A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  So far it seemed the entirety of the battle had been focused on the western gate, with only a token guard left behind. Of that token guard, all appeared to have been slain, two corpses on the ground and a third man lying with his body hanging half off the ramparts above. Deathmask couldn’t tell how they’d died, but he had a pretty damn good guess who was responsible.

  Five priests, four men and one woman, were arranged in a line before the shut gate, arms raised skyward. They were chanting the words of a prayer or spell, and Deathmask knew he could not let them finish it. Dipping his hand into the bag of ash clipped to his belt, he pulled out a handful and cast it into the air. Half of it swirled about his face, hiding his visage. The rest swirled forward with incredible speed, as if borne on the winds of a mighty storm. When it surrounded the five priests, they breathed it in, and immediately they began to hack and cough. It would not kill, Deathmask knew, but it would cause them momentary difficulties, which was all it’d take to disrupt the spell they cast.

  “Take them down, quickly,” Deathmask ordered as he came to a halt while the other three rushed ahead. At close quarters his guild would tear the priests apart. Getting there, though, was the trick. As shadows coalesced around the hands of the priests, Deathmask slammed his wrists together and unleashed a spell of his own. A ball of flame shot from his palms, arced over his guild members, and then struck the ground directly before the five. Upon contact it exploded into nine more balls of flame, which bounced forward, long tails of fire trailing after them. The priests were forced to protect themselves, calling upon Karak’s magic to deny the flames and banish them before they could be burned.

  The tactic was merely a stalling one, and before he could cast another spell, the priests countered with their own. Waves of shadow rolled forth from their hands, their collective chants giving it power. Deathmask summoned a magical shield, but the shadow pierced it with ease and washed over his body. Immediately he felt his strength waning, his emotions ebbing. Ahead of him the twins crumpled to their knees, as if without the energy to stand. Only Veliana managed to avoid it, having leaped aside and rolled into an alley as the waves went sweeping by.

  We’re too vulnerable, thought Deathmask. Of the five, three continued chanting, keeping the curse strong as it bound the Ash Guild, while the other two drew daggers from their belts and approached Mier and Nien, who knelt completely defenseless. Gritting his teeth, Deathmask forced himself to focus, to push through the deadening of his mind and the weakening of his limbs. He dropped to his knees, then fell to his stomach, but he didn’t care. He had to focus. Push the words from his lips. Build the power within him into something dangerous. Give it form.

  “It seems tonight is a night of sacrifices,” said the closer of the two as they neared the twins. His skin was wrinkled and pale, his eyes gleaming cyan. One bony hand reached for Mier’s hair, the other clutched a long bone-hilted dagger eager for blood. “Karak be praised.”

  Veliana leaped back out from the alley, daggers ready for the kill, but the two nearest seemed ready for her arrival. The second priest with the pale man, a portly fellow with an ill-kempt beard, lashed his hand at her as if pushing away a fly. The air distorted between the two, the passing of a spell, and then Veliana let out a cry as she halted in mid-leap. It seemed her entire body had been chained to the ground, and her arms and legs pulled back painfully as her momentum halted. With a yank of the priest’s arm, she was flung to the ground as if pulled by a dozen unseen arms. Unable to brace herself, Veliana let out a single terrible cry as her face struck the stone street, blood splattering from her mouth and nose upon impact.

  Push through! thought Deathmask as the pale priest paused a moment to watch Veliana fall, then lifted Mier by the hair, the bone knife pressing against the soft flesh of his throat. Reaching out a trembling hand, Deathmask focused on the corpses of the two soldiers on either side of the far trio who maintained the weakening spell. While he’d never consider himself a necromancer, Deathmask was well aware of the power contained within the bodies of the recently dead, and the lingering energy of a murdered soul. Harnessing that power and flooding it with his own fury, he clenched his fingers into a fist, detonating the corpses. They exploded with a shower of gore and bone, with such force they rent and twisted the metal of the armor they’d worn in life. The shrapnel tore into the three priests, slashing open their skin and knocking them into one another.

  Their concentration broken, the weakening spell faded. Strength flooded back into his limbs, and most importantly, into those of the twins. Mier grabbed the hand holding the dagger to his neck, pulling it away. Nien was up in seconds, his own daggers at the ready. As Mier held him still, his twin cut a line across the pale priest’s throat, then whirled, ramming the dagger up to the hilt in the chest of the portly man who had struck down Veliana.

  Meanwhile the remaining three priests of Karak staggered back to their feet, dark magic swelling on their fingertips.

  “Help her!” Deathmask screamed. After a split-second hesitation, Mier dashed left while Nien charged the remaining three. Scooping Veliana up into his arms, Mier sprinted to the side of the street as a bolt of shadow struck the ground where she’d lain, its impact forming a spider web of cracks throughout the stone. Deathmask let the sight of her bruised, bleeding face fuel his fury. Summoning fire nowhere near as hot as his rage, he hurled another blast from his fists. Its center burned solid black, the outer edges bright yellow, and it left a line of fire burning atop the street as it passed.

  Nien, catching its approach from the corner of his eye, recognized the spell and dropped to his stomach at the last second. The three priests outstretched their arms, summoning a protection spell against the fire … but then the attack was no longer fire. The flames died, the black center icing over, hardening into stone and frost the size of a man. It blasted right through their protection, seeming to crack the very air itself, and then struck the centermost priest. The meteor of ice carried him through the air until he collided with the closed gate behind him, smashing his chest and waist, crushing him like the bug he was in Deathmask’s eyes. A wet crack accompanied the hit, a truly satisfying sound.

  And then Nien had closed the distance between them. His daggerwork was exquisitely efficient, stabbing through the closer priest’s outstretched palm to cancel his spell, then opening a hole in his throat with a single thrust. The other reached out, shadows sparking from her fingers. She wasn’t fast enough. Nien cut off those fingers, kicked her in the throat, and then plunged the bloody dagger into her belly. As she crumpled, Nien spit on her corpse.

  Deathmask dropped his hands to his sides and let his magic leave him, let the circle of ash about his face drop down to his feet to be washed away by the pouring rain. Slowly he walked toward the little alley where Mier had taken Veliana, dismissing any fear that she was significantly injured. His Veliana was a fighter. It’d take more than a single spell to bring her down.

  Inside the alley he found Mier doting over Veliana, who was propped up against the wall. Her face was bruised, her eyes bloodshot, and she held a rag to her nose to halt the blood dripping from it.

  “She’s a lucky woman,” Mier said, stepping away so Deathmask could have a look. “Her nose is broken, but she kept all her teeth.”

  “I don’t feel lucky,” Veliana said, and she winced. “Gods, it hurts to talk.”

  Deathmask put a hand on her shoulder as he knelt before her, smiling.

  “Well then,” he said. “I know which god to thank for the coming days of blessed peace.”

  If glares could kill, Deathmask would already be ten feet in the ground. Laughing, he pulled down his cloth mask and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Thanks, Vel,” he said softly.

  “This was stupid,” she responded, voice slightly muffled by the bloody rag.

  Deathmask winked.

  “So you said already.”

  Turning about, he exited the alley to find Nien grinning at him.

  “I got
four,” he said.

  “Just one here,” Deathmask said. “Guess I’ll be buying you drinks tonight, if we can find a bar that’s open.”

  He looked to the dead bodies of the priests and priestess, shuddering to think how much worse the battle might have gone if someone with the power of Pelarak had been among them. And then he frowned, baffled by what he saw. A one-armed boy was climbing the stone steps to the wall above the gate. He held his arm before him, hand clutched tightly around something that was glowing a rainbow of colors through the cracks between his fingers.

  Nien joined him, and he hesitated upon seeing the boy, as surprised as Deathmask.

  “Who the bloody Abyss is that?” he asked.

  A one-armed child dressed in fine clothing? Deathmask couldn’t say for certain, but he did have a guess.

  “I think that’s Alyssa Gemcroft’s son,” he said. “But why is he…”

  And then the boy raised his hand high, releasing a terrible explosion of blinding white light, and it seemed all the city trembled.

  CHAPTER

  30

  Nathaniel was huddled on his bed, gems of the chrysarium in his hand, when the otherworldly wailing pierced through the storm. Closing his eyes, he curled over, gems clutched to his chest, as he felt shivers steal control of his body. He cried, and it made him feel like a child, but there was nothing he could do. The sound was so awful, so filled with pain and agony, he would give anything to have it stop.

  Calm yourself, whispered a voice, and immediately Nathaniel felt his terror easing away. You only hear the suffering of sinners.

  He sat up a little bit straighter and looked down at the gems through his blurred vision. They were glowing, each and every one of them, shining as if a star were trapped within their centers. The colors washed over him, and he felt at peace. The distant wailing grew fainter, weaker, and easily ignored. Once more he knelt in the presence of Karak, and Nathaniel closed his eyes and tried to speak with the respect owed to a god.

  “I’ll try, Lord,” he whispered.

  Are you afraid?

  Lying would be foolish to do, as well as insulting. So he told the truth.

  “Yes, Lord.”

  Karak’s voice echoed throughout the room, firm and wise.

  I can take that fear from you, but only if you let me. Will you open your heart to me, Nathaniel? Will you give yourself to me, all your body, all your heart, and all your mind?

  Had he not already? Karak had warned him of the attack on their house, had saved his life and the life of his wounded guard. He’d given him an opportunity to live up to everything his mother asked of him, elevating him to potential savior of the city. What more proof must Karak demand?

  Lifting the gems up before him, he gave his answer.

  “I will.”

  The gems grew warm in his hand, and it seemed comfort flowed through them up his arm. His shivering ceased as the sensation spread to his chest and then up his neck. His head grew lighter, less focused, as if he were suddenly in the midst of a dream.

  Now is the time, Karak whispered into his mind. Rise up, and be strong.

  Nathaniel slid his feet off the bed, then hopped to the floor. He wore his long loose bed robes, and he was surprised to see they were soaked with sweat. Was the heat of the gems truly so great? But he didn’t feel it. He hardly felt anything beyond the comfort of the gems.

  “What must I do?” Nathaniel asked, dismissing such thoughts.

  Dress yourself, then leave the mansion. Your task lies beyond its walls.

  Nathaniel stripped naked so he might wear something more appropriate. Each movement was steady and slow, emphasizing the feeling of a dream. He almost thought it might be, and he looked to his bed. Empty. For some reason that convinced him. If he were asleep, he’d be in his bed. He wasn’t, so he must be awake. If his mind was muddled, it was only due to his own fear and weakness, which the gems were thankfully muffling.

  To change, he had to put the gems atop the dresser. The moment they left his fingers his panic returned. The wailing from outside had stopped, but it didn’t seem to matter. He felt afraid, felt certain that enemies were closing in on him from all sides. He dressed as fast as he could, yanking on his pants and then flinging on a shirt. It was still bunched around his chest when he reached out and grabbed the gems, knocking two to the floor.

  “Better,” Nathaniel mumbled. At their touch he felt their comfort return, and such a minor inconvenience like shrieking skulls could not irritate him. Why had he panicked? Why had he feared for his life? Karak was with him. Karak would always be with him. Bending down, he scooped the other two into his hand, held them tight. Finally ready, he went to the door, used the tips of his fingers to turn the knob, and then stepped out.

  The vast majority of Alyssa’s mercenaries and house guards were out with her, attempting to rescue Zusa from whoever had taken her. She’d told him this before leaving, insisting he remain safe inside, and lying to his face that no one would dare hurt him while she was gone. Too many had broken into their home for him to believe that. When he looked up and down the hall, he saw it was empty. What few soldiers remained were all patrolling outside the mansion. Who would protect him? The servants? Even they’d been sent home, given no explanation, though Nathaniel had known the reason. An army was approaching, Karak’s army, the liberators of the oppressed, and his mother wanted them to be with their families when it arrived.

  Nathaniel made his way to the front door, hurrying as fast as his legs could carry him. He knew he should be planning ahead, trying to figure out a way to escape the notice of the guards, but he did not. Karak had told him he would be the one to open the way. What hope did a few hired soldiers have to stop the plan of a god? He opened the door with confidence and stepped out onto the stone path leading to the front gate.

  Two men watched the door, one on either side of him, and both seemed perplexed by his arrival.

  “Little master?” the one to his left asked. “You should be inside. This rain’ll give you a cold.”

  “The kid’s just scared to be alone,” said the other.

  Nathaniel peered at them both, saw neither seemed alarmed. Good. Then they wouldn’t be ready. When the first reached down to take him by the shoulder, Nathaniel burst into a run, the chrysarium’s gems held securely against his stomach. He heard the men shout, but the surprise was enough for him to gain distance, and they in their armor would have trouble keeping up. Faster, Nathaniel urged himself, the comfort that encompassed his mind dipping slightly. Go faster, run faster, move, move!

  The stone path flew beneath him as he raced toward the gate. Three more men waited there, and hearing the commotion, they turned to see Nathaniel’s approach. The iron gate was locked, and the way the three drew their weapons, he knew they had no intention of letting him past even if they would not actually hurt him. With just one arm and no time, he saw no way to scale the fence or slip past the guard. But it wasn’t his wisdom he was relying on.

  Trust in my power, Karak spoke into his mind. Let me open the way.

  The gems in his hand were hot now, incredibly hot. Twenty feet from the three guards, he skidded to a halt, and he dropped all but one of the gems, an emerald pulsing a green that seemed deeper than the mightiest of pines, purer than the thickest fields of grass. Before the soldiers could decide what to do, Nathaniel flung the single gemstone at the gate. It landed amid them, bounced once, and then Nathaniel had to look away from the sudden explosion of light.

  Wind blew against him, he felt the ground shake, but he focused on none of it. His hands were empty, and he needed the gems, craved them. They were his protection, the weapon of Karak, his key, his shield. And they were his, only his. They still pulsed with light and heat, the rain that fell upon them turning to mist upon contact. They would not burn him, though, for it was his touch they were meant for. When he had them safely back in his grasp, he stood and ran, thinking nothing of the carnage he passed through, the blackened ground, the torn and tw
isted metal, the dying men with their armor broken and their exposed flesh bleeding.

  I will save everyone, he thought. I will be the one to open the way.

  Nathaniel looked back only once to see several soldiers chasing him. Sprinting faster, he moved without thinking, seeking only to turn and shift at random intervals. He passed by several alleys before choosing one, immediately left it at the first opening to his right, then crossed the new street he emerged onto, sliding his thin body through the slender gap between two wooden buildings. All the while he heard shouts, directions, but they were losing him in the darkness and the rain. They had no clue where he was going, nor for what reason. But he did.

  The southern gate. The image of it pulsed in his mind, hovering before him as clear as day. No matter which way he turned, he knew the direction of it, could have pointed at it blindfolded if he must. The distance was great, but he could manage if he kept running, if he ignored the burning in his lungs and the aching in his limbs. The moment he thought of their pain, the heat of the gems pulsed, and the pain faded.

  Thank you, he thought as he finally made it to the main road running north and south through Veldaren. The gems pulsed once, as if in acknowledgment. Wiping his face with his elbow to try to clear away some of the mud and rain, he returned to sprinting, this time not quite as fanatical. He’d make it, he felt certain of that. Never mind the bodies he saw littering either side of the road, many wearing either colored cloaks or the four-pointed star. Never mind the distant drums and cries of battle. The way was clear, and if it wasn’t, Karak would make it clear. His god, the one who had granted him power, offered him a future of peace and calm. He’d never lie to Nathaniel, never betray him. The light of the gems was almost blinding, and he nearly lost himself in its euphoria.

  They dimmed, his mind gained a sliver of clarity, and he saw the gate before him. There must have been some sort of battle, he realized. Soldiers lay dead at the gate, and near them were corpses in long dark robes. Though they were strangers to him, the sight flooded his heart with a terrible ache, coupled with overwhelming rage.