The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  “Come,” Pelarak said as he opened the door. Two more priests stepped inside, joining him in a small square room. The walls were bare and gray, the floor cool stone.

  “Were you successful?” one of the other priests asked.

  “He has seen the Lion,” Pelarak said. “None but the most faithful have done so and lived. When he awakes, his heart will belong to Karak. Of that I am certain.”

  “Praise be,” said the other.

  They carried the boy out of the room. Pelarak watched them leave, a small frown on his face. Something felt wrong, but he couldn’t decide what. He hadn’t heard the words of the Lion, nor seen its vision, but he had felt its awesome power as he watched Aaron sob and cry on his knees. There was something unsettling about how Aaron had laughed at the very end.

  Determined to question Aaron when he awakened, Pelarak stepped out of the most holy of rooms. He’d devote an hour to prayer, then seek the sleep he most desperately needed. Perhaps things would seem better in the morning.

  23

  “You mustn’t stop,” Zusa insisted as the two ran. “The paladin will follow. He will always follow.”

  Alyssa nodded. Her breathing had become ragged, and her left side ached as if a dagger was lodged within. They’d run west, away from the camp and away from Veldaren’s walls. A few times they’d shifted directions, but only to avoid the hills that surrounded the area.

  “Where,” Alyssa said, feeling lightheaded and unable to voice the rest of her question.

  “The river is near,” Zusa said. “We will use that as we must.”

  Alyssa did her best to keep up, but they had run for almost an hour after fleeing the Kull’s camp. She’d never felt herself out of shape, but the exertion was beyond even her capabilities. She started stumbling, dragged on only by Zusa’s firm grip on her wrist.

  “Not far,” Zusa insisted. “Hurry. Not far at all.”

  The Kinel River ran south from the mountains, passing west of the King’s Forest and looping a quarter-mile from Veldaren before traveling south, marking the western edge of the Kingstrip. Despite her aching sides, weak legs, and ragged breath, Alyssa managed the final few minutes to its edge.

  “We must get to the other side,” Zusa insisted. “The river is wide, but not deep. The paladin will cross, but slowly. The platemail will hinder him.”

  “Please,” Alyssa said. “Let me rest a moment.”

  “Rest on other side,” Zusa said. “He may be here at any moment. Life or death, girl. Choose.”

  She staggered to her feet and grabbed Zusa’s shoulder.

  “Life,” she said.

  The water came up to their necks, and it was shockingly cold. Alyssa’s lips turned blue, and her teeth chattered. Zusa tugged her along, although Alyssa could no longer feel her hand clutching her wrist. She dreaded the coming feel of open air, but a dim part of her was certain it’d still be warmer than the water.

  “Fire will bring him to us,” Zusa said, even her gravelly voice chattering a bit. “But we have no choice. I can fight the paladin. I cannot fight the frost.”

  A minute later they emerged on the other side. Alyssa took a few steps before crumpling to her knees, doubling over with her arms crossed before her chest. She tried to speak, but her shivers were so severe she could not make the words.

  Zusa knelt in front of Alyssa. Shadows curled off her body, moving sluggish as if they too were affected by the cold. Zusa’s hands touched the grass, her fingers digging into the earth.

  “Nuruta,” Zusa hissed. Purple fire erupted between them. It burned bright, then faded to the size of a man’s head.

  “Stay close to it,” Zusa said. “The warmth is weak, but it will keep you alive.”

  Zusa looked back to the river. Alyssa followed her gaze. She saw nothing in the dim starlight, but evidently the faceless woman’s eyes saw far better in the darkness.

  “The paladin approaches,” she said. “Half a mile away, perhaps farther. We have time for warmth.”

  The two huddled before the fire, feeling its heat fight away the wetness of their clothes.

  “Karak has abandoned me,” Zusa said as the fire popped. “My soul is already doomed to the Abyss. What does one more broken law matter?”

  Alyssa watched as she peeled away the wet wrappings from her head. Underneath she was beautiful, perhaps more so than Eliora. Her eyes were a sparkling green, her lips pale and supple. Her cheeks were smooth and round, as if Zusa had been carved from stone in the image of a goddess. Short black hair stuck to the sides of her face, but she pulled it back into a ponytail and tied it with one of her wrappings.

  “If Karak would hide such beauty from the world, then he is a foolish, jealous god,” Alyssa said. She looked to the river. “Can you kill his paladin?”

  “We shall see,” Zusa said. She glanced down to her wrappings, which were still soaked from the river. With a shrug, she removed them and cast them beside the fire. Looking like a naked nymph of the forest, Zusa kissed her dagger and then approached the water’s edge. Alyssa thought to do the same, then decided she would wait. If Zusa died, then her fate was sealed as well. She would not die naked.

  “You are determined, servant of Karak,” Zusa shouted across the river. With her back to the fire, Alyssa watched, her eyes adjusted enough to see the man standing on the other side. His armor was even darker than the night. He drew his sword, and black flame swelled about it.

  “My name is Ethric, and my faith is fervent,” the paladin shouted back. “But you have cast aside your wrappings, disobeying the order of our god. Will you fight me like a naked whore, or do you hope to distract me while you cut my flesh with your dagger?”

  “When you are dead, I will cast your body to the river,” Zusa shouted. “The fish will nibble on your eyes and worms will feed on your guts. Do you still desire to cross?”

  Ethric laughed.

  “Desire? My desires mean nothing. Karak has commanded your death and the return of Alyssa Gemcroft. I will cross, and I will burn your head and leave your body for the wolves.”

  He took a step into the water. Zusa crouched, her dagger held before her eyes. To Alyssa, she appeared some strange wildling, dangerous, calm and insane. She shifted closer to the fire, feeling for the first time in her life an urge to pray. Whatever fate lay before her, she knew she wanted the dark paladin to have no part of it. But who could she pray to in her desire for death other than Karak? Surely Karak would accept no prayers aimed at the destruction of his own champion.

  “One more step,” said Zusa. “Just one more, and I will kill you. The water is your death, paladin.”

  Ethric waded into the river. At first it flowed to his waist, then rose until it was above his chest. He kept his sword held high, its dark fire absorbing the light of the stars so that it seemed a deep chasm floated above his head. Zusa remained still, her body crouched. Whispers floated off her tongue. The shadows grew about her, hiding her nakedness.

  Protect her, Alyssa prayed, though she knew not to whom. She may not deserve it, and neither do I, but protect her anyway.

  Once Ethric was in the center of the river, Zusa leapt. It seemed the chains of the world had left her, for she vaulted high in the air. A cloak of shadow followed her even though she was naked. For a moment, she soared as if on wings, and then curled her body downward, diving like a bird of prey. Ethric tilted his sword, but his movements were hampered by the deep water.

  The collision was brutal. Alyssa gasped as shadows collided against shadows. Water erupted as if the ground had thrown up its contents and shifted the river. A single harsh clang of steel rang in her ears. When the river calmed and her eyes could once again see, she saw neither of the combatants. Her heart trembled. She thought to run. Freezing to death seemed far better than whatever fate the dark paladin planned for her.

  The water rippled, and then Zusa stepped onto the shore, water dripping from her slender body.

  “I warned him,” she said, and then a smile broke out across h
er face. “He drowned. Make room by the fire.”

  Zusa sat beside her wrappings, crossed her legs, and leaned toward the purple flame. Hardly believing it, Alyssa stripped off her own wet clothing and huddled closer. Both naked, wet, and freezing, Alyssa laughed at what a sight the two of them must be.

  “I think many a man would love to stumble upon our camp this night,” she said.

  “One did,” Zusa said, glancing to the river. “I pray he enjoyed what he saw.”

  They cuddled together for warmth beside the fire that never faltered.

  Alyssa shuddered, then looked up. Yoren approached their camp, walking over the river as if he were a ghost. When he neared, he grabbed one of her nipples and squeezed it so tight it hurt.

  “I missed you,” he said, smiling. His teeth, no longer gold, were crumbling ash. She screamed. He kissed her, his tongue ramming down her throat as if it were a snake. Suddenly it was a snake, crawling down into her belly and coiling there. She thought she’d vomit, but when she did he shoved his hand over her mouth and forced her to swallow it back down.

  When morning came, Alyssa groaned and reached for her clothing. The fire was gone, and her skin pale and covered with goosepimples. Zusa lay beside her, awake but still undressed.

  “Your dreams were ill,” Zusa said.

  “They were,” Alyssa said, pulling on her dress, which was blessedly dry but for a thin layer of dew. “I hope they’re not a portent of things to come.”

  “I dreamed too,” Zusa said. “Karak sent me warning of my path. I walked upon a road of flame, and every step burned the soles of my feet. Eventually I had to crawl, and when I could not crawl, I collapsed. The fire wouldn’t kill me, though. It only caused me pain. What is it you dreamed?”

  Alyssa explained her dream. Zusa’s eyes seemed so sad when she looked upon her.

  “You are pregnant with Yoren’s seed,” she said. “The signs are obvious. He will take over your household through your child.”

  “Will you return me to him?” Alyssa asked. “I do not wish to be their slave.”

  “Even without you they will move,” Zusa said. “They mean to kill Lord Gemcroft as an end to their problems.”

  “Then what am I to do?” she asked.

  “There is a ferry a mile south,” Zusa said as she started covering her body with her wrappings. When she reached her neck she stopped, and a playful smile came over her. She tossed the rest, leaving her face and hair exposed.

  “We will talk along the way,” Zusa said. “We tread a dangerous line, and you will find no help in either Kull or Gemcroft. You are trapped between vipers and a pit.”

  Her eyes twinkled.

  “Still, even vipers may serve their purpose.”

  24

  Haern awoke on a simple bed stuffed with straw. A blanket covered him. Bandages wrapped the cuts across his body, every one of them stinging like freshly opened wounds. The room was dark and without windows, but light from the hallway crept in through the crack of the door, allowing him to see.

  Tears filled his eyes. Haern fought down a wild laugh. He’d lived. He’d come face to face with the Lion and lived. His father would be furious…if he ever found out. Haern had no intention of letting him. His days as Thren’s heir were done. He’d tear himself free or die trying. No matter what his fate, he’d make sure Delysia’s death meant something.

  “Please,” he prayed. “I am in the den of lions. Keep me safe.”

  He slid off the bed. His gray clothes were shredded, but the cuts were thin and the cloth mostly intact. He wished he had his mask, though. Without it, he still had the face of Aaron. His smile grew as he realized he wore the face of a dead man. How many would truly know that was the case?

  His pillow had a covering, so he removed it and then quickly searched the room. His footsteps made no sound, and his fingers were like feather-strokes upon his surroundings. He found no weapon in the lone drawer, nor stashed under his bed or beside the door. Disappointed, he tied the covering across his mouth as if he were a low-rate bandit. It’d have to do for now.

  Haern crept to the door and lay flat upon the floor. From what he could see through the crack, the hallway was empty. A lone torch flickered opposite, the source of his light. Now the real test. He stood and gently tested the door. It wasn’t locked.

  “Thank you,” he whispered to the answerer of his prayer. “Now keep it up, alright?”

  He heard no sound, not the fall of footsteps, the bored shuffling of a guard, or the soft breathing of a slumbering man. Knowing it was all a matter of luck, or faith, Haern pushed the door open a crack and slid out into the hallway.

  It was empty. Haern gently shut the door behind him just in case. The carpet was thick and soft. He couldn’t have asked for better. Small torches lit every twenty feet, hanging from iron loops embedded in the walls. Bits of purple flickered in their centers. They released no smoke.

  Faced with yet another choice, Haern glanced left, then right. The hallway ended with sharp turns at either way. He didn’t have the slightest clue where he was within the temple complex. One way might lead out. The other might lead further in. He decided to go right, and if it didn’t look promising, he’d hurry the other way.

  It turned out the way was correct, but it still was far from promising. Looming before him was the great open chamber of worship. The statue of Karak towered before him, still intimidating even in profile. The purple fires burned at his feet, the only light visible. Shadows danced across the pews. Two men knelt in prayer before their altar. A third slowly circled the room, softly singing something more akin to a funeral dirge than a worship hymn. His hands were lifted to the ceiling and his eyes half-closed.

  The two praying he might sneak past, but the circling priest was another matter. Haern leaned back into the hallway, knowing his time to escape was fleeting. He couldn’t let three men stop him. He was the former son of Thren Felhorn. He wouldn’t let three thousand men stop him.

  “Keep circling,” Haern whispered. When the priest was on the opposite side of the room, Haern ran as fast as he could, his upper body crouched down. The motion made his legs ache and his back twinge, but he recited a mental litany against pain taught him by one of his tutors. When he was halfway to the first row of pews, one of the praying men leaned back and shouted in a twisted cry of pain and triumph.

  Haern’s instinct was to freeze but he didn’t obey it. That was something else he’d long ago been trained to ignore. He rolled behind the first row then spun about to look. One priest stood before the statue, a knife in hand. Blood spilled from his other arm, his severed hand lying on the smooth obsidian altar. Haern’s eyes locked upon the knife. It was a bit ornate, no doubt intended for sacrifice instead of battle, but it would do.

  The other praying priest stood and wrapped his arms around the bleeding man. The third continued his circling and singing as if nothing unusual were happening.

  “Do not fight the pain,” the unwounded one said. “In darkness we bleed to prevent the darkness spreading to others. We must give all to defy the chaos of this world. Your pain is nothing compared to the suffering of thousands.”

  Haern crawled along the right side of the pews. Time was running out. The hallway leading to the center aisle of the pews clearly looked like a way out, but if he didn’t reach it before the circling priest came up behind him, he’d be spotted.

  “Karak be praised!” shouted the first priest. Haern felt his stomach tighten at another cry of pain. He didn’t dare look, but it sounded like one of them was sobbing. The dire hymn continued in its low, maniacal consistency.

  At last Haern was at the final row. He lowered himself to the ground, looking for the feet of the circling priest. Once he was on the opposite yet again, Haern ran toward the center.

  He immediately fled when he saw what awaited him: two priests leaning against the door, their heads bowed and their arms crossed. He couldn’t see their eyes in the split-second before he rolled to the other row of pews. Their
hoods were pulled low. They might be asleep…or they might have spotted his roll.

  No shouts of warning came from the doors. He had gone unnoticed.

  “Thanks, Ashhur,” he whispered under his breath. There was no way he could sneak past the two of them, nor could he subdue them with his bare hands. Only one option remained.

  He made his way back toward the front. The bleeding priest had stopped crying, instead sucking in loud, labored breaths. The other had begun reciting a series of scriptures that cooled Haern’s blood.

  “Only in death is life reborn. Only in blood is sin denied. Only in darkness is the world saved. Only in absolute emptiness is there order. Praise be to Karak.”

  “Praise be,” the other priest stammered.

  The priest circling had switched hymns, his voice deepening and the words slowing. Haern couldn’t understand them, but the song gave him the shivers. The two priests up front weren’t helping, either. Judging by the song, the man was near the door. Time was short.

  Haern looked around the pew to the statue. The first priest had placed the dagger upon the altar, its hilt and blade covered with blood. Beside it was a severed hand. The other was clutching the wounded priest, repeating his scriptures while blood seeped into the bandages wrapped around the stump.

  “Forgive me my theft,” the wounded priest murmured, his skin pale and his eyes rolled back into his head. His words mingled with the scriptures, blending in perfect harmony. “Forgive me of my theft, Lord. Wounded I enter, but enter I will.”

  “Only in blood is sin denied.”

  “Forgive me my theft, Lord. Whole I sinned, but wounded I enter.”

  “Only in darkness is this world saved.”

  “Forgive me my theft, Lord. I deny myself the chaos.”

  “Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” the two repeated as one.

  Haern chose that moment to strike. He kicked the first behind the knee, his head smacking the altar on the way down. Planting his feet firm, Haern rammed his body against the other, elbowing the bloody stump. The priest cried out, staggering backward on weak legs.