A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  “A noble pursuit,” Deathmask said, drumming his fingers atop another coffin. “But I fail to see how you will help me. What exactly do you bring to such an alliance?”

  “I bring my name, my reputation, and all who would seek to overthrow Muzien and return to the better days of old.”

  “Ah yes, those better days…” Deathmask ceased drumming and instead began to pace back and forth beside the dancing corpse. “That’s the tricky point, Thren. You see, the past few years have been rather lean for most. You may remember the glory days during the height of the war with the Trifect, but what’s going to stick in the minds of any you try to recruit will be the recent years of peace you forged, and the dwindling coin that entered each of their hands.”

  Thren did his best to ignore Maynard’s rotted skeleton, instead meeting Deathmask’s mismatched eyes and doing what he could to convey his conviction and determination. It was cold down there in the tomb, and he wanted their conversation over as fast as possible.

  “We promise them an overthrowing of the old agreement,” Thren said. “The destruction of the Watcher, and an end to all truces. Together we can bring anarchy back to Veldaren, and in its chaos, we will thrive.”

  Deathmask grinned.

  “Now you have my attention. Muzien’s men from the west are worthless to us. They worship him as a god, and I’ve learned to just leave the fanatics be. But the members who once belonged to the Wolf Guild, the Spider Guild, the Shadow and the Serpent? They’re the ones who can be persuaded to turn. That’s the tricky part, Thren. We have to convince them we can make a difference. We have to make them believe Muzien can be killed.”

  Thren thought of the many training sessions he’d had with his former master. He had never once won any spar, any competition. Deep down, he wondered if the elf actually could be beaten, but he kept those cowardly words to himself.

  “He can be killed,” he said instead. “But it won’t be easy. What is it you suggest?”

  Deathmask put a hand on Maynard’s corpse and whispered something Thren could not make out. The corpse turned, bowed to Deathmask, and then changed dances so that it swayed from side to side, arms limp, head rolling.

  “Killing Muzien will be impossible until we strip him of his followers,” Deathmask said. “But there are other ways to show he isn’t the inhuman god he’s made himself out to be. His second-in-command, a man named Ridley, would be a fine example. Capture him, execute him in a very public, very gruesome manner, and we’ll have made our point.”

  Thren drew his sword, and before Deathmask could react, he lopped off Maynard’s head. To his disgust, the corpse continued to dance, even with the head lying behind it in the coffin.

  “Make it stop,” he said, sheathing his blade. “I’m tired of looking at it.”

  “If you insist.”

  Instead of seeming bothered by the demand, Deathmask only looked amused. He snapped his fingers, and the body collapsed instantly.

  “If we kill Ridley, we’ll make our opposition known,” Thren said. “He won’t take kindly to it. I’ve heard what Muzien did in the marketplace a few weeks back. If he thinks he’s losing the city, what will stop him from performing a similar spectacle?”

  Deathmask’s grin spread wider.

  “That’s the point,” he said. “I want him to try another spectacle. When he does such things, he’s elevating himself above us mere mortals to declare himself superior. If we knock him down at that exact moment, if we toss egg on his face and mud on his clothes, it’ll show the entire city that Muzien isn’t perfect. He can be mocked. He can be stopped. He can be killed. After that, we let this city descend into anarchy. We’ll set fire to the businesses most loyal to Muzien, we’ll burn down the buildings where his men sleep, and we’ll execute anyone willing to wear the pointed star. Chaos, Thren, it all comes down to chaos. Make it terrible enough, and even the king will realize he has to make a choice. When it comes to who he fears most, you or Muzien, well…”

  “If forced to make a choice, the king will act against the elf instead of me,” Thren said. “In the end, I’m human, and Muzien’s not. That alone will suffice. But what you’re suggesting is going to take more men than we have. How do we recruit without giving ourselves away, or bringing in traitors who will turn us over to Muzien?”

  “We do it by being careful, and selective,” Deathmask said. “And I have already made an … unusual ally, whose name I’d rather keep to myself for now. This ally alone grants us many men who know how to use the sharp end of a sword. The question is, what of you, Thren? Is there someone you trust to aid you in taking down that blasted elf?”

  Thren thought of the various members of his guild, and he shook his head remembering how one of his most trusted, Martin, had likely turned on him within a day of his return to Veldaren. No, there was no one he could trust without doubt. He’d led by fear, and now that Muzien ruled, there was no way he could inspire fear so thoroughly that the Darkhand held no sway.

  Of course, outside his Spider Guild, there was one who could be a powerful ally, one whom Thren could trust to never work with Muzien.

  “Only one,” he said, pulling his coat tighter about him. “But he’s the only one that will matter. We’ll bring the Watcher into this war, Deathmask, and we’ll make sure he’s on our side. Once we do, even the most loyal of lapdogs will start to wonder if they made a mistake.”

  Deathmask rubbed his chin as he mused aloud.

  “Interesting,” he said. “But the Watcher’s always had his own rules and code. Compared to Muzien, he’s predictable, he’s safe. Do you think he can inspire the fear we need?”

  Thren felt excitement building in his chest at the idea of him and his son facing off against his former master.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Whoever the Watcher was, he’s different now. Faced with the loss of his city, he’ll become who he needs to be to win it back.”

  Deathmask bowed low.

  “Then consider him your recruit,” he said. “I doubt your success, but I’m eager to see your results nonetheless.”

  After hesitating, Thren extended his hand to the strange man.

  “Allies,” Deathmask said, clasping his wrist and shaking it.

  “Allies.”

  “This city isn’t lost to us yet,” Deathmask said as Thren turned and walked toward the crypt’s exit. “Not if we revel in chaos so great and wild only we know how to endure the dance. If the Watcher’s to join us in it, he better learn to embrace the darker side of things.”

  “Trust me,” Thren said, quickening his step as he ran plans through his mind. “At our side, he’ll become the killer we need.”

  That, and more, thought Thren as he stepped out into the graveyard and gazed upon the rooftops his son called home.

  The killer he was always meant to be.

  CHAPTER

  4

  Haern awoke in his room to the thoroughly unpleasant sight of Tarlak hovering over him, arms crossed, pointy hat tilted to one side. A grin was on the wizard’s face, and that just made everything worse.

  “You could knock on the door to wake me, you know,” Haern muttered.

  “My tower, my rules. Time to rise and shine.”

  “I’d rather sleep.”

  Tarlak let out a snort.

  “You’ve had four hours, that’s plenty. Antonil sent us a messenger requesting our presence, and it seemed urgent.”

  Haern let out a sigh. He should have known the guard captain would attempt to take matters into his own hands after learning of the threat that’d been smuggled into the city right under his nose. But if Antonil wanted to talk to them, then talk they would. In all reality, Antonil was one of the very few good people left.

  “Fine,” he said. “Let me change, and then we’ll go.”

  Tarlak clapped his hands, then paused, as if confused.

  “You have more than one outfit?”

  “Out, wizard, or I swear to Ashhur I will cut off your beard and sh
ove it down your damn throat.”

  “Fine, fine,” Tarlak said, exiting the room and shutting the door behind him. From the other side, still audible as he descended the stairs, the wizard’s rant continued. “Someone needs to start sleeping more and skulking rooftops less, I swear.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Haern said, sliding out of his bed and beginning to disrobe.

  Five minutes later he exited the stairs to the bottom floor to find Tarlak sitting in his favorite chair beside a dormant fireplace, wineglass in hand.

  “Is Delysia coming with us?” Haern asked, and he felt slightly awkward in doing so.

  “She’s already in the city with Brug,” Tarlak said, finishing the last of his sparkling clear drink and then making the glass vanish with a snap of his fingers. Hopping up from the seat, a bundle of energy that inspired a mixture of annoyance and rage inside Haern, the wizard hurried to the door. “Hoping to see what the priests of Ashhur can make of those tiles, since their sworn enemy had a hand in making them. I’ve already sent Del a whisper spell telling them to meet us when they’re done.”

  Haern nodded. He had yet to talk to her since returning, and was hardly looking forward to it.

  “All right then,” said Tarlak. “Let’s go.”

  According to Tarlak, Antonil’s messenger had requested that they meet him in the far south of the city, just off the main road. After stopping by a stall so Haern could buy something to eat, they made their way south. With Haern in his cloaks and Tarlak in his yellow robes, they were an easy pair to spot, earning themselves plenty of strange glances from those they passed.

  “You’d think they’d never seen the color yellow before,” the wizard mused after a woman glared at the two.

  “The people here must endure the guilds, the thieves, and the corrupt guards of the city, all to scrape together enough to afford their daily bread,” Haern said. “You, however, can summon yourself a glass of wine with the snap of your fingers. I don’t think it is the color yellow they dislike.”

  “Aren’t you cheery this morning?” Tarlak said, thrusting his shoulders back so he stood taller as they walked.

  Before Haern could retort, he spotted Antonil waiting in the center of the road, a trio of soldiers with him. He looked calm enough, his demeanor belying whatever urgency the messenger had insisted upon. Tarlak saw the man too, and he straightened up his hat and then quickened his step so that he could greet Antonil first.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Antonil said, seeing the two approach and stepping forward to offer his hand. “You two have my thanks for coming so quickly.”

  “Your thanks is hardly what I’m doing this for, but I’ll accept it nonetheless,” Tarlak said, shaking the soldier’s hand. “Care to share what you needed us for?”

  Antonil ignored him, instead nodding curtly to Haern.

  “It’s good to see you in the daylight for once,” he said.

  “It’s hardly the safest for either of us,” Haern said. “I pray this is important?”

  “It is,” Antonil said, gesturing to his left, where a dead-end street was blocked off by multiple city guards. “There’s one of the Sun Guild’s tiles in the center of the street. Since Tarlak can’t work on the tiles without the risk of hurting innocents, I’ve done you the favor of removing everyone along the entire street.”

  “I doubt those living there were too happy about that,” Haern said.

  “True, they’d probably be happier dead,” Antonil said, “but I’m willing to endure their angry words. I’ve got soldiers posted all about the area, and if anyone tries sneaking in to watch, they’ll let us know. You have your privacy, Tarlak, and a reasonably safe environment. This is the best I can do. The rest is up to you. Do you think you can find a way to render the magic within them harmless?”

  Tarlak cracked his knuckles, and he offered the guard captain a smile Haern immediately knew was fake.

  “I’m willing to try,” he said. “Beyond that, no promises.”

  As Tarlak strolled down the street to where the tile was buried, Haern found a spot of shade against one of the dilapidated homes and nestled into it, pulling his hood low over his face.

  “Not sure why I have to be here,” he shouted to Tarlak as the wizard knelt in the center of the street, his back to him.

  “Emotional support,” Tarlak shouted back. “That, and in case someone doesn’t like what I’m doing, you’re here to save me. I’m sure Antonil’s soldiers are fine men, but they’re no match for someone like Muzien.”

  Haern wasn’t sure he considered himself a match for Muzien either. He hadn’t told Tarlak of his meeting with Antonil the night before, and he didn’t feel like doing so now. Sleep sounded wonderful, and while Haern didn’t think he could, at the least he could shut his eyes and do his best to relax. The empty street was eerily quiet, with just the soft whisper of a wind that had picked up over the past two days, plus Tarlak’s occasional mutters and curses as he examined the tile. Time drifted along, and twice Haern had to shift his weight to remain comfortable.

  “Anything yet?” he asked Tarlak.

  “I’m not sure.”

  The wizard sat on his rump before the tile, chin resting in the palms of his hands. Though Haern couldn’t see his face, he had a feeling Tarlak was drilling holes into the tile with his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” Haern asked. “It’s magical. You know how to manipulate magic. Just … remove whatever’s on it.”

  Tarlak slowly turned his head, giving Haern the worst glare he’d ever seen in his life.

  “Just remove it?” he asked. “Is that it? Is it really that easy? Thank you, Mister Stabby Sword Man, for telling me how to do my job. I’d have never figured that out without your help. If you would, though, please humor me. Have you ever picked a lock? Imagine doing that, except instead of using thin strips of metal, you only have a piece of string, a chicken bone, and a rock the size of your head. Oh, and the lock is surrounded by mirrors, and if you accidentally break one of the mirrors, you get the privilege of dying in a great fiery explosion. Just remove whatever’s on it? Praise Ashhur for sending us your brilliance and wisdom.”

  When he was finally done ranting, Haern offered him his biggest grin.

  “Happy to help,” he said.

  Haern wondered which was more likely to explode in the next few minutes, Tarlak or the tile he was working on. So far, his gut said the wizard.

  “I see I haven’t missed much,” Delysia interrupted, and the two men turned to see her passing between Antonil and his soldiers to join them. She looked radiant in her white priestess robes, though her face lacked any of the humor her words implied.

  “Come, have a seat,” Haern said, tapping the dirt beside him. “Where’d Brug run off to?”

  “To use his words, ‘I’d rather find something to eat than get blown up by that fool wizard,’” she said, smoothing out her dress and then sitting down next to Haern. “Though his language was a bit more … colorful.”

  Haern laughed, glad for something to smile about to hide his unease. The last he’d talked to her, Ghost had been dying before him. Having her so close, acting as if nothing were wrong, nothing troubling between them … could it be so? Might they put behind them the horrible trials they’d endured on the road to the Stronghold? Much as he wished that were true, he knew it wouldn’t be that easy. Things rarely were.

  “Did you learn anything from the priests?” he asked, trying to keep the conversation going, and on anything other than themselves.

  “I spoke with Calan himself,” Delysia said, shaking her head. “The magic upon the tiles is incredibly powerful. Worse, they were specifically warded against Ashhur’s faithful. Given the seriousness of the matter, he’s pledged the aid of the temple in any way we need it, but when it comes to removing their danger, they cannot help us.”

  Haern tapped at his lips with his fingers, thinking. The priests of Ashhur were powerful allies indeed. If he could find a way to turn them against the
Sun Guild, perhaps …

  “Well, I’m glad I’m not the only one who thinks these things are difficult,” Tarlak said, wiping at his eyes. “Gods damn it, this is giving me a headache. What I’d give to shake the hand of whoever came up with such clever protections.”

  “Thren killed him, remember?” Haern said.

  “Right. Well. Shake the hand of his corpse, and then burn it to a cinder. He’s equally deserving of both, the bastard.”

  The wizard stood, popping his back and letting out loud groans. His pointy hat fell from his head, and muttering, Tarlak swept it off the ground and put it back on. As he did, he paused, staring at the tile as if seeing it for the first time.

  “You said it was warded against Ashhur’s followers, right? I think I can spot that inscription. If I can, I wonder…”

  He knelt before the tile again, putting his fingers on the edge.

  “Discover something?” Haern asked.

  “Divine magic is not my specialty, but I’m thinking if I can remove that specific protection against Ashhur’s priests so they can take a crack at this instead, just maybe…”

  He ignored them for a moment to instead begin whispering the soft, peculiar words of magic. A silver light shone around his hands, the edges of it creeping down into the tile like a living mist. Beside Haern, Delysia straightened up, the worry plain on her face.

  “Tar?” she said.

  Tarlak whispered a few more incantations, then abruptly halted.

  “Oh fuck.”

  The tile cracked, Haern caught the briefest flash of lightning, and then the shock wave hit him, stealing his breath away. The sound was intense, like the roar of a lion larger than the city itself. Haern had thought himself far enough away, but in the split second the purple fire blasted toward him, he knew he’d made a grave error. When it rolled across his body, he felt no heat, only pressure, and an ache in his ears. No burns. The fire vanished, and when Haern looked down, he saw Delysia clutching his hand, white light shimmering from her fingers.