A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  The others exchanged glances, and far too many hands were drifting down to the hilts of weapons for Haern’s liking. Despite who was before him, Quentin didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest.

  “You always thought you ruled over us,” the man said, drawing his two swords. “Like your guild was hot shit while we were just rats. We bled and died fighting the Trifect because of your pride, leaving us vulnerable to the Watcher’s rise. Muzien may leave or stay, but no matter what happens, I’ll take my own chances instead of following you into yet another war because your bruised ego can’t stand the thought of someone else ruling Veldaren instead of you.”

  The two faced one another in the moonlight, Thren with his arms crossed, Quentin with his blades ready. The rest watched, tense, curious as to the outcome of the battle. Haern remained back, trusting his father to handle an upstart like Quentin, and instead watching to ensure no one else attempted a cheap shot at Thren while he was locked in a fight.

  “You think you can take me down?” Thren asked. “I can’t decide if I should be insulted, or if you’re just insane.”

  “You’ll have plenty of time to decide after you’re dead.”

  Quentin rushed forward, trying to catch Thren off guard. A painfully futile attempt, and Haern knew it the second the man leaped off his feet. Thren took a single step back with his left foot to brace himself, and in a smooth motion, he pulled his short swords free of their sheaths and swept them in an arc before him, batting aside Quentin’s dual thrusts. Pulling them back around, he forced Quentin to retreat from his sudden flurry of slashes. None were meant to be fatal, Thren clearly playing with him. Within moments thin cuts lined Quentin’s face, which was flushed a deep red, whether from exertion of frustration, Haern did not know.

  “Weren’t you to kill me?” Thren asked, parrying a frantic thrust with his left hand and smacking Quentin across the cheek with the flat of his other blade. “Then why am I not dead yet? Come, Quentin, surely you weren’t boasting out of your ass?”

  Instead of attacking, the man retreated further, throwing a plea to the woman who’d come with him.

  “Help me, Michelle,” he said. “He can’t take the both of us!”

  The woman shook her head.

  “This is your fight,” she said. “You finish it.”

  Quentin’s eyes widened in fear as Thren stalked forward, swords twirling in his hands. Apparently deciding it better to die in a mad rush than flee, Quentin barreled forward with the grace and skill of a charging bull. Thren sidestepped the mad swings, then spun on one foot, the other kicking Quentin hard in the stomach. The former Serpent rolled to the ground, one of his swords falling from his limp grip. When he came to a stop, he retched in a weak attempt to suck in air. Thren remained still, ignoring the man completely and instead addressing the others.

  “Have you forgotten who I am?” he asked. “Have you forgotten all I’ve done? I’ve come to save you from Muzien, and you’d treat me like a child?”

  Quentin pushed himself onto his knees, fingers digging into the soft earth of the cemetery. He glared as Thren pointed a bloody sword his way.

  “Last chance,” Thren said.

  Quentin opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Instead his upper body constricted, as if he were choking. His eyes bulged, and he convulsed again, a dry heave that was horrible to hear. Haern stepped back and readied his swords, horrified by the sight. Wisps of shadow swirled about Quentin, rising up from the grass to seep into his skin. As they all helplessly watched, Quentin clutched at his throat, let out a single agonizing shriek, and then vomited up a stream of blood that seemed to stretch on and on unending. At last he stopped, plopped facefirst into the red puddle before him, and lay still. In the ensuing silence, Deathmask’s laughter was like a cry of thunder.

  “Surely you all did not think I would miss such an important meeting?” the man asked, sitting on the highest branch of the slender tree. Haern felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He’d checked that tree multiple times, never once seeing anyone within it. That Deathmask could avoid him so easily was unnerving to say the least … not to mention the awful display that had been Quentin’s death.

  “Was that necessary?” Thren asked, gesturing to the bloody corpse.

  “Hardly anything I do is ‘necessary,’” Deathmask said, grabbing hold of one branch to swing down to another before hopping to the ground. He wore no mask over his face, nor the cloud of ash levitating about his head to intimidate his foes. Even without them the man was still an imposing figure, his eyes sparkling with sick pleasure. “But enjoyable? Fitting? I’d like to think so. Quentin was an oaf, and you were a fool for giving him another chance. We are all on our last chances so long as Muzien lives.”

  If Thren had thought that only the Watcher’s presence could galvanize the rest, Haern realized he’d sorely underestimated Deathmask’s influence. The Ash Guild, despite its size, was the sole survivor of Muzien’s takeover of Veldaren. For him to also throw in his allegiance with Thren and the Watcher gave their plan legitimacy even the most doubting of men could not deny.

  “You will aid us then?” Thren asked as he sheathed his swords.

  “I’ll aid in crushing the Sun Guild,” Deathmask said. “But I won’t be your puppet, and I won’t ever serve you with the slightest bit of loyalty. In fact, I’m going to say none of us here will. When the Sun Guild collapses, the Spider Guild won’t be inheriting the city alone. The Wolves will rise again, as will the Serpents, the Shadows, and perhaps even a few new-colored cloaks will grace our streets. But we won’t be yours to rule. Either you accept that, or discover if I’ll be as easy to defeat as that idiot Quentin.”

  For the second time in mere moments Thren stared down another man in that cemetery, but they all sensed the difference. Haern kept his hands on the hilts of his sabers, not expecting to need them. A man like Deathmask was too random and dangerous a foe to take on, especially with so little to gain.

  “The underworld will only rise up if they may return to the guilds where they once belonged,” Haern said, hoping to defuse the situation before it might become worse. “If you want to conquer Veldaren, Thren, you’ll need to do it the old-fashioned way: one street at a time, and only after Muzien is rotting in the ground.”

  Thren kept his gaze locked with Deathmask’s for a moment more, then looked away.

  “So be it,” he said. “Do you all accept?”

  One by one the others nodded.

  “Good.” Thren turned back to Deathmask. “Then when I give my signal, bring the Sun Guild crashing down, and make it glorious.”

  Deathmask bowed low in mockery.

  “Muzien isn’t the only one who knows how to put on a good show,” he said. Waving to the others, he strode toward the exit of the cemetery. After an awkward hesitation, the others followed. Haern joined Thren’s side, watching them go.

  “That went well,” Haern said when they were out of earshot.

  “I thought I asked you to keep your mouth shut.”

  “Did you ever hear me agree?”

  Thren shook his head, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled-up scrap of paper.

  “What is this?” Haern asked as Thren handed it over to him.

  “For your wizard friend. It’s a simple request, one he should be able to handle. Get it back to me as soon as you can.”

  Haern tapped the paper against his palm.

  “This is your signal, I take it?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  Haern put it into his own pocket, then joined his father in step as he headed for the cemetery’s rickety gate.

  “Where are you going?” Haern asked.

  “Somewhere to alleviate my foul mood.”

  “A whorehouse?”

  Thren let out a chuckle.

  “Anywhere owned by the Sun Guild,” he said. “My swords are still hungry.”

  More killing, so casual, so easy. Troubling still was how little that realization bothere
d Haern. Falling back a step, he turned left when his father turned right.

  “Have fun,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll give Tarlak your request. I’m sure he’ll be mightily pleased.”

  Thren waved without looking. Giving one more look about the various rooftops and alleys to ensure no one watched or waited in ambush, Haern rushed west to the Eschaton Tower, and it seemed his every step was lighter than the last.

  This was it, the final strike against Muzien. Either they’d bring him down, or die trying. Though it should have brought him fear, he felt only relief. Despite all the risks of failure, he’d have the fate of the city resting on the blades of him and his father. As he climbed the city’s wall and then descended the other side, he knew, deep down in his gut, there was no other way he’d rather it be.

  Haern had expected everyone to be asleep when he entered the tower, and was surprised to see Tarlak waiting for him in his chair before the fire. He held no drink, which immediately made Haern nervous.

  “I hope you weren’t waiting up on my account,” Haern said as he shut the door behind him.

  “Sadly, I was,” the wizard said. “We’ve got a problem.”

  He gestured for Haern to have a seat, and so he did on the nearby couch. Settling into the cushion, he removed his hood and popped his neck.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are Delysia and Brug all right?”

  “They’re fine,” Tarlak said. “They’re both worried about you, of course, but that’s not what this is about. Antonil came to visit earlier today, and he wasn’t carrying good news. Apparently an army of orcs somehow crossed the Bone Ditch and is marching its way here while happily pillaging all the nearby towns.”

  “That’s not…” Haern rubbed his eyes, picturing the landscape and trying to make sense of it. “Forget it, so assuming that’s true, how much time do we have?”

  Tarlak let out a bitter laugh.

  “There’s no assuming involved. It’s not hard to find an army of orcs with a bit of scrying magic, given how their race isn’t what I’d call subtle or elusive. And by my guess? If we’re lucky, they’ll be here two nights from now.”

  Haern slumped into the couch, hands falling to his sides.

  “That’s not enough time,” he said.

  “Thanks for stating the obvious. Antonil was practically begging me to help defend the walls. Your name came up a few times, too. Seems he thinks you’d be a good frontline soldier. I offered Brug instead, but no luck there.”

  Haern shook his head, and he closed his eyes, mind still racing.

  “You misunderstand me,” he said. “I mean when it comes to Muzien. We need more time for word to spread. Everything is almost in place for an all-out rebellion. This has to succeed, for there won’t be a second attempt if we fail.”

  “An army of muscle-bound brutes marches toward our doors, and you’re worrying about rogues and guilds? Surely this can wait until after.”

  Haern snapped open his eyes and rose from his seat, unable to resist a need to pace the floor.

  “Think about it, Tar,” he said. “Muzien views himself as ruler of the city. Tell me, what do you think he might do if an army of orcs smashes through the gates?”

  “Truth be told, I have no clue,” Tarlak said. “And neither do you.”

  “That’s a lie and you know it. There’s already rumors he’s planning to pull his guild out of the city, and he won’t do so without leaving a giant funeral pyre to soothe his wounded pride. And even if he isn’t planning on leaving, what do you think Muzien will do if he thinks the city will fall? Do you think he’s the type to let someone else have it?”

  “Might be better for everyone involved that they die in a fiery explosion than let those orcs have their way with them,” Tarlak mused. “And what prevents him from doing the same damn thing because of your little insurrection?”

  Haern turned, met Tarlak’s stare, and refused to back down.

  “Nothing,” he said. “But I’m tired of cowering in fear of him. When we rise up, I’m hoping his pride prevents him from activating the tiles, and that he tries to crush us personally instead. If he does, then we’ll have our chance to kill him and end this permanently.”

  “And by ‘we’ do you mean you and Thren?”

  Haern let out a sigh.

  “Yes, I do. Is that a problem?”

  Tarlak shrugged.

  “I don’t know. How could allying with Veldaren’s most infamous lunatic possibly be a problem? It boggles the mind.”

  “Be serious, Tar.”

  “I am!” The wizard shot up from his seat. “You’re not just playing with fire; you’re rolling around in it while bathed in lantern oil. Night after night you’re out there with him, prowling the streets, killing, plotting. Is it really so wrong of me to fear a bit of the father might be rubbing off on the son?”

  Haern swallowed, and despite his friend’s seriousness, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

  “So you’re not going to be happy about this request, then?” he asked, handing over the rolled-up scroll Thren had given him. Tarlak snapped it from his hands, opened it, and quickly skimmed the contents.

  “Dramatic little bugger, isn’t he?” the wizard mumbled, then rolled it back up. “I take it Thren wants this made posthaste? You know there’s stone tiles capable of destroying the entire city out there I should probably be studying instead, right?”

  “And I know you’re no closer to rendering them harmless than when you first started,” Haern said. “We won’t save the city that way, not with what little time we have. We save it by overthrowing Muzien, who holds the key to their destruction. You know I’m right, too, or you wouldn’t be as upset as you are.”

  “I’m upset because I’m worried I’m going to lose my friends and family,” Tarlak said. “You could at least acknowledge that. The city’s not equipped to handle an enemy force with so little preparation, and you are facing off against a foe that, barring our recent fun at the fountain, has never once been defeated. Bad doesn’t begin to describe this, Haern. Bad doesn’t scratch the surface.”

  Haern reached out and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “We’ll endure,” he said. “We always have, and we always will. This invading army, there’s only so much I can do against it with my swords, especially compared to the magic you and your sister wield. But Muzien and the Sun Guild … we cannot let them continue to hold a blade over our heads using those damn tiles. My plan is in motion, and during the confusion, I think we can save the city from their hands. Can you trust me to handle them, while you handle the threat from outside the walls?”

  Tarlak let out a sigh, and he brushed away Haern’s touch.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I can. Won’t like it, but I can. I’ll get Thren’s toy made tomorrow. First I need to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same. I have a feeling there’s long days and nights ahead of you.”

  A snap of his fingers, and the fire dwindled down to just embers.

  “Good night, Tar,” Haern said as the wizard climbed the stairs.

  “Good night, Watcher.”

  In the growing darkness Haern stayed, still struggling to process the new threat. There was just no space in his mind, no way for him to worry over it with the threat of Muzien looming over everything.

  “One enemy at a time,” he muttered, removing his sword belt and plopping onto the couch. “Is that so much to ask, Ashhur?”

  Of course it is, he chuckled to himself. Closing his eyes, he felt his exhaustion weighing on every one of his limbs, and despite how young the night was, he fell asleep with ease.

  CHAPTER

  23

  Sef Battleborn paced before Alyssa in the middle of their dining hall, his heavy footsteps on the carpet her tool to track his movements. The man was far from happy, but given the overall state of things in Veldaren, Alyssa thought that was to be expected.

  “It’s been two days,” Sef said. “If we’re to retaliate and have it me
an something, it has to be now. The longer we wait, the weaker we appear, and the more insulting it is to Victor’s memory.”

  Alyssa choked down her sigh. Sef had been Victor’s most trusted and second-in-command, and due to that relationship, she’d given him responsibility for many of her house guards, as well as all the mercenaries still sworn to allegiance to her. Risky, given how little she knew of Sef, but the act had done wonders in solidifying her control over Victor’s assets, as well as hiding her guilt. Still, the problem with Sef’s loyalty to Victor, Alyssa had discovered, was, well, his loyalty to Victor.

  “Getting Victor’s men killed does disservice to Victor, not the other way around,” Alyssa argued. “Any such drastic measure must be made with care and control.”

  “Care we’d take, if the circumstances were better. If your … friend, Zusa, had returned to us with the information you’d promised, we’d already be on the move.”

  Alyssa winced, and she lifted her cup to her lips to hide the slip. As she drank, she tried to imagine Sef from what she remembered. He’d been a large man, thick around the chest. A beard, she decided, he’d also had a beard, and not without a significant portion of gray. She had a feeling he was stroking that beard, if not pulling on it in frustration.

  “Calm yourself,” she said. “You’ll add more gray to your beard if you remain like this.”

  His pacing halted, just long enough for her to know the comment had hit home. Good, she thought. Even the little details went a long way in winning people over.

  “Forgive me,” Sef said. “Inaction and I do not get along very well. If you’d rather we wait to serve vengeance to the Sun Guild, I will accept that, but please, let us at least begin our own inquiries as to their dens and hiding places. We may not find anything, but at least I won’t feel like I am sitting here on my hands.”

  It was a simple enough request, and Alyssa waved him off.

  “So be it,” she said. “You have my permission. Only information, Sef, and only through petty bribery. No promising a fortune, and no torturing and cutting off limbs, either. We don’t want them scattered or actively hiding, not if we can help it.”