Cloak and Spider: A Shadowdance Novella

by David Dalglish

  Thren took a breath, and he looked to either side. They were against the windows along the long wall, with Nolan directly across from them in the middle, and Logan to their right. Crion approached from their left, tapping his sword against his pant leg as he walked. The other two stepped closer, readying their own weapons. It seemed whatever good humor they’d just shown was gone, a tired resolve coming over them. Thren’s eyes kept bouncing among the three, trying to figure out whom he could slip by most easily.

  “We’re only here because Muzien ordered us to stay,” Thren said, hoping maybe to stall them. “That’s all.”

  “You want to live, you go run out that door,” Crion said, still advancing. “Otherwise stand still and die like a man. It’ll hurt less that way.”

  “Run past him at the same time,” Grayson whispered. “He can’t get us both.”

  It was the only plan Thren could think of with his exhausted mind. Convinced he was about to die, he sucked in a breath, watching for the moment when Crion moved to strike so he could dive out of the way and then flee.

  He never had the chance. Nolan let out a gasp, jerked forward.

  “Ah fuck,” he said as blood ran down his chest, a point of steel poking out between his ribs. He collapsed, revealing Phillip standing behind him with the bloodied blade. He stared at Crion, his face an emotionless mask. Crion froze at the display, then took a step back as both Logan and Phillip approached.

  “I’m not one to share power,” Phillip said. “But for Logan, I think I’d be willing to try. A fortune split in half is still a fortune. Three ways, though?”

  “Three ways is no good,” Logan said, holding high his own dirk. Thren watched them pass by before him, forgotten once more. He and Grayson had merely been a distraction to use against Crion and Nolan, he knew, and he was too tired to decide if he was flattered or annoyed that they’d ever been considered a threat, however momentarily.

  Crion continued backing up, stopping only after he’d slipped through the gap between two of the tables of his meager fortification. Phillip and Logan stood side by side as they neared, weapons at the ready. Thren looked over, caught Grayson staring, and knew they had to act fast.

  “Come on,” he said, elbowing his friend and pointing. “We don’t have much time!”

  As Thren moved, he kept the three in the corner of his eye, cheering on Crion. If he could at least kill one of the other two, then there might still be a chance…

  The fight began without a word spoken among them. Phillip took a step forward, putting him just within arm’s reach, and stabbed. He did it without breaking stride, with Logan still at his side. As Crion brought his sword up to block, Logan leaped over the table, attempting to clear its top. He misjudged the height, banging his shins on the side. As he toppled forward Crion hit once, twice against Phillip’s blade, forcing an opening, and then dove to the ground. He landed with his elbow slamming against Logan’s throat, all his weight driving down on it. After that he rolled, avoiding a desperate lunge by Phillip over the wall.

  And then he was back on his feet, a wolfish grin on his dirty face. There was victory in his eyes, and no doubt Phillip saw it. The table still between them, they engaged once more, swords flashing, but Crion was the better. When his sword pierced Phillip’s throat, and the blade fell from the dying man’s hand, it sounded as if he almost tried to sigh.

  After that, Crion walked back over to where Logan lay, still futilely gasping for air, and drove his sword into his side.

  “About fucking time,” Crion said.

  When he turned their way, Thren and Grayson had armed themselves from Nolan’s now abandoned stash. They held their slender knives before them, up and ready for the attack. Crion saw them and laughed.

  “You two?” he asked, gesturing around the dining hall. There were bodies everywhere, the smell of them rank and coupled with the smell of piss and shit from so many forced to make do without anywhere to defecate. Tables were overturned, food lay smashed into the hard floor, and seeming to cover everything was the blood of the dead. The only clean place was before the exit to the room, and its open door. “Do you really think I’m scared of you two, after all this?”

  “We’re not scared of you,” Grayson said. Thren’s heart pounded, but for the first time since everything had started, he felt in control of matters.

  “And you don’t have to be afraid of us,” Thren said. “You just need to die.”

  Crion approached them, weaving his way around the tables. Grayson and Thren shared a look, then stepped apart. When Crion closed in on Thren, Grayson drifted around to the side, putting himself behind the older man and out of his line of sight. Crion sensed the tactic, and he looked none too pleased.

  “Think you’re going to surround me?” he asked. “I’ve killed dozens of men far faster and better than you.”

  Thren didn’t waste his breath arguing. When Crion moved to attack him, instead of attempting to fight him, he only turned and fled as fast as his legs could carry him. He dove into a roll, kicking out of it to curl around one of the tables, and then ran to the far side of the room. Crion tried to chase, but he was bigger, older, and the obstacles were far more of an annoyance to him. Thren put his back to the wall, sweat running down his neck and his stomach sick, but he’d gained space on his attacker.

  “Slippery devils, aren’t you?” Crion asked. He turned, saw Grayson shadowing him. “But you can’t run away from me forever.”

  We’ll see about that, thought Thren.

  This time Crion went after Grayson, whirling on his feet in an attempt to surprise him. But Grayson had spent the past few years surviving based on his ability to flee from angry merchants, and he knew how to move, how to roll underneath a bench, how to keep his head low and his feet moving regardless of how slick the ground was from spilled blood and food. Crion lost him, and he stood alone in the center of the dining hall, with Thren and Grayson each on the far side.

  “Muzien!” Crion shouted, spinning in place. “I know you can see us! End this madness already! You know who your winner is.”

  No answer.

  Swearing, Crion turned back to Thren, paused. A grin spread across his face, revealing his ugly black teeth, and he went to one of the many weapon caches scattered about the room and picked up several knives.

  “Come on then,” he said, readying one. “You might run fast, but how well can you dodge?”

  Thren tensed as the gray-haired man took careful steps closer, one hand holding his sword, the other readying a knife to throw. Thren watched, watched, and then dove to his knees one way, only to immediately roll the other. The knife thudded against the wall beside him, the wooden handle cracking and breaking. Then he was running, and he heard Crion’s footsteps behind him, heard his heavy breathing. Relying on his instincts, he dove to the side at the first table, rolling underneath as yet another knife clacked against the ground.

  To Grayson he ran, nearly throwing himself against the wall beside his friend. Spinning around, he dared let out a laugh.

  “This isn’t a game!” Crion screamed, grabbing one of the knives.

  “If it is,” Thren said, struggling to catch his breath, “I think we’re winning.”

  Crion hurled the dagger at Grayson, who dodged left into Thren’s side. Luck was with him, for the throw had anticipated his movement, except to the right. Both sprinted away, Thren trailing behind Grayson. Crion swung his sword, missed, and Thren saw his opening. Instead of fleeing he dove straight at Crion, jamming upward with his slender dagger. The tip cut into Crion’s side, tearing flesh. Thren released the weapon so he could run, ducking underneath a frantic blow.

  A smile on his face, Thren reached the other side of the dining hall. Grayson saw the smile, knew what it meant.

  “You got him?” he asked.

  Thren turned, nodded.

  “I did,” he said.

  Crion held his side, trying to stem the blood. The cut wasn’t too deep, but Thren knew there’d be no way for th
e man to bandage it. They wouldn’t give him the time. Crion released his hand, held it up bloody before them, and let out a primal cry. He charged them, but this time there were no games, no letting him get close so they might look for an opening. They stayed on the opposite side no matter where he went. Crion stumbled, he bumped into tables, he slipped once on a pool of spilled wine left by some nameless member of the Sun Guild. All the while his weakened body lost blood.

  Thren felt ready to pass out himself, but he carried on. Just a little while longer, he told himself. Just a tiny bit more.

  At last Crion slumped to the ground in the middle of the dining hall, sword limp in his right hand. Thren and Grayson stalked over to him, as if they were lions and he a wounded animal. Crion saw them coming, and he chuckled.

  “Fuck you, Phillip,” he breathed.

  When the boys were close he flung his sword at Grayson, but the throw was errant, the weapon not designed for such use. It clattered along the ground, leaving him helpless.

  Thren leaped at him first, then pulled away when Crion tried to punch him in the face. Grayson jumped him from behind then, stabbing the man’s back repeatedly. As he screamed and tried to reach around to grab Grayson, Thren took the opening and dove in, stabbing the man’s throat as Crion screamed his denial. When he pulled the dagger free, blood poured across his hands from the gaping wound. Grayson jumped away, and together, each soaked in blood, they watched the man die.

  “Last one,” Grayson said, and he looked ready to vomit.

  “Not quite,” Thren said, and he met his friend’s eye. They each held a weapon, both stained with another man’s blood. Thren opened his mouth to say something, but didn’t know what to say. Grayson, however, was the better of them.

  “No,” he said. “It is.”

  He dropped his dagger.

  Thren took a step closer, grip tightening on his own dagger. This was his chance, a way to ensure that Muzien would not be disappointed in him. But after all they’d done, all they had endured in both the streets of Mordeina and the dining hall of the Sun Guild…

  Thren dropped his dagger.

  “Enough!”

  Together they turned around and fell to their knees as Muzien the Darkhand stepped into the room. His face was a calm mask, but his eyes seemed to shine.

  “You were but a gamble and a dream,” he said as he approached. “Never did I believe you would succeed. But you did, you two did. The Sun Guild’s future has never been brighter than at this very moment.”

  Thren felt something burning in his chest, and he wondered what it was. Pain? Hunger?

  It felt good, though. It felt like worth. It felt like pride. It felt as if a legend had just given him meaning and purpose. When he glanced at Grayson, he saw that same understanding revealing itself as a giant grin on his dark-skinned friend’s face.

  “Follow me,” Muzien said, taking them toward the exit. There seemed to be a bounce to his step, and an excitement to his voice. “You both will need to recover, and I’ll ensure you have food and drink ready for you in your rooms.”

  They stepped out the door, and as they did Thren let out a gasp.

  All around the door lay the bodies of dozens of men and women, all those who had left earlier. They had died the exact same way, their throats slit, no doubt denying them their dying screams. Thren looked to Muzien, and he felt growing in his addled brain an understanding of just what type of man their lives were now sworn to, of what kind of kingdom he was expected to build.

  “Why?” he dared ask.

  Muzien frowned at the bodies, as if he hadn’t noticed their presence until Thren asked about them.

  “The door was a gift for the weak, nothing more. A man or woman unwilling to risk everything is someone I do not want in the ranks of my guild.”

  He turned, knelt before the two so they might see eye to eye. His presence held Thren captive, the strength of his will a frightening portent of all to come.

  “In the coming days, you will discover whatever limits your body had were merely lies,” he said. “In the coming months, I will subject you to what other men might call torture. In the coming years, you will learn to how to bring death to the invincible, how to wield a blade with the skill of a god. Every king must have his heirs, and I will have heirs worthy of my legend. You will know pain, you will know fear, and at times you will cry out for death to spare you.”

  Muzien stood, beckoned them with his blackened hand.

  “Never forget,” he told them, “that the door is always open. Never forget, my children, that in your time of suffering, you chose not to step through it.”

  Stealing Hearts

  “This feels like a lot of effort for a simple party,” Marion Lightborn said as the carriage rolled through the crowded streets of Mordeina. “Will it really be as dazzling as you say?”

  Kyle Garland sat opposite her in the carriage, and he gave her a patronizing smile.

  “How many times must I tell you, it is not a simple party.”

  Marion shifted the length of her skirt, made of a fine red silk that came to a stop just above her knee. With her sitting, it had pulled even higher, and she caught Kyle stealing glances, no doubt hoping to see beyond the dark skin of her thighs.

  “Let me count,” she said, putting a hand to her chin and pretending to think hard. “At least twice a day the past month you’ve bragged about how great this Kensgold thing will be, at least three times a day told me of its amazing importance. Oh dear me, I fear my little head will not be able to count that high, after all.”

  Kyle shifted in his seat, never comfortable when he was being mocked no matter how lightly. He ran a hand through his long dark hair, a nervous tic of his.

  “My dear, if you just want me to put your nerves at ease, I assure you that the evening will be worthwhile, even for you.”

  Marion batted her eyes at him.

  “What do you mean, even for me?”

  “I mean that I go because it is expected,” Kyle said. The carriage hit a bump, and the jolt knocked his right elbow against the side. He sucked in air through his gritted teeth, then let it out with a curse. With his left hand he rubbed a ring on his right forefinger, one containing an enormous ruby set into an elaborate band of gold, the rubbing another nervous tic of his.

  “Expected,” he resumed. “When all the families of the Trifect gather, it’s career suicide not to attend if at all possible, this one in particular. It’s the first Kensgold held west of Neldar, which means anyone with even the slightest reputation will be begging, borrowing, and stealing to make it inside. I’ll have a dozen new trade contracts for our finest leaf and wine shipping east within a week of the Kensgold’s end. Perhaps for you it’ll be…duller, but at least the food will be good, and each Kensgold has a wide variety of entertainment. Surely a juggler or storyteller…”

  “A juggler!” Marion interrupted. “Praise the gods, I might get to see a juggler!”

  Kyle laughed, and he pinched her knee.

  “Complain all you want, but I assure you, tonight will be fun.”

  Marion smiled at him.

  “I hope so,” she said.

  The carriage rolled to a stop, and Kyle glanced out the window.

  “We’re here,” he said. “Do your best to behave.”

  “Behave?” Marion asked. “And to think you always seem to be trying your best to have me not behave. Or is that only for the bedroom?”

  The man’s neck flushed red, and he did not respond as he opened the door. After stepping out, he turned and offered her his hand. She took it, then curled her arm around his and nestled her neck against his shoulder. Her dark hair spilled down along the front of his white sleeve, a startling contrast. When she stole a glance at him, he looked so pleased his head was ready to burst. Marion knew what she was to Kyle, a pretty decoration for him to show off to his friends and colleagues, but it didn’t bother her much. Stealing a glance at her own red dress, she had to admit she made a fine decoration, one to be
envious of indeed.

  “Master,” said a voice behind them. “The guards are many, and the area safe, so long as you stay within the walls.”

  Marion turned to see Kyle’s two private bodyguards hopping down from the driver’s seat of the carriage after a servant rushed up to take over. Both were female, and wore tightly fitted black shirts, slender pants, and thick boots of dark leather. Strapped to their sides were long curved daggers. Most disconcerting to Marion were the featureless masks covering their faces, smooth and white. Only their eyes were visible, and it was the eyes Marion used to distinguish between them. One had green eyes, the other brown. It was Green who was talking, her voice slightly muffled by her mask.

  “I’m glad you approve,” Kyle told her. “Though I still want you close. The last thing I need is someone eyeing the Heart of Ker and getting sticky fingers.”

  “You worry about nothing,” Marion said, squeezing his arm and urging him along. “Now come. I want to find myself a juggler.”

  The three wealthy families of the Trifect all lived in the east, but they still owned many homes and businesses all throughout Dezrel. Before them was a great mansion owned by Maynard Gemcroft, the place alight with torches burning behind colored glass. The grounds between the wall and the mansion were filled with men and women talking, all in their very finest outfits. Servants flitted everywhere, carrying a seemingly endless horde of things to eat and drink. At the gate Kyle bowed to the middle-aged advisor who checked everyone’s invitations.

  “I don’t need to present my invitation, do I, Bertram?” Kyle asked when it was their turn.

  “Lord Garland,” said Bertram. “No, you do not, for I sent yours personally. It is your wine I prefer above all others when a hard day needs to be put behind me.”

  He beckoned for them to pass through the soldiers guarding the gate, and together the group of four passed. Once they were inside, Marion saw Kyle’s eyes begin to wander. At first they went to the older men scattered about, wealthy traders who had built vast empires across the land of Dezrel. After that to the many women wearing silken outfits that more often than not enhanced, and hid little of, their curvaceous bodies. They clung to the arms of their men, mouths closed, eyes alight, as if being in their very presence was a blessed gift. It made Marion sick to think that she was one of them.