A Dance of Blades Read online

“I expect the rest in Bill’s hands by nightfall. Farewell, Oric. I will have the Watcher’s head in two weeks. Should I fail, though I won’t, all the coin will be returned to you.”

  He left, and it seemed the whole tavern breathed easier with him gone. To his shame, Oric realized he did too. He ordered another glass, drained it, and then hurried off. He still had another pressing matter to attend to, and he needed to handle it far better than he had the business with Ghost. Farther into southern Veldaren he approached a large wooden structure with two floors.

  Inside, at least fifty boys and girls hurried about, cleaning, sweeping, and preparing their beds for nightfall. A man of forty hurried to the door to greet him.

  “Hello, my friend,” said the man. “My name is Laurence, and welcome to our orphanage. May I help you, perhaps with finding an apprentice or maidservant?”

  “Show me the boys,” Oric said.

  Laurence whistled and sent the children running. They traveled farther in. The room looked like a giant warehouse, with rows of bunk beds on either side. He lined up twenty boys of various ages, parading them before Oric as if they were cattle. For the most part the children behaved, having certainly gone through this before.

  “Anything particular you’re looking for?” Laurence asked, licking his lips.

  “That’s my own business, not yours.”

  “Of course, sir, of course.”

  Oric kept Nathaniel in mind as he looked over the younger ones. One in particular looked close in size, maybe an inch taller. His hair was even the same color, which might help the illusion.

  “Step forward,” he said, nodding toward that boy. “He’ll do. What’s the cost?”

  “Adoptions are not cheap, but he’s still young, so it’ll be nine silvers.”

  Oric reached into his pocket and pulled out twice the amount.

  “No papers,” he said. “I was never here.”

  Laurence’s eyes bulged, and he glanced between the man and the boy.

  “His name’s Dirk,” he said.

  “That’s fine. Come on, boy.”

  Laurence watched them leave but said nothing.

  Oric traveled by foot, so he took Dirk by the hand and told him to hurry along.

  “No questions,” he said. “We’re heading along the northern road. I’ve got a house for you there, where you can work off all that silver I just spent on you. You understand?”

  Dirk nodded.

  “Good.”

  He took the boy to the southern gate, not wishing to travel through the more populated areas of the city, regardless of how close to night it was getting. The guards gave them a cursory glance before letting them through. At a branch in the road they followed the loop back around the city and then to the north. Dirk looked maybe six, and his legs were nowhere near as long as Oric’s. He tired rapidly, and by the way his skin clung to his bones, it’d probably been forever since he’d had a filling meal. Oric eventually picked him up and carried him until the city was behind them and the sun almost set.

  “How long until we’re there?” Dirk asked, the first time he’d spoken in an hour.

  “No questions,” Oric growled. He glanced about as the first of many stars appeared in the sky. He was nearing the King’s Forest. Stretching out to the east were acres of hills. He turned toward one of them, still holding the boy.

  “Almost there,” he muttered. Once he put the closest hill between him and the road, he set Dirk down. “You see that forest over on the other side of the road? I want you to go fetch me some sticks, whatever you can carry.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Oric pulled out his sword and a piece of flint. While the boy was gone, he gathered enough dry grass to create kindling. He carefully shielded it with his hands once he got it lit. When Dirk returned, holding about six sticks, Oric snapped them on his knee and carefully set them into the kindling. He sprinkled a tiny bit of lamp oil from his pack to get it going, then stood.

  “We need far more wood than that,” he said, still holding his sword. “But I’ve got time. First, Arthur’s orders. Come here, Dirk.”

  While the boy’s body bled out on the grass, Oric went to the forest and broke off several thick branches. He dragged them back to his camp, grunting as he did. He used his boot to break the branches into pieces, and one by one he tossed them upon the fire. Once it was roaring, he picked up the body. It felt stiff and cold. He hoped it’d burn. Without a bit of ceremony he tossed it into the fire. The ragged clothing caught first, then the hair, and finally flesh. The burning meat smelled sweet, but Oric always hated the scent of burning hair.

  Deciding he could go without the warmth, he unpacked his bedroll and slept upwind so he wouldn’t be bothered by the smell. Come morning, he gathered the bones in a sack and returned to Veldaren.

  CHAPTER 10

  He had a soft bed underneath him, which confused Haern to no end. A bed? When was the last time he’d slept in a bed? Three years ago? Four? Wait, what about at that farm? No, that’d been on the floor, right? The inn, of course, he must be at the inn he’d stayed in afterward. Except he’d left there, traveling on toward home. He remembered an ambush, being stabbed fighting beside a wagon…

  When he opened his eyes it didn’t help much. He saw a low ceiling, poorly painted a dull cream color. A glance around took in the rest of his surroundings. The room was tiny, with barely any space to walk between his bed and the door. Opposite him was a single closet, stacked full of a strange assortment of clothing and weaponry. He recognized his own weapons in the pile, and he tried to go for them.

  The pain in his stomach convinced him it wasn’t a good idea. He lay back down and pressed a hand against his abdomen. His fingers touched bandages sticky with blood. Larger fragments of the attack at the caravan came back to him. He’d killed several Wolves, been stabbed in the stomach, and then as he’d been passing out…

  “What is going on?” he muttered as he inspected his arm. He remembered the cut there, and it’d been bad, if not to the bone. It was bandaged as well, but the pain was only a dull ache. He pried back some of the cloth and saw an angry scar, lacking any stitching to have helped it close. It didn’t seem possible. For that much healing he’d have to have been out for weeks. The same went for the arrow wound in his shoulder. Either that, or a priest had come and healed him.

  Or a priestess…

  Haern remembered those last fleeting images, images no longer certain to be hallucinations. Could it be? After all these years, had Delysia exited the safety of Ashhur’s temple? A part of him felt excited to meet her, but for the most part he felt terror. His hair was still a mess, his face unevenly shaven. His clothes fit the part of the beggar, the image that was like a second skin. But Delysia … she’d been his first glimpse of light in a world of darkness, something clean and pure. He felt like living dirt, scabbed over with his blood and the blood of those he’d killed. It seemed so wrong for her to find him like this, assuming she even remembered him, or recognized him through the filth.

  He tried once more to sit up, and, now prepared for the pain, he managed a better job of it. Using his hand to support his weight against the wall, he limped into the closet and grabbed his swords. He knew it made no sense for anyone to try to kill him, not after bandaging him up and healing him, but he felt naked without their weight at his hips. Sweat dripped down his neck as he caught his breath. He offered a quick prayer to Ashhur for strength and then pulled the door open.

  A very surprised Senke stood there, holding a slice of buttered bread, his free hand still reaching for the door handle that had swung away from him at the last moment.

  “Going somewhere?” Senke asked.

  It was too much. Haern staggered back and half sat, half fell onto his bed. He stared, his mouth hanging open.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Senke said, seeming amused by the whole scenario.

  “I think I have.”

  Senke laughed, and that familiar sound helped melt Haern’s doubt
s. The man had shaved his head and grown out his beard, but underneath the disguise he had the same smile, same laugh, same guarded amusement in his eyes.

  “Only a handful have recognized me, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that you’re one of them. Always were the observant one, weren’t you, Aaron?”

  Aaron…

  A flood of memories tore through him, of days practicing with Senke, of walking at the side of his father, and of those few fleeting moments with Robert Haern before executing him at his father’s command and then cleaning up the blood. Aaron … he hadn’t gone by that name since that day. He’d adopted a new name, become a new person. A better person.

  “Haern,” he said. “Aaron died a long time ago.”

  Senke handed over the bread and leaned against the door, chuckling again.

  “That you did, and I was one of many who thought so, though I forgot your little oddity about the name. Everyone heard how you died in the fire. I barely got out myself, though I lost most of my hair in the process. Helped disguise me, though, and I’m kind of attached to the look now.”

  Haern looked at the bread as if he didn’t know what it was for. At last he dropped it, stood, and flung his arms around Senke. He didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. He felt thirteen again, bewildered, torn, and suddenly given a link to a past that had had moments of good. It seemed Senke understood, for he patted Haern on the back and then gently pulled free.

  “Don’t get all sentimental,” he said, winking. “Otherwise I might start thinking you aren’t really Thren’s son. Now have a seat. Del says you’ve got another day or two before you’ll be in top shape, and I don’t want you tearing those wounds open. You’ve grown up, gods damn, boy. Taller than me now. How about you tell me what you’ve been doing these past five years?”

  Part of Haern wanted to, but mostly he felt an overwhelming sense of embarrassment. For the past five years he’d struck at the guilds out of vengeance. Whom else could he tell? Who else would understand the rage of seeing everything he’d loved broken and destroyed by that sick culture of the underworld? Still, strange-looking or not, there was Senke, the closest thing to a friend he’d ever had. The time melted away. He told it all, of his escape from the fire and living on the streets, always keeping his hair messed and unevenly cut, his skin a blanket of dirt and scabs. He stole food to live, and lived to kill those of the thief guilds. He felt keen shame admitting that, though he wasn’t sure why. In his heart he felt justified.

  “Why not just leave?” Senke asked. “Everyone thinks you’re dead. You could move on, make a name for yourself as a mercenary or a thief in any other city but here. Why stay?”

  Haern felt his neck flush.

  “Because this is my home,” he said. “This is all I know. I wanted to punish the guilds, every one of them. I thought maybe, if I made them afraid of the Watcher, I could scare away the recruits. I could make them doubt their safety. I could … I don’t know, Senke. I thought I could finally end it all.”

  Senke chuckled.

  “Well, it seems the shy boy I once knew has grown up to be an ambitious young man. Shouldn’t surprise me. Well, besides you being alive and all. How’d you end up at our caravan?”

  “Investigating the Serpent Guild and their newfound gold. Was on my way back when I stumbled upon your attack.”

  “And good timing it was,” Senke said, grinning. “We were hired on to protect some fat-ass merchant who’d done something to really piss off the Wolf Guild. I think he’d stiffed them on protection money or something, was trying to flee north before they noticed. Well … they noticed.” He laughed. “I must admit, I first thought it was Thren who’d come to our aid. The way you just charged in, then danced and weaved, it all seemed so familiar, Aaron…”

  “I said it’s Haern now.”

  Senke lifted his hands to show he meant no offense.

  “Forgive me, just habit. Why so strict?”

  Haern felt a chill coming on, and he wrapped his blankets tight about him.

  “Because that’s not who I am anymore. I refuse everything of my father, including his name. I won’t be what he wants me to be.”

  “Wanted you to be,” Senke said. “He thinks you’re dead now. And instead of being your father’s pet killer, you instead spend every night killing. A neat trick, that.”

  “Don’t you dare judge me!” Haern said, and he was surprised by his own anger.

  “No judging, just stating the obvious. Well, guess it’s my turn. Not nearly as interesting. I fled the city for the first few years. Always wanted out, think I told you that, but Thren wasn’t one to take such requests too well. Doesn’t take too kindly to those who sell him out to the king either, but thankfully he never caught wind of my doing that. I used the fire that ‘killed’ you to die as well, make myself a new life. Spent some time down in Woodhaven, cutting lumber. After a while, got bored, took some odd jobs more favorable to a mace than an ax. All of a sudden I had a slow but steady stream of mercenary work. About a year ago I came back to Veldaren, going by the name of Stern and hoping for a bit more lucrative employment. Before you start thinking it, I wasn’t exactly falling into that same old trap. I chose my contracts carefully, and while I wasn’t always working for the nicest of people, I wasn’t killing innocents or torching the homes of the poor either.

  “Anyway, eventually met with my current employer. Even joined up with him as a permanent member of his mercenaries. Seems like he went through twenty guys, trying to find one who was … well, not scum. Lucky me, eh?”

  Haern smiled but said nothing. He was still trying to wrap his head around everything. Here was someone he could talk to, could trust. After half a decade of silence and loneliness, it had all come crashing to an end because of a single poorly timed ambush. For all the many times he’d felt overlooked by Ashhur, he wondered just how unnoticed he really was. While he thought, he ate, figuring it a good excuse not to talk. All his confidence had flown out the window with Senke’s arrival.

  “I see your eyes drooping,” Senke said when Haern finished his meal. “Let me send in Delysia to swap out some clean bandages and then you can rest, ponder over this craziness.”

  “Delysia?” he asked, thinking of the other images that had flashed before his eyes as he lay bleeding after the fight. “Is she … is her last name Eschaton?”

  Senke raised an eyebrow. “Well, yeah, but how would you … wait a minute. You did know a Delysia. Is she her, the one you killed Dustin to protect and … shit, that is her, isn’t it?”

  Haern nodded, and was totally unprepared for Senke’s eruption of laughter.

  “Looks like she returned the favor. She’s the one that kept you from bleeding out like a stuck boar. Damn, this is too funny. You never told me she became a priestess. Always wondered how she hid from Thren so well.”

  “I never told anyone,” Haern mumbled. “Kayla told me the night of the Kensgold.”

  Senke’s face saddened at the mention of her name. “She was a pretty lass. What I heard, Thren killed her for aiding you. Such a shame. Didn’t pay much to help you out, did it?”

  The comment stung, and at Haern’s pained look, Senke immediately started trying to take it back.

  “I’m sorry, Haern, you know I don’t mean that. It wasn’t your fault, any of it. Your father’s just a bastard, still is, though his influence is slowly dwindling, thank Ashhur.”

  “Senke, I … I’m not ready to see her yet.”

  “She’s seen plenty of you.”

  He blushed a fierce red but remained adamant. “Please, just let me rest. Meeting you again is too much as it is. Let me think, all right?”

  Senke shrugged. “I guess you’ll survive. But if those cuts get infected, it’s your own damn fault. Sleep tight, Haern.”

  “Thanks.”

  Even after Senke left, his words echoed in Haern’s head.

  Didn’t pay much to help you out, did it?

  How many had died because of him? Robert ha
d died by his hand. His father had killed Kayla, again for helping him. Senke had nearly died in the fire. Delysia had been forced into hiding. And now, when every thief guild in the city would gladly string him up by his thumbs and let the entire underworld have a go at him, the two had brought him into their home and given him succor. Were they mad? He was a monster, a beacon of chaos and murder. The streets were where he belonged. Their gutters had room for the blood.

  Besides, he couldn’t face her. He just couldn’t. The last image he had of Delysia was of her gasping in his arms after the bolt pierced her back. She’d looked so shocked, so betrayed, and then to see his own father approaching, crossbow in hand, he’d felt such guilt…

  He tightened his belt and held back a grimace at the pain in his stomach. His cloaks were folded up beside his bed, as were his tattered clothes. Again he blushed a bright red as he remembered Senke’s comment, and he prayed that it had been anyone but Delysia who had changed him into what he wore now, a plain white shirt and brown pants. Quietly he changed into his old clothes. In their dirt and dried blood he felt all the more wretched and eager to be gone. Everything about him was filthy, even the task he’d devoted his life to. Was he really any better than his father? At least Thren had developed an empire, however fleeting. All Haern did was destroy.

  He shook his head, trying to banish such thoughts. He needed to concentrate. Drowsiness still tugged at his eyes, and that soft warm bed tempted him more than any woman ever had. Deciding it was now or never, he crept open the door and looked about.

  Whatever building he was in was small in space but attempting to make up for it by being two stories tall. He saw a second door across from him, and a few feet away, stairs going down at sharp angles to the bottom floor. He heard muffled talking from the other door. Feeling like a trespasser, he hurried along as fast as his wounds allowed him to go. The bottom floor was blessedly empty. It was sparsely furnished: he saw a table, an oak desk in the corner, and a modest pile of books atop it. At the door he removed the bolt and stepped out into the street.

  He looked around a moment, taking in his surroundings. The sun was rising, still low enough to hide behind the city’s walls. There was an inn not far away, Prather’s if he read the sign right, and that meant he was in … Crimson Alley, deep in southern Veldaren. He felt muted horror at the realization. Senke and Delysia lived in the Crimson, one of the most dangerous places in the city? No wonder he never saw either of them when he patrolled the night. They’d certainly keep their doors locked and windows bolted. How often had he passed right on by when scouring for isolated members of the guilds?