A Dance of Blades

by David Dalglish

  He wondered where his father was in all this. He wouldn’t hide, not from such blatant disrespect. The Spider Guild’s headquarters were in the southeast. If these Eschaton mercenaries stumbled upon him and his best…

  Haern ran faster.

  Deciding speed was more important than stealth, he cut to one of the main roads and trusted himself to outrun any patrols. He raced south, all the while doing his best to ignore the pain in his stomach. The wound there hadn’t quite healed, though it was hardly more than an angry red scar. Still, the movement was enough to stretch the skin and agitate it. What he’d have given for an extra day or two to heal before all this madness hit.

  “You! Stop!”

  Haern cursed as he saw a group of five mercenaries up ahead rush toward him, no doubt thinking him a fleeing member of the guilds. The houses were packed tight on either side, so it was either turn back in search of a route around, or go straight through.

  “Move!” he screamed, hoping to startle them with his mad rush. He slide-kicked just before nearing, avoiding an arrow that whistled overhead. His kick took out the legs of one, and he rolled away. Smashed under that much armor, he’d be killed in seconds by the others. A sword swung for his head, but he twisted and fell to one knee. Two others lunged, their swords thrusting. Haern dove to his right, landing hard on his shoulder. He’d made it to the other side.

  “We said stop!” one of them shouted. Haern laughed, wondering who exactly he thought would obey the command. He weaved from side to side, not surprised to see one last arrow plink into the dirt beside him. With their heavy armor they couldn’t hope to match his speed. Last he looked, they’d abandoned the chase and instead smashed in the door of a nearby home. He offered a prayer for the inhabitants as he ran.

  It seemed the very air grew thicker as he plunged deep into southern Veldaren. He counted five fires now, and one of them wasn’t far off. The smoke whirled down the streets, its distortion good for the thieves, bad for the mercenaries. He heard sounds of combat from one home with a broken door, and he watched another group battle, four Hawks against two mercenaries. He let them be. There were too many fights for him to help them all. The gravemen would be busy tomorrow, he thought grimly. Whatever buildings didn’t burn would soon have their walls painted with blood.

  A plume of smoke erupted to his left, accompanied by a deep explosion. His curiosity couldn’t take it. He turned, climbed onto a rooftop, and hurried that way. Whatever he was expecting to see, it was not what he found.

  The area opened up to a fountain carved in the likeness of two women bathing each other, the fountain long broken and out of water. At least twenty men lay dead, half mercenaries, half thieves, their blood mixing together to stain the surrounding cobblestones red. A large group of thieves remained, Wolves judging by their colors. They faced off against only four, a strange four at that. Senke guarded one half of the fountain, parrying and blocking with his two flanged maces. In the other half fought a short man in plate mail, a punch dagger in each hand. Delysia stood in the fountain behind Senke, her lovely red hair matted to her face by a cut across her forehead. She was taller than he remembered, and she wore the white robes of a priestess. His heart raced faster, and he forced himself to move. While Delysia cast spells that bathed them all in white light, the last of the four stood in the other side of the fountain with his hands surrounded by fire. He wore a yellow robe and a pointy yellow hat. The color reminded Haern of dandelions. He had red hair similar in color to Delysia’s, and a well-trimmed goatee.

  Guy’s half off his rocker, the mercenary had said about Tarlak, their leader. Haern had a feeling that was him. Only the insane, or the extremely confident, would dare wear such an outfit.

  This Tarlak swung his hands in a circle. Fire danced across his fingers, then streaked toward a group of three hiding behind an overturned wagon, trying to shoot crossbow bolts from cover. The wagon exploded into shrapnel and embers. The short man seemed hard-pressed fighting one thief, but the wizard kept zapping thin bolts of blue lightning, knocking the thief back and keeping him from scoring a kill. Senke fought three at once, yet seemed to be doing better at protecting the two in the fountain. Having been on the receiving end of so many smacks to the head and kicks to the chest while training with him, Haern wasn’t surprised.

  Decision made, he drew his swords and charged. It was Senke and Delysia he’d come to protect, so it was them he’d help. The wizard saw his approach and turned, magic shimmering on his hands.

  “It’s Haern!” Senke shouted just as the lightning arced out, having seen his approach as well. Haern rolled, wishing he’d had far more training in dealing with spellcasters. The roll seemed to work, for he heard the ground behind him crackle and break from the impact. He kicked back to his feet and jumped, having closed enough distance to reach the first Wolf. The man turned and tried to impale Haern with his sword. Having had enough of that nonsense only a few days before, Haern batted aside the thrust while still in the air and landed short. His opponent exposed, it was easy work looping his other sword around and cutting his throat.

  “Sorry!” he heard the wizard shout.

  Damn fool, Haern thought as he linked up with Senke, standing side by side with him as the Wolves closed in.

  “Glad you could join us,” Senke said between breaths. Despite the smoothness of his parries and kills, he was clearly winded.

  “I shouldn’t have to. What the Abyss are you doing out here?”

  “Fight now, insult me later.”

  As one they went on the offensive. It felt like old times, carelessly training in Thren’s safe house. But this time it wasn’t dummies they fought, nor did they wield wooden swords. This time their opponents bled. Haern struck both high and low, forcing his thief to make desperate parries with his daggers. The shorter weapons made his arms move more than Haern’s to keep up with the attacks, and Haern used that to put him more and more out of position. At last he feinted a wide slash, pulled his sword in, and stabbed. The edge sliced through cloth and flesh and into lung. As the thief fell, Senke gave him a good bash on the head with his mace, just to be sure. Two more rushed ahead, but a blinding flash from behind Haern dazed them. With such a handicap, they fell with ease to the skilled fighters.

  “Help Brug!” Senke shouted as three more Wolves approached from the north, joining the others.

  “Brug?”

  “The short fat guy.”

  Haern felt a moment’s hesitation. He’d fought alone for so long, he wasn’t used to obeying orders. But then again, he felt himself slipping once more into the past, nothing but an awkward child learning from his masters. He turned and circled the fountain, joining Brug, who was bleeding from his shoulder and face. A dagger was lodged in the crease of Brug’s armor. Haern yanked it out as he ran past, hurled it at Brug’s opponent, and then followed it up with a flying kick. The dagger’s hilt hit the thief’s throat, and then Haern’s foot cracked his chest. The Wolf dropped to one knee, lifting his dagger in a clumsy defense. Haern cut him down, a clean slice through his throat.

  Brug looked ready to explode.

  “I had him!”

  Haern blinked. “Uh, sorry?”

  A fireball sailed over both their heads, delaying the attack of several Wolves who had abandoned their attempts at shooting the wizard and instead chosen to close the distance. Haern felt the heat of it on his neck.

  “Damn it, Brug, what am I paying you for?” shouted the wizard. “And you, Haern, right? Keep him alive, will you?”

  Haern turned to the wizard’s opponents, somewhat amused at how much redder Brug’s face had grown. Brug blubbered, then rushed ahead, punching the air with his daggers. Haern’s amusement left. The idiot was going to get himself killed because of his pride. He rushed after, the two of them barreling at the three Wolves as if they were madmen. At the time it was a fair assessment. The Wolves wavered, he saw the doubt in their eyes, and then they turned to flee. Haern killed two, for he was too fast and had far too mu
ch momentum to be outrun. He sliced the hamstring of the third as he ran on by, allowing Brug to catch up and eviscerate the thief with his punch daggers.

  Sucking in air, Haern turned back to the fountain. The last of the Wolves were either dead or fleeing. Tarlak stepped out of the fountain, helped Delysia follow, and then waved.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” he said.

  Haern shook his head. Off his rocker, indeed.

  CHAPTER 15

  Ghost followed the Watcher south, though he did so with no hurry. He’d watched him fight, and learned two things: One, no puke-brained mercenary would do him in. Two, the Watcher had friends he cared deeply about. He might have thought his quiet voice concealed his emotions when he asked the mercenaries questions, but Ghost heard the hint of worry, particularly about the one named Delysia. With that, it was only a matter of time before he brought the Watcher down. You couldn’t have attachments, not if you wanted to survive against someone like Ghost.

  Tarlak Eschaton wasn’t well known to him, but if he played the mercenary game he had contacts, friends, employers, maybe even a spot in the guild. There would be no hiding. So as he strolled down the street, always given a wide berth by the groups that rushed past with bloodied swords, Ghost paused and looked west. A strange commotion was brewing down there—he could tell by the torches and the way several of the recent patrols had all turned in that direction. Had the fighting coalesced into an actual battlefront? Surely not. The thieves weren’t that organized, nor would that benefit them in any way. So what, then?

  His hands on his hilts, he strode over to the mob. He estimated at least sixty men were gathered around what he realized was the temple of Ashhur. So far they remained at the steps, but that appeared ready to change at any moment. Fifteen priests stood in their way, their hands at their sides. They were proficient with many spells, he knew, but how effective those spells would be on armored men he was unsure. An elderly priest with a bald head stood in the center of the steps, and he faced the crowd without any semblance of worry. Sweat ran down the sides of his neck, though, and Ghost knew him just as scared as the rest.

  “You cannot enter,” the old man shouted, hardly heard over the din of the mercenaries.

  “Let us in!” they shouted.

  “Out of the way!”

  “You harbor thieves!”

  Ghost frowned. He needed a better look. Pillars lined the edges of the lengthy stairs. Hiding behind one, he climbed halfway up the steps, and from there he peered into the temple. Inside was chaos, hundreds of people crammed within for shelter. Given how many homes he’d seen ransacked, it made perfect sense. Where else might be safer? They sat on benches, huddled against walls, and lay in the aisles if need be. Sure enough, he caught sight of a few cloaks in there, but not many.

  “I will not hand anyone over to be butchered in the streets,” the head priest was saying. “Go on your way. Curse our city with your bloodshed if you must, but I will not allow it to happen on my doorstep!”

  Another patrol joined the group, this one numbering twenty. They muttered among themselves, wanting to know the reason for the delay. Several more lit up torches. Ghost felt his blood boil. They would set fire to a temple to slake their bloodthirst? A thousand rogues must remain hiding elsewhere, but they would come here?

  The head priest lifted a hand over his head. A bright light grew from his palm, and even from the side it was painful for Ghost to look upon. He didn’t want to imagine staring into it from the front. This seemed to cause the mercenaries to draw back a little. A captain Ghost had met a couple of times, named Jamie Half-Ear, for obvious reasons, stepped forward.

  “We don’t want nothing bad to happen here,” he said. “But we saw plenty run inside before we surrounded the place. No innocents need to be hurt. Just send them out.”

  “Those who came here for succor shall receive it,” said the priest.

  “I know, I know, you gots to say that,” said Jamie. “Please, er…”

  “Calan.”

  “Calan. I doubt you want us filthy men running through your fancy place, so how about I just send one or two to point ’em out to your little helpers? Only the guilty get taken out, and just a few. Everyone else stays safe, see what I’m saying? They ain’t your flock. They ain’t your children. They’re damn thieves, and those with more power than you say it’s time they die.”

  Calan shook his head. “In time, perhaps, but not tonight. Go on your way, all of you.”

  “They’re dying tonight, you stupid ass, no matter what you do. I see a lot of stone, but this building’s still got plenty that’ll burn. You hearing me, Calan? It’ll burn!”

  That was enough for Ghost. Though he couldn’t care less about their deity, the temple was a beautiful structure. Stubborn and blind, the whole lot of them. He reached into a side pocket and withdrew a handful of knives, weighted to fly true. Scanning the crowd, he waited, wanting his choices to be absolutely perfect. Jamie was too close, too public, but those near the front, most eager for blood…

  Hidden behind his pillar, he flung his first knife into the crowd. It plunged deep into the throat of a man hollering at the top of his lungs, ceasing his cries for fire. The next three took down torch-bearers, as Ghost had decided fire was the greatest threat to the temple. Down they went, their torches clattering across the stone. By now the crowd had noticed the deaths, and while some wondered aloud, most roared for blood. They’d blame the priests, which was the goal. All the better to make the mercenaries appear fools when he stepped out.

  “You’d murder us in the street while claiming to protect life?” Jamie cried, more to the mercenaries than the priests.

  “We have done no such thing,” Calan insisted. He might as well have shouted at a thunderstorm to cease its rumbling.

  Ghost slipped to the other side of the pillar, then hopped lower, closer to Calan. He was directly behind him, with a clear view of Half-Ear. The captain was practically frothing at the mouth while screaming for blood, but he’d not yet drawn a blade. Not yet … but close … his hand twitching … now!

  Ghost coiled his legs and pushed off, launching himself between them. He wielded a single sword in both hands, needing the power. Before Jamie could swing, Ghost’s sword tore through him, slicing from collarbone to hip. When Ghost kicked, the upper half of him collapsed backward and rolled down the steps, spilling innards, while the legs crumpled and lay in place. A flood of gasps came from the crowd, those who were not stunned silent. Ghost held the bloody blade before his face, peering over it with his eyes.

  “Be gone, damn cowards. You have no business here. Go elsewhere, and slay the cloaks in their homes, the streets, wherever but here.”

  “This is madness,” Calan said behind him. “I can’t allow…”

  “Quiet, Priest. You may not want bloodshed, but it’ll happen, and better here on these steps than inside your halls. Such disrespect, it’s shameful. They deserve to die just as much as those thieves within.”

  “I’d rather neither die,” Calan said, his voice dropping lower.

  “Good luck with that.”

  Ghost had hoped the brutal display would cow the crowd, but he’d underestimated their desire. Too many seemed eager for a fight. They’d gone unchallenged, no doubt thought themselves already nearing the end of their task. If they went south they’d probably think differently. The fires were growing, the smoke blanketing the city. This fight wasn’t over; not even close.

  “Stun as many as you can,” he said to the head priest. “Blind them, knock them back. Leave the killing to me. I’ll be better at it than you anyway.”

  He drew his other weapon and lifted both high above his head, as if worshipping a god of the sky.

  “Draw swords or flee!” he shouted to the crowd. It was time to end this stalling. It was time for blood or cowardice.

  The mercenaries surged forward, not following any spoken command, only a collective realization that they had to attack now or be revealed as bluffers. The priest
s raised their hands, their palms facing down the steps. Light shone from them, the intensity blinding. Ghost heard the sound of a hundred claps of thunder, and it passed over him like a physical force. Those at the front staggered or fell back, forcing the rest behind to pull them out of the way. Ghost took advantage of the confusion, leaping forward to gut one mercenary and cut down another. He backed up the steps, parrying random thrusts that seemed wild, as if his opponents were still struggling to see.

  “Fall back,” he ordered. The priests exchanged a quick look, but then Calan nodded.

  “As he says!” shouted the head priest.

  The fifteen climbed the steps, prayers still on their lips. Walls of force slammed into the crowd, invisible but their effects not. He watched noses break, heads bruise, and fingers snap in painful directions. More stumbled upon the steps, crushed by those who rushed behind them. Ghost stayed before Calan, figuring him the most important to protect. He was the strongest, and as long as he stood, the other priests wouldn’t break rank and flee.

  “We must hide inside,” Calan said. “We can’t hold them back.”

  Ghost lunged from left to right, taking out those who pushed through the spells ahead of the pack. They fell, disadvantaged by their lower ground and disoriented beyond measure. If not for the sheer numbers, Ghost feared he might have gotten bored.

  “We go inside and they’ll burn us out,” he insisted. “Stand and fight, old man. Stand and fight.”

  He kicked another body down the steps. They were gathering before the door, nearly out of space to retreat. Calan nodded, accepting Ghost’s decision.

  “So be it,” he said, standing beside Ghost and lifting his arms. “Forgive me, Ashhur, but I need your retribution this night.”

  He lowered his hands. A sound of thunder rolled, and then the steps to the temple trembled and broke. Dust rippled outward in concentric circles, giving visibility to the shock wave. There had been about twenty men pressing upward, and they collapsed, crying out in pain. The number of broken limbs Ghost witnessed was staggering. It was like Ashhur had stepped down and crushed them with his heel. Calan trembled, then stepped back and accepted the support of two more priests. The rest of the mercenaries, not willing to even think of climbing those corpse-strewn steps, turned and fled. Ghost leaped among them, killing a few more for good measure. Coated with gore, he returned to the temple, where he heard songs and lamentations coming from within.