A Dance of Chaos

by David Dalglish

  “Our city?” he asked. “Does it belong to the two of you now? I often wondered why Thren never crushed you as the years wore on. Did you two think to share the city? Was that your compromise?” He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever success you think you’ve had, it dies tonight. Let the matter be settled, perhaps as it always should have been from the very start.”

  They had him flanked, but still no signs of worry. Part of Haern wanted to lunge before Muzien drew his blades. Part of him was terrified to begin the battle at all. He’d fought this foe before, in a brief exchange that had left him humiliated. Only outnumbering him three to one, with Zusa aiding them, had they defeated Muzien at the fountain ambush … and Haern sorely wished Zusa were with them now.

  Slowly Muzien shrugged off his long rain-soaked coat. Beneath was a simple black shirt that left bare his long, lanky arms. His body was thin but his muscles were tightly corded like a feline predator’s. With total confidence, the elf drew his swords and then settled into a low stance, with all the urgency and speed of one engaging in a practice duel. The movements showed his complete control of his body, like that of a dancer. Haern prayed he could match such grace.

  “It doesn’t matter if you’ve slain every single member of the Sun Guild,” Muzien said. “Watcher, alone you conquered this city. Thren, alone you built the Spider Guild into an empire. Alone, I will outshine you all. This will be the crown upon my legacy, forged with your bones and painted with your blood.”

  He extended his darkened hand and beckoned them close.

  “Come and die.”

  They leaped at once, Haern and his father, their swords swinging. Muzien spun with such grace it seemed to mask how fast his movements were. Both of Haern’s strokes rang against steel, blocked by a single blade. Around and around the elf spun, his other blade moving to block the next set of hits as if he’d known before Haern did where they were to strike. Another block, and this time Haern tried to push closer, to force Muzien to turn his way instead of continuing his spin.

  It worked far better than Haern had expected. Muzien’s twirl ended, and he jumped at Haern, his two long swords chopping down at each collarbone as Thren’s simultaneous slash passed mere inches away from the elf’s exposed spine. Haern fell back, sabers barely able to cross in time to block. The ringing of the two hits was so close together they seemed like one, and then before Haern could react, Muzien had already turned, parrying a killing thrust from Thren. His heel shot out, catching Thren in the chest. As his father stumbled away, Haern returned to the offensive, denying the elf a chance to finish him off.

  Muzien brought his attention to him fully, and for a few seconds their blades danced, and Haern felt as if he stood a chance. He feinted low, then swung both weapons high. Knowing they’d be blocked, he kept his body moving, improving his positioning. When the weapons made contact, Haern swept his right leg, hoping to send Muzien tumbling to the ground. Instead the elf hopped above it, snap-kicked Haern in the chest, and then dashed away, somehow sensing Thren’s futile attempt to stab him in the back though Haern himself had never seen the approach.

  Haern and Thren were now side-by-side, and together they rushed Muzien instead of allowing him a reprieve. Each blade seemed to have its own mind as Muzien battled them both. Haern attempted a double thrust when he thought the elf out of position. Instead Muzien parried them upward with one sword, rotated toward him, smacked the twin sabers higher with his other blade, and then finished the turn to face Thren directly, swords moving in opposite directions to safely redirect both of his father’s attempted strikes.

  Press on, Haern told himself as he did just that. He felt the rain falling upon him, heard its soft patter, but it was all distant, his concentration at a razor’s edge. The only time he’d felt similar was during his battle with the Wraith in Angelport, and the two foes were certainly comparable, yet somehow Muzien seemed faster, stronger. Heart hammering in his chest, Haern paused a moment to let Thren force Muzien into a block, then leaped at him again. Muzien stepped away, retreating toward the building’s edge, and Haern felt a glimmer of hope at how the elf had to remain on the defensive at all times. Just as Haern knew the slightest mistake could mean death for him, so too could it for Muzien.

  The sound of their steel was a constant chorus as father and son trapped Muzien at the rooftop’s edge. The elf’s blocks were growing more desperate, and several times he had to push Haern or Thren back to gain himself distance prior to shifting attention to the other. Eyes on his foe and nothing else, Haern kept himself at a perfect balance, always threatening, never vulnerable. As Muzien countered one of Thren’s slashes, forcing him to retreat, Haern launched himself into a flurry of four strikes. Muzien blocked the first three, but the fourth slipped through, cutting into his chest and nicking a rib. Blood sprayed as the elf let out a pained cry.

  Haern tried to finish him, but the elf ducked low, rolled left, and then burst underneath Thren’s downward stab. Tumbling headfirst, he sprang back to his feet and spun about to face them from the center of the rooftop.

  “I’d hoped raw skill would be enough,” Muzien said as blood trickled down his shirt from the shallow wound. “It seems not to be.”

  “Sorry to disappoint,” Haern said, and he nodded at his father.

  Thren took the lead, leaping with both swords slashing in a downward-angled arc. Haern followed a step, then dashed to his right before leaping in, hoping to cut down Muzien from the side. The assault from both directions should have pushed Muzien to his limits … but then somehow it seemed he became two, body splitting to assault each of them. Haern twisted in midair to plant his left foot to halt his momentum so he might defend himself. Sabers up, he blocked the elf’s slash … only to see the image fade away like smoke the moment their blades connected.

  The real Muzien struck at Thren hard, viciously tearing into him. There was no subtlety or maneuvering, just pure strength that Haern’s father was hard-pressed to match. Haern rushed to his aid, only to see Muzien hop backward a step, then split again, one thrusting toward his father, the other toward Haern. With no choice but to react, Haern swept his sabers wide to parry the thrusts, fully expecting to banish a second illusion. Only this time he heard the clang of steel hitting steel, while his father scattered an illusion with his rapid counter.

  Fighting down panic, Haern tried to plant his feet and refocus, but then Muzien’s image shimmered, vanished. Having seen it before, Haern reacted without thinking. When the elf had fled their previous fight, he’d teleported directly forward, and Haern assumed the same thing would happen now. Instead of trying to turn or block, he tucked a shoulder into a roll. He felt movement against his cloaks, one of Muzien’s swords tearing into it, but he was just barely too far. When he finished the roll he spun, crouched low, ready to face the elf head-to-head.

  Only instead the elf was pacing before Thren, who was trapped against the edge of the rooftop.

  “Is this the best you can do?” Muzien asked him.

  Haern burst into a sprint as his father engaged him one-on-one. Their blades danced, a beautiful display Haern wished he could have watched at a time when neither of their lives was on the line. Muzien scored a single cut across Thren’s arm before Haern joined in, attempting to stab him in the back despite knowing it would never work. Somehow the elf would know, and be ready. He always was.

  The next few moments for Haern were surreal in their clarity and speed. Together he and his father attacked the elf from both sides. After every block, every parry, the elf’s image would split. One would scatter the moment their weapons made contact, but Muzien continued to bounce between them, always on the offensive. Left with no choice but to treat each one as real, Haern scored over a dozen fatal blows on mere illusions, and Thren likewise. Back and forth they raged, no give, no gain, their numbers advantage neutralized. Haern scattered an illusion, ducked below the swing of a second illusion, dismissed it with a slash across the thigh, and then found himself under assault by a
wicked thrust-and-slash combo. He shifted aside to avoid the thrust, blocked the slash, and then swung for the elf’s throat.

  Muzien twirled away, ducking beneath another cut by Thren as he did, and then leaped at them both. Each blocked, Haern’s opponent vanishing into smoke, Thren’s striking him hard enough to make him collapse to one knee. Instead of going to aid him, knowing he’d be countered by either an illusion of Muzien or the real thing, Haern grabbed a throwing knife from his belt and flung it through the air. As he suspected, twin images of Muzien separated, one striking at Thren while the other attacked Haern. The dagger pierced the elf through the chest, his image scattered into smoke, and then the dagger continued on, burying itself in the real Muzien’s left arm.

  It was the first true score of the battle, and while it should have left Haern elated, it only made him nervous. Muzien retreated to the far side of the rooftop, yanking the dagger from his arm as he did. As the blood ran down, he glared at them, no more amusement, no more smiling.

  “Ever the meddler, aren’t you?” Muzien said to him. “Like Thren’s, your skills are greater than any human has a right to possess. I trained Thren, but who trained you, Watcher?”

  “You don’t deserve to know my name,” Haern said, glancing at his father. “Let alone the name of my teacher.”

  Thren nodded, having returned to his feet and joined Haern’s side.

  “You’re bleeding,” Thren told his former master. “I thought your victory tonight was inevitable?”

  Muzien flashed a smile, as temporary as the flashes of lightning across the storm clouds above.

  “Bleeding is not the same as dead,” Muzien said. “I would think by now you would have learned the distinction between the two.”

  The elf twisted one of the many rings on his darkened hand, took two steps backward, then settled into a stance.

  “Now would you like to fight, or would you prefer to continue boasting about a victory not yet attained?”

  The way he’d twisted the ring made Haern cautious, and only that caution kept him from being impaled. Instead of breaking into a sprint, he took a single, measured step forward, and then the elf’s image blurred momentarily, only to reappear mere feet away. Muzien was already swinging his swords, completely ignoring Thren and instead going for Haern’s throat and chest. Without the forward momentum he’d anticipated, Muzien had to take a single extra step, and that heartbeat of time was enough for Haern to fall backward, weapons rising to block. The elf’s swords slammed into his sabers, pushing them aside to open him up to a kick. Haern turned his body aside, but that only partially deflected its power.

  Muzien’s heel crushed into his throat, hard enough to leave him gasping. Haern rolled along the rooftop, a vain defense against the expected assault that never came. Instead Muzien paced before Thren, swords held loosely at his sides.

  His smile had returned.

  “So hard you fight against me,” the elf said as he launched himself at Thren. Every stroke was perfection, strong when it appeared soft, fast when it appeared slow, a feint when Thren was ready, a vicious strike when he was not. On his knees, Haern watched with spots growing in his eyes as he gasped. Each breath was quick and uneven, and accompanied by the taste of blood.

  “Where was this effort when the Trifect humiliated you?”

  Thren tried to go on the offensive, but his thrusts looked slow compared to the elf’s dazzling speed. Two quick parries, and suddenly Muzien was on the offensive again.

  “Where was this pride when the Watcher dethroned you?”

  Muzien hit him with three straight dual chops, the third banging Thren’s block out of the way. Out went one of the swords, cutting across Thren’s chest, the other shoving downward the attempted defense. As Thren let out a cry, Muzien punched him in the face with the hilt of his blade. Thren dropped to his stomach, one of his short swords scattering across the wet rooftop. He crawled toward it, and a kick to his stomach was his reward.

  “How have you failed so greatly?” Muzien shouted at Thren, towering over him as Haern struggled to stand. The elf beat his father with his fists, his feet, savaging him with both body and words. “You have nothing, no guild, no family, no heir, only a name that has crumbled into ruin. Every accomplishment has become dust, every act of worth like water on desert sand. What hope do you have of being remembered? You will be forgotten, Thren, your life, your death, your family, all forgotten!”

  Haern coughed hard enough he thought he might vomit. He willed his throat to open, his lungs to calm. Amid the torture, Thren reached out for the blade he’d dropped. When his hand closed about the handle, Muzien jammed his heel down onto his knuckles. Thren screamed, tried to swing with his other blade. The elf smacked it away as if it were a bothersome fly, then, just to humiliate him, struck both sides of his face with the flat of his sword.

  “What is it you live for?” he asked. “What is it you bleed and die for? You’re a puppet continuing to dance after the strings have been cut. I can think of no worse joke than that.”

  “I can think of several,” Haern said, his voice hoarse.

  Muzien glanced his way, and instead of appearing concerned by his recovery, he seemed annoyed.

  “You’re still breathing,” he said, crunching his heel down harder on Thren’s hand. “Must I remedy that?”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Haern said, wishing he felt as confident as his words suggested.

  Muzien kicked Thren in the cheek for good measure, then approached, his swords twirling in his hands. Their eyes locked, and Haern felt himself being judged anew, and as expected, coming up lacking.

  “To think this city quivered in fear of you,” Muzien said. “You’re worse than Thren. At least my disciple built an empire for himself, however short it might have lasted. You have the same skills, the same speed, yet you lurk in hiding, with a false name and a covered face. If only you had slain Thren and ruled in his place, or accepted my offer to become my new heir. Now your legacy will be a tributary that runs into the river that is my own.”

  “Gods, you’re full of yourself,” Haern said, eyes seemingly on Muzien’s hands while truly focusing on the elf’s feet. “And trust me, I’m used to…”

  Muzien’s legs tensed, and Haern was already bringing his sabers up to block before the elf even moved. Their weapons connected, and Haern felt how much weaker the left arm was than the right. The effects of the wound, the pain … knowing it affected Muzien allowed Haern to go on the offensive, constantly swinging in his sabers from that side, forcing Muzien to compensate. The arm was slowing, weakening as it bled. Their blades danced, Haern scored another cut across the thigh, and then Muzien retreated to gain distance.

  The retreat was only to use his dual image trick, but as Haern watched the elf split in two, leaping in opposite directions so they might close in from both sides, he saw one holding his weapons at equal height, while the other let his right hand dip. Trusting his instincts, Haern ignored the first completely, and he refused to let Muzien reclaim the offensive. Haern turned and leaped right at him, the two connecting in midair with their weapons crossed. They spun, shifted, kicking and punching as they both crashed to the rooftop.

  Haern rolled away, having managed a satisfying elbow to the elf’s face. When he rose to his feet, Muzien did the same, glaring as blood dripped down his chin.

  “You’re no longer entertaining, Watcher,” Muzien said. “This ends now.”

  “That it does,” Haern said, settling into a stance, his feet loose, his sabers ready. “You’re all out of tricks.”

  “Am I?” Muzien asked, twisting one of his rings.

  The elf’s body shimmered for a moment, and then he ran both left and right, six mirror images of himself forming a circle encompassing Haern from all sides. Once he was fully surrounded, every image leaped into the air, swords pulled back for the plunge. Haern remained still, feeling as if time itself were slowing. The six were perfectly similar down to each strand of hair, their movements exa
ct copies of one another’s. There was no difference, no difference at all. Except the gentle wind that teased Muzien’s wet hair and clothing did not come from six directions.

  Just one.

  Despite his instincts, his fear, Haern forced himself to ignore all others, to not flinch or react. At the last possible moment he spun, one saber thrusting, the other swinging high and wide. Five killing thrusts sank into him. One he parried, and it was not smoke or illusion he struck, but solid steel. Muzien fell, unable to shift his momentum, and Haern’s other saber sank up to the hilt in the elf’s gut. His body collapsed, both swords held out wide, wrapping about Haern as if seeking a final embrace.

  “I am Veldaren’s Watcher,” Haern whispered into his ear as the elf bled out against him. “And I will be remembered.”

  Before Muzien could respond, Haern yanked free his sabers, spun, and slashed twin gashes across his throat. The elf opened his mouth, closed it, eyes wide with shock. Even as he died, Haern saw him unable to believe he could be defeated. It filled his veins with ice, his stomach with disgust.

  “Not a god,” he said, reversing the grip on a saber. Falling to one knee, he rammed the tip through Muzien’s eye, pushing until he felt the saber press against the back of the skull.

  “Just a corpse.”

  Haern pulled out his saber, and as he slowly sank back from exhaustion, he heard his father speak his name.

  “Watcher…”

  CHAPTER

  32

  At first Delysia thought the defenders would be overwhelmed when the gray-skinned tide came slamming in with raised axes and swords. Their numbers were so great, and they were both taller and stronger than the city’s soldiers. The defenders had shields and a narrow space to hold, though, and when the tide reached the entrance it slowed as the orcs jostled one another, fighting for order. Even that minor cut to their momentum hurt the effectiveness of their charge, and without armor, they had no protection against the swift, steady blows from the soldiers. Above them the archers rained down arrows, chipping away at the massive numbers beyond the wall.