A Dance of Blades (9 page)

The comment stung, far deeper than she probably meant it to.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” he said. “I must be going. Take care of the boy.”

“We will. Safe travels to you, Haern. That bag on the table is yours. It should last you until you reach Felwood, assuming that’s the direction you’re headed.”

Inside was a small selection of salted meats. He took it and left without checking on the boy, fully trusting Evelyn and her husband to know what was best. He wanted to get back to Veldaren, to the world he understood. He’d watched the farmer talk to his boys. Matthew was raising them to be like him, just like his own father had. But there was no malice, no underlying threat of violence to ensure perfection and obedience. The obedience was expected, sure, but he’d felt the love within it in that household. Living under Thren’s roof, he’d felt only paranoia, expectations, and disappointment. He’d loved Senke, loved Kayla, loved Delysia. None of their fates had been kind because of it. At least Delysia had lived, though he’d lost her to the temple of Ashhur.

The pond was not far from the road, and he saw Matthew in the distance. Haern waved, and Matthew waved back. He promised himself to return, not just to check the fate of the boy, but to have another night of sleep like he’d had. So many nights and days he’d slumbered on the side of the street, and he’d forgotten the comforts of a warm bed. Perhaps it was time to consider paying for lodgings at one of the inns, his various personae be damned.

The snow had stopped, and the coat did wonders to keep him warm. He nibbled on the meat Evelyn had given him, and despite its salt, he found he enjoyed the flavor. He walked along the road and tried to decide how far he was from Veldaren. Much of his walk carrying the boy had been in a frozen delirium. He couldn’t even guess how many miles he’d travelled, and like a fool he hadn’t asked either Matthew or Evelyn before he’d left. Oh well. She’d given him enough to reach Felwood Castle, and guessing by the food, it should be four days, three if she assumed him a heavy eater. From there it’d be a week or so back to Veldaren.

Near midday he heard the sound of hoofbeats. He felt his spirits brighten. If he could beg a ride, he might reach the castle far sooner. But the sound was coming from the wrong way, just a trick of the woods he walked through. Horsemen appeared in the distance, and his pulse quickened at the sight. They wore the same symbol as the horsemen who’d attacked the caravan. Were they still searching for him?

He hurried off the road, wishing he’d had time to hide his footprints. It’d be an easy trail to follow. Damn the snow!

They rode right on by. If they saw his tracks, they didn’t care about them in the slightest. Haern let out a breath he’d been holding and returned to the road. Tightening his coat, he hurried on, determined to gain as much distance as possible before nightfall.

Evelyn had given him a small piece of flint and steel in his bag of food, which he found immeasurably kind. Off the road, he built a fire and slept by it through the night, waking every few hours or so to toss a log upon it and poke the embers with a stick to reignite the flame. He ate the bulk of his food in the morning, saving a little bit for a snack should it take him longer than expected to reach the Felwood. He kept his eye out for more riders, but none came. He passed another caravan moving north, loaded with salt and farming equipment. They offered him a ride, but he smiled and gestured south.

“Heading the wrong way,” he said before continuing on.

Not long after he’d wolfed down the rest of his food, he reached the forest of Felwood. From there he continued until he reached the castle. He still had a few coins from the caravan, and he used them to pay for lodgings, food, and a warm room. He left come morning, feeling worlds better than he had before.

The days passed, and he continued his travel. Fires at night kept him comfortable, and steadily the weather warmed, a front of southern air coming along and mocking the snow. At last he reached the King’s Forest. Heartened, Haern jogged at a steady pace. Once he curled around the woods, he’d arrive in no time at Veldaren. He couldn’t wait. Never before had he realized how much he considered the city home.

Twenty minutes later he saw smoke rising from further ahead. Wary of the cause, he upped his pace while slipping closer to the forest so he might hide at a moment’s notice. He rounded a bend, and then stumbled upon a terribly familiar sight. A single wagon was under attack, but instead of horsemen, he recognized them as members of the Serpent Guild. He counted eight of them circling the wagon, most holding bows or crossbows. From where he stood, he couldn’t see any of the defenders, but by the way the Serpents stayed low, refusing to approach, he knew them still alive.

“I leave for a spell and you grow brave enough to assault travelers in daylight?” Haern whispered as he peered around a tree. “I think it’s time the Watcher left a message no guild can ignore.”

He stayed close to the tree line, and once within fifty yards of the wagon, he vanished into the woods completely. Three of the Serpents hid at the edge of the forest, using trees as cover while they fired their crossbows. Haern swung wide so he could approach them directly from behind. He heard them muttering as he neared, offering each other advice where to shoot or where they thought the defenders were hiding.

Haern cursed the vegetation as he neared. He’d heard of men so accustomed to the wild that they could pass across dry leaves without making a sound, yet he crushed twigs and brushed at leaves no matter how stealthy he tried to be. What he’d give for a paved road and the shadows of a building. The three were too focused on the wagon, though, to notice what little noise he made. He thanked Ashhur for small favors.

“Watch for a hand,” the rightmost Serpent said. He looked older than the others, and Haern wondered if he was their leader. “Don’t let that yellow bastard have even a moment, or we’re all dead.”

Haern was less than five feet behind him. With his swords drawn, he took another step, amused that they were so afraid of those in the wagon. Had they bitten off more than they could chew? And who might this ‘yellow bastard’ be? It didn’t matter. He was out of time. Already the Serpents on the other side were closing in, either more confident in their abilities, or having killed some of those inside, he didn’t know. Deciding the one on the right was the most dangerous, he rushed in, his swords leading.

His first attack sliced through the Serpent’s back and into his lung. Haern didn’t bother muffling his scream or holding him steady, for the other two were too near. He slashed with his left arm, hoping for an easy cut, but the thief fell just out of reach. Twisting his blade free, he kicked away the dying man and turned his attention to the other two. The closest tossed his bow and drew a dagger, but the other…

Haern dropped to his belly, the crossbow bolt screaming over his head. The Serpent dove after him, and he rolled, deflecting the thrusts with his swords as he tried to gain distance. He rolled his knees underneath him and then kicked, leaping backward and to his feet. Instead of pressing the advantage, his opponent remained back, a grin on his face.

“Idiot,” said the Serpent as his comrade fired another bolt.

Twisting his cloaks, Haern hoped to confuse him, but as the pain bit deep into his shoulder he knew he’d only partially succeeded. He continued his spin, using his cloaks to obstruct their view of him. It’d only gain him a moment, an extra step closer, but if they were staying defensive, hoping to down him with arrows instead of blades…

He pulled out of the spin, putting every bit of his strength into his jump. He crashed into the closest, pure luck keeping the thief’s dagger from impaling him. As they hit the ground, Haern twisted so his elbow slammed against the man’s throat. The Serpent spewed blood. Before the other could respond, he lashed out, knocking the crossbow off aim. The third bolt struck a tree, its dull thud music to Haern’s ears. Without a melee weapon, his opponent had no chance. Haern’s assault was wild and brutal, with no hint of defense. Two slashes took out the man’s throat, and a third across his hamstring brought him down to the dirt to die.

Finally given a chance to breathe, he cursed and grabbed the bolt in his shoulder. It was deep in his flesh, and a quick glance at the man’s quiver showed barbed heads he couldn’t dare pull out. Gritting his teeth, he recited a mantra he’d been trained as a child, one to help him ignore the effects of pain. He clutched the shaft tighter. Another recital, followed by a deep exhalation. He pushed the bolt through and out the other side.

He screamed.

Tossing the bolt, he leaned against a tree and struggled to catch his breath. It didn’t look like the bolt was poisoned—another lucky break. Evidently the Serpents hadn’t thought their upcoming ambush dangerous enough to spend the time and coin applying some. He looked to the wagon, curious to the state of affairs. He couldn’t see those on the other side, but he saw one Serpent lying dead upon the road, his body curiously aflame. That left four alive at the most. So far none appeared to have detected his ambush, which was all the best. He needed another moment to recover.

But then that moment vanished, for the wagon caught fire.

“Shit,” he muttered. One of the Serpents must have tossed oil and a torch. Black smoke billowed to the air, blocking nearly all his view of the events. Knowing the thieves would be rushing to cut down the survivors, he charged. Pain spiked up his entire left arm, and the sword hung limp in his hand as he ran. He’d block with it if necessary, but it seemed the killing would be restricted to his right.

A figure crawled out of the smoke toward him, a red-haired woman in white.

“Run to the trees!” he shouted to her, not stopping. He swerved about her and leapt straight into the smoke. The heat was tremendous, but so far the fire was restricted to the outer covering. No survivors remained within. He saw a gap in the tarpaulin and leapt.

Just before he landed and rolled, he had a split-second to survey the fight and react. Four Serpents formed a half-circle around the wagon, easily identifiable with their green cloaks. Three men faced them, one in yellow robes wielding a staff, another in gray parrying with two maces, and the third a portly man holding back with a single club to protect himself. There was something tremendously familiar about the way the man with the maces fought, but Haern had no time. He rolled closer to the fat man, no doubt the caravan’s driver or owner. He seemed the least skilled, unable to fend off the single Serpent who weaved side to side.

Haern kicked out of his roll, using his good arm to run the Serpent through. Their collision sent them both tumbling, and Haern screamed as he felt something hard strike his wounded shoulder, and screamed again as a sharp pain pierced his stomach. He rolled off the corpse and saw blood, his blood, covering the thief’s dagger. This time his collision had not been so lucky. Struggling to stand, he turned to the others, his vision a blur of pain, smoke, and tears. One of the two fighting the man in gray had pulled off to address the new threat, and Haern put his swords in position and tried to feign confidence.

His opponent dual-wielded shortswords, and he chopped with both, hoping to overpower Haern. Not a bad strategy, given his condition. He crossed his swords and blocked, the nerves in his wounded shoulder shrieking in protest at the collision. Twice, three times he chopped, as if Haern were a wall to be broken down. The third time Haern’s left arm gave out, and he twisted to avoid the deathblow. He feigned a retreat, but then instead kicked his right foot out, tripping the Serpent. He slashed with his good arm, but it wasn’t lethal, just a cut across the thief’s chest. It bought him time, and this time he did retreat. Blood flowed across his shirt and down his pants. He felt its warmth along his left arm as well. He coughed, and he hoped it was only the smoke, not something worse, that caused it.

His opponent, infuriated by the cut, charged like a mad animal. Haern braced his legs and met it head on, just barely slapping the thrusts aside. Again they collided, but this time he was better positioned. His knee slammed into his attacker’s groin, and he let his wounded arm absorb most of the impact. When the Serpent collapsed to the ground, Haern practically fell upon him. One sword dropped from his left hand, but he stabbed with his right and leaned all his weight upon it. The blade pierced the thief’s belly and bit into the dirt, pinning him there. He thrashed for a moment as he bled out, then went still.

Haern only felt marginally better than the man he killed. The collision had torn the cut on his arm further open, as well as angering the arrow wound. His stomach still ached. He didn’t know how deep it went, but it felt horrendous. He struggled to stand, but couldn’t. At last he yanked out his sword and fell to his back, his breath coming in hurried gasps. So much for leaving the guilds a message. So much for inspiring terror. He’d killed five, only five…

The sounds of fighting ended. His head swam. A man leaned over him, a face he recognized from his past. Another joined it, younger, and female. He was delusional now, he realized. How else to explain why two people, one dead, one missing, spoke down to him, their voices muffled as if speaking through water? How else to explain why Senke was telling him to hold on? Or how Delysia was tearing at his clothes to see the wound in his stomach? He felt pressure there, and then his vision turned yellow, all shapes outlined in red. Sound faded, and then he saw nothing at all.

1

S
he knew Garrick would want an explanation, but Veliana delayed seeing him as long as possible. The longer he wondered and worried, the better. She wanted him to feel belittled, to realize her contempt for him. Anything else might make him think things were different. At last one of their young guild rats found her at a tavern on the other side of the city and informed her of Garrick’s request.

“Tell him I’m on my way,” she said, flicking the boy a copper piece. “But I still plan on finishing my drink first.”

She nursed it for another half-hour. By then several men arrived, all wearing the dark gray of the Ash Guild. They were recent recruits to the guild, men she realized she knew very little about. Garrick’s men, then. Again she cursed herself for being so blind to the man’s ambition. Of course she’d vetted them, knew their names, but that was the limit of her influence upon them.

“Garrick’s waiting,” said one. He was named Gil, if she remembered correctly. Why had she let him in? He looked like a dog had shit out a muscular version of itself that happened to walk on two legs.

“Surely he has more important problems,” she said, draining the last of her glass.

“Than insubordination? No, Veliana, he doesn’t.”

She shot him a wink as she stood.

“Lead on, boys. Three to one to take me to the dance? I feel honored.”

“Shut it.”

It was an hour until sunset, and in the orange glow Veliana felt exposed wearing their cloaks as they traversed across the city. They were deep in Spider territory, and instead of trying to travel through the less profitable outskirts, they marched together through its very center. She saw a few men in the softer gray cloaks, but they did not accost them, nor hail for an explanation. Strange.

Deathmask was already waiting in the chamber when Veliana arrived. Garrick sat on his cushions, smoking as usual. He looked incredibly pleased, which threw her off. She expected him to be ranting and raving. And why was Deathmask there? Was she about to witness another attempt on his life? Not counting herself or Deathmask, twelve men gathered about. All were armed. She felt her worry grow. What if this wasn’t for the stranger they’d invited? What if this was for her execution?

Her hands brushed the daggers at her hip. If it came to that, she’d take Garrick down with her, no matter the cost. Better the Ash Guild dissolved leaderless than continue in the hands of that paranoid bastard.

“You know how to keep a gentleman waiting,” Garrick said as she arrived.

“I’m sure Deathmask will forgive me.”

Garrick chuckled, not at all bothered by the slight.

“Well, we’re all here now. Before we begin…Vel, would you care to hand over your daggers? I’d hate for someone to get hurt.”

It took all her concentration to hide her panic. Should she do it? If she refused, it might make her seem all the more rebellious. Its meaning might also be taken to a far worse, though truthful, extreme. She glanced at Deathmask, and during the brief moment their eyes connected, she saw the corner of his mouth curl into a grin, followed by a wink.

Trusting him, she handed over her daggers and crossed her arms.

“I trust I won’t like what I’m about to hear if you’d insult me so,” she said.

“Perhaps, but I am not the one who shall be speaking.” He turned to Deathmask. “Tell me, please, why Veliana is still alive.”

All about men murmured, and she wondered how they were interpreting that statement.

“I do not understand,” Deathmask said, feigning confusion. “Is there a reason she should not be?”

“Don’t lie to me. I know she attacked you last night. One of my men watched your exchange. Tell me, why is it you didn’t kill her? She did, after all, try to kill you.”

“I assumed it just a training exercise,” Deathmask said, the lie smooth on his tongue. “Veliana confirmed as much near the end of our fight. Was I wrong in my assumption? Was her response to me a lie?”

This was clearly not the answer Garrick had expected. He frowned and shifted in his cushion.

“Yes, you damn fool, you were wrong, and she a liar. You should be dead, yet are not.”

Veliana held her tongue. What game was Garrick playing? She’d warned him at revealing attempts to murder an accepted member without reason or proof, yet here he was exposing his plans to the guild, and not just that, but showing how they had failed.

“For what reason would she attack me?” Deathmask asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? She fears you. She knows with your skill you might quickly ascend to take her place. Isn’t that right, Veliana?”

He grinned at her, his bloodshot eyes twinkling. Veliana’s hands shook as she choked down her outrage. So that was it. He’d cast the shame of a failed inner-guild execution on her, and if she tried to deny it, it was her word against his. Her word against the word of their guildmaster. One clearly outranked the other. The punishment for such a charge was limited to two options: banishment, or death.

Staring at that grin, she knew which option Garrick had already chosen.

“You planned this from the start,” she said, her voice nearly a whisper. Garrick stood and stepped closer as the rest of the guild tensed. They understood the accusation, and they too knew the possible punishments.

“I merely took advantage of an opportunity,” he whispered so only she could hear. She glared at Deathmask, suddenly wondering how many of his promises had been lies. Perhaps all of them. He’d set her up, she realized. She’d wasted time debating and discussing with Zusa when she should have killed the bastard. All attempts on his life had been made in secret, with no one else informed. They’d all died as well. No one could prove Garrick’s attempts. Once more, his word against hers. Damn it all!

“As you know,” Garrick said, raising his voice to a theatrical level as he turned his back to her. “Our laws are clear for such an attempt. We cannot have anarchy within our ranks, not in this crucial time while we fight for our very survival.” He spun. “You will be made an example, Veliana, one for the entire guild to see.”

“Guildmaster, if I may make a request,” said Deathmask. Garrick seemed worried, but he gestured for him to continue. “Since it was my life she tried to take, I ask that I be the one to carry out her punishment.”

“You fuck,” she said, her hands clenched tight into fists. “You sick little fuck.”

She feinted a lunge at Garrick and then hurled herself at Deathmask. She was unarmed, but even with her bare hands she knew a multitude of ways to kill. If she could strike him just right, crush his throat or snap his neck, then at least she’d die taking revenge. Her fist slammed into his mouth, just in case he attempted to cast a spell. With her other fist she doubled him over with a blow to the stomach. She heard men shouting, but she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. Just a single hard twist and then…

Something hard smacked the back of her head. Her stomach heaved, and her whole body went limp. Deathmask pulled free, and he shouted for the others to leave her be.

“She is mine,” he said. “Guildmaster, I ask, is your punishment for this madwoman execution?”

“It is,” said Garrick. He sounded amused by her display.

Her helpless rage grew. The men let her go, but it took all her strength to stand. Already a knot grew on the back of her head. She felt ready to vomit. Deathmask closed the distance, and her wild punch missed. He grabbed her by the throat and flung her against a wall. A dagger flashed from his belt and pressed against her neck.

“Do you trust me?” he whispered into her ear. His grip tightened around her throat. Her eyes met his, and against all her instincts, something in those brown orbs gave her hope. She nodded, a barely perceptible movement given how tightly he held her against the wall.

“Then stay perfectly still.”

He muttered a few more words, soft whispers hidden by his grin. At last he pulled back his dagger and stabbed her chest, in and out with such speed her blood was flowing before she ever felt the pain. Black dots cluttered her vision as he held her still.

“Sleep in darkness,” she heard him say as the rest of the Ash Guild hooted and hollered. No doubt Garrick was one of them. She tried to curse his name as she died, but her whole body was turning rigid, refusing to cooperate, refusing to struggle, refusing to breathe…

And then the darkness came, and she could only obey Deathmask’s request.

*

O
ric waited until mid-afternoon before heading out. He traveled south along the main road, ignoring the peddlers and the beggars. He veered off when appropriate, making his way to the mercenary’s guild. While it had once been a weak entity, the years of battle and constant work had filled its coffers, upgraded its recruitment, and increased its influence. Anyone wanting work had to go through them. There were some advantages, like guarantees in price or insurance should some of the higher ranked fail to fulfill their duties. Mostly Oric thought it a grand scheme to jack up the cost of hiring mercenaries, but what did he know?

The building itself was still small, little more than a large cube to house records and provide the wealthy a place to visit close enough to the main road that they might not be afraid. Oric entered, crossing his fingers as he looked about the office hoping to see an old friend. Sure enough, there he was, white bushy unibrow and all.

“Oric?” asked the old man as he came from a back room to the front at the sound of a bell ringing above the door. “Come closer, my eyes aren’t what they…so it is you! Good to see you, you ugly son of a bitch.”

Oric grinned. “Was worried you’d died off, or been replaced by someone who can still remember what happened more than an hour prior.”

The old man laughed. His name was Bill Trett, and in Oric’s former sellsword life, a respected colleague. Bill had killed until his strength failed him, but by then he’d acquired such a wealth of knowledge of the various employers that the guild taught him his numbers and set him in charge of the guild’s transactions.

“You see this mess?” he asked, pointing to the various shelves stocked with expensive paper. “Only I know where everything’s at. They’ll keep me on until I die, and perhaps a little bit longer than that if they can figure out a way.”

“Gods know they need you,” Oric said. “The Trifect still filling your purses?”

Bill waved a dismissive hand. “The money’s steadied, nearly every one of ‘em just wanting the bare minimum. Not like when this mess first started, when I saw more gold change hands than I could count. Blood really filled the streets then, didn’t it?”

Oric smiled, remembering the many thieves he’d cut down while in Leon Connington’s pay. It’d been a very good year.

“I think Alyssa’s going to give everyone some work later today, so be prepared,” Oric said. Bill raised his eyebrows but didn’t inquire further. “But for myself, I need a favor, Bill.”

“What’s that? Not that I should be doing
you
any favors. Last I remember, I saved your life up in Felwood, not the other way around.”

“If not for favor, then for gold,” he said, dropping a bulging coin purse atop the desk. “I need the best you have to hire, and I don’t mean who the guild thinks is the best. You know every sellsword from here to Angelport, and I want your real opinion. I need someone who could find a mouse in a forest before an owl could; that damn good.”

Bill rubbed his chin as his milky eyes stared off into nowhere.

“I suppose you don’t mind if he’s a bit unsavory?”

“He can be the ugliest, meanest bastard you know. I’d probably prefer it. We’d get along.”

Bill laughed, but it was lacking in humor.

“I know of one, and he’s good, Oric. He’s all the way over from southern Ker, though some say he ain’t even from Dezrel. Out of the nine jobs he’s done for me, he’s never once failed to catch his prey, and always done it with days to spare. Been tough getting work lately, though. Charges twice what anyone else does.”

“What’s his name?”

“He calls himself Ghost. I’m not brave enough to tell him to pick something more original. Besides, with this guy, it’s fitting once you see his face.”

Oric crossed his arms. “What’s that mean?”