The Shadowdance Trilogy Read online

  Giving neither time to respond, Haern scooped up the dagger, spun, and slashed open the first priest’s throat. As his body spasmed, he turned to the other and lunged. The dagger pierced the man’s chest.

  “Only in blood,” the priest whispered with his dying breath.

  A bolt of shadow struck Haern’s side. He cried out, stunned by the immense pain. It felt like every nerve in the area was firing off sensations of pain. Rolling to avoid the next, Haern clutched the dagger with both hands. The hilt was slick with blood, and he might lose it if he wasn’t careful.

  “Killed amid worship!” the third priest shouted, his deep voice booming in the great room. “You will suffer for such blasphemy!”

  Two more bolts of shadow flung from the priest’s hands, splintering wood and cracking stone where they struck. Haern ran between the pews, using their wood for cover. The priest was halfway down the center aisle. Close enough. Haern stepped onto a pew and leapt with all his strength. His body stretched, the dagger lashing out. The priest, stunned by the sudden assault, tried to ward himself. The spell died on his lips as the dagger slashed his face.

  Then their bodies collided. Haern screamed as his shoulder rammed the priest’s chest, wrenching his whole body violently. He spun and landed awkwardly on a pew, his feet sticking into the air and his stomach pressed against the seat. The priest fared better, collapsing into a sitting position on the pew.

  “Suffer!” the priest shouted. The word carried power with it. Haern rolled to the floor, his mind white with pain. His wounds from the Lion raged in anger. Blood soaked his clothing, some his, some not. He felt the dagger slipping from his weakened hand.

  “You cannot resist Karak’s power,” the priest said, reaching down to take away the dagger. “How such a simple boy could kill two of his…”

  Haern put a leg underneath him and pushed, ramming himself into the priest’s stomach before the man could close his fingers about the hilt. The man’s hands clawed about him, flailing. Haern stabbed once, twice, then twisted the blade upon yanking it out. Blood shot across the front of his shirt.

  “Karak is nothing to me,” Haern said, feeling a sick joy at denying the man’s dark god even as he died.

  He had no time, though. The two priests had come running down the long entryway. Unlike the other three, they were not caught unaware. Dark magic crackled around their fingertips as they summoned the might of their god.

  Haern ducked below the pew, cleaned the handle on the dead priest’s robe, and then took a deep breath. With the sounds of battle, the rest of the priesthood would soon awaken and join them. He had once chance to escape, and that involved a head-on approach against two furious priests.

  “Protect me, or make sure I die,” Haern prayed. Either way, he had no intentions of staying any longer. Dagger clutched tight in his right hand, he made his charge.

  Bolts of shadow struck the pews, exploding their wood into splinters. They hit either side of him, for Haern had leapt over the first row, using the seat to catapult him into the air. He flew heels first, curling gracefully to land atop the very last row. More bolts chased him but he twirled into another jump, the dagger flashing with each spin as it caught the light of the altar’s fire.

  When he landed he did not engage but instead ran between them, his dagger lashing outward. The one on the right screamed as the tendons underneath his arm tore, blood rushing down his side. Haern went to cut the other, but the priest clapped his hands together. A wave of power rolled outward, knocking the boy aside as if he were an insect before a storm.

  “Get back,” the priest on the left told his wounded friend, who reluctantly obeyed. Haern took two steps toward the door as if to flee, then dropped flat on the ground. A blast of red lightning shot above his head, breaking the thick bar across the doors. Haern rolled to his knees and kicked. Instead of directly charging the priest he lunged to the side, ramming his shoulder against the wall. Another bolt of shadow struck the ground, missing by inches.

  Both priests began their prayers for another spell, but Haern was too close. Their hands moved as if in a dream, their bodies surrounded by molasses. Haern kicked off the wall, spun once, and slashed his dagger into the nearest priest’s chest. Without slowing he spun about the body, stabbed again, and then jumped toward the other. His foot crushed windpipe; his dagger pierced lung.

  The priests fell. Haern tossed the sacrificial dagger.

  “Karak can keep it,” he told the bodies. With the bar broken, he pushed open the doors with ease. He avoided the obsidian steps, not liking the way they glowed in the waning moonlight. The soft grass felt wonderful to his feet, as did the sudden rush of fresh air. Only the fence blocked his way. Haern laughed. After five priests, a fence would be child’s play.

  He swung his weight side to side as he shimmied up the bars, then somersaulted over the sharpened tops. The landing jarred his legs, adding more pain to his already impressive list, but he was out. He was free. Haern looked back the temple, watching as it slowly turned into an earthly mansion, its columns fading into shadow and lies.

  It seemed an appropriate place to entomb the sins of Aaron Felhorn forever. Free at last, Haern ran on, knowing he had much to do if he were to ruin his father’s plans for the Kensgold.

  Not long after the dawn, the first of many wagons exited the western gate of Veldaren. More followed. They were Connington’s, loaded with barrels of wine and ale. Rows of mercenaries guarded them. Leon would have no repeat of the peach-pissing disaster. A few women went with them, trailing just behind. They were the first of what would soon be an army of camp followers.

  The wagons circled the hills, held back from the peaks by Keenan’s men. Tents occupied every open spot. The whores drifted among the mercenaries, latching onto those who appeared handsome or wealthy. More wagons arrived, these carrying wood and utensils for building fires and cooking the enormous amounts of food soon to follow. Old tables snaked throughout the camp, mismatched in color and style.

  By mid-afternoon, the noise had grown so loud those within Veldaren could hear the cacophony. Merchants not directly associated with the Trifect packed up their wares and shifted west, setting up shop beside the gates or along the winding path leading toward the camps. Coin traded between a thousand hands. Lord Gemcroft’s wagons arrived next, loaded with silks, chains, jewels, earrings, and a veritable army of mercenaries with swords drawn. The camp followers bedecked themselves in decorations far above their station, knowing the Kensgold would be their best night in years. Gold flowed at the Kensgold, as they always said.

  The meat wagons arrived late from the southern farms, much to the ire of Connington’s cooks. Leon had appointed himself master of the meal, but that meal could not truly begin until the first cows arrived for the butchers. They dug a ditch in the dirt south of the hill and let the blood flow. Flies buzzed about it, stubbornly refusing the chill of the newly arrived winter. As cooks cut and chopped the meat, small fires spread across the hill, surrounded by stones and covered with spits and cauldrons. Until the meat was ready, the men and women gorged on biscuits, honey, and rolls basted with spices.

  Much of it was free, and much was not. It never seemed to matter. The consumption grew. Atop the larger hill was a great pavilion, and within feasted the highest members of the Trifect. Leon had staggered up the hill, all fat and sweat and silk, and boisterously clasped Laurie’s hand.

  “I tell you, it’s been many years since I feasted in the open air,” he nearly shouted. “And the taxes? Preposterous! Thank the gods you thought of this place. You saved me a fortune on the cattle alone.”

  Leon’s family was distant, having no children of his own. Various aunts, uncles, and cousins traveled with him, decadent in their clothes and obstinate in their attitudes. Laurie quickly ushered them all into the pavilion, promising warmth, food, and drink…much of it Connington’s, but still he offered.

  Maynard Gemcroft was the last of the three to arrive. He traveled in a caravan of over two hundred m
ercenaries, along with another hundred in servants, food-tasters, singers, jugglers, and other performers. While Connington had declared himself master of the meal, Maynard had taken over the entertainment.

  Slowly joining them in a steady stream were friends and families of the mercenaries, the cooks, the servants, the wealthy and the poor, along with many members of the thief guilds, their daggers poisoned and their eyes wide at the proliferation of gold and silver.

  An hour before nightfall, the Kensgold officially began.

  25

  While the Kensgold was gearing up, the leaders of the thief guilds met in a strange place for their kind: open air in broad daylight. They stood before the large fountain in the very center of Veldaren. Any gathering of so many leaders needed to be somewhere neutral, and with many exits, otherwise none would come. Given the absolute chaos of the Kensgold outside the city, traffic was almost non-existent within. As if inflicted with a massive plague, the whole city had emptied outward, flooding the surrounding hills with torches, campfires, tents, and song.

  Thren was the first to arrive. Any delay on his part might worry the others. Kadish Vel of the Hawk Guild was next, looking ugly as ever with his red teeth and loose eyepatch. Then came Norris Vel, brother to Kadish and newly appointed master of the Serpent Guild after Thren had killed Galren, their old leader. The Shadow Guild had a new leader as well, a bulky man named Oligart.

  “Just Oligart,” the man had said when introducing himself to Thren. His hands were meaty and his voice slow. “My last name’s a bitch.”

  “What happened to Yorshank?” Thren had asked.

  “I’m slow,” Oligart said, flexing his hands. “He was slower.”

  James Beren of the Ash Guild was the last to arrive. All the leaders had been allowed to bring one trusted member, and Veliana was his. She glared at Kadish but wisely held her tongue.

  “Where’s the wolf?” Kadish asked as they stood about the fountain, looking nothing more than a group of old friends gathering before joining the festivities.

  “They are already scattered about the Kensgold,” Thren explained. He kept his back to the fountain and the guildmasters to his front. “I will go to them after with the real plan.”

  “Real plan?” James said, unable to hide his anger. “You sicked your pets on me just so I would agree to a false plan? Even you knew how stupid your original was, yet we suffered for it?”

  The other members grumbled, none happy with being taken as fools. Thren silenced them by putting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “Enough,” he said. “What is done is done. No matter how hard I might try, I knew the plan would reach the Trifect. That was the point. We will not launch an assault on the Kensgold, especially not with them outside the city. Without our walls, our shadows, our poison, we are nothing but an outnumbered army of children.”

  “Your spiders may be children, but my hawks spill blood like men,” Kadish said.

  “So what’s the real plan?” asked Oligart. “I still get to break necks?”

  “Their mansions are empty,” Thren said, a smile growing on his face. “They’ve taken the vast bulk of their mercenaries and helpers. Now is when we strike. We will split up, half assaulting Connington’s estate, the other half, Gemcroft’s. Kill everyone inside, and I mean everyone. Then we set our traps. When the Trifect return we assault them from the windows and roofs of their own homes. We’ll kill their family, their friends. When it is time to run, we burn their estates to the ground. They will suffer tonight, and suffer greatly. If we are lucky, we might kill Leon or Maynard during the assault.”

  Thren looked to every single pair of eyes, judging their commitment. Despite their anger at being deceived, the simple but brutal plan seemed to excite their bloodlust. Five years was a long time. Suddenly an end seemed in sight.

  “Who goes where?” Kadish finally asked.

  “The Hawks and the Ash will take out Gemcroft. The Serpents and the Shadows will go for Connington.”

  “And who will you go for?” James asked.

  “My men will be split among each of you,” Thren said. “That way I show no preference and therefore no risk of betrayal. As for who I go with…that is my own damn business.”

  “You can’t make us go with the Hawks,” Veliana insisted, her outburst earning her a glare from both James and Kadish.

  “Come now, your lovely presence will make the proceedings all the more exciting,” Kadish said.

  “No arguing,” Thren said. “No squabbles. No betrayals. We end this tonight. Understood?”

  They all reluctantly agreed.

  “I get to crush Connington blood,” Oligart said. He seemed tremendously happy.

  “Wait until the sun has dipped below the walls,” Thren ordered. “Move in concert, and keep it quiet. Once set up, things will take time. Kill any who might return early, and wait for the main force to return. And no matter what, make sure the homes burn.”

  They all scattered in various directions. Just as they were the last to arrive, James and Veliana were the last to leave.

  “His men are split and he hides his own destination,” Veliana said to her guildmaster. “There is no way to betray him without betraying other guilds as well. Now we play along or make enemies of every living man and woman within Veldaren.”

  “Never said he was a fool,” James said. “And you’re right. Unless Thren comes to Gemcroft’s, we’d best do as he says and hope the Trifect crumbles.”

  “Then we put our faith in him,” she said. “All our plans are nothing. Thren rules this day.”

  The King was in a fouler mood than normal. From the window of a castle tower he had observed the great masses traveling west out of Veldaren. Gerand was waiting for him when he returned to the throne room. Sixteen guards flanked his majesty’s every side.

  “It looks like an army gathers at our doorstep,” King Vaelor said as he sat on his throne. “And where are my subjects? Shouldn’t I have petty squabbles to settle?”

  “Most have decided to join the festivities that transpire every four years rather than wait in line for a ruling they may get on any day,” Gerand explained.

  “But everyone?” Vaelor wondered. “Surely there’s a few level-headed men about somewhere.”

  “There were a few,” Gerand said, clearing his throat. “I sent them away. From everything we know, today should be…interesting, and I felt it best to keep you safe.”

  King Vaelor rolled his eyes. As if determined to show how brave he was, he dismissed half his retainer of guards, leaving only a paltry eight watching over him. Gerand did his best not to roll his eyes in return. With the sheer amount of mercenaries gathered outside the walls, the advisor had thought it best to keep the king’s day dull. Besides, with all eyes turned to the Kensgold, there was too much risk of a silent dagger striking the other way.

  “Safe,” the king muttered. “Often you have promised to keep me safe, but where are the results of your promises? What has grown from your comforting words? I was promised the head of Thren Felhorn, yet where is it?”

  Gerand coughed and looked at the guards. King Vaelor realized what he wanted and dismissed the remaining eight.

  “Don’t get any ideas,” the king said once they were on the far sides of the throne room. He pulled back his robe to reveal his gold sword belted at his hip. Gerand was far from impressed but didn’t dare let that show.

  “As you must understand,” Gerand began, “arranging Thren’s murder is no easy feat. Men have wanted him dead for a decade, yet he remains as powerful as ever.”

  “I want his head,” the king said. “Not excuses.”

  “I am giving you neither,” Gerand said. “Only word of what is to come. My men have crawled about the city and spent much. We gained little in return, but all it takes is one whisper, one turncoat, and the whole fortune is worth the coin. And that is what I have: a turncoat.”

  King Vaelor sat erect in his seat.

  “You found a member of his guild
to turn against him?” he asked, unable to hide his excitement.

  “I cannot say,” Gerand insisted. “Surely you understand. I will say nothing of who he or she is, other than that the price was absurdly high. I dare not risk a single whisper reaching its way to Thren. I already know of his plans for the Kensgold, and my little bird has informed me of a few deviations. If all goes well, I will deliver his head to you on a platter by tomorrow morning.”

  “Excellent,” the king said, slapping his thigh with his hand. “What will I do when you’re gone, Gerand?”

  The advisor smiled. He had every intention of being around long after King Vaelor was gone, not the reverse.

  “A king of your majesty and skill will always find a way to reign,” he said.

  King Vaelor laughed.

  “So true. But what am I to do? With no squabbles, no royal visitors, and no feasts planned, I am sorely pressed for entertainment.”

  “For that, I have found a solution,” Gerand said. He clapped twice, and one of the guards at the throne room’s main entrance threw open the doors. Ten girls wearing silks that hid nothing walked into the room, bells jingling from their wrists and ankles.

  “Dancers courtesy of Maynard Gemcroft,” Gerand said. “Come all the way from Ker. They are known as the Naked Bells.”

  Slowly the women began their gyrations.

  “Naked Bells?” King Vaelor asked, licking his lips. “Yet I see so much silk.”

  “Give us time to earn our name,” one of the women said, her voice husky and foreign.

  Gerand left the king to his pleasures, eager for nightfall and word from his turncoat. Once Thren was defeated, the only threat to the crown would be himself, and that was exactly what he wanted.

  Alyssa walked ahead of Zusa on their return to the Kull’s camp, knowing her lead would make things easier for the other woman. Most of the guards stared at Zusa’s face as they passed, frightened by her skill yet drawn to her beauty.