The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  “You should hurry back before they wonder where you were,” she told him.

  “Quite true. Looks to be another long day. Finish your glass. I want you to come with me, keep an eye out on the guildhouse entrance. If Garrick suspects something, I might need you to cover my hasty escape.”

  “As you wish, your majesty,” she said with none-too-thick sarcasm.

  They left their basement and hurried to the Ash Guild’s headquarters. With Veliana watching from the rooftop, Deathmask strode inside. He couldn’t have been happier with what he saw. The entire room was in disarray. Pillows lay scattered and shards of glass covered the floor by the bar. Garrick stood trembling at the far end. About twelve Ash members were inside, and none seemed eager to be near their guildmaster.

  “Greetings,” Deathmask said, pretending nothing was amiss. “Good to see you survived last night intac—”

  “Where were you?” Garrick shouted. Deathmask blinked, and he glanced at one of the other men as if to show how confused he was.

  “Running for my life out in the streets, much like every other thief in Veldaren. I stopped by here once, but found the place empty, so I hid until morning.”

  Garrick paced back and forth. His eyes were bloodshot. Deathmask wondered how much crimleaf the man had coursing through his veins. His speech was also slurred, perhaps from one, or several, of those broken bottles over at the counter. Drunk and stoned. Deathmask struggled to contain his amusement.

  “Spiders!” Garrick shouted, as if none of them were there anymore. “Goddamn Spiders! What is Thren thinking? He think I betrayed him? He think I’d be stupid enough to do that? We had a deal, you fucking Spider, you fucking…fucking…damn fucking Spider!”

  Deathmask’s eyes lit up at that. A deal? Could Garrick have been working for Thren?

  “Someone showed up about half an hour ago,” offered one of the nearest thieves, keeping his voice low so his guildmaster would not hear. “Claimed that two members of the Ash came and killed several of Thren’s men, and he demanded an explanation.”

  Garrick still overheard, and he stormed closer. Deathmask saw how incredibly dilated his pupils were, and he decided his guess was correct. If Garrick’s entire strength and confidence were built upon Thren’s protection, then having that suddenly taken away would probably scare the shit out of him. Deathmask couldn’t wait to tell Veliana. She’d been ready to kill the man before. What might she do knowing he’d sold the entire guild out to the man who’d executed her former guildmaster?

  “Serious accusations,” Deathmask said, repeatedly telling himself not to smile. “What did you say?”

  “This is bullshit,” Garrick said, waving an unsteady finger in his face. “And I’ll convince him of that. But I want to know what’s going on. Mercenaries by the hundreds running through the street, and for what? And tomorrow night, will they do the same? We need to plan. We need to prepare. Shit. What about the other guilds? Maybe they know what’s going on. We should ask. Someone should go.”

  Behold your glorious leader, Deathmask mused, glancing at the rest of the Ash that mingled about. He was a puppet for Veliana, then a puppet for Thren. Yet now the strings are cut, and he can do nothing but collapse.

  “I will go,” Deathmask said. “And to the Spider Guild, no less. We should show them we mean no ill will, and most of all, that the survival of all the guilds is more important than our petty squabbles. How many of us died last night? This is now a war, a true war. Let me take that message to Thren.”

  Garrick bit his lip, no doubt trying to process the idea in his drug-addled mind. The rest of the thieves looked pleased. Deathmask wasn’t surprised. He’d arrived in the chaos, remained calm, and then presented a plan. This was something they could latch onto, however simple. Let the guild see that he was in control, not Garrick.

  “Fine,” he said. “You may speak for me. Be careful, and don’t press if Thren turns you away. Friends. That’s what we must be. Good friends. We’ll teach the Trifect to mess with us. Won’t we? Won’t we?”

  A half-hearted cheer came from the rest of the thieves. As Deathmask left, he caught the looks they gave him, and this time he did not hide his smile. He was a stranger, a newcomer to the guild, but he was still becoming more of a leader in their minds than Garrick. Come a crisis, men and women search for stability. Let them see that in him.

  When he stepped out to the street, he looked to the rooftop for Veliana, but she was not there. Odd. Had someone else spotted her? He approached that same building, looped around to its back, and then climbed up. He expected Veliana to be lying there, perhaps bored or asleep. Instead, no one.

  “Vel?” he wondered aloud.

  Then he saw it, a single streak of blood. He followed it to an alley, and when he peered down, he saw Veliana kneeling over the body of a fallen man. Deathmask climbed down to find her bandaging the man’s wounds.

  “What the Abyss is going on?” he asked.

  “It’s him,” she said, not at all surprised by his arrival. “It has to be. I fought him once, years ago, but who else might the Watcher be? It’s Aaron…Thren Felhorn’s son.”

  Deathmask’s mouth dropped, and every plan whirling through his head rearranged itself to match this new set of circumstances.

  “Take him,” he said. “Hurry. We have so much to discuss.”

  Zusa had scoured the south and found nothing. The night had come and gone, bathed in blood and lit with fire, yet she had seen nothing of this elusive Watcher. Too much chaos, too much death. How do you pick one murderer out of a thousand? It was a question she had no answer for. Still, it seemed Alyssa’s desires had been met. Hundreds of thieves died, though many mercenaries had fallen as well. She doubted her master would grieve for their loss. Her grief was saved solely for herself.

  Her only strategy left was to hope the Watcher had lain low during the night, knowing he wasn’t needed. Come morning, though, perhaps he’d try to escape, or survey the damage. As she ran along the rooftops, Zusa crisscrossed between the various thief guild headquarters, at least those that she knew. She saw various men pass below her, staying to the alleys and quiet streets, but they all wore the colors of various guilds. From what she’d gathered from men she’d interrogated the night before, the Watcher never appeared wearing any guild colors, only a multitude of gray cloaks and shirts. Still, gray was akin to both the Ash and the Spiders, so to those she went.

  At the Ash Guild she leaned atop a triangular rooftop, rested her arms on its tip, and overlooked the square. Nothing. The magnitude of her task set upon her then. She was trying to find a lone man in the entire city, one who appeared to have no friends, no allegiances, and no clear motive other than killing thieves. She had a vague description to go on based on his clothes, and a rumor that he had blond hair. Some said he had red eyes, but she dismissed those, as well as the stories claiming he had demon blood and blades for hands. But blond she could work with.

  She dozed for a while, not meaning to. Sometime later she startled, ashamed of her weakness. It’d been a long twenty hours, sure, but she’d handled worse.

  “Nava would be so disappointed,” she whispered, feeling sad and tired. Nava had been one of the last three Faceless women, killed at the hand of a dark paladin of Karak. They’d been deemed outcasts, traitors to their God. But it was their God that had abandoned them, and so she’d turned on his paladin that had come for Alyssa, protecting her. Zusa had given Karak no prayers for the last five years. She missed Nava and Eliora more than his presence.

  Not far to her right, down in the alley, she heard someone cry out in pain. Curious, she rushed over and leaned down. Her eyes widened. Whirling below her was a mass of gray cloaks, spinning and sliding as if possessed. Three men fought against it, all wearing the colors of the Ash. A man lived inside those cloaks, and she saw his face, his blond hair…but even that wasn’t what convinced her. She saw his eyes, and they were tormented yet lost in pleasure. One by one the thieves fell, throats sliced and chests cut
open. His skill was incredible.

  “Watcher,” she whispered, drawing her daggers. “I find you at last.”

  She felt a seed of worry planted in the back of her mind. Her master wanted the Watcher brought back alive, but the way he fought, the way he moved, it might be impossible. He’d die before surrendering, she knew that the way she knew he’d prepared for her attack from above despite all her silence.

  His swords danced, their weapons collided. Her feet slammed into his chest, but he held his ground. She pushed off, flipping twice in the air before landing on her feet. The two stared at one another, a smile blooming across her face.

  “Ethric was the last true challenge I fought,” she said. “Can you be the next, Watcher?”

  “Damn woman,” said the Watcher. He pointed a blade at her cloak. “Who is it you work for? What fool have you sold your soul to?”

  Zusa laughed, the amusement only half acted. The man was watching her, analyzing her. She felt naked before his eyes, as if in time he might know every movement. She was doing the same to him, true, but he was too guarded, too still.

  “You seek my colors?” she asked. Slowly she lifted one arm, slashed it, and let the blood drip down onto the cloth of her cloak. She wondered if her spell would take hold. Her strength had come from Karak, or so she’d always thought. She’d once lived within shadows, danced with cold fire on her blades, but not since Ethric had she tapped Karak’s power.

  The color spread through the cloak in seconds, turning it a vibrant red. It coiled around her, as if suddenly alive. Zusa felt her blood pound in her ears, her head ached from the effort, but still she smiled. Perhaps Karak hadn’t abandoned her after all.

  “I serve willingly,” she said, tensing for an attack. “I have sold nothing.”

  She lunged, one dagger looping upward to block, the other thrusting for his chest. Her cloak wrapped about her like a shield. When the Watcher countered, her dagger parried his blade away, but her thrust met his other sword, and her arm jarred at the strength of the block. Her cloak lashed out like a whip, its fine edges sharp as razors. It slashed across his face, blood splattered them both, and then he leapt back. His hood fell lopsided, and she saw how blue his eyes were, how dirty his face was. Who was hidden beneath the guise? Who would Alyssa find when she dumped his body before her?

  “Neat trick,” the Watcher said before leaping into his own attack. Their weapons clashed again and again, his speed incredible. Twice Zusa had to spin and let her cloak snap inward, deflecting a killing thrust. This was no spar, no game. He wanted her dead. That seed of worry in her mind grew to a thorn. One of his swords slashed her thigh. The other pierced her chest, shallow but painful. The worry bloomed like a deadly flower.

  It was the narrowness of the alley they fought in that saved her. When he lunged for a killing blow, she kicked off the wall, sailing over his head. Her feet hit the opposite side, the collision jarring, but she pushed off, higher. Her cloak trailed below her, twisting. It lashed at him, cutting deep grooves into his arms. He’d expected her to land, not continue back the way she came. The cloak kept him off balance, and when she landed, she lunged in, daggers leading.

  She underestimated his speed.

  The sound of steel hitting steel rang in her ears, and her carefully coordinated attack broke as his swords danced. She refused to relent, chasing every backward step he took. There was still no fear in his eyes, only death. Whether it was for her, or himself, she didn’t know.

  The ache in her head grew. She couldn’t maintain the cloak’s enchantment much longer. It’d never hurt like this before, never drained her so terribly. Maybe Karak truly had abandoned her, as she’d abandoned him. Or perhaps Karak wasn’t with her at all? Intrigued, she suddenly somersaulted away from him, pulling out in mid-attack while he was unprepared to give chase. She’d once been able to treat the shadows as doorways. Could she still do so?

  The sun was low enough that several deep stretches of darkness remained in the alley. Zusa focused on one behind the Watcher, then turned and leapt at the shadowed wall behind her. Part of her expected to hit stone, but she passed cleanly through. Again her mind ached, but when the distortion ended, she was behind her opponent. Her cloak resuming its normal color and shape, she flung herself at him, knowing her chance to surprise him like this again was non-existent.

  Any normal opponent would have died, but this Watcher was beyond normal. He looked a man possessed, and the moment she vanished he was already spinning, searching for her. He parried her leading thrust, and she was forced to use her other dagger to counter a slash aimed for her throat. Her momentum continued, and they slammed into one another. His head cracked against the wall. Her hands a blur, she cut once, twice, into the tendons at his elbow. The sound of his sword hitting the ground was music to her ears.

  He screamed, but the pain did not slow down his other blade. She felt its edge dig into her skin, and she rolled with it to prevent too deep a cut. Blood ran down her face and neck, urging her on. She used both her daggers to pin his sword aside, then rammed her elbow into his throat. He gasped for air, his gag reflex leaning him closer. Pulling her daggers back, she hit his temple with the hilts. The Watcher dropped to his knees.

  “I’ll kill if I must,” she said as he leaned on his arms, as if bowing to her. “Come now, and face the woman you wronged.”

  “I’ve wronged no one,” he said, his voice hoarse.

  “Murderer of children. Liar. Surrender now.”

  He laughed. It was tired and broken.

  “I am the murdered child, woman. Ask my father.”

  He flung his cloak at her. As she batted it aside, his heel followed after, ramming into her forehead. Fearing an attack, she retreated, her daggers falling into defensive positions. Her blurred vision saw no attack. He was gone, but where? Follow the blood, she thought. Follow the blood.

  She caught a speck of it halfway up the building to her left. The rooftops. He was running away. Knowing her time was short, she jumped from one windowsill to another and grabbed hold of a ledge. Before she could pull herself up, something hard and blunt struck the back of her head. The blow smacked her forehead against the side. Her vision swam. Her stomach heaved.

  “I’m sorry Zusa,” she heard a familiar voice whisper. “But this one is mine.”

  And then her hands clutched only air, and she was falling.

  18

  Haern awoke with his head pounding and no clue where he was. The last thing he remembered was crawling across a rooftop, just before being struck from behind. Then he’d been thrown forward, off the building and to the ground below. Then nothing. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. He saw stone walls. A dungeon perhaps? No, that didn’t seem right. More of a cellar, windowless, lit by torches.

  “You’re awake.”

  He looked up. A man and a woman stood before him. The man wore a red robe, his dark hair pulled tight behind his head. As for the woman, she looked vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen her before a long time ago, in a dream. It had something to do with the long scar that ran down her face, bloodying her eye. He tried to stand, but he was tied to a chair. Whoever had tied the knots knew what they were doing. There wasn’t the slightest give, and the moment he tested them, various chords across his chest and neck tightened, choking off his breath.

  “Not sure I want to be,” he said, doing his best to relax. He’d known this was the fate awaiting him. He couldn’t make enemies of every guild and expect to live forever. Still, it seemed too soon. He’d accomplished so little. He’d die without mourners, without friends, without a legacy. A damn shame.

  “Do you remember me?” the woman asked. “It was during the Kensgold. You were still a boy then, almost a man. We fought…”

  And then he did remember. He’d seen her twice, once when his father had tried blackmailing her to turn against her guildmaster, then later in the attic of Connington’s mansion. Her name was Veliana, and the last time they’d met, she’d nearly killed him.


  “You do remember,” she said, seeing the recognition in his eyes.

  “I could never forget,” he said softly. “You showed me there would never be a life for me. Aaron was dead, yet you never believed me. You refused.”

  She crossed her arms and leaned back against the stone wall. The man beside her remained quiet, seemingly content to let them talk.

  “You could have let the smoke take me,” she said. “Why didn’t you?”

  He shrugged the best he could, given the circumstances.

  “It wasn’t right to. I was there when my father left you to die at the hands of that disgusting…Worm. I couldn’t do so again.”

  His words hung in the air. When she spoke, her tone didn’t seem quite so hard.

  “I spread word of Aaron Felhorn’s death after that night. I did it to hurt your father, but I’d be lying if I denied doing it for you as well. Aaron was dead, and it seemed true enough. What was the name you spoke to me that night? Something plain…”

  “Haern.”

  “That’s right. Is that who you are now? Haern the Watcher? I find it hard to believe you’re that same boy who spared my life. Do you know how many friends of mine you’ve killed? How many associates? You’re still Thren’s son, aren’t you? Perhaps you should adopt your old name, Aaron.”

  “I am not!” he shouted.

  In the corner, the dark-haired man laughed.

  “Such ferocity. Well, there’s no doubt you’re skilled, and Vel here was lucky enough to get the jump on you after you were injured. Seems to corroborate everything we’ve heard about you, other than the demon blood. I’d sense that if it were the case. Still, your father cavorting with a succubus is an amusing thought.”