A Dance of Blades (22 page)

“Let me see it,” he said. The man continued leading the horse right on by, forcing Ingram to jump in his way. Still the man didn’t slow, and Ingram took several steps backward to prevent from getting knocked over. At last he drew his sword and stood his ground.

“I said let me see,” he said. “I don’t think that’s no pig.”

“If you say so,” said the man. He pulled the sack off the horse with a grunt and plopped it to the ground. “Just a small one, maybe good for John and some of his closest…”

While he talked, his hands messed with a tie at the end. The moment the knot came undone, it flung open, and out ran a boy who even Ingram knew had to be Nathaniel. The boy darted underneath his horse’s legs and then shot straight for the castle.

“Fuck!” Ingram shouted, turning to give chase. This time the farmer, Matthew obviously, got in the way. He wielded an old sword, recently polished but still timeworn and unreliable. Didn’t seem to matter, though, for he wielded it as if it were Ashhur’s blade itself and Ingram the dark-spawn of Karak.

“Outta the way!”

Ingram slashed with his sword, hoping to overpower the unskilled farmer. He blocked, clumsily perhaps, but it still banged his sword away. Instead of pressing the advantage, Matthew retreated, full defensive. Behind him, the little brat hollered like his lungs were on fire.

“He’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna kill my pa, he’s gonna
kill
him!”

Damn right,
thought Ingram.

Ingram feinted, smirked at how easily the farmer fell for it, and then cut from the other direction. The edge of his sword slashed into his arm, eliciting a cry of pain. Ingram swung again, lower, hoping to split his belly open. The man put his blade in the way just in time. The metal on metal sound rang out, though there was something funny to it, as if one of their weapons wasn’t flexing like it should. Ingram doubted it was his. Blood spilled down Matthew’s arm, and he saw the elbow below it shaking.

“Should have turned him over,” Ingram said. Their eyes met, and for that brief moment, he could tell Matthew thought the same. Behind him, the guards approached, alerted by the boy. Fear bubbled up Ingram’s throat. Even if he lived, what might Oric do for such a screw up? The least he could do was kill the stupid man who had given them so much trouble. He thrust, the tip nicking ribs before Matthew managed to parry it aside. Stepping closer, Ingram pulled his sword around, smacking it against Matthew’s, which had pulled back to defend, and then he slashed once more at exposed flesh. Matthew fell back, but he was too slow, too unprepared for the maneuver. He was a farmer, not a trained fighter.

The sword cleaved through his shoulder and shattered his collarbone. In the distance, he heard Nathaniel scream. Matthew coughed once, his sword falling from limp fingers. His eyes grew wide. His lips quivered, his skin turning white. Ingram put a boot on his chest and kicked him back, freeing his crimson blade. The body clumped to the ground and lay still.

“Stubborn little shit,” Ingram muttered as he wiped his sword clean on Matthew’s leg.

“Drop your blade!” ordered the two gate guards as they arrived. They had their swords drawn, and Ingram promptly obeyed. He gave Nathaniel a smile, who cowered behind the two guards, tears on his face.

“What is the meaning of this?” asked one as he picked up Ingram’s blade. The other circled around to his back and pressed the tip of his sword against him to ensure he did nothing stupid. A hand reached in, yanking his dagger from his belt and tossing it to the dirt.

“I can explain, though Oric can do it better,” he said. He pointed to the body. “That man there’s a kidnapper. I know it ‘cause we been searching high and low for him. And that boy there, well…”

He turned to Matthew, whose eyes looked like white saucers. He grinned, for he felt his lie building, the slow gears in his head turning.

“That’s Nathaniel Gemcroft, back from the dead, as we always hoped.”

The guards looked to the boy, whose skin had gone pale.

“I wasn’t kidnapped,” he insisted to the guards. “I wasn’t. He was helping me, and you let him kill him. Why didn’t you run? I told you to run!”

He was crying now, snot dripping from his nose. The first guard took him by the hand while the other grabbed Ingram by the arm and led him toward the castle.

“This is something lord Gandrem will settle,” said the guard. “Stay quiet, and answer only when you’ve been asked directly, understand?”

“Sure do, but don’t squeeze so rough. You’ll be treating me like a hero soon enough.”

The four entered through the castle gates, then followed the emerald carpet into the main chamber. Uri and Oric were already there, in mid-conversation with John Gandrem on his throne. He sat up straighter at their arrival, clearly recognizing the boy.

“Nathaniel?” he said, his mouth hanging open.

Ingram saw Oric glaring at him, his eyes ready to bulge out of his head. Not knowing what his captain might have been saying, he knew he should set things in motion, let his captain know what lie he’d created.

“I just saved him from his kidnapper,” he said, loud and boastful. A mailed fist struck the back of his head, and for a moment his vision turned to white stars over a purple sky.

“You weren’t addressed,” said the guard behind him.

“My apologies,” Ingram muttered.

Nathaniel rushed into the lord’s arms, and in their comfort he sobbed uncontrollably. John patted his back and whispered comforting words, but his eyes remained drawn to where his missing arm should have been.

“Milord,” said one of the guards, “we found him attacking another who had traveled with the boy, killing him before we could arrive. We’ve brought both here for you.”

“You told me you were searching for a man,” John said, looking to Oric. “Though you said he was merely a thief.”

“And indeed he was,” Oric said. Ingram beamed as his captain took his lie and ran with it. “We suspected him of taking Nathaniel from one of Lord Hadfield’s caravans. Never could we have hoped we’d find him here, of course. Perhaps he had come to issue ransom?”

Nathaniel had begun shaking his head, and Ingram watched him carefully. A child’s story against that of several men shouldn’t matter, but one never knew. If only he’d keep his mouth shut, keep crying.

“I was told Nathaniel had died,” John said. “Learned too late of the funeral, sadly. I was told they’d been given a body, by you in fact, Oric.”

Oric licked his lips.

“We suspected too late it was another child. He’d been badly burned. When I thought it might be a trick to throw us off the kidnapper’s trail, we went looking. We learned nothing worthwhile, not yet, so we’ve been keeping our reasons a secret. Don’t want harmful rumors flying about, nor to give Alyssa false hope.”

“He’s lying,” Nathaniel said. “Don’t listen to them, he’s lying! He was my friend, he killed my friend. He helped me!”

Oric’s voice dropped lower.

“Men do strange things to boys in their capture. Given time, he might twist their head around, make them friendly. He needs rest. This all’s clearly been too much for the lad.”

“He called the stranger his pa when running to us,” offered one of the guards.

John nodded, as this bit seemed to support what Oric was saying. He kept Nathaniel close, as if afraid he might lose him should he let go.

“What happened to your arm?” he asked.

“They said my arm got sick and had to be cut off.”

“Who is they?”

Ingram’s eyes widened. This might be tougher to explain. Maybe they could spin some blame onto that wife of his…

“She’s just a filthy liar, that’s all,” Ingram said, ignoring Oric’s glare. “Probably cut the arm off to torture him.”

John’s face darkened at this.

“She?” he asked.

Ingram opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Meant he,” he said lamely.

“We discovered a lady who claimed her husband had Nathaniel,” Oric said, trying his best to amend the situation but clearly fighting a losing battle. John’s eyes had narrowed, and he had a look like a snake ready to strike. “That’s how we knew to come here is all.”

John patted the boy on the head and leaned closer to him. He whispered something, too quiet for Ingram to hear. Nathaniel whispered something back. When finished, John sank deeper in his chair.

“Take them into custody,” he said to his guards.

“Wait, you got things wrong!”

Ingram felt men grab his arms and wrench them painfully behind his back. It seemed like the very curtains had spawned armored guards. Oric reached for his sword, but the sheer number made him decide not to. One of the guards smashed his face with his fists, as if insulted he’d even considered it.

“I wasn’t there,” Ingram shouted as he was yanked backwards, but it only seemed to make matters worse. “Oric was, he saw it all, I was just doing what I was told!”

“Bring him to me!” John roared, standing from his throne.

Two guards dragged Ingram across the carpet, then shoved him to his knees. A fist grabbed his hair and forced his head to bow reverently.

“I want you to watch this,” Lord Gandrem said to Nathaniel. “You deserve it. With your arm as it is, you’ll be living a hard road, and this is something you should always remember. This is how we treat the scum who dare strike against us.”

“No,” Ingram moaned as he felt his head pulled back. John held a beautiful sword, and he pressed its edge against his throat.

“Pull back the carpet,” he said to his servants. “I don’t want to stain it.”

Ingram felt hollow fear building and building.

“Please,” he begged. “I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t, I was just…”

They lifted him up, and when they set him back down, his feet touched smooth stone.

“You killed a good man,” John said.

“Says who?”

“Says Nathaniel, and I trust his word over yours.”

The sword moved. He felt pain, but when he gasped to scream, it was as if he’d been dunked underwater. His exhalation was a pitiful garble. His head swam, and he thought to faint, but still the guards held him upright. Until the darkness came, he watched John and Nathaniel watching him die. There was no mercy in either of their eyes.

*

G
uardsman Mick trudged up the road away from the castle, having drawn the shortest straw of the lot. One of the men’s horses remained standing on the path. The other had wandered off, and he grumbled and hoped it wouldn’t be far. He’d have to stable them both, work out ownership, probably even send one or both back to whoever originally owned them. Bunch of hassles. Of course, there was also the body, which needed to be stripped of any valuables and then disposed of.

Deciding the horses could wait, Mick knelt beside the body, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so he put a hand into the dead man’s pockets, searching for loose coin. Of course, not all valuables needed to be handed over…

When the dead body let out a groan, Mick startled, fell back on his rump, and nearly soiled his armor. He closed his slack-jaw, put a hand on the man’s chest, and leaned close. Both were weak, but he felt the tremors of a heartbeat and heard the soft hiss of breath.

“Goddamn, you’re a stubborn one,” he said, unable to believe it. He took to his feet and ran toward the castle, crying out for a healer to make his way to the gate.

1

“A
re you prepared to do what you must?” Deathmask asked her.

“I am,” said Veliana.

“You’ll have to kill many of them. They were once your friends, your guildmates. Maybe you even considered them family. They won’t understand, and their loyalties are anyone’s guess. This is Garrick’s guild, and you’re nothing but a feeble woman who got in his way. Last time I ask, can you stick a knife in them, every one of those familiar faces?”

“Not so familiar anymore,” she said. She tapped her sickly, bloodied eye. “Too many hate me for this. I’ve heard their whispers, their insults of my ugly mark. I’m damaged beauty. They never loved me, not like they loved James Beren. This guild may or may not be mine, but more than ever I know it should not be Garrick’s. If he sold his soul to Thren, then he betrayed every shred of James’s memory. Anyone who stays at his side is no friend of mine.”

Deathmask smiled at her.

“I want to do something for you,” he said. “This will take just a moment, but I hope you’ll appreciate it.”

He put a finger to his eye, the same as Veliana’s injured, and then whispered words of a spell. They seemed simple enough, and then came the change. His iris changed from a dark brown to a bloody red.

“This is what I think of your ugly mark,” he said. “I’ll proudly bear it so long as you stay with me. I will never cast aside your loyalty, for I’ve been cast aside enough in my own life.”

Veliana felt strangely touched by the gesture.

“One day,” she said, “I hope to believe you.”

They turned their attention to the unassuming building before them. The rooms appeared dark, but both knew of the lower expansion below ground, no doubt housing the last remnants of the Ash Guild. A few men and women wandered past them on the streets, several with dead eyes and drunken gaits. To Veliana, it seemed like the entire city was suffering a massive hangover, a crude comparison given how many of her kind had been mercilessly butchered. So far Deathmask hadn’t explained how he planned on dealing with all the mercenaries, but she had no choice but to trust him. Patting her daggers, she told him to move, and she would follow.

“Keep your hood low,” he told her. “Surprise is everything. Theatrics can turn even the most ordinary of foes into something fearsome, and you are no ordinary foe.”

They approached the door. A single thief leaned against it, looking like he’d been up for two days straight. Through bleary eyes he watched their arrival, recognizing Deathmask when they were almost within striking distance.

“Hey, we thought Thren—”

Veliana cut his throat before he finished the sentence. As his body fell, she glanced to Deathmask, and her look was clear. Look what I can do. Do not fear my loyalty. They are no longer friends of mine.

“Atta girl,” he said, his mismatched eyes sparkling behind his mask.

When she tried the door, it was both locked and barred. Deathmask gently moved her aside, put his hands upon the wood, and closed his eyes.

“Theatrics,” he whispered.

His hands shimmered between red and black, and then the door exploded inward in a great shower of splinters, accompanied by a shockwave that thumped against Veliana’s chest with enough force to make her catch her breath. Deathmask stepped through the dust and debris into a small entry room. Two men sat on either side of the doorway, their hands raised over their faces. Specks of blood dotted their clothes, damage from the shrapnel. Veliana rushed the one on the right, thrusting a dagger into his chest before he could react. Deathmask waved a hand at the other, who suddenly dropped to his knees, gagging. Before she could see the total effects of the spell, Veliana stabbed his heart.

“Sometimes quick is better,” she said.

Deathmask pushed open the second door, and they stepped into the last remnants of the Ash Guild, all gathered from the various corners of Veldaren. There were twenty of them, sitting on chairs and pillows and looking miserable. Veliana felt both anguish and elation in seeing Garrick among them. Part of her had hoped he’d died in the fire, for he deserved nothing better, but at least his survival meant that he would be hers, all hers.

“Members of the Ash,” Deathmask said, screening Veliana with his body. He wanted to maximize the impact of revealing her, she knew. A smirk crossed her lips. They all thought her dead, Garrick included. How his mouth would drop, how wide his eyes would go… All around, the thieves stood and drew their weapons, for though Deathmask was one of them, there was something dangerous about his arrival, in the way he walked, the way he addressed them.

“You,” Garrick said, pointing a shaking finger. “You turned the Spiders against us, didn’t you? Why else would they let you live?”

“I am not the one who went into bed with the Spider thinking I might not get bitten,” Deathmask said. “This destruction is your doing, all your doing. Listen to me, guildmembers! He sold your souls to Thren Felhorn, all so he might sleep well at night.”

“You lie!”

About a third of the men around them were exchanging glances, and their daggers and clubs lowered. Veliana watched and waited. She had to be fast. The first attacker needed to die immediately if she were to discourage the rest. When it came to a battle of personalities between Deathmask and Garrick, there would be no contest. At some point, Garrick would call an end to it before he lost completely.

“How else would you have maintained leadership?” Deathmask asked. “Why else would the guilds have made peace with you, even though your position was weak? Weeks ago you made your pact, and one by one the other guilds realized and left you alone. Only the Hawks attacked, and only once. Thren punished them severely for that, didn’t he?”

More mumblings about them. A couple glared at Garrick. These were the rumblings of treason, Veliana knew. Normally such accusations would be whispered ear to ear, allowed to fester and grow. But the Trifect had pressed too hard. If they were to survive, they needed new leadership, and now.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garrick said. He had drawn his dagger, but it remained at his side, as if he were afraid to even point it at Deathmask.

“Come now. We all know whose guild this truly was, before it was Thren’s. It was Veliana’s, not yours, never yours. That is why you wanted her dead.”

Louder grumblings, though many were disparaging her name. She felt anger simmer in her heart. Even now, they would deny her work, her sweat, her toil. The gods damn them all.

“She died because she tried to kill you, that’s all,” Garrick said.

Veliana stepped to Deathmask’s side and pulled her hood back. She smiled, and the look on Garrick’s face was everything she’d hoped it’d be.

“I never died,” she said. Her voice was soft, but even a whisper could have been heard in that suddenly quiet room. “But you will, you traitor. You sold our soul to Thren. I can never forgive you.”

She flung herself at him, not caring for her safety, nor the greater numbers. She would have his head, and this time, no one would stop her. Garrick cried out for aid, and several thieves jumped in her way. Spinning away from a club, she gutted one on her left, rolled along the ground, and hamstrung another as she stood. The one with the club tried to smash her back, but she twirled again, her spine bending in an unnatural angle so the swing passed above her breasts. And then she was up again, stabbing him repeatedly, kicking away his corpse with seven bleeding holes in his chest.

“Make your choice!” Deathmask cried out. It seemed many had. They turned on the others, striking at those who moved toward him. The room was now in chaos, and within it, Veliana thrived. She kicked out the legs of one rushing for Deathmask, burying a dagger through his ribs as his body hit the ground. Pulling it free, she flicked blood off it toward Garrick, who stood with his back to the wall, his dagger held before him.

“Where’s Then to protect you now?” she asked as she stalked him, her daggers hungry in her hands. “Where’s the men who would rather rape me than serve under my leadership? Where’s your
guild,
Garrick?”

A blinding flash burst from behind her, a spell of some sort from Deathmask. In its light she rushed Garrick, her knee leading. It slammed into his crotch while she swatted away his dagger. Her other dagger’s hilt struck his forehead. She rammed an elbow into his mouth, then slashed across his face when she pulled back. Blood spurted from a gash across the bridge of his nose. His cry of pain was a garbled, weak thing.

“Now you’re the example,” she whispered to him. She stabbed her dagger into his throat, twisted it left, then right, and finally yanked it free. Blood splashed across her chest, but she didn’t mind. At his death, much of the chaos slowed, for it seemed there was little point left in fighting. She glanced around and saw all eyes upon either her or Deathmask. Only ten remained of the initial twenty.

“Those who would betray their loyalties deserve nothing less,” Deathmask said, kneeling beside Garrick’s body. He put a hand on his head, which burst into flame. The fire did not burn him. The body blackened and smoked, and in seconds it was nothing but a pile of ash. Taking a handful, Deathmask stood and flung it into the air. It revolved around his head, hiding his visage, making him look like some strange monster instead of a man.

“I am the Ash now. None of you are worthy of my leadership. You killed for me, and for that, I spare your lives. Be gone. Throw down your colors, or prepare to have them stained with your blood.”

It seemed none there had the will to challenge the blood-soaked Veliana and her master. Her heart panged at their exit, feeling like the last remnants of the guild she and James had built were gone, but Deathmask had promised her something greater, and she had to trust him. She scanned those exiting, looking for a set of faces, men who had remained out of the fight like the sensible opportunists they were.

“Nier, Mien,” she said as they left. “You two, stay.”

The twins looked back. They had pale skin, dark hair, and brown eyes that seemed to twinkle with subdued amusement.

“Yes?” they asked.

Deathmask approached them, and he offered his hand.

“Veliana has vouched for your skills. Would you remain with me, and fight not for the Ash Guild that was, but for what it might yet be?”

The two glanced about the room, as if to point out the obvious to them.

“What guild?” Mier asked.

“There are only us four,” said Nien.

“And as long as the four of us live, there will always be an Ash Guild,” Deathmask said. “You have seen what we can do. Join us. We need your strength tonight. The mercenaries must be shown that we will not roll over and die for them.”

The twins shared a look, and Veliana swore some sort of mental conversation was going on between them that she was not privy to. Then they accepted Deathmask’s offered hand and shook it.

“Why not?”

“Could be fun.”

“Indeed,” Deathmask said, grinning behind his mask of cloth and ash. Veliana shook her head, wiped the blood clean from her daggers. She spat on what little was left of Garrick’s remains.

*

H
aern sat atop the roof of the Eschaton’s home and watched the sun dip below the wall. His elbow rested upon his knee, his chin on his hand. Tarlak’s words haunted him, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake them from his head.

I don’t care who you think you are, or how good you might be,
he’d said.
You’re a danger to me, and a danger to my sister. I made you an offer, and I won’t go back on it now, but you better put some serious thought into it, because otherwise you’re just a renegade killer with a vendetta. There’s no reason to house you then, no point. How many more will come storming through my windows, come kicking down my doors? I’m terrified the secret’s out, Haern, or it will be soon. What do you expect me to do? Fight for you? Protect you? Give me a reason. Any.

Haern had none to offer. His neck had flushed, and he’d shook his head. What could he say? I’m sorry a mercenary broke into your home, hurt you, your sister, and your friends, all while trying to find me? He’d always thought he was so careful, but he’d slipped up as usual. What had Senke said? It didn’t pay to be his friend. Yet again, that remained painfully true.