A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  The King’s Forest? Even if they’re just reaching its northern stretches, that means …

  “Three days at best,” he muttered. The elf hadn’t been exaggerating. He felt the blood drain from his face. “By Ashhur, three days? That’s not enough time, Dieredon. Even if we had a standing army waiting for us at Felwood or the Green Castle, it’d take us that long just to have our messengers arrive. The only defenders we’ll have are those already within our walls!”

  “And how many men is that?” Dieredon asked.

  Antonil began to answer, but realized he was taking everything at the scoutmaster’s word. What if he was lying, or trying to sniff out the strength of their defenders?

  “Not as many as I would like,” he said, standing up straighter. “But enough to handle these orcs. They’re strong but stupid beasts, and that is all they are. Without ladders and siege weapons, they will break upon our walls. Let them hack at our gates with their axes and swords. It will do them no good.”

  Antonil caught the look the elf gave, and it troubled him deeply.

  “Unless you know something I do not,” he added, trying to pry it out of him.

  The elf crossed his arms, and whatever standoffish attitude he’d had was wiped away. Instead he spoke with a sudden earnestness and honesty that left Antonil stunned, and oddly flattered.

  “I should have been here sooner,” he said. “But I feared to let their army out of my sight, and then they moved with far greater speed than I anticipated. Someone is with them, Antonil. I have seen him only in glimpses, clothed in black, but I fear he is a necromancer. He is how they crossed the Bone Ditch, and I believe it is his guidance that has kept the orcs in check. They raid only the nearby farmlands to feed themselves, and have avoided any large cities, or the Green Castle. They’re coming here, and they come with a purpose.”

  “He is still just one man,” Antonil argued. “How much power can one man, even a necromancer, possibly wield?”

  Dieredon stared him straight in the eye.

  “Enough to bring your walls and gates crumbling down. I do not expect a siege, Antonil. I expect a massacre, and I pray it is of the orcs, and not the other way around.”

  The elf bowed low, then hopped up onto the back of his winged horse. Antonil stepped closer, feeling dumbstruck, his tired mind frantically trying to make sense of all he’d heard.

  “Will you track them still?” he asked, hoping he might gain more information about their foes as they approached.

  “No,” Dieredon said, shaking his head. “If I press Sonowin hard, I might reach Nellassar in time to muster the Ekreissar to come to your aid. It won’t be easy, but there’s a chance…”

  “I understand,” Antonil said, and he bowed low. “And thank you. Even if there is no time to summon soldiers, we may still save the outlying villages from the raiding orcs. You’ve saved many lives this day.”

  “And if the goddess is kind, I will save many more,” Dieredon said. “Peace be with you, Antonil.”

  His horse—Sonowin, Antonil assumed—let out a loud snort, and then its wings unfolded, spreading out fifteen feet to either side. With a great whoosh of air they beat once, twice, blowing back Antonil’s hair before he retreated. The creature began running away from the walls, wings still beating, and then it soared into the air, looping about once before heading southeast toward Nellassar, the forest kingdom of the Dezren elves.

  Antonil watched until it was a white dot indistinguishable from the clouds, then pulled his attention back down to the ground. An army of orcs, arriving with no time for him to muster troops, and aided by a mysterious necromancer?

  “Damn it,” he said, then with more gusto, “Gods fucking damn it!”

  There was no time, no time to do anything if what the elf said was true. Worst was how he could not even wait to confirm his story. Waiting meant wasting precious time, and Antonil could think of no reason for Dieredon to lie. What could it possibly gain him? Spinning about, he rushed through the great doors of his city.

  “Sir?” asked one of the guards.

  Antonil ignored him, picking up his pace. Instead of heading toward the castle, he walked along the wall, toward the nearest of the many guardhouses stationed throughout the city. The building was squat and square, jutting out from the interior of the wall. When Antonil stepped inside, there was barely room for him among the several men seated within at the lone table. Along all the walls were swords and armor for the men to use on their patrols. Seated at the head of the table, ax still strapped to his back, was Antonil’s good friend, the battle-scared veteran Sergan.

  “Come to share a drink with us?” the older man asked.

  “Out,” Antonil said, looking to the others. “I must speak with Sergan.”

  The others quickly obeyed. Sergan leaned back in his chair, scratching at his beard.

  “Something the matter?” he asked.

  “The scoutmaster for the Quellan elves came to speak with me,” Antonil said, deciding to keep it as brief as possible. “An army of orcs has managed to cross the Bone Ditch, and they’re on their way here as we speak.”

  Sergan blinked.

  “All right. How much time we got?”

  “Three days at best, though two seems more likely.”

  The man slowly rose from his seat, and he finished off the drink before him.

  “Well that sucks Karak’s hairy cock, doesn’t it? What’s the plan?”

  Antonil glanced over his shoulder and saw the soldiers lingering near the door, so he kicked it shut.

  “We need to avoid a panic,” he said. “Find the most reliable men you can, and get them riding north. Every bit of farmland, every village, if they’re within striking distance of the King’s Forest, they need to be emptied out.”

  “Want them to take shelter here?”

  “No,” Antonil said, hating his answer. “We may fall under siege, and if so, food will be scarce enough as it is. Get them to go west, or east, it doesn’t matter, so long as they’re out of the army’s path. After that, get those riders to Felwood, the Green Castle, even Kinamn. All of Neldar needs its armies raised. If they besiege us, they’ll have a chance to break it, and if not, and we fall…”

  Antonil shrugged.

  “At least they’ll be ready when the army moves on.”

  Sergan’s eyes glazed over, and Antonil could tell he was tracking routes and mentally assigning men to them.

  “Fuck,” he muttered. “You sure this elf ain’t lying? This will be a whole lot of hubbub for nothing if he is.”

  “I’d give anything to have him be lying,” Antonil said. “But I don’t think he is. We have to do whatever we can to prepare. Start recruiting anyone and everyone to join the guard; use the skirmishes with the Sun Guild as the excuse.”

  Sergan blinked, and his mind focused more on the immediate.

  “All this secrecy,” he said. “It’s making me suspicious that you don’t plan on telling His Majesty. I take it you don’t think it’s a good idea?”

  Antonil paused, and then, unable to help himself, he burst into laughter.

  “Telling him will do far more harm than good,” he said. “Let the brat remain ignorant in his castle. He’ll only interfere if he knows what’s happening, and worse, he might prevent us from doing anything because the warning came from an elf and not, well, anyone else. When the army arrives, he’s welcome to cower in his room while the rest of us save the lives of his people.”

  Sergan saluted.

  “Understood,” he said. “I’ll get started on the riders.”

  Antonil saluted back, then made for the door.

  “Do what you can, and as fast as you can,” he said.

  “Where are you going?” Sergan asked.

  Antonil grinned at him, for he’d realized a way he might confirm the army’s existence after all.

  “I’m going to get us a wizard,” he said, then exited so he might hurry to the Eschaton Tower beyond the walls.

  CHAPTER
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  22

  Are you sure this isn’t a trap?” Haern asked as he and his father lurked outside the fenced Roseborn Cemetery. They’d spent the previous night in disguise, sneaking into the various taverns and slums of the city to spread their message: they wished to meet with the highest-ranking survivors of the former guilds. Now the sun had finished its descent, and their time for meeting had almost come, the two lying on the rooftop of the grave keeper’s home just opposite the cemetery’s entrance.

  “It might be,” Thren whispered, and he glanced over at Haern and gave him a smug grin. “But would it matter?”

  Haern shook his head.

  “Most likely not.”

  “Then stop worrying about it.”

  It seemed wiser to worry about an ambush than to ignore the possibility, but Haern let the matter drop. If there was an ambush, it’d been set up carefully. As the people arrived one by one, Haern had looped the cemetery thrice while his father remained watching the gate. No groups of the Sun Guild remained lurking that he could find. That word of their meeting had failed to reach Muzien’s ears was a strong signal that his power in Veldaren was waning. Just a week before, such an attempt would have certainly ended in disaster.

  “We’ve waited long enough,” Haern said, and he rose to a stand. “Anyone else who wanted to come would have already.”

  Thren stood as well, and reaching down, he held the rooftop with his left hand and then used it to swing to the ground. Straightening his clothes after landing, he glanced over to Haern, who followed.

  “Keep your hood up, and keep it dark,” his father said. “I need you mysterious and intimidating. Even if you don’t say a word, your presence, and what it means, will speak volumes.”

  “You just have to be in charge, don’t you?” Haern said.

  Thren shrugged.

  “I just don’t want you messing things up. This crew will be antsy, and most likely thinking about how turning on Muzien will get themselves killed. If they’re here, it’s out of hope I can convince them otherwise. They want me to make them believe, and I can do that … but only if you keep your mouth shut.”

  “No promises,” Haern muttered, grabbing his hood and willing its shadows to deepen. That done, he followed his father through the rickety gate, hands on his swords at all times.

  There were nine of them gathered in a loose circle at the center of the cemetery, a few Haern recognized, and more he didn’t. All of them wore the four-pointed star somewhere on their shirt or coat, and they looked miserable being there. They’d been muttering among themselves, but when Haern and Thren stepped into their midst, they all fell silent. Haern kept his body hidden by his cloaks, and he turned his gaze to each one so there would be no doubt as to who he was.

  “I’m surprised to see you here, Martin,” Thren said to a man with a heavily scarred face who was leaning against a slender tree, one of very few that grew throughout the cemetery. “Given how you betrayed me to Muzien when I first returned to Veldaren.”

  “I did no such thing,” Martin replied, and he looked rather bored with the accusation. “I waited for a note or whisper of a plan, and none came until now. About time, I’d say.”

  Thren chuckled, and he turned to the rest. As far as Haern knew, Martin was the only former member of the Spider Guild. Of the others he recognized only Quentin, a lanky man who’d been third-in-command of the Serpent Guild. The others, if they’d been members of the Shadow Guild, or the Wolves, or the Hawks, had been so low in importance he did not remember them, assuming he’d learned their names in the first place. A clear sign of the damage Muzien had inflicted on the underworld. Under different circumstances Haern would have been pleased.

  “Do the rest of you speak for the remnants of your guilds?” Thren asked them.

  “Those still interested in making things how they were,” said a skinny blond man, his frame dwarfed by the heavy coat he wore. “Can’t say for certain how many that is, given how dangerous it is to talk of the old times.”

  “Right now, I’d say we’re few,” a woman beside Quentin added, a tattoo on her neck revealing her former allegiance to the Serpent Guild. “Too many pockets are filled compared to before Muzien’s arrival. Are you here to offer us a return to the glory days, Thren?”

  “I am,” Thren said.

  “And what might those glory days be?” Quentin asked. “Back to when we warred against the Trifect, losing men and women as fast as we recruited them? Or back to when we were glorified bodyguards squabbling over the scraps the Trifect paid us? Muzien might be sick in the head, but he’s brought us power we haven’t had in decades, and we don’t need to remain slaves to the fucking Watcher to keep it.”

  Haern frowned, and he had to bite his tongue to remain silent. Such talk could derail whatever progress they hoped to make. His father knew that as well.

  “You’re right,” Thren said. “You’re slaves to Muzien instead, but I’m sure your ego can handle worshiping an elf over the Watcher. As for your petty gripes, keep them to yourself, Quentin. If you thought it hopeless, or did not yearn for better times, you wouldn’t be here in this cemetery, so unless you have something worthwhile to say, cease your ego stroking and shut the fuck up.”

  Quentin reached for his sword. The woman beside him grabbed his arm to hold him still.

  “We’re not here to fight,” she said, glaring at them both. “We’re here because too many will die otherwise.”

  Haern lifted an eyebrow. This was interesting …

  “What do you mean?” he asked, ignoring Thren’s glare.

  The woman glanced at Quentin, but neither seemed willing to speak, and so Martin did.

  “We’re all hearing rumblings of Muzien pulling out from Veldaren,” he said, and the others nodded in agreement. “Nothing official, but most everyone seems certain it will happen at some point.”

  “You act as if this would be a terrible thing,” Thren said.

  “It wouldn’t be,” Martin said. “Except Muzien’s discussing taking tithes before we do.”

  Haern felt his heart skip a beat. He looked to the others, and they all kept their eyes to the dirt, as if afraid to meet his.

  “Tithes?” he said. “Like the tithes he took in the marketplace? The tithes you no doubt were a part of?”

  “Enough,” Thren said, glaring.

  “He’s right, though,” Quentin said. “He wants more tithes, and on a scale that’s frightening.”

  “I’m not sure he plans on leaving afterwards,” said the blond man by the tree. “But the tithes, those I’m certain of. You’ve got to understand, Thren, we all have families here, friends, relatives. Most of our lowest ranks are children, or hold other occupations. They don’t want this, none of us do. A bit of extra coin, or a chance at power, that’s one thing, but this?”

  Tithes, thought Haern. He wants his tithes …

  Glancing about, and seeing no tiles, Haern realized that they might be in the only place in Veldaren safe from the wrath Muzien could unleash upon them. He wasn’t sure if that made him want to laugh or cry.

  “A rebellion’s stirring in his ranks,” Thren said after they all fell silent. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

  “Only with those here from Veldaren,” Martin said. “Those who came with him from Mordeina couldn’t care less.”

  Thren nodded, and there was no denying the excitement growing in his voice.

  “Then the time is now,” he said. “You swore your loyalty to a mad king to spare your lives, but that won’t protect you anymore. He must be brought crumbling to the ground, and we have the power to do it. Rise up, throw on your cloaks, and defy the Darkhand with every breath in your lungs. Let this outsider learn the folly of his pride and arrogance.”

  “Brazen words,” Quentin said. “But how do we know it will work? And how do we coordinate such an uprising?”

  “It will work because I am with you, and not against you,” Haern said. “Muzien built his power in my absence. I am here
now, and I will not let it stand. Tell the underworld your Watcher will aid you in returning things to as they were. Even if you doubt Thren, do you doubt me?”

  Haern felt the immediate change in the air. Muzien might carry a towering reputation, but Thren and Haern had spent their lives cultivating auras of fear in Veldaren. For their power to be united? Suddenly the Darkhand’s newly forged empire didn’t seem quite so invincible.

  “This is not some last-ditch desperate attempt,” Thren told them. “This is the true might of our city rising up in defiance, and we will crush everything Muzien has built in one single blow. Spread word throughout the underworld. Tell those who once belonged to your guilds that very soon I will give my signal to the entirety of the city. When you see it, toss aside the Sun, throw on your cloaks, and in the name of the Spider, slaughter all who will not do the same.”

  “And what might that signal be?” Martin asked.

  Thren grinned at him.

  “You will know it when you see it. Until then, be ready. This will be bloody, but we will emerge stronger than ever before.”

  “Hold up,” Quentin said. “I don’t remember any of us saying we agreed to go along with your plan, not that there’s much of a plan to begin with, and I as sure as the Abyss didn’t agree to join your Spider Guild.”

  Haern felt the air immediately turn electric. Quentin’s hand had never left his sword, and the stubborn look on his face made Haern nervous. Thren turned to him, but if he was worried, his bemused smirk hid it well.

  “You don’t have a choice,” he said. “If you don’t agree, and swear it with your lives, then consider it appropriate we are in a cemetery.”

  “You’d force us to your side with a blade at our throats?”

  Thren laughed in Quentin’s face.

  “As if Muzien recruited any differently,” he said. “Swear loyalty to the plan, starting with you, Quentin. Let the gods themselves curse you if you betray us to that damn elf.”