A Dance of Blades (Shadowdance 2)

by David Dalglish

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 lock-picker’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 regained it she shot him a wink. Haern rolled his eyes.

  “Ladies first,” he said, spurring her into action. She flung open the door and in he followed, two deadly phantoms in the night. A single thief waited on guard, looking half-awake. They cut his throat as they rushed past. He never even had a chance to cry out an 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, at last I meet 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’s 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 in 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 ax too slow to block. The two closest rushed in, wielding long swords. 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 a thirteen-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 where a club struck him before he could dodge. His eyes might sting from blood running into them from where a blade had 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 a dam had broken, 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 she 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 emerged behind the armory, the trapdoor hidden by a compacted layer of dirt. Haern felt his muscles aching, the familiar feeling of receding energy after a fight 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 lying 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 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,” the wizard said, his arms crossed. “And as usual, I finally gave in.”

  “How?” Haern asked. He’d 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 normally dark skin was disturbingly pale.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping to her side.

  “Of course I am,” she said. “Farewell, Watcher. I have done as my mistress asked. Let your friends help you from now on.”

  She rose to her feet, took an uneasy step, then another, and by the time she was running her balance looked like it had returned. Haern watched her go, hoping she’d be all right.

  “So,” Tarlak said, smacking him on the back. “What’s next on the agenda?”

  Haern looked back at the body of William Ket, and he mentally checked another off the list in his head. One left, just one.

  “Leon Connington.”

  Senke whistled. “Going after the big dogs, are we? Who else after that?”

  Haern shook his head. “He’s the last. Everyone else has agreed, or…”

  He gestured toward the body.

  “The last?” Tarlak laughed. “Aren’t you a freak? Well, let’s go. Leon’s not exactly close to here.”

  They walked down the street, and for a moment Haern let himself relax. With the three of them, one a wizard, any thieves would have to be incredibly brave or reckless to consider an ambush. He used his shirt to wipe the blood from his forehead, then pressed it against his eyes. They watered, but when he pulled the shirt away he could see better. Senke twirled his two maces in his hands, and Haern wished he could feel as energetic as Senke looked. He might have just been the lion, but now he felt like a lamb, ready to give up everything just to lie down and sleep. Every single part of his body ached.

  “How long until dawn?” Haern asked.

  “About two hours,” said Tarlak. “You been at this the whole night?”

  “Just before sunset, yes.”

  “We of the magical profession call that biting off more than you can chew.”

  “And we of the stabby profession call that getting yourself killed,” said Senke.

  Haern winced as an awkward step flared pain along his chest and to his back.

  “You two are such wonderful help,” he muttered.

  Leon Connington’s estate was one of the best-guarded places in the city, and all three of them knew it. The warning letter Haern had sent certainly hadn’t given them reason to slack off, either. Tall stone walls surrounded the mansion, the single opening a thick iron gate with two guards. They stood at attention, no slacking there either. From far down the road Haern and the others observed the gate and planned.

  “There will be mercenaries stationed throughout the mansion,” Haern said as they stared. “And traps along the ground, other than the path leading directly to the door. If we’re to get to Leon, I think we’ll need to be stealthy about this.”

  “Stealthy?” asked Tarlak. He gestured to his bright yellow robes. “Stealthy?”

  Haern gave him a dumb look, then shrugged.

  “Any other ideas?”

  The wizard lifted his arms high, and a steady stream of magical incantations slipped from his lips. Fire burst about his hands, growing, growing, and then soaring toward the gate as an enormous ball. It hit the iron and detonated, blasting the gates aside and tearing off chunks of stone. Haern didn’t see what happened to the guards, and he didn’t want to think about it either.

  “Stealthy,” said Tarlak, hurling a smaller ball of fire that rolled across the ground. It detonated the various traps along the grass leading toward the mansion, filling the night with the sound of their explosions. Haern didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

  “Stealthy?” he asked Senke, who only shrugged.

  Tarlak sent one more blast, this one aimed at the front door. He frowned as the spell evaporated into smoke just before contact. He sent another at a window, this a thick shard of ice. Again it broke, this time into water that showered the ground harmlessly.

  “Strong wards,” the wizard said. “Looks like the rest is up to you. Have fun!”

  Senke led the way, Haern following.

  “Out of his damn mind,” Haern muttered.

  Tarlak watched them go, offering a prayer for luck. He wished he could help, but the few spells he’d cast had put a deep ache in his head, and he knew he had but a few more before he’d be worthless. Unable to help it, though, he neared the gates to observe his handiwork.

  “Getting better,” he said, estimating the size of the explosion.

  “Tarlak Eschaton?”

  He turned, and with mild surprise saw the giant man with the painted face approaching from down the street.

  “I’m thrilled we could meet again,” he said. “Especially with my mouth un-gagged.”

  Ghost pointed toward the mansion. “Is the Watcher inside?”

  “He is,” Tarlak said, standing in the center of the gate. “He’s a bit busy right now, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to resume whatever grudge you have against him.”

  “No grudge,” Ghost said, still approaching. “Just money.”

  Tarlak snapped his fingers, summoning a spark of flame at his fingertips.

  “No closer,” he warned. Ghost only laughed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  He slammed his hands together, and a ring of fire rolled out from his waist, burning the air with a heavy roar. His opponent fell back, and he landed on his shoulder so the fire could pass harmlessly above him. Tarlak gave him no reprieve, another spell already on his lips. This time it was ice, thick shards that flew like arrows. Ghost rolled, the shards shattering upon the ground behind him. Only one drew blood, a thin gash along his side. On a man so giant, it looked like a cat scratch.

  “How long?” Ghost roared, back on his feet again and lunging. Tarlak tried to ignore him, kept focused on his spellcraft, but he knew what Ghost was asking. How long might he last casting his spells? How long until the well of energy within him ran empty, and the best he could summon was a little puff of smoke from his fingertips?

  Given the pounding of his head, he didn’t think it’d be long.

  His hands clapped together, and the space before him filled with a swirling wall of smoke and fire. Ghost’s swords passed through it, but his feet dug into the ground, halting his momentum and preventing him from continuing into the inferno. Tarlak muttered. He’d hoped for a charred corpse to leap through. How the Abyss did this guy react so fast?

  Leaving the wall of fire intact, Tarlak guessed a direction and pointed. This time luck was with him, for of the two directions in which Ghost might have leaped, he’d chosen correctly. A bolt of lightning shot from his finger, striking the giant man square in the chest. He fired a second one, this one hitting his leg. Ghost screamed, but more in anger than pain. Tarlak felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Short of taking the man’s head off, it didn’t look like there’d be any way to stop him.

  “You hurt my friend,” Tarlak said, summoning small meteors of lava and flinging them. Ghost hunched on his knees, blocking with his swords. The meteors plinked off the steel, coupled with an impressive but harmless shower of sparks.

  “You hurt my sister,” he said, pressing his wrists together and hurling shards of stone from his palms. Ghost jumped and leaped like an enormous spider. Only two shards hit, and again the wounds were superficial.

  “You even hurt Brug.”

  His bolt of lightning shot out, but his aim was off. Ghost didn’t dodge this time, instead lunging straight for the kill. A sword slammed into Tarlak, piercing his flesh. He gasped as the white-hot pain spread throughout his body.

  “And I hurt you,” Ghost whispered, his cheek pressed against the wizard’s.

  Out came the blade, and Tarlak collapsed. Unable to stop him, he could only watch as Ghost passed through the gates, continuing the hunt for his real prey. The blood flowed, staining his yellow robes red. His mind throbbing from pain and exhaustion, he crawled across the ground, bleeding upon the street as he headed for safety.

  Damn you, Haern, he thought as he collapsed after hardly crossing any distance. You better kill him for me, or I
’ll … I’ll…

  And then he felt his thoughts slipping away like leaves in a storm, and unconsciousness came and took him.

  CHAPTER 30

  Deathmask knew he might be walking into an early grave, but he didn’t let worry show on his face, not with the rest of his guild watching him.

  “Keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” he said to the others. “I don’t expect him to do anything stupid, but it is Thren Felhorn, after all. Stupid to us is step five of a plan for him.”

  They approached the headquarters of the Spider Guild. It was more a mansion than anything else, though careful examination would have shown how the windows were reinforced so no one could break through, and all doors but the front were boarded over. Two men in gray waited at the front, and they drew their swords and daggers at his approach. Veliana glared at them, but she remained quiet.

  “I am Deathmask, leader of the Ash Guild. I’ve come to speak with Thren.”

  “Only if Thren says,” one said. The other banged on the door. A small window opened, and the guard relayed the message to someone inside. A few minutes later the door opened.

  “Just him,” said one of the Spiders from inside, pointing to Deathmask.

  “It’s all right,” he told Veliana, who looked ready to object. “I can handle myself.”

  He stepped inside.

  The interior of the mansion might have once been well decorated, but nearly all its original treasures had been plundered by the Spider Guild and sold off. Bright squares on the walls showed where paintings had once been, and in many places the floor was scraped and dull, as if the carpet had been ripped up, or a long-present rug removed. Deathmask tracked the turns and doors to ensure he could find his way back, all the while going over every bit of information he knew about the near-legendary leader of the Spider Guild. At last they reached a door, and the thief gestured. Deathmask opened it, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, finding himself alone in a small den with Thren Felhorn.

  Thren looked old. That was the first thing that struck Deathmask. He knew the man’s age, still in the late forties, but his hair was fully gray. His skin had a tight, stretched look about it, but his eyes still shone with intensity. He stood beside a fireplace, a drink in hand. His two short swords hung at his sides, their hilts gleaming in the light. He smiled at Deathmask, but the smile hid a strong sense of impatience and contempt. Thren surely knew the reason for his coming, and was not pleased.