The Shadows of Grace h-4

by David Dalglish

  “Why so nervous?” Haern whispered to himself. “What is it you hide?”

  He jumped down into an alley, sprinted around a few houses, and then leaped into the air, landing on the roof of a small home. The roof creaked under his weight. His prey heard the noise and spun, and as her hood fell low he realized he chased a woman. She had long red hair, and her right eye was scarred shut. With her one good eye she winked at him before continuing.

  “I should have known,” Haern whispered as he ran. “What are you up to, Veliana?”

  He traveled roof to roof in pursuit. Without a noise he descended upon Veliana, his sabers drawn. Veliana was ready. She curled into a ball and rolled, Haern’s sabers’ slamming the dirt behind her. She spun about, dragging one knee across the ground to halt her momentum. Out came her daggers.

  “Why does the Ash Guild want the priests dead?” Haern asked.

  “You’ll have to be more specific,” Veliana said. She lunged. Haern batted aside her first two stabs, jumped over her sweeping kick, and then kneed her in the face. As she fell back her daggers twisted and jabbed, scoring a hit across his arm. She landed on her hands, arched her back and pushed, landing on her feet out of reach.

  “The priests of Karak,” Haern said, sprinting after her. “I’ve seen your handiwork.”

  “Are you so sure it mine?” she asked. She suddenly dropped and spun. Haern grunted as her kick connected with his ribs. He prayed that none were broken. He tried slashing at her face but she was already gone. He chased, slashing again and again but her nimble body weaved side to side, her daggers parrying away any cut she could not avoid.

  “We do what we must to survive,” Veliana said. “Just like you.”

  Haern pressed further, but she seemed bored with him. As his sabers veered at either side of her neck she clapped her hands and vanished. He staggered forward, cutting air. From atop a nearby house she laughed at him.

  “Take a good look around this city,” Veliana said, brushing her hair away from her face. “Tell me where we could fit in, and then wonder why. You’ll find your answer.”

  “You put everyone at risk,” Haern argued.

  “The city will survive or it won’t,” the lady said, saluting him with a dagger. “What we do won’t change that in the slightest.”

  And then she was gone. Haern grumbled and swore. He had gone easy, trying to bait information out of her. Instead he got puzzles.

  “Where would you fit in?” he asked the night. He pulled the tie from his hair, letting it fall free around his face and shoulders. Come the morning, he was determined to answer that very question.

  H aern trudged toward the castle. The road was a vastly different sight than when they first arrived. Vendors lined each side, selling food, weapons, and various types of alcohol. Hundreds of people milled about, heading to or from home, buying, and selling. Many were from Neldar, attempting to buy comforts with the meager coin they carried. Haern weaved through them, watching for the telltale signs of a thief. But every time he saw two people bump into one another, he saw no hands slipping into pockets. What he did see, though, were priests of Karak roaming the streets, offering greetings to those that passed by.

  “No thieves,” Haern wondered after an hour. “How the Abyss is that possible?”

  He found a vendor selling daggers, his booth tidy and small. Haern approached and smiled.

  “How goes the day?” he asked as he picked up one of the blades.

  “Well, as well goes,” the vendor said. He was a large man, his gut matched only by the size of the muscles on his arms. “Name’s Greg. I run a smith not too far from here.”

  “These are well-made,” Haern said, and he meant it. He put one down and picked up another, pondering an addition to his arsenal.

  “Just toys, really,” Greg said. “I’m out here just to promote my name, let a few see what I can do. My best work is at my shop, not this crowded market.”

  “Veldaren was the same way,” Haern said, eyeing a beautifully carved dagger, its hilt and blade slightly curved for throwing. “The shops made the money, the booths just sold the junk. And then the rogues took half of it, of course.”

  He chuckled, all the while trying to gauge the reaction of the merchant.

  “Same as here,” Greg said, smiling. “But that depends on what you mean by rogues.”

  “The thieves’ guilds,” Haern said. “Though I suppose tax collectors could be called the same.”

  Greg laughed. “Too true, my friend. But there are no thief guilds here in Mordeina. Them priests you see running about, they’ve made them extinct. If you’re looking for fun in the wrong way, you won’t find it in this city. Stealing, whoring, they’re both punishable by death. Plenty are too scared to even get drunk, lest they do one of those two and end up hanging.”

  “You know,” Hearn said. “I’ll take this dagger here. Looks like it’ll fly true.”

  The assassin dumped a handful of coins into Greg’s hand, triple the value of the dagger.

  “Hope you got what you wanted,” the merchant said, chuckling.

  “Aye,” Haern said as he bowed. “I did.”

  H e sat atop the roof of the temple to Ashhur, content to be near without them knowing. The day was warm, its bright cheer in stark contrast with Haern’s somber reflection. Before him were two options. They were simple and clear. He could return to Tarlak, apologize, and accept his decisions as he always had. Or he could murder the priests of Karak and trust the Eschaton to protect the priests of Ashhur.

  He knew what he should do. He should explain to Tarlak he had only found Karak’s priest while searching for members of the Ash Guild. The priest had been brutally beaten. He would have lived, but Haern had not given him the chance. He had buried his sabers into his throat and taken his life. It wasn’t murder. It was mercy.

  “Why, Tar,” Haern wondered aloud. “Why is it you keep letting them live?”

  Tessanna, Qurrah, the priests of Karak in Veldaren… all should have died long before they caused the trouble they did. How many lives had they lost in return? Brug, Jerico, Aullienna, Delysia…

  The assassin buried his face in his hands. He should have saved her, but instead made a terrible mistake. He’d killed lesser priests instead of slaying their high priest from the start.

  “No,” he said. “No. Not me. Not my fault.”

  Haern stood, his sabers shaking in his hands. Priests of Karak had killed his beloved Delysia. So he would kill the priests of Karak. He would not complicate it, not water down the simple truth. If the Ash Guild wanted to kill the priests to make room for a legitimate thief guild, then so be it. As far as he was concerned, they were his allies.

  Leaping off the building, he did his best to banish the last brutal image in his head, that of the word ‘Tun’ carved across Delysia’s forehead.

  He slept the rest of the afternoon. As nightfall arrived, he slipped out, trying to decide his best strategy. He could find Deathmask and offer to join him, or work alone, killing the priests as he found them. In the end, he decided to remain alone. If he encountered Veliana, the twins, or even Deathmask, he’d decide about joining them then.

  He stalked about the temple to Ashhur, curious if dark priests would try to harm the building while it was unoccupied. The priests of Ashhur all slept in the Neldar camps, and he hoped they would be safe there. For the first two hours, he saw nothing. Occasionally a guard wandered by, bored and tired. Haern fought down his impatience. The night was long, and he had plenty of time.

  Halfway through the fourth hour he heard shuffling footsteps. He leaped from his spot in the shadows to a roof nearby and peered down. Three priests of Karak hurried down the street, all carrying large clear bottles filled with an orange liquid. Haern frowned, not recognizing the liquid. He glanced down the street, where the temple waited unguarded. A chuckle nearly escaped his lips. If Tarlak wanted to play politics, then he would give him some ammunition.

  He followed the three, crossing from roof
to roof without making a sound. When they stopped before the temple and uncorked their bottles, he watched. The first hurled the bottle, and with a loud crack it shattered across the door. The orange liquid burst into flames, a deep red fire that spread frighteningly fast. Haern drew the dagger he had purchased earlier in the day and grinned. The second priest hurled his bottle, splashing the fire-flame atop the roof, setting it ablaze. The third lifted his bottle, preparing to throw it, when he heard a brief sound of whirring air, and then the bottle exploded in his hand. The liquid showered his arm, burning his flesh and robe. The priest dropped to the ground and screamed as he rolled.

  Haern landed before them as the two priests tried to help their third.

  “Priests of Karak,” the assassin said, drawing their attention. “I want you afraid. I want you knowing you’ll die. You don’t deserve a quick death.”

  He drew his sabers. The two priests reached for their holy symbols, spells on their lips, but Haern was faster. He activated the magic of his ring and teleported, reappearing less than a foot in front of them. He kicked the first in the face, turned, and stabbed a saber through the hand of the other. The screams of the third priest faded as he choked on smoke that filled his lungs. Most of his robes were gone, and his skin was horribly burned. Haern shook his head. If the priest lived, he’d be in horrible agony the rest of his life.

  The other two however…

  “I have seen your face,” said one priest as he sat on his knees. “You will pay dearly for this.”

  “Is that true?” Haern asked. He killed the other, all the while staring at his accuser. “You’ve seen me murder now, too. What punishment should befall me by Mordan law?”

  “You will be executed,” the final priest said. “Filthy dog of Neldar.”

  Haern kicked the priest in the face a second time. Blood shot from his nose, and he collapsed on his back whimpering.

  “Let me tell you something,” Haern said, whispering into the priest’s ear. “You’ll need to either tell them what I look like, or see me with your own eyes and declare my guilt. But what if you can do neither?”

  He drew out a small dagger and thrust it into the priest’s eye. As the man screamed he pulled out the dagger and mutilated the second eye. Haern spat, no sympathy in his heart for the shrieking man.

  “You’ve done worse to me,” he said, standing so he could place his foot on the man’s forehead to hold him still. “You and your brethren. You can be their warning, wretch.”

  He pulled out the priest’s tongue and cut it off with his dagger. He tossed the severed tongue to the dirt. Coughing and gagging, the priest turned to one side and spat out pools of blood.

  “Good luck with your justice,” Haern said. He reached into one of his pockets and pulled out a thin, short piece of rope. With it he tied the priest’s ankles together.

  “Try to flee and I’ll kill you,” Haern said. Finished, he stepped back, breathing heavily. All he could feel was hate, and he used it to bury the shred of guilt that dared protest in his heart. He wasn’t finished, not even close.

  He left them to be found by the guards. It was time to visit the rest of Karak’s faithful. Behind him the temple of Ashhur burned, and he did nothing to stop it.

  T he temple to Karak was ten times the size of Ashhur’s. Large iron gates surrounded the complex. Several buildings linked with thin corridors towered over visitors, decorated with roaring lions carved into the stone. The main chamber for worship had four doors of oak, with paid guards standing watch at all times. Haern stood in the shadows, watching their patrols. He assumed the smallest of the three buildings was the priests’ living quarters. It was there he would have his fun.

  Before he could make his move, a hand grabbed his shoulder. He spun, slashing with his sabers. Both clanked against the wall. He saw no one.

  “You play dangerous games, Watcher,” said a voice, referring to his title back in Veldaren. Haern turned again and glared at the interloper.

  “What do you want, Deathmask?” Haern asked, keeping his weapons ready. The sorcerer laughed as ash floated around his face, all but his eyes hidden behind his gray cloth mask. His mismatched eyes, one red, one black, held no joy as he laughed.

  “I want you to cease your efforts,” Deathmask said. “Go join your Eschaton.”

  “I do the same as you,” Haern said.

  “No,” Deathmask said. “You go too far. We have only beaten them, giving them solid warning as to what would happen if they interfered with our business. You, however, have killed two, and mutilated two more.”

  Haern frowned. It had been less than an hour since he left the temple. How could have already known?

  “I did what had to be done,” Haern said. “Let’s see the queen deny their guilt when they are found at the scene of their own crime.”

  “Their own crime, oh yes,” Deathmask said. “Blind, dumb and bleeding. You proved their innocence, not their guilt, you stupid fool.”

  Haern pointed a saber, his patience ended.

  “Move,” he said. “Or I go through you.”

  “So worried about vengeance,” Deathmask said. “Did they kill someone you love? But what will you do now, Watcher? They’ve harmed another of your friends while you were not there to protect them.”

  “What?” he asked, lowering his blade. “Who? What have they done?”

  “Go to your Eschaton,” the sorcerer said. “Now.”

  Haern sheathed his sabers, glared, and then vanished in a blur of gray. Deathmask shook his head, glancing up at the rooftops.

  “He’s nothing but a wild animal,” Nien said, peering down from above.

  “Wild and dangerous,” Mier said from the opposite roof.

  Deathmask nodded in agreement with the twins.

  “We will contain him the best we can,” he said, staring down the long street where the assassin had vanished. “Especially after tonight.”

  “S ure it was wise leaving the two of them alone?” Tarlak asked as the three waited on the outskirts of the camp.

  “Lathaar and Mira will behave,” Aurelia said, nudging him in the side. “At least, I hope.”

  “If me and Aurry could behave during all those late night assignments, I’m sure a paladin can stay on task,” Harruq said.

  “Guess so,” Tarlak said, eyeing the half-orc. “You know, you two did vanish an awful lot. You sure you behaved?”

  “Stop worrying,” Aurelia said. “And try to focus.”

  The wizard shrugged. They were standing outside a large tent they had purchased. Sleeping inside were ten priests of Ashhur. Ten more slept in a similar tent, except instead of between the giant walls, it was set up in the western fields, with Lathaar and Mira watching over.

  “Just why is it we’re always stuck doing jobs at night?” Harruq asked. “Can’t someone pay us to work during the day?”

  “Shush! People are trying to sleep,” Aurelia said, gesturing to the multitude of tents around them. “Don’t either of you have any decency?”

  “Figured we’d already established that as a no,” Tarlak said. “And we take jobs at night because there are less witnesses at night, and besides, it’s not my fault that people won’t try to kill our charges during the day.”

  Harruq suddenly straightened. He pointed deeper into the camp, to where a lone man with a torch walked among the rows of tents and smoldering fires.

  “Go check him out,” Tarlak whispered. “And keep it quiet.”

  Harruq ducked low and ran, Aurelia chasing after. Tarlak stroked his goatee and frowned. From his distance, it looked like a priest of Karak, but why would one wander so openly in their camp, with a torch so all could see?

  “Son of an orc lover,” Tarlak said. “I’m an idiot…”

  He felt a tingle of magic all over his body, his knees went weak, and then he collapsed as sleep tugged at his eyes.

  “H ey stranger,” Harruq said as they neared the cloaked figure with a torch. “What brings you here so late?”


  The torch shifted, and in its light they saw an old man with graying hair.

  “Sleep is hard for one as old as I,” he said, his hand slowly waving before them. “But perhaps not for you.”

  Harruq felt his eyes droop, and his whole mind blanked. He fell to his knees as beside him Aurelia slumped to the ground.

  “You better be gone when I…” he said before succumbing.

  A hooded man slipped inside the large tent, where the ten priests lay on various blankets. A wave of his hand and he cast another spell, deepening their sleep. He drew his dagger and waited. Moments later an old man stepped inside and pulled the hood from his face.

  “Careful, Greer,” he said. “We must be quiet while we work.”

  “I’m no fool, Hayden,” Greer said. “You take the left, I’ll take the right.”

  “Actually, you’ll take neither,” Tarlak said, flinging open the flap of the tent. “Word to the unwise, sleep spells are pretty easy to ward against.”

  He whistled, and at the sharp sound many of the slumbering priests stirred. When they saw the intruders they bolted awake, kicking and pulling at the others who slept. Hayden and Greer glared as they found themselves surrounded and outnumbered eleven to two.

  “Won’t you two make a wonderful gift to the queen?” Tarlak asked.

  Hayden laughed. It was a tired and ragged sound.

  “After tonight, you won’t step foot in the castle without the guards striking you down,” he said.

  Greer let out a vicious cry. Ethereal shadows stretched from his back, protecting him and Hayden from the other priests. Hayden grabbed his holy symbol with one hand and waved the other. Tarlak crossed his arms and summoned a shield as a bolt of dark magic shot for his face. He grunted at the impact. The priest was far stronger than he thought. The priests of Ashhur cast their spells, but could not penetrate Greer’s wall. Its creation appeared to pain him greatly, for he arched his back and screamed a long, constant wail.

  “The queen will see the truth,” Tarlak said, still tensed and waiting for a second attack. Hayden only shook his head.