The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  Thren snapped to a halt and turned. Kayla felt her heart stutter as she realized the mistake she’d made.

  “Why would I need to go looking?” he asked. “Or do you know of some reason he would have left their compound?”

  Kayla tried to think of a lie, any lie. But Thren was staring at her, his eyes fierce and unflinching. She felt her resolve breaking. The whole night had been one nightmare after another. Before the Spider Guild, she might have watched the night’s events and passed them along for coin. Being involved was a wholly different beast, and she hated it.

  “Aaron broke out,” she said, deciding truth was her only chance to live. “He resisted their attempts and met with me on the rooftops.”

  Thren stepped closer toward her. She noticed the subtle drop of his hand toward the hilt of his shortsword.

  “And you never told me this why?” he asked.

  “He’s dead to you,” she said. “He told me so. You’ll never see him again.”

  “Why did you not tell me!” he screamed, not caring that the different guilds were watching.

  “Because he deserves better,” she whispered, a tear running down the side of her face.

  “Better?” asked Thren. “Every living man and woman would soon quake in fear of his name. He would be a killer even greater than I. He was so close to perfect, so close, but now he’s gone. Not your place, Kayla. It was never your place.”

  Please, Kayla prayed as she stood straight and waited. Make this mean something, Haern. I beg you.

  Thren cut her down with a single stroke of his shortsword. He stood over her body, his shoulders slumped and his jaw trembling. Everything was crumbling. The fire at Connington’s. His son’s betrayal. He still had the naked bell’s attempt on the king, plus Maynard. The night was not a total loss, not yet.

  He returned to the mansion to wait. There was no point in searching for Aaron, not then. When things calmed, he’d scour the city, search under every rock and look into every hole if he must. But not yet.

  “What in Karak’s name did she do?” Kadish asked when Thren returned.

  “She hid things from me,” Thren said. “Now see to your men. The Kensgold ended not long ago. They should return within the hour.”

  Kadish shrugged.

  “Alright, then. Shame about that bitch, though. She was a cute one.”

  Remembering how that cuteness had helped corrupt his son, Thren snarled and struck the wall with his fist.

  “Or not…” Kadish said before going from Hawk to Hawk ensuring their readiness for the ambush.

  Maynard Gemcroft knew something was afoot when Laurie disbanded the Kensgold early, but he wasn’t sure what. His wife’s absence was conspicuous, but that wasn’t something he could know for certain. Leon had no shortage of grumblings and complaints, calling Laurie every possible name for a bad host, plus a few more that he probably made up on the spot.

  Then they saw the fire and knew the thief guilds had chosen that night to play. By the smoke, he guessed it to be Connington’s home. The fat man had stood outside the giant pavilion, swearing up a blue storm at the sight.

  “They torched my home?” he asked after a minute to compose himself. “Those…those…imbeciles torched my home? I’ll gut them all. I’ll piss on their heads, rape their ears, feed their pricks to swine, and have them rape them too.”

  “Go to your home, and go well-protected,” Maynard had told him. “The streets are not safe for us, no matter how many soldiers walk with us.”

  With over six hundred armed men at his side, Maynard still felt insecure on his march home. Trailing after the six hundred was a tail of several hundred more, servants and dancers and singers wanting their pay or some beds to rest in. Maynard knew that many more wagons would come throughout the night, carrying whatever remained of his goods to sell, along with a handsome amount of gold. He’d left another two hundred to guard the wagons, but he wasn’t worried about theft. It was fire that worried him.

  When they reached the mansion, Maynard felt his heart sink. The outer gate was open. All throughout the yard were massive holes from the trap spells he’d had a trio of wizards cast. No bodies remained, though he was certain from the wreckage that many must have died.

  “What are your orders?” Maynard’s mercenary captain asked him.

  “They must have looted while we were gone,” Maynard said. “The same probably happened to Connington. Yet why did they not burn it down?”

  “A trap,” the mercenary said. “That is all that makes sense.”

  Maynard glanced back at the rest of his men. He had the makings of a small army with him. What would they say if he fled to Keenan or the rolling hills, all in fear of a few rogues in his own house? His reputation had already suffered greatly from the war with the thief guilds. Whatever they had planned, he would not back down.

  “Take four hundred of your men and scour my home,” Maynard ordered. “Leave the rest to protect me and my servants.”

  “As you wish,” said the mercenary captain before turning and relaying the orders in loud, barking yells. Maynard stayed with the remaining two hundred at the gate entrance. He might not run from a trap, but he had no intention of walking into it, either.

  The mercenaries had reached the door when the first men appeared at the windows. Arrows rained down upon them, fired by men of the Hawk and Spider Guilds. Maynard saw this and swore. His mercenaries rushed the door, knowing getting inside would greatly reduce the threat of the archers. Something prevented it, though he could not see what. He heard screams coupled with horrific sounds of battle. Stopped at the door, his mercenaries started to turn and make their way back to the gate.

  “Behind!” several shouted. Maynard spun, then felt himself pushed to his knees. Mercenaries stood above him, holding shields high as arrows rained down. Fear lumped in his throat. Swords rang as men assaulted them from the back. Mailed hands grabbed his shoulders, and under cover of shield Maynard slowly shifted within the ring of guards.

  “We’re pressed on both sides,” one said.

  “They’re flooding out of the mansion,” said another.

  Maynard tried to look but he was surrounded by flesh and armor. He smelled sweat and blood. The air whistled with arrows, followed by the wooden thumps as they hit shield, or screams when they hit something softer.

  Stupid, thought Maynard. Even knowing, I walked right into their trap.

  With attackers on both sides, and archers firing from the windows and houses, he knew their hope was slim. He pushed aside a soldier, determined to see how dire his fate truly was. As if he had taunted the gods, an arrow sailed through the gap he’d made and slammed into his chest. He collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching the shaft as his warm blood flowed across his hands. Around him, his mercenaries swore and crowded closer together.

  “So stupid,” he chuckled. “Oh, Alyssa, if you could only see your father now.”

  Thren led the initial assault, feeling like a hundred killings would only lessen his anger, not sate it. The soldiers, frantic to avoid the arrows, were unprepared for the fury of his assault. He knocked aside swords, danced between thrusts, and slashed out throat after throat. Bodies piled at the door, and although Kadish and his Hawks stood ready to aid him, Thren needed no help. After the first few, the mercenaries had to climb over bodies to reach the door. That momentary loss of solid footing was all it took for a master swordsman like Thren Felhorn.

  When Maynard’s mercenaries pulled back, Thren signaled the charge. Over a hundred men in cloaks rushed out through the windows, slashing with their daggers and swords. Thren nimbly leapt over the bodies, stabbed a soldier in the back, and then shouted to the rest.

  “Run, run! Kill them, and Maynard with them!”

  He watched the arrows rain down from the Wolf Guild stationed in the houses. The mercenaries had plenty of shields, lessening the effect of the bowmen. No bother. Even though their numbers were equal, they had them pressed on both sides. And besides, no one could m
atch him in skill.

  Thren lunged into the sea of metal, spinning, cutting, and slashing with a wild rage that filled him with pleasure. This was what he was meant for. He belonged on a field of battle. Perhaps once the city was under his control, he might have a chance to become a warrior general and fulfill his potential.

  Thren was pushing his way through the soldiers, making his inevitable approach toward Maynard, when he heard the trumpets call.

  Alyssa Gemcroft stood in the center of her troops, Zusa at her side. She’d marched through the city like a returning conqueror, knowing that her father had already returned moments before her. She was done with their quarrel. Her plan had been to kneel before Maynard and apologize for following the Kulls’ stupidity, and then pay back that stupidity with the heads of Theo and Yoren. Instead, she came upon a great battle waging before her very gates.

  “Hurry,” she told her mercenaries. “Kill the cloaks! Save my father and I will reward you tenfold!”

  Beside her, a mercenary captain raised a horn to his lips and blew. The clear call rang throughout the city. With a great shout, her troops rushed the gates. A few split into the houses with the archers. Not long after, the barrage of arrows halted. Now crushed between two sides, the Wolf Guild pulled back, turning tail and running in a manner appropriate to their name.

  “May I join in?” Zusa asked as the mercenaries turned on the remaining threat within the gates.

  “Go right ahead,” Alyssa said. Zusa flicked her hair over her shoulder and then dashed into the fray. Alyssa approached, still flanked by ten men. No arrows were being fired, but she felt safer with them there nonetheless. In the middle of the gateway she found her father lying on his side, an arrow in his chest.

  “Alyssa?” he said when he saw her. His voice was weak.

  Alyssa felt her heart harden at the sight of him. He’d thrown her in the cold cells. He’d insulted her, made her an outcast…

  No, she thought. I did those things myself. With my foolishness. With my pride.

  “Father,” she said, kneeling down beside him and wrapping her arms around his neck. Tears welling in her eyes, she kissed his forehead and held him close.

  “Daughter,” he said, a smile creasing his bloodstained lips. “You were right.”

  He coughed. More blood spilled across his mouth. The arrow was in his lung, there was little doubt about that.

  “No,” she said. “Please forgive me. I’ve come home. I’ve come back for you, father, to pledge myself to…”

  “Quiet girl,” Maynard said. He relaxed in her arms. “My daughter. My heir.”

  His voice failed him. His eyes grew distant. He died in her arms, his eyes closed by her fingers, his forehead bathed with her tears. All around them stood Maynard’s mercenaries, men of power and influence within the household.

  “We heard his words,” one of them said. “Give us your orders, Lady Gemcroft.”

  Alyssa looked up at them as if it should be obvious.

  “Slay every last one of them that killed your Lord,” she said.

  Everything was falling apart. Thren fought to the very limits of his skill. Men fell like wheat to a scythe, yet still it was not enough. He watched the Wolf Guild scatter, and in his heart he could not blame them. He’d have done the same thing in their situation.

  “Fall back,” Thren shouted. Fighting further would only sacrifice whatever good men he had left. The soldiers had grouped together, and their expert formations were far superior to men used to attacking from shadows. Even worse, a strange woman in dark wrappings vaulted through his men, slaying them as if they were no more dangerous to her than toys.

  They’d left ropes in the back of the mansion just in case they had to make a quick getaway. The last of the Hawks and Spiders turned and fled. In the red haze of his anger, Thren realized he had sent no one in to ignite the fires. The mansion would stand. The failure of it burned in his gut. He’d been so confident of victory he’d never prepared for defeat. So unlike him. So stupid.

  The mercenaries gave chase, but they wore heavy armor and carried shields. They slaughtered a dozen that still remained at the ropes, but the rest scattered on the other side of the gate and into the night. Thren led the way, wishing for some way to gain the night over again.

  “Take him,” Alyssa said once the guilds were gone and Zusa had returned to her side. Bodies lay everywhere, and the yard stank of battle. Two soldiers lifted Maynard’s into their arms. They must have known him well, Alyssa realized, for they showed true sadness at his passing. She shook her head, wishing for a moment of privacy so she might shed her tears. But now she was Lady Gemcroft, member of the Trifect. There was too much to do.

  Her father in her escort’s arms, she approached the mansion feeling like the lost heir come home.

  Home. No matter how sad the moment, the word still felt achingly comfortable in her heart.

  Epilogue

  Deep inside his safehouse, Thren talked with two men newly appointed as his advisors. None had the strength of Will, the cunning of Kayla, or the skill of Senke. They were sycophants, pure and simple, but he needed them now. He had little else.

  Their news was grim. The assassination attempt on the king had failed. The men stationed at Connington’s had suffered horrible casualties, eventually setting fire to the mansion before frantically fleeing. Somehow, Madelyn Keenan had been found and rescued, along with the king’s advisor’s wife. His own son was missing, and some one-eyed woman was spreading rumors that she’d killed him and left him to die in the fire at Connington’s. Worst of all was his defeat at the Gemcroft estate.

  “The priests of Karak have sworn no retribution for the acts of your son did against them,” one of the sycophants said. “At least Maynard died, and you kept your word to them.”

  Thren shook his head.

  “Get out,” he said. The men quickly obeyed. In silence, Thren brooded. His mystique, his prestige, his years and years of respect, had vanished in a single night. Every aspect of his plan had collapsed. Every single guild in the city had taken massive casualties. None would trust him. He’d have men poaching on his territory. The Trifect was already coming down hard, swarming the streets with their troops. Priests of Ashhur roamed as well, putting a halt to many of his enterprises.

  Thren drew a sword and slashed his palm. He raised a clenched fist to the ceiling and bared his teeth.

  “This isn’t over,” he swore. “Not now. Not ever. Not until every Lord and Lady of the Trifect lies rotting in their grave.”

  He kissed his fist, tasting the blood on his lips. He had no son. No heir. Death would be his legacy.

  The man paced nervously before the wreckage. Despite the massive amount of ash and rubble, he felt certain some juicy remnants still hid within the remains of the Connington estate. The castle guards patrolled by every so often, but soon they’d switch shifts and he’d have his chance.

  He backed away from the gate a bit, slinking further into the shadows. As he did he felt something sharp poke against his back.

  “A Spider?” he heard a boy’s voice ask.

  “Serpent,” the man said, his hand slowly dropping to his dagger.

  “They are all one and the same.”

  The man whirled but not fast enough. The dagger flew from his hand. Something sharp pierced his belly. As the pain doubled him over, pain slashed his face. Through the blood in his eyes, he saw a blurry image of a young boy standing before him, his face fully covered by a thin cloth of gray. Quiet, unmoving, the boy watched him die, then vanished into the night.

  A Note from the Author:

  Winter is coming.

  Those words, and the book that contained them, changed everything I knew about writing a fantasy book. Reading A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin was an incredible, yet humbling, experience. I doubt I will ever write something equal to the scope of his first two chapters, let alone his entire series. But knowing I may never do so doesn’t remove my desire to at least try. After all,
so many of us are dancing in Tolkien’s shadow, so why not try for something a little modern, a little bloodier, and a little different?

  I wrote this as a standalone novel, though fans of my Half-Orc Series will recognize faces here or there. The most obvious is Haern. My father has been a faithful supporter of my writing and has helped immensely in calling me out when I do something stupid (which is often). After finishing the second book, Cost of Betrayal, he said that of all my characters, he thought Haern the Watcher had the most potential for a separate book. At first, I dismissed him. What story for him did I have to tell?

  Turns out, a damn good one. I reread the painfully brief history I gave for him, and even in that, I saw potential. Here was my chance to write a story, one without elves and orcs and spells so powerful they’d feel right at home in a Japanese anime. I could focus on humans, the low and the desperate. I could tell of a clash between the rich and the poor, and from within it, a boy rescued from darkness. Aaron Felhorn’s salvation from the ways of Karak and his father are just as important as Thren’s monumental failure at the Kensgold.

  Since I know I will receive emails asking, I’ll go ahead and answer right now: yes, there will be a sequel, tentatively titled A Dance of Blades. No, I do not know when. I must turn my focus back to my half-orcs for now, but within the year, I will return. Haern, while saved from Thren, is still not saved from himself. The war between the thief guilds and the Trifect is not over. Plenty of blood still waits to be shed.

  But enough rambling. Thank you Derek, for your wonderful edits. This book wouldn’t be half as good without you. Thanks to my father, for the inspiration. And most importantly, I thank you, reader, for purchasing my work, and humbly ask for a response of any kind, through email (ddalglish@yahoo.com), or reviews, or rankings at wherever you might have stumbled upon my little story. I hope you weren’t too confused, and that I gave you plenty of hours lost in my world. Time is precious, dear reader, and I’m honored that you spent it with me.