A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, trying to ease the worries of the other three of his guild with him. Veliana took his arm, and he accepted her help so he might stand.

  “What did you see?” she asked.

  Deathmask shook his head.

  “I saw who I thought I’d see,” he said. “Karak’s damn prophet. That little worm has been a pain in Dezrel’s side since its earliest days, and it looks like he’s not done stirring up trouble. No doubt he’s the reason the orcs were able to cross the Bone Ditch, and I have a feeling that orc army isn’t marching alone.”

  “So we help?” asked Mier.

  “It seems we should,” said Nien.

  “We should,” Deathmask agreed, rubbing at his eyes in a vain attempt to dismiss the blobs floating before them. “But not at the gates like the Watcher’s hoping, nor against Muzien. Karak’s prophet is outside the walls, and while everyone’s worried about the orcs out there, we have an unchallenged enemy lurking in here.”

  He took a step, failed miserably. Veliana caught him, and as she helped him back to a stand, he smiled her way.

  “Would you be a darling and help me walk to Ashhur’s temple?” he asked. “There’s a few things I need to discuss with their high priest.”

  Veliana tightened her grip on his arm.

  “If you insist.”

  By the time Deathmask walked up the marble steps, he’d mostly recovered from the mental blow the prophet had dealt him, which was good, because he had every intention of going inside alone.

  “It will be awkward enough by myself,” he told the others before leaving them at the bottom of the steps. “You three will just make it worse.”

  At the door he knocked twice, then waited to be let in. The door opened a crack, and Deathmask smiled down at the young lad peeking out.

  “Yes?” the boy asked.

  “I’m here to speak with High Priest Calan,” Deathmask said. “And when he asks why, tell him it’s about Karak’s most faithful lunatic. He’ll understand.”

  “He might be asleep.”

  Deathmask rolled his eyes.

  “Then wake him.”

  The door shut, and Deathmask spent the time with his eyes closed, trying to meditate the last of his nausea away. Leaving the body to witness visions from afar was always a risky venture, and to be struck down while doing so was incredibly unpleasant and disorienting. Part of Deathmask wondered if his cramped stomach had more to do with unease at how easily he’d been dismissed rather than the dismissal itself. The door opened, and he was glad for the distraction so he’d not have to dwell on that thought.

  “Come in,” the boy said. “Follow me.”

  They passed through the main worship hall, which was surprisingly quiet and somber, with the light dim and the place empty. Then came the living quarters deeper in the temple, the way lit with lanterns. Instead of to what Deathmask assumed to be Calan’s room, they went to a very small, cramped room with the door already open. The boy bowed, then hurried away. Deathmask stepped inside to find the high priest kneeling beside a clearly sick man who also wore the robes of the priesthood. His face was coated with sweat, his skin pale, his forehead covered with a wet cloth. When Deathmask entered, Calan was busy using a second cloth to wipe away the sweat from the sleeping man.

  “If you were worried about waking me, don’t,” the priest said, glancing over his shoulder. “It seems I will never have a full night’s rest in this city. No, I’ve been tending to poor Kirk here for the last hour, waiting for his fever to break.”

  “Why not use your magic to heal his illness?” Deathmask asked.

  “The paladins had strict rules regarding what could and could not be healed,” Calan said. “But for myself, I consider it a useful lesson. Daily my students heal the sick masses that come to them, and the strain wears on them greatly. Having them experience the ills they themselves heal helps keep things in focus, and remind them of how much good they actually do.”

  “But why watch over him yourself? You have men and women at your beck and call that surely could suffice.”

  “I consider that a useful lesson for myself,” he said. “Very useful, given how I spend all my days with men and women at my beck and call.”

  Deathmask shrugged. Humility wasn’t something he thought too highly of, but that was hardly an argument he felt like having now. No, he had business to attend to.

  “If you would, Priest, there are things we must discuss.”

  Calan slowly rose to his feet and turned around, finally giving Deathmask a good look at the man. He was old but surprisingly alert, especially given the time of night. His face was oval, his features smooth and rounded. A friendly face, Deathmask decided, welcoming and harmless. Despite such a late interruption, he looked strangely amused.

  “I recognize the robes you wear,” the priest said. “You’re from the Towers, am I right?”

  “I was, but that is for another time,” Deathmask said, cutting off the discussion before he could be forced to relive more unpleasantness. “So we might skip most of the formal trivialities, I am Deathmask, I rule the Ash Guild, and I am not one to waste my time with the gods unless given no choice, so that should impress upon you the importance of my being here. I’ve come bearing warning, and if you’re wise, you’ll listen well.”

  Calan chuckled.

  “With such an introduction as that, how could I not listen?” he asked. “But perhaps let us take this elsewhere? I would hate to wake poor Kirk here.”

  Together they stepped back out into the hallway, the priest shutting the door behind them. Other than the rows of dim lanterns, they were alone.

  “The lad said something about Karak’s most faithful lunatic,” Calan asked. “Would you care to elaborate on that?”

  Deathmask crossed his arms and met Calan’s stare. There was no weakness in his beady blue eyes, no fright at Deathmask’s appearance, no intimidation or worry at whatever the warning might be. Good. Perhaps the man had a spine after all.

  “How much do you know of Karak’s prophet?”

  A corner of the priest’s mouth twitched.

  “More than I would like,” he said. “Jacob Eveningstar, the first man, beloved child of Karak since the earliest days when we were first given life from the dust. He’s adopted many names since, though we in the temple know him as Velixar. Our own historians have not written of him in my lifetime, which has led some to believe he has finally passed on. Others insist he is a myth, or a moniker adopted by faithful servants of Karak to make it seem he lives forever. Now I have answered your question, may I ask what he is to you, and why you come asking of him?”

  Deathmask smirked.

  “I ask because he marches upon this city with an army of orcs he’s gathered from within the Vile Wedge. He is no myth, Calan, no false identity. At the council, our wizards have met with him many times over the decades, usually in failed attempts to garner wisdom from his ancient, rotting brain. We’ve tracked him when we can, which isn’t often, but it appears he is no longer content to hide and manipulate from afar.”

  Calan leaned back against the door, and it looked like a hundred pounds had been attached to his shoulders.

  “He is a man to be feared,” the priest said. “But we will challenge him should he threaten the people of this city. Thank you for your warning, for it shall serve us well.”

  Deathmask shook his head, and he wagged his finger at Calan.

  “You don’t get it,” he said. “I’m not here because of Karak’s prophet. I’m here because of the others who follow Karak. When the prophet marches upon our gates, what do you think his powerful, secretive priests will do, hrm? Do you think they’ll sit back and watch events unfold like good little impartial observers? I don’t think so, Calan. The moment Karak’s priests realize who has come knocking at the door, they’ll do whatever they can to sabotage the city’s defenses to let him in. Even if I have to do it alone, I will do my best to stop them, but this is a foe your kind is far better eq
uipped to handle. So when tomorrow night arrives, can I depend on you to keep us all alive?”

  Calan ran a hand over his bald head.

  “You care not for the gods,” he said. “And even within these halls, I have heard your name whispered, as well as the deeds of your Ash Guild. Why come to me? Why would you risk your life fighting a dangerous foe like the priests of Karak when you have so little to gain? You could flee this place with ease, so why stay?”

  Truth be told, Deathmask thought it a very good question, and taking in a deep breath, he let out a long sigh.

  “Because Veldaren is my home,” he said. “The only one I’ve known since I was exiled from the Council of Mages. The games we play here, I very much enjoy them, but the prophet and his followers would smash the board entirely. Honestly, I’d prefer neither god interfere with the affairs of Dezrel. Since that doesn’t appear to be an option, I might as well pit one against the other in an effort to minimize the damage. The last thing I want to imagine is what would become of Veldaren if it were ruled by priests and prophets of Karak.”

  “Would it not be better to just admit that sometimes even a man like you does the right thing?” Calan asked.

  Deathmask shrugged.

  “Consider me too cynical to believe that. Now will you aid me or not?”

  Calan outstretched his hand, and after a moment, Deathmask took it and accepted the handshake.

  “We will,” he said. “If the prophet arrives as you say, the might of Ashhur will rise against Karak’s followers. It will only be a cage to prevent their interference, but should they choose to resist…”

  “It’ll be a brutal, devastating battle, I know,” Deathmask said, grinning as if the idea entertained him. “But if it comes to that, trust me, on that night, it will be but one horrific battle of oh so very many.”

  CHAPTER

  25

  Haern had finished preparing the last of his things when Tarlak stepped into his room. Throwing a rucksack over his shoulder, he stood and lifted an eyebrow as the wizard offered a slender clay tube.

  “Here it is,” Tarlak said. “I hope Thren appreciates the effort it took to make that thing. To activate it, just break the seal at the top and then point it at the sky.”

  “Seems simple enough,” Haern said, glancing over the tube. One end was smooth and filled with clay, while the other had multiple runes carved across the top, similar to those that ran along the side of the cylinder.

  “Just don’t forget,” Tarlak said. “If either of you burn your faces off because you can’t follow simple directions, I’m not accepting any of the blame.”

  Haern slipped the tube into the pack on his back, chuckling as he did.

  “You, taking responsibility?” he asked. “I wouldn’t think of it, Tar.”

  Tarlak grinned, the joy not even close to showing in his eyes. Stepping past him, Haern hesitated a moment, feeling awkward, and then he clapped the wizard on the shoulder.

  “That army should come barreling out from the forest soon,” he said. “Make sure you, Brug, and Del are somewhere safe when that happens, all right?”

  “Safe might be a relative term, but will do,” Tarlak said. “Antonil wants us at the gates, so that’s where we’ll be. We’ll have to rely on you to take care of all that other fun stuff, like Muzien and exploding tiles.”

  Haern shot him a wink.

  “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

  Tarlak’s arm barred his way before Haern could exit, and the wizard did not bother to pretend at joy or amusement. His words were serious, as were his face, his eyes.

  “You do what must be done, you understand me?” he asked. “Either Muzien dies, or all of us burn. I know how fast he is, how incredibly dangerous he is with those blades. You’ll have to be better. You’ll have to be faster. Let nothing hold you back, and I mean nothing, not fear, not pain, not guilt, not even death. This dire madness ends tonight.”

  Haern pushed aside his arm, and he wished he had words to match Tarlak’s intensity.

  “I’ll give all I have,” he said. “I don’t know any other way.”

  He exited his room and descended the stairs, hurrying down them two at a time. Barging out the doors, he had barely gone three steps before he heard Delysia call his name.

  “I always know when you’re nervous,” she said. “That’s when you try to leave without saying good-bye.”

  Haern turned to face her, a practiced smile on his face, an easy joke on his tongue. The smile vanished and the joke died unspoken when she stepped close, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her lips to his. His shock lasted only a moment before he closed his arms around her and returned the kiss. When Delysia finally pulled back, she took in a soft breath and released him so she might put her hands on his chest. Her red hair fell forward, shrouding her face, making her confession feel all the more intimate.

  “I’m scared of tonight,” she whispered. “Scared of what you’ll be asked to do. Come back to me, Haern. Remember who you are, and why you fight. Can you promise me that?”

  With his hand he tilted her chin up so she would gaze into his eyes. She was so vulnerable. So afraid. He wished just once she could forfeit the innate ability to sense truth and lie given to her by Ashhur. He wished just once he could tell her a comforting lie instead of the naked truth.

  “I don’t know if I can,” he said. “Not given all I must do. But I promise to try.”

  He kissed her again. It did not last as long as the first, for she seemed content to sink against him, her head pressing into the cloth of his shirt. Her hands still clutched his clothes, and he felt the stress and nerves within him loosen as he hugged her close.

  “I’ll be here for you,” she whispered. “Always and forever.”

  Gently he pulled away from her and then trudged across the grass toward the road leading to the city. It took all his concentration to focus on other things instead of glancing back over his shoulder, and revealing to Delysia just how nervous he was about the looming nightfall.

  Along the road Haern adjusted the pack on his back. He wore simple street clothes, his cloak, sabers, and gear wrapped up in the pack. Given all he might have to do that night, Haern didn’t have the heart to scale the wall. No, like any other traveler he passed through the city gates, not long before they would be shut for the night. The sky was dark above him, the sun hidden behind a thick wall of clouds that had come rolling in from the north. So far as Haern had learned, whispers of the approaching army were just that, rumors and whispers, yet still the air was thick with tension. Perhaps Haern was projecting his own worries, but in the dull gray light, it seemed the people looked hurried and edgy, eyes constantly flicking to nonexistent things at the corners of their vision.

  Haern went to the heart of the city, and at the crossroads before the ancient fountain he could not deny the lingering fear. Too many rushed along to their destinations, and people did not linger in their conversations, if they stopped to have them at all. It felt like a city under siege, yet not a single enemy was at their outer walls. Of course there were plenty of enemies within, and perhaps deep down they all could sense the coming violence …

  With the thick clouds, it seemed night would come early, and Haern found himself a secluded alley and removed his pack. First came his soft leather vambraces, then an outer shirt of a far darker color than the brown he currently wore. Next he secured his belt, and slid both sabers into their sheaths. His fingers lingered on the hilts, their weight a comfort as always. He’d come to view his sabers as friends, trustworthy beyond measure. Part of him wished he still had the pair Senke had given him. That he dwelt on such past times made him more uneasy. Taking his cloak, he slung it over his shoulders, let it fully envelop his body. While it was one cloak, it was also three separate, interlocking parts, allowing his arms greater freedom as well as giving him the ability to misdirect his foes by moving one piece differently from the rest.

  Last was his hood, which he held in his hands, star
ing at it. The Wraith’s hood, stolen after his death as a reminder that Haern was not a god among men, not their lord and ruler as the Wraith had wanted him to be.

  “Remember who you are,” he whispered. Not a god, not a lord or ruler. Then what was he? As he pulled the hood over his head, and its comfortable shadow fell across his face, he admitted he no longer knew. What did he fight for? Whose lives did he save by his killing? What peace did his sabers bring?

  Eyes closed, he touched the hood, deepening its magic to hide his features. The mystery of his identity heightened his opponents’ fear, giving him power through the unknown. Rising to his full height, he tucked Thren’s signal into his pocket, then reached up to a nearby window. The climb was simple, and easily he reached the top. Given how tightly the many homes were packed together along the streets of Veldaren, and how flat their wood and stone rooftops were built, they fostered a second world come nightfall, one beyond the reach of guards and soldiers. Into that world Haern entered, weapons at the ready, visage bathed in shadow, person safely wrapped in his cloaks.

  He was Veldaren’s Watcher, its midnight protector, son of its underworld’s most infamous master, and across the rooftops to his father he ran.

  Thren waited for him across from a seedy tavern, lying flat on his stomach on the roof of a wine shop on the opposite side of the street. Rain had begun to fall, soft and gentle, and Haern hoped it would not interfere with the signal Thren had requested.

  “Almost thought you’d abandoned me,” Thren said as Haern joined him on his stomach, overlooking the tavern. It looked bright and bustling inside, the outside guarded by a single man who appeared drunk off his ass.

  “And leave you all the fun?” Haern asked, shaking his head. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t misbehave.”

  Thren grinned at him, the toothy grin of a predator.

  “Tonight we both misbehave,” he said. “Do you have my signal?”

  Haern pulled the tube out from his pocket and handed it over.

  “Break the seal and then point it upward,” he instructed.