“There,” she said. “It is done. Now let me and Zusa go.”
“Not quite,” said Warrick, who nodded at Torgar. The man chuckled, pulled back his sword, and thrust it through Zusa’s chest. Alyssa’s vision exploded with red. She screamed. She flung herself at Torgar, but he let go of the blade and grabbed her by the throat.
“You want to hurt me, bitch?” he asked, punching her in the gut. As she leaned over and gagged, she heard Warrick speaking to Lord Egar.
“Send her to the elves,” said the old man. “We’ll need to pacify them so we can solidify our control over the Ramere. I can’t imagine a better gift.”
“No,” Alyssa said, trying to deny the unfairness of it all.
“You hear that?” Torgar said, pulling her closer so he could whisper. “You’re going to hang for attacking that cute little elven slut. Know what’s best? That was me. My sword. You’ll hang for my crimes, you stupid cunt, while I rule over Laurie’s fortune. I can’t imagine a better, proper fate for a stuffed up highborn like you.”
With that, he slammed her to the ground. Searing pain lanced across her forehead, and she felt blood trickling down her face and hair. Through blurred vision she saw Zusa lying close, facing her. Her body was trembling as it bled out, and she reached a wrapped hand toward her. Alyssa reached back, and their fingers touched.
“I’m so sorry,” Alyssa whispered.
Several men grabbed her, lifting her to her feet. They were taking her away, to the castle, to its dungeon. When they were almost out of sight, she managed to steal a look back. Zusa lay on the dock in a pool of her own blood, all but forgotten.
25
The Wraith fled down the streets, and Dieredon gave chase. More than ever he wished he’d brought his bow with him instead of stashing it. Against someone like Graeven, taking him down at a distance seemed the wisest, and safest, course of action. Instead he had to close in, and when Graeven climbed to the rooftops, he had to follow. They leapt across them, heading away from the docks. The homes crowded together, their roofs forming a slanted, uneven road for them to race upon. As Graeven reached a street, he tensed as if to leap over, but then spun. Dieredon twirled his knives in hand. Other than Ceredon, he was considered the finest fighter of elvenkind. He would show no fear, no hesitation, regardless of the opponent.
They clashed together, this time with far more room to duel than in the home. Despite the unevenness of the footing, Dieredon felt better with the open space. With his two weapons to Graeven’s one, he should have had the advantage, but Graeven kept on the offensive, striking with so much strength that Dieredon could not block with just one hand, nor parry with his thin, light knives. His only hope was in a counter, but every time he ducked underneath a blow and moved to attack, Graeven had already pulled back, or shifted his blade for a thrust.
Dieredon still kept on, refusing to back down. But he was bleeding, and had suffered wounds fighting Haern and Zusa. As the fight progressed, each second an agonizing whirlwind of parry and thrust, slash and dodge, he feared what he’d always known: Graeven was his equal, if not superior.
The sword swung low, and when Dieredon blocked it with both his blades, he tried stepping in to close the distance between them. Graeven continued pressing, forcing the blades to remain low, and then his head shot out, ramming into Dieredon’s nose with his forehead. As stars exploded in his vision, he tried leaping away, but Graeven caught him with his fist. Using his elbow to knock Dieredon’s thrust aside, he rammed his forearm into his throat. Blind and gagging, Dieredon made one last desperate stab, which amounted to nothing. Graeven somersaulted away, his foot catching Dieredon’s chin. The blow jammed his teeth shut, and he felt a piece of his tongue tear. Blood spilled warm across his mouth.
Dieredon fell to one knee, spitting out a tiny chunk of flesh. His breath came in ragged, and he glared at Graeven as the other elf slowly stalked closer.
“You shame us all,” he said.
“I do what must be done. I do what we should have done centuries ago. We can no longer overlook the threat humans present us, nor the evil they carry in their hearts. Look what they did to our Dezren brethren. They sent fire and blade, and despite all our skill, all our magic, we still had to flee. I was there, Dieredon. I watched the smoke spread for hundreds of miles. I watched our children taken down by thousands of arrows. And now the people of Angelport press our borders, and many of us would kneel and present them our necks, all the better for our executioners. I won’t let it happen, damn them all, I won’t let it!”
Dieredon flung his knives up as Graeven’s blade descended. His arms jarred at the contact, and he felt the muscles in his neck and chest tighten as he fought against its downward progress. Graeven knelt with all his weight into it, his feet positioned so that even if Dieredon tried to kick them out, he’d still be able to dodge in time. Closer and closer came the tip, its edge shifting so it aimed straight for his left eye. And then it thrust, accompanied by a shriek of metal as it slid across his knives.
It stabbed the rooftop instead, shoved upward by Dieredon at the last moment. He kicked for Graeven’s knee, but instead hit only air. The two were both badly positioned, flailing for footing, but it was Graeven who recovered first. The sword slashed across Dieredon’s chest twice, and as he stumbled back, Graeven stepped in behind him and cut his hamstring. The pain was incredible. Crumpling to one knee, he tried to defend, but Graeven smacked the weapons aside as if they were playthings. Another cut, this one on his arm.
Dieredon fell to his back, Graeven hovering over him, smiling out from the shadows of his hood.
“I told you I was the better,” he said. “It’s a shame no one else will ever know.”
Dieredon flung his knives, which Graeven parried aside. He slapped him across the face with the flat of his blade, as if rebuking a student.
“Maybe,” Dieredon said, laying his head atop the roof. “But you forgot someone.”
With a flutter of cloaks, the Watcher arrived, looking like Graeven’s twin in the fading starlight.
Haern landed atop the roof, his sabers drawn and his pulse pounding. Dieredon had clearly been defeated, but he looked alive, so at least there was that. Bracing his legs, he prepared for an attack should Graeven make the slightest threatening motion toward Dieredon.
“Step away,” he commanded. Graeven only laughed.
“Why?” he asked. “Do you care for him? Have you ever seen him before? He is our dog, our hunting beast. You shouldn’t mourn his loss.”
“I said step away.”
Graeven angled his sword so the tip pressed against Dieredon’s throat.
“Of the two of us, I don’t think you’re the one in a position to make demands, Watcher.”
Haern took a single step, watching Dieredon as much as he was Graeven. Another step, and the tip pressed tighter against flesh.
“This won’t end how you want it,” said Haern.
“I beg to differ.”
Dieredon met his gaze, and he could read the desire to attack. Haern leapt forward, and before Graeven could execute him, Dieredon batted aside the sword with his arms, accepting the vicious cut it dealt him. With him rolling away, Graeven could not follow, for in came Haern on the attack. His sabers connected with Graeven’s long blade, and the ringing noise it created was like a death knell in Haern’s mind. His primal instincts took over. His sabers slashed low and high, Graeven batting aside the low while ducking underneath the other. Spinning, his sword slashed for Haern’s knees, but he spun himself, avoiding the cut as well as flinging his cloak into Graeven’s face.
Graeven took the offensive once he could see, using every advantage of his longer reach. Haern parried several strikes with both his sabers, trying to adjust to the elf’s vicious speed, then attempted an attack. His sabers lashed out, but he still hadn’t judged correctly. Graeven batted both aside, stepped close, and then rammed his elbow into Haern’s throat. As he gagged, Graeven stuck again, this time with the hilt of his sword
atop his head. Haern collapsed to his knees, and he expected a flash of pain as the elven steel claimed his life, but it did not.
Instead, Graeven paced before him, just outside the reach of his sabers.
“Why do we fight?” he asked. “I swear, human, your blindness is sometimes baffling.”
“You’re a heartless murderer,” Haern said, staggering to his feet. “Why would I let you live?”
Graeven chuckled at that.
“I’ll live regardless of what you do. Don’t you see how alike you and I are? Look around. Can’t you see what I’ve accomplished?”
Fires burned across the city, guards patrolled the area surrounding Ingram’s mansion, and by the docks, Alyssa hung tied and bound, waiting for Zusa to rescue her. Yes, Haern, thought, he could see it just fine.
“Nothing,” he said. “You and I are nothing alike.”
“Try opening your eyes, then, and perhaps you’ll see differently.”
Haern stepped to the side, feinted a thrust, and then came rushing in, his sabers slashing with all his strength.
“What could you know of me?” he cried as his sabers whirled and cut, flooding the rooftop with the sound of steel on steel as Graeven blocked each one with a deft twist of his blade. Growing desperate, Haern tried a complicated series of short thrusts he’d learned from one of his many trainers. The idea was to overwhelm his opponents with attacks so that when one finally slipped through, Haern could step in and put all his force behind it. But Graeven was no normal opponent, and he retreated step by step to each thrust, parrying only when Haern tried to press in. When Haern at last could not keep it up, he tried to pull back, and that’s when Graeven struck.
Haern flung his sabers up in defense as the elf charged in, but he left himself vulnerable to one side, and in slipped Graeven’s foot, tripping him. He hit the ground with a thud, the blow knocking the wind out of him. Again he expected a killing blow, but Graeven retreated, twirling his sword as if he were bored.
“I know so much about you, Haern,” he said. “I know the role you played against the guilds and the Trifect. When rumors of that pathetic little war’s end reached my ears, all blamed on the actions of one man, I scoffed. But the truce lasted, so in disguise I came to Veldaren. Piece by piece, story by story, I learned what you did. I listened to the way the scum of the city spoke your name. You were a beacon to me, a hope in this dying world. My race is outnumbered, and every day it dwindles while the race of man spreads like an unstoppable plague. But your cities, your true places of power, were your weakness. If I could bring them toppling down, we might survive. And there you were, one man, with an entire city in your grip.
“And now here was Angelport, reaching to our forests with its bloody fingers. Within every faction, even my own, I slaughtered those who desired peace, who would rather make deals and concessions than face the true ugliness and conflict that must be fought if we are to endure another century. When I first used your bloody eye, I did so as an homage, not a calling. Imagine my delight when you actually arrived. I thought you could help me, that you would see the need for this. Angelport is worse than Veldaren ever was. There is no salvation in it, no desire for peace, no hope for something better. There is greed, and hatred, and nothing else.”
Haern took to his feet, and Graeven attacked him with such viciousness he had to retreat. The long blade sliced through the air, always a half second behind.
“You tamed the vile darkness in Veldaren,” the elf said as he chased. “You killed hundreds to force a final confrontation, and subdue the guilty. Help me do the same here. Everything I’ve done has been to force the war needed to bring everything into focus, to give clarity to the nations. My kind will burn this city to the ground, a glorious purification that all Dezrel, both elf and man, so desperately needs.”
“I am not you!” Haern cried, attempting a counter that was quickly blocked. “I will not murder the innocent!”
“You murder innocents with your actions, you damn fool. You’ve left children to starve, wives without protection, guilds so weak others tore them to pieces. Celestia help me, how are you so naive?”
Haern tried to shut him out, to ignore the words that echoed his own thoughts, awakening guilt he’d carried for years but done his best to deny. Graeven could see his torment, and he fought closer, forcing an opening in his sabers so he might slash a shallow cut across Haern’s chest. As Haern stumbled back, blood dripping down his shirt, Graeven shook the droplets from his sword.
“We are alike, Watcher. I am your twin, your shadow, the natural progression to what you began. Do not throw your life away without reason. Look what you and I have done by ourselves, through manipulation and sheer, brute strength. Imagine what we could do together! We can thrust the darkness of man into the light. We can find the vile corners in which the sickness hides and burn it all to the ground. Help me. Fight beside me. We have the same goals, the same methods. Do you not see?”
“Our methods might be the same,” Haern said, mustering the last of his strength. “But I never wanted to destroy Veldaren, only save it. I won’t be the monster you want me to be.”
Graeven shook his head.
“Then to Veldaren I will go next. I’ll finish what you started. I’ll hunt down everyone you knew, everyone you loved. No one betrays me, Watcher. Whatever legacy you had, I’ll destroy it and replace it with my own.”
Haern felt time slowing as he settled once more into a stance. He thought of the Wraith running loose in Veldaren, slaughtering priests, thieves, mercenaries, all to bring about chaos and riots. He thought of every step of his life made worthless, the brittle peace breaking into a slaughter worse than it had ever been. He thought of Tarlak and Brug trying to fight it, only to be overwhelmed. Most of all, he thought of Delysia, dying at the hands of the Wraith.
“No,” he said, shifting his weight onto his back leg. “You won’t.”
Help me Ashhur, he prayed as Graeven twirled his sword. Not for me, but for them.
The elf leapt, and Haern met the charge. They crashed together in the air, a brutal collision of kicks and slashes. The sword cut a wound across his thigh, the pain terrible. His heel caught Graeven’s jaw, and a saber slashed across his knuckles. They landed with their backs to one another. Graeven swung behind him, twisting his body while keeping his feet planted. Haern arched backward, the edge slicing the air above his chest. Returning to a stand, he thrust both his blades, but the elf looped his arm around, smacking them away.
Now face to face, they dueled once more, Haern driven on by a fury approaching madness. He kept on the attack, spinning and thrusting with such precision he couldn’t help think his father would be proud. All his inhibitions, all his doubt, faded away as his sabers sang out a song of violence. He’d once thought himself a monster, but now he faced a true monster, a being sworn to death and destruction, to whom life was only to be taken, not preserved. Whatever limits he knew, he pushed beyond them, despite the pain of his cuts, the ache of his muscles, and the blood that poured across his cloaks.
But Graeven would not fall, and at last Haern knew his energy was almost at an end. He had but one last trick, the cloak dance he’d relied on for years. Pulling back, he weaved himself into a spin, his cloaks separating and flailing in a bizarre pattern to hide his weapons and the positioning of his hands and feet. Graeven had faced it before, and as Haern’s vision was momentarily blocked, up came the smoke. He’d been shifting left just before vanishing, and denying every instinct, every piece of information he’d seen otherwise from the elf’s stance, eyes, and momentum, Haern turned and thrust his sabers blindly to the right.
Graeven’s sword slashed across his arm, spilling blood but failing to achieve the lethal hit he desired. His eyes grew wide, and his momentum carried him all the way into Haern’s arms, as if in an embrace. His mouth opened, his lips trembling. After a twist of his wrists, Haern pulled his sabers free from deep in Graeven’s belly. With a clang of metal and ruffle of cloth, the elf hit
the ground, lying upon his back. Haern stood over him, watching, his sabers dripping blood.
“Killing me stops nothing,” Graeven said, coughing. Blood spilled across his lips. “Your war, your hatred, it’s a disease that will destroy you, a flame that will consume you. Even without me, you humans will destroy one another.”
“I know.”
“Then why this, Watcher? Why stop me?”
Haern knelt over Graeven, and he made sure the elf could see the fire in his eyes.
“Because I must. I will fight it, until my dying breath. I will fight our failures, our weakness, our destruction. Whether I stop it or not, I will never sit by and watch Dezrel burn. There is good in us, even if you cannot see it. Somehow I’ll find a way to save it.”
Graeven rolled onto his stomach, and he crawled toward where Dieredon knelt on one knee, having watched the entire encounter.
“They will consume us,” the elf said, his voice growing weak. “Just as they consume themselves. But must we die with them?”
Dieredon shook his head.
“Never your place, Graeven. Die now, and may Celestia grant you the mercy I cannot give.”
Haern put his saber against the elf’s back, its tip aimed for the heart.
“Farewell,” he said, thrusting. Graeven gasped, his hands twitched, and then he lay still.
Dieredon slowly rose to his feet, careful to put as little weight on his wounded leg as possible. Meanwhile, Haern took a saber to his own cloak and cut off his hood. Tossing the cloth aside, he removed Graeven’s hood and held it in his hands. Flecks of blood stained it, but they were well hidden by the dark material. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it over his head. Shadows immediately covered his face, and when he spoke, his voice changed, a subtle magic weaving over his words.
“It’s finished,” he said.
Dieredon frowned at him.
“You would honor him in his death?” he asked, gesturing to the hood.
Haern shook his head.
A Dance of Death (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 3) Page 29