A Dance of Blades (29 page)

Said to an eleven-year-old boy. More than anything, he wished his father could be there to see what he had created. One after another the mercenaries fell. They knew how to bully. They knew how to put the strength of their arms into their blows, and they could handle the rudimentary thrusts and parries of the battlefield. But Haern felt himself beyond them, beyond anything. They scored cuts on him, to be sure, but he felt the pain in a distant place locked in the back of his mind. They would not kill him. He would not let them. His wrist might bleed from a lucky stab of a sword. His chest might ache from where a club struck him before he could dodge. His eyes might sting from blood running into them from where a blade slashed his forehead. But they would not kill him.

Zusa’s cry pulled him back from the animal, from the mindless killer. Despite the many dead, she was overwhelmed. Refusing to give the thieves anything, Haern descended upon them. Their backs were turned to him, and he thrust and stabbed and kicked, shoving them aside so he might link up with Zusa. She was bleeding, and so was he, but they grinned.

We were made for this,
he thought.

Back to back, they turned to their foes. Of the original thirty, only ten remained. Blood and gore soaked the floor where it wasn’t covered by a body. The psychological damage was just as bad. None looked ready to attack. Whatever they had been paid, it wasn’t enough. The first turned to flee, and as if breaking a dam, the rest rushed for the door. Ignoring them, Haern looked for William, not finding him.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Zusa rushed to the chair he’d been sitting in and flung it aside. Hidden behind it, she found a ring and pulled, revealing a trapdoor. Haern followed her as the mercenaries broke down the door behind them and poured out into the night. The trapdoor led to a tunnel, tight enough that Haern had to crawl along on his elbows, worming his way through. It wasn’t a long tunnel, and Zusa pushed open another trapdoor and then helped him out.

They’d emerged behind the armory, the trapdoor hidden by a compacted layer of dirt. Haern felt his muscles aching, the familiar feeling of receding adrenaline coming over him. He’d expected to search for William, to have to hunt for wherever he’d run off to, but instead saw him laying dead in the street, two men standing over him.

“You look like shit,” Senke said, still cleaning William’s blood off his mace.

Haern tried to think of a response, but his mind only stared dumbly at him and Tarlak, who looked vaguely amused by the whole ordeal.

“Delysia spent the better part of tonight begging us to help you,” he said, his arms crossed. “And as usual, I finally gave in.”

“How?” he asked. He meant to ask how they had found him, but breathing suddenly seemed difficult. His body was finally taking account of all the blows and cuts he’d received, and it wasn’t happy.

“What, find you?” Tarlak asked. “I’m a wizard. That’s just what I do.”

Haern saw Zusa down on one knee, bracing herself with one of her arms. Her dark skin was disturbingly pale.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping to her side.

“Of course I am,” she said. “Farewell, Watcher. I have done as my mistress asked. Let your friends help you from now on.”

She rose to her feet, took an uneasy step, then another, and by the time she was running her balance looked like it had returned. Haern watched her go, hoping she’d be all right.

“So,” Tarlak said, smacking him on the back. “What’s next on the agenda?”

Haern looked back at the body of William Ket, and he mentally checked another off the list in his head. One left, just one.

“Leon Connington.”

Senke whistled. “Going after the big dogs, are we? Who else after that?”

Haern shook his head. “He’s the last. Everyone else has agreed, or…”

He gestured toward the body.

“The last?” Tarlak laughed. “Aren’t you a freak? Well, let’s go. Leon’s not exactly close to here.”

They walked down the street, and for a moment, Haern let himself relax. With the three of them, one a wizard, any thieves would have to be incredibly brave or reckless to consider an ambush. He used his shirt to wipe the blood from his forehead, then pressed it against his eyes. They watered, but when he pulled away, he could see better. Senke twirled his two maces in his hands, and Haern wished he could feel as energetic as Senke looked. He might have just been the lion, but now he felt like a lamb, ready to give up everything just to lie down and sleep. Every single part of his body ached.

“How long until dawn?” he asked.

“About two hours,” said Tarlak. “You been at this the whole night?”

“Just before sunset, yes.”

“We of the magical profession call that biting off more than you can chew.”

“And we of the stabby profession call that getting yourself killed,” said Senke.

Haern winced as an awkward step flared pain along his chest and to his back.

“You two are such wonderful help,” he muttered.

Leon Connington’s estate was one of the most well-guarded places in the city, and all three of them knew it. The warning letter Haern sent certainly hadn’t given them reason to slack off, either. Tall stone walls surrounded the mansion, the single opening a thick iron gate with two guards. They stood at attention, no slacking there either. From far down the road, they observed the gate and planned.

“There will be mercenaries stationed throughout the mansion,” Haern said as they stared. “And traps along the ground, other than the path leading directly to the door. If we’re to get to Leon, I think we’ll need to be stealthy about this.”

“Stealthy?” asked Tarlak. He gestured to his bright yellow robes. “Stealthy?”

Haern gave him a dumb look, then shrugged.

“Any other ideas?”

The wizard lifted his arms high, and a steady stream of magical incantations slipped from his lips. Fire burst about his hands, growing, growing, and then soaring toward the gate as an enormous ball. It hit the iron and detonated, blasting the gates aside and tearing off chunks of stone. Haern didn’t see what happened to the guards, and he didn’t want to think about that, either.

“Stealthy,” said Tarlak, hurling a smaller ball of fire that rolled across the ground. It detonated the various traps along the grass leading toward the mansion, filling the night with the sound of their explosions. Haern didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“Stealthy?” he asked Senke, who only shrugged.

Tarlak sent on more blast, this one aimed at the front door. He frowned as the spell evaporated into smoke just before contact. He sent another at a window, this a thick shard of ice. Again it broke, this time into water that showered the ground harmlessly.

“Strong wards,” the wizard said. “Looks like the rest is up to you. Have fun!”

Senke led the way, Haern following.

“Out of his damn mind,” Haern muttered.

*

T
arlak watched them go, offering a prayer for luck. He wished he could help, but the few spells he’d cast had put a deep ache in his head, and he knew he had but a few more before he’d be worthless. Unable to help it, though, he neared the gates to observe his handiwork.

“Getting better,” he said, estimating the size of the explosion.

“Tarlak Eschaton?”

He turned, and with mild surprise saw the giant man with the painted face approaching from down the street.

“I’m thrilled we could meet again,” he said. “Especially with my mouth un-gagged.”

Ghost pointed toward the mansion. “Is the Watcher inside?”

“He is,” Tarlak said, standing in the center of the gate. “He’s a bit busy right now, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to resume whatever grudge you have against him.”

“No grudge,” Ghost said, still approaching. “Just money.”

Tarlak snapped his fingers, summoning a spark of flame at his fingertips.

“No closer,” he warned. Ghost only laughed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He slammed his hands together, and a ring of fire rolled out from his waist, burning the air with a heavy roar. His opponent fell back, and he landed on his shoulder so the fire could pass harmlessly above him. Tarlak gave him no reprieve, another spell already on his lips. This time it was ice, thick shards that flew like arrows. Ghost rolled, the shards shattering upon the ground behind him. Only one drew blood, a thin gash along his side. On a man so giant, it looked like a cat scratch.

“How long?” Ghost roared, back on his feet again and lunging. Tarlak tried to ignore him, kept focused on the casting of his spell, but he knew what Ghost was implying. How long might he last casting his spells? How long until the well of energy within him ran empty, and the best he could summon was a little puff of smoke from his fingertips?

Given the pounding of his head, he didn’t think it’d be long.

His hands clapped together, and the space before him filled with a swirl of smoke and fire. Ghost’s swords passed through it, but his feet dug into the ground, halting his momentum. Tarlak muttered. He’d hoped for a charred corpse to leap through. How the Abyss did this guy react so fast?

Leaving the firewall intact, he guessed a direction and pointed. This time luck was with him, for of the two directions Ghost might have leapt, he’d chosen correctly. A bolt of lightning shot from his finger, striking the giant man square in the chest. He fired a second one, this one hitting his leg. Ghost screamed, but more in anger than pain. Tarlak felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Short of taking the man’s head off, it didn’t look like there’d be any way to stop him.

“You hurt my friend,” Tarlak said, summoning small meteors of lava and flinging them. Ghost hunched on his knees, blocking with his swords. The meteors plinked off the steel, coupled with an impressive but harmless shower of sparks.

“You hurt my sister,” he said, pressing his wrists together and hurling shards of stone from his palms. Ghost jumped and leapt like an enormous spider. Only two shards hit, and again the wounds were superficial.

“You even hurt Brug.”

His bolt of lightning shot out, but his aim was off. Ghost didn’t dodge this time, instead lunging straight for the kill. A sword slammed into him, piercing his flesh. Tarlak gasped as the white-hot pain spread throughout his body.

“I even hurt you,” Ghost whispered, his cheek pressed against the wizard’s.

Out came the blade, and Tarlak collapsed. Unable to stop him, he could only watch as Ghost passed through the gates, continuing the hunt for his real prey. The blood flowed, staining his yellow robes red. His mind throbbing from pain and exhaustion, he crawled across the ground, bleeding upon the street as he headed for safety.

Damn you, Haern,
he thought as he collapsed after hardly crossing any distance.
You better kill him for me, or I’ll…I’ll…

And then he felt his thoughts slipping away like leaves in a storm, and unconsciousness came and took him.

1

D
eathmask knew he might be walking into an early grave, but he didn’t let worry show on his face, not with the rest of his guild watching him.

“Keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” he said to the others. “I don’t expect him to do anything stupid, but it is Thren Felhorn, after all. Stupid to us is step five of a plan for him.”

They approached the headquarters of the Spider Guild. It was more a mansion than anything else, though careful examination would have shown how the windows were reinforced so no one could break through, and all other doors but the front were boarded over. Two men in gray waited at the front, and they drew their swords and daggers at his approach. Veliana glared at them, but she remained quiet.

“I am Deathmask, leader of the Ash Guild. I’ve come to speak with Thren.”

“Only if Thren says,” one said. The other banged on the door. A small window opened up, and the guard relayed the message inside. A few minutes later, the door opened.

“Just him,” said one of the Spiders from inside, pointing to Deathmask.

“It’s all right,” he told Veliana, who looked ready to object. “I can handle myself.”

He stepped inside.

The interior of the mansion might have once been well-decorated, but nearly all its treasures had been plundered and sold off. Bright squares on the walls showed where paintings had once been, and in many places the floor was scraped and dull, as if the carpet atop it had been ripped up, or a long-standing rug removed. Deathmask tracked the turns and doors to ensure he could find his way back, all the while going over every bit of information he knew about the near-legendary leader of the Spider Guild. At last they reached a door, and the thief gestured. Deathmask opened, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, leaving him alone in a small den with Thren Felhorn.

Thren looked old. That was the first thing that struck him. He knew the man’s age, still in his late forties, but his hair was fully gray. His skin had a tight, stretched look about it, but his eyes still shone with intensity. He stood beside a fireplace, a drink in hand. His two shortswords hung at his side, their hilts gleaming in the light. He smiled at Deathmask, but it hid a strong sense of impatience and contempt. Thren surely knew the reason for his coming, and was not pleased.

“Welcome,” Thren said. His voice was deep, and the power in it impressed Deathmask to no end. He wished he had such a commanding voice as that. The man could probably describe himself taking a shit and still have it sound authoritative. “I’ve heard rumors of your assuming control from Garrick Lowe, not that there is much to assume.”

“What is it we say to the ladies, it’s not the size of the sword, but the skill in the wielding?”

Thren chuckled. This was good. If he could get the man to feel a sense of kinship, things might go smoother.

“Maybe so, but even I wouldn’t assault a man with a spear wielding only a butter knife.”

“You know you would, Thren, if the price was right. You’d cut the man three times before he knew where you were, too.”

The flattery didn’t get him what he hoped. Thren waved a dismissive hand and set down his drink.

“Enough. The night is late, and you didn’t come here to banter, nor make introductions. This is about that Watcher madman, isn’t it?”

“I must admit, I am curious to your thoughts on the deal.”

“Deal?
Deal?
This is no deal. This is enslavement. This is the king severing our testicles and selling them to the Trifect. Do you know how this world works, Deathmask? The strong take what the weak cannot hold, and that is the proper order of things. The foolish and the naïve try to prop up the weak, to protect them with strength that is not their own. Babes, all of them, nothing but babes forever suckling their mother’s milk.”

“We would still make plenty of coin,” Deathmask said. “And we have accepted protection money before. Is that not a way of the weak voluntarily giving up what they have to the strong?”

“Never on this scale before,” Thren insisted. “They don’t just protect their own, but the entire city. What insanity led to this? I have watched them bleed before me. Entire nations could live and die on the wealth I have taken from the Trifect’s safes. Yet now they throw gold at me in a pitiful attempt to barter safety and peace of mind. At least Alyssa was willing to fight back, though even that moment of pride lasted only two nights before cowardice returned, no doubt replaced by this deal from the king.”

Deathmask saw an open bottle on a small stand, and he walked over and poured himself a drink. He sniffed it once, and was pleased by the scent of strawberries. Thren didn’t object, so he took a drink and set it aside.

“This is how I see it,” he said. “It’s been what, ten years? A man can only fight for so long, even the greatest of us. We need a break. We need a return to some shred of normality.”

“Says the man wearing a mask.”

Deathmask laughed. “Relative normality, then.”

He watched Thren carefully, though he knew it was pointless. The man could guard his emotions better than anyone, probably better than even him with his mask on. Thren was watching him as well, gauging his reactions, staring into his eyes as if he could divine the true purpose of his visit.

“This Watcher…he claims he’ll kill everyone who refuses. Do you think he’ll succeed?”

“You and I are alive,” said Thren. “It seems to me he is doing a poor job. And it doesn’t matter. He could kill everyone, but he won’t kill me, and as long as I survive, the Trifect will never have a moment of peace.”

Deathmask tapped his forehead with a finger.

“As long as you are alive…that’s the clincher right there, Thren. Don’t tense up, I’m not here to kill you. That wasn’t a threat, just a statement. This war is yours, solely yours, and it is yours to end as you see fit. But you won’t have the ending you’re hoping for. The Trifect is too big. Yes, you’ve hurt it, killed many, and taken away their coin. But has it mattered? If an opponent is not allowed to surrender, they’ll keep fighting, and fighting. Give them the option of defeat. That’s what this deal is, if you look at it from their perspective. They admit they cannot defeat you, cannot protect themselves from you. So they make it worth your while to instead do the protecting for them. It’s a bribe, nothing more, nothing less, and in a city where this is hardly an unusual circumstance.”

Thren looked tired of the debate, and Deathmask knew he was treading on thin ice. He’d lied when he said he hadn’t come there to kill him, at least partially. Could Thren have read him correctly, despite his best attempts otherwise? More than anything, he wanted a victory here without bloodshed. Other thief leaders could come and go, but if Thren died, the Trifect might decide it didn’t need protection after all.

“Aren’t you tired of this?” he asked, letting his voice soften. “Every man and woman in this city has lost someone these past ten years. Despite the rumors, I know you are human, and lost as much as any.”

For a moment, so quick Deathmask thought he might have imagined it, Thren allowed himself to look exhausted, look torn with despair.

“It’s for that loss I continue,” he said. “Why else would I go on? To accept anything less than total victory would be an insult, not just to myself, but my wife, my…”

He seemed to return to his senses, and he glared at Deathmask as if he were the reason for the sudden weakness.

“I will not agree,” he said. “And if that is your sole purpose here, get out now.”

Deathmask chuckled. The slightest misstep might cost him his life. But this was it. This was the heart of everything.

“That Watcher, I hear he is good, almost impossibly good. I also hear he fights like you. Did you know that? As if he might be your own son, but we both know that couldn’t be. He died in a fire, of course. I’m sure you saw his body…”

He looked to Thren, letting the guildmaster know there was far more he wasn’t telling. No lie. No bluff. Thren opened his mouth, and then closed it. Those blue eyes barely moved. What firestorm of thought must rage behind them, Deathmask wondered. Taking a deep breath, he performed his wildest gambit.

“If he succeeds, the Watcher will be a legend. He’ll have beaten both the Trifect and the thief guilds, all in a single night. He’ll have ended ten years of conflict with a stroke of his swords. The entire city will fear him, for he will be the king’s Watcher, enforcer of the truce. The night won’t belong to us anymore. It’ll belong to him.”

He swallowed. Now or never. Take the risk.

“He’ll have surpassed even you, Thren. How amazing must that man be?”

Thren looked like a heavy burden had settled upon him. His muscular frame wasn’t quite so strong anymore. The terrible will that had ruled him weakened, and a million questions died unspoken on his lips. For perhaps the first time ever, Thren Felhorn looked uncertain.

“Did he send you here?” he finally asked. Deathmask nodded. “So be it. Give him his chance. My guild will accept the terms, so long as the Watcher lives. This city is a cruel one, and even now, it might have claimed him.”

“I doubt it,” Deathmask said, his heart pounding in his chest. “Given who he is, who made him. Come the morning, we’ll count the bodies, and we’ll see what remains of those in power. I have a feeling, though, that tonight is when it all ends.”

“Get out of here,” Thren said. “And never speak a word of this to anyone, or I will kill you.”

Deathmask bowed low.

“As you wish,” he said, glad the mask could hide his enormous smile. More relieved than he’d ever been in his life, he exited the room, weaved unguided through the halls, and emerged from the mansion, alive and victorious.