A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

  “Easy now,” Haern whispered as he finally pushed them back. “I still have work to do.”

  One whined, the other barking a single time. Haern shot them a wink.

  “I’ll bring a few bones next time, I promise.”

  Dashel’s bedroom was on the second floor, and in the moonlight Haern climbed up to the rooftop, then hung upside down before the elegant window. It was unlocked. Pushing it open, Haern then rotated about and landed on the sill, crouching down. His shadow splayed out across the fine bed upon which slept Dashel and his wife. Taking a rock out of his pocket, he flung it, striking Dashel across the nose.

  The man let out a snort, then groggily looked about. Upon seeing Haern lurking in his window, he froze. Haern tossed him something else, this time a coin that glinted yellow when it caught the light. Dashel pushed the sheets aside, caught the coin, and then staggered out of his bed.

  “Outside,” the older man hissed before shutting the window in Haern’s face. Laughing, Haern dropped back to the two waiting dogs and accepted another round of licks.

  A few minutes later Dashel stepped out from his door, a thick white robe wrapped around his rotund form. His hair and beard were gray, his face wrinkled. Haern kept his hood pulled low and his face turned away from the moonlight, hiding his own features.

  “Stupid dogs,” Dashel said, glaring at them. “Man who sold them to me swore they were as vicious as a wounded orc.”

  “They have smart noses,” Haern said. “They know I’m not here to hurt you.”

  Dashel rolled his eyes and waved a hand.

  “What is it, Watcher? It’s cold out here, and I’d much rather be sleeping in my warm bed.”

  “The Serpent Guild has a new source of gold,” Haern said. “What do you know about it?”

  The old man frowned at him, then tightened his robe. Dashel was the master of the mint for the kingdom of Neldar, and because of this he had access to resources many people prized. For years he’d worked as a fence, accepting from the various guilds any gold that might be marked or distinguishable and replacing it, for a price, with fresh coin from the mint. Haern had briefly thought of taking him out, but decided the information he might learn from the man was more valuable.

  “It’s been going on for months,” Dashel said. “Though I suspect it is new to you?”

  “I’d have been here sooner if I discovered it sooner.”

  “Of course you would have.” Dashel shook his head. “They’ve come to me regularly, with amounts high enough I’ve considered several times declining for fear of having my … side activities discovered. As for the source, all I can tell you is that they always have the same mint and mark.”

  “Which one?”

  “The Gemcroft mines up north. My guess is from Tyneham.”

  Haern frowned. Massive shipments of gold coming in from the Gemcroft mines, delivered in secret to the Serpent Guild? What did it mean?

  “Have they discovered a way to rob Alyssa’s caravans?” Haern wondered aloud.

  “Been happening too long for that to be the case,” Dashel said. “I don’t know Alyssa well, but her reputation alone suggests if she knew she was being robbed, she’d have swarmed the northern roads with guards until it stopped. So whatever’s happening, it’s happening underneath her nose.”

  Dashel gestured to his door.

  “Can I go to bed now? This is hardly worth one lousy coin.”

  Haern pulled out two more gold coins, tucked one into the collar of each dog, and bid Dashel farewell. Before the man was even inside, Haern had already vaulted over the fence and headed south. His mind raced over the possibilities, and every time he came up empty. Everything seemed too large, too far beyond the reach of the Serpent Guild’s leader, William Ket. If he wanted to find out more, or put a stop to it, he’d most likely need to leave the comfort and familiarity of his city for the wilds of the north.

  Pushing such thoughts aside, Haern focused on his original task: spreading misinformation. He’d already claimed the Watcher was working for the Hawks, so now it was time to inform the Hawks of the Serpents’ shipments, adding one more layer to the deception. Perhaps the rival guild might even aid Haern in putting an end to the sudden influx of gold. Wending his way into the Hawks’ territory, he put a scowl over his face and adopted a new persona, that of just another hardworking peasant hoping to eke out enough copper for a few extra drinks. He went to their headquarters, a tavern where their leader, Kadish Vel, no doubt played cards in a private room in the back. Again his contact waited by the door, a big man whose name he didn’t know, only his nickname: Fists. In working his way into the man’s trust, Haern had had to endure a few beatings that showed exactly where that nickname came from.

  “It’s late for someone weak as you,” said Fists as Haern approached.

  “Never too late for a good drink,” he said.

  Fists smirked at that. “Good drink? You won’t find that here. What you have to tell me?”

  “I saw a shipment coming in over the wall, and I think the Serpents were…”

  He sensed the attack coming long before Fists did. Haern dove to the side as arrows thudded into the tavern. He heard Fists groan, and a glance back showed two arrows in his belly. Haern raced around the building, out of reach of the tavern’s torchlight. As he turned the corner he slammed into a cloaked man with daggers at the ready. Haern rolled along, separating their bodies. He leaped to his feet, his swords in hand. With the greater reach, he had the advantage, and his opponent knew it. The man lunged in, hoping for a strike before Haern could prepare.

  But the lunge was too slow. Haern twisted so the dagger brushed his side without drawing blood, then slashed around with his swords. One cut deep into his opponent’s extended arm, the second kept the other dagger out of position. As the man cried out in pain, Haern pulled his swords back and then stabbed. The man tried to block, but he was unbalanced, his arms poorly placed. Haern yanked out his blades and kicked the body. He frowned at the color of the cloak. He’d first thought the Serpents had followed him for knowing about the gold, but instead this man wore the gray of the Spider Guild.

  He heard the sound of a bowstring being drawn tight, and he dove on instinct. The arrow plinked the stone beside him, poking a hole in his cloaks but doing no damage. His attacker was on the roof, readying another arrow. Haern spun, flinging his cloaks into a confusing display, and then leaped in the opposite direction. Again the arrow missed. By now he’d raced around the corner, cursing his bad luck. Why had the Spider Guild come now? What reason did they have to war with the Hawks?

  His flight took him back to the front of the tavern. Several Serpents had come out to fight, but nearly all bore crimson stains on their green cloaks. The Spiders moved in, outnumbering them two to one. Haern took in the combat as quickly as he could, searching for an escape route. Underneath the awning over the tavern entrance he was safe from the archer, but in plain view of the rest of the thieves. They’d set up a perimeter, but he trusted himself to break through. He was the Spider Guild’s champion, after all, their greatest creation and most disappointing failure. That, and they all thought he was dead, a belief he didn’t want to change. He’d grown much over the past five years, but still, someone might recognize him underneath the dirt…

  One of the Spiders saw him there, saw the blood on his swords. When he started to attack, Haern met his charge with a vicious assault of his own, surprising his opponent with sudden, overwhelming fury. He batted away a pair of daggers, cut open the man’s throat, and then bolted to the street. Two more moved to stop him but Haern slide-kicked between them, scraping his leg along the hard ground. He cut the thigh of one and curled his sword around to hamstring the other. As they fell screaming, he ran, hoping they would not chase. None did, but he didn’t go far.

  Knowing he was being stupid didn’t stop Haern from doing it. He hurried back to the Hawk headquarters. The perimeter had closed in, and it seemed most of the fighting had stopped. Various members of
the Spider Guild stood near the entrance, keeping watch while a few rifled the bodies.

  And then he saw him: Thren Felhorn, leader of the Spider Guild. His father.

  “Why?” Haern asked as he watched him walk into the tavern as if it were his own, accompanied by four of his men. “What did they do to you?”

  He resolved to find out, but not now. He turned and headed back toward the city’s center, realizing for the first time he was limping. After stealing a bottle from a man lying facedown in the ditch (whether dead or unconscious, he didn’t know), he took a momentary reprieve to clean his scraped leg and splash some alcohol across it. After the pain subsided he continued.

  He had two possible avenues to pursue. He could discover the reason for the Hawks’ and Spiders’ squabble, or he could look into the mystery of the Serpents’ gold. Doing his best to convince himself it had nothing to do with any fear of his father, he resolved to look into the gold. Guilds fought all the time; he had no proof this was any different. Shipments from the Gemcroft mines, however…

  After breaking into another shop and stealing a few supplies, he found one of the quieter stretches along the great wall surrounding the city of Veldaren, went up the steps, and then climbed down the wall with a rope he tied at the top. Once out he trekked northeast, following the main road around the King’s Forest toward Felwood Castle many miles farther along. Beyond that were the Crestwall Mountains and the many villages around the Gemcroft mines. It’d take him weeks to arrive, but he held hope it would be worth it. Out there he might find some information. When it all boiled down, the war between the guilds and the Trifect was about pride and money. Both sides had suffered too many losses to endure on pride alone. It was coin that mattered now, and if the Serpent Guild had suddenly discovered a new source of gold, they might endure for years. Even worse, they might score a significant victory against the Trifect, further emboldening the underworld. Haern had to stop it. He had to find some way to crush the guilds and end the war.

  He laughed as he walked. End the war. It seemed nothing would. It had continued for ten years and seemed ready for another ten. But at least he might make things uncomfortable for a while. He’d done his part to weaken and bleed the guilds, to punish them for the bloodshed he’d witnessed firsthand. Randith, his own brother, Senke, his friend, Robert Haern, his mentor, Kayla, his first crush. And then there was Delysia…

  His father had shot her with an arrow for daring to love him. He still relived that moment in his nightmares, sitting on a rooftop with her bleeding over his hands. He’d thought her dead, but Kayla had later told him she lived with the priests of Ashhur. And then Thren had killed Kayla. As for Senke, Haern had heard he’d died in the fire at Connington’s estate during the Bloody Kensgold.

  “Maybe I’m afraid,” he whispered to the stars as he pulled his cloaks tighter about him to keep in his warmth. “Gods forgive me, maybe I really am afraid.”

  Amid it all, amid the death and loss and pain that haunted him come his restless daytime sleep, there stood his father. It seemed appropriate. It was a terrible web his father wove, and he was the spider in the center of it all. A spider that Haern was not sure he’d ever have the courage to face.

  He continued along the road, part of him hoping he might be ambushed along the way. The bloodshed and excitement would have felt a thousand times better than the dread the memories of his childhood brought.

  CHAPTER 4

  Mark Tullen rode toward the gates of Felwood Castle, as always in awe of the fortress made of dark stone and covered with ivy. Along with the provisions stashed in his pack was Alyssa’s letter requesting him to retrieve her son and bring him back to Veldaren. Mark had been in Riverrun when the letter arrived, not far south of Felwood. He’d written his affirmation in a hurry, for he could sense Alyssa’s unease. Whatever the reason, he didn’t want to lose any favor in her eyes by tarrying.

  “I seek audience with Lord Gandrem,” he called at the gate. “I am Mark Tullen, lord of Riverrun, and I come at Lady Gemcroft’s request!”

  The gates opened and guards escorted him in. After he cleaned his boots, he followed them along the emerald carpet to the throne, the seat of power for all the Northern Plains. John Gandrem stood as they entered, a smile on his wrinkled face. He wore robes of green and gold, and a thin crown of silver atop his gray hair.

  “Welcome,” said John, clasping hands with Mark. “It’s been too long since you visited. The distance from here to Riverrun is not so great that you should visit only once a year.”

  “I was here in spring,” Mark said. “Do not tell me you forgot?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if I did,” John said, sitting back down and trying to laugh off the error.

  “Sadly, I cannot count this as much of a visit,” Mark continued. “I’ve come for Alyssa’s boy, Nathaniel. I’m to give him safe passage back to Veldaren.”

  A shadow passed over John’s face, and he took a sip from a goblet beside him before responding.

  “Nathaniel is not here,” he said, setting the goblet down. “Lord Arthur Hadfield came a few months back and brought him north to Tyneham. I assumed this was at Alyssa’s request, and he certainly implied as much.”

  Mark felt his gut tighten.

  “I’m sure Arthur’s done the boy no harm,” the old man continued. “Said he wanted to show him the ways of the business, if you know what I mean. If he’s to take over the Gemcroft fortune, a bit of experience with their mines would do him much good.”

  “Thank you,” Mark said, bowing.

  “Will you not stay?” John asked.

  “My apologies,” Mark said, glancing over his shoulder. “But Alyssa seemed eager to see her son, and this delay will add many days to our travel. I dare not spend even a single night here when I might be riding instead.”

  “Very well,” said John. “Safe travels.”

  “And pleasant nights,” said Mark.

  He left Felwood and immediately followed the road north. Thankfully he’d packed enough rations for both him and the boy, so he’d have enough to make it to Tyneham alone. There he’d need to supply himself with at least enough to get them back to Felwood Castle. He let his mind wander as he rode. It’d take several days to arrive, so he had more than enough time to think.

  Mark knew he and Arthur were rivals for Alyssa’s affection. In their rare times together, Mark sensed Alyssa found him more interesting, more handsome. But Arthur had wealth and influence, which Mark did not, and something which Alyssa could not ignore. Nearly every town along the mountainside belonged to Arthur in one way or another, while Mark controlled just Riverrun, and even that only recently due to Theo Kull’s execution, at Alyssa’s hand no less. From the whispers he heard, and the cold stares from Alyssa’s advisor, Bertram, he knew he was not the favorite in the rest of Veldaren’s eyes.

  But he wouldn’t let that stop him. He’d been told the same about challenging Theo Kull, who had his fingers in everything. But Theo had died, and amusingly enough it had been because his son Yoren had tried for Alyssa’s hand. Alyssa had kept an eye on Mark’s takeover of Riverrun in the wake of the Kulls’ demise, and that was how he had first met her.

  “Ride on,” Mark whispered to his horse. “I know you’re tired, but give me just a few more miles.”

  Nathaniel alone with Arthur … the idea greatly disturbed him. Arthur was an older man, calm in all things, always calculating every potential outcome of a choice. It was as if the two of them played a game, moving pieces and exchanging tokens, all for the sake of Alyssa’s heart. So far Mark was losing, and now Arthur held a potential game ender. If the boy favored Arthur, his mother’s heart might easily follow.

  Mark slept close to the path, keeping his sword beside him as he tucked himself into his bedroll. His hard rations were bland and salty, but they kept him going. Several hours into the next morning’s ride he found a stream to fill both his waterskins as well as give his horse a well-deserved rest. He kept up his pace, though not
to such an extent that it might endanger his mount. The whole while he pondered Arthur’s coming reaction. Clearly he wouldn’t know of Alyssa’s request to have her son returned. Would he refuse? Come with? Ask for proof? Mark had Alyssa’s letter, of course, but what if Arthur challenged its authenticity?

  Mark pushed the thoughts aside. It wouldn’t matter. Trying to outthink Arthur would be pointless. Many would have to make the best decision available at the time, without fear or doubt. That was how he’d risen to his stature. That was how he planned on rising even higher.

  On the fifth day out from Felwood, he arrived at the mining village of Tyneham. The lone inn was small, with only two rooms and a post out back to tie his horse. Much of its white paint had long since peeled away. Mark had a bite to eat, drank a cup of the awful ale, and then asked for Arthur Hadfield’s location.

  “He don’t come to town often,” said the innkeeper, a portly old woman. “But when he does, you can find him overlooking the mines. He keeps an eye on things, and he’s caught quite a few thieves who thought themselves bright.”

  Mark smiled at her obvious hint.

  “I come in the right,” he told her. “But if I were a thief, I’d share at least a token of my haul with you, if only for your beauty.”

  She laughed and waved him off.

  He received a few odd stares as he worked his way toward the mountains. He’d seen the Crestwall Mountains only once before, and he stopped beside a well to take in the view. They rose toward the sky like bony fingers, cracked and weather-beaten. He wondered how vicious the storms might get so far north, something he hoped not to find out. Still the mountains possessed a majestic beauty, towering above him, reaching into the clouds until their tips turned white with snow. Winter was halfway over, but he wondered if it ever ended there. The past several days he’d ridden through snow, and he thanked Ashhur there were an abundance of trees for firewood.