A Dance of Cloaks s-1

by David Dalglish

  “Hold still,” the man said. He put his hands through the armor and against the wound on his chest. Nigel coughed. The stranger wore white. A gold pendant hung from his neck.

  “Madelyn?” Nigel asked.

  “The noblewoman?” the stranger asked.

  Nigel nodded weakly.

  “She’s quite alright. Brave, too, considering what she had to do. Be quiet. I must say my prayers without interruption.”

  The man closed his eyes and whispered words that Nigel could not understand. White light glowed, as if his skin were luminescent. The pain in Nigel’s chest dulled. When he coughed again, it was dry and healthy.

  “Who are you?” Nigel asked as the stranger opened his eyes and stood.

  “Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” he said as he offered the mercenary a hand. “And as of now, consider you and your charges under my protection.”

  A t some point he must have fallen asleep. Ethric remembered no dreams, but when his eyes snapped open he felt a distinct disorientation at the loss of daylight. The sun was barely visible through a pale scattering of clouds as it hovered above the western wall of the city.

  Ethric knew he had awakened because of his finely honed instincts. At first he saw no intruders and heard no footsteps. But he was hunting skillful prey, and lack of sight and sound meant nothing. He looked to the wall. The rock wedged inside the crack was gone.

  “I thought you’d wait until dark,” Ethric said as he stood. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword. A dagger slid through a crease of his armor by his shoulder blades and pressed against unprotected flesh.

  “It seems the priests have grown desperate,” he heard a voice behind him say. “A dark paladin alone in Veldaren in broad daylight? Will they soon announce their existence to the land, or are they just hoping a mob will kill you?”

  “It would take far more than a mob,” Ethric said. “Pull back your blade, woman. I know what you are.”

  She hesitated for a moment, and then the dagger withdrew. Ethric turned, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “With whom do I speak?” he asked.

  “I am Eliora,” the faceless said. “What message do you bring from the temple?”

  “Just that Alyssa must be returned, immediately,” Ethric said. “Bring me to her at once.”

  Eliora clicked her two daggers together as she gently weaved back and forth.

  “Matters are not as simple as Pelarak believes,” she said. “Alyssa is surrounded by guards and protected by a wealthy tax collector.”

  “None of which should matter to a faceless.”

  Through the thin veil of white, Ethric could see hints of Eliora’s face. He’d swear she winked at him.

  “Only if we wanted her dead, paladin. Escaping alive is another matter. I’m sure Pelarak told you she is worthless to us if harmed.”

  “Where is she held?” Ethric asked. “Tell me and you may go.”

  Eliora tilted her head to the side. Her swaying slowed, then came to a stop.

  “Who do the dark paladins serve, Karak, or his priests?” she asked.

  “They are the same,” Ethric said. “His priests speak the word of Karak.”

  Eliora took a step back.

  “Then I will not bring you to her. Karak has given us faith, and a mind to use it. We are not Pelarak’s slaves, not anymore. We do the will of our god. Our god. Will you remain blind to Pelarak’s manipulation and control?”

  “You will bring me to her, or you will die.”

  Eliora cocked her head. She seemed to be staring into Ethric’s heart.

  “You would kill me anyway. Pelarak has made his move. So be it.”

  Ethric drew his sword and lashed out in a single smooth motion, the blade bathed in dark fire. The faceless woman fell backward, her spine arching and her knees bending outward. After the sword passed harmlessly above her, she snapped forward, lunging with her daggers. One scraped against his platemail and caught in a crease while the other gouged the flesh underneath his chin.

  Before she could finish the kill, Ethric rammed an open palm against her chest. The strength of Karak was with him, and she flew backward, a shockwave of sound and fire exploding from their contact. Eliora rolled, shadows splashing off her body and laying like deep puddles. Her feet touched ground, she spun, crossed her arms, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

  A long shadow stretched from the western wall from the sunset, and out of that shadow leapt Eliora. Her feet slammed into the small of Ethric’s back. He cried out in pain as he stumbled forward, his sword slashing behind him blindly. Its fire singed some of her wrappings, but cut no flesh. A dagger struck Ethric, cutting a thin but bloody wound across the back of his head.

  Ethric fell forward, avoiding the vicious thrust aimed between his collarbone and neck that would have surely finished him. The dagger struck his armor. The magic in both collided together, strength against strength. Sparks showered to the ground. The dagger dulled. When Eliora spun, thrusting it forward, Ethric twisted so she stabbed directly into his thick breastplate. The dagger exploded into shards that bit her hand. Blood soaked her wrappings.

  “Yield and I will be merciful,” Ethric said as he went on the offensive, slashing back and forth with his blade. Eliora ducked, shifted, and leapt away like a dancer, each cut passing close enough to burn more of her wrappings. When his sword stabbed forward, it should have pierced her heart. Instead he cut smoke, for she was gone.

  Anticipating the attack, he spun, cutting the air between him and the wall’s shadow. Eliora was there, her foot outstretched for a kick, but again his sword passed through only smoke. He coughed and retched as it swarmed over him, burning his lungs and tasting foul on his tongue. Within the smoke, he heard laughter. Within the laughter, he heard rage.

  Something sharp pierced his side just above his belt. Warm blood poured down his thigh. He felt it twist, and the pain doubled. Ethric swung, but he felt blind and dull. His sword cut air and smoke, nothing more.

  “I will not be treated as a fool,” Ethric shouted. He struck the ground with his blade, both hands gripping the handle to increase his strength. Power rolled from the blow, pushing away the smoke. Clean air filled Ethric’s lungs. Before his head could clear, he saw Eliora lunging at him, her dagger aimed for his eye.

  His reactions were quicker. He dropped his sword. His left hand shot up, blocking the stab with his vambrace. His right reached forward, grabbing Eliora’s neck and crushing her throat. Before she could turn to smoke in his hands, he shouted the name of his god and let his full power roll forth.

  Eliora’s whole body went rigid. The wrappings around her face blasted off, revealing her beautiful face locked in a grimace of pain. Ash billowed from her nostrils and open mouth. Her entire weight hung by the fierce grip of his hand.

  “Chaos…must…end!” screamed Ethric. He slammed her head-first to the dirt. As she gagged, trying to force air through a charred throat, the dark paladin picked up his sword.

  “Karak will abandon you,” she said, her voice hoarse and weak.

  “Don’t you see?” Ethric said, showing her the blaze of dark flame on his blade. “My faith is strong, and his presence is stronger. You’re the one abandoned, heretic.”

  With one vicious stroke, he cut off her head. So hot was the flame on his sword that her body never bled, the flesh and veins cauterized by its heat.

  “Two left,” Ethric said, leaving the body to rot. “Take her soul, Karak. Punish her as you please.”

  Eliora had told him enough. Before he’d left, Pelarak had informed Ethric of the entire matter of Alyssa Gemcroft, the thief guilds, and Theo Kull. Tax collector Theo Kull. At first he’d thought Alyssa was secreted away somewhere with the other faceless. To be with Theo Kull meant servants, living quarters, and mercenaries. Pelarak had never mentioned them being inside the city, which meant only one thing…they lurked outside the walls, and a collection that large could not hide from him.

  Ethric traveled south toward the gate,
determined to see his business done before nightfall.

  20

  M adelyn Keenan sat in a small room that made her wagon outside the city seem like a castle. She had a plain wooden chair with no padding, a bare desk, and a bed stuffed with straw, not feathers. She wore a clean white dress given to her after she bathed. She still smelled the blood that had covered her hands and face.

  Young girls had come and gone the entire day, attending to her needs. No one had ordered her to stay, but the unspoken desire seemed obvious enough. Madelyn lay on the uncomfortable bed, accepting pillows, warm tea mixed with honey, and the occasional girl coming in to ask if there was anything else she could do.

  Calan had promised to send word of her safety to her husband, but Madelyn had not seen the high priest since arriving at the temple. He’d said something about attending others, and something more about patrols, and then he’d left. She wished she’d gone with him.

  The walls were bare wood. The floor was stained a dark brown. There was nothing to read, nothing to do. She felt more a prisoner than she’d ever felt in her life, and this was in a place supposedly there to aid her.

  At last, when she thought she could take no more, the door opened and Calan stepped inside.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” he said as he closed the door. “The hour is late and I had much to do. So much, truly, that should have been done long ago.”

  “And what is that?” Madelyn asked, not really caring but not ready to have the conversation turn to her. She wanted time to regain her composure.

  “Protect the city,” Calan said, as if it should have been obvious. “There is much you need to hear, Lady Keenan. Things are changing, starting now. Will you listen?”

  “I don’t have much choice,” Madelyn said, crossing her legs and trying to appear ladylike in the plain dress.

  “You are free to go whenever you like,” Calan said. “Though I think you might have a difficult time convincing your remaining mercenaries. They quite like it here. Most appear to be sleeping well for the first time in many nights.”

  “It’s the first night they won’t have to stand at their posts,” Madelyn said. “Of course they’re eager to laze about while taking my coin.”

  Calan shrugged as if this were all irrelevant.

  “I have been high priest for only a day, Lady Keenan, so forgive me if I say things you already know. My predecessor was a man named Calvin. Most brilliant when it came to the scriptures but most timid when it comes to your Trifect and the thieves’ guilds. He was adamant we stayed out of your war. We watched as each side killed hundreds of innocents, and then did our best to clean up the damage.”

  “We have done no wrong,” Madelyn said, picking at the fabric above her knee. “The guilds are illegal, immoral, and a drain on this city.”

  “As I’m sure the Trifect has done nothing illegal or immoral over the past five years,” Calan said, his round face darkening a little. “But I am not here to assign blame, Lady Keenan, only to talk.”

  Madelyn made a small gesture with a hand, urging the priest to continue.

  “Forgive me, milady. The days have been rough on us all. We are not used to such strife within our temple, but I’m sure that is something that you would care little about. Still, listen a little longer, if you will, for all of this will make sense by the time I am done.

  “A few days ago a priest of our order, a man named Delius Eschaton, was killed in cold blood in broad daylight. We have little doubt that Thren and his guild were responsible, yet they are beyond the justice of the king. We almost convinced Calvin to act then, but Delius was going against our orders in his tirades against the guilds. To our shame, policy and rule won out over blood and loss. Then that night, we received his daughter secretly, for the guild had sent an assassin to kill her. From what we heard, he nearly succeeded.”

  The old man paused for a moment. Madelyn rubbed her hands. The warm bath she’d taken had done wonders, but still she saw the faded red stain of blood deep in the cracks of her skin.

  “I’m waiting for where this affects me,” she said when it seemed Calan was in no hurry to continue. She guessed he was waiting for something from her. The name Eschaton sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  “Such callousness,” Calan said. “Still, I should not have expected different. That little girl, sobbing in fear as she said goodbye to the only home she’d ever known, was the final catalyst. When Calvin refused to act, we forced a vote and removed him as high priest. I took his spot, and that is what you should be clearly aware of, Lady Keenan.”

  Madelyn tried to summon a bit of her noble contempt, regardless of her modest dress and loose, undecorated hair.

  “The doings of old men in stone temples is none of my concern,” she said as she stood and crossed her arms. “I congratulate you on taking control, but it is time I left. I want to return to my home where I can be in safety.”

  “Calvin’s removal and my ascension are the only reason you are alive, Madelyn,” Calan said. His voice had grown quieter, and though the words themselves were harsh, his tone was not. If anything, he sounded like he was talking to a foolish child. “Riots and looting have gone on long enough. We set out in an attempt to restore order, and that is how we found you surrounded by men of the Spider Guild. Tell me, do you think you’d prefer Thren’s company to the room you have now?”

  “A prison is a prison,” Madelyn said, but her voice was already faltering. The old man had saved her, and here she was bickering and trying to insult him. What was wrong with her?

  “I am not holding you prisoner,” Calan insisted. “I am preventing you from walking off the edge of a cliff. Already I have sent a runner to your husband to inform him of your whereabouts. Would you wait for him to send you a guard, or would you prefer to brave the night streets alone?”

  “But the rest of my men…”

  “They are only three,” Calan said. “And how many women would you take with you? Don’t be foolish.”

  The high priest rubbed his hand against the side of her face, and for a reason she could not understand, she held back her derisive slap.

  “As of tonight, we are ending the bloodshed,” Calan said. “We will wear holes in our sandals as we scour the streets. We will shine a light into every dark corner. We will sing a song of joy to drown out the ugly shouts of hatred. Our eyes are open, Lady Keenan. Sleep well on your bed, and know that you are safe here. Think on what I have said, and then when you return to your husband, tell him what you have heard. Do I truly ask so much of you?”

  “I’ve long heard whispers that the thieves had bought off the priests of Ashhur,” Madelyn said. “Because of your whispers, the king has arrested hundreds of my men. Now you tell me to feel safe in your house? I will not sleep, old man. I still have my dagger, and with my back to the wall and my eyes to the door, I will wait for my husband.”

  Calan smiled a sad smile.

  “Such spirit,” he said. “A shame it is born not of love but mistrust and desperation.”

  He turned and left. True to her word, Madelyn shut the door, sat on her bed, and stared into space.

  Safe or not, desperate or not, she would tell her husband what had transpired. Any veiled threat, no matter how gently given, would earn his wrath.

  D aytime was surprisingly pleasant, but it was the nights that made Alyssa cringe with every wayward glance at the setting sun. In daylight, she spent time with a charming Yoren and his favored mercenaries. She laughed as they sparred, told filthy jokes, and took turns trading verbal barbs at each other’s prowess in blade, bow, and bed. Her meals with Theo Kull, poorer quality than what she might have had at her father’s, were still plentiful.

  But her bruises never faded. Every night Yoren reapplied them. It didn’t matter how willingly she gave herself to him. He liked the feel of his fingers around her neck. He liked the way her moans paused and broke by her repeated gasps for air. He even liked it when she struggled, which she did only when he dem
anded it of her.

  “Something the matter?” Yoren asked beside her.

  “Thinking of home,” she said, hoping the comment was innocent enough for the inquiry to end. The two sat before an enormous bonfire, their arms linked. The contact felt like a perverse lie to Alyssa, but she endured. With her free hand she secretly fondled the dagger hidden in her skirts. She’d thought of using it several times. Once she had even reached for her discarded dress and the dagger hidden within, right when Yoren was climaxing and his hands seemed to clutch her throat with inhuman strength. As her fingers had touched the hilt, he’d finally relented.

  One of the mercenaries tossed another large log onto the bonfire, startling her from her thoughts with his shout.

  “Where’s the music we was promised? I’ve got a song to sing, yet no music to sing it with. I ain’t singing without no song!”

  Alyssa faked a smile. The cold of winter had come on strong with the approaching night, and the mercenaries had successfully begged permission to build a bonfire to ward away the cold. The bulk of the camp, minus some servants and patrolling men, was seated around that bonfire. Veldaren’s walls were in the far distance, but Alyssa felt certain that anyone walking along their breadth could spot their fire with ease.

  “Here’s your music,” one sellsword shouted, following it up with loud a burp.

  “Give me some more of Gunter’s cooking, and I’ll give you some music of my own,” another man shouted. Gunter, whose cooking was renowned, but his priggish attitude loathed, raised a forefinger and shook it at the mercenary. He got a finger right back, and it wasn’t the forefinger. The men around him howled with laughter, and soon a chorus of bodily noises sang in Gunter’s direction.

  “I think the king should be treated to such skillful musicians,” Alyssa said, laughing in spite of her quiet mood. This earned her a chorus of cheerful agreements.

  “A sign of a good leader,” Theo said, sitting on the other side of Yoren. “You inspire love in men, Alyssa. Good things surely await your rule of the Gemcroft estate.”