The Shadowdance Trilogy

by David Dalglish

  Eravon prepared to draw his own sword. He would endure no insults from such a disrespectful whelp.

  “I don’t know how you found-”

  He stopped as the Wraith whirled on him, staring with unseen eyes. The intruder grabbed his face with his fingers, in a movement so fast Eravon did not have time to react.

  “I found you by following the stench of cowardice. You leaked piss all the way from Angelport, like a frightened dog.”

  Maradun stood, a sword flashing in his hand.

  “Let him go,” he said.

  The Wraith laughed.

  “As you wish.”

  He shoved Eravon aside, then spun atop the table. His foot lashed out, the heel smashing Maradun’s face before he could lift his sword to block. Eravon drew his sword and slashed, but the Wraith pulled his own blade. As the sound of steel rang out, the elves leapt away from the table, standing at the far reaches of the tent. Only the Wraith remained in the center, turning so his back faced none of them for long.

  “Do you fear me?” he asked. “Good. Then perhaps you will remember the message I bring.”

  “What is that?” Eravon asked, stealing a glance at Maradun, who clutched his face with his free hand, blood dripping between his fingers from what Eravon guessed was a broken nose.

  “Do not ask as if you don’t intend to listen, Eravon.”

  The Wraith leapt, his body changing from relaxed to taut in an imperceptible moment of time. Eravon blocked his brutal chop during the descent, but his skills were in words and schemes, not the blade. He parried the next few swings, then overextended to block what turned out to be a feint. Before the other two could come to his aid, the Wraith’s sword pierced his side. Gasping in pain, Eravon fell to one knee. When the Wraith pulled the blade free, blood poured across the grass.

  “Don’t do anything foolish,” the Wraith said, turning on the other two. “I will kill you all if I must.”

  “Speak,” said Sildur. “Give your message.”

  Eravon tried to stand, but his head felt light, and his muscles refused to cooperate. He collapsed onto his side. Beneath him the grass warmed from his own blood. With fading vision, he watched the Wraith approach, his footfalls frighteningly silent.

  “You are not wanted,” the Wraith said, grabbing Eravon by the hair and lifting his head back so they might see eye to eye. “Leave, tonight. The people here do not need your meddling. Stick to your forests. One day, axes and fire will come for your borders. Remember that the next time you think of returning to Angelport.”

  Eravon’s vision was nearly dark, but he still saw Maradun launch himself into an attack. The Wraith let him go, then twirled, his sword a blur. Eravon felt something wet splash across him, and then Maradun fell clutching a bloody stump, his arm gone from the elbow down. Trying to stand, Eravon succeeded only in rolling onto his back. The Wraith stood above him, looking down. Still smiling.

  His sword sliced into Eravon’s flesh, never deep. The sharp stings were nothing compared to the deep ache in his side, but still his anger grew.

  “We’ll kill you for this,” he said, coughing.

  “Many will try,” the Wraith said, his sword twirling in his hand, flicking blood all across the tent. “But not you.”

  The blade descended straight for his eye.

  “There it is,” said Alyssa, hopping down from the wagon. “Angelport.”

  Haern followed, and as the rest of the travelers set up camp, he looked out over the city. It was smaller than Veldaren, but not by much. Three walls formed concentric circles enveloping the city, all of them stretching out into the water. A sprawling port lined the far side, and in the light of the setting sun the boats shifted about like ants. Guessing at least a hundred, Haern was stunned by the sight. He’d never seen a single ship before, so to find so many coming into port or sailing out for the far reaches of Dezrel, impressed him greatly.

  “Why do we camp here?” Haern asked. “The city is not far.”

  “Because I want to make sure you know your part in this charade,” Alyssa said, looking him over, then sighing. “Gods help me, you couldn’t appear more uncomfortable if you tried.”

  Haern rolled his eyes and then went to help the others unpack. They’d kept a small supply of kindling and firewood, replenishing it as needed during their journey. Once their bonfire was roaring, and tents set up for those who would not sleep in the wagons, the servants began cooking their meal. One continued on the path, sent to receive word on the state of the city.

  All the while, Alyssa drilled Haern on customs.

  “Deepen your bow depending on their station relative to you,” Alyssa said, smoothing out his silk shirt. “Since you’ll be a distant relative of mine, that means nearly every member of nobility and the Trifect is significantly higher than you. If in doubt, bow low and avert your eyes for only a brief moment. Just make sure you don’t ever tip your head to a commoner. Kind words in greeting are fine, but don’t overdo it.”

  “I’d rather stick to killing people,” Haern said. “Can I do that instead?”

  She gave him a look he’d seen many times on their journey. The first had been when she realized he had packed a single set of clothes to wear for months at a time, his dark gray shirt and pants coupled with his cloaks. Wishing he’d heeded Delysia’s advice, he found himself inheriting a wide assortment of outfits from Alyssa. They were poofy, silken, and more expensive than anything he’d ever owned in his life. And they itched.

  Alyssa continued grilling him, seemingly determined not to risk the slightest error.

  “Tell me your name,” she said.

  “Haern Gemcroft, third cousin by marriage.”

  “And Zusa is?”

  Haern rubbed his eyes.

  “My wife. Zusa Gemcroft, originally of the Gandrem family line, having fallen for me at a ball celebrating the appointment of the new head of the Connington family.”

  “And why are you here?”

  Haern muttered through his answer, wondering for the hundredth time why he’d agreed to go. As nice as it felt to get away from the dark streets of Veldaren, he was completely out of his element amid the wealth and traditions of the Trifect.

  “It’s our...honeymoon,” he said. “You agreed to take us so we might see the port and buy presents from afar.”

  Alyssa sat down beside the fire, accepting a bowl of soup, and frowned at him as she sipped.

  “I hope you can put on a better act when we’re inside the city.”

  Haern accepted his own food and ate. Alyssa finished, and while Haern took seconds, she went off to their wagon to see how Zusa fared. She, too, had been unhappy with Alyssa’s scheme to get them into the city unnoticed. Wherever Alyssa went, they would be able to follow, yet at the same time, they had a readymade excuse for when they needed to search the city. Of course, come nightfall, the real work would begin, and he could don his cloaks while Zusa covered herself with her wrappings...

  Alyssa stepped back into the light of the fire, Zusa trailing. Haern nearly choked on a piece of potato. The slender woman wore a loose dress with a wide V cut between her breasts that ran all the way to the belt at her navel. Her skirt was long and violet, swaying about her legs. Apparently lacking Haern’s discomfort, Zusa twirled once, then curtseyed as if she’d been raised in court her whole life.

  “It’s a bit...revealing,” Haern said, immediately realizing that was far from the compliment he meant to offer.

  Alyssa looked ready to murder him.

  “It’s the style there, brought over from Ker by their sailors. Be glad I dressed you in Veldaren fashion. You’d have half your body exposed otherwise.”

  Haern scratched at his neck.

  “Would it be less poofy?”

  “More and more I doubt the wisdom of your assistance,” Zusa said. She ran her hands through her short hair. “At least you are handsome. None would believe me marrying you otherwise.”

  “No one’s going to believe it anyway,” Haern said. “I
’ve still got scars from when you tried to kill me.”

  “You tried to kill Alyssa first, remember?”

  “Such doe-eyed lovers,” Alyssa said, sounding the tired mother. “I swear, sometimes I wonder why I brought either of you.”

  Haern laughed. He’d feared awkwardness given her station, and his history, but she seemed sincere about her gratitude for what he’d done for her son Nathanial. Currently he was up in the north, under Lord Gandrem’s protection. Haern almost wished he’d come. It would have been nice to have a familiar face around, even if Nathanial had never been conscious when he carried him to safety after an attack by an ambitious lover of Alyssa’s.

  Zusa left to change into clothes more suitable for sleeping. While she was gone, the servant returned from the city. At his sour expression, Alyssa urged him to speak. The servant glanced once at Haern, then continued.

  “Lord Keenan has cremated them both, and delayed the burial for your arrival,” he said. “He is thankful for your appearance, and looks forward to your company. As for the city...the business with the elves has grown significantly worse. Not long ago, a cloaked man killed the previous elven ambassador and wounded those with him.”

  Haern straightened, and he exchanged a look with Alyssa.

  “This man,” she said. “Do they know who it was? Did he leave a symbol or name of some kind?”

  “While the two survivors watched, he cut an eye into the ambassador’s chest. He calls himself the Wraith. That is all anyone would tell me, though I would not be surprised if Lord Keenan knows more.”

  Haern swallowed, his mouth dry. Alyssa dismissed the servant, and when Zusa returned in a simple robe, they informed her of what they’d heard.

  “First the Trifect, now elves,” Haern said, his voice low as he stared into the fire. “What does he want with me?”

  “Have you ever heard that name before, this Wraith?”

  Haern glanced at Zusa, then shook his head.

  “No. I’ll need to speak with the elves who survived, learn anything I can of him.”

  Another servant arrived, carrying a small cask of wine and a trio of cups. They all accepted, and then Alyssa led their toast.

  “To a long life,” she said. “Something I feel none of us shall ever have.”

  Haern clinked his glass against hers.

  “A wonderful toast,” he said, trying to imitate Alyssa’s noble attitude while bowing low.

  “Laurie will never, ever believe you are a member of my family,” Alyssa said, sipping from her glass. “Let’s pray he’s more understanding when he realizes you’re there to keep me alive.”

  “And find his son’s killer.”

  Alyssa downed the rest.

  “That too. Good night, Haern. Tomorrow morning, we ride into the city. Try to sleep well. It will be a long day.”

  She left Haern alone with Zusa. He shifted uncomfortably beside the fire. Zusa always made him feel awkward; he was never sure of what she thought or might say. She often stared at him, and was never self-conscious enough to hide it.

  “Do you know where we might start looking?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “We start with Keenan’s mansion,” she said. “From there, the elves. After that, we listen for rumors, and search for others he might have killed that we do not know of. I found you, Watcher. We can find this pale imitator.”

  “That servant said something about the business with the elves having grown worse. What did he mean by that?”

  Zusa glanced to the city.

  “I don’t know much, but what little I do know is grim. Tomorrow, we ride into a pile of kindling and oil. The slightest spark will set it off.”

  Haern chuckled, earning him a raised eyebrow.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I just have a feeling, given how my life has gone, that we’re about to be that spark.”

  Zusa lifted her glass, and finally she smiled.

  “To starting fires,” she said.

  Haern smiled in return.

  “To starting fires.”

  3

  Ulrich Blackwater stepped onto the deck of the Fireheart and scowled.

  “Where’s Pyle?” he asked two nearby crewmen, bare-chested lads soaked with sweat as they labored crate after crate toward the plank leading to the dock.

  “The captain’s in his cabin, milord,” said one, bowing low. “Busy.”

  Ulrich weaved through the various ropes, cargo, and men until he reached the captain’s quarters. Without knocking he yanked the door open and stepped inside. The quarters were cramped, despite the overall size of the Fireheart, just a bed, a desk, and a few maps tacked to a wall. On that bed, with a naked whore riding atop him, lay Captain Darrel Pyle. Seeing his entrance, Darrel laid his head back and sighed.

  “Didn’t they tell you I was busy?” he asked.

  “Perhaps.” Ulrich glared at the woman, who slipped to the side and grabbed her clothes. “Leave us.”

  “Don’t go far, girl,” Darrel said as the whore hurried half-naked past Ulrich and out the door. With only a blanket keeping him decent, Darrel leaned against the bedpost and scratched his neck. He was a burly man, with skin darkened from months spent in the sun. A long scar ran from his lip to his chin, leaving a gap in his brown beard.

  “Shouldn’t you be helping them unload?” Ulrich asked.

  “My men know what they’re doing.”

  “It’s not your men I’m worried about. It’s my cargo.”

  Darrel stepped off the bed and pulled on his trousers.

  “Your damn wine is safe and dry,” he said, buttoning them. “Not that I give two shits. I could piss in every one and the scum here in Angelport would consider it fine vintage.”

  “I would still prefer it if you oversee things, in case such a respectable crew as yours decides to help themselves.”

  “You telling me how to run my ship?”

  “My ship,” Ulrich said, glaring. “You may captain it, but this is my boat, my cargo, and my reputation on the line. Besides, I don’t give a damn about the wine. You’ll be carrying something worth a thousand times more soon, and I need to be certain it is kept safe and untouched.”

  The captain pulled a white shirt over his head; it was hopelessly stained with sweat.

  “What could you possibly have worth more?” he asked.

  In answer, Ulrich taking out a small pouch from his pocket and opened the drawstrings. From within he drew a single leaf, tore off a small piece, and handed it over. It was green with strange purple veins, and Darrel grunted as he examined it.

  “What is this shit?” he asked.

  “Bite, but don’t chew. Keep it crushed between your teeth, and focus on breathing steady. Oh, and I suggest you sit down first.”

  Darrel shrugged. No stranger to various drugs and drinks, he seemed unimpressed with the simple leaf. Ignoring Ulrich’s advice, he popped the leaf into his mouth and chewed. Within seconds his expression changed, and his chewing slowed. Ulrich watched as Darrel’s pupils dilated and his hands started to twitch. Taking a seat at the captain’s desk, he patiently waited for the drug’s effects to pass so he could continue their conversation. After about five minutes, Darrel’s legs wobbled, and he fell hard onto his elbow. Even though the jolt caused him to bite his tongue, he barely reacted. Blood dribbled down his chin and into his beard.

  “Unbelievable,” Darrel said, his voice strangely dreamlike.

  Ulrich found the captain’s private stash of alcohol and poured himself a drink. Behind him, the captain remained oddly quiet, other than for the occasional grunt of pleasure. After Ulrich had finished his third drink, Darrel finally came around.

  “How long?” he asked, spitting blood to the floor.

  “About fifteen minutes,” Ulrich said.

  “Damn. That was better than fucking.” His eyes were bloodshot, and he stared at the pocket where the rest of the leaf remained in its pouch.

  “That was just a piece,” Ulrich said, holding in his grin. “Ima
gine a whole leaf. You’d be out for hours.”

  “If I could just have...”

  “No,” Ulrich said, standing. “No more, not while you are captain of my ship. In a day or two, it’ll be gone from your blood, and you’ll be able to control your desire for it. But while you sail for me, I can’t risk it. I’m sure you understand.”

  For a moment, Darrel looked ready to strike him, then regained his composure.

  “Gods damn it,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Give me that bottle.”

  “It has several names, but the one most seem to use is Violet,” said Ulrich as the captain downed half the bottle in a series of gulps.

  “Never felt so good in my life,” he said, wiping his chin. He looked down at his pants, realizing they were stained with semen. Instead of being embarrassed, he laughed.

  “We have only a little, but I anticipate more soon.” Ulrich tossed the captain a rag. “Clean yourself up, and get the rest of the crates unloaded. Whatever untrustworthy crewmen you have, get rid of them. When the first shipment of Violet sails west, nothing, and I mean nothing, must go wrong. For now, I’ll be loading a single crate into your hold, for safekeeping only. You are not to open it, let alone take a leaf, understand?”

  Darrel stared off for a moment, as if still longing for the leaf, then shook his head to clear it.

  “You’ll make a fortune with that,” he said. “Give me even a few samples, and I could get everyone west of the rivers hooked.” He sniffed his fingers. “This stuff even legal?”

  “For now, and I’ve taken steps to keep it that way. Good day, captain. I have matters I must attend. Stay in port and wait for my orders. It may be a few weeks, but I’m sure you will find a way to pass the time. Make sure the crate is kept carefully guarded.”

  He turned for the door, then stopped. It was ajar, but only slightly. He was certain he’d closed it.

  “Such interesting pleasures,” said a man perched atop Darrel’s bed, his legs crossed beneath him. Both whirled, and Ulrich drew his dagger. Wrapped in cloaks and black leather sat someone Ulrich had thought only existed in rumors and stories. His face was hidden by heavy shadows cast by his hood, but his grin remained perfectly visible.