The Shadowdance Trilogy Read online

  Kenny lifted his small, custom crossbow and winked.

  “I’ve shot the nipple off a whore at twenty yards,” he said.

  “Bastard. What’d she do to you?”

  Kenny laughed. “After that? She did everything I asked, of course.”

  Biggs chuckled despite himself and their need for quiet.

  “Remind me to never…”

  He stopped, for he heard a scream from the other side of the building.

  “What the fuck?” asked Kenny, spinning about. “The Ash send more scouts?”

  “Doubt it,” said Briggs. “Watch the door. I’ll take care of this.”

  He tightened his grip on his dagger and ran through a maze of anvils and firepits. While the full moon kept the streets bright, inside the smithy was dark and confusing. He heard a second scream, and when he turned toward it he smacked his knee into the edge of an anvil. He sucked his breath in through his teeth and tried to ignore the pain.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, deciding stealth and silence were pointless with the Hawks howling bloody murder. He heard the sound of scuffling, then rattling of weaponry. When he reached where the shop opened up into various displays of blades, hilts, and machinery, he stopped. There was another door in the back, and it was open. Moonlight shone through, falling upon bodies that lay crumpled about. At first Biggs thought them Ash guildmembers, but then he saw their cloaks and knew otherwise. Standing over them was a man.

  “Who the fuck are you?” asked Biggs.

  The man looked up and smiled. His skin was dark, and his long hair darker. He wore the red robes of a wizard, though he held a dagger in hand instead of a staff. Blood dripped from its edge. Covering his features was a mask of gray cloth pulled tight across his face, with two large slits to allow sight. His brown eyes sparkled with amusement.

  “I have no name,” said the intruder with blood on his hands. “But if Karak asks who sent you to his Abyss, tell him the Council’s reaper, the outcast, or the dark man in red.”

  He was chuckling, and the sound raised the hairs on the back of Biggs’s neck.

  “You’re crazy,” he said. “You know who you just killed? You’ll have the fury of the Hawk Guild come down on you.”

  He was blustering, of course. He’d made a quick count of the bodies, and knew that besides him and Kenny, only two others remained alive in the smithy. Still, he couldn’t act weak. It took all his concentration to keep the dagger from shaking in his hand.

  The stranger made a flicking motion, flinging tiny globs of blood. Biggs swore as they flecked across his shirt and pants.

  “They have to know I exist first,” he said, snapping his fingers.

  The blood caught fire, burning as if it were lamp oil. The heat came sudden and intense. Biggs fought an impulse to drop and roll. Magic fire would not snuff out so easily. As he felt his flesh burn, he lunged, his dagger aiming for the stranger’s chest. Before he could reach, the man fled, still laughing, still mocking. Instead of chasing, Biggs turned and ran for the other entrance.

  “Kenny!” he shouted. “Get your ass back...”

  It seemed his own shadow tripped him. There was no other way to describe the strange sight and sensation. His head cracked against an anvil on the way down, and the sudden pain disorientated him beyond all measure. His stomach heaved, and he thought he would vomit. When he got to his feet, he bolted, not knowing if it was the right way or not. He didn’t care. He had to move; he had to escape that terrible man who could burn blood with a snap of his fingers.

  “Gods, Biggs!” cried Kenny as he plowed right into him. Biggs clutched him to remain standing, and this time he did vomit. The mess splattered across Kenny’s shoes, but to Kenny’s credit, he didn’t bat an eye.

  “Kill him,” Biggs said, turning and pointing.

  The stranger approached, his dagger still in hand.

  “You have but a few left,” he said as the blood upon his blade burned like embers fresh from a hearth. The light danced across his masked face, casting an orange haze over the gray. Biggs stepped back, doing his best to ignore the pain of his burns and the throbbing of his head.

  “What, to kill you?” asked Kenny. “All we need is me.”

  He lifted his crossbow and fired. The bolt bounced off as if the stranger’s skin were made of stone.

  “A spellcaster?” said Kenny. “Damn it, Biggs, what shit did you get us in to?”

  The man’s grin spread, but he didn’t laugh. It seemed the time for laughter was over. A gleam shone in his eye, like a predator ready to pounce upon its prey. From either side, two more thieves rushed from their hiding places. Kenny laughed, and Biggs realized it had been a trap all along, prepared while he ran headlong like a fool to see the reason for the commotion. The two thieves stabbed, but their daggers struck only cloth. The stranger twisted and fell, avoiding both blows. When he hit the ground, his hands became a blur of strange motions. An explosion of fire blinded Biggs’s vision in the darkness, and then he heard the screams.

  “Don’t worry,” Kenny said as Biggs took a step forward, doing his best to ignore the charred corpses before him. “I keep this baby for special occasions like this.”

  Biggs saw him pull a bolt out from one of his many pockets, its tip glistening with silver. The stranger rolled along the floor until safely hidden behind a giant hearth. Kenny took a wide step around, trying to get a clear shot.

  “What are they paying you for?” Kenny asked. “Wizards aren’t supposed to get involved with mundane affairs, and they sure as shit aren’t supposed to hire out as assassins. What’s your game?”

  “No game.” Biggs kept close to Kenny, standing opposite his trigger-arm and keeping his dagger ready in case the stranger charged. “And I am no wizard.”

  “A necromancer then?” Kenny asked. “What’s this to you?”

  Another side-step, each one slow and careful. Just as Kenny prepared his crossbow, so too could he be preparing a spell.

  “Not a necromancer. How are you so blind? You, the lowest rung of the world’s ladder, cannot see what I am?”

  “Enough riddles. What’s your name, and your price?”

  “Out of everything, you ask name and price?” the stranger said, suddenly stepping from the shadows and into their line of sight.

  The bolt fired. Biggs saw Kenny shift the crossbow to the side, just the slightest amount as if anticipating a dodge. None came. The stranger let the bolt hit him, and it pierced into his shoulder just below his collarbone. He gasped at the pain, leaned forward, and then to Biggs’s horror, steadied himself and stood erect.

  “Name…price…I have neither.”

  “Reload!” Biggs shouted, stepping between them and holding his dagger out. Fire danced in the stranger’s eyes, then to his hands. Knowing he had to buy his ally time, Biggs let out a curse and dashed in, swinging for the man’s neck. He never made it. The fire consumed his clothes, its heat beyond anything he’d ever felt. His legs refused to obey. As he collapsed, he looked back, hoping Kenny would at least kill the bastard who’d done him in, but of course the rogue was long gone, running like the intelligent coward he was.

  “You died for nothing,” he heard the stranger say as the pain vanished amid a wave of darkness. His voice echoed in the chambers of his mind, slowly fading, slowly dying.

  “Nothing…”

  Veliana led them down the alleyway, her daggers sheathed at her hip. Still, her hands never strayed far from their hilts. Something about this meeting felt worrisome. Perhaps it was the great amount of coin about to change hands. Ever since James Beren’s death, things had gone poorly for the Ash Guild. James had been more than their leader: he’d been a sign of stability during the chaos and bloodshed. He’d died defying Thren Felhorn, and while in a nobler world that might have meant something, in theirs it brought about the near dissolution of the guild.

  “Hurry,” she whispered, ushering the rest of her guildmates along. They were at the very edge of their pitifully small terri
tory. The last thing she needed was an ambush. Even if they fought if off, the delay might be enough to disrupt their sale. They were supposed to meet a wealthy, and eccentric, merchant from Ker. All it’d take was a few minutes of fret and worry before he took his things and left.

  Assuming the men she’d sent in advance let the merchant leave.

  They curved through the streets, which narrowed because of the stalls that sprang up along the sides. They were passing many leatherworks and metal smiths. Almost there. She stopped at an intersection with a main road leading toward the castle, looked about for patrols, and then continued on when she saw none. The sky was clear and bright, but still the chill seeped through her clothes and into her skin. She hated winter. It made her hurry, made her spend only four seconds checking a turn when she should spend five. If she were to make any prediction, it’d be that when she was buried, it’d be when the ground was cold and hard. Assuming she was buried at all. Given her life, even that was far from a given.

  “We’re here,” she said. A quick set of instructions sent two around to the other side, and then the remaining six followed her through the main door. She let one of her guildmembers, Pryor, go first, just in case there was a trap. When she heard him gasp, she thought it so, and she drew her daggers. But instead, she heard her name.

  “Vel?”

  She followed Pryor in and surveyed the area.

  A man waited for them. He sat atop a large crate, presumably their red powder for the deal. His body bent over as if greatly burdened. He wore red robes stained with ash and blood. His skin was dark, and his hair darker. In one hand he held a dagger, the other, a long piece of gray cloth. When he lifted his head, she stared into his brown eyes and saw a combination of fury and hopelessness that frightened her. He was handsome, but she felt no attraction. How could she, seeing a gaze like that?

  All around him, burned to ash and bone, were bodies.

  “What is going on?” she asked, stunned by the sight.

  “You were betrayed,” said the strange man. “One of your own helped kill the others so they might prepare an ambush.”

  “Who?” Veliana asked.

  The man slowly shook his head.“This is my time to speak,” he said. “Ask your questions when I am done, for I need your ears listening and your mind open. I do not know who prepared your betrayal, but I am sure they are one of the dead at my feet. They are ash now, a fitting end given the name of your guild. Think now on what you see. I handled what seven men of yours could not. Where they died, betrayed, I came and killed the betrayers. I am alone, woman. Now ask yourself, what use might I be to you? Surely I am worth the seven that died.”

  “He’s lying,” said Pryor. “He killed them all! Greg, Brendan…he killed them!”

  The man shook his head, and his shoulders sagged further.

  “Don’t make a fool of yourself. Fools die around me, as is fitting.”

  Veliana cried out for Pryor to stop, but it was too late. He flung a dagger at the stranger, who avoided the hasty throw by a simple tilt of his head. His retaliation came swift, his dagger piercing a lung as it embedded into the thief’s chest. The rest of the Ash Guild prepared to attack, but Veliana snapped at them to remain back.

  “Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

  For a moment his look shifted, and she saw an incredible sadness lurking behind those eyes. He lifted the gray cloth and let it unfurl from his hand, revealing the eyeholes.

  “My real name is lost,” he said. “For it was banished from me by a power I cannot challenge. I have only the name they left me. I am Death, and this is my mask.”

  And then he smiled, and she found that just maybe she could find him attractive.

  “You’ll start as the lowest rank,” she told him. “You’ll receive no special treatment, no favors. That acceptable?”

  He nodded. A quick word from her, and the Ash members hurried forward to grab the crate. ‘Death’ stepped aside, and he watched with disinterest. Veliana chewed her lip as she thought of what exactly she would tell Garrick Lowe, their new guildmaster. He wouldn’t be too thrilled with the loss of men, but at least they still had their merchandise. As for this Death and his mask…

  She slipped closer. She wanted to understand him, his motives. He might be a trap, or a disaster she was blindly bringing in to their guild. The blame would all fall on her.

  “Don’t betray me,” she whispered to him as the rest hauled off the crate. “I don’t care how strong you think you are, I’ve fought stronger, I’ve survived better. You walk into this willingly, but the only way you walk out is dead. Do you understand me?”

  He tied the cloth over his face, and through the holes in the mask, winked at her.

  “The only way I leave will be as your guildmaster,” he said.

  Because of the mask, she could not see if he smiled, or search his features for tells. In the end, she decided it didn’t matter.

  “Come with me,” she said. “You’re bound to make waves, so I think it best Garrick meet with you now…assuming he trusts you enough to be in the same room.”

  He moved, faster than she thought possible. His left hand wrapped around her waist. His right grabbed her wrist, and he pulled her close. She tried to draw her dagger, but he held her tight. Their eyes locked on one another.

  “You were brave enough to come this close,” he said, his voice nearly a whisper. “And even in my arms, you do not tremble. I will remember that. Tell me, woman, what is your name?”

  “Veliana,” she said.

  He let her go. She slapped him, and he straightened his mask.

  “Deserved, and well worth it,” he said. “Lead on, Veliana. I wish to see your guildmaster.”

  She waited until they’d secured the powder in a separate safe house before taking the strange man with her to meet Garrick. They’d moved around many times, a result of their weak status and constant war with the rest of the guilds. Only recently had they made peace with most, though the Hawk Guild still preyed heavily upon them. If not for this…Death…then Veliana knew there was a good chance she’d be a corpse.

  Assuming he wasn’t part of the trap.

  Their current base was in the confines of a small merchant guild, one desperate enough for coin that they’d accepted Garrick’s bribes. As lairs went, it wasn’t the most secretive, but at least it was warm in the winter months, and moderately well furnished. Veliana led them through a side door. Four steps down they stopped at a basement door, with small lamps burning for light at either side. She frowned at the lack of guards. No doubt they were on the inside. Garrick liked having his protectors there with him at all times, even if it wasn’t safer. They should have been out in the cold, keeping watch so they could lock and bar the door if something went awry.

  But of course the door was locked and barred anyway when she tried to open it. Rolling her eyes, she knocked twice, then once. She heard the scraping of metal, and then a slit opened to reveal a bloodshot pair of eyes.

  “Say the pass,” said the guard.

  “Veliana. Now open the damn door.”

  There was a password, of course. Three, even, in case she needed to alert them to a hidden threat. But she was in no mood, and she knew the guard on the other side was too spineless to refuse her entrance. The slit closed, and as they heard a loud thumping, Death chuckled behind her.

  “Your professionalism is astounding,” he said. “I know I came with few expectations, but still, I feel them failing to be met.”

  “Quiet,” she said. “And stay here. I’ll need to introduce you to Garrick first.”

  She paused and gave him a glance. The mask hid his face, but she couldn’t fight off the feeling he was smirking at her.

  “Just how should I introduce you, anyway?” she asked.

  “I told you, I have no name.”

  “That makes for a poor introduction. Should I call you Death? It’s a little over the top, but I’ve heard worse.”

  “Death might be too
great a mantle for me to wear,” said the man. “But I can bear no name for the curse given me. All I have is my mask. Perhaps you can call me that.”

  The door opened, and she stepped inside. A guard stood at either side, their daggers drawn. The room was well lit with many lanterns. At one end were tables of maps, documents, and a locked chest for guild funds. At the other were blankets, pillows, and illegal measures of comfort. Amid the meager luxury sat Garrick, his eyes glazed from the substance he smoked through a short pipe. Several other men lay scattered about him, their senses just as dull from the smoke and liquor.

  “Veliana!” Garrick said, standing. “Did the trade go through as…”

  He stopped as Veliana’s guest shoved his way inside, so fast that he was beside her before the guards reacted. He made no threatening motion, only stayed at her side. With an elaborate bow, he greeted the guildmaster.

  “Mighty Garrick, how the shadows tremble when I mention your name,” he said, and Veliana felt anger burn inside her at the obvious sarcasm. Garrick, however, seemed oblivious to it. Instead, he appeared worried by the newcomer’s strange attire and sudden entrance. He stepped back and ran a hand through his long brown hair, a sign Veliana knew meant he was nervous.

  “And who are you?” he asked. “A friend of Veliana’s?”

  “This is…Death’s Mask,” she said. “He helped us tonight, may have saved many lives. We’ve been betrayed, Garrick. When we…”

  “Do you still have the powder?” Garrick interrupted.

  “I…yes, we do.”

  “Good, good,” said Garrick. He sat back down on the cushions, drew his dagger, and held it in hand while he listened. “Now what is this betrayal you speak of? And tell me again…” – he made a sound like a cross of a laugh and a cough – “who this Death…Deathmask is?”