A Dance of Cloaks (53 page)

The mercenaries gave chase, but they wore heavy armor and carried shields. They slaughtered a dozen that still remained at the ropes, but the rest scattered on the other side of the gate and into the night. Thren led the way, wishing for some way to gain the night over again.

T
ake him,” Alyssa said once the guilds were gone and Zusa had returned to her side. Bodies lay everywhere, and the yard stank of battle. Two soldiers lifted Maynard’s into their arms. They must have known him well, Alyssa realized, for they showed true sadness at his passing. She shook her head, wishing for a moment of privacy so she might shed her tears. But now she was Lady Gemcroft, member of the Trifect. There was too much to do.

Her father in her escort’s arms, she approached the mansion feeling like the lost heir come home.

Home. No matter how sad the moment, the word still felt achingly comfortable in her heart.

Epilogue

D
eep inside his safehouse, Thren talked with two men newly appointed as his advisors. None had the strength of Will, the cunning of Kayla, or the skill of Senke. They were sycophants, pure and simple, but he needed them now. He had little else.

Their news was grim. The assassination attempt on the king had failed. The men stationed at Connington’s had suffered horrible casualties, eventually setting fire to the mansion before frantically fleeing. Somehow, Madelyn Keenan had been found and rescued, along with the king’s advisor’s wife. His own son was missing, and some one-eyed woman was spreading rumors that she’d killed him and left him to die in the fire at Connington’s. Worst of all was his defeat at the Gemcroft estate.

“The priests of Karak have sworn no retribution for the acts of your son did against them,” one of the sycophants said. “At least Maynard died, and you kept your word to them.”

Thren shook his head.

“Get out,” he said. The men quickly obeyed. In silence, Thren brooded. His mystique, his prestige, his years and years of respect, had vanished in a single night. Every aspect of his plan had collapsed. Every single guild in the city had taken massive casualties. None would trust him. He’d have men poaching on his territory. The Trifect was already coming down hard, swarming the streets with their troops. Priests of Ashhur roamed as well, putting a halt to many of his enterprises.

Thren drew a sword and slashed his palm. He raised a clenched fist to the ceiling and bared his teeth.

“This isn’t over,” he swore. “Not now. Not ever. Not until every Lord and Lady of the Trifect lies rotting in their grave.”

He kissed his fist, tasting the blood on his lips. He had no son. No heir. Death would be his legacy.

T
he man paced nervously before the wreckage. Despite the massive amount of ash and rubble, he felt certain some juicy remnants still hid within the remains of the Connington estate. The castle guards patrolled by every so often, but soon they’d switch shifts and he’d have his chance.

He backed away from the gate a bit, slinking further into the shadows. As he did he felt something sharp poke against his back.

“A Spider?” he heard a boy’s voice ask.

“Serpent,” the man said, his hand slowly dropping to his dagger.

“They are all one and the same.”

The man whirled but not fast enough. The dagger flew from his hand. Something sharp pierced his belly. As the pain doubled him over, pain slashed his face. Through the blood in his eyes, he saw a blurry image of a young boy standing before him, his face fully covered by a thin cloth of gray. Quiet, unmoving, the boy watched him die, then vanished into the night.

A Note from the Author:

Winter is coming.

Those words, and the book that contained them, changed everything I knew about writing a fantasy book. Reading A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin was an incredible, yet humbling, experience. I doubt I will ever write something equal to the scope of his first two chapters, let alone his entire series. But knowing I may never do so doesn’t remove my desire to at least try. After all, so many of us are dancing in Tolkien’s shadow, so why not try for something a little modern, a little bloodier, and a little different?

I wrote this as a standalone novel, though fans of my Half-Orc Series will recognize faces here or there. The most obvious is Haern. My father has been a faithful supporter of my writing and has helped immensely in calling me out when I do something stupid (which is often). After finishing the second book, Cost of Betrayal, he said that of all my characters, he thought Haern the Watcher had the most potential for a separate book. At first, I dismissed him. What story for him did I have to tell?

Turns out, a damn good one. I reread the painfully brief history I gave for him, and even in that, I saw potential. Here was my chance to write a story, one without elves and orcs and spells so powerful they’d feel right at home in a Japanese anime. I could focus on humans, the low and the desperate. I could tell of a clash between the rich and the poor, and from within it, a boy rescued from darkness. Aaron Felhorn’s salvation from the ways of Karak and his father are just as important as Thren’s monumental failure at the Kensgold.

Since I know I will receive emails asking, I’ll go ahead and answer right now: yes, there will be a sequel, tentatively titled A Dance of Blades. No, I do not know when. I must turn my focus back to my half-orcs for now, but within the year, I will return. Haern, while saved from Thren, is still not saved from himself. The war between the thief guilds and the Trifect is not over. Plenty of blood still waits to be shed.

But enough rambling. Thank you Derek, for your wonderful edits. This book wouldn’t be half as good without you. Thanks to my father, for the inspiration. And most importantly, I thank you, reader, for purchasing my work, and humbly ask for a response of any kind, through email (
[email protected]
), or reviews, or rankings at wherever you might have stumbled upon my little story. I hope you weren’t too confused, and that I gave you plenty of hours lost in my world. Time is precious, dear reader, and I’m honored that you spent it with me.

David Dalglish

August 6, 2010

Flaming Dove

by

Daniel Arenson

If you enjoyed
A Dance of Cloaks
, you'll enjoy Daniel Arenson's dark fantasy novel
Flaming Dove
.

Outcast from Hell. Banished from Heaven. Lost on Earth.

The battle of Armageddon was finally fought... and ended with no clear victor. Upon the mountain, the armies of Hell and Heaven beat each other into a bloody, uneasy standstill, leaving the Earth in ruins. Armageddon should have ended with Heaven winning, ushering in an era of peace. That's what the prophecies said. Instead, the two armies—one of angels, one of demons—hunker down in the scorched planet, lick their wounds, and gear up for a prolonged war with no end in sight.

In this chaos of warring armies and ruined landscapes, Laila doesn't want to take sides. Her mother was an angel, her father a demon; she is outcast from both camps. And yet both armies need her, for with her mixed blood, Laila can become the ultimate spy... or ultimate soldier. As the armies of Heaven and Hell pursue her, Laila's only war is within her heart—a struggle between her demonic and heavenly blood.

Here's a preview from
Flaming Dove
:

I am Laila, of the night. I have walked through godlight and through darkness. I have fought demons and I have slain angels. I am Laila, of the shadows. I have hidden and run, and I have stood up and striven. I am Laila, of tears and blood, of sins and of piety. I am Laila, outcast from Hell, banished from Heaven. I am alone, in darkness. I am Laila, of light and of fire. I am fallen. I rise again.

Chapter One

Something is out there,
his thoughts whispered.
Something lurking in the night.
Standing on the fort’s dank walls, Nathaniel scanned the darkness. He saw only rain and waves, but still the thought lingered.
There is evil beyond these walls.

It was past midnight, and clouds hid the stars, grumbling and spewing sheets of rain, crackling with lightning. The waves roared, raising showers of foam, pummeling the ancient Crusader fort as if trying to topple it. It was that kind of storm, Nathaniel thought as the winds lashed him. A storm that could tear down the world.

Nathaniel tightened his grip on his spear, the rain pelting his bronze helm.
An unholy storm,
he thought,
and an unholy night.

A glint caught his good eye, coming from the flurrying sand of the beach below. Nathaniel raised his spear, gazing into the darkness, heart leaping. He shifted his shoulder blades as if he still had angel wings to unfurl. He had lost those wings years ago, along with his left eye, to demon claws.
And you know what happens to wingless angels,
he thought, scanning the beach.
They get stuck with guard duty on stormy nights when even God wouldn’t step outdoors.

Where was the glint? Nathaniel could see nothing, only crashing waves and endless darkness. He must have imagined it.  He cursed himself for his quickened heartbeat, for the whiteness of his knuckles around his spear. He had killed more demons than he could count, had even faced an archdemon once and lived to boast of it; it was damn foolishness that a mere storm should faze him, even if it
was
the worst storm he had seen on this world. And yet... and yet there was something about this night, something of a malice beyond waves and wind, beyond Hell itself, perhaps.

Lightning flashed and there—a glint in the skies. Nathaniel thought he glimpsed great bat wings spread in flight before the light vanished, but... that was impossible. No demon could fly over this beach without triggering all their alarms.

Nathaniel cursed the shiver that ran through his bones, these bones broken too often in battle, now creaky and aching. The waves battered the fort’s wall, spraying him with water and foam, and Nathaniel cursed again and spat. He’d had too much rye last night, that was all; he was seeing things.

Something creaked behind him.

Nathaniel spun around, spear lashing.

A cry pierced the night.

His spear banged against metal.

“Sir!” came a voice ahead.

“Who’s there?” Nathaniel demanded, gripping his spear.

“Please, sir! It’s me.” Eyes glowed in the darkness.

“Name and rank,” Nathaniel shouted.

“Yaram, sir! Corporal from platoon four, sir.”

Nathaniel groped for the lamp at his feet. It lay on its side; he must have kicked it over. He raised the tin lamp, casting its flickering glow against the young, pink-faced angel who stood before him. A dent pushed into Yaram’s breastplate where Nathaniel’s spear had found it, and the angel’s eyes were narrowed with pain and terror.

“God damn it.” Nathaniel spat. “Corporal, never creep up on an officer like that; my spear could have hit your face just as easily.”