He stood and stumbled forward again, straight into the arms of one of the guards. “Johnny.
Johnny
! I was your best fighter.”

Again, he was pushed away. One of the guards drew his sword. “You take another step, you useless drunk, and you’re a dead man.”

Johnny-slash-Blackstone held up his hands, affronted. “All right, all right,” he said, backing off. “No need to get violent, now.”

“Piss off,” the guard spat.

By then, the confrontation had attracted the attention of the entire tavern. The owner ran over, trailed by three guards of his own.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt like a twig in a dry forest in the middle of the summer heat. The smallest spark would start an enormous conflagration.

“You,” the owner scowled at Blackstone, “get out of here.” He eyed Three-Grin and his entourage. “And you, sirs, I will have to ask to leave. Finish your drinks and go. I will not have you threatening my customers.”

Three-Grin roared to his feet. He was still as imposing as ever. The scars on his face twisted as he sneered in anger.

The owner did not back down. “I said,” he repeated, “that you are going to have to leave.”

“I heard what you said,” Three-Grin barked. He picked up his ale and chugged it down in a deliberate, angry swallow. He slammed the mug back on the table and wiped away the foam off his lips with one livid stroke of his hand.

“Piss on your bar,” he said, “and piss on you. Can’t even bloody serve drink that don’t taste like watered down goat’s milk.”

He stepped forward and addressed the men around him. “Let’s get out of here.” He gave a mock bow to the owner. “Obviously, we’re not
high class
enough for his establishment.”

Some of his friends snickered. He strode away, and they followed him in a bunch. All except the grey-haired man.

Only when Three-Grin slammed the door did the banker exhale a breath as heavy as his last and sag down.

Chapter Twenty-Five

“What the hell was that?” I practically screeched at Blackstone when I met him outside. “What were you doing in there?”

“Protecting
you
.” Blackstone shot me a hard look. “Did you forget your task?”

“No, I was going to—”

I cut off as a glimmer of metal flew from Blackstone’s hand to me in an arc. I caught it and looked in my palm.

It was the coin I was supposed to retrieve.

“How did you get this?” I stammered. “You didn’t even get close to the man
once
!”

“A thief must be quick, Dagan,” he said, “but an assassin, invisible. You were neither today.”

I gritted my teeth in frustration. “That’s not what I asked!”

Blackstone turned on me. “That’s the answer you get.”

I stared back at him, meeting his challenge head-on. The standoff lasted only a second before I relented and looked down.

It was the longest I’d ever defied Blackstone .

“You were asked to get that coin back,” Blackstone continued, his voice filled with anger, “not try to kill a man.”

I sputtered, flabbergasted. “I didn’t—”

“You
did
.” Blackstone’s voice left no room for argument. “If I hadn’t stepped in, you would have. Don’t lie to me.”

“I was waiting for the moment to get the coin back!” I defended. “I would still be in there, if you didn’t interrupt!”

“Oh no,” Blackstone said. “If I hadn’t interrupted, you would be a cold body on the floor of that pub with half a dozen crossbow bolts stuck through you.”

“I wouldn’t—”

“You
would
.” Blackstone flashed his eyes at me. “You think you’re smart, Dagan. You think that just because I’ve given you two years of training you’re better than others. You’ve made progress. I don’t deny that. But you remain transparent in your desires. I saw the look in your eyes when you were crouched by the roof. You meant to kill.”

“I—”

“Do you deny it?” His hard voice cracked like a boulder fracturing. “Will you look into my eyes and tell me you truly did not intend to kill anybody today?”

I looked at Blackstone. There was an unnerving undercurrent of danger to his words. If I lied, I had a feeling he would see right through it.

I averted my eyes. “I may have thought about it,” I admitted.

“
Thought about it
,” he repeated, dissatisfied. “Hah! You had the look of a wild hyena circling its dying prey. If you believe you were
just
thinking about it, than you are more lost than I imagined.”

“I
wanted
to kill him,” I said. “I know what you told me about not using the knives. But you don’t know who that man is! You don’t know what he did to me.”

“Dagan.” Blackstone stopped and went down to one knee. He stared deep into my eyes. “I know Three-Grin.”

“What? You do? How?”

“I know,” he said, “because I was the only one of his slaves to survive the Arena.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

My mind spun. My world seemed like it would collapse on itself at any moment.

“
You
were one of Three-Grin’s slaves?”

Blackstone nodded once. “Yes. I was raised a slave, like you. Back then, the man you wanted to kill was not yet known as Three-Grin. But he was my master nonetheless.”

“And you
escaped
?” I marveled. “How?” Before he could answer, another thought occurred to me. I never told Blackstone about Three-Grin. “How did you know
I
was a slave?”

“I can put enough pieces of your past together. Did you think I truly took you in without knowing a thing about you?”

I shook my head. “I… I don’t know.”

“No, Dagan. I know who you are. I know what you’ve been through. And I know that you want revenge.”

The explanation made no sense. “Then why did you
stop me
?”

“Because you are not ready. You are too young. You are like a wolf cub come across his first wildcat. You saw the pack take one out many times as you grew. You are bold. Rash. You fancy yourself courageous. You jump to attack, thinking you’ll be successful, never thinking about the consequences if you are not…

“Listen to me, Dagan. Revenge is like a poison. It seeps through your heart. It takes hold of you and possesses you to do stupid, reckless things. It is a fiery emotion that scorches away any wisp of common sense. It’s powerful. It cannot be ignored. I am not asking you to try. I am
telling
you that you must recognize it for what it is. You have to control it. You have to possess it. You cannot let it possess you.”

“I could have done it,” I said quietly. “I could have killed Three-Grin. You taught me enough. You know it’s true.”

“Yes, but I did not teach you to throw your life away. You must be smart with these things. You cannot act the first chance you get without thinking about what happens after.”

“But now he’s
gone
,” I said. “I’ll never get a chance again!”

“That does not have to be true.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. I furrowed my brows at him. “And what about you? Don’t
you
want revenge, too? You could have killed Three-Grin in there. I know you could have!”

Blackstone smirked. “Yes, I could have. But that would be me acting on my emotions. It would be rushing forward without a plan.”

“You would get away, though,” I say. “You
know
how to kill. Why didn’t you?”

“Because, Dagan,” Blackstone said, “Three-Grin is not the true evil you think he is. I could kill him, but another would sprout up and take his place. We are not vigilantes. I told you this before. We are thieves.”

He stood up. “And tonight, we are going for the greatest prize of all.

“The Arena.”

***

That day, I learned from Blackstone what the Arena truly was.

It is a betting ring. Children are the fighters. It existed in the corrupt underbelly of Hallengard. It existed in a place known as the Hells.

Men with a thirst for blood placed enormous bets on the fighters. There were many slavers on the outskirts of Hallengard who tried to raise children for the Arena. Four dominated the rest.

Three-Grin was one of them. The others were Boar-Face, Wolf-Moon, and Cattle-Prod.

They all adopted different names to hide their identities. Despite my hatred for Three-Grin, I thought his was the best.

For the past five years, Three-Grin’s children have been dominating the Arena. He was heralded as the best in the world.

Three-Grin got a cut of all his winnings. The slavers were not permitted to place pets directly to prevent collusion. But, they were allowed a certain percentage every time one of their fighters won.

For the combatants, there was no such thing as a victory. Every fight was to the death. Sure, some survived longer than others. But, in the end, all succumbed to the vicious cycle that claimed their lives.

Except, apparently, for Blackstone.

He told me he had won sixteen fights—a number unheard of. The record before him stood at eight.

Someone from the Black Brotherhood saw him fight, and paid a king’s ransom for his release. The Brotherhood took him in and trained him. Blackstone would not elaborate on what that entailed—no matter how hard I pressed.

I learned all that as he and I rode back to his home to prepare.

Three-Grin was in town to watch a flagship fight. It was happening two days from now. Word on the street was that the current champion had a chance to overtake the boy who had survived twenty years ago.