Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

He swallowed, then clapped his hands together.

  “All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

  He could undo the strings, he knew, slowly untangling them as well as breaking the spinning runes, but it was no different from undoing a particularly insidious knot. If he didn’t know how, or didn’t know the exact details of the spell, then he would accomplish nothing at best, or harm himself at worst. Removing any curse was a tricky matter—same with any skillful enchantment (which the tile clearly had).

  But activating the magic …

  “Here goes,” he whispered. Safely undoing a knot was one thing. Chopping it in half with a sword was another. With but a thought, he pulsed magic into the tile, putting whatever spell was buried in its center into motion.

  The runes vanished, and for a moment, all was silent. Tarlak’s skin tingled with anticipation. This was it, the true purpose of the tiles, the reason for their very existence. In its center he watched a tiny black spot appear, crackling with white lightning. It shimmered, then vanished. The tile cracked, its center rimmed with fire, and then Tarlak had the briefest moment to react before the shock wave hit him. As a great roar shook his being, he crossed his arms, enacting a protection spell out of pure instinct. The ground trembled beneath him, and then suddenly, he was flying through the air. When he landed, he rolled, and all the while, he heard nothing but a constant ringing. When he came to a stop, Brug was hovering over him, his mouth moving but producing no words. It was only when the ringing faded that Brug’s voice finally returned.

  “…all right, Tar?”

  Instead of answering, Tarlak pushed himself up to a sitting position, and with his mouth hanging open, he stared at where the tile had once been. In its place was a gaping crater, and fire burned within it, the flames a deep violet. On either side, the homes were shattered, the roofs collapsed in and the wood already aflame. Even the great stone wall, which had surrounded the city since the day Karak himself built it, was cracked, with large portions having collapsed and layering the surrounding area beneath with debris.

  “My god, Tar,” Brug said, staring with his mouth hanging open. “What did you do?”

  “What it was meant to do,” Tarlak said, viewing the wreckage while feeling dazed and lost. Another large chunk of the wall collapsed, the rumble deafening, as was the sound of the stone breaking upon the road, sending pieces rolling in all directions.

  “One tile,” Brug said, and he sounded as horrified as Tarlak felt. “How many throughout the city are there?”

  “As of last count?” asked Tarlak as all around people flooded out of their homes to see what was the matter. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he thought of all their planning, their little map detailing the tiles’ locations. Not a single street unmarked. Not a man or woman safe. He put a hand on Brug’s shoulder and slowly stood as dust and stone fell.

  “Over three hundred and twenty-seven.”

  For once, Brug was speechless. Tarlak watched the strange purple flames dwindle down to nothing in the crater, and he let out a sigh.

  “Brug,” he said. “We’re fucked.”

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  Well, it feels like it’s been ages since I got to write one of these and not have it be about the various tweaks and changes I made to my self-published version. So, instead, I get to discuss legitimately new stuff, the first new Haern book I’ve written in over a year. Shocking concept, eh?

  Going into this one, I had a few specific goals in mind, direct attempts to counter either things I failed to adequately deal with earlier or areas I just felt I had not given near the attention they deserved. The first, and most important to me, was Haern and Delysia’s relationship. I wanted to establish her better as a character, as well as how she and Haern complemented one another. And then on the other side, Haern and Zusa … there were more than a few asking me what happened with them, particularly after the chemistry they showed in A Dance of Mirrors. Well, hopefully, this book has done both (obviously, I have more to do still in book six, but hey, one book at a time).

  The other big part, and one that clearly dominated much of this book, was Haern and his father. There’d be no more relegating Thren to the background, no more leaving it ambiguous as to why he tolerated his son’s nighttime adventures. This was their attempt to recruit each other, and honestly, that chapter where they just savaged each other near the end was the most difficult one to write in this entire book. No others were even close. I’ve never wanted Thren to be a simple cardboard-cutout villain, and between this and the Cloak and Spider collection, I’d like to believe I’ve at least elevated him to a three-dimensional cardboard cutout.

  To those of you who’ve read the Paladins, I hope you enjoyed Luther’s little moment to shine, as well as his callback to his final meeting with Jerico. To those of you who have not read my Paladins books, I did everything I could to fill you in without spoiling the previous adventures. I do my best to include events and characters from other series yet, at the same time, try never to leave anyone in the dark if they haven’t read them. As usual, I hope I succeeded, and if not, I hope you forgive me for the failed attempt.

  So, what’s next? Well, I’m stupidly excited about Muzien the Darkhand. One thing I’ve realized I’ve lacked over the course of the first four books was any sort of consistent villain. It was Thren in one book, then Ghost, then the Wraith, and finally, a whole mess of people like Grayson and the Bloodcrafts in book four. It lent more of an episodic feel to the series, which honestly isn’t a bad thing, but I really, really like my villains. With Muzien, I finally have someone I can set up for more than a single book. Not only that, I have someone who can legitimately look at my hero and smirk.

  Of course, that’s not to say Muzien will be the only villain in book six. Is there such a thing as bad guy overload? Because I might be getting close …

  Oh, and speaking of Ghost … yeah, he was totally dead in the self-published edition (there goes my earlier excitement about not discussing self-pub editions). No excuses, no possibilities; I left him butchered and bleeding and with his internal organs as an eviscerated goo. But! There’s advantages to going over every single book and changing whatever I feel like for the Orbit relaunch. In case you never read the redone A Dance of Blades, I made sure Ghost actually survived Haern’s thrashing, and had them speak a quick bit of dialogue to establish that yes, Ghost is still breathing. He’s in bad shape, and anyone can expect him to die shortly, but the last thing I wanted to do was cheat. So he survived, he vanished, and now I got to bring him back in. Every chapter with him was a ton of fun, and yes, I got the idea to bring him back while re-editing Blades. Consider it a weakness of mine. Dead people tend not to stay dead, not when I think there’s more fun to be had (Half-Orc fans in particular are rolling their eyes at me right now, I’m certain).

  So, was bringing back Ghost worth it? I think so. I got to finish the character arc that was only hinted at with his initial scenes with Calan, as well as take the overall direction of his return in a way that hopefully no one saw coming. Obviously, you all will be the final judge of that.

  All that’s left now is to put a nice bow on everything I’ve built. This book in particular was one that daunted me for quite some time, and I actually put it off to write the sixth Half-Orc book instead, solely as a way to stall. Having it finished is stupidly rewarding. The next book, though? A Dance of Chaos has been stewing in my head for quite some time, and I’ve been rubbing my hands in anticipation for so many scenes. The showdown with Muzien? The assault on Veldaren? The climactic confrontation between Haern and his father? Oh, yes. This will be fun.

  And to those of you who have read The Weight of Blood … yes, it is that battle that’s approaching. I’ve always wondered where the heck Haern and the Eschaton were when it happened.

  Time to show just that.

  Thanks to all of you for sticking with me, putting up with my little idiosyncrasies, and this overall transition from self-publishing to Orbit’s gu
iding hand. I hope it’s all been worth it, and that this book, and the next, will be worthy of Haern’s shadowy legacy.

  David Dalglish

  October 31, 2013

  extras

  if you enjoyed

  A DANCE OF GHOSTS

  look out for

  A DANCE OF CHAOS

  Book Six of Shadowdance

  also by

  David Dalglish

  Prologue

  Into the secluded shrine below Palace Thyne walked Muzien Ordoth, and he was pleased to see he was not alone. He’d feared the high priest of Celestia would be afraid to meet with him in such a clandestine manner, or even worse, deem such a meeting beneath him. They met in a place long forgotten, accessible only through ancient tunnels cut into the granite beneath the palace. The shrine itself was lit with forever-burning torches that produced no smoke, their yellow light reflecting off the emerald walls.

  “You should have been here before me, kneeling in prayer to our goddess,” said Varen Dultha, rising from his knees before the statuette of Celestia that rested atop an oaken altar. When he turned, his smug distaste tested the limits of Muzien’s patience and control. “But then again, you’ve never been much for prayers and worship, have you?”

  “I do not appreciate having my faith questioned,” Muzien said. “My loyalty to the goddess has not wavered once over this past decade.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” Varen said. “Living among humans? Trading with them? Keeping many in your employ? The goddess commanded us to watch over them, guide them, and remain neutral in their affairs if they would not listen. Pray tell me, how you were doing Celestia’s work there in Mordeina?”

  Muzien took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. He needed to remain calm and not let his regular disagreements with the high priest get in the way of all he’d done. In the secret records of their people, he would have himself placed as the savior of their city, perhaps their entire race. What did a few insults to his pride matter compared to that? But before he answered, he walked past Varen and put a hand atop the nude statuette. It was of their goddess, arms raised above her head, mouth open. Carefully carved to represent the delicate nature of balance, she could have been bound and in pain or finding pleasure in freedom. Often, it was the viewer’s mood that was reflected back, a subtle point Muzien wished more elves would understand. Above the statuette, carved into the emerald and filled with gold, was a four-pointed star, the fabled form Celestia had taken when coming down to speak with the brother gods before their war thousands of years ago. It was as symbolic as it was historical, for that same star often represented the sun, showcasing the duality of the goddess, of her watchful eye in both day and night.

  After whispering a prayer for guidance, all while fully aware Varen impatiently watched, Muzien crossed his arms over his chest and met the stare of the priest. Varen was slender, even for an elf, his long hair so white it approached silver. He was young, though, nearly as young as Muzien. The two had risen in power together over the last century, but it had been Varen who won the position of high priest, the youngest ever to have done so. The wound to Muzien’s ego had taken years to heal, the bleeding only halting when he’d realized there were far better ways to protect his people than from within the isolated halls of their temples.

  “I do Celestia’s work by protecting her people,” Muzien said.

  “Are her people in danger?”

  Muzien’s jaw clenched tight, grinding his teeth.

  “You’re no fool, Varen,” he said. “The humans’ view of us has worsened drastically over the past twenty years. They fear us now, that fear bordering on the insane. In their cities, men and women preach hatred toward us, a hatred so primal and raw no peaceful solution will ever suffice.”

  Varen’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that why you’ve pulled me down to this forgotten place?” he asked. “To insult my diplomats before they may even have the chance to speak a word?”

  Muzien shook his head. Conflict between the races was growing; everyone could see that. Over the past year, as a way to counter this, Varen had championed an initiative to send dozens of trained diplomats to permanently live in Mordeina, the capital city of the human nation of Mordan. But Muzien had beaten them there by a decade, and he knew the futility of such an attempt. His voice went unheard during the debates, for he had no time for such things. He had a war to prevent.

  “Your diplomats will be made to wait at the gates,” Muzien said, stepping closer to Varen. “After a week or so, they’ll be allowed in, only to be met with vicious crowds. They’ll be cursed at, spat at. Little boys and girls will hurl stones at their heads. Whatever home you think they’ll stay in will be burned to the ground. Should they go to speak with the king, they will be denied nine times out of ten, and whatever audience they find will be brief and spent listening to the king inform us of our failures and deviousness. This anger they feel, it is a sickness, without base or merit or reason. It’s founded on one thing, Varen: fear.”

  “If all this is as you say,” asked Varen, “then how have you lived there so long?”

  “Because I want them to fear me.”

  Muzien could feel the conversation slipping away from him, so before the priest could respond, he pressed on, letting his anger fuel his words.

  “Listen well, Varen,” he said. “You know war is coming, as sure as the rising sun. It is only a matter of time before the humans raise their banners and descend upon our forests. They’ll burn every tree to ash if they must to satisfy their bloodlust. If we don’t do something to prevent it, our people will suffer terribly.”

  For once, that smug look faded, revealing a very tired, frustrated Varen.

  “Of course I know it,” he said. “But too many consider the humans as curiosities to be ignored, not feared. They see the borders of our forests as impenetrable. To even convince them to permanently station diplomats in Mordeina took more effort than you can imagine. Damn it, Muzien, it is easier for me to find an elf eager for war than one who will accept mankind as a legitimate danger.”

  Muzien reached out, put a hand on Varen’s shoulder. He tried to remember a time when he’d considered the elf a childhood friend. It felt like a different life and a gulf of blood and coin lay between them.

  “There’s still hope,” Muzien said, and he felt his heart speeding up. This was it, the culmination of his plan. “In Mordeina, I have formed a guild of men and women loyal to my name. They’re bound by greed and ambition, and for that alone, they are both predictable and reliable. I’ve dipped my fingers into every bit of trade, particularly the vices their kings and queens have declared illegal. The price was dear, Varen, and I have spilled more blood than I wish to ever see again in my lifetime, but I would gladly pay it a hundred times over if it means the safety of our people.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Varen. “How does a guild of humans spare us from a potential war?”

  “By bringing the war to them. A minor noble from the southern nation of Ker has made repeated claims that he could conquer all of Mordan, usually under the guise of some bloated family history … a noble that is firmly in my pocket. I’ve secretly contacted mercenary bands from all across Mordeina and Ker, drawing them south to join him. Should he march upon Mordeina and place it under siege, my guild will sabotage the defenses, overthrowing that wretched Baedan family line that has ruled Mordan for far too long.”

  As Varen listened, his pale face somehow steadily grew paler.

  “You would incite a rebellion against their king?” he said when Muzien finished. “Even worse, you would have us explicitly responsible? Should the humans hear…”

  “They won’t,” Muzien insisted. “I’ve used my guild’s connections for every step of the plan, protecting our people from blame. When the fighting begins, it will be sudden, chaotic. We’ll position the various mercenary groups all across Mordeina. At my word, they’ll begin burning villages to the ground. The combination of chaos and surpr
ise will prevent the king from properly mustering his troops, and that’s when my puppet noble marches on Mordeina. The plan will succeed, Varen; I promise you.”

  Varen looked away, to the statuette of the goddess. Putting a hand atop it, he closed his eyes, shook his head.

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked. “If you didn’t need help, you’d have already put this plan into motion, consequences be damned.”

  Muzien felt relief sweep through him. If Varen was ready to consider the cost, then the hardest part was over.

  “My guild’s trade network is extensive, and it has grown rapidly over the past few years, but it is still not enough to pay for an entire army’s worth of mercenaries. I need the coffers of the priesthood opened to me. With it, I can establish a puppet king loyal to my desires. Even if we fail, we’ll plunge the human nations into chaos that will take years to recover from. All I ask is that you trust me.”

  “Why come to me?”

  “Because what we do must be kept between just us. The fewer who know, the safer we are. You control the coffers, and you alone. I bring before you a plan to save our people; now all you must do is give me the word to begin.”

  Varen opened his eyes, and his hand fell from the statuette.

  “That coin is tithed to us so we may build statues and temples to our goddess,” he said. “It is given to us so we may feed any who may go hungry and clothe those who would go naked otherwise. Come the midsummer festival, when we rejoice in the love of our maker, it is those tithes that pay for every instrument, every singer, every baker. And you would have me spend it on mercenaries to slaughter entire villages in the vain hope of replacing one human king for another?”

  “I do what must be done,” Muzien said, his temper flaring.