A Dance of Cloaks s-1

by David Dalglish

  “Bread or blood!” Thren shouted as the mob reached him.

  “Bread or blood!” the mob shouted in return, led loudest by spies of the Spider Guild. They had meant to travel north to the castle, but by skillful prodding, they turned down Merchant Way instead. Stalls for bakers and meat carvers were empty and unguarded, and as the mobs passed, gray cloaks kicked and tore them apart. Given a taste of carnage, the mob wanted more.

  More men of Thren’s appeared, holding lit torches and shouting angrily. More stalls tipped over. Wagons burned. Donkeys bled out, their mournful screeches haunting the chaos. The crowd swelled in number, joined by looters, bullies, and the cold-hearted who felt power in the mob. Like a human swarm they tore Merchant Way to pieces. Fires spread along the houses, yet no men came rushing with buckets.

  Thren personally set fire to Mafee’s house and then barred the door. Those pathetic trinkets were a disgrace, and even worse, he’d paid a pittance for protection compared to the money he drained from the desperate and the clueless.

  “Stay safe,” Thren said, the demonic grin on his face flickering in the light of the fire.

  He whistled long and loud. Their work was done. Guards had begun pouring in from the north, chasing away the looters and rioters with shield and blade. At first some resisted, but the men of the Spider Guild shouted false cries of fear and fled. When blood spilled across the streets, the rest followed. It would take several hours to put out the fires. Merchant Way looked like an army had invaded. Laurie Keenan would have his greeting, and if Thren was lucky, they’d thrash his wagons, harass his mercenaries, and steal ungodly amounts of his food.

  One of his men came rushing in from the west. Thren recognized him as Tweed, a simple yet skillful man he’d appointed to watch for Keenan’s approach.

  “Problems, we gots plenty now,” Tweed said, talking with a lisp. “Keenan’s not coming inside. The rest are going out to him.”

  Thren pulled him off the main road, certain he had misheard due to the horrid commotion.

  “Tell me again,” Thren said. “Make it clear.”

  “I’ve seen them, the Keenans, putting up big, big tents and circling their wagons,” said Tweed. “Looks like the new taxes set them off. They ain’t going to see the riots, only hear about them.”

  Thren’s jaw clenched tight. He sheathed his sword and grabbed Tweed by the shoulder.

  “Answer me carefully,” he said. “Did you see anyone from the caravans come inside? Anyone at all?”

  “I saw some before I leapt off the wall,” Tweed said, looking a little nervous. “Not many, a soldier here, a boy there. Only large group was some women surrounded by a few guards. I thought they was just some mercs taking their whores in to look for beds and drinks.”

  “You did good, Tweed,” Thren said, releasing his shoulder. “Hurry back to the gate and watch for any other large groups. Report to me immediately if you do.”

  Thren looked about, calling over members of the Spider Guild with his hand. He wished Senke was with him, and he felt foolish for leaving such a sharp-witted man behind to babysit his son while important matters were afoot. There was a chance the group of women and soldiers was nothing, but his gut told him otherwise. Once he had about five men beside him, he gave his orders, trusting them to relay the message throughout the guild.

  “Only alive?” one asked when Thren was done.

  “Death causes anger and sadness,” Thren told them. “Capture inspires horror and desperation. Cut a blade of her hair, and I’ll scalp you. I want Madelyn Keenan as a hostage, not a corpse.”

  19

  T hey’d been inside the city for less than a minute when they saw the first sign of riots.

  “Look there,” said Susan as she pointed above the houses to their right. “Is that smoke?”

  “Looks like someone better be grabbing some buckets,” said Nigel, an older mercenary missing half his teeth. He’d been put in charge of seeing Madelyn safely to her estate.

  “What say you, Susie? Shouldn’t you get to running?” he asked, smiling a gapped smile.

  “Let their houses burn, long as they aren’t ours,” Susan said with a huff.

  “Never let a fire burn, for the next home that catches could be your own,” Madelyn said, feeling light-headed. The walk from their wagons to the city had been long and steep. After so long riding in wagons and on horses, the exercise was unwelcome. The sweat on her fine clothing made it stick to her body, cold and uncomfortable. She’d almost taken a litter, but Laurie had insisted the added attention would be ill-advised with so many thieves and ruffians running loose in the city.

  Still, her litter had curtains and walls, something she sorely lacked walking amid her serving women and house guards. Holding a hand to her face, she looked at the smoke curling into the air.

  “Several fires,” she said. “Either it spread, or they were started on purpose…”

  “Leave it to Thren to give you such a welcome,” said Nigel.

  “That’s not our place, is it?” one of the other girl’s asked, suddenly worried. Madelyn rolled her eyes.

  “Wrong part of the city. Your mind moves as slow as tree sap. Do you think you’d be the first to realize our home was ablaze?”

  The girl blushed and stepped away from Madelyn, toward the outer ring of servants that surrounded her.

  “Sorry, milady,” she murmured.

  “Lay off the brat,” Nigel said. “I was thinking the same thing myself. Not everyone has been to the estate. It’s been, what, two years since we’ve returned?”

  “Four,” Madelyn said, her voice tired. “At least for me. I let Laurie attend the last Kensgold alone. I tired of cloaks and daggers long ago.”

  The twelve mercenaries encircled the women as they marched. When they reached the start of Merchant Way, they drew their weapons.

  “What in Karak’s name happened here?” one of them asked.

  It seemed as if the wind had shifted, so the smoke now blew in their faces. Stalls lay smashed, their signs broken and their boards cracked as if by hammers. The windows of every store were shattered. Fires had consumed a block of five stores on the north side, with three more along the south. Castle guards stood around the smoking wreckage, killing the flames while men and women arrived carrying buckets of water pumped from Veldaren’s wells.

  “Not good,” Nigel said. “We’re in the middle of Veldaren with no clue what’s going on. We should have waited, damn it! Should have sent someone to make sure things were calm.”

  “Too late for second guessing,” Madelyn said, feeling his nervousness catching. “The estate’s not far, and soldiers are about. But just in case, keep your swords drawn, and take no nonsense from anyone. I do not mind arriving safe at home with blood on my clothes, as long as the blood is not mine!”

  They continued traveling down Merchant Way, approaching the wealthy eastern district. The closer they came to the center of the city, the more eyes watched their passing. Madelyn wondered how many were spies of the thief guilds. Half? None? All? She thought ‘all’ the most likely.

  “We’re not far now,” she said aloud, trying to calm the girls around her. Most of them were younger than her, and they felt vulnerable despite the soldiers. They were not used to having so many eyes leering angrily at them. Madelyn clutched her hands tight against her waist. Let the peons seethe with jealousy. She had earned her wealth, on her back as much as her feet. Laurie had fought tooth and nail to keep the wealth he had, as had the entire Keenan family line. She would not feel pity or guilt for the standing that was rightfully hers.

  “It’s in the eastern district,” Madelyn continued. “Merchant Way ends in a fork at Iron and Cross. Not far up Iron Street is our estate. We’ll be safe there.”

  The girls seemed to calm a little, although Madelyn’s mind raced. She had seen several men following them, all wearing cloaks of gray.

  “Gray is the Spider Guild?” she whispered to Nigel.

  “Believe so,” Nigel said,
his eyes darting about as frantic as Madelyn’s. “Your dress might just get that blood you wanted, milady.”

  “Not wanted,” she said. “But I’ll endure if I must. Watch the rooftops as well. Spiders cling from rafters just as well as they hide under rocks.”

  A few of the gathered men and women shouted insults.

  “Whores!”

  “Hoarding bastards!”

  “Cowards!”

  The mercenaries raised their swords and cursed back. The first few skitted away, but more and more gathered to follow them. Madelyn felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck. There was something deliberate about the way the small crowd seemed to stalk them. More curses were hurled their way, but the mercenaries let them be. For the first time they had to push their way through. Nothing serious, nothing overtly deliberate, just a man standing in the center moving away too slowly, or a woman with her wash who refused to budge.

  Two men rolled dice in the center of the street. Each wore a gray cloak. They looked up from their game, pulled their cloaks back to reveal their daggers, and then let them fall.

  “Push through ‘em?” asked Nigel. Madelyn looked about. She felt as if she walked through a forest of dry tinder, and every person traveling with her carried a blazing torch. A single false move meant fire.

  “We’re starving!” shouted a young man in dirty clothes.

  “Bread or blood!” was the answer from someone unseen within the crowd.

  “Move around them,” Madelyn said, her decision made. “Do it quickly. I can almost see our gate.”

  “I see the Reaper’s eyes,” said one of the men as Madelyn’s group passed. She glanced down at the dice. Both showed a one.

  They reached the fork at Iron and Cross. The south path on Cross Street seemed bare and quiet, but Iron bustled with a waiting gang of twenty. It seemed a merchant with a load of bread had been assaulted, his cart toppled. He lay unconscious, his face covered with bruises. With shouts of ‘food,’ more and more came their way, jostling the mercenaries and smothering them with noise.

  As the people rushed past, one slid a knife through the side of a mercenary. He crumpled, his pained cry the only alert they had. Two more dropped, blood spurting from cut throats.

  “Stay back!” Nigel shouted, cutting down a woman who had dared step too close. Her blood coated his armor. “All of you, stay back!”

  The rest of the mercenaries took his cue, swinging wildly at any who came too close. Their progress slowed to a crawl, and with one of their own fallen, the mob turned their attention from the bread to the blood.

  “Murderers!” another unseen man cried.

  “Butchers!” shouted another, this a woman with raven hair cut short. She wore the gray of the Spider Guild. When she saw Madelyn looking over at her, she shot her a wink and a smile.

  None of the mercenaries carried shields, so when rocks pelted them, they could only duck. Susan collapsed, a heavy stone cutting across her temple. Two more servant girls fell screaming, blood pouring out their mouths and noses. Once outside the protective circle of the mercenaries, the crowd assaulted the servant girls. They tore off their clothes, cut their hair, and smeared them with mud.

  “Don’t look back,” Madelyn told the others. “Hurry for the gate, and for the love of Ashhur, don’t look back!”

  The screams of the other girls spurred them on. They fled north on Iron Street, past the toppled cart of bread, and deep into the wealthy eastern district. Madelyn’s eyes lingered on a dead merchant’s body laying beside what must have once been his wares.

  Iron Road appeared empty but for a single man standing in the center. He raised his hood as he approached, his body wrapped in the thick fabric of his gray cloak.

  “Madelyn Keenan,” the man said, a pleased smile on his face. “It is so good to meet you.”

  The shouts of the mob seemed to have dimmed behind them. The mercenaries stepped closer together, and their pace slowed once more.

  “What business have you with me?” she asked, her glare at Nigel urging him onward.

  “I am Thren Felhorn. Everything and everyone inside Veldaren is my business.”

  The mercenaries stopped completely.

  “What is it you want?” she asked him, struggling to keep her composure. “Ransom? Or perhaps words of truce or surrender?”

  Thren laughed.

  “I want your husband tearing at his tunic and dusting his head with ashes. I want your family praying desperately for your return. Do you know who they’ll pray to when they do? I’ll be the one who determines your death or release. They’ll be praying to me. ”

  Men in gray cloaks stepped out from houses, alleys, and even fell from the rooftops.

  “Surrounded,” Nigel whispered as he counted. “And at least twenty. Make an offer, milady. We won’t win this fight.”

  “I have nothing to offer other than myself,” Madelyn said. “You have armor and a blade. Do your job.”

  “Whatever she is paying you cannot be worth your life,” Thren said. A few of his men stepped closer, while others drew loaded crossbows and aimed them at the mercenaries. Their strings were thick and the bolts thicker. Nigel was certain they would pierce right through his chainmail.

  “Forget this,” said one of mercenaries. He threw down his sword. Before he could take a step, Nigel stabbed him in the back and kicked his body to the dirt. He pointed the bloody blade at Thren, then saluted. Thren nodded, and the rest of Spider Guild took heed of the message; the mercenary captain was for their guildmaster to kill.

  At the twang of the first crossbow, Nigel lunged. Thren drew his short swords, swinging them in a dance that was beautiful to behold. Two more mercenaries fell, their vitals punctured by crossbow bolts. The serving women screamed. Madelyn drew a dagger from her sash, determined to bloody the first man that touched her. The remaining house guards defended as best they could, their thick armor deflecting the stabs of the daggers, but they were horribly outnumbered and doomed to fall, and both sides knew it.

  Nigel wielded his bastard sword with both hands, needing the grip to hang on when Thren smacked it aside with his blades. The mercenary captain had fought several battles, and even participated in the winter war between Ker and Mordan. Compared to battling armored men in thick lines, Thren was like a ghost. Every swing Nigel made seemed to cut air.

  Blood splattered across his armor. Pain spiked up his left wrist. He’d been cut, yet he had no clue how. Nigel stepped back and thrust. Thren parried it aside with his left hand, then stepped forward and slashed with his right. Desperate, Nigel twisted so the blow would strike the thin pauldron atop his shoulder. It did, and the pain was brutal, but the deep bruise was far better than the gash it would have given his neck.

  Behind him, a few of the serving girls dashed away. Crossbow bolts tore into their backs. Another fell, a rogue slicing her ankle with his dagger before unbuckling his belt. He was on top of her in moments, not caring that several of the mercenaries remained alive.

  No longer caring for her safety, Madelyn leapt from the group. Her dagger stabbed the man’s neck. Blood gushed across his armor, and swearing softly, he rolled over and died.

  “Oh gods,” the young girl sobbed. Madelyn took her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. Blood covered them both, and its sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell.

  “Hush now,” Madelyn told the girl. “Hush. We’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”

  Meanwhile, Nigel unleashed a storm of curses at Thren, hoping to distract him. He’d retreated several steps, his shoulder ached, and he’d avoided death twice by the sheer thickness of his chainmail. Breathing was difficult. Thren, however, was still smiling. He had not a drop of blood on him.

  “Are you ready?” Thren asked, suddenly hopping backward and letting his cloak fall forward to hide his weapons.

  “For what?” Nigel asked.

  “On the count of three, I’ll kill you,” Thren said.

  “Overconfident ass.”


  Thren swayed side to side, as if waiting. Nigel lunged with the greater reach of his sword, hoping to catch him off guard. Instead, Thren smoothly parried it to the side.

  “One,” he said, stepping forward with his left foot.

  Nigel looped his sword around above his head and struck for Thren’s neck. The rogue stepped forward again, blocking it with his short sword.

  “Two.”

  His foot curled around Nigel’s. Their weight connected. Thren lunged forward, slamming his elbow into Nigel’s face. The mercenary captain went down. A short sword stabbed through the crease of his chainmail underneath his armpit and into his chest.

  “Three.”

  “Not dead yet,” Nigel said, his voice sounding wet.

  Thren laughed.

  “A worthy attitude,” he said as he kicked the blade from Nigel’s hand. “Would you care to work for me, or die like the rest of your men?”

  Nigel chuckled even though his chest was on fire.

  “Cut my damn head off already,” he said. “I ain’t going to eternity as a turncoat.”

  Thren shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him either way. He pulled his sword out, raised its tip, and prepared to thrust into Nigel’s throat.

  Nigel saw a great burst of white, so powerful his eyes ached. He thought he was dead, yet his ears continued to hear. Voices shouted, many voices, some of them panicked. He heard singing. As his vision returned, Thren was gone. He tried craning his neck to look, but his muscles seemed oddly tight. For some reason, he could still hear the serving girls sobbing. Unknown voices spoke in hushed tones from seemingly all directions.

  A man stepped over him and looked into his eyes. His bald head was smooth and rounded, as were his large ears. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown.