Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts

by David Dalglish

  It looked like three of them had originally given chase, but he heard Maneth screaming at them to come back. Together they circled around Thren, who remained prone. His father made no sound, but best he could tell, the man was still alive. Haern wondered if the shards had driven in deep enough to fatally wound his father, or if there were some sort of toxin on them, but he’d have no chance to find out until the Sun Guild killers were dealt with.

  “Looks like Thren brought the best with him!” Maneth shouted out in Haern’s direction. “You’re good, no question there. But are you loyal?”

  Maneth knelt down beside Thren, lifted his head up by the hair, and pressed a dagger against his throat.

  “We were ordered to take him alive,” Maneth continued. “But damn it, sometimes accidents happen. So, what’ll it be? You willing to watch your boss die, or will you come on out like a good little lapdog?”

  Perhaps a member of the Sun Guild would give their life for Muzien in a heartbeat, but Haern knew they were wrong if they thought the Spider Guild still had that sort of loyalty. Thren looked pale, his chest a vague blob of red from where Haern lurked. The knife slowly scraped up and down against Thren’s neck, mocking Haern.

  Deep down, part of him wanted to remain, to let him bleed out. All his confusion, all his worries, it’d all end right there, and by the hands of another. After what his father had told him, after his disregard for anything Haern believed … was there really anything human left to save? But without Thren, any hope of succeeding in finding Luther in the Stronghold dwindled down to nothing. Which was greater, his desire to help the people of Veldaren or his desire to finally be free of his past?

  “Come on, now,” Maneth shouted. “I don’t have all night to wait. Not care for your master? Fine. How’s about this, then? Your cute little priestess who was with you … where do you think she is? If we go looking for you, we also go looking for her, and I swear she won’t be too happy when we find her.”

  That ended Haern’s argument. Still crouched, he slowly made his way forward, the grass scraping against his face and hands as he pushed through. He kept his breathing steady, which seemed to help with the lingering effects of the smoke. His right arm was already starting to go numb from the pain, and the slightest movement sent jolts of agony throughout his body. Seeing the remaining men with masks across their faces, he wished he could have been equally prepared. If he could only breathe normally, he might have a chance. But weak lunged and wounded by a crossbow bolt still lodged in his shoulder? It was a madman’s hope.

  Still Maneth lurked over Thren, and clearly his patience was nearing its end.

  “You have to die, you know that,” Maneth continued. “Can’t have anyone chasing after us. But that pretty redhead, she won’t know we took Thren, nor where we’re taking him. She can escape this. If you care for her at all, then give yourself up.”

  Haern’s jaw clenched tight as he neared. He cared for her, there was no doubt to that, but Maneth was delusional if he thought Haern would willingly give himself up to save her. No, he’d go down fighting, taking as many with him as he could. Two had reloaded their crossbows, and they scanned the grass, searching for movement. Haern slowed, only halfway there. He wiped at his eyes again, clearing away the building tears. They felt like a swathe of cotton was pressed against them, constantly rubbing up and down every time he blinked.

  “I said, come on out!” Maneth shouted, temper lost. Haern thought to call out in return, to mock him, but someone else answered in return.

  “Leave us,” said Delysia, walking toward them from back down the road, her white robes seeming to glow in the moonlight. She walked with her head held high, her hands at an angle from her sides. Haern panicked at seeing her in the open, and he wondered what madness possessed her to go walking straight into their midst. His legs tensed, and he prepared for a charge.

  “Well, hello, beautiful,” Maneth said, turning toward her. “We were just about to go look—”

  Light circled around her hands, like whips made from the sun, and then she clapped them together. The following sunburst was blinding in the darkness, and even Haern had to look away from its shine. He heard screams, the twang of crossbow strings, but when he managed to clear his eyes and look, Delysia remained unharmed. She continued her approach, lips in a constant murmur of prayers. When she neared the first of them, a man still clutching at his face and a crossbow limp in his free hand, she lashed at him with her left hand. The light struck him like a sword, cutting into his body and dropping him to the ground. Her other arm extended the opposite direction, and twin circles of golden light twirled out, cutting into the chest of another. The power of it lifted him off his feet, breaking bones in his arms and chest. When he landed in the tall grass, he showed no sign of moving.

  “Kill her!” Maneth screamed, but when the last of his men moved to attack her she simply showed them her open palms. Pure white light shone upon the men as it radiated from the center of her hands, releasing a sound like the constant ringing of a bell. Her red hair billowed behind her, twirling in a sudden storm of wind. The ringing grew louder and louder, until it was like a thunderclap, each boom a force that blasted the men backward as if struck by the fist of Ashhur himself. Against such power, they had no chance to endure.

  Her face still calm as ever, Delysia walked up to Maneth, who had fallen to his knees, now alone but for the bleeding body of Thren at his side. She reached down to take him by the chin, lifting his head up so he might look upon her. As he did, he drew a dagger from his belt and moved to stab her chest. Haern felt panic shoot through him, but it was all for naught. Delysia’s eyes flared brilliant white, and Maneth screamed, the dagger falling from his hands. When the priestess released him, he staggered to his feet and stumbled away. As Haern watched, he took a few wild steps, a hand out before him. Blinded, Haern realized. She’d left him blind.

  Haern rose to his feet, having watched the entire display take place over what seemed like mere seconds. There was no reason to hide now, the men broken, blinded, or unconscious. Maneth continued staggering until one of his men managed to take him by the arm, and together they made their way north. Those that were wounded joined them, limping and clutching their wounds. They said nothing as they left, offered no threats, no promises of retribution. Haern could hardly believe it.

  “Delysia…” he said as he made his way through the grass, his right arm limp against his stomach.

  She ignored him, instead kneeling beside his father. She put a hand to his chest, an ear to his lips.

  “He’s alive,” she said. “But he won’t be for long.”

  No hesitation, no debate. She put her other hand atop the first, clean, pale skin mixing with blood, and then bowed her head. He heard her whisper the name of Ashhur, saw a soft glow spread across the bleeding skin. It was nothing like before; instead of hurting his eyes, it was soothing, a reassuring sight in the darkness. For several minutes Delysia prayed, stopping only to remove a hand and toss yet another shard of metal that somehow appeared in her palm.

  At last, she wiped her hands clean on the leg of Thren’s pants, then stood, pulling hair from her face that had stuck to the sweat running down from her brow.

  “Your turn,” she said, coming over to glance at the bolt in his back.

  “You should rest first.”

  “I have all night to rest.”

  He winced as he felt her touch the skin around the entrance to the wound.

  “It hit bone,” she said. “I can’t push it through, which means I have to pull.”

  Haern slowly lowered to his knees, took in several deep breaths, then braced himself.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “This will hurt.”

  “I know. Do it.”

  She was right. It hurt. As he clenched his teeth together, forcing away the pain, he heard the soft murmurs of her prayers, the gentle ringing accompanied by the light around her hands. Slowly the pain faded, becoming a tingling ache.

&n
bsp; “Thank you,” he said, slowly rising back to his feet.

  “Go back to our camp and get our supplies,” Delysia told him, settling back down beside Thren. “He needs a blanket.”

  Haern stood there, unwilling to leave. He stared at the face of his father, his skin ashen as he slept.

  “You should have let him die,” he whispered.

  Delysia looked up, and there was no hiding her glare. Rising, she took a step closer and then slapped him across the face.

  “I save people,” she said. “I don’t leave them to die. Not when I have a choice. Now go get your father a blanket. Tonight will be cold, and he’ll need it.”

  Haern opened his mouth, closed it, and then left to do as she asked.

  CHAPTER

  11

  The night was deep as, from the nearby rooftop, Cynric watched the Sun Guild surround his guildhouse with their torches held high.

  “I used to think Veldaren was the most dangerous city in all of Dezrel,” said the master of the Wolf Guild. “But now I see differently. We have grown weak, soft. We should have crushed the Sun Guild the moment they stepped foot into our city, but instead we listened, we bartered and hid. Only the Ash resisted. Why did we not? Why did we act so timid?”

  Beside him on the rooftop were seven of his best men, the most trusted and loyal. All of them had filed their teeth down to fangs, in mimicries of their guild leader.

  “We sensed the change in the wind,” said one of them. “The Sun Guild could have been an ally against the Trifect.”

  “And now they are our executioners,” Cynric said. “The Trifect is more ally than foe in this battle. What a twisted world we live in.”

  They fell silent as below them Muzien called out to the guildhouse for the Wolf Guild’s surrender. Cynric smirked when he heard it.

  “Corner any animal, and it will bite,” he said. “And we are no timid animal. We are wolves.”

  He turned to the seven.

  “I may never see any of you again, but know you are my best, my bravest, and I take pride in having your allegiance. Go, and show the Sun Guild that we will make them bleed before we break.”

  They each dipped their heads in respect, then scattered in all directions along the rooftops, where the remaining fifty of Cynric’s guild waited in ambush. Now alone, Cynric leaned back on his haunches and looked up to the moon, and slowly he breathed in and then let it out.

  “Shame you’re not with us anymore, Thren,” he whispered.

  The other guilds had always mistrusted the cold-blooded man, but Cynric had known Thren’s heart. He’d sensed the ambition within it, the craving for an empire. Such desires fitted Cynric just fine, and together they’d orchestrated the Bloody Kensgold, killed Maynard Gemcroft, and burned Leon Connington’s mansion to the ground. That same power, that commanding presence, would have served them well tonight.

  Cynric drew a long dagger from his belt.

  Victor had suddenly grown timid, the Trifect silent. Thren was gone, as was the Watcher. Veldaren’s salvation would have to rest in his hands.

  Again, Muzien cried out for surrender. He was a wraithlike figure, looking thin in his long coat. The circle of torches around the building lifted higher, and the whole of it carried the feel of a religious ceremony. Cynric smirked. At least Muzien had a sense of showmanship about him. The Darkhand shook his head, and he turned his back to the building. The rest of the Sun Guild, at least thirty by Cynric’s count, advanced upon the building. Within were only three men, those willing to die for the cause, and Cynric waited for them to act.

  The Wolf Guild’s headquarters was a two-story building, full of curtained windows, and from three different windows they appeared, all facing Muzien. The three held crossbows, and they fired wildly, unable to aim for a single moment due to the sudden barrage of bolts unleashed at them by Muzien’s men. Still, the damage was done, Muzien untouched but two men on either side of him dead with crossbow bolts deep in their bodies. A good start.

  Cynric turned and ran from the guildhouse, knowing time would be short. Already the building burned behind him, the Sun guildmembers throwing torches through windows and pressing them up against the base. A glance at either side showed the rest of his guild following suit, racing fast as they could along the rooftops.

  The plan was simple. Muzien would never leave himself vulnerable, Cynric knew that, and those thirty men were but a scrap of the Darkhand’s total power. He’d have had more men ready, waiting to attack the moment the Wolf Guild dared attempt an ambush. So, they wouldn’t ambush Muzien at all.

  They’d ambush the ambushers.

  Cynric’s men had located them prior to the attack, two different sections of thieves gathered on opposite sides of the Wolf Guild’s headquarters. Heading toward the south, escorted by twenty more Wolves, Cynric approached the two alleyways where the Sun guildmembers gathered. They waited patiently, over forty of them, with two at the end of the alley, keeping watch for Muzien’s signal. Cynric didn’t wait, didn’t slow down or even fire a crossbow bolt or two to soften their ranks. Blind, overwhelming fury was what he needed to take down his foes. Upon their prey they descended, and he howled to announce his arrival.

  He landed atop one man, his heel colliding hard with the man’s neck so that it snapped upon slamming to the stone ground. A slash, and the woman beside him gasped as blood gushed out the length of her throat. All around him, he heard his enemies crying out in surprise, heard them drawing weapons and shouting conflicting orders. Amid the chaos, Cynric felt right at home. As his men continued to fall upon them from the rooftops, Cynric charged three to his left that had put their backs to a wall. The first rushed at him, thinking to catch him off guard, but Cynric easily shoved the dagger aside, drew a blade with his free hand, and slashed across the man’s face. Unable to stop to ensure its fatality, he continued on, wielding both blades now. The remaining two threw up swords in defense, and he nearly laughed at the attempt.

  They wanted to swordfight, to thrust and parry in the dance people like Thren and the Watcher excelled at. But that wasn’t Cynric’s game. He was never much of a dancer.

  Cynric crashed right into him, twisting his body out of sheer reflex to avoid his prey’s weak thrust. His knee drove into the man’s stomach, his daggers stabbed chest and shoulder. Even Cynric’s forehead slammed the man in the nose, splattering blood across both their faces. Spinning his body in a half circle, he yanked his daggers out of the first man’s chest only to whirl around and bury them in the face of the other, one piercing the eye, the other an open mouth. His death scream was gargled nonsense as the blood poured down the blade.

  Cynric kicked him in the stomach for good measure as he drew the weapons free. He took no time to assess the battle, for the sounds of combat told him it was not yet over, and by sheer ferocity, he would find new opponents to face. Running full speed along the wall, he leaped up so he could kick off it, and then elongated so that he soared through the air, slamming dagger-first into another of the Sun Guild, who fell backward out of panic at the sight of Cynric flying at him, blood dripping down his face and past his maniacal grin. The two collided, rolled along the ground, and all the while, Cynric kicked and slashed and bit. Coming out of the roll, his foe was dead, and already he searched for another. He found one in a woman battling another of his Wolf Guild, her back to him. On his knees still, he slashed her heel, and as she crumpled backward, he lifted his other dagger so he could stab her throat on the way down.

  Rising to his feet, he let out a deep breath, his combat rush settling. The fight was over, only a handful of the Sun Guild left, and they quickly died to the now-overwhelming numbers of the Wolves. Cynric took a quick count of the dead, and for the forty they killed, they’d lost only seven in return.

  “Jaff, lead three Wolves down into the slums,” Cynric said. “Milly, take four and patrol east of here. Engage any of the Sun Guild you see, no matter their number. They must remain scattered as long as possible.” He turned, point
ed at those in the group who were most coated with blood from the previous fight. “You three, come with me.”

  With that they scattered, Cynric leading his group back north. If they’d succeeded at the northern ambush site as well, then Muzien should have been left isolated with his men back at the Wolf Guild’s headquarters. Soon, Wolves would come from all corners, firing crossbows, surrounding them, spurring them into a retreat. As for Cynric, well, he knew where that retreat would lead to. It’d taken patience, but at last he’d found the simple home Muzien retired to when he needed to sleep or plot out his next phase of Veldaren’s takeover. It was a gamble, but Cynric had to believe that Muzien, upon realizing his own ambush had failed, would try to return to where he was safest until he could regroup and reassess the situation.

  The night was full of cries of the dying when Cynric found him. Muzien hurried down the center of the street, dark coat flapping behind him, two members of the Sun Guild in escort. Cynric led his own men to block the path, and he bared his sharpened teeth in greeting.

  “Did you have fun burning down my home?” he asked as on either side of him, his Wolves unleashed bolts from crossbows. The two escorts died, but the one aimed for Muzien somehow missed despite the short distance, the bolt veering off just past the elf’s head. Muzien never even flinched.

  “Burning down an abandoned building?” Muzien asked, walking toward them as if unbothered in the slightest by their arrival. “No, I found no enjoyment in that.”

  Cynric drew his daggers, and the other three dropped the crossbows and readied their own blades.