“You had such potential,” he said, stepping toward her. “Instead you’ve denied your duties. You’ve led us to ruin, destroying everything I’ve worked my entire life for. If there’s any hope for us now, it is someone, anyone, taking over.”
“Including you?”
He looked insulted by the notion.
“I do this for the legacy of your entire family, generations before and generations yet to come. Not myself. Never for myself. I hope you understand.”
He lunged for her, and she rolled to the side. Compared to Zusa or the Watcher, he was slow, but she had no weapon, no dagger or club. She grabbed the sheets as she hit the ground beside her bed and flung them at Bertram.
“Help!” she screamed as she circled around, putting the broken window to her back. Bertram shoved the blankets aside, his dagger catching momentarily on them. He was between her and the door, and she thought to run past while he was entangled, but it wasn’t a long enough distraction. He stepped over the sheets, his eyes locked onto her, watching, waiting for the slightest twitch so he might react. For an old man, he seemed reenergized, his movements carrying purpose.
“It won’t matter,” he said. “You will be gone by the time they arrive, and even if they execute me, I’ll have removed the sickness within our house.”
She thought of Nathaniel, of Arthur, and of Bertram’s insistence on marriage. Deep inside, she wondered just how involved he’d been with those events, and the anger that burned within gave her the courage to do what she might never have done otherwise. When he stabbed for her chest, she didn’t dodge. Instead she flung herself at him, twisting to one side in hopes of avoiding the blow. The edge slashed her flesh, the pain almost unbearable, but her mind was full of fury and adrenaline. Her left hand grabbed his arm so he couldn’t stab again, the other clutching the front of his robes. She might have lacked the strength of a man, but Bertram was old and thin.
With a mindless cry she flung him behind her, toward the shattered window where many shards still remained. He cried out once, a surprised yelp that ended in a painful shriek. Still trembling with rage, she watched as blood poured across the glass. He’d been impaled by one of the thick shards, the pointed edge digging deep into the flesh below his throat. Bertram tried to suck in another breath, but it came in gargled and wet. His arms flailed uselessly at his side, slicing his hands as he grabbed more shards trying to push himself off the window.
Behind her, the door broke as her guards smashed it open. They poured in once more, and this time they did not allow her to resist as they took her by the hand and led her out. She looked back only once, to make sure Bertram was still there, still bleeding.
The sickness within her house, she thought. Bertram was right. At last, it had been removed. And then she broke down and cried.
27
The main quarters for the Serpents were unsurprisingly empty when Haern searched them. Given what he knew of William Ket, their leader, they would not dismiss him as lightly as the others. William took every threat seriously, and he dealt with them as harshly as possible. Kadish was a gambler, a drinker, and a man too proud to stop celebrating when he should have been in hiding. William was easily the opposite, and would therefore be far more difficult.
Of course, Haern knew where they’d go. They’d retreated there several times, usually after one of the guilds engaged them in a skirmish over territory. Unlike their main guildhouse, this one was smaller, with only a single door and no windows. It had once been the armory for the city guards stationed deep in the south of Veldaren, before the king had repositioned them farther north and sold the building.
On his way there, Haern checked the cut on his side. He’d hid it from lady Gemcroft and her frightening female guard, though the guard might have noticed given her incredible skill. It was shallow, a flesh wound along his ribs. It was bleeding though, as such cuts liked to do. Pausing to catch his breath, he leaned against the wall of a smithy and drew one of his sabers.
“Something tells me you’ll get reopened a dozen times tonight,” he said as he cut the edge of a cloak to make a bandage. It reminded him of trying to bandage that boy’s arm while out in the snow. At least he knew who he was now: Nathaniel Gemcroft. No wonder he’d been a target. Of course, who it had been and why was no real concern. The Serpents were. Assuming Deathmask handled the Spider Guild like he said he would, the Serpents were the only guild left to be dealt with one way or another.
A shadow shifted in the corner of his eye, elongated in a way that was unnatural to the moonlight. His mind cried out in alarm, and he dropped to one knee just in time. A crossbow bolt smacked into the wood behind him and then ricocheted off. Haern drew both his sabers as he rushed toward the main street, where the buildings would be further apart and he’d have more room to dodge.
Some finely-honed instinct in him lifted the hairs on his neck. He slid as he heard the twang of two more crossbows. Bolts flew above him, striking the ground harmlessly. At least three attackers, he realized, given the how close together they’d fired. Not good. Back on his feet in a heartbeat, he continued running, relying on the slow reloading of a crossbow to give him time.
His way was blocked, however. A man in the cloak of a Serpent landed before him, his dagger already drawn.
“Damn fool,” the Serpent said.
“Same to you.”
He crashed right into him, positioning his sabers so they pushed the tip of his opponent’s dagger to the side. Haern’s forehead rammed the Serpent’s nose. Blood splattered across them both, blinding an eye. Trying to ignore the pain, Haern rolled atop him and into the wide street beyond. When he spun, he saw bolts flying in. One missed. A second passed an inch from his leg as he dodged to one side. The third thudded into his side, and he gasped at the impact. If not for his dodge, it would have found the bottom of his throat.
Is it poisoned? he wondered, but he dismissed the thought. Poison wouldn’t matter if several more buried their tips into something vital.
The man he’d rammed struggled to his feet, and Haern reacted on instinct. He knew he needed to get away from the men with the crossbows, but he also couldn’t leave an opponent free to chase. He lunged, slashed away the Serpent’s pitiful defense, and then cut his throat. As he bled out, Haern dove around a corner. A single bolt fired after him, missing by a foot. And then he was running. He sheathed one of his sabers so he could wipe at the blood in his eye, then glanced back. Three Serpents leapt after him, two men and a woman, their green cloaks trailing, the color an eerie haze in the moonlight.
He crossed to the other side of the street, giving them no choice but to climb down. Again he made a decision, this one more on pride than rational thinking. They’d hurt him, maybe even poisoned him. They had to pay. His reputation was all that would hold this arrangement together with the guilds and Trifect. If they felt they could wound him, make him run, then all would be for naught.
“Come on!” he shouted, slamming his sabers together before charging. The three had abandoned their crossbows on the rooftop so they could climb down, and all of them drew shortswords. As he charged, they formed a triangle, trapping him in the center. He grinned at the maneuver. Clever, but it was too late to change his mind. His tactics, however, he could change. Instead of lunging at the first, as they thought, he spun in place, beginning his cloakdance. His feet twisted and spun, pushed to the very limits of his speed. He relied fully on instinct, for what his eyes saw through his cloaks were but snippets of his opponents. Thrust after thrust he smacked away, until one overextended, confused as to where he actually was within the cloaks. Haern broke out from the spin, double-slashing his arm. Down went the weapon as blood spilled and the Serpent screamed.
Back into the dance, but just a moment, just long enough to confuse the remaining two. No time left to mess around. The pain in his side was escalating, and his fingers tingled. Assaulting the nearest, he unleashed a furious display, his swords weaving around the woman’s shortsword as if it were motion
less. He spun as he cut her, whirling toward the last Serpent in a single smooth motion. The thief blocked only one of the two sabers, the other taking his life.
“Damn it,” Haern said, pausing to catch his breath. He gingerly touched the bolt in his side, wincing as his fingers made it move the slightest bit. Too deep, he’d have to push it through and pray there’d been no poison. Before he could, he heard movement above. Too late, he brought up his sabers, but instead of the expected bolt a single Serpent fell bleeding to the ground, crumpling in a heap. From the rooftop, Zusa waved at him.
“The one you don’t see is the one that kills you,” she called down to him.
Despite his exhaustion, he gave her a smile.
“Why are you here?” he asked as she climbed down to the street.
“Milady wishes the Serpents punished, and so I’ve come to help you. Clearly you need it.”
He gestured to the bolt in his side.
“Clearly.”
Without giving him warning, she stepped forward, grabbed the shaft, and pushed. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth together to hold in his scream. Warm blood dripped down the small of his back. Zusa pushed aside his cloak, retrieved the bolt, and then held it close to her eyes so she might see in the moonlight.
“Not poisoned,” she said. “Either one of the gods favors you, or they were too stupid and lazy to prepare for you properly.”
“Perhaps both?” He grinned at her, but the grin faltered. “Sorry about your arm.”
“Sorry about your chest.”
So she had noticed. He chuckled.
“If I stumble from the blood loss, make sure you kill me. I’m not sure who would be happiest to torture me, but I’d rather not find out.”
“They’d probably auction the right. More money.”
“Aren’t you a cheery soul?” He pointed further down the street. “Come on. The armory isn’t far.”
He led the way, Zusa trailing behind him, like a feminine version of his own shadow. Silent as ghosts they crisscrossed their way toward their goal. Haern checked the alleys and Zusa the rooftops for any more potential ambushes. At the armory they stopped and peered around the corner of a nearby home.
“No guards on the outside,” Zusa whispered.
“That would give them away. They think this place is safe, otherwise they wouldn’t come here.”
“Nowhere is safe in this city.”
“Well,” Haern said, drawing his sabers, “let’s go reinforce that lesson for them.”
“How many entrances?”
He thought for a moment, then held up a single finger.
“They boarded up their windows. Together, through the door. No mercy, Zusa. Can you handle that?”
She gave him a look that showed how insulted she was.
“I was raised in the heart of Karak’s temple,” she said. “Mercy is not my bedfellow.”
As if to prove the point, she rushed ahead, and silently cursing her, he followed. The door was locked, but when Haern went to draw his lockpicker’s kit, she only shook her head. She mouthed something to him, but he only caught half the words. She wanted to try something, though, that much he understood. Putting her hands on the lock, she closed her eyes, and to him it looked like she was praying. Shadows slipped off her fingertips like water dripping from a melting wedge of ice. A moment later, they both heard an audible click from within the lock.
Her balance wavered, but when she caught it, she shot him a wink. Haern rolled his eyes.
“Ladies first,” he said, loud enough to spur her into action. She flung open the door, and in he followed, two deadly specters in the night. A single Serpent waited on guard, looking half-awake. They cut his throat as they rushed past. He never even had chance to cry out alarm. They bashed through a door and into an elaborate room, one that instantly felt familiar to Haern. It was like so many others of the posh headquarters the guilds created, all curtains and pillows, alcohol and sex.
Their first warning something was wrong came when the door behind them slammed shut. The second was when William Ket greeted them with a warm smile from his chair on the far side of the room.
“Well, well, well, is it not the Watcher?” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “And you’ve brought a friend. Excellent. Did you think I’d be foolish enough to think you couldn’t find me here, not with your...storied reputation?”
“The curtains,” Zusa whispered, her body tensed like a cat before a pounce.
“I know.”
William’s grin spread.
“Alyssa called off her mercenaries, the silly girl. She had us on the run, but then suddenly she flooded Veldaren with bored, unemployed men with a penchant for violence. How could I not take advantage of such a gift?”
The curtains pushed aside, revealing armored men standing in every little alcove. Haern estimated at least thirty. He felt his blood run cold. So this would be how it ended. His side ached, every breath hurt his chest, his head pounded from exhaustion, and standing before him, William Ket laughed.
“Don’t you give in,” Zusa whispered, her voice almost a hiss. “They are children to you, you understand? We are the lions. We are the hunters.”
Haern thought of his moment in Karak’s temple, when he’d been in the very presence of the Lion of Karak. It had roared, and he’d gazed into an emptiness that seemed to go on forever. He remembered the terror, and he realized that he’d been far more afraid then than he was now. Focusing upon that fear, he knew he could be that lion to these men. He looked at them as they waited for the order to attack, let them see into his eyes that same emptiness, that same certainty of their death. Pulling his hood low, he let the shadows of the torchlight scatter his features. Beside him, Zusa wrapped her cloak tight about her body and then hunched low.
“Kill them,” William said.
Haern went left, Zusa right. He felt every nerve in his body firing, and he gave in to his instincts completely. This was the beast Thren had created over the years, day in and day out with training, practice, lectures, and tutors. This was the monster whose teeth had been sharpened by half a decade skulking in the shadows slaughtering the thieves of the night. His sabers were a blur as he cut down the first, the mercenary’s axe too slow to block. The two closest rushed in, wielding longswords. He parried their thrusts, which felt slow, as if his opponents fought in molasses. Blood soaked his sabers as the rest came rushing in, swinging with their clubs, maces, and swords.
Cutting, twisting, never staying in the same place. As his feet shifted and turned, he thought of the hours he’d been forced to stand in strange stances to pacify a tutor. As he curled his body around thrusts, he remembered the complicated stretches another tutor had taught him to do every morning. As he slashed and dodged, he thought of the words of his father.
They can’t kill you until you let them. That is why you must be better. That is why you must be perfect. Never, ever let them think they can win.
Said to an eleven-year-old boy. More than anything, he wished his father could be there to see what he had created. One after another the mercenaries fell. They knew how to bully. They knew how to put the strength of their arms into their blows, and they could handle the rudimentary thrusts and parries of the battlefield. But Haern felt himself beyond them, beyond anything. They scored cuts on him, to be sure, but he felt the pain in a distant place locked in the back of his mind. They would not kill him. He would not let them. His wrist might bleed from a lucky stab of a sword. His chest might ache from where a club struck him before he could dodge. His eyes might sting from blood running into them from where a blade slashed his forehead. But they would not kill him.
Zusa’s cry pulled him back from the animal, from the mindless killer. Despite the many dead, she was overwhelmed. Refusing to give the thieves anything, Haern descended upon them. Their backs were turned to him, and he thrust and stabbed and kicked, shoving them aside so he might link up with Zusa. She was bleeding, and so was he, but they grinned.
/>
We were made for this, he thought.
Back to back, they turned to their foes. Of the original thirty, only ten remained. Blood and gore soaked the floor where it wasn’t covered by a body. The psychological damage was just as bad. None looked ready to attack. Whatever they had been paid, it wasn’t enough. The first turned to flee, and as if breaking a dam, the rest rushed for the door. Ignoring them, Haern looked for William, not finding him.
“Where is he?” he asked.
Zusa rushed to the chair he’d been sitting in and flung it aside. Hidden behind it, she found a ring and pulled, revealing a trapdoor. Haern followed her as the mercenaries broke down the door behind them and poured out into the night. The trapdoor led to a tunnel, tight enough that Haern had to crawl along on his elbows, worming his way through. It wasn’t a long tunnel, and Zusa pushed open another trapdoor and then helped him out.
They’d emerged behind the armory, the trapdoor hidden by a compacted layer of dirt. Haern felt his muscles aching, the familiar feeling of receding adrenaline coming over him. He’d expected to search for William, to have to hunt for wherever he’d run off to, but instead saw him laying dead in the street, two men standing over him.
“You look like shit,” Senke said, still cleaning William’s blood off his mace.
Haern tried to think of a response, but his mind only stared dumbly at him and Tarlak, who looked vaguely amused by the whole ordeal.
“Delysia spent the better part of tonight begging us to help you,” he said, his arms crossed. “And as usual, I finally gave in.”
“How?” he asked. He meant to ask how they had found him, but breathing suddenly seemed difficult. His body was finally taking account of all the blows and cuts he’d received, and it wasn’t happy.
“What, find you?” Tarlak asked. “I’m a wizard. That’s just what I do.”
Haern saw Zusa down on one knee, bracing herself with one of her arms. Her dark skin was disturbingly pale.
The Shadowdance Trilogy Page 67
