Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “Sorry?” she asked. “Sorry for what? For murdering my friend?”

  Another step.

  “Yes,” he said. “For causing you pain. I did it out of pride … out of weakness … and it cost me everything. You only wanted to help him, didn’t you? I can sense it … That’s who you are. Who you’ve always been. I used to think I was better than that. Stupid. So stupid.”

  Whatever fear she’d felt of him was long gone. That he was conscious at all appeared a miracle. The burns on his arms were worsening, and she saw several more spreading across his neck. Sweat poured down his face, and his eyes were nearly a solid red from angry veins. Every word he spoke was labored, a clear struggle to remain coherent. She tried to reconcile the wretched sight before her with the cool, confident man that had battled her and her friends with such ease, the man who had stabbed an unaware Senke in the back, yet she could not. The passing years had been unkind to him, to say the least.

  “Ghost,” she asked. “What’s wrong with your body?”

  With his left hand, he scratched at the paint on his face, and she saw that it was no longer paint. His skin had assumed the color, and instead of peeling it away, he drew blood that dripped down along his skin in crimson trails. On a hunch, she cast a spell over her eyes, granting her sight into a realm not of magic, not of flesh and stone, but of gods. It seemed all the land darkened, including Ghost before her, but surrounding him, swirling like fire made of shadow, were over a hundred chains. She could see but the faintest hint of his being beneath, imprisoned, condemned.

  A curse, she thought. But for what? And why?

  “I want to know,” Ghost said as she ended the spell, the chains vanishing, revealing only the tired, bleeding man. “I mean, I know the answer, but I’m asking anyway, while I still can. Delysia … do you think you could forgive me?”

  Delysia swallowed, her mouth and throat suddenly dry.

  “For what?” she asked, even though she knew. But she wanted to hear him say it. She wanted to know for sure.

  “For killing your friend,” he said. “For hurting you, your brother. For enjoying it all. Do you think … do you think you could? I’ll die alone and having hurt so many. But you … someone like you … I don’t want to die with you hating me.”

  He was desperate, she saw, lost and hopeless. She had a feeling he would not have been able to explain, even to himself, why he’d come.

  “For so long, I had only my brother,” Delysia said, her hands curling into fists at her side. “But then Senke joined us. He was part of our family, someone who would listen, who would be there. I loved him, Ghost, and you cut him down … for what? For your pride?”

  His eyes remained on the dirt, and he nodded.

  “I was the better killer,” he said. “That was reason enough.”

  Blood had begun to drip from the burns, oozing down his arms to his fingers to collect like raindrops.

  “You want to hear me say it?” she asked. “You want me to say I forgive you, that I no longer hate you? What then, Ghost? If I say it, if I give you your absolution, then what happens?”

  He looked up, and his shoulders sagged, his eyes filling with tears.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Because I know you’ll never say it. So kill me, Delysia. Burn me away and free me of this curse.”

  He spread his arms out to the side, as if inviting an old friend. Delysia tried to push aside the confusion in her mind, all the hurt memories of Senke, his smile, his laugh, the way he’d bled on their floor while she’d been tied to a chair. The way Tarlak had looked at her when he came back to their home that horrible night, blood all over his yellow robes. The way he’d been unable to answer when she asked if Senke was all right.

  “I blamed myself,” she said, a knot in her throat. “Did you know that?”

  His head hung low, and she heard his labored, raspy breaths.

  “Your brother told me,” he said. “Now do it. You know what I am. I’m a monster, Delysia, a horrible fucking monster. I don’t even know my own name anymore. Whatever it was, it’s gone. I’m a ghost, a demon, and there’s only one fate for things like me. We burn.”

  She felt her own tears building, and she looked at the rotting wretch before her, saw a man mired only in misery. She knew the rage she should feel, felt the sorrow, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t her. The man wanted to find some sort of cleansing death. Appearing to her, giving her a chance to slay him … it was a gift, the only one he knew to offer. To be so broken, to think the sorrow she’d known could be made pure by the taking of a life …

  “I cried my tears long ago,” she said. “And no, I don’t hate you. You were a broken man long before you came into our lives, and I only pity the life you led that carried you to such a place.”

  Ghost wiped at his eyes, smearing blood across his white-scarred face.

  “My road,” he said. “My choices. Don’t you dare pity me.”

  “You wanted my forgiveness, and now you have it. What more can you ask of me, Ghost?”

  He tried to answer, but instead, he took several steps backward and clutched at his head. His face was the purest expression of pain Delysia had ever seen. Doubled over, Ghost let out a scream, and his fingers scratched deep grooves into the sides of his neck.

  “Not yet,” he screamed. “Not yet!”

  And then it was over. Ghost stood there, tired, bleeding, but acting as if it’d never happened.

  “I was given a task,” he said, and he seemed a bit more coherent than before. “Three jobs, that’s it. You Eschaton, the Watcher, and Alyssa’s faceless woman. Karak wants you dead. That’s what they told me.”

  “Who told you?”

  He chuckled, shook his head.

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s simple, so simple. If I didn’t kill you, if I failed my task, then my life was the price of my failure.”

  Ghost drew both his swords, but she remained where she stood, defiant, unafraid. There was no malice in him. No danger, only regret. The giant man fell to his knees, and he stabbed both swords deep into the dirt of the forest. The act done, his entire body racked with shivers, and it seemed he would soon pass out.

  “Ghost?” she asked, feeling the first edges of panic tingling up her spine. “Ghost, what are you doing?”

  He looked up at her, and for the first time, he smiled.

  “I’m failing.”

  Blood dripped from his mouth. His arms were nothing but burned scars, and she saw thin trails of smoke rising into the air. His obsidian skin paled, as if all color within him were draining away. His hands gripped his swords hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Eyes closed against the pain, she watched him as he gasped, waves of agony overwhelming him, striking him down, tensing the muscles in his back and ripping gashes across the front of his neck.

  Dying for her, she realized.

  She stepped toward him, hand outstretched, palm pressing against the very center of his white face. The heat of his skin was incredible, the paint burning her like fire.

  “No,” she said, and with her words she released all the power she’d built up inside her. Channeling it through her hand, she poured it into Ghost. She imagined the shadowy chains, and she smashed them. She saw his burns, and she flooded them with light. The color returned to his flesh, his mouth opened to scream. As she watched, the paint upon his face hardened, peeled away, and then fell to the ground like scales. His head snapped back, and it was as if his entire body were smashed with an invisible force. Delysia felt the wretched presence of Karak, and she prayed it away, denying it with every last shred of her being. In her ears she heard a constant ringing, intensifying as her spell reached its end.

  She pulled back her hand, and Ghost knelt before her, his eyes wide, mouth open amid his bewilderment. His burns were gone. For the first time ever, she saw his face without the paint, saw how handsome he was. He looked up at her, tears running down his cheeks.

  “Delysia,” he said, and he reached out a hand.

  S
he reached back, a smile forming on her lips, a smile that died the moment she saw the blur of cloak racing toward Ghost.

  “Haern, no!” she screamed, fearing it was already too late.

  CHAPTER

  28

  Picking through the blackberries, Haern felt at peace, and it was almost strange. Veldaren wasn’t far away, and though he was eager to return, he also felt a bit of trepidation, and he welcomed the excuse to remain back and add several more hours to their trip. Still, what relief to return to the life he knew. The guilds, the Trifect, their scheming and ruthless games … those he understood. Those he knew how to play. He’d let down his armor around his father, allowed himself to become vulnerable. Hopefully, it’d not happen again.

  When he had two handfuls, he knelt down so he might place them on his cloak and wrap it as a basket. Then came the scream.

  Haern was racing back to the road before it was ever finished, with no care for the thorns that scratched at his skin or tugged on his clothes. The scream, it had been a man’s voice. Delysia was in trouble, perhaps ambushed by thieves or thugs with rape on their mind. Legs pumping, he flew across the road, then cut off toward where they had planned to set up their camp. Reason overcame him at the last moment, and he slowed so he might at least get the jump on whoever might be there.

  It was only one man, Haern saw, and so far, Delysia stood unharmed before him. He felt relief, but it was fleeting, for something about the man was horribly familiar. His skin was dark, his head shaved, and as Haern crouched down and slid from tree to tree, he caught glimpses of the man’s face … his white, painted face.

  Ghost, thought Haern, and he felt his blood chill in his veins.

  The man who’d captured Delysia, knocked Tarlak unconscious, stabbed Senke through the stomach. The man who’d finished the job later in Leon Connington’s mansion. His friend’s murderer … right there, in the forest, kneeling before Delysia. His entire body was covered with burns and blood, and Haern could only guess at whatever road the man had traveled to get there. Last Haern knew, he’d left Ghost for dead. The wounds had been fatal, he knew, surely they had been fatal …

  Haern drew his swords. Apparently not. Ghost lived, and whatever he’d told Delysia, it clearly troubled her. His body began to convulse, she reached forward, and then came a burst of light that hurt his eyes, forcing him to look away. Healing, he decided. The man had tracked Delysia down to force her to heal him. Surely no priest of Ashhur in Veldaren would have been foolish enough to do so.

  Shifting back, keeping himself low and out of sight, he prepared his attack. He wouldn’t make the same mistake again. Ghost was a monster, a vicious killer who’d relished every second of Haern’s pain as Senke died before him.

  Mercy cuts deep and will only hurt those you love. This cruel world will make sure of that.

  Not a mistake he’d make again. When he’d left Ghost, the man had been breathing. This time, this relic, this memory of pain and hate, would die and stay dead. Haern angled himself back around toward Ghost’s blind side, with Ghost still on his knees and unaware of his approach. Delysia’s eyes were on him too, the woman bent over with her hand outstretched. Haern knew he’d have no better time, and he flew across the forest floor without care for stealth, only speed.

  He was almost there when Delysia caught sight of him, and instead of hiding the realization, she opened her mouth and screamed.

  “Haern, no!”

  Too late to stop himself, but her cry was enough to hesitate, to slow the killing thrust. With speed unreal, Ghost whirled, pulling his swords from the earth to successfully parry the attack. Their blades interlocked, and Haern’s momentum slammed them together. He tried to continue, to bowl over the giant man, but Ghost’s legs braced, resisting him. With narrowed eyes, the man returned Haern’s glare.

  “I’m not here for a fight,” Ghost said. The very sound of his voice was like razors cutting across Haern’s skin.

  “I am.”

  Haern pushed away to gain separation, then slashed for the man’s neck. Ghost blocked it easily enough, his superior strength batting away Haern’s follow-up strokes as if they were those of a child. The sound of steel rang out, twice, three times, before Haern positioned his weapons high, interlocking them with Ghost’s so he could kick at the man’s knee from the side. The bigger man sidestepped it, then shoved both swords out to push Haern away.

  “There’s no need for this,” Ghost said, stepping backward, each one matching Haern’s steady approach. “Leave me be, Watcher. I’ve given Delysia my apologies, and she her blessing. After this, I go west, and you’ll never see me again. I want nothing to do with you.”

  “A new life?” Haern said, quickening his steps. Ghost would soon back himself against a tree, and the moment he ran out of room to retreat … “You don’t deserve a new life. You want to offer an apology? Stick out your neck, and I’ll accept it with my blade.”

  Ghost’s back bumped against the bark of the tree. If he was worried, he didn’t show it. Behind them, Delysia shouted for them to stop, but both refused to acknowledge the demand.

  “Your friend has given me my life,” said Ghost, “and I won’t disgrace that gift by letting you take it, Watcher.”

  A grim smile tucked at the corners of Haern’s lips.

  “Let me?” he asked, suddenly lunging into an attack. His swords crossed side to side, ringing off of Ghost’s expertly positioned blocks. Undaunted, Haern continued weaving his weapons in, feeling like a lumberjack trying to cut down a tree by pummeling it into submission. So far, Ghost showed no signs of countering, so Haern pushed himself on, trying to find the slightest opening for the kill.

  “Let me?”

  Ghost tried and failed to parry a wide slash aimed for his face. The man ducked backward, striking his head against the bark of the tree. The tip of Haern’s saber cut through his cheek, just a thin slice that sprayed a thin jet of blood through the air. Haern looped both weapons around, slamming them down into the X that Ghost had crossed his swords into just prior to the stroke.

  “Have you forgotten, Ghost?” Haern asked as he tried to push through, to close that minute gap between the sharpened edges of his blades and the exposed flesh of his foe’s throat. “I was the better fighter. I killed you once, and I’ll kill you again.”

  Despite his efforts, Haern’s strength seemed to not bother Ghost in the slightest. Instead, the man grinned, and a bit of life sparkled in his eyes.

  “Better?” he asked. “Perhaps then … but now? Let us see.”

  The man flung himself forward, and given his size, his speed, Haern had no choice but to retreat as those swords came slicing in. Left, right, he batted them aside, spun while ducking to avoid having his head cut off his shoulders, then sprinted away to gain space. Six steps later, he dug his heel into the soft earth, pivoted, and flung himself right back into the fight. Again, they crashed together, swords interlocking and pushing aside so neither was impaled. Haern angled himself so his knee struck Ghost’s stomach, and the other man likewise slammed his elbow into Haern’s cheek. Blood dripping from his teeth, Haern spun away, fighting through a brief wave of dizziness.

  “Stop it, both of you!” he heard Delysia shout. Haern again pretended not to hear her, instead rekindling the anger in his breast as Ghost crouched down, anticipating another barrage.

  Before he could attack, a flash of light burst between them, blinding in its brightness. Haern let out a cry at the pain, but he refused to be slowed. Rushing forward, he used every bit of his childhood training. He knew how to anticipate an opponent’s reaction, how to sense their location by the sound of their feet scraping the dirt. But Ghost was no common foe, no stranger to sightless battles. The world a haze of yellow and white, Haern cut where the larger man should have been, only to have both his swings blocked. Stepping left, he tried sweeping Ghost’s feet out from underneath him, but the man was not there. Instead, he’d already fallen back, and through the spots in his vision, Haern watched him wea
ve his swords into a defensive pattern in case he’d pushed onward.

  “The better fighter,” Ghost said as he halted upon realizing no one chased. “I’ve learned of you since my release, Watcher. I know what it was you sought to do at the Conningtons’ mansion. I fought for coin and my reputation, but you fought for peace; you fought for the love of your friends.”

  Ghost’s face darkened as he crouched down and lifted his swords.

  “But now?” he asked.

  Without warning, he burst forward. So big, so strong, he was as terrifying as a charging bull. Haern dared not meet him head-on, instead having to constantly leap away. Anything to keep Ghost moving, to keep him from being able to close the distance fully or brace his feet to put all his strength into a swing. Parrying one swing, he leaped back, caught a tree with his shoulder, and then rolled along the ground. Ghost’s swords struck dirt, and then Haern was on his feet, bolting forward as his foe’s swords sliced through the air where he’d been.

  “What is it you fight for now?” Ghost asked. “Pride? Retribution?”

  “What does it matter?”

  Haern spun around a tree, and when one of Ghost’s swords struck the bark, Haern rolled back around it and launched into an offensive. Awkwardly positioned, Ghost had to retreat, violently yanking on the sword to free it in time for a block. Haern kept it up, pushing forward, hammering at Ghost’s swords. His hands were a blur, his every nerve on fire. Overwhelm him, thought Haern. He had to overwhelm him.

  “What does it matter?” asked Ghost, and despite his apparent exhaustion, despite Haern’s onslaught, he was grinning. “It’s the only thing that matters.”

  One of his steps back suddenly wasn’t a retreat at all, but a shift forward. Haern’s left-hand blade was easily blocked, the other thrusting too far to the side. Taking advantage of the opening, Ghost kneed Haern in the stomach, then smashed a fist into the side of his neck. Letting out a scream, Haern toppled back, swords raised in a meager defense. Except Ghost did not pursue. Instead, he hovered over him, yelling, mocking him as he paced.