The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  “Not for four more hours.”

  Torgar grinned.

  “Aren’t we picky?”

  The guard looked him over.

  “You’re early. And where’s your sword?”

  “On loan. Care to let me through?”

  Drunk or not, Torgar was still the boss, and the guard begrudgingly turned and unlocked the gate.

  “Take the servants’ entrance at least,” the guard said. “Lady Madelyn’s getting tired of you waking her up.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind,” Torgar said, heading straight for the front doors. Halfway across the expansive lawn he began singing a tune, butchering half the lyrics but not caring. When he put his hand on the door handle, he stopped and sighed. Laurie’s son, Taras, slept not far from main entrance, and he’d been having a devil of a time catching winks because of his newborn. Madelyn could rot for all he cared, but he’d always had a soft spot for Taras.

  “Fine,” he said, thudding his head against the thick wood of the door. “You owe me, bud.”

  He left the main path and walked the worn dirt track around the mansion. Compared to their first home in Veldaren, it wasn’t nearly as large, but it housed over fifty members of the family, plus guards and servants. Torgar spotted a couple hiding behind a tree, no doubt a guard and a maidservant having themselves a good time. He resumed singing to startle them, and grinned while imagining their surprise. Something seemed wrong about it, though, and he looked back just before turning a corner.

  Neither was moving.

  “Gods damn it,” he muttered, trying to think through his pounding head. “Asleep, right? Just asleep.”

  He went to check them anyway. Slumped against the tree, with their bodies positioned into a mocking embrace, were two guards, their throats slit, their armor soaked with blood. Torgar stared at them for a full second as the alcohol in his brain gave way to his many years of training. He grabbed one of their swords and then checked his immediate surroundings, in case the killer lurked nearby. When he saw no one, he hurried toward the back door. So far no alarm had been raised, otherwise the guard at the gate would have known. The bodies were warm, blood still dripping from their wounds. Whoever this killer was, he wasn’t far.

  The grounds seemed vacant enough, so he looked to the rooftops, desperately wishing he hadn’t drunk so much. He saw several shadows that could have been men hiding, but with his headache, it was impossible to know whether or not his mind was playing tricks. No time, he decided. Raise the alarm. Get every guard armed and scouring the place. He was in no position to play hero.

  The servant door was locked, and he pulled out the key from a chain around his neck. As he inserted it and turned, he felt the hairs on his neck stand up. One of the shadows...

  “Shit!” he cried, flinging himself back. A dark shape descended, blade in hand. Torgar put his sword in the way just in time. Before he could react further, his opponent landed on top of him, elbows and knees ramming his face and chest. Collapsing onto his back, Torgar rolled, narrowly avoiding a stab to his throat. He continued rolling, and did the only thing that seemed logical. He hollered his brains out.

  “Killer!” he screamed. “There’s a killer out here! Wake the fuck up!”

  He pulled out of his roll and onto one knee as his opponent’s sword came slashing in. He tried to parry it, and was only partly successful. Blood splashed across his vision as the edge tore through his face. He spun from the force, landing on his stomach. Teeth clenched, he waited for the killing blow to land. It never did. Looking back, he saw the door was open, his key still in the lock.

  “You left me alive?” Torgar asked, struggling to his feet, his free hand clutching his face. “Big mistake, you bastard. I’ll make you pay.”

  He felt warm blood spilling across his fingers and mouth. A huge gash bled across the bridge of his nose, and he wondered if he’d pass out before the night was done. Cursing, he cut a large portion of his shirt and pressed it to the wound. It hurt like blazes, but it was the best he could do for now. Sword held high, he rushed into the mansion.

  The hallway was mostly dark, with only small oil lanterns burning at the various intersections. He had no clue who this assassin targeted, but Torgar knew who paid his wages, and therefore belonged at the top of the list to protect. Hooking a right, he headed for Laurie and Madelyn’s room. He tried shouting for help, but it hurt his nose too much. His eyes watered, hampering his already blurred vision. Several times he rammed into a wall, adding more bruises to his aching body. All throughout, he heard cries from the guards. Most were tracking positions, calling out all clears. But every few moments, they let out frightened shouts, if not death screams.

  Reaching Laurie’s room, he felt hope at seeing the door closed. He kicked it open and barged in, only to have something hard and blunt strike the back of his head. Torgar dropped to his stomach, and he vomited uncontrollably.

  “Damn it,” Torgar said, glaring at Laurie standing to the side of the door, dagger in hand. His wife sat on the bed, also holding a blade.

  “I thought you were the intruder,” Laurie said, offering his hand. Torgar ignored it, instead using the wall to brace himself as he stood.

  “You’re an idiot, Laurie. Why the hilt?”

  “I wanted you alive for questioning.”

  Torgar looked back to the hallway, listening for sounds of battle.

  “Next time, use the pointy end,” he said. “Stay in here, and bar the door.”

  A trio of guards approached, and Torgar saluted with the hand holding the bloody bandage.

  “Any clue where the fucker is?” he asked.

  “Toward the front,” one said. Torgar’s ears were still ringing from the blow, his vision so blurred he couldn’t make out the man’s face. He took a wild guess at his name, not caring if he got it right.

  “Stay here, and guard them with your lives,” Torgar said, nodding toward Laurie’s door. “Gary, you’re in charge.”

  “Where are you going?” asked the one on the left.

  “To make him pay for this,” Torgar said, gesturing to his nose. He rushed toward the front half of the mansion, and sure enough he heard sounds of battle. His gut sank at the noise. This was no normal assassin sent to smother a sleeping man or pour poison into a bottle of wine. The guy could fight. Torgar listened for steel hitting steel, or people dying. All around him, he heard doors locking, the servants barring their rooms and staying inside like he’d trained them. Good. Last thing he needed was a bunch of frantic idiots crowding the halls.

  As he neared the front entrance, he stumbled upon five corpses of his guard, their blood staining the blue carpet. Torgar could hardly believe the sight. Surely it wasn’t just one man doing all this?

  And then he heard a scream.

  “Taras,” he whispered, his blood running cold.

  It took him a moment to remember the way. Gods, what he’d give to be sober. He passed by three more dead guards, confirming his dread suspicion of the assassin’s target. Despite the pain it caused, he screamed as loud as his lungs were capable.

  “Everyone to Taras! To Taras, now move your asses!”

  At his friend’s bedroom, he found the door already open. A dead guard was propped against it, the wood’s white paint stained red with gore. Heart in his throat, Torgar stepped inside. Despite his years of training, warfare, and executions, he was still not prepared.

  The assassin knelt amid the carnage, his sword deftly slashing at a bare spot on the floor. Torgar must have made a noise of some kind, for the assassin looked up. His face was hidden by a heavy black hood, his body wrapped in cloaks. Torgar lifted his sword.

  “Come on,” he said, wishing he felt as tough as he sounded. “Come die, you sick fuck.”

  The assassin stood, and his head shifted so Torgar could see a faint glimpse of his face in the dim moonlight streaming through the broken windows. He was smiling.

  “Not tonight,” the man said. Smoke burst at his feet, flooding the room. Torgar c
oughed as it stung his eyes and throat. He slashed wildly a few times, but no attack came. When the smoke cleared, the man was gone. Torgar walked to the center of the room, creating footsteps in the drying layers of blood. His sword shook in his hand.

  Taras and his wife Julie lay dead, and in pieces. Their maidservant’s body was slumped against the closet door, her throat opened by a gash that went from ear to ear. As Torgar’s heart caught in his throat, he heard a horrific sound break the silence—their newborn girl, Tori, wailing. Guards flooded the room as he picked up the child from the stained bed sheets. Her wrappings were bloodied, but she was unharmed.

  “Where’d he go?” a guard asked as the others gasped and cursed at the sight.

  Torgar shrugged, having no answer.

  “Like a damned wraith,” said another. “We’d see him, and then he’d be gone.”

  Hearing a cry, Torgar looked back to see Laurie fall to his knees before the doorway. Madelyn stood behind him, her face like glass but for the tears that ran down her cheeks. They dared not enter, for there was no reason, no way to clutch the bodies to their chests. The massacre was too horrific. Too complete.

  “Who?” Laurie asked. “Why?”

  Torgar looked to the symbol at his feet, drawn in Keenan blood.

  “I don’t know,” he said.

  “Give her to me!” Madelyn cried, her sudden outburst startling.

  Torgar carefully stepped across the gore-coated floor, gladly handing Tori over. All he felt was rage. Having a child in his hands didn’t seem right.

  “I’ll find out who did this,” he said. “I promise I’ll make him pay a thousand times over.”

  Little comfort for any of them, but it didn’t matter. The assassin had left his calling card, and because of that, it would be his death. Few crossed a member of the Trifect and lived. As Laurie and Madelyn were led away from the scene, Torgar stabbed his sword into the very center of the symbol, which seemed vaguely familiar. He’d seen it before, years ago, or at least heard it discussed. And then it hit.

  A single open eye, drawn in the victim’s blood.

  “The Watcher,” whispered Torgar.

  1

  Haern pulled his hood low over his head and tied his sabers to his belt as the leader of the mercenaries, the wizard Tarlak, sat at his desk and watched.

  “Do you want our help?” Tarlak asked, picking a bit of dirt off his yellow robe.

  “No,” Haern said, shaking his head. “This one needs to be a message for the underworld of the city. I’ll do this on my own.”

  Tarlak nodded, as if not surprised.

  “What about Alyssa?”

  Haern tightened the clasp of his cloak. They’d heard word that Alyssa planned some sort of retaliation against the thief guilds, though the reason had been unclear. Their source was fairly respected in the Gemcroft household, so much so they had to take it seriously. There was to be a meeting to discuss the circumstances at their mansion, at some unknown point in the night.

  “After,” Haern said. “I’m sure you understand.”

  “I do,” said Tarlak. “Good luck. And remember, I can’t pay you if you die on me.”

  “I won’t be the one dying tonight,” Haern said, feeling the cold persona of the King’s Watcher coming over him.

  He left the tower and ran the short distance toward the city. A dozen secret passageways, ropes, and handholds were available to him as a way to cross the wall, and he drifted to the southern end before climbing over. Alyssa’s potential conflict with the thief guilds was a greater threat in the long run, but Haern could not bring himself to focus on it just yet. His target was a piece of scum named Brann Goodfinger. He operated in the far south of the city, and it was there Haern went.

  Normally he felt pride as he traversed the rooftops, carefully observing the doings of the various guilds. Ever since the thief war ended, the factions had settled into an uncomfortable truce. The first few months had been the worst, but Haern’s sabers had spilled the blood of hundreds. Through sheer brutality, he had brought both sides to their knees. He was the silent threat watching all, and tolerating nothing. But this accomplishment felt bitter. For the first time, his plan had been turned against him in a most cruel, personal way.

  Thieves who stole from the Trifect died. They all knew this. And so Brann had recruited children, a bold dare against the Watcher’s threat.

  “Where is it you hide?” Haern whispered as he lay flat atop a roof. For two days Brann had eluded him, and his children had gone unchecked. No longer. He spotted one of their youngest, a boy surely no older than seven. He was exiting the broken window of a shop, a handful of copper coins clutched to his chest. He ran, and Haern followed.

  The boy tried to vary his pattern, as he’d no doubt been trained to do, but against someone like Haern it was a minor inconvenience, nothing more. Haern kept far out of sight, not wanting to alert him to his presence. Twice he’d tracked Brann’s child-thieves, but one had spotted him, abandoned his ill-gotten coin, and fled. The other had been killed by a different thief guild before he could question him. Children bled out on the streets of Veldaren. The Watcher’s wrath would be terrible.

  Haern turned a corner, and watched the child slip inside a warehouse. Approaching the door, Haern slipped into the shadows and looked through the crack near the hinges. A faint lantern burned inside, and from what he could make out, two other children were within. Hoping it was Brann’s hideout, and not a simple gang of orphans, he drew his sabers. There would be no stealthy entrance. This wasn’t a time for quiet deaths in the night.

  He slammed the door open with his shoulder at full charge. Without slowing he took in the surroundings, his finely honed instincts guiding him. The storehouse was full of crates and bags of grains, limiting his maneuverability. At least twenty children gathered together in a circle, and before them, his dirty face covered with a beard, was Brann. The man looked up. His jaw dropped, and then he turned to run.

  “Stop him!” Brann shouted to the children. Haern swore as they drew small knives and daggers. He leapt between them, twirling his cloak as a distraction. A sweeping kick took out three, and then he pushed through the opening. The storehouse was divided in two by a high wall, and Brann vanished through the doorway in the center. Haern raced after, again slamming aside the door with his shoulder. To his surprise, Brann was not the coward he’d believed. His sword lashed out from behind the door. Haern’s speed was too great, though, and he leapt beyond Brann’s reach, pivoted on his heels, and jumped again.

  Brann was only a gutter snake, vermin who bullied with numbers and stabbed from shadows. Haern had fought his kind, knew their tactics. With three strikes Brann’s sword fell from a bleeding wrist. Two kicks shattered a kneecap, and then he fell. Haern clutched his hair and lifted it back, his saber pressing against Brann’s throat.

  “How dare you,” Haern whispered. His hood hung low over his face, and he shook his head to knock it back. He wanted Brann to see the fury in his eyes.

  “You hold this city prisoner and yet ask me that?” said Brann.

  Haern struck him in the mouth with the hilt of a saber. As Brann spat out a tooth, the children rushed through the door, surrounding them both.

  “Stay back,” Brann said to them, and he grinned at Haern, his yellow teeth stained red with blood. There was a wild look in his eyes that made Haern uncomfortable. This wasn’t a man who cared about life, not his own, nor others.

  “What game is this?” Haern asked, his voice a cold whisper. “Why the children? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

  “The others are scared of you,” Brann said, laughing. “But I know what you are. They think you’re as bad as us, but you’re not; not yet. Once the thief guilds find out, they’ll have your head on a spike.”

  He gestured to the children, all prepared to attack. Haern didn’t want to imagine what Brann had put them through to achieve such a level of control.

  “Kill me,” Brann said. “Do it, and they’ll
swarm you. You won’t die, you’re too good for them, but you won’t escape without killing at least one. So what’ll it be, Watcher? Can you take my life if it means taking the life of a child?”

  Haern looked at the twenty. Some were as young as seven, but others were maybe eleven or twelve. All it’d take was one lucky stab by any of them and he might go down.

  His saber pressed harder against Brann’s skin. He leaned closer, so he might whisper into his ear.

  “Nothing, Brann. You know nothing about me. You die, they go free. This was never a choice.”

  Haern slashed, spilling blood across his clothes. Hoping to move before the children reacted, he turned and leapt, vaulting over their circle. They gave chase, not at all bothered by the death of their master. Haern rolled to his feet, his sabers crossed to block their weak stabs. A quick glance showed no exits except the door he’d come through. Doing everything he could to fight down his combat instincts, he shoved through the group’s center. His cloaks whirled and twisted, pushing aside feeble attacks.

  Pulling out of the spin, he lunged for the door. One of the older boys was there, and Haern felt panic rise in his chest as he saw the deadly angle of the boy’s thrust. He reacted on instinct, blocking hard enough to knock the dagger free, then following it up with a kick to send the boy flying. Breaking back into a run, he kicked off a pile of crates to vault into the air, catching a rafter with one hand. Swinging himself up onto a perch, he stared down at the children, several of whom gathered around the body of the one he’d kicked.

  “Listen to me,” Haern said to them, trying to forgive the children’s attack. They didn’t know any better. “You’re master is dead. You have no hope of winning this fight.”

  “Fuck you,” said one of the kids. Haern swallowed down his anger at such disrespect. They were frightened punks living in a world Haern knew all too well. If reason would not work, he knew what would.

  “Say that again, and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

  The boy stepped back, as if stunned by the coldness in his voice. The rest looked up at him, some ready to cry, some angry, but most were heartbreakingly indifferent. Haern pointed to Brann Goodfinger’s corpse.