A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  Muzien had one, not that he would let the priest know it. After all, during the Watcher’s absence, there’d been another man mysteriously absent …

  “Can you see if your priests can disarm them?” he asked.

  Pelarak rose to his feet.

  “I will see what I can do. If it is beyond the power of our temple, I will find you and inform you so you might discover a different solution.”

  Such candor struck Muzien as humorous, and as the man led him to the door, he said so.

  “By your words, you make it sound as if we are friends, if not allies,” Muzien said.

  Pelarak paused, hand on the door handle.

  “We are not blind to your arrival,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “You seek power and domination, and you can have neither unless the city stands. So long as you keep your focus on the people’s pockets, we will remain out of your affairs. Their hearts and souls are ours, though, elf. We heard of your display in the marketplace. Be careful declaring yourself a god. You might make true gods jealous, and there is little more dangerous than that.”

  Muzien flashed him a smile, and he lifted his darkened hand.

  “I know better than most the touch of an angry god,” he said. “And even so, I am not afraid. Good day, Pelarak. For all our sakes, I hope you find a way to remove the teeth from these tiles.”

  Exiting the room, Muzien refused the offered escort back to the front door from the boy in robes. Past the statue of Karak he walked, and this time the effect was far weaker, its gaze no longer focused on him, the purple glow of the fires casting strange shadows upon its sides.

  Other than fear and demand for obedience, there never was much to you, was there? the elf thought, and he grinned at the statue that could not answer back.

  Once he was outside the temple, the iron gate surrounding it slamming shut on its own after his passing, he glanced back to see the dark, deserted mansion once more. Several hundred feet down the road, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the side of a home, waited Zusa.

  “I hope the trip was worth the time,” she said.

  “It was,” Muzien said as she joined his side. His mind raced over all he knew. The Watcher would never hold the entire city hostage. Everything Muzien had learned of him showed him to be someone with a strong sense of morality, however misguided it might be. Plus his truce had appeared to be one made to protect the people, those he viewed as innocent. Killing those innocents? Preposterous. Muzien’s former apprentice, however …

  “It seems I have not taken things as seriously as I should,” Muzien continued. “Thren Felhorn must be found and eliminated at all costs.”

  “We can put a bounty on his head,” Zusa suggested. “Not that it’ll do much good. Too many are still afraid of him, and those who aren’t I doubt have the skill to take him down. Worse, he’s homeless and guildless, just a single man lurking within the hundreds of thousands between these walls. Finding him without his revealing himself will be difficult to say the least.”

  “All true,” Muzien said, “which means we must work with what we have.”

  She frowned.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  Muzien shrugged as he led them toward the guildhouse so he might gather more of his men for the task at hand.

  “Tell me, Zusa, the markings drawn in blood that were left to mock you this morning … were there two symbols, or one?”

  Her eyes seemed to shimmer. With fear or excitement, he could not tell.

  “Two,” she said.

  “Exactly. I may not know how to find the Spider, but my gut says the Watcher does. Now come. The night is young, and I have a legend to capture.”

  CHAPTER

  11

  Tarlak’s eyes snapped open moments before whoever was at his tower door knocked their fist against it.

  “This better be important,” he muttered, rolling off his bed, grabbing his hat from the nightstand, and stumbling down the stone staircase in his bed robes. When he closed his eyes, he saw a glimpse of his doorway as if he were standing outside, though he kept it up for only a second. The last thing he needed was to break his neck rolling down the steps of his own tower. What he saw was enough, though. A soldier in the armor and tabard of the city guard was ramming his fist against the tower door as if he were a barbarian come to loot and pillage.

  Just … ugh, thought Tarlak as he reached the bottom floor. Good news never, ever comes at night, and certainly not from the lips of the city guard.

  “What?” Tarlak asked, flinging the door open. The soldier nearly lost his footing, having been in the process of knocking again. Taking a step back, the man began to mutter something of an apology, but Tarlak cut him off.

  “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice young lad,” he said, “but it’s far past midnight, I’m tired, and whatever wisdom you’ve heard about not interfering in the affairs of wizards applies doubly when they’re cranky and sleep-deprived. So ignore the pleasantries and tell me why you’re here.”

  “Antonil sent me,” said the young man after overcoming his surprise. “Please, you have to hurry to the city. Muzien’s taken the king hostage.”

  The wizard blinked a few times, then dug a finger into his ear to clear out whatever was surely interfering with his hearing.

  “Could you repeat that?” he asked.

  The soldier’s neck flushed red, and he glared with impatience.

  “Muzien has the king held hostage,” he said. “He’s demanding the Watcher turn himself in.”

  “He is?” Tarlak asked. “Did he say why?”

  “If I knew I’d tell you. All I have are the words Antonil told me, that either the king’s head or the Watcher’s would be on a pike over the city gates come morning.”

  Tarlak knew his ears weren’t at fault, but he was still having trouble believing what he was hearing.

  “And I take it Antonil’s hoping that I’ll hand the Watcher over to save that sorry excuse of a royal brat, may Ashhur bless his reign?”

  The soldier crossed his arms and looked unsure how to react to such an insult to his king. Deciding it best to ignore it, he shook his head and cleared his throat.

  “Uh, no,” he said. “Sir Antonil said to tell you he wanted Muzien turned into a hoofed animal he could send to the butcher’s shop, and if not that, then your help killing the bastard would still be appreciated.”

  Tarlak raised an eyebrow.

  “Did he now?”

  “He did,” said the soldier. “And he said to tell you that you’d be paid well for such service to the crown.”

  The wizard finally smiled.

  “See,” he said, “that’s what you need to open with. Tell Antonil we’ll be on our way to join him in a few.”

  “Thank you,” the soldier said, bowing. “We’re gathering at the western gate. Antonil will be waiting there for your—”

  The soldier was still bowing when Tarlak slammed the door in his face. Holding a ring to his lips, Tarlak spoke into it, knowing his voice would be repeated in every bedroom of the tower.

  “Brug, Del, wake up,” he said. “We have a job to do.”

  As they dressed and prepared, Tarlak sat in his chair before the fireplace, still in his bed robes, and scratched at his goatee. He’d not seen Haern for some time, not since he’d tried and failed to disarm one of Muzien’s tiles. Such a long absence was worrying, but Tarlak trusted his friend to still be alive. Given the dire circumstances the city was in, and Haern’s search for a way to kill Muzien, it made sense for him to be absent for long periods.

  “Well, we’re ready,” Brug said, leading Delysia down the stairs, he in his plate mail, she in her white priestess robes. “Care to tell us what we’re doing?”

  “Traveling to the city gate,” Tarlak said. “Someone’s set a trap for us, and we’re going to spring it.”

  Neither looked rested enough to handle such news.

  “Could you explain further?” Delysia asked.

 
Brug was less diplomatic.

  “Fuck that, I’m going to bed.”

  “Get back down here,” Tarlak said before the short man could climb a step. “This isn’t a game. My gut says Muzien wants us captured, though I can’t begin to guess why. Well, I can guess, but it’d be irrelevant. Thing is, if he wants us, that means he won’t stop trying until he does get us. We avoid him now, it makes things dangerous later, and it also means I can’t ever trust you two to go out alone. Besides, this is our one chance to get the jump on that elven piss bucket, and I have no intention of letting it slip past.”

  “What about Haern?” Delysia asked. “Shouldn’t we wait for him to come with us?”

  “No clue when he might return,” Tarlak said, rising from his chair. “The longer we wait, the more likely Muzien realizes we’re onto him. I told the soldier, or the man pretending to be one, whichever it is, that we’d be leaving in a few, so that’s what we’re doing.”

  “Could we pretend you meant a few hours, not minutes?” Brug grumbled, eliciting an eye roll from Tarlak.

  “You’re not going out in that, are you?” Delysia asked, ignoring him and gesturing to Tarlak’s bed robes. Tarlak glanced down at them, grunted, and snapped his fingers. Instantly they changed into his long yellow robes. Patting his multitude of pockets to ensure the various reagents were there, he nodded, then cracked his knuckles.

  “I’ll take us to a clearing just outside the west gate,” he said. “From there, just play it loose and aggressive. Supposedly the king’s being held hostage, and we’re meeting Antonil’s men to prepare for a rescue. My gut says it’s at that gate we’ll be attacked, so we need to be the ones getting the jump on them, not the other way around. Muzien’s priority number one. Either of you see a chance to cut him down, you take it. Well, maybe not you, Brug. You just focus on keeping the two of us alive and kicking.”

  “I’ll do what I can, smartass.”

  Tarlak clapped his hands, took a deep breath, and then prepared to open the portal. Before he could continue the motions, Delysia reached out and put her hand on his, preventing him.

  “This is serious, Tarlak,” she said, staring up at him. “If you’re right, and Muzien’s planned an ambush, every one of us may be killed. Are you sure you want to do this?”

  Tarlak wrapped her hands with his own.

  “Sis, we might save the life of every man, woman, and child in Veldaren if we pull this off,” he said. “Of course we have to do this.”

  “At least we’ll get paid, right?” Brug asked as Tarlak tore open a swirling blue hole in the fabric of reality.

  “No guarantees, but I imagine Muzien’s head should be worth a sizable reward. Eyes on the prize, Brug. I like your thinking.”

  With that he stepped inside, felt his stomach churn, felt the world shift, and then he was standing outside the western gate of the city. Behind him Brug and Delysia followed, and he felt a tug on his mind with the passage of each. Once both were through, he clenched a fist, banishing the portal.

  “What makes you so certain it’s an ambush?” Brug asked as the three approached the city gate. “Muzien seems like the type of fellow who’d kidnap a king to get what he wants.”

  Tarlak glanced back toward Brug, tossed him a wink.

  “If Muzien wanted Haern, he wouldn’t kidnap the king to get him. He’d kidnap us.”

  Brug, already in a poor mood, soured even further.

  “Lovely,” he said, hands resting on the handles to the punch daggers tucked into his belt. “Just lovely. The things I do for my friends.”

  “At least I’m not making you skip a meal.”

  “Yes, because food is so much more important than losing sleep or walking into a certain ambush. My priorities must be so damned confused.”

  “Shush now,” Delysia said, stepping between them. “Or you’ll announce to Muzien’s men we know of their ambush.”

  “I’d think if me and Brug weren’t bickering it might tip them off something was amiss,” Tarlak said. “But point taken.” He nodded ahead to the gate. “I count twelve waiting. Want me to roast them, or wait until the trap’s sprung?”

  “I doubt Muzien’s one of those twelve,” Brug said, scratching at his beard, no easy feat given his plate gauntlets. “If you want him, you’ll need to let him show himself.”

  “We might be dead or unconscious before that happens.”

  Brug rolled his eyes.

  “Then just piss him off so much he appears anyway. I think you can manage that, too.”

  Tarlak drummed his fingers against his thigh, debating. Seeing the twelve armed and armored men waiting in a circle tempted him to blast them apart before they knew battle was upon them … but there was always that slight chance the guard had been telling the truth, and Antonil had actually summoned their band. Killing innocent men on a hunch? The wizard let out a sigh. No, he couldn’t do that. He’d have to let the trap be sprung.

  “Just stay sharp,” he said as they passed through the open and unguarded western gate. “This will get ugly fast.”

  Many of the twelve were watching their approach, their group gathered in the center of the wide road leading deeper into the city. Given the darkness, and how the twelve were jumbled together, it was hard for him to know for certain, but seeing no hint of Antonil’s golden armor made him all the more convinced of the ambush. If only they’d do something to confirm it …

  “Tarlak?” one of the men shouted, taking a few steps toward them.

  “Yeah?” Tarlak asked back.

  That was all it took. The front-most of the group stepped aside, revealing five of the imposter guards holding small crossbows, the tips of their bolts no doubt coated with paralyzing or sleeping toxins. Tarlak’s hands were already moving before they could fire. The bolts flew with a chorus of twangs, shooting through the air only to come to a sudden halt a few feet in front of their intended targets.

  “Thanks for that,” Tarlak said as the bolts dropped harmlessly to the ground. No longer worried about killing honest guards, the wizard clapped his hands, then spread them forward. Fire surged from his open palms, a wide spray that crossed the distance between them in a heartbeat, bathing the soldiers. As they screamed, Brug drew his punch daggers and clanged them together. When the fire dissipated, he rushed forward, where the few who’d survived cried out in pain from the burns.

  “Get back here, you idiot!” Tarlak cried, but it was too late. On the rooftops of the fine homes on either side emerged dozens of men wearing long coats and the four-pointed star. Summoning another wall of force, Tarlak blocked a second barrage of arrows. Brug, beyond reach of the shield, shrugged off the few that hit him, the thin, slender shots unable to pierce his heavy armor. Less easy to shrug off was the kick to his head from a woman who leaped from the rooftop, attacking before all the others. As his friend dropped, Tarlak put his back to Delysia’s and prepared another protective wall in case their ambushers should fire more arrows.

  “This might have been a mistake,” he muttered, praying Brug would somehow survive out there alone.

  “Now’s not the time to doubt yourself,” his sister said, and he heard a soft ringing, saw light shining from her hands.

  Abandoning their crossbows, the members of the Sun drew their blades and leaped from the rooftops. Hooking his fingers into the necessary formations while incanting the enacting words, Tarlak surrounded the two of them with a wall of fire, the flames blazing hot and taller than a man. He thought it’d slow the attackers down, but the men and women leaped through anyway, crossing their arms over their faces and enduring the burns. Tarlak blasted the first two with bolts of lightning, and the third he gave an icicle straight through the eye. From behind him he heard another loud ringing, followed by a blast of air as his sister fought with her own holy magic.

  Trusting his sister to handle her own, Tarlak bathed his hands with fire, a welcome for the next to assault him. They came in a group of three, two men and a woman, using their long coats to protect t
hemselves from the flames. Pushing his wrists together, he unleashed a giant spray of fire, its accompanying rumble and recoil forcing the wizard to brace his legs and dig in his heels. The man in the middle had no hope, his body consumed within the blink of an eye. The other two dove sideways, one crossing into the existing wall of fire, the other curling back around just within its reaches and then lunging with weapon drawn.

  Trying not to panic, Tarlak twisted to the side, electricity sparking from his fingertips. He brushed the woman’s extended wrist, releasing the power into her. For a brief moment her body locked in place, every muscle rigid, and then she collapsed, dead or unconscious, he didn’t know.

  “Tar!” he heard his sister shout, and he turned to find her backpedaling toward him, her hands a blur of light, blinding and disorienting the two men chasing her.

  “I got them,” Tarlak said, pulling his hand back to hurl a ball of fire. Movement from the corner of his eye made him pause. A woman sailed through the air, vaulting upside down over his wall of fire as if it were a simple matter. Tarlak froze, for though the clothes were different, he recognized that face, and those twin blades.

  About time something went our way, he thought as Zusa landed between Delysia and her attackers, but his relief was short-lived. Before his sister could issue a word of gratitude, Zusa rammed an elbow into her stomach, then whipped about to strike her temple with the butt of a dagger. With a meager whimper, she crumpled, her body turning limp.

  The fire around Tarlak’s hands tripled in size.

  “You lost your damn mind?” he cried, flinging two balls of flame. Zusa retreated, twisting her body like a dancer to avoid the attacks. The balls continued, detonating against one of the nearby homes, but he was too furious to care. Preparing to see if Zusa could dodge lightning as easily as she did fire, Tarlak only barely noticed another attacker leaping over his wall of flame. Whirling at the last second, Tarlak unleashed the great barrage of swirling lightning … at least, it should have been, only a ring on the man’s hand flared with a sudden red light, preventing the spell from activating. Unimpaired, the man landed before Tarlak, then leaped forward, his feet seeming to never touch the ground.