A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (43 page)

“Will you not worship like the others?” Deathmask asked.

“There is a time and place for everything,” Calan said. “And for now, my heart is on the challenge at hand.”

“When do we attack?”

The priest shook his head.

“We will not. I told you, this is merely a cage.”

Deathmask chuckled.

“We’ll see how Karak’s priests like being caged, then. Will you call for them?”

Again Calan shook his head.

“They know we are here, and they will answer the challenge. It comes down to strength and will, and I pray we have enough of both.”

Deathmask would have preferred assaulting immediately instead of forfeiting the element of surprise, but he’d long ago learned his influence over men of faith was limited at best. Staying at Calan’s side, he watched the rest of Ashhur’s faithful surround the temple, keeping an even spacing between them. Their singing grew louder, and given how it made Deathmask uncomfortable, he could only imagine what it felt like to Karak’s worshippers inside. Nails on glass was his assumption.

The singing continued for several minutes more. Deathmask remained tense, certain the priests inside were forming a plan of attack. Under no circumstances did he believe, even for a moment, that Karak’s minions would willingly accept imprisonment on such an important night. Dipping his fingers into the bag of ash tied to his side, he almost put up his floating mask, then decided against it. Intimidating a priest of the dark god, the brutal Lion of order? There was little point in that. Still, should push come to spellcasting, Deathmask trusted himself to have a trick or two neither party had seen before.

With a deep rumble, the door to the temple opened.

“About bloody time,” Deathmask muttered. “Not sure I could handle any more singing.”

Six priests stepped out, wearing the dark robes of their order. They all appeared to be in the later stages of life, hair gray or thinning. Some wore pendants of the Lion, others chains of silver and gold on their wrists and bare ankles. None looked to be in a good mood, but neither did they seem particularly afraid. The six kept silent, only shifting so that three each were on either side of the temple door. Then came the seventh, and Deathmask knew immediately he was their leader, Pelarak. Besides the air of authority he carried, the chains around his neck signified his role as high priest. Deathmask knew little of him despite his time studying at the Council’s libraries and paying off informants throughout Veldaren.

Pelarak stepped out from the others, and he lifted his arms. The priests of Ashhur quieted their song so Pelarak’s words might be heard.

“What foolish spectacle is this?” he asked. Though his frame was short and slender, he sounded larger than his body should allow. Stronger. More intimidating. “You dare sing your songs of weakness and frailty so that they reverberate throughout the house of the strong? You dare spit in the face of the god who built this city, the god who would lift mankind up from the pit it has created for itself? Tell me why you have come, then leave us in peace.”

Calan stepped forward, arms at his sides and head held high. In many ways, he and Pelarak seemed so similar, men who might have been brothers if not for the gulf between their faiths. Except that while Calan looked welcoming, and as if he could not hurt a butterfly, a hard edge seemed to lurk in Pelarak’s features.

“Peace is all we seek,” Calan said. “We have not come to fight, but we will if we must. Battle rages on the walls, and we cannot allow you to interfere. Remain in your temple until the night has passed, and then we shall leave you be.”

Pelarak looked to the priests surrounding his temple, then brought his attention back to Calan.

“Your greater numbers are irrelevant,” he said. “And what is it you fear we will do in the battle? Aid in our own city’s destruction? We fight against the chaos of life, child of Ashhur. We do not foster chaos. You have no purpose here. You accomplish nothing, now go before Karak’s might must be revealed to you.”

Calan’s voice was surprisingly steady given what he demanded.

“Show me,” he said, and it seemed even Pelarak was caught off guard. “Show me Karak’s might.”

Deathmask drummed his fingers against his sides, almost itching to cast a spell. Was Calan insane? Or did he yearn for a fight despite his earlier claims? Taking a few more steps away from the priest (just for safety, of course), he watched in anticipation for … what exactly, he was not sure. The might of Karak? What did that even mean? Were the two about to duel? Deathmask had to fight off the urge to glance up at Veliana and the twins on the rooftops to his left. If things got crazy, which he had a feeling could be a very serious possibility, he hoped the three would remain disciplined enough to wait for his signal to interfere. The last thing he wanted was to have his guild screw up something it didn’t understand.

Pelarak took two more steps so that he was at the foot of the stairs, then stretched out his arms to either side, palms upward as if in supplication to the skies above.

“So you ask,” said the priest. “So shall you receive.”

The dark, empty-looking mansion suddenly changed. Behind Pelarak was now a towering edifice of black marble. Obsidian statues of the Lion reared up all throughout its garden, and above its door was a skull of the beast, teeth stained red with blood. The place seemed to pulse with strength, the sight of it placing a worm of doubt in Deathmask’s stomach, doubt that grew when Pelarak dropped to his knees before the temple and raised his arms higher.

“I stand before the face of doubt,” Pelarak cried to the heavens. “Karak, my god, give me your strength. Give me the might of the Lion!”

It seemed the night grew darker, all color fading from the world. The six priests behind him began a dull chant, the words indecipherable. The temple seemed to pulse once, and then the rain grew silent. Whatever songs Ashhur’s priests had been singing ended, for Deathmask heard them no longer. The sky above filled with stars despite the rain, which continued to fall without any apparent source.

“Behold the Lion,” Pelarak said, and it seemed the world trembled at the proclamation. “Behold the waiting Truth at the end of life.”

Deathmask knew he stood on one of many dark, paved streets of Veldaren, but his mind refused to acknowledge it. Beneath his feet whirled a million stars, intermixed with shapes and colors similar to suns and clouds, only of a size vast beyond his comprehension. Firm ground remained beneath his feet, yet it felt as if he were floating, lost in the void. And then he realized the void was alive, breathing, grumbling,
roaring
.

The Lion had come. Deathmask saw its eyes before him, each one larger than the temple. His stomach twisted. Not larger than the temple. Larger than the world, larger than a million worlds. They burned with fire, and the gaze seemed to strip Deathmask down to naked flesh and bone, taking account of his life and dismissing it within a single beat of his heart.

Before the infinite expanse, they were but specks of dust resting upon the tiniest of fleas that crawled through the celestial fur. Through his hands Pelarak wielded the Lion’s power, guiding its claws, controlling the teeth made of stars and shadow. When the priest rose to his feet, letting out a primal cry of anger, the Lion roared with him. Down its gullet Deathmask saw a million souls crawling in a futile attempt to escape, their shrieks of ache and torment so loud he felt he was trapped with them. When he breathed in deep, he smelled charred flesh and tasted burning meat on his tongue. On and on went the roar, terrifying in its ceaseless fury. Before such a display, he knew they had no chance to defeat it. Whatever tricks he wielded were nothing before such all-encompassing majesty. They’d awoken a foe that knew no equal, that feared no spell, that could not understand defeat. Also awoken was an emotion Deathmask had not felt in a very, very long time: terror.

All he could think to do was bow, and he was not the only one. Many of the priests of Ashhur did the same, crumpling to their knees as if someone had slashed out their heels.

But Calan did not. He took a step toward the temple and lifted a single, glowing hand.

“Enough.”

His word was a shock wave that shook the world. A wave of light rolled off him in all directions, and as it passed over the rain the drops themselves froze in place, hovering in midair. Deathmask let out a gasp, feeling as if fresh air had been poured into his lungs. Another step, and a glow spread throughout the priest’s garment, softly enveloping his face and hands.

“Behold the illusions,” Calan said, and it seemed that with every word he spoke the light upon his body shone brighter. “Behold the lies. Behold the fear.”

Everything—the power, the certainty, the worldly dominance—it all crumbled. The stars collapsed, the wailing souls ceased. The eyes of the Lion became nothing, and high above, the dark clouds returned. No longer did fire burn in the distance, no longer did the smell of burning flesh reach his nose.

“Behold the emptiness denied.”

Another shock wave, and the last of the godly beast vanished with a fading cry. The rain fell as it always had, and the patter of its landing upon the streets and rooftops returned. Calan pointed to the temple, and at the simple gesture, the ground cracked between them like a spreading vein, breaking the obsidian stone steps. All seven priests of Karak dropped to their knees, unable to stand. The priests of Ashhur returned to their feet, and they lifted their hands heavenward as they began to sing anew.

“Your role this night is done,” Calan told the seven. “Go into your temple, and do not leave it.”

And then, to Deathmask’s shock and relief, the priests did just that.

“Never tangle with priests,” he muttered to himself. “Should have listened to you, Vel.”

He glanced over his shoulder to where the rest of his guild were supposed to be hiding, curious if they had witnessed the same thing as he. It seemed they had, for Veliana was shaking her head at him, looking more disgusted than before. Even Mier and Nien appeared rattled, their weapons drawn and twirling in their fingers.

Running his hands through his hair, Deathmask rejoined Calan’s side as the other priests resumed their songs.

“You handled yourself well,” the priest said at his arrival.

“I’m not sure I agree,” Deathmask said, thinking off his terror and hopelessness.

“I’ve seen grown men weep and soil their garments before such demonstrations of power,” Calan said, shaking his head. “Many of my own fell to their knees just the same, and they have the strength of their faith to cling to in their despair. What do you have, to have not broken as they did?”

“I have nothing, not even my own name,” Deathmask said. “Maybe that’s the trick, to have nothing?”

The priest smiled a tired smile.

“Perhaps,” he said.

Deathmask nodded to the temple as several more of the priests joined them, gathering toward the front now that the confrontation seemed to be over.

“Plenty of time to go before all this madness settles down,” he said. “At least it’s good to know all the priests are locked up safe and tight while we figure everything else out.”

“Not all of them,” one of the priests said, earning him Deathmask’s full attention. He was one of the younger ones who had been watching over the temple while awaiting their arrival, Deathmask realized.

“Would you care to elaborate?” he asked.

The young man turned to Calan, who nodded for him to continue.

“A few left just before you arrived,” the young man said. “Since they weren’t many, just five of them, we stayed hidden like we were told.”

“You’ve done fine,” Calan said, putting a hand on the man’s shoulder in an attempt to ease his worries. Deathmask, however, had no patience for such things.

“Where did they go?” he asked. “What direction did they turn?”

The man pointed down the street.

“They went all the way to the end, then turned south,” he said.

South?
Deathmask took Calan by the arm and pulled him away from the others.

“Nearly all of Veldaren’s soldiers have gathered at the west gate,” he said in a low voice.

“Which leaves the south gate vulnerable,” Calan said, finishing the thought. “I’m sorry, I cannot spare any of my men. We must stay here, and ensure those within the temple do not attempt to break through our line.”

Deathmask let out a groan. This was stupid. This was insane. Worst of all, this was completely not like him. But if the southern gate were to fall, and the rest of the city fell with it …

“I’ll make sure it holds,” he said, and before Calan could say a word, he whipped about, motioned for the rest of his guild to join him, and then began jogging. He was halfway to the turn by the time they descended the building and caught up with him.

“Where are we going?” Veliana asked.

“To the south gate,” Deathmask said. “To make sure no idiot priests open a door for our lovely invading orcs.”

“No,” Veliana said, and she stopped. Deathmask clenched his teeth to hold down his groan as he turned to face her.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I said no. We’re not soldiers.”

“You’re good at killing,” Deathmask said. “That’s close enough.”

“We don’t fight wars, and we don’t put our lives on the line for others without reason.” Veliana crossed her arms. “Do you really think this city has a chance to fall? These walls have stood for centuries. Let the king’s men handle this.”

Deathmask knew others would be upset by being challenged so brazenly, but that was the reason he adored Veliana so in the first place. She spoke her mind, and more often than not, she was correct, but not this time.

“Listen to me,” he said. “Were you not paying attention when the skulls flew over the walls? This isn’t a normal army, they aren’t led by a normal leader, and the orcs aren’t the kind to conquer a city in any civilized sense. This is extermination we all face, the obliteration of everything we’ve ever built. I don’t feel like running for my life tonight. Do you? Do any of you?”

The twins stood at either side of Veliana, faces eerily calm.