Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

by David Dalglish

  When the two patrolling guards walked around the corner, Kayla felt a bit of vindication at how quickly they noticed the guard sleeping. One yanked the helmet off him, while the other prodded him in the stomach with the hilt of his sword. When he did not wake, the first guard slapped him across the face, and then finally the man startled. She listened as the guards mocked him, grabbed his arm, and then marched him toward the front.

  “He’s to be punished,” Kayla whispered, suddenly feeling very foolish.

  “Go, now,” Will said.

  The three of them ran behind the soldiers and to the back of the now-unguarded prison. They made not a sound. Senke knelt beside the center of the wall and unrolled the scroll from the pocket in his cloak. He pressed it against the stone and whispered the activation word. The scroll sank inward, dissolved, and then, with an audible pop that made all of them wince, it vanished.

  Senke slowly pressed his hands against the bare stone, a grin spreading across his face as it passed as through a desert mirage. His arm sank in farther, and after a wink to the others he dove headfirst inside.

  After a deep breath to collect her courage, Kayla followed.

  CHAPTER

  7

  Robert Haern remembered his comment to Thren Felhorn about the cruelty of King Vaelor’s dungeon, and his dry, bleeding lips cracked a smile. How prophetic those words seemed now. His arms were chained above his head, each shoulder pulled out of its socket. The tips of his toes brushed the ground. Every few hours a guard came in and raised him higher, so that despite the stretching of his skin and his dislocated joints, he never supported himself with them.

  He’d come to fantasize about those toes. He wanted to feel the weight of his body on them, to flex and curl them in grass while his back lay comfortably supported on solid ground. Robert sipped soup from a spoon at midday, which was held by a small boy who went from cell to cell carrying a little wooden stool.

  What madman lets such a young child work in this pit? he had wondered the first time the door opened and the dirty-haired boy stepped in. Now he didn’t wonder. Instead he tilted his head back, opened his lips, and waited for the soothing liquid.

  Dreams came and went. They did so easily enough with old men, and the boredom only increased their vividness and frequency. There were times when he thought he stood at the king’s bedside, telling humorous stories to scare away the nightmares that pierced his mind. Other times he was with his wife, Darla, who had passed away of dysentery a decade ago. She hovered before him with startling brightness, looking as she had when they first met. Light streamed through her blond hair, and when she touched his face he pushed against her hand, only to have soup spill across his cheek.

  “Stop it and hold still,” the boy told him, the only time he’d spoken.

  Robert drank the soup while tears trickled down the sides of his wrinkled face.

  Now it was night again, although he only knew because of the changing of the guards. The bars were thick around him, and there were no windows. He remembered men Edwin had sentenced to ten, twenty, even thirty years. Often the punishments had little to do with the crime and more with the look of the man and his inability to grovel convincingly. Robert wondered what his own punishment might be. No matter how much he hoped, he knew his imprisonment would last until death. He was old; it wouldn’t be long.

  The bars rattled, and he heard a soft bang on the door. His head tilted backward almost instinctively. Part of his mind thought it was too early for soup, but perhaps he had dreamed, or maybe he was just too hungry and thirsty to care about the time of day.

  Just don’t let it be time for another stretching, he pleaded. No more, please, no more…

  Arms wrapped around his waist. When he opened his mouth to scream, a hand rammed over it to stifle the noise.

  “Silence, old man,” a deep voice rumbled in his ear. Robert opened his eyes to look, but they were full of tears. Through blurred vision he saw three strangers, cloaked and almost invisible in the darkness.

  “This will hurt,” said another voice, this one feminine. Then fire erupted through every joint in his body. His shoulders felt like the center of the inferno. He might have screamed again, but if he did he wasn’t aware. All he knew was that the giant hand across his mouth pressed tighter. The chains rattled above his head. He heard a click. A sudden lurch followed, and though his whole body flushed with pain, he felt a wonderful, delirious satisfaction in the sudden feel of his weight resting no longer on his dislocated arms but instead on the chest of another.

  “We don’t have much time,” said a new voice, male and not as deep as the first. “We need to go, and quick.”

  “We’ve killed too many,” said the deep voice. “Thren will not be pleased.”

  “As long as we’ve got Robert, he’ll keep his displeasure in check. Now hurry!”

  The ache in Robert’s shoulders had begun to fade, and a dim part of his mind was aware that they were no longer dislocated. That knowledge was little comfort when he felt himself thrown over the shoulder of what must have been a giant man. The sudden movement churned his stomach, and he vomited all over the man’s back.

  “Lovely,” he heard his rescuer say.

  Robert clamped his teeth tight as his body bounced up and down with each hurried step. Someone was rescuing him, so screaming was bad, screaming was dangerous. Silence was golden. His muscles were aflame, his joints throbbed, but the only sound he made was a soft, quiet sob.

  To take his mind off the pain, he tried to visualize the prison in his mind. He had been there plenty of times, usually accompanying Edwin on some morbid jaunt past all the cells. The king had always been doubtful of his commands being carried out, so seeing men he’d sentenced actually being punished put a smile on his face. Those trips had given Robert ample opportunity to memorize the layout.

  From what he remembered, he was on the third level built below the ground. Beneath were two more floors, where the punishment was far more active and brutal. To get out, they’d need to pass upward two floors to the entrance. Each stairway was locked and guarded. But if he was being rescued, perhaps they had killed the guards, or rendered them…

  He moaned as the man carrying him skidded to an abrupt halt. The woman cursed. When Robert opened his eyes, his awkward position disoriented his vision, and he closed them to prevent another wave of vomit. The smell of it was still strong from the first time, although when he compared it to the stench of his cell, he figured he could endure it. Sounds of drawn weapons met his ears.

  “Who?” he asked. His voice seemed meek compared to the rest of the sounds around him. “Who sent you?”

  “Thren,” said the big man. “Now shut your mouth.”

  Robert wasn’t sure he could have spoken even if he’d wanted to. Steel rang against steel. He heard a man scream. Then they were running, his head bobbing up and down with each step. Stairs, Robert realized. They were going up a flight of stairs.

  More sounds of battle. It was so strange hearing the fight without a visual accompaniment. The sound of a sword striking armor could be good or bad. Each cry of death could be one of his rescuers, or a man blocking their exit. He found that his mind was too exhausted to hope one way or another. Honestly, he hoped they failed in their attempt, and he was killed along with the rest. Because if Thren Felhorn wanted him, then the only place safer than the Golden Eternity was back in his cell.

  A sound of trumpets flooded the prison. The big man carrying him swore long and loud. Robert was gently placed on the ground, ground that felt beautifully firm underneath his tucked knees. The stone was cold, but he didn’t mind. He shivered, and absently he wondered if he had a fever. No longer upside down, Robert slowly opened his eyes and watched the battle to save his life rage around him.

  A beautiful woman with raven hair twirled by a doorway leading deeper into the prison. Daggers flew from her hands, unable to score killing blows through the thick armor of the guards but stalling them nonetheless. Robert glanced the ot
her way. Down past rows of cells made of thick stone and sealed wooden doors was the final set of stairs. Ten guards pressed their way down, but only four made it off the steps. Two men held them back, wielding long daggers with such precision that Robert knew they were men of Felhorn. One was a thin, wiry man with blond hair while the other looked like a dark-skinned giant. All three of his rescuers wore the gray cloaks of the Spider Guild.

  Robert closed his eyes as guard after guard died. With the trumpet sounded, they would come endlessly. Three against a multitude; Robert didn’t need all his wits to know the likelihood of escape. He waited for rough hands to grab his soiled clothes, or perhaps for a blade to pierce his chest. Death after death he heard, the cries a chorus of blood and skill. And then rough hands did grab him, but instead of hauling him back to his cell they flung him over the shoulder of the giant.

  “Run!” boomed the man.

  Up the stairs they went. When they reached the top, Robert dared open his eyes. The big man had swung around to check behind him, and as he did, Robert saw ten more soldiers blocking the way. They were not in a frantic hurry, nor did they look overly worried. They were arrayed in a diamond shape, with those at the back wielding long pole-arms while the front men carried shields and maces.

  “Give ’im up,” one of the macemen shouted.

  “Where’s the gate?” the woman asked.

  “Follow me,” the smaller man said. “As long as they don’t know…”

  The three rushed down the hall toward the defensive formation, then swung right. Robert was baffled. They approached a dead end of solid stone. The shadows across it were thick. The smaller man jumped at the wall, and just as Robert wondered what gymnastic trick he planned to perform, he slipped right through as if the wall were air. The girl followed next. Hope dared kindle in the old man’s breast.

  As the guards shouted behind them, Robert and his giant leaped through the shadows of the wall. Cool fresh air blew across Robert’s skin, and feeling it, he gasped.

  “Aaaand done,” said the smaller man, clapping his hands twice before the wall of the prison behind him. Something black and watery ran off to the ground, leaving a disgusting-looking stain.

  “Let’s take him home,” the woman said. Robert tried to smile at her, but the comfort of clean lungs was too much for him.

  He fell asleep, still slung across the giant’s shoulder.

  When they approached the guards, Nava brushed back her cloak and stood to her full height. With her dark clothing and the white cloth over her face, there was no doubt as to what she was.

  “We see nothing,” one of the guards said, repeating the line he had been instructed to say when one of the faceless sought exit from or entrance into the city, lest he and his superiors incur the wrath of the temple.

  Alyssa followed, still clutching Nava’s hand. She had no idea why they were leaving the safety of the walls, and the faceless woman had given her no explanation. They’d stayed one day in a dilapidated inn, just her and Nava. The faceless woman had sneaked in through the window, letting Alyssa be the one to pay using money Nava gave her. Yet come nightfall, with Alyssa still exhausted and wearing her torn clothing, Nava told her it was not safe and brought her back out into the streets. Alyssa could only guess why. Even with her father hunting for her, there had to be safe places in the city to hide, places like that inn.

  But why hide? The thought slapped her like a wet cloth. Her claim to the Gemcroft line was most certainly severed. Perhaps she could flee to safety with one of the foster families she had stayed with for the past few years. John Gandrem would surely welcome her, though he might also report her whereabouts to Maynard. And of course there were the Kulls…

  They exited the western gate. The road leading southwest was packed tight from all the daily wagons and caravans of trade. Off the path, the tall grass was a deep green and grew as high as Alyssa’s knees. The tug on her wrist giving her little choice, Alyssa followed Nava into the wide fields. They traveled north, curling around the walls and toward the King’s Forest. As they neared the forest, the grass grew shorter, and by the time they walked through the rows of thick trunks, it had given way to carpets of fallen leaves.

  “Why are we here?” Alyssa asked, rubbing her shoulder with her free hand as if she were cold. She had spent many nights listening to her maids tell ghost stories of the King’s Forest, with its faithless maidens lost for eternity, chivalrous knights who had wandered astray, and scores of evil robbers and rogues eagerly awaiting a man foolish enough to enter alone. Of course the stories were just to keep the children away from the forest, where poaching was a serious enough offense to warrant death. Knowing this did little to fight back the ghostly chill that gave her goose bumps.

  “Do not ask questions when you should know the answer,” Nava said. “Why else would we enter the forest?”

  They would kill her, Alyssa realized. Cut her throat and hide her body so when Yoren asked what happened, they could tell him she was already dead when they found her, her blood spilled across the floor and rats gnawing on her insides…

  Alyssa waited until Nava tugged on her wrist, and then after her initial stumble forward, she jerked her entire arm to the side. The sudden pull back surprised the faceless woman, and Alyssa’s thin hand slipped free. She bolted in the opposite direction, praying she had not gotten turned around inside the forest. Branches lashed at her face, and bushes they had easily walked around seemed to suddenly spring up and claw at her legs and ankles. Her attire was silky and thin, a poor guard against the grasping fingers of the forest.

  She heard no shout behind her, but she knew the woman would give chase. She imagined Nava holding a serrated dagger in her left hand, her right reaching for Alyssa’s hair or the neck of her dress. One tug, just one tug, and she’d stumble and fall.

  Her heart soared when she saw the forest’s edge. The trees were spaced farther and farther apart, and she ran more easily. When she dared look behind her, the faceless woman was gone. Then she looked forward again, and a large, masculine shape stepped directly in her path.

  Alyssa cried out, and as rough hands grabbed her arms, she felt her legs weaken at the thought of being raped by a lowborn ruffian.

  “Alyssa?” she heard the man shout, and for a moment she ceased her thrashing. Her eyes opened (she’d never realized she shut them) and then she saw who it was who held her: Yoren Kull, sporting a fresh set of scratch marks on his face.

  Relief broke her tension. She flung her arms around his neck and sobbed against his chest, all the while mumbling incoherently about robbers and ghosts and faceless women.

  “She’ll kill me,” Alyssa shouted once she regained a bit of her wits. She spun and pointed to where Nava approached from the forest, no longer running but instead flowing around the bushes and trees as if her muscles were liquid.

  “Kill you? Why?” Yoren glanced over to the faceless woman, and his right hand drifted to his sword hilt.

  “Don’t be a fool,” Nava said. She pointed to Alyssa. “I was taking her to your camp, but she fled like a child.”

  “Your camp?” asked Alyssa. Her cheeks flushed.

  “Yes, my camp,” Yoren said. He smiled at her, and she felt her flush grow bolder. Gingerly, she touched the scratches she had made, and when she felt no blood she kissed them.

  “Forgive me,” she said. She disentangled herself from his arms and curtseyed in her dirty, torn dress. Her hair was a mess, and no quick wipe from the back of her hand could hide her tears.

  “There is nothing to forgive,” Yoren said, pulling her close and kissing her forehead. “All is safe now. All is safe.”

  Her sobbing began anew. After her time in the cells, shivering in the cold and desperate for conversation, to hear comfort and concern in his voice was more than she could bear. If he was embarrassed, he did not show it. She felt his arms tighten around her. With her face buried against his neck, she did not see the cold glare he shot to Nava, who only sheathed her dagger and glided back
into the woods.

  “I expected all three of you back last night,” Yoren explained once they were deep in the woods. Alyssa sat next to him, the warmth of the fire divine on her cold flesh. Nava sat opposite them, keeping her distance from the flame.

  “There were complications,” Nava explained.

  “If Alyssa is hiding here with me, I can imagine so,” Yoren said. “She should be the ruler of the Gemcroft estate, not a runaway outcast. How did you fail so spectacularly?”

  “They were ready,” Nava said. “When Eliora and Zusa return, they will tell you the same thing. Hundreds of mercenaries hid within the walls. You fooled no one with your attempt to use Alyssa, and surprised them only in your choice of aid. We should all be dead.”

  “I was told you never failed,” Yoren said. He had tied his blond hair behind his head, giving his face a stretched, dangerous look. “I was told even Thren Felhorn would quake if he knew you came for him; so how did some fool-headed merchant defeat you so easily?”

  “If you had come,” Nava said, her voice cold enough to freeze water, “then you might have seen for yourself. You’d have died, but at least you’d have your answer.”

  Alyssa thought he might reach for his sword, but before he could, the rest of the faceless women arrived. Nava greeted the others with curt nods. They sat side by side near the fire, facing Yoren and Alyssa.

  “Why are you alone out here?” Eliora asked him. “Shouldn’t you have retainers and servants? These are no conditions for one of Alyssa’s birth.”

  “Have you thought that perhaps I’m hiding here?” Yoren asked. “I can survive on my own. Only one hunter has spotted my fire, and I paid him well enough to leave us alone.”

  “Then he will only be the richer when he sells your secret for twice the amount,” Eliora replied. “Don’t be a fool. You must move elsewhere.”