A Dance of Shadows

by David Dalglish

  Haern gave no answer, only grinned.

  It seemed Carson suddenly realized the shift. He pushed his attack, this time without mockery, no longer playing with him. Haern kept his eyes down, watching only Carson’s hands and the movements of his feet. Carson was a viper, trying to mesmerize his prey with his gaze. But Haern was no mouse.

  No, he’d been raised a Spider.

  From side to side he shifted, avoiding thrusts, smashing aside cuts. Carson tried to step in and strike him with a fist, but Haern ducked underneath, whirling so his cloaks hid his movements. This time when he stood he counterattacked, the tip of his saber slashing open a bleeding wound across Carson’s cheek.

  Much as he wanted to enjoy the shock and fear in Carson’s eyes, Haern pulled his hood lower across his face and stared at the ground.

  “What’s the matter, Bloodcraft?” Haern asked. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

  In his childhood, during the years of training by Thren’s hired tutors, Haern had spent several months learning how to fight in pure darkness. He knew how to predict the most common sword placements, how to listen for the movement of feet, the intake of air that marked an attack. In his mind’s eye he could visualize where Carson stood, and from their fights he now had a feel for his favored routines. The man was good, but he was used to having speed on his side. He’d never been pushed to his limits.

  But Haern had fought so much better. He’d met his own limits, and surpassed them.

  Eyes closed, he lashed out, and the sound of metal on metal brought a smile to his face. He pressed forward, his sabers whirling so that he could control the placement of Carson’s sword, forcing his defenses and countering his attempts to pull close. His speed had returned in full. His strength was back. He thought of the rest of his friends, battling for their lives, and he would not fail them.

  “Have you lost your nerve?” Haern asked, so close to Carson that he could smell the sweat and blood on him.

  “You haven’t beaten me yet, you—”

  His words confirmed his location, and more important, how Carson was falling back to gain distance. It was all Haern needed.

  He lunged, one saber thrusting, the other swinging wide to parry the desperate counterthrust he knew Carson would try. Metal hit metal, and then his thrusting blade met resistance, just for a moment. Blood poured across Haern’s hand, and he felt the closeness of Carson’s body to his. Only then did Haern open his eyes to see Carson gasping for air, a saber piercing his chest and coming out of his back.

  “Look me in the eye,” Haern whispered. “The fear you see is your own.”

  Carson opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough blood. He slipped back, and Haern yanked free his saber. Carson collapsed, mouth still moving, eyes still locked on Haern’s. The ornate blade fell from his hand and clattered upon the hard stone.

  The ground shook, and Haern brought his attention to the other battles still raging.

  “Hold on, Tar,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

  Tarlak sat on his rear, legs folded underneath him, as he leaned his chin against his palm and watched the inn. So far an hour had passed, yet they saw no sign of life or movement through the windows.

  Some ambush, he thought. I think I’ll be killing myself from boredom before the night is over. The Bloodcrafts will win by default.

  He sat at the very edge of the bakery’s rooftop, and he kept bouncing his attention between the windows and the alley beneath him. There was always the possibility they were out during the day, and would return sometime soon. He knew he had to be ready, but still…

  “Boooored,” Tarlak muttered.

  He leaned back to stretch, and as he did, he caught sight of a woman on the roof of the inn, her slender frame dwarfed by the red leather coat she wore. Tarlak froze in mid-stretch, wondering where in the world she’d come from. She was looking right at him.

  “Uh, hello?” he said.

  She lifted her palm toward him, and fire leaped from it as if it were the gullet of a dragon. Tarlak flung himself onto his back, crossed his arms, and enacted a protection spell. The fire swarmed around him, bathing the rooftop, but it did not touch his skin. The strength to keep the protection going weighed on Tarlak, and the spell of invisibility around him vanished, not that it was doing much good. When the fire subsided, Tarlak rolled to his knees, then pushed to his feet.

  “Not bad,” he said, wiping some ash off his yellow robe. “My turn.”

  Shards of ice flew from his hands, their points deadly sharp. A dozen shattered across the rooftop of the inn, each one missing its mark as the woman dove from side to side, faster than Tarlak could adjust. Without slowing she ran for the edge, and when Tarlak hurled a bolt of lightning, she vaulted into the air, over the blast, and across the thin gap between the two buildings. Before landing she crossed her arms, and another wave of fire lashed out, as if she were the center of a great explosion. Tarlak braced himself, once more summoning a protection spell. The fire hit, and this time he felt the heat of it on his skin. He gritted his teeth, poured more of his strength into his spell.

  When the woman landed, she pressed her palms together, and the burst of fire was tremendous. But Tarlak had had enough.

  “Remember this?” he said, pulling the sword hilt from his pocket. The crystal on it flared to life, and all about him the fire died as if it had never existed.

  “You have Nicholas’s sword,” she said.

  At the woman’s shocked expression, Tarlak grinned. “Just the hilt,” he said, twirling it in his fingers. He’d had Brug remove the blade, and then, over the course of a few hours, he’d replenished the magic in the crystal, turning it back to clear. “I must say, I thought it cheating. Shame Nicholas died before I could tell him so.”

  The woman rushed him, abandoning the fire. Tarlak took a step back, but she was faster, and her kick connected with his midsection. He gasped as the air was blasted from his lungs. She swiped at the sword hilt, but he clung to it as if his life depended upon it. She unleashed a flurry of punches, half of which he failed to dodge. Her fists struck his face, his chest, and when he collapsed onto his back she fell on top of him. Tarlak tensed every muscle in his body as she put his head into a lock, her slender arms choking him tighter and tighter.

  “What good is that sword if you can’t cast either, you damn fool?” she asked, driving her knees into his stomach so she might apply more pressure on his neck. The hand holding the hilt was caught by her legs, but his other was free, and he pressed it against her chest in a futile attempt to push her off. As the arm of his robe fell back, he saw her eyes go wide when she caught sight of the blue tattoo glowing across his wrist.

  “I can cheat too,” Tarlak gasped as her panicked grip loosened.

  The magic within the tattoo activated, flowing through his hand and into her chest. It was a solid force, like an invisible battering ram blasting her entire body, and it hit with a tremendous boom. Her head arched back, her arms flailed, and Tarlak winced at the sound of a dozen breaking bones. Her body flew several feet back, landing in a sprawl atop the roof. Tarlak stood, tossed the sword hilt aside, and rubbed his bruised neck.

  “Think I might have overdone it,” he muttered. He glanced at the tattoo, which was already fading from his skin. His entire arm ached, and it itched where the ink had been.

  Never again, he swore.

  Haern leaped up to the rooftop, landing silently mere feet away from the body. He was bleeding at the shoulder, but seemed otherwise fine.

  “Dead,” he said, letting out a curse. “Need someone alive.”

  He turned and leaped back off, toward the alley where Brug and Delysia had been waiting. Tarlak rushed after, and he peered off the rooftop to see where the fight continued below.

  Brug stood protectively before Delysia, hunched over with several daggers sticking out from the creases of his armor. He still held his punch daggers, and he kept them up at the ready. Behind him Delysia cast a barrage of spells, blinding
and disorienting their opponent, the rail-thin and final member of the Bloodcrafts.

  “Come on,” Brug was saying. “You can do better than this!”

  The Bloodcraft seemed to agree. He flung several more daggers, but Brug kept in his way. Most bounced off his thick plate mail, except for the one that sailed wide, missing because of a blinding white light that flared from Delysia’s hand. Tarlak shook his head, relieved the two could fight as such an odd but effective pair.

  The man pulled out several more daggers, and through rapidly blinking eyelids tried to find a way around, to get close without enduring the priestess’s barrage or Brug’s daggers. He apparently saw none, and then his chance was gone. Haern emerged from the shadows behind him, striking him hard on the back of the head with the hilt of a saber. The man dropped, his body going limp.

  Tarlak cast a spell to slow his own fall, then stepped off the roof and gently floated down. When his feet touched ground, he crossed his arms and glared at Haern.

  “Some ambush,” he said.

  Haern shrugged. “At least we won.”

  Despite Delysia’s insistence, Brug marched over to Haern and smacked him in the chest with a mailed glove.

  “I had him,” he said, clearly unhappy.

  Haern lifted an eyebrow. “Sorry?”

  “Get over here,” Delysia said, grabbing Brug’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

  Tarlak gestured toward the last Bloodcraft as his sister pulled Brug away so she could remove the knives and work her healing magic. “What do we do with him?” he asked.

  Haern sheathed a saber, then tapped the unconscious man with the other. “We get some answers,” he said. “I want to know who hired them.”

  Tarlak frowned. “Think he’ll talk?”

  A dark edge entered Haern’s eyes, and Tarlak didn’t like it one bit.

  “Get Delysia out of here—Brug too,” his friend said. “I don’t want them to see this. And yes. He’ll talk.”

  Tarlak put a hand on Haern’s shoulder. “Be careful,” he said.

  “He’s no threat to me.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  Haern looked away, sighed. “I know. But someone wants us dead, and I intend to find out who. If it comes between this man’s life, and all of yours…”

  “Just be careful,” Tarlak said, turning to the others. “Now let’s go home. And Ashhur help us, you really are bleeding everywhere, Brug…”

  CHAPTER

  32

  Thren lurked at the edge of the newly acquired Sun territory, watching the people come and go. Night had just fallen, but deep in the southern district it seemed a new life blossomed, ignorant of the light. Men and women were flocking to the new guild, Thren knew. He’d even watched several adopting the four-pointed star and casting aside their cloaks. Very little ceremony or fanfare. He’d done his best to cull their numbers, but it was beyond controlling now. With the promise of coin, trade, power, and the overthrow of the Trifect… what did the rest of the guilds have to offer against that?

  “Tread lightly,” Thren whispered to himself as he watched yet another man throw off his cloak. How many of his own Spiders might now be with the Suns? And when he put out his call, would they come to him, or dare hope they might go unpunished?

  Thren chuckled. Of course they’d ignore him. Loyalty was bought with power. There was a changing of the guard in the underworld, and until something happened to shake everyone’s confidence in the Suns, none would dare return to his side. Which is why Thren lurked, hidden beside a building where there was no light so he could watch and wait. Only one thing could slow down the Suns, at least in his mind. Just one.

  Killing Grayson.

  To do that, he needed to know where the man was hiding, where he’d chosen to set up his base. So far he’d been patient, not wanting Grayson to even know he was being hunted, at least by Thren. The other guilds would no doubt also want Grayson dead, but they’d be hesitant about out-and-out warfare. Thren knew their leaders, knew how cowardly they were deep down in their black hearts. They’d want to know if they could make alliances first, if they could grab hold of the Suns’ rise and use it to reestablish their own dominance in the city. They didn’t realize the fire they played with. Didn’t realize that when all was said and done, Grayson had no intention of letting any guild other than his own operate within the walls of Veldaren.

  Thren tensed, the sight before him jarring him from his thoughts. One of the original members of the Suns who had come with Grayson from Mordeina was meeting with two others at the street corner. He passed them a bag, no doubt of some cheap crimleaf, and then whispered a few words. Thren watched to see if he’d return in the direction he’d come from, or move elsewhere, and then prepared to follow. When the man continued, Thren slipped in behind him, just a shadow in the street.

  The Sun walked as if in no hurry, then suddenly burst into a run, hooking a sharp left into an alley. Thren chuckled, and he calmly drew his swords. He’d been spotted, which meant the man was skilled. That he’d given away this knowledge by running meant he was overconfident, and hasty. Someone skilled enough to notice Thren wouldn’t panic so easily, nor be spooked by a simple tail. Which meant the man wasn’t actually running.

  It meant an ambush, one Thren willingly entered.

  Six steps into the alley, Thren spun, sword slashing. As he’d thought, the Sun member had crouched behind a barrel at the entrance, then leaped out with dagger ready. Thren batted it aside, stepped closer, and then thrust. To his surprise, the man managed to pull back in time to parry. Skilled indeed, but not enough. Thren flung himself at him with the ferocity of a wild animal. He had the man trapped against the wall, and with the greater reach of his blades, had every advantage.

  Ten seconds later the daggers fell from bleeding hands. Thren pressed the tip of his sword against the man’s neck.

  “Your name?” he asked.

  “Pierce,” said the thin man.

  “Well, Pierce,” said Thren, “how much pain do you wish to feel?”

  The man licked his lips as if he were facing a trick question. “Little as necessary,” he said.

  “A wise answer. Tell me where Grayson is, and that is what you’ll receive.”

  “Only a dead man turns on Grayson,” Pierce said.

  Thren pressed his blade tighter against Pierce’s neck. “You are a dead man,” he said. “But that’s not what matters. That’s not the question. The question was, and still is… how much pain do you wish to feel?”

  Finally he saw a hint of true fear in Pierce’s eyes. “You can’t do shit to me,” he said. “You do, and you’ll get it back ten times worse. Veldaren’s our city now. Go back to whatever guild you serve and tell them that.”

  Thren laughed. “I am my guild,” he said. “I am Thren Felhorn, and I serve none but myself.”

  There it was. The fear he wanted. His smile grew.

  It took a few minutes, but he got his answers.

  Roark’s Oddities wasn’t too far away, and he knew the shop well. The man was a notorious cheat, and he showed no loyalty to any guild. Because of that everyone liked him, and everyone used him to deal stolen goods. With him, gold was all that mattered, which meant you knew exactly how far to trust him. Thren grinned at the thought. It looked as if Roark had found a partnership worth far too much to turn down.

  Before Thren pulled the last of his intestines out of his stomach, Pierce had said they only used Roark’s place to store their goods, since their first safe house, Billick’s, had been burned to the ground. They weren’t staying there themselves, but Thren had a feeling Grayson would always be nearby. His take-over of Veldaren depended on his product. He wouldn’t leave it unguarded. Thren approached cautiously, watching for any inquisitive pairs of eyes. He couldn’t rely on cloaks and colors anymore. With so much in flux, anyone could be a snitch.

  When he was at the top of the road leading down to Roark’s, and almost within sight of the store, Thr
en heard the first of the horns. He stopped, confused as to what it meant. When a second sounded, farther away, he realized what it was, but could hardly believe it.

  “What madness is this?” he wondered aloud.

  Troops marched into the southern district, coordinating their movements with the blasts of the trumpets. It couldn’t be the city guard, at least not alone. The king was too cowardly for that. Only one person made sense, and given the audacity that man had already shown, Thren knew he shouldn’t be as surprised as he was.

  Victor was coming to play.

  Thren rushed toward Roark’s. He wouldn’t let Victor get Grayson. That was his kill, his chance to send a message west to the guilds in Mordeina. They would never fear Victor, no matter how many men he had. He was still an outside lord, a man not of their world. No matter how brightly he shone, he would never find them all in the shadows. For it to matter, Thren had to be the executioner.

  Sounds of combat reached his ears, first quiet, then gradually louder. The marching of feet soon followed. Screams, scattered and few, accompanied the progressive movement south. As Thren ran he saw Suns joining him on the street, all fleeing to the same place. Thren drew his swords, stabbed a man beside him wearing their colors. Without losing a step he shifted to the side, overtaking a fleeing woman. She sprawled headfirst into the dirt after he slashed out her heel.

  At the doors of Roark’s Oddities, several men were dispersing as a squad of ten armored men turned the corner. One of the soldiers lifted a horn to his lips and blew. Thren hooked a right, finding the alley occupied by a man furiously pulling at a scrap of cloth sewn onto the sleeve of his shirt that identified his guild allegiance.

  “Having second thoughts?” he asked the dirty man, grinning. Thren cut out his throat before he could answer, his fingers still in the hole he’d torn in the fabric. Glancing from side to side, Thren gauged the cramped distance between the two buildings, decided them close enough. He leaped from wall to wall, constantly kicking himself higher so that on the third kick he landed atop the building directly adjacent to Roark’s. As he’d expected, Grayson was up there, surveying the movement of the troops. Thren knew well how he felt, for he’d done the same when Victor stormed his headquarters. But how had Victor discovered Grayson’s place?