The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  On her knees, her weight leaning against the bed, she waited out the night. Just before dawn, his fever broke, and for the first time since Haern had brought him there, he opened his eyes.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said, his voice croaking.

  Evelyn smiled and clutched his hand.

  “Fresh milk,” she said, “coming right up.”

  Matthew was breaking the thin seal of ice atop their pond when he saw the men ride to his front door. There were two of them, their chainmail dirty from the road. Even from this distance, he could tell they were armed.

  “Who are they?” Trevor asked beside him. He squinted against the light reflecting off the snow. “Do you know them?”

  “No, I don’t,” Matthew said. “Remember, if anyone asks, Tristan’s your brother, and he caught infection from a spider bite. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And just in case, get your knife, but don’t you dare let them see you holding it. This is serious, Trevor.”

  The lad’s eyes widened. He went to ask a question, thought better of it, and then just nodded.

  Matthew led them back to the house. Evelyn had answered, and after a moment, invited them in. He trusted her to keep her wits about her, probably more than himself. His other children were in there, though, and once outside the public eye, he wondered just what type of men they might be.

  Should have made them wait outside until I got back, he thought. Damn it, Evelyn. Sometimes you ought to act the proper wife.

  Just before reaching the house, he stopped and ducked into the barn. He heard his son gasp as he yanked their pitchfork off the wall.

  “Won’t do much against their armor,” he said, inspecting its four teeth. “But they ain’t wearing helmets, so that’s something.”

  He set it beside the door, then opened it and stepped inside. The two men sat beside the fire, their cloaks stretched out to dry at their feet. They both had swords, still sheathed, thank Ashhur. The rest of his children kept a safe distance away, again something to be thankful for. The strangers held small wooden bowls of a broth Evelyn had prepared for breakfast. His stomach grumbled involuntarily. He hadn’t eaten yet himself. He wondered how much of his own portion sat in the strangers’ bowls.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” he said, taking off his gloves. “I see my wife has helped you feel right at home, which is proper. It’s cold work riding in winter.”

  “She’s a lovely host,” one of them said. He was a plain looking man, dark-haired, flat nose. Only the scar running from his eye to his ear made him seem dangerous. He wore no tabard, but his accent was distinctly of the north, most likely Tyneham or one of the smaller mining villages.

  “That she is,” he said. “On your way to Felwood, or beyond? I must say, I didn’t catch which direction you came from while out at my pond.”

  “Riding north,” said the other. He was uglier, with brown hair in desperate need of a cut. “Our horses need a rest, and we must admit, the thought of a warm building was too much for us to resist when we saw your farm.”

  “A fire warms eight as well as six,” he said. Evelyn gave him a glare, and he realized his mistake. He had seven in his family if he counted Tristan.

  “Been times we had to cram twelve of us in here,” he continued, hoping to make them forget the comment. “Neighbors had their house burn down, lost one of their sons, too. Makes for a rough winter with no roof, so we brought ‘em in until spring.”

  “It must have been tough,” said the first, looking around the small home.

  “Forgive me, I’ve yet to introduce myself. My name’s Matthew Pensfield. You’ve met my wife, Evelyn. This here’s my oldest, Trevor. Little Mark’s over there, hiding in the corner. And these’re my two daughters, Anna and Julie.”

  The girls smiled and tilted their heads in proper respect. The soldiers tipped their heads back, and each of them had a leer that sent fire up and down Matthew’s spine. He hesitated, trying to decide what to do about Tristan. He didn’t know what was the right course of action. The boy had been asleep when he last went outside. His wife took the decision away from him, and as much as it scared him, he trusted her.

  “You must forgive us for not introducing you to Tristan. He’s sick with a fever in bed. Just had to amputate an arm, the poor dear.”

  “That’s a shame,” said the dark-haired one. “My name’s Gert, and this here’s Ben. Like I said, we’re riding the road, maybe to Felwood, maybe all the way to Tyneham.”

  “Only wanderers and thieves ride the road without knowing how far they wish to go,” Matthew said. “I hope you’re neither.”

  Gert laughed.

  “Nah. We’re looking for someone, actually. A lost boy, five years in age. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

  Matthew shook his head. He’d played cards only a few times when trading in the bigger towns. He’d never been good figuring the odds of things, but he’d always done all right because of one thing going for him: he had one of the best card faces of anyone he knew. Only Evelyn could read what was going on behind his eyes.

  “I haven’t, and I doubt I would, either. A boy that young running around in the snow? He’d be lucky to last a single night. How long’s he been missing? I hope I cause no offense, but a coyote pack’s probably gotten him, or at least, what was left of him.”

  “There’s the thing,” said Ben. “He might not be alone. Had another man with him, wore gray and carried two swords. He’s a kidnapper, and we’re trying to capture him before he can think of asking for ransom.”

  “Kidnapped?” asked Evelyn. “From who?”

  Gert sipped some of his broth. “That’s something I’d rather we keep to ourselves. Either you seen the boy and that bastard, or you haven’t. Don’t matter none where either’s come from.”

  As they talked, Trevor slipped back into his room. When he came back, Matthew saw the bulge in his pocket that was a knife. Matthew walked to the door and put his weight against it. His shortsword leaned beside its hinges, sheathed. Whenever he needed it before, it’d always been at the door. So far if either of the two newcomers had seen it, they hadn’t said anything.

  “Well, I ain’t seen a boy wandering around here, nor some man in gray. We’ve been shuttered inside for most of the past few days, the storm and all. If they went this way, they probably rode right on by.”

  “Not sure they’re riding,” said Gert. “Think they’re walking, honestly. Not too many out right now, and we managed to find what might have been his tracks.”

  “That so?”

  “Led this way, actually,” said Ben. “You sure you ain’t seen nothing?”

  Matthew paused, trying to think of a lie. Again his wife beat him to it, bless her heart.

  “We turned them away,” she said. “They came wanting shelter, but they were bleeding, and he was armed. Looked like a thief, he did. We didn’t want any trouble, and we don’t want any now. He said he was on his way to Veldaren, if he’s to be trusted.”

  The two men looked to one another, as if communicating silently.

  “A hard woman that could refuse a wounded man asking for succor,” Ben said.

  Matthew watched his wife give them an iron glare, one he’d been on the receiving end more times than he preferred.

  “Life out here’s cold and cruel, gentlemen. We do what we can for our family. Maybe things are different where you come from, but here, that’s the way things are.”

  “I understand,” Ben said. “We’re just getting paid to ask these questions. Your broth’s delicious, by the way. Feel it warming me all the way to my toes.”

  Matthew started to relax, but only a little. The men seemed too confident, too sure of themselves. They were no strangers to those swords at their hips, either. The sooner they left, the better. When they finished, they stood and flung their cloaks over their shoulders.

  “Our horses are probably itching to continue,” Gert said. “Or at least, get out of the wind.”

  As they s
tepped toward the door, they stopped, and Gert turned toward the curtain where Evelyn had said Tristan slept.

  “You know, I’ve been fighting and killing for a long while. If there’s anything I’ve seen before, it’s a chopped limb. Mind if I take a look? I can make sure you stitched it up right, well as cut it proper. There’s more art to keeping people alive than making ‘em dead, after all.”

  Evelyn hesitated, and Matthew knew if she were unsure, then he was in over his head.

  “If you wish,” he said, putting on his gloves. “I should get back outside. Only wanted to come visit with my guests, be polite. You two men have a good day.”

  “Want me to come with?” asked Trevor.

  “No,” Matthew said, harsher than he meant. “No, you ain’t much use outside. Stay with your ma.”

  He got the idea, and his hand brushed the knife hidden in his pants. Matthew winced and hoped neither of the soldiers saw. He pulled the door open and stepped outside. When he shut it, he leaned his back against it, closed his eyes, and listened. Never one with an active imagination, he struggled to picture the most likely thing they’d do. They were searching for the boy, obviously. They’d step into the curtain, one inside to look, the other hanging back, watching them, waiting to see if anyone did anything stupid.

  His hand closed around the pitchfork’s handle.

  Something stupid like this.

  Matthew kicked the door inward. It seemed like his entire vision narrowed down, just a thin window to see one of the soldiers staring back at him from the curtain, the one named Ben. His eyes widened for just a moment. His hand reached for his sword as if he were lagging in time. Matthew thrust the pitchfork for the soldier’s exposed throat. Ben’s sword couldn’t clear his scabbard in time, so instead he ducked and turned away from the thrust, a purely instinctual move. It only made matters worse. When two of the teeth pressed against the side of his face, Matthew shoved with every hardworked muscle in his body. The tips were thick, but with such force behind them, they still punched through flesh and tore into bone.

  Ben rolled his head downward, trying to pull free. When he did, blood spewed across the floor. He screamed. It might have been a word, a curse, but Matthew didn’t know, didn’t understand. Ben’s jaw hung off-kilter, his right cheek shredded and the bone connecting it shattered. The look in his eyes reminded Matthew of the one time he’d encountered a rabid coyote attacking his animals. His sword free, Ben charged, not waiting for Gert. Matthew took a step back, braced his legs, and shoved the pitchfork in the way. The teeth hit his chainmail, and amid the screams of his family he heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. They didn’t punch through the armor, but they still bruised his flesh and pushed inward strong enough to break more bones.

  Matthew twisted the handle to the side, bringing Ben to his knees, still stuck on the pitchfork’s teeth. Dimly he heard his wife cry out, the words not registering any meaning, only her tone. Gert rushed through the curtain, his sword swinging. Abandoning the clumsy weapon, Matthew lunged for the door. He landed on his knees, grabbed his shortsword, and spun. Gert bore down on him, swinging with both hands. Their blades connected, and panic flooded him when saw a tiny chip break off at the contact. His sword was weaker, the metal cheaper. It wouldn’t be long before it broke.

  “Leave him alone!” he heard Evelyn shout, finally piercing through the haze. Gritting his teeth, he groaned as Gert pressed down with all his weight. He spared only a moment’s glance to see Ben fling the pitchfork to the dirt and turn toward his wife. He had to help her, but he was pinned and badly positioned.

  “Trevor!” he screamed. Where was his boy? Why wasn’t he helping? Now wasn’t the time for fear, damn it! He angled his sword to block another chop, realized it was a feint, and smacked aside the thrust aimed for his belly. “Don’t you be a coward, boy, treat ‘em like damn hogs!”

  Evelyn hurried across the room, grabbing the poker from the fire. She held it clumsily, a pathetic weapon compared to the gleaming sword Ben wielded in his blood soaked hand. Then he couldn’t spare the glimpse, for Gert had dropped to one knee, hoping to lessen the distance between them so he might lock Matthew’s sword out of position. Matthew struggled against it, but slowly his sword wavered, then hit the floor beside him. Gert’s elbows pressed against his chest, his knee atop one of his legs.

  “Don’t worry ’bout your wife,” Gert said, his beady eyes inches away. “I’ll take good care of her. Your daughters, too.”

  It was the absolute worst thing Gert could have said.

  Matthew let go of his sword, one hand grabbing Gert’s wrist, the other ramming his eyes and mouth with his fingers. The soldier howled and tried to pull away, but Matthew dug his fingers in deeper and held on, feeling softness give way, cartilage crunch in his grip. Gert tore his wrist free, aimed the blade, and stabbed. Matthew rolled, knocking his attack off balance. The sword struck the floor. With every bit of strength in his right arm, Matthew slammed Gert’s head against the wall. He heard a wet crack, like the sound of a breaking pumpkin.

  The abrupt end was startling. He heard his children crying, but saw no motion. He stood, shaking the gore from his hand. Evelyn huddled beside the fire, the poker at her feet, Trevor in her arms. He still held his blood-soaked knife. Nearby lay Ben, bled out from the cuts on his face and the deep stab wound at the small of his back.

  “Everyone all right?” he asked. Evelyn met his eyes, then nodded. “Thank Ashhur.”

  He gave his wife a hug, making sure he didn’t stain her dress with his right hand. The rest of his children stayed sitting, and he could tell they were traumatized by the violence. He went to each of them, hugging them and whispering that all would be well. At last he grabbed the dead bodies and dragged them outside by their feet.

  Once they were out of sight, he came back inside and plopped into a chair beside the fire. His upper body started shaking, and he closed his eyes to try and hold back a sudden bout of nausea.

  “We’ll bury the armor until we can sell it in the spring,” he told Evelyn, talking in hopes of stopping the violence replaying over and over in his head. “Same with their swords. We’ll unbridle the horses and send them on their way, hopefully far, far away. As for…you know…we’ll give ‘em to the hogs.”

  His wife made a soft cry. He shuddered but forced himself not to dwell on it. They’d do what they must, no different than ever before. Opening his eyes, he looked to the curtain, wondering if that blasted boy still slept, or if he were in there cowering in terror.

  “Not worth the coin,” he said, just before leaning to one side and vomiting.

  12

  A squad of twelve mercenaries escorted Alyssa’s litter through the city. Anyone foolish enough to linger in their way received a quick slap with the flat edge of a blade. They stuck to the main streets, where thief guild presence was weakest, the town guards too numerous to act rashly. The distance from her estate and Leon Connington’s new mansion was far enough to be a bother, but she felt it necessary to carry her message in person. She pulled her fur coat tighter about her and waited.

  When they arrived, she stepped out and surveyed the place. She’d been there once, just before completion. After Leon’s old mansion had burned down during the Kensgold, he’d rebuilt with security in mind. An enormous fence of stone surrounded his estate, perfectly smooth so there’d be no handholds. There were no trees in the yard, either, nothing to hide behind. Four men stood at the gate, wearing ornate platemail and wielding halberds.

  “Greetings, lady Gemcroft,” said one. “Please wait while we summon an escort. Make sure you stay on the path, for an errant step might prove deadly.”

  Bertram wasn’t there, but if he had been, Alyssa could imagine the scowl he’d have given them. For her part, she was willing to understand Leon’s need for safety. Perhaps he took it too far, but it had been his belongings destroyed in the fire, not hers. Ten armed men came from the front door, approaching in neat formation along the cobblestone path leadi
ng across the yard. When they reached the front, they unlocked the gate from the inside and ushered Alyssa through.

  “Your men must stay outside,” said their leader when her mercenaries started to follow. Alyssa paused, gave him a glare to show she didn’t appreciate being told just before entering, but then accepted. If she felt safe anywhere other than her mansion, it was there. An assassin would have to be a lunatic to risk the guards, the wall, and the various traps hidden underneath the grass. The heavy boots clacked across the stone as they entered.

  Leon waited just inside the door, a large smile on his face. Everything about Leon was big: his face, his eyes, his home, and most of all, his belly. Hugging him was like hugging a giant sweetroll wrapped in silk. Only his mustache was thin.

  “I’m so sorry about your loss,” he said as he let go. “I’m sure he’d have been a fine man, very fine. If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

  “Thank you,” she said, doing her best to smile and forget how he’d always glared at Nathaniel, as if he were a cockroach, whenever he was in his presence. “Bertram is busy finishing the arrangements for the funeral, so I thought it best I got out of his way.”

  “Of course, of course. It’d do you well to get out of that stuffy old mansion, anyway. Always told your father he should fire whoever was in charge of his maidservants. Every breath in there was like licking the bottom of a dustbin.”

  Another smile. Her last head maid had died coughing and gagging on blindweed. She had a feeling Leon would have approved such a fate for letting his sensitive allergies be affected.

  “Have you any news from Laurie?” she asked as they walked toward—of course—the dining area.

  “Ever since the Kensgold he’s refused to come to Veldaren,” Leon said as he took her hand. “I think your father’s death spooked him more than a little. Such cowardice is inappropriate for a member of the Trifect, but what can you do?”