A Dance of Blades (11 page)

“Almost there,” he muttered. Once he put the closest hill between him and the road, he set Dirk down. “You see that forest over on the other side of the road? I want you to go fetch me some sticks, whatever you can carry.”

“Yes, sir.”

Oric pulled out his sword and a piece of flint. While the boy was gone, he gathered enough dry grass to create kindling. He carefully shielded it with his hands once he got it lit. When Dirk returned, holding about six sticks, Oric snapped them on his knee and carefully set them into the kindling. He sprinkled a tiny bit of lamp oil from his pack to get it going, then stood.

“We need far more wood than that,” he said, still holding his sword. “But I’ve got time. First, Arthur’s orders. Come here, Dirk.”

While the boy’s body bled out on the grass, Oric went to the forest and broke off several thick branches. He dragged them back to his camp, grunting as he did. He used his boot to break the branches into pieces, and one by one he tossed them upon the fire. Once it was roaring, he picked up the body. It felt stiff and cold. He hoped it’d burn. Without a bit of ceremony he tossed it into the fire. The ragged clothing caught first, then the hair, and finally flesh. The burning meat smelled sweet, but he always hated the scent of burning hair.

Deciding he could go without the warmth, he unpacked his bedroll and slept upwind so he wouldn’t be bothered by the smell. Come morning, he gathered up the bones into a sack and returned to Veldaren.

1

H
e had a soft bed underneath him, which confused Haern to no end. A bed? When was the last time he’d slept in a bed? Three years ago? Four? Wait, what about at that farm? No, that’d been on the floor, right? When he opened his eyes, it didn’t help much. He saw a low ceiling, poorly plastered. A glance around took in the rest of his surroundings. The room was tiny, barely any space to walk between his bed and the door. Opposite him was a single closet, stacked full of a strange assortment of clothing and weaponry. He recognized his own weapons in the pile, and he tried to go for them.

The pain in his stomach convinced him it wasn’t a good idea. He lay back down and pressed a hand against his abdomen. His fingers touched bandages, sticky with blood. Pieces of the attack at the caravan came back to him. He’d been stabbed in the stomach, that he remembered, as well as…

“What is going on?” he muttered as he inspected his arm. He remembered the cut there, and it’d been bad, if not to the bone. It was bandaged as well, but the pain was only a dull ache. He pried back some of the cloth and saw an angry scar, lacking any stitching to help it close. It didn’t seem possible. For that much healing, he’d have to have been out for weeks. The same went for the arrow wound on his shoulder. Either that, or a priest had come and healed him.

Or a priestess…

Haern remembered those last fleeting images, images no longer certain to be hallucinations. Could it be? After all these years, had Delysia exited the safety of Ashhur’s temple? A part of him felt excited to meet her, but for the most part he felt terror. His hair was still a mess, his face unevenly shaven. His clothes fit the part of the beggar. She’d been his first glimpse of light in a world of darkness, something clean and pure. He felt like living dirt, scabbed over with his blood and the blood of those he’d killed. It seemed so wrong for her to find him like this, assuming she even remembered him, or recognized him through the filth.

He tried once more to sit up, and now prepared for the pain, he managed a better job of it. Using his hand to support his weight against the wall, he leaned into the closet and grabbed his swords. He knew it made no sense for anyone to try to kill him there, not after bandaging him up and healing him, but he felt naked without their weight at his hips. Sweat dripped down his neck as he caught his breath. He offered a quick prayer to Ashhur for strength and then pulled the door open.

A very surprised Senke stood there, holding a slice of buttered bread, his free hand still reaching for the door handle that had swung away from him at the last moment.

“Going somewhere?” Senke asked.

It was too much. Haern staggered back and half sat, half fell onto his bed. He stared, his mouth hanging open.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Senke said, seeming amused by the whole scenario.

“I think I have.”

Senke laughed, and that familiar laugh helped melt his doubts. The man had shaved his head and grown out his beard, but underneath the disguise he had the same smile, same laugh, same guarded amusement in his eyes.

“Only a handful have recognized me, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re one of them. Always were the observant one, weren’t you, Aaron?”

Aaron…

A flood of memories tore through him, of days practicing with Senke, of walking at the side of his father, and of those few fleeting moments with Robert Haern before executing him at his father’s command and then cleaning up the blood. Aaron…he hadn’t gone by that name since that day. He’d adopted a new name, a new person to be.

“Haern,” he said. “Aaron died a long time ago.”

Senke handed over the bread and leaned against the door, chuckling again.

“That you did, and I was one of many who thought so, though I forgot your little oddity about the name. Everyone heard how you died in the fire. I barely got out myself, though I lost most my hair in the process. Helped disguise myself though, and I’m kind of attached to the look now.”

Haern looked at the bread as if he didn’t know what it was for. At last he dropped it, stood, and flung his arms around Senke. He didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. He felt thirteen again, bewildered, torn, and suddenly given a link to a past that actually had moments of good. It seemed Senke understood, for he patted Haern on the back and then gently pulled free.

“Don’t get all sentimental,” he said, winking. “Otherwise I might start thinking you aren’t really Thren’s son. Now have a seat. Del says you’ve got another day or two before you’ll be in top shape, and I don’t want you tearing those wounds open. You’ve grown up, god damn, boy. Taller than me now. How about you tell me what you’ve been doing these past five years?”

Thinking over his life, Haern felt embarrassed to say. He’d never once discussed it with anyone, only acted out his vengeance. Still, strange looking or not, there was Senke, the closest to a friend he’d ever had. The time melted away. He told it all, of his escape from the fire and living on the streets, always keeping his hair messed and unevenly cut, his skin a blanket of dirt and scabs. He stole food to live, and lived to kill those of the thief guilds. He felt keen shame admitting that, though he wasn’t sure why. In his heart he felt justified.

“How’d you end up at our caravan?” Senke asked as his story neared its end.

“Investigating the Serpent Guild and their newfound gold. Was on my way back when I stumbled upon your attack.”

“I must admit, Aaron, I thought it was actually Thren who’d come to our aid. The way you just charged in, then danced and weaved, it seemed so familiar…”

“I said it’s Haern now.”

Senke lifted his hands to show he meant no offense.

“Forgive me, just habit. Why so strict?”

Haern felt a chill coming on, and he wrapped his blankets tight about him.

“Because that’s not who I am anymore. I refuse everything of my father, including his name. I won’t be what he wants me to be.”

“Wanted,” Senke said. “He thinks you’re dead now. And instead of being your father’s pet killer, you instead spend every night killing. A neat trick, that.”

“Don’t you dare judge me!”

“No judging, just stating the obvious. Well, guess it’s my turn. Not nearly as interesting. I fled the city for the first few years. Always wanted out, think I told you that, but Thren wasn’t one to take such requests too well. That fire seemed as good an opportunity as any to make a new life. Spent some time down in Woodhaven, cutting lumber. After awhile, got bored, took some odd jobs more favorable to a dagger than an ax. All the sudden, I had a slow but steady stream of mercenary work. About a year ago I came back to Veldaren, going by the name of Stern and hoping for a bit more lucrative employment. Before you start thinking it, I wasn’t exactly falling into that same old trap. I chose my contracts carefully, and while I wasn’t always working for the nicest of people, I wasn’t killing innocents or torching the homes of the poor, either.

“Anyway, eventually met with my current employer. Even joined up with him as a permanent member of his mercenaries. Seems like he went through twenty guys, trying to find one who was…well, not scum. Lucky me, eh?”

Haern smiled but said nothing. He was still trying to wrap his head around everything. Here was someone he could talk to, could trust. After half a decade of silence and loneliness, it all came crashing to an end because of a single poorly-timed ambush. For all the many times he felt overlooked by Ashhur, he wondered just how unnoticed he really was. While he thought, he ate, figuring it a good excuse not to talk. All his confidence had flown out the window with Senke’s arrival. If anyone made him feel like the confused thirteen year old boy he’d once been, it was him.

“I see your eyes drooping,” Senke said when Haern finished his meal. “Let me send in Delysia to swap out some clean bandages and then you can rest, ponder over this craziness.”

“Delysia?” he asked. “Is she...is her last name Eschaton?”

Senke raised an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, but how would you…wait a minute. You did know a Delysia. Is she
her
, the one you killed Dustin to protect and…shit, that is her, isn’t it?”

Haern nodded, and was totally unprepared for Senke’s eruption of laughter.

“Looks like she returned the favor. She’s the one that kept you from bleeding out like a stuck boar. Damn, this is too funny. You never told me she became a priestess. Always wondered how she hid from Thren so well.”

“I never told anyone,” Haern mumbled. “Kayla told me the night of the Kensgold.”

Senke’s face saddened at the mention of her name. “She was a pretty lass. What I heard, Thren killed her for aiding you. Such a shame. Didn’t pay much to help you out, did it?”

The comment stung deeper than Senke intended, and at the pained look crossing Haern’s face, he immediately started trying to take it back.

“I’m sorry, Haern, you know I don’t mean that. It wasn’t your fault, any of it. Your father’s just a bastard, still is, though his influence is slowly dwindling, thank Ashhur.”

“Senke, I…I’m not ready to see her yet.”

“She’s seen plenty of you.”

He blushed a fierce red but remained adamant. “Please, just let me rest. Meeting you again is too much as is. Let me think, all right?”

Senke shrugged. “I guess you’ll survive, though if those cuts get infected, it’s your own damn fault. Sleep tight, Haern.”

“Thanks.”

Even after Senke left, his words echoed in Haern’s head.

Didn’t pay much to help you out, did it?

How many had died because of him? Robert died by his hand. His father killed Kayla, again for helping him. Senke had nearly died in the fire. Delysia had been forced into hiding. And now, when every thief guild in the city would gladly string him up by his thumbs and let the entire underworld have a go at him, the two had brought him into their home and given him succor. Were they mad? He was a monster, a beacon of chaos and murder. The streets were where he belonged. Their gutters had room for the blood.

Besides, he couldn’t face her. He just couldn’t. The last image he had of Delysia was her gasping in his arms as the bolt pierced her back. She’d looked so shocked, so betrayed, and then to see his own father approaching, crossbow in hand, he’d felt such guilt…

He tightened his belt and held back a grimace at the pain in his stomach. His cloaks were folded up beside his bed, as were his tattered clothes. Again he blushed a bright red as he remembered Senke’s comment, and he prayed that it had been anyone but Delysia who had changed him into what he wore now, a plain white shirt and brown pants. Quietly he changed into his old clothes. In their dirt and dried blood he felt all the more wretched and eager to be gone. Everything about him was filthy, even the task he’d devoted his life to. Was he really any better than his father? At least Thren had developed an empire, however fleeting. All Haern was doing was destroying it all.

He shook his head, trying to banish such thoughts. He needed to concentrate. Drowsiness still tugged at his eyes, and that soft warm bed tempted him more than any woman had. Deciding it was now or never, he crept open the door and looked about.

Whatever building he was in was small in space but attempting to make up for it by being two stories tall. He saw a second door across from him, and a few feet away, stairs curling downward at sharp angles to the bottom floor. He heard muffled talking from the other door. Feeling like a trespasser, he hurried along as fast as his wounds allowed him to go. The bottom floor was blessedly empty. Sparsely furnished, he saw a table, an oak desk in the corner, and a modest pile of books atop it. At the door, he removed the bolt and stepped out into the street.

He looked around a moment, taking in his surroundings. The sun was rising, still low enough to hide behind the city’s walls. There was an inn not far away, Prather’s if he read the sign right, and that meant he was on…Crimson Alley, deep in southern Veldaren. He felt muted horror at the realization. Senke and Delysia lived on the Crimson, one of the most dangerous places in the city? No wonder he never saw either of them when he patrolled the night. They’d certainly keep their doors locked and windows bolted. How often had he passed right on by when scouring for isolated members of the guilds?