A Dance of Chaos: Book 6 of Shadowdance (53 page)

That said, she pulled away from him and turned her attention to the Gemcroft caravan.

“I have a family to be with,” she said. “I trust you’ll handle Veldaren well enough while I’m gone?”

“I’ll do what I can,” he said, smiling at her. “And Zusa … thank you.”

Pulling his hood back over his head, he climbed to the apex of the rooftop and then slid down from view. Zusa watched him go, and she wondered if she’d made a mistake in not telling him.

Down to the street she climbed, then ran to join Alyssa and Nathaniel in their wagon.

That night the three of them gathered around a campfire in the heart of the circle of wagons. Veldaren was a glowing candle in the distance, and the atmosphere was one of celebration. Alyssa had ordered several kegs opened, and her servants and soldiers drank themselves stupid. Zusa smiled amid the revelry, soaking in the joy despite feeling ill herself.

“You’re going to love Riverrun,” Alyssa told Nathaniel, who sat next to her, chomping on a chicken leg. “There are rows of falls, each with deep pools between them, that you can just dive and swim…”

“Does the boy know how to swim?” Zusa asked.

“I’m right here,” Nathaniel said. “And yes, the
boy
does know how to swim.”

“My apologies,” Zusa said, dipping her head. “Next time, I will ask the boy directly.”

He glared, but it was comical, overemphasized, and she laughed. That laughter quickly ended as she felt her stomach shifting, suddenly and with little warning. Turning aside, she let out a single cough before she vomited up much of her meal. The smell was awful, the taste of the greasy meat coming back up her throat no better. She coughed again, trying to recover her breath.

“Are you sick?” Nathaniel asked, and Zusa smiled despite the silliness of the question.

“With nothing you can catch,” she told him.

“All right, it’s late,” Alyssa said, tapping Nathaniel on the back. “Go on and get to bed. We have an early start tomorrow.”

Nathaniel kissed his mother’s cheek, then wandered off toward the tent the servants had erected for him. Alyssa remained behind at the fire, glass eyes staring at Zusa from across it. Zusa wondered what she was thinking, how she might react.

“I remember my sickness when I carried Nathaniel, and it wasn’t always in the morning,” she said. “How long have you known?”

For a brief moment Zusa thought to lie, a ridiculous notion given how quickly it’d be found out. Stare locked on the fire, she felt strangely nervous and embarrassed as she answered.

“Not long,” she said. “Two weeks ago my blood never came.”

Alyssa rose from her seat, walked around the fire, and then sat cross-legged beside her. She leaned forward, hands clasped. No judgment. No anger. Just concentration.

“Do you know who the father is?” she asked.

Zusa nodded, said nothing.

“Will you tell him?”

It was the one question that had been raging in her mind for weeks. Zusa looked up, mind finally made, heart finally ready. Would she tell him? Would she add another burden to an already burdened man? Reaching out, she grabbed Alyssa’s hands, gripped them tightly as she met her gaze and gave her answer.

Well, that’s it. Six books finished, and if you’ve made it this far, I’d like to think they all did something right to keep you reading to the very end. I’m not going to pretend it went as I expected it all to go, and there were plenty of characters (Ghost and Zusa in particular) who threw me for several loops along the way. I guess that’s part of the fun, and the reason you go on the journey in the first place, right?

To those of you who have read the Half-Orc series, know that I did my best to keep continuity intact, but if there are any breaks or changes, treat this as the definitive version of that first battle in
The Weight of Blood
. The same goes for the fight in
The Cost of Betrayal
between Thren and Haern. Consider the ending confrontation here in Chapter 33 (and to a lesser extent, the final relationship between Haern and Delysia) to be what I’ve always felt these characters deserved. Hopefully they’re also far more satisfying to you longtime readers than what I delivered in the Half-Orcs. I guess I’d also be remiss if I didn’t at least address the potential question of “What the heck was up with the prophet?” The answer is in the Half-Orc books. I’ll try to just leave it at that.

Anyway, after Thren and Haern tore into each other near the end of the last book, having their confrontation finally come to a head here was awesome. Brutal, and there might have been a few tears in this writer’s eyes, but still awesome. No matter all he had gone through, a piece of Aaron Felhorn still remains, still wishing to be loved by his father. I’ve always thought of Thren as a monster, and there at the end, he finally reveals just how terrible a monster he really is. It’s a scene I have had in my head for years now, a scene I was terrified I would fail to make as powerful as it was in my own imagination. God I hope I pulled it off.

As for the ending … to stave off the (likely many) e-mails I’m sure to get: yes, I do have plans to use that twist sometime far down the road. No, I make absolutely no promises as to how and when we might eventually get to see Haern and Zusa’s child, nor in what manner, nor in what series. This is me leaving the door open the tiniest crack, just in case I ever decide to return. I hope you’ll forgive me for taking the luxury while I have the chance.

Real quick obligatory thanks. Thank you, Devi, for being a fantastic editor throughout all six books, helping me shape this series while also never letting me forget how much room for improvement there is in all aspects. Thank you, Michael, for handling all the publishing stuff so I don’t have to. Thank you, Rob, for listening to my rambling phone calls as I debate what the heck to do with Zusa or Alyssa.

Last, but certainly not least, I want to thank you, dear readers. Three-quarters of a million words later, you’re still here with me. For such an investment of your time, I hope I have given you an exciting journey. I hope I’ve given you characters you cherish, characters whom, whether they lived or died, you’ll remember for a long time after setting this book down and moving on to another. You came into my world, asking to be entertained, and I hope I repaid that privilege well with a damn fine story.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I’m living a dream, and it’s because of you. There’s no way I can thank you enough. But just because I can’t, doesn’t mean I won’t try. So, from the bottom of my heart:

Thank you.

David Dalglish
July 2, 2014

www.orbitbooks.net

look out for

by

He had many names. Although yet to reach his thirtieth year, history had seen fit to bestow upon him titles aplenty: Sword of the Realm to the mad king who sent him to plague us, the Young Hawk to the men who followed him through the trials of war, Darkblade to his Cumbraelin enemies and, as I was to learn much later, Beral Shak Ur to the enigmatic tribes of the Great Northern Forest – the Shadow of the Raven.

But my people knew him by only one name and it was this that sang in my head continually the morning they brought him to the docks:
Hope Killer. Soon you will die and I will see it. Hope Killer.

Although he was certainly taller than most men, I was surprised to find that, contrary to the tales I had heard, he was no giant, and whilst his features were strong they could hardly be called handsome. His frame was muscular but not possessed of the massive thews described so vividly by the storytellers. The only aspect of his appearance to match his legend was his eyes: black as jet and piercing as a hawk’s. They said his eyes could strip a man’s soul bare, that no secret could be hidden if he met your gaze. I had never believed it but seeing him now, I could see why others would.

The prisoner was accompanied by a full company of the Imperial Guard, riding in close escort, lances ready, hard eyes scanning the watching crowd for trouble. The crowd, however, were silent. They stopped to stare at him as he rode through, but there were no shouts, no insults or missiles hurled. I recalled that they knew this man, for a brief time he had ruled their city and commanded a foreign army within its walls, yet I saw no hate in their faces, no desire for vengeance. Mostly they seemed curious. Why was he here? Why was he alive at all?

The company reined in on the wharf, the prisoner dismounting to be led to the waiting vessel. I put my notes away and rose from my resting place atop a spice barrel, nodding at the captain. ‘Honour to you, sir.’

The captain, a veteran Guards officer with a pale scar running along his jawline and the ebony skin of the southern Empire, returned the nod with practised formality. ‘Lord Verniers.’

‘I trust you had an untroubled journey?’

The captain shrugged. ‘A few threats here and there. Had to crack a few heads in Jesseria, the locals wanted to hang the Hope Killer’s carcass from their temple spire.’

I bridled at the disloyalty. The Emperor’s Edict had been read in all towns through which the prisoner would travel, its meaning plain: no harm will come to the Hope Killer. ‘The Emperor will hear of it,’ I said.

‘As you wish, but it was a small matter.’ He turned to the prisoner. ‘Lord Verniers, I present the Imperial prisoner Vaelin Al Sorna.’

I nodded formally to the tall man, the name a steady refrain in my head.
Hope Killer, Hope Killer …
‘Honour to you, sir,’ I forced the greeting out.

His black eyes met mine for a second, piercing, enquiring. For a moment I wondered if the more outlandish stories were true, if there was magic in the gaze of this savage. Could he truly strip the truth from a man’s soul? Since the war, stories had abounded of the Hope Killer’s mysterious powers. He could talk to animals, command the Nameless and shape the weather to his will. His steel was tempered with the blood of fallen enemies and would never break in battle. And worst of all, he and his people worshipped the dead, communing with the shades of their forebears to conjure forth all manner of foulness. I gave little credence to such folly, reasoning that if the Northmen’s magics were so powerful, how had they contrived to suffer such a crushing defeat at our hands?

‘My lord.’ Vaelin Al Sorna’s voice was harsh and thickly accented, his Alpiran had been learned in a dungeon and his tones were no doubt coarsened by years of shouting above the clash of weapons and screams of the fallen to win victory in a hundred battles, one of which had cost me my closest friend and the future of this Empire.

I turned to the captain. ‘Why is he shackled? The Emperor ordered he be treated with respect.’

‘The people didn’t like seeing him riding unfettered,’ the captain explained. ‘The prisoner suggested we shackle him to avoid trouble.’ He moved to Al Sorna and unlocked the restraints. The big man massaged his wrists with scarred hands.

‘My lord!’ A shout from the crowd. I turned to see a portly man in a white robe hurrying towards us, face wet with unaccustomed exertion. ‘A moment, please!’

The captain’s hand inched closer to his sabre but Al Sorna was unconcerned, smiling as the portly man approached. ‘Governor Aruan.’

The portly man halted, wiping sweat from his face with a lace scarf. In his left hand he carried a long bundle wrapped in cloth. He nodded at the captain and myself but addressed himself to the prisoner. ‘My lord. I never thought to see you again. Are you well?’

‘I am, Governor. And you?’

The portly man spread his right hand, lace scarf dangling from his thumb, jewelled rings on every finger. ‘Governor no longer. Merely a poor merchant these days. Trade is not what it was, but we make our way.’

‘Lord Verniers.’ Vaelin Al Sorna gestured at me. ‘This is Holus Nester Aruan, former Governor of the City of Linesh.’

‘Honoured Sir.’ Aruan greeted me with a short bow.

‘Honoured Sir,’ I replied formally. So this was the man from whom the Hope Killer had seized the city. Aruan’s failure to take his own life in dishonour had been widely remarked upon in the aftermath of the war but the Emperor (Gods preserve him in his wisdom and mercy) had granted clemency in light of the extraordinary circumstances of the Hope Killer’s occupation. Clemency, however, had not extended to a continuance of his Governorship.

Aruan turned back to Al Sorna. ‘It pleases me to find you well. I wrote to the Emperor begging mercy.’

‘I know, your letter was read at my trial.’

I knew from the trial records that Aruan’s letter, written at no small risk to his life, had formed part of the evidence describing curiously uncharacteristic acts of generosity and mercy by the Hope Killer during the war. The Emperor had listened patiently to it all before ruling that the prisoner was on trial for his crimes, not his virtues.