A Dance of Blades

chapter 13

Zusa watched the ceremony from the rooftops, her long cloak wrapped tight about her. With only a few days of warning, the crowd was smaller than it might have been. She recognized various merchants, wealthy nobles, and a few members of Connington’s distant family, plus Leon himself. All were from within Veldaren or its surrounding estates. Tradition would have expected a long enough delay for Laurie Keenan to travel from Angelport, but Alyssa seemed to care less and less about tradition with each passing day. Zusa didn’t blame her.

The bones had been placed within a small sealed coffin. As they lowered it into the ground, Alyssa stepped forward to address the crowd. She wore a dress of black and dark blues, and she’d smeared ashes upon her face. Behind her the sun dipped below the walls of the city, and in the twilight she made her decree.

“It is despicable that such a thing could happen,” she said, loud enough for Zusa to hear. “Worse that I might be expected to deny my son vengeance. So many of you here have made peace with the thieves, and in doing so, stripped away every shred of your pride and dignity. I will not! Those who prey on us, steal from us, kill and poison to claim their power, they die tonight. Go home if you must, or stay here if you fear the streets. But this night, only this night, must you fear them any longer. Veldaren aches for a purge, and I will be the one to deliver it. Cry out at me if you wish, but it will change nothing. The gold is spent, the orders are given. Let the blood flow.”

She looked to the rooftop, directly at Zusa. She nodded back in return. That was the last command. There was no turning back. Spinning about, her cloak billowing silently behind her, Zusa raced to the front of the mansion and vaulted off the roof. When she landed, it was amid the gathered group of mercenary captains, who had been ordered to wait opposite the funeral.

“You have your orders,” she told them all. “Bring the Abyss to Veldaren, and throw every cloak into it. Give vengeance to my lady.”

The captains grinned and smacked one another on the shoulder.

“About damn time,” said one. “Let’s get to it!”

Zusa left to the south, still trying to decide her course of action. The mercenaries were scattered all throughout the city, in taverns, camps, and houses of those loyal to the Trifect. They would spill out onto the streets, and no one would be there to stop them. Only King Vaelor could make a reasonable attempt with his soldiers, but he’d have to break a streak of cowardice, which Zusa knew would not happen. Ever since the Bloody Kensgold, he’d given them all freedom to kill one another so long as their threats were never aimed at him. No doubt when the nightmare began, the watch would turn the other way, if they even left the castle at all. She had an inkling they wouldn’t.

But the bloodshed would accomplish nothing if she couldn’t find Nathaniel’s killer. The Watcher. Where did he hide?

Those in the shadows were about to be flung into the light. She resolved to scour the city, keeping an eye open for anything unusual. If the Watcher were as skilled as Veliana made him sound, he would hold his own no matter how many mercenaries they flung at him.

Veliana…

She might have offered a prayer for her, but she had turned her back against her former god, Karak. She had no one to pray to, so instead she just murmured the thoughts aloud, hoping that she might survive the night. If only she could have relinquished her desire for control of the Ash Guild, she might have made a new life at her side within the Gemcroft mansion.

“Stay safe, Vel,” she said, crawling up the side of a small house with a flat roof. Once atop, she leapt across, scanning her surroundings for a man cloaked in gray and wielding twin swords. A man skilled enough to maybe even defeat her.

Half an hour passed, painfully quiet. It seemed the entire city had drawn its collective breath. Then all at once came the exhalation. Two fires erupted in southern Veldaren, both supposed headquarters of various thief guilds. Deciding there was as good a spot as any, she headed that way. She passed several patrols, and one even had the gall to fire a crossbow at her. She ducked lower and continued on, realizing she would be far from the only one to travel by rooftop that night.

They were torturing a thief in the street when she arrived at the first fire. It was probably supposed to be an interrogation, but that would have involved a chance for answers from the victim. The thief had blood smeared across his face, and the way his jaw hung, it looked like it’d been broken in multiple places. The best he could do was point. The light of the fire bathed them in red, and in it, the thief sobbed for mercy.

“This is your creation,” Zusa whispered to the distant thief, hardening her heart against the violence. “This is the fate you have earned.”

Still, it seemed a cruel fate. When the soldier impaled the thief, she was thankful. She turned for the second fire when she caught movement from the corner of her eye. She back-flipped into the air as a blade cut where she had been. Facing her attacker, she fell, grabbed the ledge of the building, and then flung herself at him. He was a giant man, his features shrouded in twilight. She slammed her knees against his chest. It was like trying to knock down an ancient oak. She rolled over his head, jumped away to give her some distance, and then drew her daggers. As her opponent whirled, she used the half-second to examine him.

He was dark-skinned, darker than she’d ever seen, and wore light clothing with a long gray cloak. He carried two enormous swords, each a length most would need two hands to hold. His muscles looked more appropriate to a woodcutter or blacksmith than a thief. But most of all, her eyes were drawn to the white paint across his face, making his shaved head look like a bleached skull.

“A woman?” he said. Zusa lunged, hoping to take advantage of his surprise. She parried one of his swords to the side, then thrust her other dagger for the opening. The man seemed prepared for the maneuver. He twisted, slapped aside her thrust, and stepped closer. She tried leaping back to gain more distance, but he followed, trapping her at the edge of the roof. Falling to one knee, she tried to hamstring him, but again his swords were there, batting the far smaller weapons aside. Part of her wondered why, with such advantage in reach, he forced them to remain in close combat.

Then one of his swords fell, and he felt a hand grab her hair, each finger as thick as a sausage. Her feet lifted off the roof. She held in a scream, all her focus narrowed to a razor edge. Her daggers swung, both aiming for his neck. With only one weapon, he had no chance to block, at least she thought, but he used its flat edge to strike both her wrists as they thrust, pushing them over his head. Before she could bring her arms back down, the sword’s edge pressed against her throat.

“Stop struggling,” he said. “I’m not here to kill you.”

His voice was deep, so deep, it reminded her of the rare times she’d heard Karak whisper to her in the night. She forced herself to calm, to look into his brown eyes without flinching. The sword pressed tighter against her throat, as if he expected her to try and break free instead.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Not you,” said the man. “My target is not a woman. I might have said so if you hadn’t leapt at me like a rabid dog.”

“Who are you?”

He stared at her, as if deciding something. Decision made, he unceremoniously dropped her. She landed on her feet and crouched before him, ready to leap at the slightest wrong move.

“I am Ghost. I’ve come to claim the Watcher’s head, and other than the breasts, you fit the description rather closely.”

Zusa slowly straightened, though her muscles remained tense. Whoever this Ghost was, she had no intention of relaxing in his presence.

“Who is it that has hired you?” she asked. “One of the thieves?”

He grinned at her. Something about it worsened her unease.

“I cannot tell you, as surely you can understand. You seem at home in the night, and you move as I expected the Watcher to move. Do you know of him? Tell me, and I might make it worth your while.”

“Whatever I know, I cannot say, for I seek him as my own bounty. My master wishes to be the one to claim his life, and I would not dare risk cheating her of it.”

“Her?” asked Ghost, raising an eyebrow.

Too much, stop speaking, you always say too much.

So she smiled, hoping to convince him that it wasn’t a slip of a tongue, instead a purposeful decision to make him wonder if she spoke truth or not. He probably didn’t buy it, but it was still worth the attempt.

“So be it,” Ghost said. One of his swords shifted, she moved to jump, but then he saluted her with the blade. “A game, then. I will let you search unimpeded, but I expect the same courtesy of you. If you somehow find him first...all I asked is that you come to me at the Mug and Feather tavern so I may know your name. Any lady more skilled in tracking than I is a lady I would sorely wish to meet with again. Consider it a repayment of my generosity.”

“The generosity of a man who nearly stabbed my back before seeing my face to confirm a kill?”

Ghost laughed. “You are still alive, woman. That alone is proof of my generosity.”

The way he said it, with no anger or pride, only amusement, chilled Zusa’s blood. This was a man with whom death was a common companion, who believed himself having nothing to prove. If such an agreement kept her safe from his blades…

“I accept,” she said. “Now forgive me, but I have a man to find.”

“Good luck,” he said. “Oh, and stay safe. I hear there’s a lot of mercenaries out searching for people like you.”

She looked to the fire behind her, and the several corpses left there to rot in the street. When she looked back, Ghost was gone. No one that big should be able to move so silently, she thought, but it seemed she was wrong. Cursing herself, she hurried north, following the distant cries of battle. If she were lucky, they might still scare out the Watcher, but now she wondered if she truly had any hope of finding him before Ghost. How great would Alyssa’s anger be if she found out Ghost had captured him first?

Still, that was better than them finding him at the same time. However that confrontation might end, she knew her blood would be spilled.

*

The city had gone to the Abyss. There was no other way to describe the horrors Haern watched as he hurried along the streets, keeping his head down and his swords hidden. It was too dangerous to remain on the rooftops. Every mercenary with a bow was firing at whatever moved. He’d counted four fires the last time he’d found a quiet enough spot to scale a wall and look over the city. Madness, total madness. Was this what it’d been like when his father first declared war against the Trifect so long ago?

The mercenaries traveled in squads, some as large as a hundred. They roamed the streets, smashing in doors, dragging out scared owners to ask questions, demand names, and sometimes execute outright. He watched a group of three thieves, Spiders based on their cloaks, chased by twenty men in armor. They died when a second group cut them off, another ten with naked blades and eager eyes. The mercenaries left only pieces of the three. Pieces.

Because he lacked guild colors and appeared the beggar, he’d managed to avoid much of their ire. He’d been questioned twice. The first time he feigned deafness. The second time he pointed them on their way toward the headquarters of the Serpent Guild. While following them, he watched a couple dragged out of bed, the husband hollering, his wife holding blankets to her chest to hide her nakedness. While their children watched from the doorway, the mercenaries cut their throats and cheered the name of Alyssa Gemcroft as if she were a goddess of blood and murder.

All the while, the city guards remained nowhere to be found.

Haern ducked through a side alley, not surprised to find two more there with him. They wore the colors of the Hawks, and they drew daggers as he rushed by. He wished them luck, out of nothing more than professional courtesy. Part of him wondered how many would abandon their cloaks. Doing so was considered punishable by death. Still, it seemed the only way to survive. Of course, he’d seen plenty without cloaks or colors dying in the street. Perhaps all it’d take was a single man whispering your name to find yourself in the arms of sellswords…

Deciding it worth the risk, he used a window ledge to vault atop a house that overlooked the headquarters of the Serpents. Thirty soldiers surrounded the place, some wielding crossbows, some torches. There was no doubt to their intentions. Those inside could die by blade or by smoke and fire. Hardly a choice he’d desire to make.

“By order of Lady Gemcroft, all those affiliated with the thief guilds are to be executed,” the mercenary captain shouted. “We know you’re in there, so come out and die with honor!”

Haern flattened on the rooftop, making sure no one could see him. The last thing he wanted was some crossbowman with a twitchy finger putting a bolt through his eye.

“This city ain’t hers!” challenged a hidden stranger. Haern’s eyes narrowed as he realized the voice did not come from the surrounded headquarters. “Time you sellswords learned that!”

There were five buildings with clear views of the headquarters, including the one Haern lay atop of. From every one of their windows appeared green-cloaked men with bows and crossbows. With a loud cry they released. A third of the mercenaries died in the first wave. Some tried fleeing toward the main streets, while others stormed toward the buildings. The arrows gave chase. When the last fell, Haern saw William Ket step out from the headquarters, a gleaming sword in his hand. He found the mercenary captain, chopped off his head with three swings, and lifted it to the air. The rest of his guild cheered.

Haern’s blood ran cold. The other guilds would certainly be preparing ambushes as well. While it’d be foolish not to expect losses on both sides, and he generally held no love for mercenaries, there were a few mercenaries that he did care for.

“Damn it, Senke,” he whispered, pulling back so he wouldn’t have to see the executions of those who still cried out in pain. “Tell me you aren’t part of this nonsense. You can’t have been this stupid.”

But of course he would have. It seemed every free man had been brought into Alyssa’s fury. What had spurred this on? Why now? He so rarely heard news of her, of the Trifect in general. They’d grown quiet, defensive. But this?

There was nothing quiet about the screams that seemed to come from everywhere as the stars vanished beneath great curtains of smoke. How much of the city would burn? Would any be desperate enough to form bucket brigades while the death squads marched? He didn’t know, and didn’t care. He had to find Senke and Delysia. Losing them once had been hard enough. He couldn’t do it again. The city was large and swarming with men. Finding them would be near impossible, but at least he knew names to search for…assuming neither were using aliases.

Haern dropped back to the street and began searching for a smaller group of men to ambush. He had to avoid several larger patrols, and at one point, a crossbow bolt. At last he encountered a group of three, deep in combat with five members of the Ash Guild, a sixth bleeding out nearby. The mercenaries were cornered against the city wall, and it was only their superior armor and reach that kept them alive against the greater numbers. Haern descended upon them like a whirlwind, his swords cutting down two before the thieves even knew he was there. He cut the throat of a third, then watched the final two die at the hands of the mercenaries.

“Thanks,” said one of them, a gruff man with a beard and a wicked cut across his nose that was still bleeding. “F*ckers led us here as a trap, then jumped us from the rooftops.”

“I have no time,” Haern said, making sure to keep his cloak low so they only partially saw his face. “I’m searching for a small group of mercenaries. One is named Senke, another Delysia Eschaton. They should be together.”

“Not a clue,” said the man with the bleeding nose.

“Don’t know about no Delysia,” said the second as he walked over and killed the sixth Ash member, who had been whimpering in pain. “But that name sounds familiar. I know a Tarlak Eschaton, and he runs his tiny group, nothing but small-timers. Guy’s half off his rocker. Might be them you’re looking for.”

“Perhaps. Do you know where they might be?”

The man spat. “All them smaller groups got put together and sent to the far south. Alyssa figured it’d be easier to spread out and find the rats when they tried to hide in their slums.”

Haern fought down his panic. They’d been sent into the very homes of the thieves, as if they would be the ambushers? When the guilds fled to safety there, it would be they doing the killing, not the mercenaries. He had to get them out of there, and fast. He bowed to the three men and then turned south.

“Hey, what’s your name?” asked the man with the bleeding nose.

“I have none,” he shouted. When he turned, he caught sight of something strange, like a white face peering down from the wall, round and hairless. A glance back revealed only darkness.

I’m jumping at shadows, he thought. If you’re alive, Senke, I’m going to murder you for accepting such a stupid assignment.

He wondered where his father was in all this. He wouldn’t hide, not against such blatant disrespect. The Spider Guild’s headquarters were in the southeast. If these Eschaton mercenaries stumbled upon him and his best…

Haern ran faster.

Deciding speed was more important than stealth, he cut to one of the main roads and trusted himself to outrun any patrols. He raced south, all the while doing his best to ignore the pain in his stomach. The wound there hadn’t quite healed, though it was hardly more than an angry red scar. Still, the movement was enough to stretch the skin and agitate it. What he’d have given for an extra day or two to heal before all this madness hit.

“You! Stop!”

Haern cursed as he saw a group of five up ahead rush toward him, no doubt thinking him a fleeing member of the guilds. The houses were packed tight on either side, so it was either turn back in search of a route around, or go straight through.

“Move!” he screamed, hoping to startle them with his mad rush. He slide-kicked just before nearing, avoiding an arrow that whistled overhead. His kick took out the legs of one, and he rolled away. Smashed under that much armor, he’d be killed in seconds by the others. A sword swung for his head, but he twisted and fell to one knee. Two others lunged, their swords thrusting. Haern dove to his right, landing hard on his shoulder. He’d made it to the other side.

“We said stop!” one of them shouted. Haern laughed, wondering who exactly he thought would obey the command. He weaved side to side, not surprised to see one last arrow plink into the dirt beside him. With their heavy armor, they couldn’t hope to match his speed. Last he looked, they’d abandoned the chase and instead smashed in the door of a nearby home. He offered a prayer to the inhabitants as he ran.

It seemed the very air grew thicker as he plunged deep into southern Veldaren. He counted five fires now, and one of them wasn’t far off. The smoke whirled down the streets, its distortion good for the thieves, bad for the mercenaries. He heard sounds of combat from one home with a broken door, and he watched another group battle, four Hawks against two mercenaries. He let them be. There were too many fights for him to help them all. The graveman would be busy tomorrow, he thought grimly. Whatever didn’t burn would soon have its walls painted with blood.

A plume of smoke erupted to his left, accompanied by a deep explosion. His curiosity couldn’t take it. He turned, climbed onto a rooftop, and hurried that way. Whatever he was expecting to see, what he found was not it.

The area opened up to a fountain carved in the likeness of two women bathing each other, long broken and out of water. At least twenty men lay dead, half mercenaries, half thieves, their blood mixing together to stain the surrounding cobblestones red. A large group of thieves remained, Wolves judging by their colors. They faced off against only four, a strange four at that. Senke guarded one half of the fountain, parrying and blocking with his two flanged maces. On the other half fought a short man in platemail, a punch dagger in each hand. Delysia stood in the fountain behind Senke, her lovely red hair matted to her face by a cut across her forehead. She was taller than he remembered, and she wore the white robes of a priestess. His heartbeat raced faster, and he forced himself to move. While Delysia cast spells that bathed them with white light, the last of the four stood in the other side of the fountain with his hands surrounded by fire. He wore a yellow robe and a pointy yellow hat. The color reminded Haern of dandelions. He had red hair similar in color to Delysia’s, and a well-trimmed goatee.

Guy’s half off his rocker, the mercenary had said about Tarlak, their leader. Haern had a feeling that was him. Only the insane, or the extremely confident, would dare wear such an outfit.

This Tarlak swung his hands in a circle. Fire danced across his fingers, then streaked toward where a group of three hid behind an overturned wagon, trying to fire crossbow bolts from cover. The wagon exploded into shrapnel and embers. The short man seemed hard pressed fighting the one, but the wizard kept zapping thin bolts of blue lightning, knocking the thief back and keeping him from scoring a kill. Senke fought three at once, yet seemed to be doing better at protecting the two in the fountain. Having been on the receiving end of so many smacks to the head and kicks to the chest while training with him, Haern wasn’t surprised.

Decision made, he drew his swords and charged. It was Senke and Delysia he’d come to protect, so it was them he’d help. The wizard saw his approach and turned, magic shimmering on his hands.

“It’s Haern!” Senke shouted just as the lightning arced out, having seen his approach as well. Haern rolled, wishing he’d had far more training in dealing with spellcasters. The roll seemed to work, for he heard the ground behind him crackle and break from the impact. He kicked back to his feet and jumped, having closed enough distance to reach the first. The Wolf turned and tried to impale Haern with his sword. Having had enough of that nonsense only a few days before, Haern landed short, batting aside the thrust while still in the air. His opponent exposed, it was easy work looping his other sword around and cutting his throat.

“Sorry!” he heard the wizard shout.

Damn fool, Haern thought as he linked up with Senke, standing side to side as the Wolves closed in.

“Glad you could join us,” Senke said between breaths. Despite the smoothness of his parries and kills, he was clearly winded.

“I shouldn’t have to. What the Abyss are you doing out here?”

“Fight now, insult me later.”

As one they went on the offensive. It felt like old times, carelessly training in Thren’s safe house. But this time it wasn’t dummies they fought, nor did they wield wooden swords. This time their opponents bled. Haern struck both high and low, forcing the thief to make desperate parries with his daggers. The shorter weapons made his arms move more than Haern’s to keep up with the attacks, and Haern used that to put him more and more out of position. At last he feinted a wide slash, pulled his sword in, and stabbed. The edge sliced through cloth, flesh and into lung. As the thief fell, Senke gave him a good bash on the head with his mace, just to be sure. Two more rushed ahead, but a blinding flash from behind Haern dazed them. With such a handicap, they fell with ease to the skilled fighters.

“Help Brug!” Senke shouted as three more Wolves approached from the north, joining the others.

“Brug?”

“The short fat guy.”

Haern felt a moment’s hesitation. He’d fought alone for so long, he wasn’t used to obeying orders. But then again, he felt himself slipping once more into the past, nothing but an awkward child learning from his masters. He turned and circled the fountain, joining Brug, who was bleeding from his shoulder and face. A dagger was still lodged in the crease of his armor. He yanked it out as he ran past, hurled it at his opponent, and then followed it up with a flying kick. The dagger hit the thief’s throat with the hilt, and then Haern’s foot cracked his chest. The Wolf dropped to one knee, lifting his dagger in a clumsy defense. Haern cut him down, a clean slice through his throat.

Brug looked ready to explode.

“I had him!”

Haern blinked. “Uh, sorry?”

A fireball sailed over both their heads, delaying the attack of several Wolves who had abandoned their attempts at shooting the wizard and instead chosen to close the distance. Haern felt the heat of it on his neck.

“Damn it, Brug, what am I paying you for? And you, Haern, right? Keep him alive, will you?”

Haern turned to his opponents, somewhat amused at how much redder Brug’s face grew. He blubbered, then rushed ahead, punching the air with his daggers. Haern’s amusement left. The idiot was going to get himself killed because of his pride. He rushed after, the two of them barreling at the three Wolves as if they were madmen. At the time, it was a fair assessment. The Wolves wavered, he saw the doubt in their eyes, and then they turned to flee. Haern killed two, for he was too fast and had far too much momentum to be outrun. He sliced the hamstring of the third as he ran on by, allowing Brug to catch up and eviscerate the thief with his punch-daggers.

Sucking in air, Haern turned back to the fountain. The last of the Wolves were either dead or fleeing. Tarlak stepped out of the fountain, helped Delysia follow, and then waved.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.

Haern shook his head. Off his rocker, indeed.