Read Online The Wrath of a Shipless Pirate (The Godlanders War) by Aaron Pogue - Free Book Online

Fingers.
    Corin watched the door for half an hour, assuring himself that nothing was amiss, but in the end impatience won him over. He slipped across the empty street, announced himself with a patterned knock, and flowed through the narrow doorway.
    The room beyond was barely more than a cellar, with unfinished walls and a low ceiling. Choking smoke hung heavy in the air and almost overpowered the stink of stale beer. At half a dozen little tables around the room, tired-looking men drank beer or wine, but no one seemed much interested in conversation.
    Half a pace inside the room, Corin’s eyes burned and his shoulders sagged. He breathed deep of the noxious air and grinned despite himself. At long, long last, he had come home.
    Then someone hit him. The blow came in from the side—from the doorman he’d just passed—and it nearly unhinged Corin’s jaw. Light burst behind Corin’s eyes, red and orange, and he stumbled two paces into the smoky room.
    His attacker was talking, something puffed up and obnoxious in a deeply slurred Raentz dialect that Corin didn’t bother trying to unravel. He was just waiting for the gray fog to take over, for the chance to unwind time and catch this villain unprepared.
    It didn’t happen. Still mouthing off, the villain closed with Corin and slammed a kick right into his gut. Corin folded over, gasping, and rolled away a moment before the brute’s foot came stomping down hard. Still no gray fog. Still no help from Oberon.
    If you can’t count on a dead god these days, who can you count on? The thought flashed through Corin’s mind, and the answer was an easy one. He’d never been able to count on anyone—not even Old Grim, once push came to shove—but Corin could always count on himself. And he wasn’t about to lose a fight to some stinking Raentzman!
    Corin rolled again, curled up tight, and sprang to his feet. His hand went instinctively for the dagger on his belt, but the Nimble Fingers had its rules. He left the blade alone, ducked a vicious haymaker, then stepped in close and threw all his weight into an uppercut. The villain’s head snapped back with a crack that drew a groan from someone else in the room, and Corin’s opponent staggered back a pace, but he didn’t go down.
    His heart pounding now with unspent anger, Corin pursued the bigger man. He feinted high then threw a quick, sharp kick that snapped something in the villain’s ankle. The Raentzman started to fall then, and as he passed, Corin smashed an elbow against the back of his neck. That drew another groan—as well as some approving grunts—from his audience. It also left the Raentzman out cold on the floor.
    Now Corin drew a weapon. He went for the sword Godslayer too, instead of the little dagger. Bar fights were not uncommon in a Nimble Fingers tavern, but the rules said to keep them one-on-one. If anyone felt an urge to avenge the big man on the floor, the rules went out the window.
    One slow glance told him he was safe. For now, at least. There were perhaps a dozen patrons in the bar, dressed like locals and none of them with the look of a sailor. If any had thought to spring on him, the sword had instantly dissuaded them. Now it held all their eyes transfixed, and that gave Corin time enough to catch his breath and formulate a question in his uneasy Raentzian. He found the inn’s proprietor among the watchers, marked as clearly by the scars across his face as by the tarnished tin ring on his right hand. Corin nodded his direction. “What was his problem?”
    The innkeeper answered in easy Ithalian. “Josef has no love for your countrymen.”
    Corin frowned. “My countrymen?”
    “That was an Ithalian knock if ever I’ve heard one. Josef’s something of a connoisseur.”
    “Of knocks ?”
    “All manner of secret signs.” The innkeeper jerked his head toward the bar, then pulled Corin a flagon of beer. As he passed it over, he went on. “Josef is our records keeper.”
    Corin gaped at that.