A Dance Of Death s-3

by David Dalglish

  He chuckled, and he felt his neck flush despite himself.

  “Right,” he said. “How could I forget?”

  They rejoined Alyssa’s side and continued browsing the selection. At one stall Haern finally found something that caught his interest: a wide variety of swords, all exquisitely made. He was holding one, examining its hilt, when he heard a loud cry from the guards.

  “What was that?” Haern asked the shopkeeper.

  “Sounds like a hanging,” the burly smith said. “You look new here, so go have a look. Shame I’ll miss the fun, selling wares and all.”

  Haern replaced the sword, tilted his head in a manner of respect Alyssa had showed him, then returned to Zusa’s side. They were already making their way north, toward a large open square.

  “You hear it too?” she asked him.

  “Partly.”

  Zusa shot him a glance.

  “They’re calling for the Watcher.”

  Alyssa crossed her arms, and she leaned closer to them so she might not be overheard among the din.

  “Do nothing,” she said. “Watch, and watch only. If either of you are revealed, the blame is mine. I have no intention of spending my stay here in a dungeon. Let’s go.”

  “Watcher!” the city guard cried again, a single man bellowing above the crowd. He stood atop a wooden platform, with five nooses hanging behind him. Haern felt his mouth go dry as a row of dirty, malnourished men ascended the stairs, their arms tied behind their backs. “Watcher of Veldaren, come forth!”

  “What’s going on here?” Haern asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Zusa whispered.

  Perhaps it was, but Haern didn’t want to believe it. The crowd quieted as the guard began crying out anew. Worse was the tattoo he saw on the city guard’s face, the same tattoo many of the city guard wore: a sword across the eye.

  “Murderer, coward, and butcher known as Veldaren’s Watcher, know that Angelport is no place for you. We will not accept your presence. Last night, you slew two of our city guard and harmed a third. For every innocent man you attack, ten from our dungeons shall hang. So saith Lord Ingram Murband.”

  The crowd let up a cheer at the hooded executioner’s arrival. As he slipped noose after noose over the heads of prisoners, Haern felt his hands shake.

  “How dare they?” he whispered.

  Zusa squeezed his hand tight.

  “Criminals,” she said. “Outlaws. Their lives are nothing.”

  Once bags were over their heads, the executioner stepped down and circled around to the back of the platform. Hanging underneath were ropes attached to thick planks of wood. With a pull on a rope, it’d drop open, allowing the man or woman above to fall. Meanwhile, the city guard walked from person to person, shouting out their crimes. Murderer. Thief. Rapist. The crowd cheered as the executioner took the first rope and wrapped it around his beefy arm.

  He pulled, and the man dropped.

  “Not in my name,” Haern whispered. “Damn it, not in my name.”

  One after another the executioner pulled the ropes, until all five were dead.

  “We killed guards,” he said, feeling his insides roil. “Not thieves. Guards.”

  “We didn’t know,” Zusa insisted. It didn’t matter. Two dead guards, and the third left alive to deliver his message. Thirty men and women to die in return. Haern’s rage grew, and he tried to let go of her hand. She refused, instead pulling him closer. Alyssa glanced over, her face coldly passive, but she said nothing.

  “No,” Zusa whispered. “Accept no blame, Haern. Stand and watch. This is the path we chose, and we will bear the consequence of our mistake together.”

  Five more, their crimes read. The crowd cheered, the executioner did his work, and then they hung. As the bodies were carted off, and the next set brought on, Haern listened to their crimes.

  Avoiding taxes. Striking a guard. Stealing food. Speaking ill of Lord Murband.

  They were hanged like the rest. Still the crowd cheered.

  “I can stop it,” Haern said. His sabers were clipped to his belt, and every part of him screamed to draw them from their sheaths. “I can kill them all.”

  “You will die,” Zusa said.

  “It doesn’t matter. I could still…no. Ashhur help us, they cannot…”

  Two of the next five were children, no older than ten. The executioner had them stand on stools above the trapdoors. They were called thieves as their heads were covered with bloody cloths. When the first rope pulled, Haern took a step forward. It didn’t matter he had no disguise. It didn’t matter there were hundreds of guards crawling about. Another child still stood with a noose about his neck.

  “No!” Zusa cried, blocking Haern’s way and grabbing his head with her hands. He clutched her wrists, but she was strong. They stared face to face, Haern nearly delirious with anger. Her gaze held him, the force of her will incredible.

  “We are the ones who own the night,” she said, pressing her forehead against his. “We are the ones with blood on our hands. Look at me, just me. Ignore all else. We are the reapers, the demons, the dark shadows wielding steel. We will not be denied our vengeance, but it is not now.”

  The crowd cheered, and he felt oblivious to them, lost in a sea of dirty faces and black hearts. Her eyes were beautiful, though, and he wished he could lose himself within. But even there, he saw the child drop, the noose snap taut, followed by the image of that other lone child in Veldaren. His victim…

  “When?” he asked, trying to control his fury. “And how can we do what must be done when every guilty man I kill leads ten more innocents to their deaths?”

  Zusa offered no answer.

  Alyssa stepped between them, and she motioned for them to go.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” she said as they left the gallows. “But you cannot let Ingram’s madness deter you. The Wraith must be found and killed.”

  “And what of Ingram?” Haern asked. “Do you think I’ll let such an act slide?”

  “He killed thieves and criminals to send a message, same as you. You’re hardly any more innocent than him, Haern. Don’t get yourself killed trying to prove otherwise.”

  Her words stung far deeper than she could have possibly known. Haern pulled away from Zusa and stormed off. Zusa softly called his name, but he ignored her.

  “Are you watching, Watcher?” the city guard cried behind him. “Do you see the fruits of your labors?”

  He did, enough of it anyway. Wanting to be as far away as possible, he wandered the streets north, toward Angelport’s entrance. On his way, a thief, probably not even out of his teens, slipped beside him and reached for the coin purse in his pocket. Haern’s hands reached for his sabers, but the thought of killing put a cold grip about his heart. Instead he slapped the thief’s hand away, whirled, and grabbed his throat.

  “You should be dead,” Haern said. “Now go.”

  “Fuck you, mister,” the thief said, knocking over two other kids as he fell back. His demeanor weakened at the fury in Haern’s eyes, and he fled down the street without another word. Haern glanced at his clothes, fine silk and soft cotton, and realized he did look the noble. More than ever he wished to return, put on his old clothes, and vanish amid Veldaren’s crowds. Not wanting to be anywhere near the Keenan mansion, he passed through a second gate. The guards let him go with only a salute, but the same could not be said for those whose clothes were stained with dirt and whose hands bore the calluses of the docks.

  “That’s a good lady,” one of the guard’s said, dumping half a mother’s collection of coins into his palm before tossing the worn bag at her feet. “Even whores need to pay their taxes, aye?”

  The woman nodded, her heart clearly not in arguing. Haern swallowed hard, and his hands itched to draw steel. The thought of ten more swinging from the gallows moved him on. His walk took him to the city gates, and he heard a growing commotion from them. Mildly curious, he wandered closer. As he did, the crowd parted to either side of the ro
ad, and not wishing to stand out, Haern did the same. A trumpet sounded, and then he saw the first of the elves.

  They walked with their heads held high, their fine clothing glittering in the sunlight. They wore earthen tones, greens and browns, but highlighted the fabric with gold trim, their belts shining with silver buckles, their ears glimmering with emerald rings. Among them were the warriors, their leather armor well-oiled and intricately decorated. Large swords hung from their backs, except for those wielding bows slung over their shoulders. Among them were elf men and women riding horseback, their lords and leaders, all heavily flanked by warriors.

  Haern stood in awe of the spectacle. He could only begin to guess why they had come. He counted at least a hundred, closer to two. At first the human crowds watched, also in awe of the wealth and majesty before them. Then came the many shouts, first hesitant and from the back, but the anger and hatred spread like wildfire.

  “Murderers!” they shouted. “Heathens! Butchers!”

  Haern could hardly believe what he heard. They cried against the foreign elves, deeming them murderers, even as their own lord hung thirty people for crimes not their own. Was this the true face of the city?

  “Why such protest?” he asked a man next to him. He’d kept his calm, unlike most others.

  “They’re killing our friends and families,” said the man. “But they can’t hide in their forests forever, not when we want what they have.”

  “Do you not share the crowd’s anger?”

  “No point. Their time’s over. They can ride in all high and mighty, but it won’t change nothing. Besides, they don’t hurt my business any.”

  “And what is that?” Haern asked.

  The man chuckled, and he turned to leave.

  “I build the coffins,” he said. “There’s always enough wood for that.”

  A few brave souls began throwing stones. The elves ignored them, reacting only should one come too close. The warriors would reach for their swords, and move with such precision the crowd scattered. Hearing the shouts, and seeing the bruises build across the warriors’ faces as the rocks came down like hail, Haern’s gut filled with venom. In all of Angelport, he saw little kindness, little worth saving.

  Worse, he knew Veldaren was no different. He’d grown up there, and familiarity had blinded his eyes. But here he saw vileness, cruelty, and such a callous attitude toward life it stabbed straight to his heart. These were the people he’d struggled to protect? These were for who he spent years of his life freeing from his father’s war against the Trifect? What was it he’d truly accomplished? Anything at all? Come his death, it’d all come crashing down. Everywhere, men were the same, and he knew their nature well.

  But worse were Alyssa’s words, painting him in a light he’d hidden from, revealing a self he never wished to see.

  He killed thieves and criminals to send a message, same as you.

  Was he the same? Was that the carnage he unleashed, all to the cheers of the populace as he left corpses in their gutters so they might pretend to safety and justice? Once he’d thought himself a monster, the monster his city needed. But as a ruthless peace had settled, he’d allowed himself to believe he’d become something more. The King’s Watcher. Such a joke. The hood he wore, the man upon the gallows had worn the same. The King’s Executioner. That should be his name.

  “No,” he whispered as the elves vanished around the corner, out of sight because of the mob. “I am not the same. I cannot be. I escaped that fate.”

  Hollow words that did nothing to ease his troubled mind. But what did give him relief was the thought that, come the night, he’d pay Lord Ingram a visit, and show him how dangerous a monster the Watcher could truly be.

  6

  Ulrich drank a glass of whiskey to chase away the lingering effects of the Violet. He’d taken half a leaf in the morning, more than the quarter he usually allocated. Supplies were incredibly limited, but if everything went well over the next few weeks, he’d be buried in the rare leaf. When he left his mansion, he found his brother waiting for him outside the gate.

  “About time you’re ready,” Stern said.

  “Who are you now, our mother?”

  “Mother rests in a deep grave. I have no intention of being her for a very long time.”

  Ulrich laughed, then caught his brother staring at his eyes.

  “I’m no fool,” Stern said when pressed. “I can see the yellow in your veins. You’re addicted to the Violet.”

  “Nonsense,” Ulrich said, brushing his brother aside. “Keep your damn opinions to yourself. What I do on my time is my own business, not yours, and you’re a fool for thinking I’d be weak enough to become slave to a plant.”

  “As you wish,” Stern said, but Ulrich could hear the condescension in his voice, and it irritated him to no end.

  They walked down the street, passing unquestioned through one of the interior city gates. When they came to the docks, they entered an unremarkable building titled ‘Port and Loan’. Inside led to a small entryway, guarded by two men in chainmail.

  “The rest are waiting for you, my lords,” said one.

  Stern nodded, then glanced over at Ulrich.

  “If the room’s dark, they shouldn’t notice,” he said, once again referring to his eyes.

  “I know you’re still upset about Julie,” Ulrich said, biting down his initial retort. “But keep your head up high. We Blackwaters never show weakness. They might press hard to change your mind if they think you’re still grieving.”

  “As you so eloquently put it, keep your damn opinions to yourself.”

  Stern pushed open the door, and Ulrich followed.

  Inside was a single room, grand and oval. A map of the known world was painted across the walls, the seas finely detailed and interlaced with many monsters and fish, both real and fantastical. In the center of the room was a circular table, and despite its size, it had only six chairs all equidistant from each other. The Blackwater brothers took their seats and greeted the other four Merchant Lords.

  Their eldest, and official leader of gatherings, was Warrick Sun, a salty old man who had spent half his life on the ocean. The later half he’d spent indoors, reaping the bounty of his impressive fleets carrying the Sun banner. His white beard was braided tight and decorated with beads of gold and silver. Warrick stood in greeting, and the others followed suit. Beside him, looking young and out of place, was Flint Amour, the firstborn son of the deceased William. Recently entering his twenties, his box beard was thin and unimpressive, but he sported a healthy tan from his many hours upon the boats. Ulrich was glad to see him as William’s successor. Flint was rumored to be the toughest of the lot, and that was exactly what they wanted among their ranks.

  “Glad for you to finally join us,” Arren Goldsail said, flashing them an earnest smile that only years of experience had taught Ulrich just how fake it was. “I’d thought you’d chosen to stay among more feminine company instead of attending your own meeting.”

  Arren was thin and pale, having never once sailed across open waters. He was an excellent barterer, though, and had a way of making a man agree to twice what he intended, yet simultaneously feel he had the better deal.

  “It takes time to please that many ladies,” Ulrich said, accepting a drink from one of the many servants lingering near the walls. “Isn’t that right, Durgo?”

  The last of them, Durgo Flynn, rolled his eyes. He was a giant of a man, dark-skinned, yet spoke with a soft voice. For several years, Ulrich had carefully spread rumors the man preferred the company of little boys to grown women. He had no clue if it were true or not, but it amused him, and pissed off Durgo immensely.

  Together, the six were the Merchant Lords of Angelport. Their landholdings were few, not worthy of an official lord title, but they owned nearly every fleet that sailed the great blue, and that made them powerful beyond measure. With power derived from their wealth and ships, not position or birth, Ulrich knew every single one sported a chip on their
shoulder and a desire to prove their influence. He himself was no exception. Every meeting of the Merchant Lords was a great clash of egos. For someone like Ulrich, it was also great fun.

  “Things have changed since our last meeting,” Warrick said, always one to keep things on task. “First and foremost, we welcome a new man to our table. Listen well, Flint, and ask questions if you must. We do not know how much your father told you of our dealings, and would prefer you to make wise decisions instead of rash, unfounded ones just to hide your ignorance.”

  “Thank you,” Flint said, bowing his head respectfully. “I will do my best to be a boon to this council.”

  “Keep the cum cleaned out of your ears, and you’ll be a better man than your father,” Durgo said. Ulrich hid his laugh with his palm. Flint flushed red and said nothing. William had been considered one of the more slow-minded merchants, and poorly received by the other five. His death was no great loss.

  “Let us not show disrespect to the dead,” Stern said, his harsh tone startling the rest. “Besides, his death is why we’re here. Twice now this man known as the Wraith has struck at us, first my daughter, and now William. What are we to do about it?”

  “What can we do about it?” asked Arren, picking at one of his smooth fingernails. “The Keenans have already put out a tremendous bounty, and his mercenaries have scoured every corner of every street. If he’s not been found yet, there’s little we can do to help matters.”

  “We are masters of places in Angelport the Trifect doesn’t even know exist,” Durgo said. “I say we put up our own bounty, as well as some of our men. I won’t be losing my head next.”

  “We’re ignoring the larger question,” Warrick said, and he squinted in the candlelight. “Why has he targeted us at all? I thought the Trifect perhaps hired him, but then why kill Laurie’s son?”

  “What about Ingram?” Flint asked. The others sighed or rolled their eyes, with only Warrick remaining patient.

  “Lord Murband’s rule on Angelport is tenuous at best,” the old man explained. “He would not dare make enemies of both us and the Trifect. With just temporary cooperation, we could cast him out with nary a bead of sweat on our brows.”