Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “Well, then,” Maneth said once they were alone. “Care to tell me your names and why you’ve come all this way to seek out the Sun Guild? Any idiot can tell you three aren’t from around here.”

  Thren grinned.

  “My name is the only one that matters. I am Thren Felhorn, of Veldaren.”

  Maneth didn’t even try to hide his surprise.

  “Thren?” he asked. “You’re not lying to me, are ya?”

  “Not many men are brave enough to pretend to be me.”

  Maneth let out a dismissive snort.

  “If you say so. Still, you match the stories I’ve heard, most of them, anyway. Must say, you traveling with a priestess of Ashhur doesn’t quite fit. Care to tell me why you’re with this barbarian, sweetheart?”

  He likely thought Delysia would blush or appear flustered by the sudden question, but she only flashed him a smile.

  “Someone must keep the barbarian in line.”

  Maneth laughed, loud and boisterous.

  “Indeed, indeed. Well, Thren, let me formally introduce myself. I’m Maneth Trout. I grew up here, believe it or not, then trundled all the way north to Mordeina thinking to make myself a fortune. Joined the Sun Guild only to find myself sent back home to keep an eye on things. If you’re looking for information in these parts, I’m sure I know a little something about everything the heir of Muzien might need to know.”

  Heir of Muzien?

  Haern looked to his father, curious as to what that meant, and it seemed Thren wasn’t too keen on the title, either. Haern caught his brief flash of disgust before he smoothly smiled it away.

  “Let’s find out,” Thren said. “What do you know of the Stronghold?”

  It was the second time for Maneth to laugh in surprise.

  “The Stronghold? I know you don’t mess with it, Thren. That’s the dark paladins’ home. Unless you want to walk in bowing your head and carrying a bagful of gold in offering, I’d stay far away.”

  “We have no plans to do either,” Haern said. “There’s a man inside we need to kill.”

  Maneth glared at him.

  “Thren, tell your lackey to stay out of our business,” he said.

  Haern’s hands were moving for his swords when Thren reached out and grabbed his shoulder.

  “Now’s not the time for a temper,” he said.

  Haern let go of the hilts, did his best to ignore Maneth’s ugly grin. As he stood there seething, he felt Delysia’s hands slip into his, and she leaned up to his ear so she could whisper.

  “That’s right; behave, lackey, or no dessert for you.”

  He heard her choke down a laugh, and Haern found himself unable to remain angry, not with her so close.

  “Listen,” Maneth said, turning his attention back to Thren. “We don’t mess with servants of Karak, and they don’t mess with us. It’s a nice agreement we’ve reached in Mordeina, and thankfully, it’s made its way down here to little old Trass. If you’re thinking of infiltrating their home, you’ve come to the wrong guy.”

  “You know I’m not buying that,” Thren said. “Muzien has a plan for anything and everything, and taking out the dark paladins in their home will certainly be one he’s prepared for.”

  Maneth shrugged.

  “If he has, he sure as shit hasn’t told me. You’re on your own with this.”

  Haern could see his father’s displeasure, but at the same time, neither did he look surprised. Apparently, contacting a member of the Sun Guild had been at best a reach.

  “Thank you for your help, however little it was,” Thren said. He turned to Haern and Delysia. “Let’s go.”

  “Hey,” Maneth said, taking a step after them. “Just because I don’t know how you’d get into that damn place doesn’t mean I’m empty of ideas.”

  Thren looked back over his shoulder.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “About ten miles south of here along the river is a town called Leen. There’s a paladin of Karak who preaches to the people. I’ve met him a few times; his name’s Jorakai. If you were hoping to find out any weaknesses or vulnerabilities of the Stronghold, well…” He shrugged. “Perhaps you can have a nice, long, painful chat with Jorakai.”

  Thren nodded but said nothing. As the three left the commons, Haern moved in step beside Thren.

  “What next?” he asked.

  “Next, we refill our supplies,” Thren said. “And after that, we head south.”

  They’d traveled only a few miles before night fell and they were forced to make camp. Haern and Delysia prepared a fire, cooked some of the fresh meat they’d purchased prior to leaving Trass, then ate in silence. Thren, as had been his custom over the past week, let them be, always saying he preferred solitude whenever asked. Haern was never sure if he lingered about, watching, or if he truly did want to be away from them.

  Delysia tossed aside the bones from the leg of a chicken, the remnants of her meal. That done, she slid closer to both Haern and the fire, both of which were in the center of the matted grass that served as the seldom-traveled road.

  “This plan is reckless,” she said, stirring him from his thoughts. “You do know that, don’t you?”

  Haern took another bite, tossed a bone into the fire.

  “Of course it is,” he said. “The whole idea is reckless, but what else could possibly work? One nice thing about insanity is that no one can predict it.”

  “You’re going to torture a man for information, a man who’ll be trained to withstand it. This won’t be quick and it won’t be easy. Is that something you can do? Something you want to do?”

  “What do you want from me, Delysia?” Haern asked. He kept his irritation out of his voice, but she no doubt sensed it anyway. “No, I don’t want to, but this is a paladin of Karak we’re talking about here. They aren’t good men. They aren’t noble. They’re killers of a mad god, and if Luther’s using them as his own personal bodyguards, then we need to find out what they know. We have to discover any secrets, any weaknesses, and yes, that means we’ll have to shed blood.”

  She pulled her knees up to her chest and curled her arms around them.

  “Hours,” she said. “It’s going to take hours.”

  “I’m better than that, Delysia. He’ll talk, no matter his training. I learned from the best, remember?”

  Her face darkened.

  “And that is something to be proud of?” she asked him.

  To that he had no answer. Was he proud of it? It was a skill, one he’d rarely used but learned nonetheless. Part of him wanted to be proud, to brag of how no punishment could break him, yet all would break to him if given the time. He was the son of Thren Felhorn, and he’d learned many things from his father and his cavalcade of tutors.

  “And when you’re done,” she asked, “after you’ve tortured and beaten this man, what then will you do?”

  Haern lifted his hands in surrender.

  “We cannot have him warn the Stronghold of our approach,” he said. “Which means I’ll do what needs to be done.”

  Delysia stood, went to her blanket, and wrapped herself tight atop her bedroll.

  “Good night, Haern,” she said. Her back was to him, and he knew it was intentional. Haern watched her, let out a sigh, then tossed the rest of his own meal.

  “Maybe you should have stayed home,” he whispered.

  Haern stood and wandered north, following the road. He wanted a moment to himself, to think without anyone’s presence. He’d been a loner all his life, needing times of solitude even when a child. Patrolling the rooftops of Veldaren used to give him all he could possibly want of quiet and isolation, but traveling with Thren, and now Delysia, had worn on him over the weeks. So, upon the path he walked, short grass crunching beneath his feet, as he gazed up at the stars.

  “I do this for hundreds of thousands,” he said to the sky, imagining Ashhur up there among them, gazing down. It made his presence feel more real, made it seem as if his questions were heard,
even if he expected no answer. “Hundreds of thousands, and all I have to do is kill a few evil men, men who worship your brother. Will you judge me for this?”

  “Ashhur might,” said Thren from behind him. Haern felt his neck flush, and he turned to see his father approaching from farther down the road. Embarrassed at having such a private moment overheard, he didn’t know what to say, only kept walking as his father quickened his pace to catch up.

  “You have no reason to feel guilty for what we are to do,” Thren said. “Especially not because of what you think some god in the stars might say.”

  “You know nothing of my beliefs,” Haern said. “And I will not listen to you mock them.”

  Thren looked his way, his face lit by the moonlight. As he often did, he looked disappointed.

  “I do not mock, but neither am I ignorant of what you believe, not if you confess Ashhur as your god. Though you must forgive me for my surprise. Much of what you do seems contrary to his teachings, so it seems odd to me that you might question him now.”

  Talking of gods with his father stirred dozens of buried memories, each one making him grow angrier. He thought of Robert Haern, executed for teaching little Aaron Felhorn of Ashhur. He thought of Delius Eschaton, stabbed in the chest for daring to speak out against the thief guilds and demand a better way. Worst, though, was of that single arrow piercing Delysia’s chest in a moment of prayer.

  “You would never understand,” Haern told him. “You’re everything Ashhur hates.”

  At this, Thren laughed.

  “Perhaps, but you insult me by pretending I know so little. I know plenty, Watcher. I know of his forced forgiveness, of his belief that even the lowliest man or woman is equal to the greatest of kings. Delusions, lies, fairy tales, call them what you want, but they don’t fit the real world. The scum you kill, the scum that serve me, would you put them as your equal?”

  “No, but that’s not what Ashhur…”

  “That’s exactly what Ashhur means,” Thren said, refusing to let him finish. “The soul of a man who murders children and fucks their corpses is just as precious as the little children who that man kills. Equal, Ashhur says, equal in need of forgiveness, equal in value in the eyes of a weak, blind god. But this world has monsters, Haern. It has people like me, and if you think I’ll be defeated by a righteous man who bends his knee instead of striking back, then you’re just as delusional as Ashhur.”

  Haern felt his hands curling into fists, and great as his anger was, he still felt helpless.

  “You don’t see it,” Haern said. “The absolute beauty in witnessing something this whole world views as wretched and worthless be lifted up, loved, and made valuable again.”

  “What you see as beauty, I see as travesty,” said Thren. “Let a man reap what he sows from his actions, not be spared it by a moment of weakness and a few words on his tongue. The gods are a blight on our world, all three of them, and the sooner we excise their presence, the better.”

  They ceased their walking, the campfire dwindled far behind them. Haern felt his emotions all stirred, his tongue unable to articulate what he felt or his heart know for certain what that might even be. Over and over, he saw the arrow piercing Delysia’s chest, and it was the only argument he had, the greatest denial he could offer, but to speak of that moment would reveal his identity to his father, and right then, the very idea terrified him.

  “You’re wrong,” he said, the only argument he could summon. “You’d have us abandon everything and descend into anarchy.”

  “The strong take from the weak,” Thren said. “I need no other universal truth than that.”

  Haern started to argue, then froze. The path they walked upon, while grass, was still short and bent from the occasional carts and feet that traversed it. Beyond it was far taller grass stretching out across the plains, and in that grass he saw movement. It wasn’t much, just a swish of blades against the soft wind, or a deepened shadow where there should be none.

  “Thren,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’re being watched.”

  Thren’s hands drifted to the hilts of his swords as he curled around, standing in front of Haern.

  “I see them,” he said. “There’s … shit.”

  From the tall grass they emerged, twelve men, six wielding crossbows, six wielding swords and daggers. Their clothes were dark grays and browns, all but for the small yellow star sewn upon their chests. Across their mouths, they’d tied thick cloths hiding much of their faces. They formed a circle surrounding Haern and Thren, and leading the band was a smugly amused Maneth, the only one with his face exposed.

  “Well, now,” he said, grinning as he tossed his dagger from hand to hand. “You two seem rather unhappy. Did I interrupt a lovers’ quarrel?”

  “What business do you have with us, Maneth?” Thren asked, still poised to draw his blades. Haern shifted so that his own back was to Thren, doing what he could to prevent them from being surprised by any side.

  “Come, now,” Maneth said. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. You should never think you have the jump on Muzien. You think we haven’t heard of your rebellious actions when Grayson moved into Veldaren? You should have helped him. You should have gladly welcomed the Sun Guild’s arrival, but it seems you did not.”

  “Did you hear what happened to Grayson?” Thren asked, body tensing. “Did you hear how I slit him open and had him bleed out before me?”

  Maneth’s smile faltered the tiniest bit.

  “Muzien feared as much,” Maneth said. “There’ll be no allies for you in the west, Thren. We’ve all been told to keep an eye out for your passing. The Spider Guild is no friend of the Sun, not anymore. Now lift up your hands and surrender. Our orders aren’t to kill you, just bring you back to the Darkhand. That is, so long as you don’t resist…”

  Haern scanned their ambushers, taking stock of where they were, what threat they presented. The men with melee weapons frightened him little. With his and Thren’s skill, they’d need far more than six to take them down. The crossbows were a different matter. All it’d take was one good shot …

  “I’m impressed by your confidence,” Thren said, “but if you think a few local members of the Sun Guild you rounded up on short notice present me any threat, you’re out of your damn mind. Get out of my way, Maneth, before I send your head to Muzien in a bag.”

  “We might not be as skilled as you,” Maneth said, “but our master is wealthy beyond measure, and that lets us afford such wonderful toys…”

  He flung his dagger, and it twirled end over end toward Thren’s chest. Haern braced, expecting the attack to begin, but it did not. Thren drew his own swords with blinding speed, and with one blade, he batted the dagger out of the air. Instead of it flying away, it shattered, exploding into shards that pierced Thren’s chest. Accompanying its breaking was a tremendous burst of smoke, and the moment Haern breathed it in, he felt as if his lungs were on fire. He readied his swords, holding his breath even as his eyes watered. The smoke continued to spread, and his eyes itched as if someone had tossed pepper into them.

  Behind him, Thren fell to his knees, screaming out in pain as blood dripped down his chest.

  “Take Thren,” Maneth said to his men. “Kill the lackey.”

  Despite the smoke in his eyes, despite the burning in his lungs, Haern grinned.

  Lackey? Oh, how wrong he was about to show that bastard to be.

  As much as the smoke burned, he knew it would aid in disguising his movements. He spun in place once before dropping to the ground, his cloak whipping above him. He heard the twang of crossbow strings, felt tugs on his cloak as the bolts pierced through, and then he was on the move, his swords drawn and hungry in his hands. He leaped opposite of Maneth, crashing into two men with daggers. Neither looked prepared for his sudden onslaught, and he gave them no chance to recover. The first failed to parry his thrust in time, and as the saber drove into his belly, Haern batted aside the other’s dagger and then cut across his face. The man
stumbled away, and when Haern yanked his blade free, he leaped at the man, burying both swords in his chest to finish him off.

  Shouts of warning called from all sides, but the exchange had lasted only seconds, and so long as he kept moving, he knew he had a chance. To his right he rushed, to where a man was frantically trying to reload his crossbow. A single cut and down he went. Two more beside him readied their weapons, and they rushed headlong into his charge. Haern’s eyes were filled with water as he stood before them, batting their swords about as if they were playthings. A buzzing grew in his head, a strange feeling that filled him with worry. His throat felt raw, his breath shallow. The smoke was still affecting him, and he pressed his attack before the two could try to take advantage of it. A well-placed kick to the groin sent the man on his left to the ground, and he rammed both his blades into the throat of the other. A step, a shift, and he pushed the tip of a saber through the eye of the man he kicked.

  “Just fucking die already,” Maneth shouted, hurling two more daggers. Haern spun, twisting to move his body out of the way. Instinct told him both were like the ones that had taken down his father. When they hit the ground behind him, they shattered, and shards shot high into the air. Haern dropped just before, curling down to avoid the upward spray of metal. With them came the smoke, now overwhelming. Haern pressed his cloak against his mouth, and breathing through it did help, but there was little he could do for his eyes.

  Sight useless, he closed his eyes and remained hunkered down in the smoke, trying to decide his next move. He’d killed less than half of the ambushers. Not good enough. Disabled as he was, there’d be no winning against such overwhelming numbers … which meant doing something to change the situation. Despite his light-headedness, he rolled out of the smoke toward the tall grass and then broke into a run. He heard another twang, saw a bolt zip by mere inches from his head. Another twang, and this time he was not so lucky. Pain shot through him as a heavy force smacked into his right side, just left of his shoulder. Letting out a gasp, he pushed himself on even as warm blood ran down his back. More cries, but Haern trusted his speed, and he ran until he felt his lungs ready to burst. Feeling he’d gained enough distance, he dropped to the ground, sliding on one leg and then flipping about to crouch on his knees. The grass around him was plenty high enough to hide in, and finally in fresh air, he rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the water and forcing himself to see through the sting.