A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

  Back to Veldaren. Which meant away from the mines, away from Tyneham, the reason for his trek north in the first place. Was he really willing to give up already?

  Looking about the snow, and feeling the cold still nipping at his exposed skin, he decided he was. Whatever was going on with the Serpent Guild, he’d deal with it within Veldaren’s walls. That was his home. That was the world he understood. Let the wild lands and dirt roads belong to the brigands and the rangers.

  Near midday he heard the sound of hoofbeats. He felt his spirits brighten. If he could beg a ride he might reach the castle far sooner. But the woods had played tricks on his ears, and the riders came not from the north but the south. His pulse quickened at the sight of riders approaching from the distance. Clearly emblazoned upon their tunics was the symbol of the men who’d attacked the caravan. He hurried off the road, wishing he’d had time to hide his footprints. It’d be an easy trail to follow. Damn the snow!

  They rode right on by. If they saw his tracks they didn’t care about them in the slightest. Haern let out the breath he’d been holding and returned to the road. Tightening his coat, he hurried on, determined to gain as much distance as possible before nightfall. Only once did he look back, and he prayed the riders had passed by the farm as easily as they had his own tracks.

  Evelyn had given him a small piece of flint and another of steel in his bag of food, which he found immeasurably kind. Off the road he built a fire and slept by it through the night, waking every few hours or so to toss a log upon it and poke the embers with a stick to reignite the flame. He ate lightly come morning, just in case it took him longer than expected to reach Felwood. He kept his eye out for more riders, but none came. He passed another caravan moving north, loaded with salt and farming equipment. The travelers offered him a ride, but he smiled and gestured south.

  “Heading the wrong way,” he said before continuing on.

  Not long after he’d wolfed down the rest of his food, he reached the forest of Felwood. From there he continued until he reached the castle. He still had a few coins from the caravan, and he used them to pay for lodgings, food, and a warm room. He left come morning, feeling worlds better than he had before.

  The days passed, and he continued his travel. Fires at night kept him comfortable, and steadily the weather warmed, a front of southern air coming along and mocking the snow. At last he reached the King’s Forest. Heartened, Haern jogged at a steady pace. Once he curled around the woods he’d arrive in no time at Veldaren. He couldn’t wait. Never before had he realized how much he considered the city home. It didn’t matter that his trip had ended as a colossal failure, leaving him no wiser as to the Serpent Guild’s mystery gold. Outside the city he was out of his element, and he’d remember that the next time he decided to pursue a lead that went beyond Veldaren’s walls.

  Twenty minutes later he saw smoke rising from farther ahead. Wary of the cause, he upped his pace while slipping closer to the forest so he might hide at a moment’s notice. He rounded a bend and then stumbled upon a terribly familiar sight. A single wagon was under attack, but instead of horsemen, he recognized the attackers as members of the Wolf Guild. He counted eight of them circling the wagon, most holding bows or crossbows. From where he stood he couldn’t see any of the defenders, but from the way the Wolves stayed low, refusing to approach, he knew they were still alive.

  “I leave for a spell and you grow brave enough to assault travelers in daylight?” Haern whispered as he peered around a tree. Of all the guilds, the Wolves were the ones most likely to venture beyond the city, sometimes attacking merchant caravans, sometimes just attacking travelers for a bit of fun away from the danger of the city guard. But this, this almost felt like a slap in the face. The walls of Veldaren were in sight. The Wolves’ lack of fear of the city guard didn’t matter. But to be so unafraid of him? His pride was already wounded. This was more than enough to piss him off.

  “No matter where you go, you won’t be safe from me,” Haern whispered, drawing his swords. “Perhaps it is time I delivered that message loud and clear.”

  He stayed close to the tree line, and once within fifty yards of the wagon he vanished into the woods completely. Three of the Wolves hid at the edge of the forest, using trees as cover while they fired their crossbows. Haern swung wide so he could approach them directly from behind. He heard them muttering as he neared, offering each other advice on where to shoot or where they thought the defenders were hiding.

  Haern cursed the vegetation as he neared. He’d heard of men so accustomed to the wild that they could pass across dry leaves without making a sound, yet he crushed twigs and brushed at leaves no matter how stealthy he tried to be. What he’d give for a paved road and the shadows of a building. The three were too focused on the wagon, though, to notice what little noise he made. He thanked Ashhur for small favors.

  “Watch for a hand,” the rightmost Wolf said. He looked older than the others, and Haern wondered if he was their leader. “Don’t let that yellow bastard have even a moment, or we’re all dead.”

  Haern was less than five feet behind him. With his swords drawn he took another step, amused that they were so afraid of those in the wagon. Had they bitten off more than they could chew? And who might this “yellow bastard” be? It didn’t matter. He was out of time. Already the Wolves on the other side were closing in, readying daggers and seemingly no longer afraid of the defenders inside. Deciding the one on the right was the most dangerous, he rushed in, his swords leading.

  His first attack sliced through the Wolf’s back and into his lung. Haern didn’t bother muffling his scream or holding him steady, for the other two were too near. He slashed with his left arm, hoping for an easy cut, but the thief fell just out of reach. Twisting his blade free, Haern kicked away the dying man and turned his attention to the other two. The closest tossed his bow and drew a dagger, but the other…

  Haern dropped to his belly, the crossbow bolt screaming over his head. The Wolf with the dagger dove after him and he rolled, deflecting the thrusts with his swords as he tried to gain distance. He rolled his knees underneath him and then kicked, leaping backward and to his feet. Instead of pressing the advantage his opponent remained back, a grin on his face.

  “Idiot,” said the thief as his comrade raised his reloaded crossbow.

  Twisting his cloaks, Haern hoped to confuse him, but as a sharp pain bit deep into his shoulder he knew he’d only partially succeeded. He continued his spin, using his cloaks to obstruct their view. It’d only gain him a moment, an extra step closer, but if they were staying defensive, hoping to down him with arrows instead of blades…

  He pulled out of the spin, putting every bit of his strength into his jump. He crashed into the closest, pure luck keeping the thief’s dagger from impaling him. As they hit the ground Haern twisted so his elbow slammed against the man’s throat. The Wolf spewed blood. Before the other could respond Haern lashed out, knocking the crossbow off its aim. The third bolt struck a tree, its dull thud music to Haern’s ears. Without a melee weapon his opponent had no chance. Haern’s assault was wild and brutal, with no hint of defense. Two slashes took out the man’s throat, and a third across his hamstring brought him down to the dirt to die.

  Finally given a chance to breathe, Haern cursed and grabbed the bolt in his shoulder. It was deep in his flesh, and a quick glance at the man’s quiver showed barbed heads he wouldn’t dare pull out. Gritting his teeth, he recited a mantra he’d been taught as a child, one to help him ignore pain. He clutched the shaft tighter. Another recital, followed by a deep exhalation. He pushed the bolt through and out the other side.

  He screamed.

  Tossing the bolt, he leaned against a tree and struggled to catch his breath. It didn’t look as if the bolt was poisoned—another lucky break. Evidently the Wolves hadn’t thought their upcoming ambush dangerous enough to spend the time and coin applying some. He looked to the wagon, trying to assess the situation. He couldn’t see those on the othe
r side, but he saw one Wolf lying dead upon the road, his body curiously aflame. That left four alive at the most. So far none appeared to have detected his intervention, for which he was thankful. He needed another moment to recover.

  But then that moment vanished, for the wagon caught fire.

  “Shit,” he muttered. One of the Wolves must have tossed oil and a torch. Black smoke billowed to the air, blocking nearly all his view of events. Knowing the thieves would be rushing to cut down the survivors, he charged. Pain spiked up his entire left arm, and the sword hung limp in his hand as he ran. He’d block with it if necessary, but it seemed the killing would be restricted to his right.

  A figure crawled out of the smoke toward him, a red-haired woman in white.

  “Run to the trees!” he shouted to her, not stopping. He swerved about her and leaped straight into the smoke. The heat was tremendous, but so far the fire was restricted to the outer covering of the wagon. No survivors remained within. He saw a gap in the tarpaulin and jumped.

  Just before he landed and rolled, he had a split second to survey the fight and react. Four Wolves formed a half-circle around the wagon, easily identifiable with their black cloaks striped with gray. Three men faced them, one in yellow robes wielding a staff, another in gray parrying with two maces, and the third a portly man hiding back with a single club to protect himself. There was something tremendously familiar about the way the man with the maces fought, but Haern had no time to consider it. He rolled closer to the fat man, no doubt the caravan’s driver or owner. He seemed the least skilled, unable to fend off the single Wolf who weaved from side to side in front of him.

  Haern kicked out of his roll, using his good arm to run the Wolf through. Their collision sent them both tumbling, and Haern screamed as he felt something hard strike his wounded shoulder, screamed again as a sharp pain pierced his stomach. He rolled off the corpse and saw blood, his blood, covering the thief’s dagger. This time his collision had not been so lucky. Struggling to stand, he turned to the others, his vision a blur of pain, smoke, and tears. One of the two fighting the man in gray had pulled off to address the new threat, and Haern put his swords in position and tried to feign confidence.

  His opponent wielded two short swords, and he chopped with both, hoping to overpower Haern. Not a bad strategy, given his condition. Haern crossed his swords and blocked, the nerves in his wounded shoulder shrieking in protest at the collision. Twice, three times the man chopped, as if Haern were a wall to be broken down. The third time Haern’s left arm gave out, and he twisted to avoid the deathblow. He feigned a retreat, but then kicked his right foot out, tripping the Wolf. He slashed with his good arm, but it wasn’t lethal, just a cut across the thief’s chest. It bought him time, and he retreated. Blood flowed across his shirt and down his pants. He felt its warmth along his left arm as well. He coughed, and hoped it was only the smoke, not something worse, that caused it.

  His opponent, infuriated by the cut, charged like a mad animal. Haern braced his legs and met it head on, just barely slapping the thrusts aside. Again they collided, but this time he was better positioned. His knee slammed into his attacker’s groin, and he let his wounded arm absorb most of the impact. When the Wolf collapsed to the ground, Haern practically fell upon him. The sword dropped from his left hand, but he stabbed with his right and leaned all his weight upon it. The blade pierced the thief’s belly and bit into the dirt, pinning him there. He thrashed for a moment as he bled out, then went still.

  Haern only felt marginally better than the man he’d killed. The collision had torn the cut on his arm further open, as well as angering the arrow wound. His stomach still ached. He didn’t know how deep the wound went, but it felt horrendous. He struggled to stand but couldn’t. At last he yanked out his sword and fell to his back, his breath coming in hurried gasps. So much for leaving the guilds a message. So much for inspiring terror. He’d killed five, only five…

  The sounds of fighting ended. His head swam. A man leaned over him, a face he recognized from his past. Another joined it, younger and female. He was delusional now, he realized. How else to explain why two people, one dead, one missing, spoke down to him, their voices muffled as if they were speaking through water? How else to explain why Senke was telling him to hold on? Or why Delysia was tearing at his clothes to see the wound in his stomach? He felt pressure there, and then his vision turned yellow, all shapes outlined in red. Sound faded, and then he saw nothing at all.

  CHAPTER 9

  She knew Garrick would want an explanation, but Veliana delayed him for several hours. The longer he wondered and worried the better. She wanted him to feel belittled, to realize her contempt for him. Anything else might make him think things were different. At last, when the day neared its end, one of their young guild rats found her at a tavern on the other side of the city and informed her of Garrick’s request.

  “Tell him I’m on my way,” she said, flicking the boy a copper piece. “But I still plan on finishing my drink first.”

  She nursed it for another half hour. During that time several men arrived, all wearing the dark gray of the Ash Guild. They were recent recruits to the guild, men she knew very little about. Garrick’s men, then. Again she cursed herself for being so blind to the man’s ambition. Of course she’d vetted them, knew their names, but that was the limit of her influence upon them.

  “Garrick’s waiting,” said one. He was named Gil, if she remembered correctly. Why had she let him in? He looked like a dog had shit out a muscular version of itself that happened to walk on two legs.

  “Surely he has more important problems,” she said, draining the last of her drink.

  “Than insubordination? No, Veliana, he doesn’t.”

  She shot him a wink as she stood.

  “Lead on, boys. Three to one to take me to the dance? I feel honored.”

  “Shut it.”

  It was an hour until sunset, and in the orange glow Veliana felt they were exposed wearing their cloaks as they traversed the city. They were deep in Spider territory, and instead of trying to travel through the less profitable outskirts, they marched together through its very center. She saw a few men in the paler-gray cloaks, but these men did not accost them, nor hail them to demand an explanation. Strange.

  Deathmask was already waiting in the chamber when Veliana arrived. Garrick sat on his cushions, smoking as usual. He looked incredibly pleased, which threw her off. She had expected him to be ranting and raving. And why was Deathmask there? Was she about to witness another attempt on his life? Twelve other men were gathered about. All were armed. She felt her worry grow. What if this was it, the moment when Garrick tried to assert his control over the guild?

  Her hands brushed the daggers at her hips. If it came to that, she’d take Garrick down with her, no matter the cost. Better the Ash Guild dissolve leaderless than continue in the hands of that paranoid bastard.

  “You know how to keep a gentleman waiting,” Garrick said as she arrived.

  “I’m sure Deathmask will forgive me.”

  Garrick chuckled, not at all bothered by the slight.

  “Well, we’re all here now. Before we begin … Vel, would you care to hand over your daggers? I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

  It took all her concentration to hide her panic. Should she do it? If she complied she’d be vulnerable, but if she refused it might be seen as a threat against Garrick. She glanced at Deathmask, and during the brief moment their eyes connected, she saw the corner of his mouth curl into a grin, followed by a wink.

  Trusting him, she handed over her daggers and crossed her arms.

  “Is it safe to say I won’t like what I’m about to hear?” she asked.

  “Perhaps, but I am not the one who shall be speaking.” He turned to Deathmask. “Tell me, please, why is Veliana still alive?”

  All about, men murmured, and she wondered how they were interpreting that statement.

  “I do not understand,” Deathmask said, feigning c
onfusion. “Is there a reason she should not be?”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know she attacked you last night. One of my men watched your exchange. Tell me, why didn’t you kill her? She did, after all, try to kill you.”

  “I assumed it just a training exercise,” Deathmask said, the lie smooth on his tongue. “Veliana confirmed as much near the end of our fight. Was I wrong in my assumption? Was her response to me a lie?”

  This was clearly not the answer Garrick had expected. He frowned and shifted on his cushion.

  “Yes, you damn fool, you were wrong, and she a liar. You should be dead, yet are not.”

  Veliana held her tongue. What game was Garrick playing? She’d warned him about revealing attempts to murder an accepted member without reason or proof, yet here he was exposing his plans to the guild, and not just that, but showing how those plans had failed.

  “For what reason would she attack me?” Deathmask asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious? She fears you. She knows with your skill you might quickly ascend to take her place. Isn’t that right, Veliana?”

  He grinned at her, his bloodshot eyes twinkling. Veliana’s hands shook as she choked down her outrage. So that was it. He’d cast the shame of a failed intra-guild execution on her, and if she tried to deny it, it would be her word against his. Her word against the word of their guildmaster. One clearly outranked the other. The punishment for such a charge was limited to two options: banishment or death.