Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “He is.”

  “A shame. Mihir was a good man.”

  “He died a quick death, if that makes you feel better.”

  Luther chuckled.

  “Little can make me feel better, Thren. I fear my capacity for joy has been permanently ruined.”

  Thren ignored him, instead continuing to twirl the sword, slowly, his fingers in masterful control of the leather and steel. He stared at Luther, analyzing him, judging him.

  “Why?” he asked.

  Luther shifted, trying to find a measure of comfort, given one hand was stabbed and bleeding and the other roughly tied behind his back.

  “Such a large, vague question,” he answered. “One my order has devoted a great many of its years to solving. Could you be more specific?”

  “I’m in no mood for jokes or sarcasm, priest. You know who I am, which means you know why I’m here. You sent the Sun Guild into Veldaren with aims to kill me. I want to know why.”

  “Untie my hand, and I will tell you,” Luther said.

  Thren tensed, the twirling of his sword halting.

  “I am no fool,” he said.

  “And neither am I. You are here, which means I am a dead man. But even if I could, I would make no move against you. I’ve been waiting for you, Thren. Waiting for you to do the impossible, and to come to me, because truth be told, I need you alive. Why else would I have come to you in a dream to show you the way?”

  Thren looked undecided, and it was clearly an emotion he was unaccustomed to. Debating wordlessly with himself, at last he sat up from his bed, cut through the ropes holding Luther to the chair, and then sat back down on the bed. The dagger he left embedded.

  “There,” he said. “Now talk. Why did you want to destroy my Spider Guild?”

  “I had no animosity toward your guild in particular,” Luther said. “I needed all of the guilds weakened so the Sun Guild might come in as I requested. You were the strongest of them, the one most likely to withstand their arrival. I expect you to be familiar with such a role by now, Thren. The tallest must first duck the swing of a reaper’s scythe.”

  “And the Widow?”

  Luther thought of what he’d known of Stephen Conning-ton, and he shook his head sadly.

  “A poor child with a horrific past,” he said. “His mind was damaged beyond repair. I did my best to contain his more vile habits, to direct them to better uses, but over such distance, my control was limited.”

  Thren stabbed his sword into the wood floor, put both his hands upon the hilt, and rested his lips against his knuckles. The man stared at him, his concentration frighteningly intense.

  “For what reason?” he asked at last. “What is your hope, the goal of your little game? Have Karak’s followers decided to make a move on my city?”

  “In a way, you are right,” Luther said, “but not how you believe. The paladins and priesthood have nothing to do with my plans, Thren. I am very much alone but for a trusted few.”

  “You can’t expect me to believe that,” Thren said. “You’re a powerful priest of Karak, hidden in the top of the Stronghold…”

  “Held prisoner atop the Stronghold,” Luther interrupted. “Or did you not notice the guard and locked door?”

  “Something else I fail to understand. Why are you a prisoner here?”

  Luther thought over the past months, of his vague letters to Daverik and his shadowed conversations using the chrysarium.

  “I presented ideas some might consider … heretical,” he said at last.

  Thren stood, and he pointed his sword at Luther, the tip hovering less than an inch from his neck.

  “You’re lying,” he said. “I may not bow to Karak, but I know enough about those who do. A heretic of Karak within the faithful? You’d have been sacrificed within hours, yet here you are. I don’t believe it.”

  Luther laughed.

  “Then your mind is more closed than I thought. My faith has never wavered for my god, Thren, not once. They performed every test, subjected me to fire and spell, and always the outcome was the same. There is no denying my beliefs, and given my years serving the Lion, there are many who would defend my zeal. So, here I am, locked in a room, a thorn in the priesthood’s side that they cannot decide how to deal with. Perhaps in a few years, they’ll poison my food or send in a younger paladin with a blade. Perhaps they’ll merely leave me here to wither away and die. In the end, it doesn’t matter. The next few months are the ones that will decide the fate of our world, and I doubt I will live to see them.”

  The conversation was clearly not going where Thren had expected it, and after a moment of doubt, he sat back down on the bed, sword across his lap.

  “Enough cryptic talk,” he said. “The fate of our world? I’ll not hear such tales. Whatever you’re doing, you thought it was the best for your god. You want Karak’s presence strengthened in Veldaren somehow, just admit it.”

  “I have betrayed my god, you damn fool,” Luther said, his voice rising loud enough to spur Thren back to his feet. Knuckles smacked across his mouth, cutting open a lip, and as the blood dripped down, Luther laughed at how ridiculous it felt that the sting in his mouth momentarily hurt worse than the dagger still embedded in his hand.

  “At least, betrayed who he is now,” Luther continued despite Thren’s glare. “My heresy was in suggesting that the god we know, the god we think we serve, is not the same god we first worshipped when he walked the lands centuries ago. My only wonder is if our god himself changed … or only our understanding of him, an understanding largely shaped by a single man. The First Man, once known as the Eveningstar, the only human crafted by the hands of both brother gods prior to the war that tore them apart. He is a wretched being who denies death’s authority over him, a man who sows chaos while preaching order. Life is nothing to him. Humanity means nothing to him.”

  “His name?” asked Thren. “What is his name?”

  Luther felt a weight settle on his chest.

  “He is known as the prophet, the beast of a thousand faces, the voice of the Lion. His name is Velixar, and for the past year, I have done all I can to protect our world from his coming wrath. Even if it meant disobeying my order. Even if it meant plotting in secret and bringing chaos and disorder to your city of Veldaren.”

  It was too much for Thren to take in, Luther could tell. The man stared at him, meeting his eyes as if to force the truth from him through sheer conviction. Luther met that stare unafraid. He felt no shame for what he’d done, and every word he spoke was the truth, for the first time confessed by his lips to anyone other than himself. Even in his prayers to Karak, he had denied himself full honesty, for what did it mean to pray to a god while working against his own prophet? What kind of man would worship a god yet still deny what he might have become?

  Only a madman, Luther knew, and it fit him perfectly. A madman plotting against his own order, a madman spurring chaos into an already-broken city.

  “The Sun Guild?” Thren asked. “What is their part?”

  “I needed someone who could stand against you all,” Luther said. “Someone with no connection to the priesthood in Veldaren. Muzien has eyed your city since you and Grayson went there to conquer it, and when I came to him offering bribes and the aid of Karak, his ears were listening. All I requested was that he transport the stone tiles bearing the symbol of his guild that I made for him into the city. Those tiles … I’ve personally cast spells upon every single one prior to my imprisonment. Those tiles are the key, Thren, the key to saving Veldaren from the prophet’s return. Muzien’s rise, his takeover of the streets … all of it is merely my means to an end.”

  “That end being saving the city from this prophet, Velixar,” Thren said. “Why do you fear him so? Does he command an army? Will he lay siege to its walls? What threat can he possibly present to our world that would leave you so terrified?”

  Luther swallowed, and he almost lied. This was a truth known to a rare few, and telling a man like Thren Felhorn was
a leap of faith so great, it was a stretch even for him. But in the end, he knew he had to trust his instincts. Thren could be one to bear the necessary burden, but only if he knew the truth in its entirety.

  “Karak and Ashhur are not from this world,” Luther said. “They came from another, one they fled from out of failure. Humanity’s birth here, overseen by the elven Goddess, was an attempt at redemption that went predictably awry. The world they came from, one of thousands, is a dangerous place now … and it is behind Veldaren’s throne that the brother gods first stepped into our world. That place is a crack in a sheet of armor, a torn thread in a great tapestry, a doorway between worlds that the prophet must not be allowed access to at all costs.”

  Thren’s blue eyes bored into him, filled with doubt. Luther knew he had to convince him, and he prayed the words would come to his tongue at the proper time.

  “So, this prophet,” Thren said slowly, as if everything he’d heard was tumbling and clicking in his mind, a puzzle stubbornly coming together. “This … Velixar … seeks access to the throne. That is what you’re telling me?”

  “It is,” Luther insisted. “He’s tried before, and he will soon try again. He cannot succeed. If he does, devastation will envelop the land, of a scope we have not seen since the Gods’ War ages ago. There are more gods than Karak and Ashhur, and Velixar would have them come into our world in an attempt to free Karak from his prison. Mankind will be decimated, and whatever freedom you think you know will vanish. The prophet would have all living men and women kneel before the Lion. Those who refuse will receive death. Do you understand, Thren? Why I’ve done all I’ve done? Why I have sacrificed everything to prevent the complete ruination of our civilization and the end of all free will?”

  “You’re a madman,” Thren said.

  “I’ve long thought the same of you … though I tend to use it as a term of respect.”

  Luther reached into his robe, and from around his neck, he pulled out a slender amulet crafted of gold and with a roaring lion etched into its circular center. Thren tensed at the sight of it, sensing a trap, but then Luther tossed it onto the desk before him.

  “It was a last resort,” he said. “I’ve tried convincing my order to turn against the prophet’s ideals, to realize they were a sickening distortion of the god we all loved. In return, I received accusations of heresy. A god cannot change, they tell me, even though our own doctrines have changed again and again. You must believe me, I’ve tried everything, all I know, but this world is stubborn, full of bleak hearts and wounded children. The tiles are all across Veldaren by now, but they’re nothing without this amulet. It’s the key, Thren, and I want you to have it. The fate of our world, I want it in your hands.”

  Whatever anger and confusion Thren had shown was lost, now replaced with a look Luther recognized, oh, so well: exhaustion.

  “Why me?” he asked. “I don’t know you, have never even heard of you. I’ve not once bent the knee to Karak. My connection to the priests in Veldaren is sparse and only when absolutely necessary. I want no part of the gods, no part of their war, their dogma and traditions.”

  “Exactly,” said Luther. “You have always cherished your humanity above gods and kings, and not once have you hesitated at the thought of blood on your hands. Right now, I need someone like you. Someone who will have the courage to do what I cannot to protect our world.”

  “This amulet,” Thren asked him, lifting it off the desk. “What does it do?”

  “With a word, it activates the magic I’ve placed within the tiles,” Luther said.

  Thren’s frown deepened.

  “And what exactly will that magic do?”

  This was it, the last piece of the puzzle. If Thren refused, there would be no other to take up the mantle. Taking in a deep breath, he pushed away his fear, his nervousness, and told him everything. As he spoke, he watched an awakening horror spread across the master thief’s face. When Luther finished, Thren had fallen perfectly still, and it seemed even his breathing had stopped.

  “Do you understand now?” Luther asked him. “Why I trust you? Why I feel you are one of the few with the strength to bear such a burden?” He chuckled. “The gods help me, I know I could not. I am weak, and so I have remained here, hiding like a coward. It was only when I heard of Grayson Lightborn’s death that I knew you would come for me. You’ve brought me hope, Thren. Seize it. Declare to the world we will be the pawns of gods no longer.”

  The pain in his hand was increasing, and he could see parts where it was darkening, congealing against the shining edge of the blade. He stared at the red and black, unable to meet Thren’s gaze.

  “You’ve played me, my guild, my entire city as if you were a god,” Thren told him, and the sharpness of a blade pressed against his back. “You know I cannot let you live after that.”

  Luther slowly nodded, and he took in a deep breath. This was it, a moment he’d long known was coming. Eternity approached, yet which god would want him? Ashhur, who he had preached against all his life? Or Karak, whom he now actively betrayed?

  “Will you do it?” he asked. “If the gates fall, if the prophet’s army marches upon the castle, will you do it?”

  Thren ripped out the dagger from his palm, and Luther choked down his pained cry. As warm blood spilled across his desk, seeping into the pages of the book before him, he felt water building in his eyes.

  “I don’t know,” said Thren, but he put the amulet around his neck, and for Luther, that was sign enough.

  “Do not fail me,” he said, and he heard his voice crack. “You need to be strong, or the whole world suffers. There’s good in what I’ve done, but unless you’re strong, it’ll all have been in vain.”

  “Strong?” Thren said softly. “It is all I know. When my childhood died, Muzien left me with little else.”

  The sword at his back pulled away, and he knew it prepared for a thrust. The cruelty of Luther’s plan, its sheer hopelessness, rushed through his mind. It burned him with guilt, and he loathed it, yet amid such thoughts came the words of a lost friend, and he spoke them aloud as if they came from the grave.

  “We save this world by healing it,” Luther whispered. “Not with fire. Not with destruction.” He felt tears running down his face. “Forgive me, Jerico, but I saw no other way.”

  Forward came the blade, pain bursting into him, and as the blood poured across his chest, he closed his eyes and gave up his breath.

  CHAPTER

  18

  Haern didn’t fall very far, or for very long, before he landed on stone. It was sharply curved and perfectly smooth. He grabbed at it, searching for handholds, but there were none to be found. Down into the darkness he slid, unable to slow his descent. Haern tried kicking to one side, hoping to wedge himself in whatever chute he was sliding down, but he only succeeded in turning himself a different direction, and headfirst he flew.

  The stone vanished, he was falling, and then he landed upon uneven ground. He heard the rattle of bones, felt pieces of something sharp digging into him. Letting out a groan from the pain, he rolled over and felt at what he’d landed on, for he had no hope of seeing it in the pitch black.

  They were the bones of a man or woman, long since deceased. It did little to improve Haern’s opinion of his situation.

  “Left to starve,” he muttered. “Gods damn it, is this how it all ends, starving in the darkness?”

  “Not quite,” said a voice, and the surprise nearly stopped his heart. He rolled to his knees and turned to face the direction the voice had come from. At first, he thought his mind played tricks on him, but he saw the faintest hint of blue light twinkling in the distance. As he watched, it grew stronger, larger, until he could see clearly the blue flame of a torch, only it burned on nothing, merely floated in the air like a bizarre sun. With its light, he could better see the reaches of his room, though it was less of a room and more of a cave. There appeared no doors or further passages, just a circular dome with a ceiling covered with sta
lactites, maybe a hundred feet from one side to the other. Covering the floor were bones, and sitting beneath the magical torchlight, his face an ashen gray and his rustic armor covered with dust, was a man with a long scar on his cheek.

  “Welcome to my home,” said the man. “It has been a very, very long time since I had company.”

  Haern stood, both hands falling to the swords at his belt.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “Where am I?”

  “Beneath the Stronghold,” said the man. “In a place forgotten by most, though I would guess you knew that. As for who I am, well…”

  He rose to his feet, dust billowing off of him. His armor groaned with each movement, and the way he moved, the way his joints cracked, made it seem as if he were a statue come to life. When at his full height, he stood at attention and saluted.

  “Boris Marchant, at your service,” he said, his deep voice scratchy and frightening in the enclosed space.

  “Well, Boris,” said Haern, trying not to panic, “care to tell me how to get out of here?”

  Boris laughed.

  “Look at me,” he said. “If there were a way out, do you think I would still be down here?”

  It was hardly what Haern wanted to hear, not that he could deny the logic.

  “Perhaps you want to be down here,” Haern said, hoping to keep the man talking. Something about him unnerved Haern immensely. He hardly carried the look of a paladin of Karak. In fact, he bore no markings at all of the god. His clothes were ratty and torn, and his armor was of a most peculiar make. He’d not seen banded mail of that style before, nor did he recognize the crudely drawn golden hawk on his chest. Much of it was crumbling along the edges, the metal tinted with green. At his side was an ancient sword, still sheathed.

  At Haern’s words, Boris erupted into laughter that went on for far too long.

  “Want to be down here?” he asked when finished composing himself. He wiped at his face as if to remove a tear, yet there was not a hint of moisture on his skin. “Oh, no, good sir, I do not want to be down here. I have not wanted to be down here for decades, yet still I am.”