A Dance of Shadows Read online

  “Easy there,” Brug said, reaching over and pushing Haern back down onto the bed. Haern lacked the strength to resist, and he slowed his breathing so his heartbeat might return to normal.

  “Where’s Delysia?” Haern asked.

  Brug lifted an eyebrow at him and let out a grunt. “Forced her to take a rest,” he said. “Been at your side nearly all night. It’s midday now, in case you can’t tell. You were out all morning.”

  Haern remembered the fires he’d seen, the chaos unfurling at his supposed death.

  “How’d everything go?” he asked.

  Brug scraped the stone across his blade. “Well…”

  He began talking, and Haern listened. He heard of the smaller fires, the delay, and then of the larger attack on the dungeon. Haern shook his head at this, thinking of so many he’d put away managing to escape. It seemed the guilds were not just eager to celebrate, but wanted to wipe away every shred of his accomplishments in a single night.

  “It was all just a feint, though,” Brug said, putting down one dagger and grabbing the other. “The real fight was at Alyssa Gemcroft’s. I’d say you should have been there, but from what my eyes were seeing, you already were.”

  Haern frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean someone dressed up as you, grabbed similar swords, and went to town killing thieves to protect the Gemcroft mansion. Saw him, or you, or whatever, fighting alongside that Zusa girl who’s always protecting Alyssa. He was damn good too. Might have fooled me if I hadn’t seen the gaping hole in your chest earlier that morning. Not even Delysia can get someone up and running just a day after that.”

  Haern lay down and closed his eyes to think. Someone had impersonated him, but why? The obvious reason was to convince the town he was not, in fact, dead. But who benefited most? Who had the skill, and the physical ability, to so closely imitate him? It was a small list indeed, and none of the names made any sense.

  “What of the fight?” he asked, trying to pull his mind back to other matters.

  Brug shrugged. “Was just a huge mob for the most part. Plenty died, but at least a good chunk were thieves as well.”

  “Which guild?”

  Brug scratched at his beard. “Now that I think of it… all of ’em. Alyssa must have pissed someone off good. Grudge from letting all those mercenaries loose, perhaps?”

  It was possible, but didn’t feel right.

  “Thren’s the only one who’s been able to unite the guilds before,” Haern said. “I wouldn’t doubt he’d hold a grudge, but this feels too similar to the failed attack during the Bloody Kensgold. He would have learned from that. And this may sound crazy, but I think he likes things as they are. That’s why he attacked Victor.”

  “He attacked Victor because Victor was taking down his men and cutting off their heads.”

  “Small-timers, minor thieves. He didn’t like Victor threatening the delicate balance I’ve created.”

  Brug grunted, rocked his chair back and forth.

  “You’re starting to sound like that hit on your head really got to you worse than we thought. Listen to yourself. Are you saying Thren likes having you lord over the underworld? Why? Next you’ll be saying that it was him pretending to be you last night.”

  Haern gave him a look, and Brug closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his thick, callused fingers.

  “Really? You actually think he did? If that’s the case, then I don’t know what’s going on in Veldaren anymore. Everyone’s losing their damn minds, you included.”

  Haern laughed. “Be useful, and get me something to eat.”

  As Brug left the room, muttering to himself, Haern closed his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the beginnings of another headache coming along, and if it was anything like the last, it’d be crippling. Shifting from side to side, he tested his wounds. The skin was tightening up, though when he lifted the bandages he found his stab wound was now a deep purple scar. Rocking back and forth didn’t seem to strain it too badly, though it did make his muscles ache. Worse was how his balance still felt off. Even that slight motion sent his stomach looping.

  Not too frightening, a foe who keeps vomiting mid-fight, thought Haern.

  Brug returned carrying a small tray of food, and it was more cruelty than kindness. The smell was divine, and Haern’s mouth watered, but his stomach heaved, and he turned to the side of his bed so he could vomit. No blood in it this time, so he tried to console himself with that fact.

  “Thought it looked pretty good myself,” Brug said, glancing down at the plate of carrots and beef. “Perhaps just some ale for now?”

  Haern looked at the offered mug.

  “Why not,” he said. At least it would get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. He took a few swallows, just enough to clear his throat. Brug put the tray down beside his bed and settled back down in the chair.

  “Tarlak said he’s hearing some bizarre rumors coming in from the city,” Brug said. “Looks like Victor moved against the Spider Guild. Those he caught are all claiming the same thing: Spider Guild’s been disbanded, and Thren’s vanished.”

  Haern lowered his drink, and his mouth opened and closed as his mind feebly attempted to make sense of what he’d heard.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said dumbly.

  “I’m not much for joking, Haern. I’m starting to think you might be right about Thren pretending he was you, because let’s face it, he’s completely falling apart.”

  Haern pressed his palms against his forehead. “What now?” Brug asked.

  “Headache,” Haern said, slowly breathing in and out. “Feels like someone stuck a knife in my brain, and every few minutes they can’t help but give it a good twist.”

  “Del said that hit to your head was a nasty one. What smacked you, anyway? A brick?”

  “A foot.”

  Brug snorted. “I’m not sure I want to meet the guy who did it, then,” he said, stealing Haern’s mug and downing a third of it. “What’s his heel made of, stone?”

  The confrontation with the mysterious man came back to Haern, much as he didn’t want it to. His attacker had shown no guild affiliations, at least not in any way Haern recognized. He’d been a giant man, dark-skinned, incredibly fast for his size…

  “Can’t stay like this,” Haern said. “Still in the dark about too much. The Spider Guild’s disbandment proves that. I need to find out what’s going on. I need to know who’s playing us all like fools.”

  Run, run little spider…

  “You aren’t going anywhere as is,” Brug said. “At least give yourself another night to…”

  Haern caught Brug glancing out the window, and whatever he saw gave him pause.

  “What is it?”

  He shifted in bed so he could look out. From his window in the tower they could both see the pathway stretching toward them from Veldaren. Walking alone on that path was a man, his lanky form wrapped in a thick red leather coat. A wide-brimmed hat colored crimson hung low over his face. Across his back, easily visible despite the hundreds of yards between them, was an enormous two-handed sword. A red ribbon fluttered from the hilt in a soft breeze.

  “Friend of yours?” Brug asked.

  Haern shook his head. “Perhaps he knows Tarlak?”

  Something about the way he moved made both of them uneasy. The fashion of both the hat and the coat suggested he was an outsider, from far from Veldaren. Brug fetched his daggers, then moved to the door.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  Haern chuckled as the door closed.

  Stay here?

  He pushed himself out of bed, clutching the wall to keep his balance. Vertigo came over him a second time, but he fought through it. He’d been trained better than this, he thought, taught to overpower far greater. His father had supplied him with tutors, teachers, masters of both mind and body. So what if a man the size of an ox had nearly caved in his skull? He was still stronger.

  Al
l that determination still felt small compared to the pain in his temples, and it did nothing to reduce the obnoxious white glare that seemed to come off everything. But he forced it away, thrust it into the corners of his mind, let it ache but not distract. He found his shirt lying beside the bed, a hole still in it where he’d been stabbed. He put it on, then grabbed his cloak as well, tying it over his shoulders and then pulling the hood over his head. As the shadows covered his face, he felt his tension ease. No matter the injury, no matter all that had happened, he was still the Watcher. He was greater than this.

  A glance out the window showed the man was almost to the tower. So far he had not drawn his blade. At the shorter distance, Haern could see strange markings tattooed across his neck and hands. Set into the hilt of his sword was an enormous crystal, clear as water. Haern could only guess its worth, but the estimate was staggering. Stopping just shy of the path to the door, the man looked up at the window, right at Haern. A wide smile spread across his face, which was half covered by lanky strands of blond hair. That smile was like an icicle to the eye.

  “Eschaton!” the man shouted. His voice tore through the quiet afternoon, and it was strangely high-pitched. “I am Nicholas Bloodcraft, and I have come to kill all of you. If you surrender now, your death will be merciful, a swift, painless beheading. If not…”

  Before the man could even finish, the door to the tower opened, and Tarlak stepped out, fire burning on his hands.

  “Consider this my counterproposal,” Tarlak said. A ball of fire shot from his palm, directly for Nicholas. Haern tensed, convinced it would not be so easy. The strange man pulled his sword off his back and held it blade-downward, the hilt raised before his chest. Mere feet away from him, the fireball suddenly winked out of existence, without even a hint of smoke. Tarlak hurled a second ball of fire, and it vanished in the same way.

  Haern grabbed his sabers from beside the window as Tarlak lifted his hat and scratched his head.

  “Huh.”

  Tarlak slammed the door shut after rushing back inside. Nicholas calmly approached the tower, sword still drawn, grin still from ear to ear. Haern pushed away from the window and staggered toward the stairs. The man was a professional, there was no doubt about that. Worse, he looked to be the perfect counter to their mercenaries. If Delysia and Tarlak could not use their magic, that left only Brug…

  Haern shoved his door open, pausing a moment to tighten the bandages about his chest. No, Brug would not be able to handle someone of that skill. His talents lay in smithing, not combat. Haern had to get down there. He had to hurry. Step after step, each one jolting him with pain. The sabers in his hands shook, and he felt sweat start to cover the leather of the hilts. Had to hurry. Had to be stronger.

  The door smashed open as Haern reached the bottom step. Nicholas’s massive sword cleaved it in two, a feat that should have been impossible. Besides the enchantments Tarlak had placed upon it, the wood itself was incredibly thick. But Haern’s mind’s feeble protests changed nothing as the man stepped inside, red coat billowing as dusty air poured into the tower. Brug stood guard opposite him, Tarlak and Delysia behind.

  “You’re not welcome here,” Brug said, clanging his two punch daggers together. He wore his plate mail, though Haern wondered how useful it’d be against a blade that could chop an oak door in half.

  “Least he was polite enough to knock,” Tarlak said, ice swirling in his palm.

  Nicholas lifted his sword with a single hand and pointed it at the three.

  “Last chance,” he said. “Not that I mind the gore, or a good fight, but this won’t be any competition. Won’t be any fun. Kneel down, offer me your necks, and you’ll die easy.”

  Haern saw more tattoos on his hand, swirling lines like arcane runes. They shone a soft blue, pulsing along with the man’s heartbeat. Everything about Nicholas screamed danger, but those runes told Haern to expect more than the humanly possible from his opponent. Well, that and the split door.

  “The only one dying today is you,” Brug said, stomping his feet. “Just try it, come on, come on!”

  Haern slipped farther into the room, hugging the wall. Brug was trying to be a distraction, he knew, doing everything he could to hide Haern’s approach. Just a few feet closer and he could lunge.

  Nicholas whirled, and his sword stretched out, the tip aimed for Haern’s throat.

  “And you,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be dead?”

  Brug leaped forward, bellowing. Nicholas spun, his blade cutting through the air with unnatural speed. Both Brug’s daggers were smacked aside, and he had to pull back to avoid having his head lopped off. Haern rushed to his friend’s aid before Nicholas could finish him. His sabers stabbed in, and when Nicholas pulled his sword close to his chest to parry, Haern pressed the attack, weaving a continuous assault so the man would have no chance to counter. A mindless roar flowed out of his mouth, a primal cry to overwhelm the pain as blood dripped down his leg from reopened wounds.

  But his foe was too good. When Brug made to stab him in the back, he pretended to turn to block, then flung himself at Haern, who had to twist to shift his aim. The twist hurt too much, and he let out a gasp as his vision turned white. Only instincts kept him falling back, kept his sabers up to push aside the killing chop.

  “Get back!” Tarlak yelled, and both Haern and Brug obliged, flinging themselves away. Lances of ice crossed the room, points deadly sharp. Nicholas turned to face him, his sword spinning in his grasp so the hilt neared his face. The lances vanished amid a subtle flash of the crystal within the hilt. But that was not all of the attack. Delysia cried out the name of her god, and from her out-turned palms shone a brilliant flash of white. Nicholas swore, and he turned away, rubbing his eyes.

  Brug came barreling in, all clattering plate mail. He slammed headfirst into Nicholas, but instead of bowling the man over, Brug let out a cry as he bounced to the side. His helmet was dented as if he’d struck stone. Up went Nicholas’s sword, ready for the kill. Another flash of light from Delysia, but he squinted and shifted his head so it did not blind him. That half-second delay was enough, though. Haern stretched to his limits, his sabers piercing through the man’s coat and into flesh. The leather was thick and heavy, rendering the cut a shallow flesh wound. Worn out as he was, Haern did not have the strength to force it deeper. Blood dripped to the floor as Nicholas clenched his teeth and brought his full fury to bear on Haern.

  “I’m glad you are alive,” he said, swinging his sword in wide arcs so Haern had to remain back. A bolt of fire shot in from Tarlak, but it winked out of existence, not even giving Nicholas pause. “At least you make this interesting. You even made me bleed.”

  Haern ducked underneath a swing, then tried to roll to one side. Nicholas predicted the maneuver, and Haern screamed as a heavy boot slammed into his stomach. His old wound tore, and it was like being stabbed all over again. He tried to move, to keep going, but his body convulsed against his wishes, doubling over amid his cries of pain. Nicholas’s sword lifted, but a heavy brick slammed into his shoulder before he could swing. Startled, Nicholas fell back as two more flew in, one striking his sword, the other his chest.

  “Don’t like magic, eh?” Tarlak said, still hiding on the far side of the room. “How about something more real?”

  More stones dislodged themselves from the walls, held in the wizard’s mental grip. They flew at Nicholas, and though the magic propelling them died when nearing the man, that did not remove the natural momentum of the stone. Nicholas dove from side to side, flinging his sword about to block. Upon reaching a wall he leaped into it and kicked off into a dive straight at the wizard.

  And that’s when Tarlak lifted the couch into the air and swatted Nicholas with it as if he were a bug.

  “Need some help here,” Tarlak shouted as he flung more chairs and stones at Nicholas. Haern saw that the wizard was losing strength, each projectile considerably slower than the last. Struggling to his feet, he staggered into a run. Nicholas caught
one of the slower stones, flung it straight back at Tarlak. It struck his forehead, and with a soft gasp the wizard slumped against the wall, blood trickling down his face and neck. Haern ignored it, couldn’t afford to worry about the fate of his friend. Pushing through the wall of agony, he thrust for Nicholas’s stomach.

  Too slow. Nicholas parried the sabers, then stepped in so that his elbow collided with Haern’s throat. He fell gasping, and the hard stone below him jarred his bleeding side further.

  “I see why your band caused so much trouble for my employer,” Nicholas said, standing over him. Blood dripped from his cut side, and his tattooed skin was a mess of bruises. “But not any longer.”

  He jerked forward, then collapsed to his knees as Brug’s daggers pierced his back in a flurry of punches.

  “Why—”

  Brug shoved his daggers together into Nicholas’s lower back.

  “—does everyone—”

  Twisted them left, then right.

  “—always—”

  Yanking them free, he clubbed Nicholas across the head.

  “—ignore me?”

  Nicholas collapsed to the ground in a dead heap. Brug stood over him, his whole body shuddering as he gasped in. He kicked the corpse with his armored foot.

  “Stupid bastard,” grumbled Brug.

  Haern laughed where he lay, despite the pain it caused. Delysia was soon there, holy light shining on her hands.

  “You’re an angel, Del,” Haern said, nearly delirious from the pain.

  “I’m all right,” Tarlak said, staggering to his feet, having to hold on to an upended couch beside him to stay balanced. With glazed eyes he looked about the room, the overturned bookshelves, the broken couches, then grunted. “We need a new door.”

  “Who was that?” Delysia asked as healing light poured into Haern’s wounds. Haern did his best to relax, and he let his sabers go limp in his hands.

  “Nicholas Bloodcraft,” Haern mumbled. “He said it pretty clearly.”