Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  “Is that all?” he asked. “So be it. Find yourself a room, and once I get myself a good night’s sleep, I’ll start working on the others tomorrow. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go find another girl to finish what you interrupted.”

  Thren stepped out of the room, and he frowned.

  “Take care of it yourself. Cheaper that way.”

  “Not all of us want to build up a fortune like you,” Martin said, walking past him to the stairs. “Some of us would rather enjoy the spending.”

  Thren looked to the empty room, shook his head, and then followed Martin down the stairs.

  “Sorry about that,” the barkeep said, gesturing Thren over. “Room five’s the one open. Five. Hope you don’t mind the slipup.”

  Thren smiled, deciding he liked the man.

  “Not at all,” he said, heading toward the door. He was too wired to sleep, not yet. The journey had worn on him, but damn, it felt good to begin planning again. It’d be slow, steady work, but strand by strand was how you built a web, not all at once. No doubt a few of his former members would have to die to make the others realize the consequence of denying him and remaining loyal to the Suns. Truth be told, he felt himself looking forward to it.

  Out into the night he stepped, breathing in the lingering odors of the marketplace tinged with the scent of alcohol and rotting fruit and bread cast off from earlier in the day. He looked to the stars and tried to tell himself that the city was his, no matter the dozens of tiles marked with the Sun he’d passed on his way there. His city. His home.

  As he stared, he saw someone crouching at the edge of a building, watching. Thren grunted, and he pretended not to see. Down the street he walked, aimless, in no hurry. He didn’t want to let whoever tailed him realize he’d been spotted, not yet …

  The tail was on the rooftop on the right side of the street, so once Thren reached an alley on his left, he suddenly sprinted down it, racing as fast as his legs could carry him. He’d thought it’d be an easy enough task to leave whoever it was behind, but instead, he had to come to a sliding halt before reaching the other side. A man had stepped out, the four-pointed star sewn onto the front of his shirt, the daggers in his hands gleaming in the moonlight. Spinning about, Thren saw the other entrance blocked by two more. Gritting his teeth, he looked skyward, saw three more lurking above him, faces hidden by the hoods of their cloaks.

  Damn it, Thren swore. Someone alerted them, but who? Martin? The barkeep?

  Assuming he lived, Thren knew who the first would be to serve as an example for those who would deny his return.

  “Thren Felhorn,” said a haunting voice behind him. Slowly, Thren turned, pulled the hood away from his face, and stood tall before his former master.

  “It’s been a long time, Muzien,” Thren said to the elf at the far end of the alley, flanked by two more of his guild. “Have you finally come to greet me?”

  Muzien stepped into the alley, eyes like ice, mutilated ears seeming all the more grotesque with the way the moonlight colored them, making the scars seem almost purple.

  “It seems I must,” said the elf. “For you sneaked into my home and did not think to seek me out.”

  Your home?

  It made Thren want to smack him across the face with a blade, but he kept his temper in check. If there was one thing Muzien knew how to wield as both weapon and shield, it was arrogance.

  “It has been my home for far longer,” Thren said. “I’d like to think of it as you merely borrowing the place prior to my return.”

  Muzien smiled, but there was no enjoyment in it. It was a smile Thren recognized all too well from growing up under Muzien’s tutelage. It meant the elf was tiring of a game, and when he tired of a game, he didn’t stop playing. He simply won it.

  “You know you have no more power here,” Muzien said. “And I will not pretend otherwise to satisfy your tired pride. This is my city now, Thren, and if you wish to live in it, I will have you bow before me and serve.”

  Thren glanced back to the rooftops. All three above had crossbows drawn and aimed. Much as he wanted to make a move toward the elf, he knew he’d die before ever getting close, and that wasn’t counting the two at his side who would certainly move to block the way.

  “Why now?” Thren asked. “I’ve done everything you asked. You wanted me to come to Veldaren, and I did. You wanted me to create an empire, and I did. Everything you taught me, I used. Every trick and scheme, I performed to the highest of standards. Yet you sent Grayson in to kill me, and now your guild has moved in, crushing everything I built. I was your heir, damn you, so tell me what I did that had you turn on me so.”

  Muzien approached, and with a wave of his hand, those with him stayed behind. Confidence, Thren knew. Arrogance. No fear of him whatsoever, and if Thren were honest with himself, he knew it was true. Muzien had taught him all he knew of swordplay, and not once had he ever, ever won a duel. The elf’s face remained cold, passive, but his blue eyes seemed to sparkle with a disgust Thren felt betrayed by. What had he ever done to deserve such emotion?

  “You were indeed my heir,” Muzien said. “I put my years into you, training you, molding your mind and body. A single breath of mine is worth more than the lifetime of your kind, yet still I devoted it to your betterment, creating an heir worthy of my legacy. A worthy heir, Thren. I could name any fool as my successor, but I desired someone who could keep my empire together instead of letting it crumble mere moments after my death. Yet you…”

  Muzien gestured about.

  “What is your legacy here? Everything you built fell to ashes and dirt, and from what? An interloping lord, a few wealthy merchants, and a mysterious vigilante killer?”

  “You belittle my challenges,” Thren said.

  “Your challenges belittle you! I listened to the excuses. I observed from afar as your war was waged, as the Trifect bled and the guilds consumed one another. At last, I knew I had to come for myself. What did I accomplish in your absence? Domination, Thren. In four months, I have accomplished what you have not in all your years stalking these streets. Four months.”

  The elf shook his head.

  “I know your abilities. I know what you can do, and everything I have done was always within your reach. Something held you back, Thren. What, I cannot guess. I thought I had purged your weaknesses, but some remain. Complacency, in merely ruling a few guilds? Foolishness, in trusting the wrong men? Cowardice, in signing the Watcher’s agreement? I’d ask, but truth be told, Thren … I don’t care. You are old and unworthy. With Grayson dead, I must begin anew and adopt new heirs to potentially inherit my wealth and power. It won’t be you. It cannot be.”

  “Do you think to insult me?” Thren asked as Muzien turned away. “That I want to inherit a single coin after your death? I built everything here on my own, and I will do it again if I must. No matter how certain you are, Muzien, this city will never be yours. I won’t allow it. I will leave you with a graveyard of fire and death before I let you pretend to be its god.”

  Muzien turned back about, his blue eyes seemingly on fire with his rage. Closer he came, towering before him, their faces mere inches apart. So close. So easily could Thren draw a blade, but instead, he met Muzien’s gaze and refused to back down.

  “How?” Muzien asked, full of mockery, that one word defining his entire opinion of Thren and his worth.

  Thren gave no answer. He dared not even move. The slightest insult meant death. He would challenge the Darkhand in time, but not yet. Not there … and not alone.

  “I thought not,” Muzien said. “I’d hoped you could at least loyally serve, despite your faults, until a new heir could be trained. I had even entertained the idea of you helping with the training, but that was my own fault for thinking you could be of any use.”

  He turned, long coat flapping behind him as he strode away.

  “Get out of my city, Thren,” Muzien called after, not bothering to turn around. “The next time we meet, it will end with your h
ead in a bag.”

  And just like that, they were gone. The Suns at either side of the alley vanished, and when he looked up, the rooftops were clear, only stars looking back. Thren stood there, breathing heavily, doing his best to stay calm. Despite all his years, he’d never once endured such disrespect from his teacher as he had then. Before, Muzien had always believed there was some sort of promise in him and Grayson, something special and worthy of his time. No longer.

  “Your city?” Thren whispered. “This isn’t your city. It will never be your city, not while I live.”

  The elf’s words repeated in his head, deepening his anger. “How?” Muzien had asked, as if there were no possible way, as if the task were so insurmountable. Thren, a mere human, overthrow the demigod that was Muzien?

  But it wasn’t impossible. In fact, it was terrifyingly easy.

  “Fire and destruction,” Thren whispered, echoing the words Luther had spoken just before his death. From underneath his shirt he pulled out Luther’s medallion, held the cold metal in his palm.

  “My city,” he said, remembering the promise he’d made in what felt like ages past. “My city, or ashes.”

  He could make it come to pass. All the lives and toil of man could come crashing down with a single word, and the medallion was the key, the catalyst. In his hand, the medallion twirled. Life or death, all contained in a single disc of gold. Luther would have him destroy Veldaren to save it. Better in ruin than in the hands of the prophet, the priest had insisted. It was a feeling he understood so well. Better to leave the city in ashes than in Muzien’s hands.

  But there was still a way to reclaim his city, to bravely stand before a conquering army without fear. A way to defeat the legendary Darkhand and return Veldaren to the rule of the Spider. A way for Thren to prepare his legacy, his heir, as he had always dreamed.

  “Aaron,” he whispered. “Watcher. Haern. Whoever it is you are … given the choice, the Sun, the Spider, or nothing at all, which would you choose?”

  To the night sky he looked, imagined his little boy on his lap, listening to him, adoring him, trusting him above all others. Before the world tore him away. Before gods and priests and little red-haired girls made him believe in a world that would never be.

  “Would you join my side to prevent the deaths of thousands, my son?” Thren wondered, but the stars could give him no answer, only silence.

  CHAPTER

  32

  Haern paused before the Eschaton Tower, and he almost didn’t go inside. The night was late, and for all he knew, those inside were asleep. It was a nice enough excuse in his head, but as the cicadas droned on, he knew it was a lie. Ever since their fight the day before, he was yet to see Delysia. She’d surely beaten him home, given the time it’d taken him to bury Ghost’s body. What might she have told her brother? Everything? Nothing?

  On either side of him were long hills covered with flowing grass, and behind the tower was the King’s Forest, and either sounded like better places to sleep. Cowardly places, of course, and that was what kept him going, walking up the path, to the door, and inside.

  “Was wondering when you’d show up,” Tarlak said, stretched out on a couch with a drink in his hand and his feet pointed toward the low fire that burned in the fireplace.

  “I had a body to bury,” Haern said, and he realized how absurd a greeting that was. He’d not seen his friend in months, and those were the first words out of his mouth?

  “So I heard.” Tarlak gestured to the chair opposite him. “Take a seat. It feels like forever since your skulking hood graced my tower.”

  Haern hadn’t even realized he had it on, and he quickly pulled it off as he sat down beside the fire. His swords and pack he put down beside him. He felt awkward, wishing he could just come right out and ask what Tarlak knew but was unable to be so direct. So, instead, he let out a deep sigh and sank into the chair. No matter what, he was indeed home, and it felt good to be there, despite all the awkwardness.

  “Did you talk to Delysia?” Haern asked, thinking it about as gentle a way to broach the subject as possible.

  “I did,” Tarlak said.

  Haern tried to read the wizard, but whatever thoughts were behind those green eyes and red goatee were well hidden.

  “And?” Haern asked.

  Tarlak sat up, and with a sigh he let go of his glass, which hovered in the air for a brief moment before vanishing.

  “And I can tell something happened between the two of you,” he said. “Though I admit I’m hopeless as to what, because my dear sister is as stubborn as she is beautiful when she wants to be. All she’ll tell me is that Ghost showed up, you two fought, and Ghost lost. I don’t know if that has something to do with why Delysia was so upset, or something else. My gut says your father’s involved, given the only thing good that’s ever come out of him is, well, you.”

  “The months were definitely long,” Haern said. He shifted, not liking the way Tarlak was looking at him. “As for Delysia … we had a disagreement; that’s all. We’ll be fine.”

  The wizard lifted an eyebrow.

  “Are you sure?” he asked.

  Haern rubbed his eyes.

  “Honestly … I have no clue, Tar. Can we talk about something else? How’s life been here in Veldaren?”

  Tarlak chuckled.

  “If you’re hoping for more happy subjects, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

  He snapped his fingers, and his glass reappeared, this time full of a white wine. Tarlak took it from the air where it floated, sipped at it.

  “Pretty much everything you’ve ever set up in the city has been eradicated,” Tarlak said. “The agreement with the Trifect, the truce between the guilds … it’s all gone.”

  Haern sat frozen in his seat, unable to believe it. Everything he’d worked for, all the blood and sweat and killing, was over? The wizard said it nonchalantly, just no big thing, but Haern felt as if he’d been slapped in the face with a wet rag.

  “All gone?” Haern asked. “How is that possible?”

  “Well, your absence didn’t help matters,” Tarlak said. “Nor did Thren’s, honestly. The Sun Guild came back with a vengeance, and this time with their leader, Muzien the Dark-hand. Every guild that refused to submit to his command, he crushed, one by one. After that, he cowed the king, putting himself safely out of reach of the city guard, and then began working on the Trifect. The elf’s a cruel bastard, and what he’s done to secure his power is sickening, to say the least.”

  “Why haven’t you stopped him?”

  Tarlak frowned.

  “I’d say that’s your job, actually, but you were too busy traipsing west in search of … what was it again? Luther? What did you find out about that, anyway, because Delysia was none too talkative?”

  Haern sighed.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Thren betrayed me when we reached the tower, and he was the only one to speak with Luther. The man was a priest held prisoner at the top of the Stronghold; that’s all I know. Beyond that, his task in Veldaren was some plan involving Karak and those stone tiles the Sun Guild’s using. I’m sorry, Tar; I really can’t offer more than that.”

  Tarlak downed the rest of the wine, made the cup vanish, and then rose to his feet.

  “Glad to know it was all worthwhile,” he said. “A priest working for Karak … I never could have guessed that. Meanwhile, Muzien controls every inch of our fair city. We’ve needed you bad, Haern, but I don’t know where to even start. I feel like a war happened right underneath my nose, and something tells me under no circumstances were we the victor.”

  “I’m sorry,” Haern said. “It isn’t too late, though. I’ll get to the bottom of this; I promise.”

  “Like you got to the bottom of this whole Luther business?”

  “Enough, Tarlak. Quit acting like this is my fault!”

  “Will you two kiss and make up already?” Brug said as he emerged from the staircase, his own beer mug in hand. “Gods, I could hear the two of
you yammering from my bedroom.”

  He tipped his head in Haern’s direction.

  “Good to see you, bud,” Brug said, and he grinned. “Now come give me a hug. After months with dealing with just that idiot over there, I could practically kiss you for finally coming home.”

  Haern felt his face flushing, and embarrassed, he went over and clapped Brug across the shoulder.

  “Good to see you, too,” Haern said.

  “Aye, a happy homecoming,” Tarlak said. Haern glared his way, expecting more sarcasm, but it seemed the wizard himself was embarrassed by his earlier outburst.

  “It really is good to have you back,” Tarlak said. “This city isn’t the same without you, and neither is this tower.”

  Haern pulled away from Brug and retrieved his swords from the chair.

  “I’ve had more than enough time to rest,” he said. “Has every guild fallen to Muzien?”

  “All but the Ash,” Tarlak said. “And I’m not sure if they’re still alive.”

  Haern pulled his hood over his head, feeling the comfortable shadow encasing him.

  “Let’s hope so. We could use whatever allies we may find.”

  Haern went to the door, and he saw Tarlak go to stop him, then change his mind.

  “Stay safe,” Tarlak called after him. “It’d be a damn shame for you die on your first night back home.”

  Despite his dour mood, Haern chuckled.

  “That it would, Tar,” he said, shutting the door to the tower behind him.

  The walk to the looming walls of the city was a long and familiar one, and Haern felt himself slipping back into the persona he’d carefully crafted. His hood hung low over his face, his cloak disguising his movements, melding him into the darkness. At his sides were his swords, and at least they were a reliable comfort. He knew the fear he carried, the reputation, and as he began to run to close the distance, his troubles drifted away. Just like when he’d come home from the snow-covered northern plains or the distant city of Angelport, there was something comforting about his city’s familiarity. The guilds, the Trifect, the cowardly king: he knew them all and they him.