A Dance of Death (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 3)

by David Dalglish

  The Wraith laughed.

  “Because Ingram has signed off on it, you dimwitted animal. They’ve rolled the dice together, hoping to wipe out your group forever. A desperate maneuver, really.”

  Ulrich picked up the pace, limping along as fast as his leg could go. Rage burned in his chest at the thought of Madelyn striking against them. Perhaps she did so to protect Alyssa? The Trifect always stuck together, at least in the many years he’d paid attention to them. Was that Madelyn’s reward for saving Lord Ingram from their influence?

  Stern’s home was far smaller than Ulrich’s, though his brother had an equal amount of wealth, if not more. He didn’t flaunt it as openly, but that didn’t mean his home lacked defensive measures. He, too, had a large wall about it, made of thick stone and topped with steel spears. The building itself was in flames. Sailors and lowborn men fought against the mercenaries, nearly outnumbering them two to one. Strangely, it was the Madelyn’s men trapped within the wall between the mob and the fire, not the merchants’.

  “Stern came around back and ambushed them,” the Wraith said. “Very good.”

  Something pierced Ulrich’s back, and he screamed as he collapsed. The Wraith immediately let him drop so he could face the new threat. Ulrich rolled to one side, and he caught glimpse of an quarrel sticking out from beneath his shoulder blade. Far down the street, several mercenaries gathered, one of them reloading a crossbow. Whether they had chased from Ulrich’s place, or come to help from elsewhere, he didn’t know, nor did it matter. The Wraith weaved side to side as he chased, avoiding a second bolt that wasn’t even close.

  Warm blood pooled below him as Ulrich watched the mercenaries try in vain to match the Wraith’s wicked skill. Their swords were slow by comparison, each defense always seeming to be the wrong one. The Wraith feinted, took off the head of one man, parried a desperate lunge, and then whirled. Gore splashed across the ground as two more fell, huge gashes in their throats. Ulrich’s heart leapt as the crossbowman fired again, and this time it seemed his aim was true.

  It didn’t take him down, and the bolt lodged in the Wraith’s side only seemed to increase in his fury. The remaining two died in a furious display, his sword severing limbs and tearing flesh with its frighteningly keen edge. The last of them dealt with, he fell to one knee, grabbed the shaft, and tore it free. He made no cry of pain. When he dropped the bloody projectile to the ground and turned, he was smiling.

  Never before had Ulrich doubted the man’s mortality until seeing that smile.

  “Can you stand?” the Wraith asked as he approached. “We must hurry if we are to turn the battle in your favor.”

  His whole upper back throbbed with pain, and his right knee felt almost as bad. Gingerly he stood, bracing his weight on his left leg. The Wraith leaned down to help him, and Ulrich realized he was staring into the shadowed hood from mere inches away. So close, he could almost make out the features hidden beneath the unnatural darkness. As he reached for support, he brushed the side of the hood, just enough so he might see. His mouth dropped.

  “You! But...”

  A sword rammed through his throat, and his whole body went rigid, his arms and legs wracked with spasms. Ulrich’s vision darkened, then exploded with light. If not for the horrendous pain, he would have found it amusing how similar it was to a heavy dose of Violet. As it carried him, he heard the Wraith’s voice float away.

  “You damn fool, you could have lived. You were useful...”

  17

  Haern crouched on the rooftop as he watched the mansion burn in the night.

  “What madness is this?” he wondered aloud. “Have you not had your fill of betrayal, Madelyn?”

  He wore his assassin’s colors, his gray cloaks, and his hood pulled low. In the shadows of the fire, he felt himself the Watcher once more. At least the cursed city hadn’t stolen that from him, no matter the doubts it had brought him.

  Zusa landed beside him, her long cloak trailing after her in the air.

  “The other Blackwater’s home is damaged, but not destroyed,” she said. “I see two other houses burned, but both still stand. Men patrol them, and they are not Madelyn’s.”

  “They failed then,” Haern said, pressing his knuckles to his lips as he thought. “Now the question is, how will the Merchant Lords respond?”

  “They are not known for their forgiveness. No doubt Madelyn hides in her mansion, surrounded by what’s left of her mercenaries. With her high walls, she can survive anything they throw at her...assuming Lord Ingram does not intervene.”

  “That man has lost all control of the city. Anarchy will soon follow if things continue as they have.”

  Zusa shrugged.

  “Then we will thrive in the anarchy. I think it’s time we made those in power fear our presence.”

  Haern looked to the dying fire.

  “Who will you go after?”

  She grinned, and the eagerness in it was both frightening and exhilarating. Her face remained uncovered, for there seemed little point in disguising her identity.

  “Ingram has given you an ultimatum, but he knows nothing of me. Alyssa has stayed in his dungeons long enough. Either he frees her, or I slit his throat.”

  “He said if he dies, his guards are to execute every prisoner. That includes Alyssa.”

  “Ingram is a coward,” she said, drawing her daggers. “And cowards will always give up every promise to protect their lives. You should have learned this by now, Watcher.”

  Zusa turned and ran, leaping rooftop to rooftop toward the distant mansion on the hill. Haern watched her go, wishing he could share her reckless abandon. But he had his own man to find, a Wraith that had framed him for a vicious attempted murder. Let Zusa free Alyssa. He’d prove their innocence his own way. His instincts told him the Wraith would be lingering about the fires. No man could declare Angelport his, then ignore the bloodshed that had filled the streets during the day.

  Haern dropped to the ground and began circling the compound. Every nerve in his body remained on alert, and his eyes scanned the deepest shadows. Twice he looped around the burning mansion, then moved on to the next place Madelyn’s men had assaulted. From his initial scouting of Angelport, he’d learned it belonged to Arren Goldsail. The attacks had gone worst there for the merchants. By the time Haern had learned of the attack, it’d been halfway over. He and Zusa had watched to the very end, unwilling to help either side. Arren had been dragged out from his mansion, strung up by his feet from the branches of a nearby tree, and then had his stomach slit open. They’d wrapped his intestines around his neck before he finally died.

  After watching that, Haern knew it was only a matter of time before the merchants retaliated, even if Zusa was right about the Keenan mansion being able to repel an attack. Given Haern’s distaste for both of them, he had no intention of stopping it, so long as the violence didn’t spill out among the innocents.

  As he looked upon the ruins of the Goldsail mansion, lost in memories, he felt a tingle in the back of his mind. Peering over his shoulder, he spotted a hunched shadow, nearly invisible in the darkness. Someone was following him.

  “Let’s play,” Haern whispered, suddenly bolting to his right. Figuring it was the Wraith, he moved at full speed, his legs pumping. He weaved through the quiet street, then cut into an alley. A glance behind showed no pursuer, but he knew that wasn’t true. That left but one place. Digging in his heels, he changed directions, running straight at a wall. Leaping into it, his knees pressed into his chest, he somersaulted into the air. As he’d guessed, his pursuer came crashing down from the rooftops, blades slashing. He hit nothing, unprepared for Haern’s maneuver. As Haern landed, he drew his swords, his eyes narrowing.

  Whoever this attacker was, it wasn’t the Wraith.

  “Why do you follow me?” Haern asked, his whole body crouched low and ready to spring, his sabers angled outward.

  The attacker turned, and he removed his hood. Pointed ears poked out from beneath his brown ha
ir, which was long and tied away from his face. He wielded two ornate knives, each one gleaming with silver. His cold eyes stared, and Haern felt his every feature being analyzed.

  “Are you the Watcher of Veldaren?” this strange elf asked.

  “If I am, will you attack again?”

  The elf glared, clearly not amused.

  “I have little patience for human sarcasm.”

  “And I for unwarranted attacks. Be gone. I have no wish to hurt you.”

  The elf chuckled, a small smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

  “You won’t.”

  He moved to attack, and Haern went to block, only too late realizing it was a feint. The elf slashed again, one knee bent so his whole body could attack at a bizarre angle. Haern blocked the first, and as the knife slid off with a loud scraping of steel, he used his other hand to parry the second attack. But the elf stood just before contact, and he tilted the knife so it avoided the parry. Pure instinct saved Haern’s life. As the knife went for his throat, he went limp, falling so it only cut the air above his head. When he hit the ground, he rolled, then kicked away, avoiding a double thrust that would have impaled him.

  Upon landing, he crouched again, eyeing the elf with newfound respect. No, he wasn’t the Wraith, though he was just as good. If he had any hope, it certainly wasn’t on the defense. The elf remained back for a moment, as if he too were reassessing the skill of his opponent.

  Haern assaulted, pushing his skills to their limit. He let his countless hours of training throughout his childhood take over, let his sabers act as if they were their own sentient beings. The elf countered the first three hits, and each time Haern twisted side to side, narrowly avoiding the killing thrusts. His sabers a blur, he slashed with one and thrust with the other, doing so even as a knife passed within an inch of his cheek. The elf battered away the thrust, but he was not fast enough to avoid the other. The saber pierced his shoulder, but he twisted so that the wound remained shallow.

  As the elf retreated a step, Haern kept back. He peered from underneath his hood, and he fought to keep his breathing under control. Keeping pace required tremendous exertion, and he knew the fight was far from over. The nameless elf didn’t seem winded, and if not for the tiny trickle of blood running down his chest, he might have looked like he hadn’t fought at all.

  “Most amazing, for a human,” the elf said.

  “Who are you?” Haern asked, frustrated at how he sounded out of breath.

  “You deserve as much. My name is Dieredon, and I’ve been sent to kill you.”

  Before Haern could protest, the elf attacked. He fought his initial instinct to retreat, and instead met the charge head on. Their weapons danced, and they shifted their feet and twisted their bodies so neither could find advantage. Dieredon gave him no opening except false openings, traps he refused to fall for. Haern felt sweat drip across his forehead, his vision narrowing so that he saw only his opponent and the dark street about them. Still, he sensed the fight slipping away. Dieredon pressed the attack, his knives scoring a dozen shallow cuts. Haern bled, but would not go down.

  At last the elf made a mistake. Haern narrowly ducked a swipe, then vaulted away. As his body curled through the air, his foot connected with Dieredon’s chin, snapping his head back. His vision dazed, he retreated, his knives slashing in a bewildering defense. But Haern had no intention of attacking.

  He ran. A quick look behind showed him at least fifty yards of separation, and that would be enough. After the past few nights he’d searched for the Wraith, he felt confident he knew the city more than any outsider elf. He weaved and ducked through the alleys, sometimes looping back, sometimes taking to the rooftops. At last he felt himself safe as he neared the docks, dropped behind a stack of three barrels, and collapsed against the wall of a tavern. He gasped in air as his chest ached and the many thin wounds bled and stung.

  “First the Wraith, now you,” he said, remembering Dieredon’s amazing speed with his knives. “Why, Ashhur, does the whole world hate me?”

  Ashhur gave him no answer. Frustrated, Haern returned to the small room he and Zusa had rented. He was in no shape to fight the Wraith, and he didn’t want to imagine what would happen if he was spotted by Dieredon again. After bandaging his wounds, he lay on the bed, closed his eyes, and hoped Zusa fared far better.

  “I want watch set up in three shifts,” Torgar said as Madelyn clutched Tori to her chest and watched her mercenaries take up positions throughout her yard and along the wall. Several of the men were wounded, and all looked tired, but they did not complain. Even Torgar sported a fresh cut across his already ugly face, but he didn’t seem bothered by it.

  “They can’t make it through, can they?” she asked as the minor captains spread out, organizing shifts. Torgar shrugged, and gestured for Madelyn to go back inside.

  “No reason they should, not with how many bodies we have watching the gate. Trust me on that.”

  “Like I trusted you to handle the Merchant Lords?”

  Torgar made a noise akin to a growl, and he put a massive hand on her shoulder.

  “Go inside,” he said. “Now.”

  She might have argued, but she held Tori in her arms, and feared something might happen to the baby. She slipped inside as told, and to her surprise, Torgar followed. The door slammed shut behind him with a heavy crack.

  “Take her,” Torgar said to Lily, who stood waiting beside the door. The servant looked nervous, as if unsure she should follow the mercenary’s orders. Madelyn handed little Tori over, and she whispered soothing words as she stroked her head. Her eyes met Lily’s briefly.

  “Get my guard,” Madelyn whispered before turning to face Torgar.

  “We need to talk,” said the mercenary. “Either here or somewhere private. I don’t give a damn which.”

  “About what, may I ask, that is so important you believe you can give me orders?”

  Torgar grinned, and his tone was full of mockery.

  “The Wraith, and how he killed Laurie.”

  She swallowed, and forced herself to make no outward reaction.

  “My husband’s old study, then,” she said. “Lead the way.”

  “Oh no, ladies first,” he said. “I insist.”

  Madelyn walked to the study, every muscle in her body stiff. She kept telling herself there was no way he could know, no way he could prove it, but that grin of his... Once inside, she put her back to a wall and crossed her arms over her chest. Torgar walked in casually, his hand resting on the handle to his giant sword. He kicked the door shut behind him, and her heart jumped at the loud bang.

  “I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I can assure you...”

  “Be quiet,” Torgar said. She did, and that alone worried her. The mercenary paced before her, tapping his lips as if in thought. His eyes never left her.

  “You said you wished to talk,” she said, regaining her composure. “We’re here now, so talk.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that night,” Torgar said. He stopped pacing, instead leaning his back against the door, as if reminding her she had nowhere to go. “The Wraith’s good, and stealthy, I have no doubt about that. I’ve fought him, seen what he can do. But to make it into your room unnoticed, without killing a single guard? That seems a bit much, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know how he got in, Torgar. I woke with Laurie dead and a hand over my mouth. Perhaps the window?”

  “That glass breaking is what alerted us, Madelyn. If he got in, then he got in through the door. He left through the window...at least, looks like it, don’t it? I looked at the window, though, and it don’t seem right. Don’t seem the shape it should be. Course, I’m not the smartest, but then I saw something I really didn’t like.”

  He stepped closer, and when she tried to slide away he shoved an arm in her way. Towering over her, he leaned in, grinning. Despite it, she saw the fury that burned in his eyes.

  “I saw blood in your wash basin.”

 
; “There was blood everywhere,” she said, her lower lip quivering. It took all her willpower to meet his gaze.

  “Aye, but not that far. Sure, a drop could have landed in there...or someone cleaned up afterward. But that don’t make much sense, does it? Made me wonder, though. Wonder how he got in. How he got away. How no one saw him. All we had was your word, and milady, that don’t mean shit to me.”

  “I’ll hang you for this,” she said softly.

  “That so? I don’t think so. Not knowing what I know.”

  He reached into a pocket of his vest. When she saw the dagger in his hand, her legs went weak. The hilt was golden, the sharp blade still stained with dried blood.

  “You recognize this, don’t you?” he asked.

  “Should I?” she said, trying to feign innocence.

  “I tore your damn room apart, Madelyn, and I found this sewn up in your mattress. Look at it. Look at it! It don’t take much guessing to know whose blood is dried on the edge.”

  “What do you want?” she asked. Under such conditions, she normally would have flaunted her body, used her sex to subdue his anger and put herself under his protection. But something about Torgar always made her uncomfortable, and deep down she knew any advance she made would be met by a blow from the back of his hand.

  Torgar jammed the dagger into the wall. Her breath caught in her throat. He leaned closer, and she knew he could smell victory.

  “Laurie’s dead, so you’re the one with the coin purse. I’d like to make sure my pay don’t get interrupted. If anything, I think I’ll be taking on more responsibilities around here, what with fighting off the merchants and the city guard. Oh, and let’s not forget my fun with that elven slut. So let’s have my pay go through the roof, you hear me?”

  “I can arrange that,” she said, her voice hoarse.

  “Not just that. I don’t want you trying anything stupid, like killing me to protect your little secrets. So this is the other catch. I know you won’t ever let me join the family, so if you want me to keep my lips shut, you need to make me Tori’s godfather.”