The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  Nonsense, all of it. Torgar knew he could kill every one of them to a man, yet they’d peer down at him as if their noses were a mile long and he were hard to see. At the head of the table, Laurie, Leon, and Maynard talked, sometimes openly, sometimes quiet and hunched together. Taras sat beside his father, listening when it seemed appropriate. Torgar gave the boy credit; he seemed to understand most, and he even chipped in once or twice without earning scorn from any of the three. Leon and Maynard seemed to be enjoying themselves, but Laurie was clearly upset. The empty seat beside Torgar was the reason.

  Stupid bitch, thought Torgar. Just had to go running off for her precious walls. Babes in diapers are tougher to scare than that broad.

  He might have said it out loud, but he’d been denied the amount of alcohol he’d wanted. Still, his master wanted him at Taras’ side, to serve as protection to both the boy and the father. Judging by the haughty grumbling about him, the only danger he saw was from a flying plate of warm food.

  “What are they discussing now?” Torgar asked Taras. He tried to whisper, but his deep voice wasn’t suited for it.

  “They’ve finished their trade contracts,” Taras said, glancing back at the mercenary. “They’re discussing the thief guilds now.”

  “Not much to discuss,” Torgar said. “We double up some patrols, hire a few more mercenaries, but it’s like swatting at flies buzzing around your horse’s ass.”

  He caught a finely dressed woman in her thirties glaring at him opposite the table so he shot her a wink.

  “Forgive the color,” he told her. “My brain is mud and my tongue blue. I’m only here for my lord.”

  She sniffed at him and turned toward a lady to her left. They began whispering, each clearly unhappy with his presence. Torgar sighed. By the gods, did he hate it here.

  “They’re thinking of going to the king,” Taras said.

  “Good luck with that,” Torgar said. “Got better chance…”

  He choked down another colorful comment as a priest of Ashhur walk into the pavilion.

  “Who in blazes let him in here?” Torgar asked. Taras, too busy listening to his father discuss bribes, didn’t notice. The mercenary captain stood and moved to intercept the priest. The man of cloth seemed lost amid the sea of people.

  “Welcome to our gathering,” Torgar said as he grabbed the priest’s hand and shook it. The priest, a younger man with neatly trimmed hair and a shadow of growth on his chin, looked thoroughly relieved.

  “I must admit, I’m a bit lost,” the priest said. “I need to speak with Laurie Keenan, though I don’t know his face from a thousand others.”

  “I’m head of mercenaries for Lord Keenan,” Torgar said. “He’s busy plotting and planning, so just tell me what you’d tell him and I’ll see if it’s worth interrupting him for.”

  The priest didn’t ask for proof of his rank or employer or anything. Torgar felt relieved that he’d gotten a hold of the priest first before he blabbed his message to the closest curious Gemcroft relative or Connington sellsword.

  “It involves his wife, Madelyn,” the priest began.

  “Hrm, hold up,” Torgar said, pushing his large forefinger into the priest’s face. “Not another word. Let’s go somewhere with less ears, eh?”

  The priest nodded. Torgar led them out one of the side-flaps of the tent, nodding at the mercenaries stationed there as they passed.

  “What’s your name?” Torgar asked as they walked.

  “Derek,” said the priest. “You may call me Derek.”

  “Then Derek you are!” said Torgar, laughing in an attempt to put the man at ease. Leaving the tent didn’t seem to as much as he’d hoped. Glancing around at the sheer decadence, Torgar realized why. He wondered how many pillars of Ashhur’s faith were being broken even as they spoke.

  “Ignore the show,” Torgar said, grabbing the priest’s shoulders. “Now what is this message about?”

  “We found Mrs. Keenan under attack on her way to her estate,” Derek began. “We rescued her before she could suffer any real harm. We hoped she’d stay the night in safety at our temple. Many of her guards did. Yet come the morning, it appeared she had run off.”

  Torgar felt anger bubbling in his chest. While he had been escorting Taras with invitations to the Kensgold, another of his charges had been assaulted in the streets. Since he’d received no word otherwise, he’d assumed Madelyn had made it home safe. But had she actually?

  “Why did you take so long to bring us word?” Torgar asked.

  “We sent a priest to inform your lord of her staying at our temple.” Derek glanced about, his face twitching nervously. “We recently found out he was murdered. The message never made it to your camp. Calan, our high priest, sent members of our order to your estate to see if she were there. She’s not. Did she not come here?”

  Torgar’s look was answer enough.

  “Then you must tell your master,” Derek insisted. “His wife is missing, and we fear one of the thief guilds were the ones to take her.”

  “If they did, she may not be alive,” Torgar said, sighing. “We’ve received no demands.”

  “Actually,” Derek said, reaching out a trembling hand. “I think you have.”

  Within his shaking fingers was a scroll sealed with wax. The wax itself was smooth, showing no insignia. Torgar took it, raising an eyebrow as he did.

  “A man in a gray cloak stopped me on the way here,” Derek said. “He gave me the scroll and told me to deliver it to whom I gave my message. He swore I’d die if I opened it, or even tarried.”

  He stepped back a little, as if the note might erupt and kill them all. Torgar broke the seal and unrolled it. The message was short and took him little time to read.

  Keenan,

  End the Kensgold. Leave Veldaren tonight. If not, Madelyn dies. Then Taras. Then you.

  A Spider.

  Torgar rolled up the note and held it so tight the paper crumpled and the wax cracked and fell to the ground in tiny pieces.

  “Listen to me, Derek,” Torgar said. “Stay here at the Kensgold. They’ll kill you on your way back, do you understand?”

  “I’m not afraid to die,” Derek said, but he certainly looked fearful.

  “Scared or not, there’s no point in walking back into their trap,” the mercenary captain insisted. “But go off and die if you want. I’ve got more important things to do.”

  He hurried back into the pavilion, honestly not caring whether or not the priest remained. Laurie was laughing loudly when he arrived, ignoring Taras’s inquisitive look.

  “Milord,” Torgar said, kneeling down beside Laurie’s ear. “We need to talk.”

  “Just a moment,” Laurie said, patting the mercenary on the shoulder. “Leon here was just telling a wonderful story about…”

  “Now,” Torgar insisted. The mood soured immediately. Leon gave him a glare that said in no uncertain terms that if he were his mercenary, he’d be joining Will as game for the gentle touchers. Laurie looked at Torgar for a moment, seeing the urgency in his eyes, and then turned to the others.

  “A moment, if you will,” he said, standing. Taras followed unasked.

  “What is so damn important that I must appear subservient to my own mercenary?” Laurie asked once they were outside the tent. In answer, Torgar handed him the scroll. Laurie read it, swore, then threw it to the ground and stomped on it with his heel.

  “Where’s Madelyn?” he asked.

  “She never made it home,” Torgar explained. He summarized what the priest of Ashhur had told him. When finished, he stepped back and crossed his arms, wondering what his master would do.

  “We don’t know if she’s dead or alive,” Laurie said, his face red with anger. “And even if I do what they say, there’s no guarantee they’ll let her live.”

  “And the threat on your life, and your son’s?”

  Laurie glanced at Taras, who had remained quiet.

  “I have received a hundred of these every year for
the past five,” Laurie said. “Why should I treat this one any different?”

  Torgar shrugged his shoulders.

  “How badly do you want her back?” he asked.

  “That’s not the point,” Laurie said.

  “That is the point. It is the only damn point. You want to remain powerful in the eyes of the Trifect, then stay. You want to keep your own ego intact, then stay. But if you want her back, then say the word. Pack up all our servants, our food, and our ale, and we go. What will it matter? We’ve had our feast. You’ve made your plans.”

  Laurie looked furious enough to kill. His hand moved to the jeweled dagger hanging from his belt. Torgar refused to move. He knew he’d spoken out of line, but there was one last thing he had to say.

  “Give me time,” he insisted. “I can find her on my own. I’ll bleed these cowards, find where she is, and bring her back safe. Give them what they want. What they ask for is so little. Either way they might kill her, but if they delay for even a few hours, that may decide whether I find a prisoner or a corpse.”

  Laurie drew the dagger. He pointed its blade at Torgar’s throat. The hand shook.

  “He’s right,” Taras said. “Either way they’ll kill her. This gives us a chance.”

  The dagger lowered.

  “Kneel,” Laurie said. Torgar did as told. He didn’t even wince when his master grabbed his neck and cut a thin line of blood across his forehead.

  “Swear upon your blood,” Laurie said, his voice soft and shaking with intensity.

  Torgar put his hands to his forehead, feeling the warmth flowing across his palms. After a count of ten, he pulled them back and lifted his hands to the night sky.

  “I swear upon my lifeblood that I will bring her back.”

  Laurie wiped the dagger clean with a cloth and then sheathed it.

  “Almost,” he said. “But not quite. You’ll bring her back alive, Torgar. If not, I call your honor false. I call your wisdom foolishness, and my retreat a great jape against my name. If you find her dead, then fall upon your sword, because that death will be far better than the one I will give you.”

  He stormed back into the pavilion, shouting orders. Cries of disappointment followed. The Kensgold was over.

  “Let me come with you,” Taras said once his father was gone.

  “Stay here,” Torgar said. “I have enough on my shoulders. I won’t have you dying on me while I find your mother.”

  “I can fight,” Taras insisted.

  “Follow me outside the camp and I’ll kill you myself,” Torgar threatened. That seemed to jolt the boy a little. Reluctantly, he turned and joined his father in the tent. Torgar shook his head. In truth, he’d love to have Taras with him, but the risks were already too great. He would work alone, and he’d work both bloody and fast.

  He swung by the rest of his mercenaries, appointing another in charge and informing them of the Kensgold’s disbandment. Once that was done, he took a horse from their stable and rode like a demon to the walls of Veldaren. On his way there he rode past a body lying in the grass, its white robes stained crimson with blood.

  28

  With the first shattering of glass, Haern flung open the door to see the cause. Armored soldiers stood before the windows, swinging enormous mauls that easily bashed through the glass and layered the carpet with shards. Soldiers flowed in through the unguarded windows. The boy was torn between relief and worry. Relief, because the king’s involvement would certainly prevent his father’s plans from going as they should. Worry, because they’d kill him just as easy as any other member of the thief guilds.

  Well, not as easy, he thought with a wry smile. His daggers in hand, he turned right and bolted deeper into the mansion. If there was any hope of escape, he’d try to find it in the back sections. If he was lucky, he might escape through an unwatched window like he had fleeing Robert Haern’s home.

  Haern was too fast for the initial wave in the hallway to catch him, but as he burst through the door at the end he found himself in the middle of an armory. Three soldiers approached, their shields leading. Haern rolled to one side, lashing underneath the shield at the closest soldier’s ankle. His dagger struck armor and clinked off, doing no damage. When his roll ended, he kicked hard, leaping into the very center of the three. They turned on him, but their shields were large and the room small. Haern twirled like a dancer, his daggers punching through creases in armor. He jumped, kicked off a shield, and slammed into the chest of another. As they rolled to the ground Haern’s dagger cut into the man’s neck once, twice, three times. Blood splattered across his mask.

  The other two soldiers, their arms and legs bleeding from several deep cuts, tried to stab Haern as he lay there. Their blades struck air. Haern rolled off and onto his knees, then kicked back. He slid between the remaining two, and this time his daggers found the open spots just above their greaves. To make sure they stayed down, he twisted the daggers when he pulled them out. One dead and two others crumpled to the ground, Haern ran out of the armory and into the corridor between.

  A man dressed in the garb of the Serpent Guild nearly collided with him. His curved daggers dripped blood.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the man had time to ask before Haern lunged. The Serpent was far more skilled than Haern expected. One curved blade parried his attack, the other slipping downward so that Haern would impale himself from his lunge. Twisting his body, Haern angled his knee so that when they struck, he could rebound off and away before getting harmed. When he landed beside the armory door, he had no doubt whom he fought.

  “You’re Norris,” he said.

  The guildmaster of the Serpents spat.

  “You must be Thren’s boy. I’d heard you were getting soft. Did he send you after me, or is this your own stupid ploy?”

  “Mine,” Haern said, slowly leaning forward so his cloak would hide his daggers. He swayed side to side, as if in mockery of a dancing viper. Norris saw this and smirked.

  “Think you can cloak dance, boy?” He started swaying as well, his weapons well hidden. “Come try me.”

  Norris swirled, his cloaks whipping out in chaotic fashion. Haern watched, fascinated. The guildmaster spun faster, faster, his cloak a blur, his hands hidden shadows of death. Waiting. Haern felt like prey mesmerized by the dance of the cobra. Deadly or not, he had to act. He stepped forward, then immediately pulled back, a curved dagger slicing just above his head.

  Time was not on either of their sides, and both knew it. Haern stepped back, crouched low, and then lunged left. He hit the wall and then vaulted into the air, his legs flipping high over his head. His daggers thrust downward at the whirl of cloaks, but Norris was not fooled. He batted both aside, pulled out of his dance, and thrust where Haern landed.

  Except he didn’t land. The corridor was thin enough that Haern’s feet pressed flat on the opposite side. The rest of his momentum pushed his knees down, and then he kicked. His shoulder rammed Norris in the stomach. One dagger stabbed his chest. The other tore into his groin. Norris collapsed, blood pouring out on his green trousers.

  “Always wondered if I could take Thren,” he said, his voice labored and in pain. “Can’t even kill his damn kid.”

  Haern stepped close, kicked a dagger out of Norris’s hand, and then looped around to do the same to the other.

  “My knife or the guards?” he asked.

  “A thief to a thief,” Norris said, coughing blood.

  Haern saluted, then flipped the dagger in his hand and stabbed. Senke entered as he was cleaning off the blade on his cloak.

  “There you are!” he shouted. “Seems like the whole damn army is here!” He stopped when he saw the body and realized who it was.

  “You killed Norris?” he asked. “Damn. Starting to think you’ve been holding out on me during our spars.”

  “How do we get out of here?” asked Haern.

  “Follow me,” Senke said. “Going won’t be easy. The mansion has a large attic, and from there we can get to
the roof.”

  He smacked Haern on the shoulder.

  “No matter what, I’m proud of you,” he said.

  The two hurried to the end of the corridor and kicked open the door. They were within another dining hall, though smaller and most likely intended for mercenaries and servants. On the far end, smoke billowed into the room from underneath the crack of the door. Senke saw this and swore up a storm.

  “They’ve set off the fires?” he wondered aloud. “Some of the Serpents must have panicked! We need out, now!”

  He pressed his hood over his mouth, then winked at Haern when he saw the boy’s mask.

  “Almost like you came prepared,” he said, chuckling.

  Two Serpents came running out the door when they neared. Haern cut down one, Senke the other. Smoke poured in the open door, and down the hallway both saw the fires rapidly spreading.

  “We can’t make it,” Haern shouted. Senke knelt and pointed so they could see underneath the smoke.

  “You see where the hallway turns?” he asked. “Immediately on your left is a door. It leads up to the attic, and from there we can find a way to safety.”

  He wiped sweat from his brow as he looked to the fires.

  “Relative safety,” he corrected.

  “Let me go first,” Haern said. “I’m faster. If the door is blocked by flame, I’ll come running.”

  Senke started to object, but Haern was already dashing down the hall.

  The smoke gathered along the ceiling in giant rolling clouds. Each doorway he passed the fires roared, flicking the outside of their doors, looking like tongues eager to taste more of the building. His eyes stung looking at them. The hallway was unbelievably hot. He wrapped his cloak over his mouth, his mask doing little to keep out the foul air. Cough after cough racked his body. Soon he lost his vision as his eyes watered.

  Haern couldn’t believe the heat. It didn’t seem to matter that he touched no fire. The floor warmed his feet. The air sucked at the moisture of his skin, and he felt like a pastry stuck in an oven. He remembered his training, clutched it with all his mind, and forced himself to keep running. Air didn’t matter. The heat didn’t matter. One foot after the other.