Free The Colour of Vengeance by Rob J. Hayes

killing doesn't make you a man, doesn't give you a name, doesn't do anything but make the other person dead. Betrim dropped his axe, grabbed hold of the sailor's attacking arm with his right hand and stuck his left hand, complete with knife, into the sailor's neck three times. He scooped up his axe before the body even hit the floor. His two remaining enemies started to look a lot less sure of themselves.
    The cook mumbled something to Crooked Eyebrow, might have been another language, Betrim couldn't tell. Crooked Eyebrow looked at Betrim real hard for a few moments then glanced at the cook. “Twenty-five thousand bits!” The cook nodded and then both men started towards Betrim.
    This time both sailors attacked at once. Betrim swatted the cutlass away with his axe and jumped back away from the cleaver, giving ground before his two attackers. He was aware of a crowd gathering around him; watching him like he was fighting in one of the Solantis pits. Mercs lined the streets laughing and betting on the outcome, none of them feeling the need to interfere. Solantis wasn't exactly known for order being kept on the streets and this right here was proof.
    They came at him again and this time he blocked the cleaver, edged out of the way of the cutlass and slashed his knife at Crooked Eyebrow. The sailor jumped back and Betrim charged between the two of them. Forcing them to turn, to keep him in sight. The two sailors came back together, uncertain of Betrim's tactics. Weren't much of a tactic if truth be told, he was just trying to keep them guessing.
    The cook was the problem. He was pretty good with that cleaver of his and Betrim was sure if the cook went down then Crooked Eyebrow would run. Not that the Black Thorn would give him chance to run.
    Betrim could feel something wet on his chest, didn't feel much like sweat, felt warm and sticky. He glanced down to find a shallow cut bleeding red blood into his white shirt. An inch lower and it would have taken off his nipple, not that he could see any reason for a man to keep his nipples. Women's nipples, now they were alright, attached to the breast as they were made them real nice to look at and even better to play with. Betrim had never seen the benefit of playing with his own nipples. Truth was he pretty much forgot they were there most of the time.
    A strange thought intruded in the Black Thorn's head so he gave it voice. “You kill Rilly?”
    The cook shook his head but it was Crooked Eyebrow that answered. “Ain't got no quarrel with her nor the Cap'n. Jus' afer you, Thorn.”
    That was good, at least he didn't have to avenge his friend's daughter. The cook's eyes went wide and he let out a strangled cry, his entire body tensed and convulsed and his cleaver dropped to the floor. Blood poured out from his mouth and it took Betrim a moment to realise the man had two dagger tips sticking out through his chest, blood spreading out all over his stained apron. The Black Thorn didn't waste a moment, he launched his hand-axe at Crooked Eyebrow. The axe took the sailor just below his neck, embedded itself in his chest with a solid, meaty thwack and knocked the man to the ground. Dead before he hit the floor, Betrim reckoned.
    The dagger points disappeared from the cook's chest and he stopped convulsing. A moment later his body collapsed to the ground like a sack of boneless meat. A small woman stood behind the corpse, staring at the blood on her twin daggers with a cruel grin on her face.
    The woman was short and slim but with an obvious wiry strength to her. Her hair was longer than Betrim had ever seen it, just starting to touch her shoulders, but still the same dust colour it had always been. Her eyes were cool pools of blue in her face and the scar on her lip that pulled her mouth into a permanent sneer stood out as proud as ever. She no longer wore leathers, Betrim noticed, instead she was wearing a baggy white linen shirt and a plain pair of brown trousers meant for a man. A