The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  “I’m sorry about my brother,” she said. “He can be a bit of a hothead.”

  “No kidding. Why’d you join up with him, anyway? Mercenary work doesn’t seem suited to you.”

  “Because he asked,” she said, as if it should have been obvious. “When I left the priesthood, they gave me back my father’s wealth from their safekeeping. It wasn’t much, not after it’d been used to settle my father’s estates and debts. We used it to buy this place. Was all we could afford.”

  “But here?” Haern asked, gesturing about. “On the Crimson? You deserve someplace better. Someplace safer.”

  She shrugged. “My brother had a place he wanted, but the king refused to even hear his offer. It’s no matter. I spent two years in the temple unable to leave for fear of Thren’s anger. I’m used to keeping inside.”

  “It’s not right,” Haern said. She smiled at him.

  “You living on the street is what isn’t right. At least I have a warm bed, and a family to share my meals with. What do you have, Haern? What have you done over the years?”

  He thought of his deals, his rumors, his ambushes in the night and days spent sleeping with the homeless and destitute.

  “I tried to stop my father’s war. I tried to kill until there’d be no one left to fight in his name. I failed.”

  She took his hand and held it.

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. We all make mistakes. You once wanted something more, to understand a life beyond what your father taught you. I think you still do. But you won’t find a new life in vengeance, Haern, only sadness and loneliness.”

  Silence fell over them. He let it linger, trying to find the courage to ask what he needed to know.

  “Do you hate me for killing?”

  “No. I am not so naïve. I would like to live in a world where no killing was needed, but I fear I may never see it. I won’t judge you for what you do, Haern. I can only try to be a light, and to shine as long as I can in a world that seems obsessed with darkness. If you need forgiveness, then know you have it from me, and from Ashhur. If you need guidance, ask, and I will do my best to answer. I’ll heal your wounds, and pray for you before I lay my head down to sleep. I won’t hate you. How could you ever think so?”

  He felt like a child, and he clutched her hand tight. She shifted so she might sit next to him, and her head rested against his shoulder.

  “Will you go out tonight?” he asked her.

  “No. Tarlak didn’t understand the magnitude of what was going on when he first agreed. Our fault for not being part of the mercenary guild, I guess. We gave one night, and that is all Alyssa will get from us.” She paused. “Will you?”

  “I think I will. I have some part to play in all of this, whether I want it or not.”

  She pulled back and gently took his injured elbow into her hands. For the first time he truly looked at her, and he saw how tired she was, the whites of her eyes rimmed with angry veins. Still, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began praying. Soft light shone from her fingers, and he felt their healing magic pour into his elbow. Several minutes later, she stopped. The pain had become a vague ache, like a sore muscle, but little else. He flexed it twice, and it felt strong enough for combat.

  “I should go,” she said. “It’s not safe for me out here after dark.”

  “Please,” he said, taking her hand. “Just…sit with me awhile longer. You’re safe with me.”

  He saw the look on her face, and he wished he could understand what it was she thought. Her hesitation was brief, and then she sat back down. Her arms wrapped around him, and he allowed his own eyes to close. It wasn’t until he was with her that he realized he never relaxed, that he was always like a coiled spring. But there, with her, he felt able to let it go. He had nothing to hide, and no reason to. Together, they watched the sun sink further, until it was nothing but a glow peeking over the wall.

  “Help me down,” she said at last. “Senke wants you to see him before you leave. He seemed certain you wouldn’t be staying tonight. I think he knows you better than I.”

  “He understands the world I came from is all. Tonight will be worse, for everyone. I think he knows that.”

  The rest were eating when the two came in. Brug and Tarlak seemed to act as if he weren’t there, but Senke greeted him warmly enough.

  “Follow me,” he said, leading Haern to a closet built into a space underneath the stairs. He pulled out a wooden crate, wincing at the effort. Feeling guilty, Haern ordered him aside and pried open the crate himself. Inside were an assortment of weapons, from knives to two-handed swords, and various instruments in between.

  “I saw your fight with that mercenary,” Senke explained. “That cloakdance you did was something special, but your swords weren’t right for it at all. Here, take these.”

  He lifted a pair of weapons out and handed them over. They were long and slender, with the ends gently curved.

  “These sabers are designed for slashing, and should do well with how you’re always moving. The points are sharp, but you’ll still have a hard time thrusting through heavier armor. Same with heavy chops, but I have a feeling brute force isn’t your usual method given your speed.”

  Haern swung the swords about, getting a feel for their weight. They were lighter than his previous swords, with a slightly longer reach. Their grips were comfortable, feeling natural, like an extension of his body when he wielded them. He could tell they were expertly made.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me. Thank Brug over there. He made them.”

  “Just don’t break ‘em,” Brug muttered from the table.

  “Both sides will be out for blood tonight,” Senke said, leaning against a wall and holding a hand against his stomach. “You sure you have to go out? People will kill each other just fine without your help.”

  He realized they were all looking at him, either blatantly or through the corners of their eyes. In his heart, he felt something harden, as if he wanted to prove them wrong, to show he didn’t care what they thought. But what did it matter? Why did he go out? What might he accomplish? He remembered Deathmask’s biting words.

  As if your five years of trying to singlehandedly conquer the thief guilds has worked out so much better.

  Something clicked in his head, several pieces tumbling together as the idea took form. He looked to them, then out the window. No, there was nothing out there for him, not this night. Come the day, he’d find Deathmask, assuming he still lived. Perhaps there was a chance to have a legacy opposite his father.

  “You know,” he said, feeling a great weight lift off his shoulders. “I think I will stay here tonight, if you’ll have me.”

  “Pull a seat up at the table,” Senke said with a smile. “You bet your ass we will.”

  22

  In the dark of Felwood’s dungeon, Oric shivered. He sat on a wood cot and listened to the water drip. Where it dripped, he didn’t know. To pass the time, he’d tried to guess, but the echo always seemed to change on him. His cell was completely dark, without a single shred of light. He’d scoured the floor with his palms, but everywhere he touched was wet, and a drop never landed upon him. Still, the search did better to pass the time than thinking about his fate. Anytime he thought of that, or of how long he might be in the total darkness, his head swam and his heart lurched into his throat.

  He’d tried talking to anyone else, a guard or fellow prisoner, but his voice only echoed through the emptiness, never answered. For some reason, that always made it worse. Without light, company, or a single meal, time was meaningless. At least two times he slept, and in his dreams he saw color, women, friends. He wished he could sleep more often.

  A loud creak startled him from a doze. Heavy footsteps echoed down the hall. Orange and yellow flickered along the walls, at first a wonderful sight but soon painful in their brightness. Holding a hand before his eyes to block the pain, he felt a wretched sight as John Gandrem stepped in, soldiers at his sid
e.

  “Stay seated,” he said, “otherwise my guards will open you up in many places.”

  “But a man should always rise at the arrival of a lord,” Oric said. He held back a cough. His voice felt scratchy, dry. He remained sitting despite his protest. With how light his head felt, he thought he’d pass out if he stood too quickly.

  John crossed his arms and looked down at him. In the yellow light, his skin seemed like stone, old and unmalleable. His eyes looked even worse. For all the stories he’d heard of Lord Gandrem’s kindness, he’d yet to hear a story describe those eyes. Mercy didn’t belong in them, not now, maybe not ever. Perhaps this was the lord of the dungeon, a different man than the lord of Felwood.

  “Before we start, there’s a few things you should know,” Gandrem began. “First, I have talked extensively with the boy, Nathaniel. His story is consistent, and most damning. Second, the man Ingram thought he killed, the farmer Matthew, is not dead. Third, my men have already worked over Uri, and how he sang, Oric. I know what you did to that farmer’s wife. The idea that you could claim they assaulted a caravan and held Nathaniel hostage is laughable.”

  “I never claimed it. That was Ingram’s stupid idea.”

  The faintest hint of a smile stretched at Lord Gandrem’s lips, but then vanished.

  “Perhaps. A shame I cut his throat before I could tell him the farmer lived. I plan on ensuring Matthew is well rewarded, as is his wife. But the question remains now, what do I do with you?”

  “Well, between the rope and the ax, I think I’d prefer the ax.”

  “In time, Oric. In time. See, my biggest problem is not with you, but with your master, Arthur Hadfield. Mark Tullen visited me before meeting with you and Nathaniel in Tyneham. I know he was escorting the boy back, and I’m not a damn fool. Everyone knows he was a potential suitor of Alyssa, and Arthur wanted him gone. Proving that, however, is another matter.”

  His soldiers rushed in and grabbed Oric by either arm. Up went his hands, back and above his head. Chains rattled, and then he felt clamps tighten about his wrists. With him safely shackled, John sat on the small cot and pulled his heavy coat tighter about him.

  “Now I don’t mean proving it to just Alyssa,” he continued. “She’s a bright gal, and there’s too much here for her to ignore. However, Arthur’s long held those mines at the edge of my lands, always refusing taxes. I want those lands. It is my knights that have protected them. It is my lands his traders travel across to Veldaren. It is on my roads he ships his gold and sends for his supplies. By all rights, they should be mine, and would have been if not for the Gemcrofts.”

  “What could I possibly have to do with that?” Oric asked. His shoulders were starting to cramp, and he had a creeping feeling it was about to get a whole lot worse…especially if they left him like this for several hours, if not days.

  “King Vaelor has rejected every claim of mine for taxes, no doubt because he fears the Trifect more than he fears me. That, and their bribes. But Arthur has no heir, and he’s never written a will in case he does have a son. Doesn’t want anyone feeling jealous of the brat, or thinking he suddenly stole their wealth. If he dies as such, his lands will be joined with the closest lord’s.”

  “You. But you aren’t the one holding Arthur. Alyssa is. You think she’ll make him foreswear his lands before she strings him up?”

  “I have no doubt she could,” John said. “But she’ll only do that if she discovers what happened. Now do you understand? I hold all the control here. Arthur won’t dare challenge me about your deaths, for the truth gets him killed. He can only keep his mouth shut and pray for the best. I, however…”

  Oric tried to flex his back, but he was held too closely to the wall. He rolled his neck back and forth, and it popped loudly. Minutes. It’d only been minutes, but he already wanted out. Far better to shiver freely on the floor than sit unable to move half his body. He didn’t want to think about hours. Or days. Or gods forbid, years.

  “I hold Arthur’s life in my hands, and yours as well. I might have used Uri for this, but he didn’t take well to my low servants’ questionings. We had to ensure he spoke the truth, of course. So it is down to you. Where do your loyalties lie, Oric? You deserve death, we both know this. What might you do to be spared that fate? Help me, or otherwise…you said it yourself: rope or ax.”

  Oric couldn’t believe his luck. He thought that he’d have nothing of value to offer, but if he could roll on his former master and somehow escape with his head…

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked.

  “I need you to kill Arthur before he can discover things have gone awry, and before Alyssa might realize his involvement. Before you do, I want you to sign a statement I might use in the king’s court detailing every bit of yours, and Arthur’s, involvement.”

  “What do I do once I kill Arthur?” Oric asked. “What happens then?”

  This time lord Gandrem did smile.

  “A man of your talents? Surely you could disappear into a crowd afterward, and then, well…Ker’s a long way away, and Mordan even farther. I also hear the sailors in Angelport often need a good sellsword aboard their ships.”

  “What about the farmer?”

  “He’s injured, and my healers say it will take several days for him to recover. We should have this concluded before he can be of any concern. Besides, these matters are far above his station, and his word in any court would be suspect at best, being just a low-birth simpleton.”

  It couldn’t get any better. Oric was hardly afraid of a little travel, and killing Arthur would be no skin off his nose. Given the nature of his mission, it’d only be natural they go somewhere quiet to talk, and after a bit of knife work, he’d have his freedom.

  “I’ll do it,” Oric said.

  “Excellent. We’ll claim you escaped the dungeon after we extracted your confession. When you went to Arthur, he tried to cut ties and claim everything was your plan. You killed him and fled, and to where, I don’t want to know. Is this understood?”

  “It is.”

  “I’ll have a servant down here with candles and parchment. Tell him everything you know, every possible detail. Farewell, Oric.”

  He stood and left, and to Oric’s great relief, he had his guards remove the clamps at his wrists before he went. Sure to his word, an elderly man with crooked nose arrived.

  “The beginning, please” he said, dipping his feathered quill into an inkwell.

  So Oric did, starting with Arthur’s theft from the Gemcroft mines and smuggling it to the Serpent Guild for laundering.

  “Will you truly let him go?” asked one of the soldiers walking alongside Lord Gandrem, a veteran and trusted knight named Cecil.

  “Of course not,” the lord snapped. “The Gemcrofts have had those mines tied up in legal protection for over a century. I could wipe out half their family, their extended family, Arthur included, and they’d still find someone besides myself to be legal heir.”

  “Then why the ruse?”

  “I need his confession, quick, truthful, and most importantly, damning to Arthur. I’ll be sending you to Veldaren with that confession in your hands, along with a letter of my own.”

  Cecil bowed to show he was honored.

  “Will we not be bringing Nathaniel back to his mother?” he asked as they exited the dungeon, doused their torch, and headed toward the mess hall.

  “Nathaniel was already abducted once on the road, and when he should have been in my care, no less. My own damn foolishness for trusting that snake, Arthur. I will keep him here, and in safety, until Alyssa comes for him. But you…you can let Alyssa know of his survival. She’s a bright lady, but Arthur has a way with words, and who knows what lies he has spun about her to protect himself? That confession should burn them all away, and if she is who I think she is, she’ll deal with him accordingly. Let me get some food into these old bones, and then I’ll pen my letter. When you have mine and Oric’s, ride hard to Veldaren. If Arthur suspects so
mething’s amiss, I fear he will make a move against her.”

  “Of course, milord. What of Oric?”

  John grinned, but something dangerous sparkled in his eyes that made it seem sinister.

  “He said he preferred the ax, so prepare the gallows. He deserves nothing, not even the choice of his own death. Let him hang from my walls, the honorless bastard.”

  23

  For a second night, Alyssa watched the city burn from her window. There were more fires now, at least seven she could see. She wondered what it meant. Were her mercenaries finding more rat-holes for the thieves? She held an empty glass in her hand, and she toasted the stars, which were hidden behind a blanket of smoke.

  “You deserve better, Nathaniel,” she whispered.

  “I too can think of better homages for your son,” Zusa said, having slipped inside without making a noise. Alyssa had trained herself not to jump at Zusa’s voice, but still she quivered, her nerves frayed.

  “Perhaps,” she said as the woman joined her side. “But this is the best I can do.”

  “You lie to yourself. This is for you, your hurt. Do what you must, but do it in truth, and bear the burden proudly.”

  “Enough,” Alyssa said, hurling her glass against the window. It shattered, small flecks of red wine dripping down to the floor. “I don’t need speeches. I don’t need your wisdom. I need my son back, my little boy…”

  She pressed her head against the glass and refused to break. As the tears ran down her face, she stared at the distant fires and tried to revel in the bloodshed they represented. But she only felt hollow.

  “As you wish,” she heard Zusa say.

  “Stay,” she whispered, knowing the faceless woman would leave her.

  “As you wish.”

  “Tell me, how goes it out there?”

  Zusa gestured to the city. “The thieves are ready, more than they were last night. They started those fires, and they’ve killed many innocents. I think they’re hoping to turn the people against the king, and it might work. If Veldaren is an altar, you’ve covered it in blood as a sacrifice to your son. I don’t know which god will honor it, though. Perhaps they’ve both washed their hands of this miserable city.”