Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “Try harder,” Haern told him, unable to help himself.

  The man pulled back to swing again, but Haern was faster. Kicking his feet to give his upper body an upward motion, he thrust his sword with his arm extended to the limit. The tip of his sword slipped into the man’s belly, and the sudden pain froze the man in mid-swing. Turning the sword to open the wound further, Haern dropped back to the ground as the man staggered backward. Calmly, Haern let go of the sword, found the key he’d dropped, and removed the shackles from his ankles. Meanwhile, the wounded man rushed to the door of the dungeon at the far end of the hall, both hands clutching his bleeding wound to staunch the flow.

  Picking up the sword, Haern broke out into a run, closing the distance between them. Around the man’s neck whipped his blade, and then a single cut dropped him to the ground. Hovering over the body, Haern took in a deep breath and checked his surroundings. The hall appeared to have a total of ten cells, each with an open face at the end, presumably for the same black fire to seal in any prisoners as they had with Haern. Other than Haern’s cell, which still burned with the black-violet flame, the others appeared empty. Down one way, he saw the hall come to an abrupt end at a stone wall, while in the other direction, it ended at a larger opening, plus a wooden door heavily reinforced and barred with iron.

  Glancing down at the pendant to Ashhur still dangling from the chain around his neck, Haern lifted it to his lips and kissed it.

  “Thanks, Del,” he whispered, tucking it back underneath his shirt.

  Jogging down the hallway, he reached the door. In the opening around it were two tables, and on one he saw a pitcher, which he grabbed and greedily drank the water within. That done, he set it aside, scanning around him. On the other table, in a haphazard pile, were his belongings. Taking his cloak, he wrapped it about his shoulders, then grabbed his belt. Checking his swords, he saw they were recently sharpened, and he shuddered. He had a feeling that in a few days’ time, if not that following morning, those blades would have been used on him. Last, he put on his hood, felt its comforting shadow envelop his features.

  Much better, he thought. Now came the one last tricky part: getting through the supposedly locked and barred door of the dungeon. Already fingering his lockpicks, he approached the door, searching for any sort of keyhole. There was none. Wincing, Haern began to feel across it, wondering if there might be a hidden lever somewhere, maybe a weakened spot of wood he could pry into. Laughter from the other side bolted Haern back to a stand. He peered into the small circular window near the top, which had three bars preventing anything larger than a finger from slipping through. Shaking his head at him from the other side was his father.

  “I’m starting to think my rescuing you was unnecessary,” he said.

  “Just open the damn door.”

  Still chuckling, Thren vanished from the window. Haern heard something heavy scraping against the other side, followed by a thud. After a rattle of keys, the door swung open, revealing Thren with his swords and the bodies of two young paladins on either side of the dungeon entrance. Behind him was a set of stairs leading higher into the Stronghold.

  “Follow me,” Thren said. “We don’t have much time before people start noticing the bodies.”

  There was only one way to go, which was straight up the stairs before them. They curved sharply around, and after only a dozen steps or so, Thren stopped and motioned for Haern to be quiet.

  “The entrance is just ahead,” he said. “I’ve killed the guards there, fools still convinced they had to be afraid of what’s outside instead of what’s in. The door’s been trapped, though, and will sound off an alarm spell the moment it opens.”

  “How do you know?” Haern asked.

  “Do you think this is the first building I’ve broken into that was warded by wizards?” his father asked.

  Haern shrugged. Fair enough.

  “How do we get out?” he asked instead.

  “The third floor; there’s another exit to the hidden shaft along the interior. If we move fast enough, we should be out before anyone realizes you’re missing.”

  Haern nodded.

  “Lead the way,” he said.

  Thren turned and dashed up the remaining few steps. They emerged on the first floor of the Stronghold, a room clearly built with defense in mind. A stone barricade was erected just before the large double doors, forcing anyone entering to veer left or right. On either side were perches so men could attack from high ground, and around the corners was another spiked barricade with crossbows permanently bolted to it. A pile of bolts lay on either side, waiting for use. Beside the doors, Haern caught sight of two more young men who lay slumped beside it.

  “Come on,” Thren whispered. Beside them was another doorway leading to the stairs, and they rushed up them. Haern caught a glimpse of the second floor before they continued up the winding stairs, this a room of wealth and luxury, red carpets and gold trim everywhere. As they passed, Haern swore he heard men carrying on a conversation. He paused only momentarily to ensure they were not alarmed, and ahead of him, Thren beckoned Haern to hurry.

  The third floor was a barracks for the youngest members of the Stronghold. Occupying nearly all of the twelve beds in the single open room were boys, some old as twelve, most younger than ten. They all slept; at least, it seemed like they did. Taking a deep breath, Haern hoped his stay in the prison hadn’t cost him the coordination to move through such a room without noise.

  Wordlessly, Thren pointed out their objective: an ornate painting of the Stronghold, the canvas kept in an enormous silver frame secured to the wall.

  Stay silent, Thren mouthed, and Haern glanced to the children. If they woke, if they made a noise, then most likely, the children would die. Thren would let none witness their escape. No matter their future allegiance, no matter the dogma of hatred being drilled into them, the idea still made Haern sick to his stomach.

  I will, he mouthed back. Now lead.

  The beds were to either side of the room, and through the center, Thren walked, crouched over and quiet as a hunting animal in the forest. If he made any noise, it was easily drowned out by the breathing and snoring of the children. After meditating for a moment to force his body to calm down after the battle in the dungeon, Haern followed. The floor was sturdy wood, and unlike other rooms, it had no carpet, an annoyance not lost on Haern. Still, it seemed resistant to his steps, and so long as he moved slowly, there appeared no danger of a creak. The bigger worry was the children. If just one woke needing to relieve himself or shift into a more comfortable position …

  It seemed the two worried over the wrong thing. Thren had just reached the painting, and Haern the center of the room, when shouts came from downstairs. They were muffled, distant, but the alarms wouldn’t take long to travel up the stairs. Knowing the time for caution was over, Haern quickened his steps, crossing the room at a blistering pace as his father tugged on a corner of the painting, then slid it to the side. The movement made the tiniest of creaks, but the creaks were nothing compared to the growing shouts of alarm.

  Move! Thren mouthed before diving into the slender gap revealed behind the painting.

  The children were stirring in their beds. No time left, Haern sprinted the last few steps and then leaped feetfirst into the gap. As he slid, he turned, grabbed the corner of the painting, and yanked it shut.

  Total darkness bathed him, and letting out a relieved sigh, Haern began to scoot down what appeared to be a slender stone chute. He’d passed by several openings on his climb up, and he figured he was in one of them.

  “The tunnel ends abruptly,” Thren said from further down, his voice startling in the quiet. “Make haste, but don’t be careless.”

  “Noted,” Haern muttered as from the other side of the painting he heard a ruckus growing.

  The chute wasn’t long, and at its end, Haern found his father waiting for him.

  “Ready?” he asked.

  “I am,” Haern said. “But I’m going fi
rst.”

  Instead of arguing, Thren merely laughed and shifted aside so Haern had room. Reaching out to his right, he felt one of the rungs, grabbed it tight. It felt so similar to when his father had first sent him tumbling down, but if Thren desired to kill him, there were certainly far better ways than breaking into the Stronghold to do it.

  Swinging onto the ladder, he began climbing down, rung after rung, as he listened to the Stronghold continue its search for the escaping intruders on the other side of the stones.

  “We had little to go on regarding your fate,” Thren said as they descended. “I felt they would not kill you if you were captured, nor let you die easily. I’m glad my assumptions were not wrong.”

  “What of my little fall you sent me on?” Haern asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

  “Clearly, you survived,” Thren said. “Spare me your tantrum.”

  That was it, then? His betrayal was nothing to concern him, his frustrations mere tantrums of a child? Haern rolled his eyes in the darkness. Why had he ever believed it might be otherwise?

  When his foot felt no more rungs beneath, Haern took in a deep breath and then leaped blindly to the other side. Sure enough, he rolled into the tunnel he’d come from, and on his stomach, he crawled into the narrowing space. Ignoring the scrapes to his elbows and the cuts to his outfit as he rushed along, he did his best to dismiss the contradiction of his father betraying him on their way in, yet risking his life coming back to rescue him from the dungeon. He reached the end, found the hidden door above him. With only a moment to brace himself, he pushed it open and pulled himself out.

  As Thren crawled out behind him, Haern quickly spun to survey his surroundings. In all directions from the Stronghold, he saw men in armor carrying torches, searching in parties of two.

  “To the wheat fields,” Thren said in a hushed voice as he kicked the door shut to the secret entrance, not bothering to hide it. They sprinted, and when they were halfway there, Haern saw the stalks split and Delysia slip out, urging him onward with a hand. Seeing her there, unharmed, flooded him with relief. The relief did not last long, for his instincts cried out warning, and from the corner of his right eye, he saw a single paladin bedecked in the dark armor of his order riding toward them on a black steed.

  No torch, thought Haern, diving out of the way. Sneaky bastard.

  The dark paladin’s sword cleaved where he’d been, the fire around the blade darker than the night itself. Instead of trying to gain distance, Haern flung himself into the fight, knowing he had to strike immediately before the paladin could ride away. His swords cut into the side of the mount, but not enough to score a fatal hit. The man rode on, his sword blocking an attempted thrust from Thren on the other side. The dark paladin looped around, and he cried out warnings to the rest.

  “Here!” he shouted, lifting his enormous two-handed sword into the air. “Over here, my brethren!”

  “Shit,” muttered Thren.

  The dark paladin rode toward them, blade still raised, but before coming into range, he suddenly pulled back on the reins.

  “You’ll suffer for such insolence,” said the paladin, and he held his sword in one hand, the other balling into a fist. Violet flame leaked through his fingers, and then the man thrust it outward. Haern crossed his swords and ducked his head, unable to dodge in time. Fire roared, bursting forth in a tremendous cone from the paladin’s palm. Turning his face, Haern shifted in a desperate hope to absorb the brunt of it against his side, but before it could burn him, he saw movement, a flash of light.

  Delysia stood between him and the dark paladin, hands clasped, red hair fluttering in a silent breeze that swirled about her from all directions. The fire could not touch her, could not even withstand being in her presence. As the dark paladin recoiled with surprise, she reached out with a glowing hand.

  “The flames are yours,” she said. “Take them.”

  And then the fire erupted back to life, only this time engulfing the paladin and his horse, consuming them. He opened his mouth in a final, horrific scream matched only by the dying cries of his mount. After but a second, they were both silenced, the heat so intense, the dark paladin was ash and bone before his melting armor hit the ground, landing amid a cloud of all he had once been.

  “Come on,” Delysia said, turning and offering her hand. Haern took it, and together they fled into the wheat fields, Thren at their heels, as dozens of horses from the Stronghold thundered in chase.

  They said nothing as they ran, all concentration on putting one foot in front of the other. Haern felt the toll of his imprisonment wearing on him, his heart pounding and his lungs gasping for each breath. He did everything he knew to ignore the pain, but it didn’t take long until Delysia was tugging on his arm to keep him moving. With how tall and tight the wheat grew, he could only see Thren on occasion, trailing alongside them, his head constantly on a swivel. The horses were spreading out, and it’d only be a matter of time before they were spotted.

  “Delysia,” Haern said, his hand slipping free from hers. Noticing, she stopped, rushed back to him. A glowing hand touched his chest as her body pressed against his.

  “Stay strong,” she said, and he felt the exhaustion in his body fade as if it had never been. On impulse, he kissed her forehead, then grabbed her hand.

  “Stay with me,” he said, and they resumed their run, this time with him in the lead. To their right, a paladin burst through the wheat, and Haern dropped to the ground as the horse passed on by. Too close, he knew. Just a matter of time, but they had to run, had to keep gaining distance. Every second that passed, more of the paladins were waking up, throwing on their armor, grabbing their weapons, and rushing out into the night to join the chase. Distance was their friend, delay their enemy.

  Another rode on to their left, and when he let out a cry, Haern knew they’d been spotted. To confirm, Thren rejoined their side, shouting orders.

  “Surprise is our only hope!” he shouted. “Crouch low, and cut them down as they ride by!”

  Between the darkness and the wheat, any rider would have difficulty spotting them, and Haern knew his father was right. In open battle against an armored, horsed rider? Hopeless. But cutting them down as they closed about, keeping them off-balance and confused? Haern dropped to his knees, willing himself into becoming a specter of the fields, a coiled animal ready to strike. At his side, his father did the same as Delysia ducked low, watching intently.

  The rider who had first spotted them came back around, still calling for his allies. He rode mere feet to their left, and as he passed, Thren lashed out, thrusting a short sword beneath the man’s plate mail and into his ribs. As the man screamed, Thren pulled the blade free and then smacked the horse with the flat edge, sending it bolting away.

  Two more came riding in from the other direction, and Haern timed their arrival. Their aim was off, the two clearly not yet having located them, so he knew he’d have his chance. Running while crouched, he shifted aside at the last second, both swords slicing into the legs of the nearest mount. It let out a horrible noise as it crumpled, trapping the rider beneath it as it continued to let out pained screams. Before the other paladin could stop, Haern rushed around to the other side, jammed a blade into the throat of the trapped man, and then sprinted back toward Delysia and Thren. As he did, he saw another paladin veer away, having just barely avoided an ambush by his father.

  “It’s not enough,” Thren said as he joined his side.

  “Look,” Delysia said, pointing. The paladins had grouped together, nine of them at least, and they circled around them on their horses. They did not close in nor attempt to find them within the vicinity. Haern frowned, none too pleased with the strategy, and then the largest of the riders curled in, riding in a circle just barely within the others. From the feet of his midnight-black mount burst flames, as if its hooves were the center of a bonfire. Around and around it looped as Haern, Thren, and Delysia pressed against each other, back-to-back. The fire gre
w, its center a deep purple, its outer reaches darker than the night itself.

  “Stay with me!” Delysia cried as the fire roared to life, rolling toward them from all sides. The priestess’s hands lifted above her head, locked together in prayer as the wheat blackened and collapsed into ash from the fire’s passing. Just before they themselves were consumed, Delysia let out a cry, flinging down her arms and grabbing Haern and Thren by the shoulders. He felt a tingling, and then the fire passed over him. His skin was not burned, nor did he feel its heat, yet beneath his feet, ash gathered from the charred wheat.

  The spell ended, and circling them were the nine dark paladins. Their cover was gone, as was any surprise, any hiding. Now in the open, Haern lifted his sabers and stood protectively before Delysia.

  “Go down fighting,” he said. “You don’t want to be taken to their dungeons.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Thren said. “The only ones dying this night are our enemies.”

  The nine dismounted, drawing weapons wreathed in black flame. They stayed close, steadily closing the gap to prevent any hope of them punching through. Among themselves, the paladins gave quick orders, keeping their approach controlled, their eventual assault in perfect unison.

  “Listen to me,” Thren said, tilting his head toward them, yet keeping his eyes on the dark paladins before him. “If we’re to live, you have to hold nothing back. Every bit of your power, every bit of your rage, it must be let free. Unleash death upon them, or we die ourselves.”

  “I know how to fight,” Haern growled.

  Thren’s eyes flicked to Delysia.

  “My words were for her.”

  Tighter and tighter the circle closed, a wall of swords, axes, and plate mail.

  “Our lives or theirs, priestess,” Thren whispered. “Make your choice.”

  With a unified cry, the dark paladins rushed in, and Haern took Thren’s advice to heart. Hold nothing back. He knew how to become that animal. He knew how to unleash that power. Harnessing every bit of his anger, frustration, and doubt from his imprisonment, he lunged toward the closest paladins, charging just as they themselves issued the orders to attack. With his back to her, he did not see the brilliant flash of light Delysia cast, but he saw its flare in the eyes of his foes, saw them cry out, blinded. Two at once he fought, slipping through their frantic defenses, twisting his body to avoid being chopped in half from the right shoulder down. His saber found the throat of one, then both blades crashed into the sword of another, batting it three times so quickly, it sounded like a single ring.