A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance

by David Dalglish

  Falling back, Haern batted away each in turn, feeling dangerously close to losing his balance. Thren pressed on, slashing with one hand while attempting to thrust through an opening with the other. Every moment, Haern had to remain aware of the positioning of his weapons, to avoid using the easiest block or parry if it meant using the one Thren expected. Blades dancing, Haern pushed himself on, screaming at himself to move faster, to anticipate each and every maneuver.

  Digging in his feet, Haern suddenly halted his retreat and flung himself forward. Thren tried to counter, but Haern parried one thrust out wide while his other saber moved high, blocking the downward chop before it could gain any strength. Suddenly at close proximity and with his weapons out of position, it was Thren’s turn to fall back. With each step he shifted himself slightly to the left or right while frantically flinging his short swords in the way of every stroke. Haern tried to keep him on the retreat, denying him a chance to steal the offensive, but only ended up overextending himself. Thren batted aside a weak thrust, stepped in close, then crosscut.

  With no way to block in time, Haern arched his back, then let himself fall. The blades sliced the air above him, then looped around for downward thrusts. Haern crashed his blades together, forcing his father’s short swords to come together as well, then twisted his head to the side. Thren’s swords stabbed into the rooftop, the cold steel missing Haern’s neck by less than an inch. Now in a terrible position, Haern swung his legs, hoping to force his father to retreat lest he be tripped. Instead Thren let go of his swords, leaving them embedded in the rooftop, and leaped over the trip attempt. A bold gambit, but with Thren still towering over him, there was little Haern could do to take advantage.

  As Thren landed, Haern chopped, hoping to catch his father reaching for his short swords. Thren shot out his right heel, kicking Haern in the stomach. Breath blasting from his lungs, Haern forced the weapons to continue, slicing a shallow wound across Thren’s extended leg. Thren gritted his teeth to hold in a scream, then kicked off with his other leg. All his weight pushed down on Haern’s stomach as his father pirouetted above him, snatching both short swords in a brilliantly fluid motion. The turn continued, arms twisting so that the sharpened edge of both swords slashed for Haern’s neck.

  The moment Thren began the spin, Haern knew his intention, knew he could not position his swords in time to block, nor would cutting Thren’s leg do enough damage to prevent the maneuver. So instead he let his arms fall limp, curled his legs in as tightly as possible, and then shot them out like an uncoiled spring. Both heels slammed into Thren’s groin just as he was completing the turn, the power of Haern’s kick lifting his father off his feet and sending him tumbling away, his attempted killing stroke averted by a hair’s width.

  Haern rolled onto his hands and knees, then stumbled to a stand. His stomach ached, but he felt comfort knowing his father hurt worse. Thren had fallen onto his back, and he twisted onto his stomach and let out a cry of pain as he slammed both sword hilts against the rooftop. He’d fight through it, Haern had no doubt, which meant he needed to capitalize immediately. Ignoring the pain in his gut, he closed the gap between them, sabers swinging. Thren rolled, swords lashing out to parry, rolled again as Haern chased. The movements were too erratic, Haern’s chase too slow, and he felt a terrible sting across his knee as one of Thren’s blades struck true. Haern’s next step was uneven because of it, an opening his father did not miss. Thren ceased retreating, pulled up onto his knees, and thrust with his right arm, his entire body extending forward to maximize both power and reach.

  It should have pierced him through the gut, but Haern swept it high and wide with his right saber. The tip cut through his cloak, nicked a rib as it opened up a gash across the side of his body. Blood flowed, Haern screamed. He twisted to one side while simultaneously attempting to cut through Thren’s arm at the elbow. Thren was ready, blocking with his other sword while pulling back the first. Up from his knees he shot, unleashing stroke after stroke. His sudden fury was overwhelming, and Haern had to push himself to his limits just to match it. Their blades sang as the rain fell down upon them, steadily worsening their footing.

  Several times Haern thought himself dead, and his speed was the only thing that saved him, a block coming up just in time, a dodge pulling his neck away so that it left only a scratch instead of a fatal gash. Heart pounding so hard it felt as if drums were beating in his ears, Haern abandoned any pretense of going on the offensive. His father had become something else, something savage and beyond human. Every block left Haern’s arms aching, his every defense steadily picked apart until he was vulnerable. Haern sought only to survive, to endure the wrath. Where was this fury when we fought Muzien? he wondered. Or did Thren hate the Watcher even more than the former master who had abandoned him in disgrace?

  Haern retreated until he was at the corner of the rooftop with nowhere to go but down. He could flee, he knew, perhaps drop and hope to survive the fall, but he would not let that be how their battle ended. Holding his ground, Haern matched Thren stroke for stroke, preferring his skill to be what decided their duel instead of whether or not he landed with a twisted ankle. He braced himself with his left leg, felt it slip, and dropped to one knee. Both short swords crashed down at him, and he crossed his sabers into an X to block. Thren poured his strength into them, trying to force through, to beat Haern down, but at last it seemed he had reached his limits. When Haern pushed back while rising to a stand, Thren could not stop him.

  Just like that, the battle turned. Haern stole the offensive, and he refused to relent despite how his arms and legs felt made of wood. His lungs burned as he gasped in air, and he felt close to vomiting, but his father would only feel worse, having pushed himself to the breaking point and then beyond. The toll of the entire night, the exhaustion, the emotion, it’d come calling. Haern used no clever patterns, no little tricks. Instead he slashed at Thren over and over, simple, easily blockable maneuvers. Keeping him engaged. Force him to use more of his rapidly dwindling strength. Every swing met with weaker resistance. Every thrust got that much closer before the parry came.

  Haern thought the battle a foregone conclusion by the time he had Thren cornered on the opposite end of the rooftop. His father blocked once, twice, then slipped to his knees. Defeat was in his lowered gaze, in his sagging shoulders. Haern pulled back to swing, letting exhaustion and rage blank his mind instead of dwelling on the killing stroke.

  Except that when the sabers were whistling through the air, Thren looked up, and there was no defeat in his eyes. With one last burst of energy, he blocked the stroke, lunged to his feet, and used his other blade to keep Haern’s sabers out of position. His knee rammed into Haern’s already sore stomach, followed by a head-butt that flooded his vision with stars. Stumbling, Haern tried to pull back into some sort of defense, and only pure luck had him blocking a stroke coming in high toward his neck. He forced himself to keep moving, to rely on the lessons his father had given him on reacting when fighting blind. His sabers swung wild as he retreated, and he managed to catch another thrust. By the time Thren attempted a third, Haern had recovered.

  Saber met sword, and this time Haern stepped in close, having caught Thren poorly positioned. His elbow struck Thren in the throat, and when his father retreated, Haern hammered both his sabers into him as if felling a tree. He didn’t care at the nicks and chips he wore into his own weapons, didn’t care that Thren’s defense was poor and desperate, seeking only to keep his short swords in the way. Strike after strike, beating him down to his knees, unleashing upon him years and years of loneliness and betrayal. At last Thren’s swords bowed, his arms too weak to raise a defense. Haern cut across Thren’s left hand, kicked the right, then pressed his swords together and smashed his father across the temple with the bottoms of both hilts. Thren dropped, body limp, swords falling from either hand. He lay on his back, raindrops beating down upon him, his eyes half-open.

  Standing over his father, Haern gasped air into his l
ungs. His entire body ached, he bled from multiple places, and he still felt a terrible need to vomit. Overwhelming it all was cold, vicious rage. Here was the man who had made a mockery of his childhood, who had slaughtered friends to prevent him from knowing a life beyond power, corruption, and death. The man who had denied him to his face. Did Thren know of anything better? Was there anything besides hatred, pride, and vengeance in his sickly heart?

  There was a way to end it. To put every last bit of it behind him. The tip of his right saber pressed against Thren’s throat. One cut. One single cut, that’s all it’d take, and his father would bleed out beside the body of his mentor.

  Thren’s eyes seemed to gain focus, and he stared up at Haern with his battered and bloodied face.

  “So damn blind,” he said, voice raspy and weak.

  Haern pressed the saber tip tighter to his throat, ensuring he would not try to move.

  “Blind?” he asked.

  “So blind. How can you not see? My shadow…”

  “I’m nothing like you,” Haern said, feeling his temper flare.

  At that Thren let out a wet cough that might have been a laugh.

  “So … damn … blind,” he said, voice gaining strength. “You are me. Look at the blood on your hands. Count the dead. See the chaos you’ve unleashed upon Veldaren.” He coughed again. “With my death there is no one left to challenge you. Do it, Watcher. Kill me, and rule Veldaren unopposed.”

  He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if welcoming the fatal sword thrust. Haern stood over him, his hand clutching the hilt so tight his knuckles had gone pale. In his heart he tried to deny him. They weren’t the same. Haern didn’t revel in violence. He didn’t kill without mercy … yet he’d felt the thrill of battle as side by side he and Thren had taken on the Sun Guild’s greatest. He’d helped torture their members. He’d helped the old guilds rise up to slaughter hundreds that night, and for what?

  “You’re wrong,” he whispered, his words not just for his father.

  “You do what must be done,” Thren said softly. “For yourself, and for those you care for. As I have always done. I never had to justify it. I never had to question it. Why did you?”

  He looked up at Haern, and tears were trickling down the sides of his face.

  “Why did you have to betray me so?”

  Haern felt the rain beating down on him, and he wished they were shards of glass that might tear into him, to rip out the pain and confusion and sadness he felt.

  “I was the one betrayed,” he whispered, and before Thren could respond, Haern struck him with his foot across the temple. His father let out a single soft cry as his head snapped to one side, then went silent. Haern stared down at him, watching the soft movements of his father’s chest. Still breathing. Still alive.

  Haern dropped to his knees, and his sabers fell from his hands. He felt all the guilt he’d numbed, all the lives he’d taken, come crashing back down upon him. How many killings were because of the vow he’d made as a broken child seeking vengeance? How many were because of his own pain, his own fears? Balling his hands into fists, he beat them against Thren’s chest, striking him again and again as he cried over his body.

  “I loved you,” he shouted. “Why was that never enough? Why was I never enough?”

  He’d slain his own brother chasing his father’s approval, endured a thousand trials, pushed himself to the brink, all in hopes that he’d receive the love he knew he deserved. And it’d never come. To his father his life was a betrayal, and it would always be a betrayal. Haern buried his face into that familiar gray tunic, clutched the fabric with his fingers as he struggled to regain control. He’d thought those wounds healed. He’d thought he embodied everything his father hated, but Thren was right. The men they’d tortured and killed, all while he denied his guilt? The power he’d wielded, all while pretending to be a servant? There was no difference between them, not when they both sought to rule.

  It was an overheard prayer by Delysia that had stayed his first true murder. It was during another prayer of hers that he’d witnessed the monster that was his father as he shot an arrow through her back. And after all that, what was it he’d told her?

  A beautiful dream, but still a dream.

  When had he given up hope? When had he let the world defeat him? Haern stared at the shell that was his father, and he felt just as hollow.

  “Who I am,” he whispered, echoing Delysia’s pleading for him to remember. Now he knew. He was a scarred, lonely child still fighting to be loved. With his cloaks and sabers, he’d built a new life to hide from that truth. With his hands he’d killed hundreds. With his eyes he’d looked upon the city and declared it his. The lonely child wishing to be loved? He would not destroy that final shard of innocence. He would not shatter the last piece that kept him human.

  “I won’t kill you,” he whispered. “I can’t. I don’t want to know who I’d become if I did.”

  Reaching underneath Thren’s shirt, he grabbed the amulet and yanked it hard enough to break the slender gold chain. Amulet tucked safely into his pocket, he rose to his feet and limped to the rooftop’s edge.

  For one more day, the city was safe. In such a broken world, it would have to suffice.

  He hung by one arm, then dropped to the ground. Grunting against the pain, Haern steadily limped west. By the sound of it, the battle at the walls was mostly over, the invading army defeated. Haern was barely aware of the buildings he passed and the streets he crossed. He didn’t know where else to go, so he went to the western gate. His chest felt hollow. His head felt light. Step after step, he made his way, until at last he saw a gathering of soldiers before the ruined remnants of the gate, many of them wounded.

  Amid them, healing magic glowing on her hands, her white robes stained with dirt and blood, was Delysia. Haern stopped when he saw her, feeling drained of energy and suddenly unsure. He’d needed to confirm she’d survived, but beyond that? He’d hurt her so many times now. Perhaps it was best to finally leave her be, to save her from the downward spiral of his own life. Her eyes met his, and he wondered if she saw his guilt, his crippling indecision. If she did, it didn’t matter.

  She came running.

  Arms flinging around him, Delysia held him, her face against his chest as she let fall tears of relief.

  “I’ve come back,” Haern whispered, and despite how simple the proclamation, he realized it was true enough. His arms closed about her, holding her tight as his cloaks encircled them both, and there was comfort in their shadows.

  EPILOGUE

  A week later, as Haern prepared for nightfall, Tarlak stepped into his room and let out a cough to gain his attention.

  “Just received word from the king,” the wizard said, lifting a scroll in his left hand to punctuate the sentence.

  “What about?” Haern asked as he finished pulling on one boot and grabbed the other beside him on the bed.

  “Well, you being … you know, you. The Watcher. The king’s agreed to honor the original truce, so long as the other guilds are willing to go along with it. Given how they’re all in various shades of disarray, I can’t imagine anyone risking both your wrath and the king’s paranoia instead of taking the free gold.”

  “The Ash Guild might,” Haern said, rising from the bed and pulling on one of his vambraces.

  “I think even Deathmask has had more fun than he’d prefer over the past few months,” Tarlak said. “Call it a hunch, but I believe he’ll lay low for a while, and manipulate the different guilds as they form instead.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” Haern said, putting on the second vambrace. “I expect I’ll be doing much the same. It seems all the old guilds are resurfacing, though mostly in name only. I need to make sure the rulers are at least somewhat sane, and will listen to reason. The last thing we need is some upstart deciding they’d rather have another war.”

  Haern pulled on his cloaks, the weight and feel of the fabric giving him a slight chill.

&nb
sp; “There’s also the matter of Thren,” Tarlak said, clearly unhappy about broaching the subject.

  “What about him?” Haern asked, keeping his voice indifferent despite lurking emotions quite to the contrary.

  “Well, he’s still alive. That’s issue number one. Issue number two is what do we do about him? A repeat of the thief war would be what I would call a Very Bad Thing, and it’s also possible he could use his reputation to gather the fledgling guilds under his control. Doesn’t matter if he wouldn’t have a chance of winning. That psycho tried to blow up all of Veldaren. What’s a little underground war compared to that?”

  Haern shook his head, and he wished he could better explain it.

  “I think Thren is finally broken,” he said. “So long as I’m alive, he won’t try anything drastic beyond reinforcing his claim on the Spider Guild, and perhaps establishing dominance over the rest. I’ll keep an eye on things, just in case, but I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it.”

  The wizard shrugged.

  “If you say so. Oh, and while I’m remembering…” He pulled out a golden amulet, a simple-enough-looking thing with a single roaring lion in its center. “Do you want it?”

  Haern frowned.

  “Don’t you need that?” he asked.

  “Not anymore,” Tarlak said. “Unmade the last of the tiles earlier today. It’s a lot easier to disarm a lock when you have the damn key. They’re as dangerous as kittens now, and the city guard’s had fun breaking them with sledges and shovels. I’m guessing after all Muzien put them through, it’s a rather cathartic exercise. The king also informed me of his gratitude in his note here. Shame gratitude does not mean mountains of gold. Anyway…” He offered the amulet. “Want it?”

  Haern pulled Senke’s old pendant of the golden mountain from underneath his shirt, put it back.

  “I have the only amulet I need,” he said. “Keep it as a memento if you’d like, or melt it down for the gold. It means nothing to me.”