Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

by David Dalglish

  “Only in death is life reborn. Only in blood is sin denied. Only in darkness is the world saved. Only in absolute emptiness is there order. Praise be to Karak.”

  “Praise be,” the other priest stammered.

  The circling priest switched hymns, his voice deepening and the words slowing. Haern couldn’t understand the lyrics, but the song gave him the shivers. The two priests up front weren’t helping either. Judging by the song, the man was near the door. Time was short.

  Haern looked around the pew to the statue. The first priest had placed the dagger upon the altar, its hilt and blade covered with blood. Beside it was a severed hand. The other was clutching him, repeating scriptures while blood seeped into the bandages wrapped around the stump.

  “Forgive me my theft,” the wounded priest murmured, his skin pale and his eyes rolled back in his head. His words mingled with the scriptures, blending in perfect harmony. “Forgive me my theft, Lord. Wounded I enter, but enter I will.”

  “Only in blood is sin denied.”

  “Forgive me my theft, Lord. Whole I sinned, but wounded I enter.”

  “Only in darkness is this world saved.”

  “Forgive me my theft, Lord. I deny myself the chaos.”

  “Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” the two repeated as one.

  Haern chose that moment to strike. He kicked the unwounded priest behind the knee, the man’s head smacking the altar on the way down. Planting his feet firm, Haern rammed his body against the other, elbowing the bloody stump. The priest cried out, staggering backward on weak legs.

  Giving neither time to respond, Haern scooped up the dagger, spun, and slashed open the first priest’s throat. As his body spasmed, Haern turned to the other and lunged. The dagger pierced the man’s chest.

  “Only in blood,” the priest whispered with his dying breath.

  A bolt of shadow struck Haern’s side. He cried out, stunned by the immense agony. It felt like every nerve in the area was firing off sensations of pain. Rolling to avoid the next, Haern clutched the dagger with both hands. The hilt was slick with blood, and he might lose it if he wasn’t careful.

  “Killed amid worship!” the third priest shouted, his deep voice booming in the great room. “You will suffer for such blasphemy!”

  Two more bolts of shadow flew from the priest’s hands, splintering wood and cracking stone where they struck. Haern ran between the pews, using their wood for cover. The priest was halfway down the center aisle. Close enough. Haern stepped onto a pew and leaped with all his strength. His body stretched, the dagger lashing out. The priest, stunned by the sudden assault, tried to ward himself. The spell died on his lips as the dagger slashed his face.

  Then their bodies collided. Haern screamed as his shoulder rammed the priest’s chest, wrenching his whole body violently. He spun and landed awkwardly on a pew, his feet sticking into the air and his stomach pressed against the seat. The priest fared better, collapsing into a sitting position on the pew.

  “Suffer!” the priest shouted. The word carried power with it. Haern rolled to the floor, his mind white with pain. His wounds from the Lion raged. Blood soaked his clothing, some his, some not. He felt the dagger slipping from his weakened hand.

  “You cannot resist Karak’s power,” the priest said, reaching down to take away the dagger. “How such a simple boy could kill two of his…”

  Haern put a leg underneath him and pushed, ramming himself into the priest’s stomach before the man could close his fingers about the hilt. The man’s hands clawed about him, flailing. Haern stabbed once, twice, then twisted the blade upon yanking it out. Blood shot across the front of his shirt.

  “Karak is nothing to me,” Haern said, feeling a sick joy at denying the man’s dark god even as he died.

  He had no time, though. The two other priests had come running down the long entryway and into the room beyond. Unlike the other three, they were not caught unaware. Dark magic crackled around their fingertips as they summoned the might of their god.

  Haern ducked below the pew, cleaned the handle on the dead priest’s robe, and then took a deep breath. With the sounds of battle, the rest of the priesthood would soon awaken and join them. He had one chance to escape, and that involved a head-on approach against two furious priests.

  “Protect me, or make sure I die,” Haern prayed, staring at the dagger. Either way, he had no intention of staying. Dagger clutched tight in his right hand, he made his charge.

  Bolts of shadow struck the pews, exploding their wood into splinters. They hit to either side of him, for Haern had leaped over the first row, using the seat to catapult himself into the air. He flew heels-first, curling gracefully to land atop the very last row. More bolts chased him but he twirled into another jump, the dagger flashing with each spin as it caught the light of the altar’s fire.

  When he landed he did not engage but instead ran between them, his dagger lashing outward. The one on the right screamed as the tendons underneath his arm tore, blood rushing down his side. Haern went to cut the other, but the priest clapped his hands together. A wave of power rolled outward, knocking the boy aside as if he were an insect before a storm.

  “Get back,” the priest on the left told his wounded friend, who reluctantly obeyed. Haern took two steps toward the door as if to flee, then dropped flat on the ground. A blast of red lightning shot above his head, breaking the thick bar across the doors. Haern rolled to his knees and kicked. Instead of directly charging the priest he lunged to the side, ramming his shoulder against the wall. Another bolt of shadow struck the ground, missing by inches.

  Both priests began their prayers for another spell, but Haern was too close. Their hands moved as if in a dream, their bodies surrounded by molasses. Haern kicked off the wall, spun once, and slashed his dagger into the nearest priest’s chest. Without slowing he spun about the body, stabbed again, and then jumped toward the other. His foot crushed windpipe; his dagger pierced lung.

  The priests fell. Haern tossed the sacrificial dagger.

  “Karak can keep it,” he told the bodies. With the bar broken, he pushed open the doors with ease. He avoided the obsidian steps, not liking the way they glowed in the waning moonlight. The soft grass felt wonderful to his feet, as did the sudden rush of fresh air. Only the fence blocked his way. Haern laughed. After five priests, a fence would be child’s play.

  He swung his weight from side to side as he shimmied up the bars, then somersaulted over the sharpened tops. The landing jarred his legs, adding more pain to his already impressive list, but he was out. He was free. Haern looked back to the temple, watching as it slowly turned into an earthly mansion, its columns fading into shadow and lies.

  It seemed an appropriate place to entomb the sins of Aaron Felhorn forever. Free at last, Haern ran on, knowing he had much to do if he was to ruin his father’s plans for the Kensgold.

  Not long after the dawn, the first of many wagons exited the western gate of Veldaren. More followed. They were Connington’s, loaded with barrels of wine and ale. Rows of mercenaries guarded them. Leon would have no repeat of the peach-pissing disaster. A few women went with them, trailing just behind. They were the first of what would soon be an army of camp followers.

  The wagons circled the hills, held back from the peaks by Keenan’s men. Tents occupied every open spot. Prostitutes drifted among the mercenaries, latching onto those who appeared handsome or wealthy. More wagons arrived, these carrying wood and utensils for building fires and cooking the enormous amounts of food soon to follow. Old tables snaked throughout the camp, mismatched in color and style.

  By midafternoon the noise had grown so loud that those within Veldaren could hear the cacophony. Merchants not directly associated with the Trifect packed up their wares and shifted west, setting up shop beside the gates or along the winding path leading toward the camps. Coin was traded between a thousand hands. Lord Maynard Gemcroft’s wagons arrived next, loaded with silks, chains, jewels, earrings, and a veritab
le army of mercenaries with swords drawn. The camp followers bedecked themselves in decorations far above their station, knowing the Kensgold would be their best night in years. Gold flowed at the Kensgold, as they always said.

  The meat wagons arrived late from the southern farms, much to the ire of Leon Connington’s cooks. Leon had appointed himself master of the meal, but that meal could not truly begin until the first cows arrived for the butchers. They dug a ditch in the dirt south of the hill and let the blood flow. Flies buzzed about it, stubbornly withstanding the chill of the newly arrived winter. As cooks cut and chopped the meat, small fires spread across the hill, surrounded by stones and covered with spits and cauldrons. Until the meat was ready, the men and women gorged on biscuits, honey, and rolls basted with spices.

  Plenty of it was free, but far more was not. It never seemed to matter. The consumption grew. Atop the larger hill was a great pavilion, and within feasted the highest members of the Trifect. Leon had staggered up the hill, all fat and sweat and silk, and boisterously clasped Laurie’s hand.

  “I tell you, it’s been many years since I feasted in the open air,” he nearly shouted. “And the taxes? Preposterous! Thank the gods you thought of this place. You saved me a fortune on the cattle alone.”

  Leon’s family was distant, since he was unmarried and was yet to declare an official heir. Various aunts, uncles, and cousins traveled with him, decadent in their clothes and obstinate in their attitudes. Laurie quickly ushered them all into the pavilion, promising warmth, food, and drink … much of it Connington’s, but still he offered.

  Maynard Gemcroft was the last of the three to arrive. He traveled in a caravan of over two hundred mercenaries, along with another hundred servants, tasters, singers, jugglers, and other performers. While Leon had declared himself master of the meal, Maynard had taken over the entertainment.

  Slowly joining them in a steady stream were friends and families of the mercenaries, the cooks, the servants, the wealthy and the poor, along with many members of the thief guilds, their daggers poisoned and their eyes wide at the proliferation of gold and silver.

  An hour before nightfall, the Kensgold officially began.

  CHAPTER

  31

  While the Kensgold was gearing up, the leaders of the thief guilds met in a strange place for their kind: open air in broad daylight. They stood before the large fountain in the very center of Veldaren. Any gathering of so many leaders needed to be somewhere neutral, with many exits, otherwise no one would come. Given the absolute chaos of the Kensgold outside the city, traffic was almost nonexistent within. As if infected with a massive plague, the whole city had emptied outward, flooding the surrounding hills with torches, campfires, tents, and song.

  Thren was the first to arrive. Any delay on his part might worry the others. Kadish Vel of the Hawk Guild was next, looking ugly as ever with his red teeth and loose eye patch. Then came Norris Vel, brother to Kadish and newly appointed master of the Serpent Guild after Thren had killed Galren, their old leader. The Shadow Guild had a new leader as well, a bulky man named Gart.

  “Just Gart,” the man said when introducing himself to Thren. His hands were meaty and his voice slow. “My last name’s a bitch.”

  “What happened to Yorshank?” Thren asked.

  “I’m slow,” Gart said, flexing his hands. “He was slower.”

  James Beren of the Ash Guild was the last to arrive. All the leaders had been allowed to bring one trusted member, and Veliana was his. She glared at Kadish but wisely held her tongue.

  “Where’s the Wolf?” Kadish asked as they stood about the fountain, looking nothing more than a group of old friends gathering before joining the festivities. So far the only significant player in the underworld yet to arrive was Cynric, master of the Wolf Guild.

  “He and his men are already scattered about the Kensgold,” Thren explained. He kept his back to the fountain and the guildmasters to his front. “I will go to them with the real plan after discussing it with you all.”

  “Real plan?” Kadish asked. “What do you mean, real plan?”

  Thren shrugged.

  “Do you think I would propose a plan so simple, or trust you and your ilk to keep it from leaking to the Trifect?”

  James stepped forward, unable to hide his anger. “You sicced your pets on me just so I would agree to a false plan, a suicidal assault on their camp amid the Kensgold that every one of us here knew would fail? Even you knew how stupid it was, yet we were made to suffer for refusing it?”

  The other members grumbled, none of them happy with being taken for fools. Thren silenced them by putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Enough,” he said. “What is done is done. No matter how hard I might try, I knew the plan would reach the Trifect. That was the point. We will not launch an assault on the Kensgold, especially not with them outside the city. Without our walls, our shadows, our poison, we are nothing but an outnumbered army of children.”

  “Your Spiders may be children, but my Hawks spill blood like men,” Kadish said.

  “So what’s the real plan?” asked Gart. “I still get to break necks?”

  “Their mansions are empty,” Thren said, a smile growing on his face. “They’ve taken the vast bulk of their mercenaries and helpers. Now is when we strike. We will split up, half assaulting the Conningtons’ estate, the other half the Gemcrofts’. Kill everyone inside, and I mean everyone. Then we set our traps. When the Trifect return we assault them from the windows and rooftops of their own homes. We’ll kill their family, their friends. When it is time to run, we burn their mansions to the ground. They will suffer tonight, and suffer greatly. If we are lucky, we might kill Leon or Maynard during the assault.”

  Thren looked to every single pair of eyes, judging their commitment. Despite their anger at being deceived, the simple but brutal plan seemed to excite their bloodlust. Five years was a long time. Suddenly an end seemed in sight.

  “Who goes where?” Kadish finally asked.

  “The Hawks and the Ash will take out the Gemcrofts. The Serpents and the Shadows will go for the Conningtons.”

  “And who will you go for?” James asked.

  “My men will be split among each of you,” Thren said. “That way I show no preference and therefore no risk of betrayal. As for who I go with … that is my own damn business.”

  “You can’t make us go with the Hawks,” Veliana insisted, her outburst earning her a glare from both James and Kadish.

  “Come now, your lovely presence will make the proceedings all the more exciting,” Kadish said.

  “No arguing,” Thren said. “No squabbles. No betrayals. We end this tonight. Understood?”

  They all reluctantly agreed.

  “I get to crush Connington blood,” Gart said. He seemed tremendously happy.

  “Wait until the sun has dipped below the walls,” Thren ordered. “Move in concert, and keep it quiet. Once set up, things will take time. Kill any who might return early, and wait for the main force before you act. And no matter what, make sure the homes burn.”

  They all scattered in various directions. Just as they were the last to arrive, James and Veliana were the last to leave.

  “His men are split and he hides his own destination,” Veliana said to her guildmaster. “There is no way to betray him without betraying other guilds as well. Now we play along or make enemies of every living man and woman within Veldaren.”

  “Never said he was a fool,” James said. “And you’re right. The ambush we prepared was for him outside the city. We have nothing prepared, and cannot prepare with him hiding his location. It seems we were fooled, when we had no right to be. I knew that plan was too simple and stupid for someone like Thren.”

  “Then we put our faith in his new one,” Veliana said, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Thren rules this day. Let us just hope that come the end of it, we’re still alive.”

  Alyssa walked ahead of Zusa on their return to the Kulls’ c
amp, knowing her lead would make things easier for the other woman. Most of the guards stared at Zusa’s face as they passed, frightened by her skill yet drawn to her beauty.

  “Alyssa!” shouted Yoren when he saw her. He stumbled over a pot, pushed aside another man, and then wrapped her in a ferocious hug. Kiss after kiss he planted on her face, and Alyssa found herself relaxing in his arms and returning the kisses. After a moment he leaned back and let her stand, and that was when he noticed Zusa’s face.

  “By Karak, girl, where’s your wrappings?” he asked.

  Zusa took a step back and crossed her arms as if embarrassed.

  “Gone,” she said. “Why do you care?”

  Yoren didn’t seem to know how to respond, so eventually he shrugged and took Alyssa’s hands in his.

  “Come,” he said. “Father will be thrilled to see you. And what of the dark paladin? Did you elude him in the night?”

  “Zusa killed him,” Alyssa said as they walked around the tents on their way to the large pavilion.

  “Did she now?” He glanced back at Zusa. “At times I wondered about my decision to hire you. It seems you three were well worth the coin.”

  “Just one now,” Zusa said. Alyssa heard the sadness in her voice, but Yoren prattled on without noticing.

  “We didn’t know what to do. Theo thought to send search parties to look for, well, your body. I meant to go to Veldaren and see if the priests of Karak had you. Better alive and imprisoned than dead in a field, I figured. But here you are! More than I could have hoped for.”

  Alyssa glanced back at Zusa, who nodded. That nod gave her courage to continue.

  “Please, hurry me to your father,” she said. “I have something he needs to hear.”