A Dance of Blades, (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 2)

by David Dalglish

  “I saw him with my own eyes,” Oric said, annoyed. “He wore gray, and kept his face hidden with the hood of his cloak.”

  “You describe nearly every beggar in this city.”

  “He wielded two swords, one for each hand.”

  “I’d be more impressed if he wielded two swords in the same hand.”

  “Enough!” Oric slammed his hand against the table. “I won’t be intimidated by a freak like you.”

  The entire tavern quieted at his words. Ghost smiled, not angry, just amused, but something twinkled in his eyes, something dangerous. He leaned closer to Oric, letting his voice drop to a whisper.

  “A freak?” he asked. “Why is that? Is it my skin? There are thousands like me in Ker.”

  “Only a freak would paint his face to look like a dead whore,” Oric said, still trying to rein in his temper.

  “Ah, the paint.” His voice dropped even lower, as if he were to say something intimate for only Oric to hear. “It itches like ivy, and does not come cheap here. Do you know why I wear it?”

  “Because you’re trying to fit in?”

  “Fit in?” He laughed, loud, a boisterous eruption that startled the nearest tables. Oric felt himself jump, though he didn’t know why. He’d lost control of the conversation, he knew that much. If he wanted to be in charge of any further negotiations, he needed to get his act together, and fast.

  “No, not to fit in,” Ghost continued. “I wear it to stand out. When people see this paint, it only reminds them of why I must wear it. People cannot hide from me, Oric. That is why I am the best. Everyone I talk to feels fear, for they know nothing of who I am, only that I am different. Do you see that farmer over there? I could find out the name of his wife faster than you could introduce yourself. When you ask questions, they’ll evade, they’ll delay, they’ll hope for bribes or favors. When I ask questions, they wish me gone, because I make them afraid without a single threatening word. Fear is stronger than gold. All the wealth in the world cannot make someone conquer their fear, not when it comes to death and blood. They will tell me everything so I’ll let them go back to their safe little existence. Fit in? What an unimaginative man you are.”

  “Enough,” Oric said. “Will you accept the job or not?”

  Ghost took a drink of his ale and set down the glass.

  “Triple what Bill told you,” he said. “I won’t accept a copper less.”

  “I could hire fifty men for that price!”

  “And all fifty would stomp about unable to find their own assholes. Triple.”

  Oric stood, having had enough. “I won’t, dark-skin. I refuse. Either accept your standard pay, or nothing at all.”

  Ghost drew his sword and slammed it onto the table. Oric jumped, but instead of reaching for his sword, he realized he had turned to run for the door. His cheeks flushed, and he knew Ghost had seen it as well.

  “I expect the rest in Bill’s hands by nightfall. Farewell, Oric. I will have the Watcher’s head in two weeks. Should I fail, though I won’t, all the coin will be returned to you.”

  He left, and it seemed the whole tavern breathed easier with him gone. To his shame, Oric realized he did too. He ordered another glass, drained it, and then hurried off. He still had another pressing matter to attend, and he needed to handle it far better than he had with Ghost. Further into southern Veldaren he approached a large wooden structure with two floors. It’d been there several years ago, when he’d last been to the city, and thankfully it still was.

  Inside at least fifty boys and girls hurried about, cleaning, sweeping, and preparing their beds for nightfall. A man of forty hurried to the door to greet him.

  “Hello, my friend,” said the man. “My name is Laurence, and welcome to our orphanage. May I help you, perhaps with finding an apprentice or maidservant?”

  “Show me the boys,” Oric said.

  Laurence whistled and sent them running. They traveled further in. It looked like a giant warehouse, with rows of bunk beds on either side. He lined up twenty boys of various ages, parading them before Oric as if they were cattle. For the most part, the children behaved, having certainly gone through this before.

  “Anything particular you’re looking for?” Laurence asked, licking his lips.

  “That’s my own business, not yours.”

  “Of course, sir, of course.”

  Oric kept Nathaniel in mind as he looked over the younger ones. One in particular looked close in size, maybe an inch taller. His hair was even the same color, which might help match the illusion.

  “Step forward,” he said, nodding toward that boy. “He’ll do. What’s the cost?”

  “Adoptions are not cheap, but he’s still young, so it’ll be nine silvers.”

  Oric reached into his pocket and pulled out twice the amount.

  “No papers,” he said. “I was never here.”

  Laurence’s eyes bulged, and he glanced between the man and the boy.

  “His name’s Dirk,” he said.

  “That’s fine. Come on, boy.”

  Laurence watched them leave but said nothing.

  Oric traveled by foot, so he took Dirk by the hand and told him to hurry along.

  “No questions,” he said. “We’re heading along the northern road. I’ve got a house for you there, where you can work off all that silver I just spent on you. You understand?”

  Dirk nodded.

  “Good.”

  He took him to the southern gate, not wishing to travel through the more populated areas of the city regardless of how close to night it was getting. The guards gave him a cursory glance before letting him through. At a branch in the road they followed the loop back around the city and then to the north. Dirk looked maybe six, and his legs were nowhere near as long as Oric’s. He tired rapidly, and by the way his skin clung to his bones, it’d probably been forever since he had a filling meal. Oric eventually picked him up and carried him until the city was behind them and the sun almost set.

  “How long until we’re there?” Dirk asked, the first time he’d spoken in an hour.

  “No questions,” Oric growled. He glanced about as the first of many stars appeared in the sky. He was nearing the King’s Forest. Stretching out to the east were acres of hills. He turned toward one of them, still holding the boy.

  “Almost there,” he muttered. Once he put the closest hill between him and the road, he set Dirk down. “You see that forest over on the other side of the road? I want you to go fetch me some sticks, whatever you can carry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oric pulled out his sword and a piece of flint. While the boy was gone, he gathered enough dry grass to create kindling. He carefully shielded it with his hands once he got it lit. When Dirk returned, holding about six sticks, Oric snapped them on his knee and carefully set them into the kindling. He sprinkled a tiny bit of lamp oil from his pack to get it going, then stood.

  “We need far more wood than that,” he said, still holding his sword. “But I’ve got time. First, Arthur’s orders. Come here, Dirk.”

  While the boy’s body bled out on the grass, Oric went to the forest and broke off several thick branches. He dragged them back to his camp, grunting as he did. He used his boot to break the branches into pieces, and one by one he tossed them upon the fire. Once it was roaring, he picked up the body. It felt stiff and cold. He hoped it’d burn. Without a bit of ceremony he tossed it into the fire. The ragged clothing caught first, then the hair, and finally flesh. The burning meat smelled sweet, but he always hated the scent of burning hair.

  Deciding he could go without the warmth, he unpacked his bedroll and slept upwind so he wouldn’t be bothered by the smell. Come morning, he gathered up the bones into a sack and returned to Veldaren.

  10

  He had a soft bed underneath him, which confused Haern to no end. A bed? When was the last time he’d slept in a bed? Three years ago? Four? Wait, what about at that farm? No, that’d been on the floor, right? When he opened
his eyes, it didn’t help much. He saw a low ceiling, poorly plastered. A glance around took in the rest of his surroundings. The room was tiny, barely any space to walk between his bed and the door. Opposite him was a single closet, stacked full of a strange assortment of clothing and weaponry. He recognized his own weapons in the pile, and he tried to go for them.

  The pain in his stomach convinced him it wasn’t a good idea. He lay back down and pressed a hand against his abdomen. His fingers touched bandages, sticky with blood. Pieces of the attack at the caravan came back to him. He’d been stabbed in the stomach, that he remembered, as well as…

  “What is going on?” he muttered as he inspected his arm. He remembered the cut there, and it’d been bad, if not to the bone. It was bandaged as well, but the pain was only a dull ache. He pried back some of the cloth and saw an angry scar, lacking any stitching to help it close. It didn’t seem possible. For that much healing, he’d have to have been out for weeks. The same went for the arrow wound on his shoulder. Either that, or a priest had come and healed him.

  Or a priestess…

  Haern remembered those last fleeting images, images no longer certain to be hallucinations. Could it be? After all these years, had Delysia exited the safety of Ashhur’s temple? A part of him felt excited to meet her, but for the most part he felt terror. His hair was still a mess, his face unevenly shaven. His clothes fit the part of the beggar. She’d been his first glimpse of light in a world of darkness, something clean and pure. He felt like living dirt, scabbed over with his blood and the blood of those he’d killed. It seemed so wrong for her to find him like this, assuming she even remembered him, or recognized him through the filth.

  He tried once more to sit up, and now prepared for the pain, he managed a better job of it. Using his hand to support his weight against the wall, he leaned into the closet and grabbed his swords. He knew it made no sense for anyone to try to kill him there, not after bandaging him up and healing him, but he felt naked without their weight at his hips. Sweat dripped down his neck as he caught his breath. He offered a quick prayer to Ashhur for strength and then pulled the door open.

  A very surprised Senke stood there, holding a slice of buttered bread, his free hand still reaching for the door handle that had swung away from him at the last moment.

  “Going somewhere?” Senke asked.

  It was too much. Haern staggered back and half sat, half fell onto his bed. He stared, his mouth hanging open.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Senke said, seeming amused by the whole scenario.

  “I think I have.”

  Senke laughed, and that familiar laugh helped melt his doubts. The man had shaved his head and grown out his beard, but underneath the disguise he had the same smile, same laugh, same guarded amusement in his eyes.

  “Only a handful have recognized me, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re one of them. Always were the observant one, weren’t you, Aaron?”

  Aaron…

  A flood of memories tore through him, of days practicing with Senke, of walking at the side of his father, and of those few fleeting moments with Robert Haern before executing him at his father’s command and then cleaning up the blood. Aaron…he hadn’t gone by that name since that day. He’d adopted a new name, a new person to be.

  “Haern,” he said. “Aaron died a long time ago.”

  Senke handed over the bread and leaned against the door, chuckling again.

  “That you did, and I was one of many who thought so, though I forgot your little oddity about the name. Everyone heard how you died in the fire. I barely got out myself, though I lost most my hair in the process. Helped disguise myself though, and I’m kind of attached to the look now.”

  Haern looked at the bread as if he didn’t know what it was for. At last he dropped it, stood, and flung his arms around Senke. He didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. He felt thirteen again, bewildered, torn, and suddenly given a link to a past that actually had moments of good. It seemed Senke understood, for he patted Haern on the back and then gently pulled free.

  “Don’t get all sentimental,” he said, winking. “Otherwise I might start thinking you aren’t really Thren’s son. Now have a seat. Del says you’ve got another day or two before you’ll be in top shape, and I don’t want you tearing those wounds open. You’ve grown up, god damn, boy. Taller than me now. How about you tell me what you’ve been doing these past five years?”

  Thinking over his life, Haern felt embarrassed to say. He’d never once discussed it with anyone, only acted out his vengeance. Still, strange looking or not, there was Senke, the closest to a friend he’d ever had. The time melted away. He told it all, of his escape from the fire and living on the streets, always keeping his hair messed and unevenly cut, his skin a blanket of dirt and scabs. He stole food to live, and lived to kill those of the thief guilds. He felt keen shame admitting that, though he wasn’t sure why. In his heart he felt justified.

  “How’d you end up at our caravan?” Senke asked as his story neared its end.

  “Investigating the Serpent Guild and their newfound gold. Was on my way back when I stumbled upon your attack.”

  “I must admit, Aaron, I thought it was actually Thren who’d come to our aid. The way you just charged in, then danced and weaved, it seemed so familiar…”

  “I said it’s Haern now.”

  Senke lifted his hands to show he meant no offense.

  “Forgive me, just habit. Why so strict?”

  Haern felt a chill coming on, and he wrapped his blankets tight about him.

  “Because that’s not who I am anymore. I refuse everything of my father, including his name. I won’t be what he wants me to be.”

  “Wanted,” Senke said. “He thinks you’re dead now. And instead of being your father’s pet killer, you instead spend every night killing. A neat trick, that.”

  “Don’t you dare judge me!”

  “No judging, just stating the obvious. Well, guess it’s my turn. Not nearly as interesting. I fled the city for the first few years. Always wanted out, think I told you that, but Thren wasn’t one to take such requests too well. That fire seemed as good an opportunity as any to make a new life. Spent some time down in Woodhaven, cutting lumber. After awhile, got bored, took some odd jobs more favorable to a dagger than an ax. All the sudden, I had a slow but steady stream of mercenary work. About a year ago I came back to Veldaren, going by the name of Stern and hoping for a bit more lucrative employment. Before you start thinking it, I wasn’t exactly falling into that same old trap. I chose my contracts carefully, and while I wasn’t always working for the nicest of people, I wasn’t killing innocents or torching the homes of the poor, either.

  “Anyway, eventually met with my current employer. Even joined up with him as a permanent member of his mercenaries. Seems like he went through twenty guys, trying to find one who was…well, not scum. Lucky me, eh?”

  Haern smiled but said nothing. He was still trying to wrap his head around everything. Here was someone he could talk to, could trust. After half a decade of silence and loneliness, it all came crashing to an end because of a single poorly-timed ambush. For all the many times he felt overlooked by Ashhur, he wondered just how unnoticed he really was. While he thought, he ate, figuring it a good excuse not to talk. All his confidence had flown out the window with Senke’s arrival. If anyone made him feel like the confused thirteen year old boy he’d once been, it was him.

  “I see your eyes drooping,” Senke said when Haern finished his meal. “Let me send in Delysia to swap out some clean bandages and then you can rest, ponder over this craziness.”

  “Delysia?” he asked. “Is she...is her last name Eschaton?”

  Senke raised an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, but how would you…wait a minute. You did know a Delysia. Is she her, the one you killed Dustin to protect and…shit, that is her, isn’t it?”

  Haern nodded, and was totally unprepared for Senke’s eruption of laughte
r.

  “Looks like she returned the favor. She’s the one that kept you from bleeding out like a stuck boar. Damn, this is too funny. You never told me she became a priestess. Always wondered how she hid from Thren so well.”

  “I never told anyone,” Haern mumbled. “Kayla told me the night of the Kensgold.”

  Senke’s face saddened at the mention of her name. “She was a pretty lass. What I heard, Thren killed her for aiding you. Such a shame. Didn’t pay much to help you out, did it?”

  The comment stung deeper than Senke intended, and at the pained look crossing Haern’s face, he immediately started trying to take it back.

  “I’m sorry, Haern, you know I don’t mean that. It wasn’t your fault, any of it. Your father’s just a bastard, still is, though his influence is slowly dwindling, thank Ashhur.”

  “Senke, I…I’m not ready to see her yet.”

  “She’s seen plenty of you.”

  He blushed a fierce red but remained adamant. “Please, just let me rest. Meeting you again is too much as is. Let me think, all right?”

  Senke shrugged. “I guess you’ll survive, though if those cuts get infected, it’s your own damn fault. Sleep tight, Haern.”

  “Thanks.”

  Even after Senke left, his words echoed in Haern’s head.

  Didn’t pay much to help you out, did it?

  How many had died because of him? Robert died by his hand. His father killed Kayla, again for helping him. Senke had nearly died in the fire. Delysia had been forced into hiding. And now, when every thief guild in the city would gladly string him up by his thumbs and let the entire underworld have a go at him, the two had brought him into their home and given him succor. Were they mad? He was a monster, a beacon of chaos and murder. The streets were where he belonged. Their gutters had room for the blood.

  Besides, he couldn’t face her. He just couldn’t. The last image he had of Delysia was her gasping in his arms as the bolt pierced her back. She’d looked so shocked, so betrayed, and then to see his own father approaching, crossbow in hand, he’d felt such guilt…