“You’re bleeding,” she said. “Now it’s just a matter of time.”
Time, thought Haern. With each passing moment, Lord Victor was getting farther away. Tarlak had mentioned there were always five Bloodcrafts, and while one was dead, and he fought against another, that still left three to go after the man while he was vulnerable…
Joanna lifted her daggers, and as they shimmered the blood on one of them suddenly fell from the blade like rain, leaving the surface perfectly smooth. Shoving the pain into a far corner of his mind, Haern settled into a stance, and he stared into the girl’s blue eyes.
“You live by forcing a fight your opponents have little practice in,” he said. “But how well do those daggers work when on defense?”
Before she could respond he leaped at her, sabers slashing. She pulled back, but he was too fast, his reach too great. Up came her daggers, and he saw the sheen about them fade just before they made contact. The block was only partially effective, for Haern was much stronger and had all the momentum. As she stumbled back he continued, weaving his blades into patterns he knew by heart. At first he’d been thrown off by an inability to guide the duel, to use his parries and thrusts to position her weapons where he wanted them. But there was another way to control a fight.
Every cut, every thrust, he ensured would be fatal. She twisted and shifted, showing a flexibility and speed that rivaled Zusa’s. Each time, she tried to find a gap in his routine, a moment’s breath for her to counter. He refused to give it to her, pushing his speed to its limit, casting aside all his fear so he might strike all the more aggressively.
The glare in her eyes had been replaced with fear. She wanted to run, but he would not let her. Twice now the Bloodcrafts had threatened his life, and out there Lord Victor might already be dead. When Joanna turned to leap, he extended his arms, having already predicted this long before she even realized she meant to do it. In went the tips of his sabers, piercing her coat and slicing through flesh. The girl let out a scream, and despite his own pain, his own bleeding, Haern felt a tug of regret.
Joanna rolled across the rooftop, coming to a halt just beside the edge. She left a streak of blood across the dirty wood. Slowly Haern approached, unsure if his attack had been fatal. She knelt on her hands and knees, struggling to rise as blood dripped down the sides of her coat.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t kill me.”
She rolled onto her back, let her weapons drop from limp fingers. Haern stood before her, weapons shaking in his own hands.
“My father,” she insisted, staring up at him with those blue eyes. “He made me… he made me do it. Made me a killer. Please don’t, please, please…”
For the shortest moment he hesitated, and that was all Joanna needed. Her right hand grabbed the blade beside her, and curling forward she lunged with all her strength, the tip of the dagger aimed for his stomach. So close, so fast, Haern knew he could not parry it away. Instead he dropped the sword from one hand as he fell to one knee, and just before the blade could pierce his chest he caught her wrist. His arm tensed as he struggled against her, and it was not long before she wilted. Her skin had grown pale, and he realized just how much blood had pooled beneath her.
“Damn you,” she said, slumping back to the rooftop. “At least you could have… could have let me k…”
He released her hand, let it fall beside her. The dagger fell from limp fingers. Haern picked up his swords, sheathed them both. Touching a ring on his forefinger, he twisted the thin yellow stone atop it, just slightly, then brought it to his lips.
“To me, Tar,” he whispered to it. “Victor’s in danger.”
That done, he glanced back at the body of Joanna, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and then ran toward the castle, praying he was not too late.
CHAPTER
27
As Victor passed by a row of homes, not much more than a quarter mile from the castle, he heard a soft voice call out to him.
“Sir?”
He slowed and glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of a home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.
“Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.
“They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they… they… please help. They’re in my home…”
Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.
“How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”
“They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”
“Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”
“I’m not sure you can, Victor.”
Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.
“Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger. “What do you know of justice?”
Stupid, thought Victor as the bolt hit his side, just below the curve of his breastplate. Proud and stupid.
He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to who she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.
“I know you can’t move,” she said, kneeling down beside him. From within the folds of her dress she pulled out a knife, its sharp edge reflecting the starlight. “You might think you won’t feel it, but I assure you, you will. You’ll…”
A gray shape descended upon her, and she let out a cry as a heel slammed against her chest. Her momentum carried her until she hit a wall, just beside the door to a lightless home. Victor felt hope stir in his chest.
The Watcher loomed over him, sabers drawn. “I’ve found you,” he said to the Widow. “About damn time.”
Instead of showing fear, the woman started laughing, the sound of it chilling. “No, Watcher,” she said. “I’ve found you.”
The door blasted open, and out rushed a man in a long red coat. He had short dark hair, and he wielded an ornate blade in one hand. He crashed into the Watcher, his sword a blur. Their combat continued behind Victor’s head, and he could not watch, only listen to the shockingly loud clash of steel. From where he lay, he saw two more on the rooftop of the home, both wearing similar red coats. One leaped to the ground, just a wiry thing who barely filled out his outfit. The air pulled the coat open in the fall, and Victor saw dozens of small throwing knives. The man threw several as he fell, a vicious barrage. Victor heard them clink and ping against the wall and ground. He could only hope none had hit flesh.
Still, outnumbered and surprised, could the Watcher fight off so many?
It appeared he could, at least for the moment, as their fight returned to his line of sight. The Watcher was a twisting confusion of cloak and blade, his sabers fending off the advance of the man with the sword. He kept flinging himself from side to side, his motions nearly impossible to predict, as was evident by the daggers thrown by the other man in chase. Each one missed by inches.
Amid the chaos, Victor watched the Widow flee deeper into the alley, desiring no part of it. Victor wanted to scream out his fury at seeing her escape, but he could do nothing, not even lift his fingers.
As if the two on the ground were not enough, the third up top suddenly clapped her hands, and just like that the alley filled with fir
e. It burst along the walls, feeding on nothing. Victor’s eyes watered, for he could not squint against the sudden barrage of light and heat. The Watcher went on the offensive, crashing into close quarters with the swordsman. The man with the daggers closed as well, wielding them instead of throwing them. The skill on display took Victor’s breath away. He’d thought himself capable. He’d thought he could handle any foe. But what he saw wasn’t human. More fire burst around the alley, roping the Watcher in. So far none had scored a solid hit, but Victor could sense the Watcher’s desperation.
Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.
The Eschaton had arrived.
Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew and bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amid it all Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.
The battle split, traveling deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.
When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it was the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.
“Can you not move?” she asked.
He looked from left to right with his eyes by way of answer.
“I will see what I can do.”
She reached down and pulled the bolt from his side. The pain was intense, but did not last long. Her hand touched the wound, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears, slowly growing stronger, as she whispered words to a prayer he could not understand. When it faded he felt a fire flood through his veins, followed by the tingling sensation of a waking limb. With the feeling all across his body, he grimaced, nearly overwhelmed.
A soft flutter of cloaks signaled the arrival of the Watcher.
“Two fled, but it might be a feint to try to isolate Tarlak,” he said. “How is he?”
“I’m fine,” Victor said, his tongue feeling thick.
“Get him to safety,” Delysia said, standing. “I can’t lift him.”
“Are you sure?”
The priestess nodded. “I’ll find Brug and my brother. They’ll need me in case you’re right. For now, take him somewhere safe until he can recover.”
“City… guard,” Victor said, sounding slurred, as if he were drunk.
“You saw what those people can do,” Haern said, putting his arms around Victor. “You think a few guards will protect you from that?”
A good point, however frightening. The Watcher pulled him to his feet and began carrying him deeper into the alley.
“Where… are we going?” Victor asked, grimacing against the overwhelming sensations. It was as if a thousand wasps stung his exposed skin. The Watcher’s touch was like fire.
“To be honest,” said the Watcher, “I don’t have a clue. But anywhere’s better than here.”
Victor felt his legs regaining strength, and he worked them as best he could so they might move faster. The Watcher’s eyes constantly scanned the environment about them, both rooftop and street. If one of the attackers returned, they’d be in a sore spot for sure. After a moment he shook his head, then pulled them back around.
“Never mind,” he said. “I have a better idea.”
The Watcher carried him to the building that the attackers had been hiding inside, pulling him in through the busted door. Inside was a meager home. Bodies lay about, brutally slaughtered. Victor let out a gasp at the sight. Even children, cut down and left to die, all so the attackers might wait in ambush. The Watcher said nothing about it, but the rage rolled off him like a physical presence.
“Who are they?” Victor asked as the Watcher pulled him into the next room, where only a single body, that of a woman, lay facedown on the floor.
“A family in the wrong place at the wrong time,” was his bitter response.
“I mean their murderers.”
The Watcher helped him sit in a corner, then turned to the woman’s body. “They’re a group of mercenaries known as the Bloodcrafts,” the Watcher said. “Now give me a moment.”
The Watcher dragged the body out to be with the others, then came back in and leaned against the opposite wall. Victor studied him, finally noticing the blood soaking into his shirt at his side, plus more from his shoulder.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
“It’s an old wound,” the Watcher said. He shifted so that the blood was hidden by a cloak. “Well, the worst one is, anyway. Forget it. I can endure worse. What of you?”
“Starting to feel like myself. A child could probably beat me at fisticuffs, though.”
The Watcher looked back at the door, and Victor could tell he wanted to be with his friends. Victor’s guilt grew. A trap sprung, an innocent family dead, the Eschaton fighting, perhaps even dying, and all for what reason?
When the Watcher turned on him suddenly, his guilt magnified tenfold.
“Why are you here?” he asked. “You’ve driven this city insane, infected it with your own madness. What’s going on, Victor? Attempts on my life, yours, the Trifect… is it all worth it? For your pride? Your attempts at power? I had this city under control.”
“Control?” Victor laughed. “Control? If you say so, but that’s not what I saw.”
“What do you know of Veldaren? You’re an outsider, some foreign-born…”
“No!” Victor shook his head, and he forced himself to sit up. “No, this is my home, Watcher. I was born here, raised here. It was the thief war that drove my family out. It destroyed everything we had, Watcher, everything. You know nothing, and I won’t dare let you disgrace me so.”
The Watcher fell silent, and he resumed scanning outside the building, as if unwilling to speak. The silence wore on Victor, and when the Watcher returned to the room, he did his best to push away his anger.
“I don’t know how old you were,” Victor said, gesturing toward his hidden face. “For all I know you were a child, or an elderly man even then. Do you remember when the thief war started? That first night was the worst. The Trifect had bargained and bartered for months, trying to establish certain boundaries—rules of engagement, you might say. They were fools to have done so, and because of that, all of Veldaren paid the cost. My mother and father heard of Leon’s failed attempt to kill Thren, and they knew everything was about to go to pieces. We tried to flee, the three of us, our belongings crammed into a coach.”
Victor sighed, and a shudder ran through him. “The streets were chaos,” he said. “Every single guild rose up, determined to shock and cow the city into submission. Mercenaries ran about with orders to kill anyone they caught looting or vandalizing. I watched from the window of our coach. Buildings aflame, people screaming. And they hated us for it, the lowborn folk of this city. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. We had failed them. With all our wealth, all our power, we had failed to prevent the carnage. My family is no part of the Trifect, but we had dealings with them, we visited their homes and we basked in the light of their coin. To Veldaren we were just like them. They blocked our horses, flung stones, and screamed a thousand curses as we tried to flee.”
The Watcher shifted, pulling his cloak tighter about him. “I was just a child, but I do remember,” he said. “It was on that night my older brother died.”
Victor grunted, rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb. “Nearly everyone lost someone that day, and the commoners released that anger upon us. I still r
emember my father pulling me back from the window, telling me to ignore them. ‘That isn’t them,’ he told me. ‘That is their fear talking, their sorrow, their anguish. Don’t hate them for it. We are as much to blame as they.’ ”
“A noble man,” said the Watcher.
“A kind man,” Victor said. “Gentle. Compassionate. Scared the shit out of me sitting across from him in that coach and seeing the fear in his eyes. They… the mob surrounded us. I saw the thieves among them, those damn cloaks. Even now they wear them without fear. Arrows hit the sides of the coach, along with rocks. I still thought we would push through. Our driver, he just urged the horses on. I remember the first person we hit, the sound I heard as the wheel crushed bone…”
Victor felt his memories threatening to overwhelm him, and for once he was too tired to fight them away. His tears swelled, and he let them fall. What did it matter if the Watcher saw weakness, after all that had happened?
“I still thought we’d make it out safely,” he said. “But then they killed the horses. That was when I knew. My mother was crying, but my father, he never hesitated. He grabbed my shirt and tore it, then yanked the boots off my feet. I didn’t understand, but he knew what was to happen. He knew. And then he struck me, again and again, until I bled across my clothes. I was too stunned to respond. He did it all so I could hide. I could be just one of the mob. Right before they tore off the doors, he had me crawl through a small window in the back and then roll to the ground. I thought they’d notice, but there were too many people, all focused on the doors. Without a single copper to my name, I ran. I didn’t look back. Those thieves… those bastards… do you realize what they did to me? It isn’t the coin. It isn’t even the murder.”
He smashed his fists against the floor, pressed his head against the wall.
“My last memory of my father is of him striking me!”
The Watcher had remained silent throughout, and he let Victor calm himself, let him sit there with his fists shaking.
“How did you survive?” he at last asked.
A Dance of Shadows Page 29
