A Dance of Cloaks

Epilogue

Deep inside his safehouse, Thren talked with two men newly appointed as his advisors. None had the strength of Will, the cunning of Kayla, or the skill of Senke. They were sycophants, pure and simple, but he needed them now. He had little else.

Their news was grim. The assassination attempt on the king had failed. The men stationed at Connington’s had suffered horrible casualties, eventually setting fire to the mansion before frantically fleeing. Somehow, Madelyn Keenan had been found and rescued, along with the king’s advisor’s wife. His own son was missing, and some one-eyed woman was spreading rumors that she’d killed him and left him to die in the fire at Connington’s. Worst of all was his defeat at the Gemcroft estate.

“The priests of Karak have sworn no retribution for the acts of your son did against them,” one of the sycophants said. “At least Maynard died, and you kept your word to them.”

Thren shook his head.

“Get out,” he said. The men quickly obeyed. In silence, Thren brooded. His mystique, his prestige, his years and years of respect, had vanished in a single night. Every aspect of his plan had collapsed. Every single guild in the city had taken massive casualties. None would trust him. He’d have men poaching on his territory. The Trifect was already coming down hard, swarming the streets with their troops. Priests of Ashhur roamed as well, putting a halt to many of his enterprises.

Thren drew a sword and slashed his palm. He raised a clenched fist to the ceiling and bared his teeth.

“This isn’t over,” he swore. “Not now. Not ever. Not until every Lord and Lady of the Trifect lies rotting in their grave.”

He kissed his fist, tasting the blood on his lips. He had no son. No heir. Death would be his legacy.

The man paced nervously before the wreckage. Despite the massive amount of ash and rubble, he felt certain some juicy remnants still hid within the remains of the Connington estate. The castle guards patrolled by every so often, but soon they’d switch shifts and he’d have his chance.

He backed away from the gate a bit, slinking further into the shadows. As he did he felt something sharp poke against his back.

“A Spider?” he heard a boy’s voice ask.

“Serpent,” the man said, his hand slowly dropping to his dagger.

“They are all one and the same.”

The man whirled but not fast enough. The dagger flew from his hand. Something sharp pierced his belly. As the pain doubled him over, pain slashed his face. Through the blood in his eyes, he saw a blurry image of a young boy standing before him, his face fully covered by a thin cloth of gray. Quiet, unmoving, the boy watched him die, then vanished into the night.


A Note from the Author:

Winter is coming.

Those words, and the book that contained them, changed everything I knew about writing a fantasy book. Reading A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin was an incredible, yet humbling, experience. I doubt I will ever write something equal to the scope of his first two chapters, let alone his entire series. But knowing I may never do so doesn’t remove my desire to at least try. After all, so many of us are dancing in Tolkien’s shadow, so why not try for something a little modern, a little bloodier, and a little different?

I wrote this as a standalone novel, though fans of my Half-Orc Series will recognize faces here or there. The most obvious is Haern. My father has been a faithful supporter of my writing and has helped immensely in calling me out when I do something stupid (which is often). After finishing the second book, Cost of Betrayal, he said that of all my characters, he thought Haern the Watcher had the most potential for a separate book. At first, I dismissed him. What story for him did I have to tell?

Turns out, a damn good one. I reread the painfully brief history I gave for him, and even in that, I saw potential. Here was my chance to write a story, one without elves and orcs and spells so powerful they’d feel right at home in a Japanese anime. I could focus on humans, the low and the desperate. I could tell of a clash between the rich and the poor, and from within it, a boy rescued from darkness. Aaron Felhorn’s salvation from the ways of Karak and his father are just as important as Thren’s monumental failure at the Kensgold.

Since I know I will receive emails asking, I’ll go ahead and answer right now: yes, there will be a sequel, tentatively titled A Dance of Blades. No, I do not know when. I must turn my focus back to my half-orcs for now, but within the year, I will return. Haern, while saved from Thren, is still not saved from himself. The war between the thief guilds and the Trifect is not over. Plenty of blood still waits to be shed.

But enough rambling. Thank you Derek, for your wonderful edits. This book wouldn’t be half as good without you. Thanks to my father, for the inspiration. And most importantly, I thank you, reader, for purchasing my work, and humbly ask for a response of any kind, through email ([email protected]), or reviews, or rankings at wherever you might have stumbled upon my little story. I hope you weren’t too confused, and that I gave you plenty of hours lost in my world. Time is precious, dear reader, and I’m honored that you spent it with me.

David Dalglish

August 6, 2010