A Dance of Blades

14

G host followed the Watcher south, though he did so with no hurry. He’d watched him fight, and learned two things: One, no puke-brained mercenary was going to be the one to do him in. Two, he had someone close to him. He might have thought his quiet voice concealed his emotions, but he heard the hint of worry, particularly about the one named Delysia. With that, it was only a matter of time before he brought the Watcher down. You couldn’t have attachments, not if you wanted to survive against someone like Ghost.

Tarlak Eschaton wasn’t well-known to him, but if he played the mercenary game, then he had contacts, friends, employers, maybe even a spot in the guild. There would be no hiding. So as he strolled down the street, always given a wide berth by the groups that rushed past with bloodied swords, he paused and looked west. A strange commotion was brewing down there-he could tell by the torches and the way several of the recent patrols all turned in that direction. Had the fighting coalesced into an actual battlefront? Surely not. They weren’t that organized, nor would that benefit the thieves in any way. So what then?

His hands on his hilts, he strode over to the mob. He estimated at least sixty men gathered around what he realized was the temple of Ashhur. So far they remained at the steps, but that appeared ready to change at any moment. Fifteen priests stood in their way, their hands at their sides. They were proficient with many spells, he knew, but how effective they’d be on armored men, he was unsure. An elderly priest with a bald head stood in the center of the steps, and he faced the crowd without any semblance of worry. Sweat ran down the sides of his neck, though, and Ghost knew him just as scared as the rest.

“You cannot enter,” the old man shouted, hardly heard over the din of the mercenaries.

“Let us in!” they shouted.

“Out of the way!”

“You harbor thieves!”

Ghost frowned. He needed a better look. To the side he found a pillar, and he used that to vault himself halfway up the steps, and from there he peered into the temple. Inside was chaos, hundreds of people crammed within seeking shelter. Given how many homes he’d seen ransacked, it made perfect sense. Where else might be safer? They sat on benches, huddled against walls, and lay in the aisles if need be. Sure enough, he caught sight of a few cloaks in there, but not many.

“I will not hand anyone over to be butchered in the streets,” the head priest was saying. “Go on your way. Curse our city with your bloodshed if you must, but I will not allow it to happen on my doorstep!”

Another patrol joined the group, this one numbering twenty. They muttered amongst each other, wanting to know the reason for their delay. Several more lit up torches. Ghost felt his blood boil. They would set fire to a temple all to meet their blood-thirst? A thousand rogues must remain hiding elsewhere, but they would come here?

The head priest lifted a hand over his head. A bright light grew from his palm, and even from the side it was painful for Ghost to look upon. He didn’t want to imagine staring into it from the front. This seemed to draw the mercenaries back a little. A captain he’d met a couple of times, named Jamie ‘Half-Ear’, for obvious reasons, stepped forward.

“We don’t want nothing bad to happen here,” he said. “But we saw plenty run inside before we surrounded the place. No one innocent needs to be hurt. Just send them out.”

“Those who came here for succor shall receive it,” said the priest.

“I know, I know, you gots to say that,” said Jamie. “Please, er…”

“Calan.”

“Calan. I doubt you want us filthy men running through your fancy place, so how about I just send one or two to point ‘em out to your little helpers? Only the guilty get taken out, and just a few. Everyone else stays safe, see what I’m saying? They ain’t your flock. They ain’t your children. They’re damn thieves, and those with more power than you say it’s time they die.”

Calan shook his head. “In time, perhaps, but not tonight. Go on your way, all of you.”

“They’re dying tonight, you stupid ass, no matter what you do. I see a lot of stone, but this building’s still got plenty that’ll burn. You hearing me, Calan? It’ll burn! ”

That was enough for Ghost. Though he couldn’t care less about their deity, the temple was a beautiful structure. Stubborn and blind, the whole lot of them. He reached into a side pocket and withdrew a handful of knives, weighted to fly true. Scanning the crowd, he waited, wanting his choices to be absolutely perfect. Jamie was too close, too public, but those near the front, most eager for blood…

Hidden behind his pillar, he flung his first knife into the crowd. It plunged deep into the throat of a man hollering at the top of his lungs, ceasing his cries for fire. His next three took down torch bearers, as Ghost decided fire was the greatest threat to the temple. Down they went, their torches clattering across the stone. By now the crowd had noticed the deaths, and while some wondered aloud, most roared for blood. They’d blame the priests, which was the goal. All the better to make the mercenaries appear the fools when he stepped out.

“You’d murder us in the street while claiming to protect life?” Jamie cried, more to the mercenaries than the priests.

“We have done no such thing,” Calan insisted. He might as well have shouted at a thunderstorm to cease its rumbling.

Ghost slipped to the other side of the pillar, then hopped lower, closer to Calan. He was directly behind him, with a clear view of Half-Ear. The captain was practically frothing at the mouth while screaming for blood, but he’d not yet drawn a blade. Not yet…but close…his hand twitching…now!

Ghost coiled his legs and pushed off, launching himself between them. He wielded a single sword in both hands, needing the power. Before Jamie could swing, Ghost’s sword tore through him, slicing from collarbone to hip. When Jamie kicked, the upper half of him collapsed backward and rolled down the steps, spilling innards, while the legs crumpled and lay in place. A flood of gasps came from the crowd, those that were not stunned silent. Ghost held the bloody blade before his face, peering over it with his eyes.

“Be gone, damn cowards. You have no business here. Go elsewhere, and slay the cloaks in their homes, the streets, wherever but here.”

“This is madness,” Calan said behind him. “I can’t allow…”

“Quiet, priest. You may not want bloodshed, but it’ll happen, and better here on these steps than inside your halls. Such disrespect, it’s shameful. They deserve to die just as much as those thieves within.”

“I’d rather neither die,” Calan said, his voice dropping lower.

“Good luck with that.”

Ghost had hoped the brutal display would cow the crowd, but he underestimated their desire. Too many seemed eager for a fight. They’d gone unchallenged, no doubt thought themselves already nearing the end of their task. If they went south, they’d probably think differently. The fires were growing, the smoke blanketing the city. This fight wasn’t over; not even close.

“Stun as many as you can,” he said to the head priest. “Blind them, knock them back. Leave the killing to me. I’ll be better at it than you, anyway.”

He drew his other weapon and lifted both high above his head, as if worshipping a god of the sky.

“Draw swords or flee!” he shouted to the crowd. It was time to end this stalling. It was time for blood or cowardice.

The mercenaries surged forward, not following any spoken command, only a collective realization to attack now or be revealed as bluffers. The priests raised their hands, their palms facing down the steps. Light shone from them, the intensity blinding. Ghost heard the sound of a hundred claps of thunder, and it passed over him like a physical force. Those at the front staggered or fell back, forcing the rest behind to pull them out of the way. Ghost took advantage of the confusion, leaping forward to gut one mercenary and cut down another. He backpedaled up the steps, parrying random thrusts that seemed wild, as if his opponents were still struggling to see.

“Fall back,” he ordered. The priests exchanged a quick look, but then Calan nodded.

“As he says!” shouted the head priest.

The fifteen climbed the steps, prayers still on their lips. Walls of force slammed into the crowd, invisible but their effects not. He watched noses break, heads bruise, and fingers snap in painful directions. More stumbled upon the steps, crushed by those who rushed behind them. Ghost stayed before Calan, figuring him the most important to protect. He was the strongest, and as long as he stood, the other priests wouldn’t break rank and flee.

“We must hide inside,” Calan said. “We can’t hold them back.”

Ghost lunged left to right, taking out those who pushed through the spells ahead of the pack. They fell, disadvantaged by the lower ground and disoriented beyond measure. If not for the sheer numbers, Ghost feared he might have gotten bored.

“We go inside and they’ll burn us out,” he insisted. “Stand and fight, old man. Stand and fight.”

He kicked another body down the steps. They were gathering before the door, nearly out of space to retreat. Calan nodded, accepting the man’s decision.

“So be it,” he said, standing beside Ghost and lifting his arms. “Forgive me, Ashhur, but I need your retribution this night.”

He lowered his hands. A sound of thunder rolled, and then the steps to the temple trembled and broke. Dust rippled outward in concentric circles, giving visibility to the shockwave. There were about twenty men pressing upward at the time, and they collapsed, crying out in pain. The amount of broken limbs Ghost witnessed was staggering. It was like Ashhur had stepped down and crushed them with his heel. Calan trembled, then stepped back and accepted the support of two more priests. The rest of the mercenaries, not willing to even think of climbing those corpse-strewn steps, turned and fled. Ghost leapt among them, killing a few more for good measure. Coated with gore, he returned to the temple, where he heard songs and lamentations coming from within.

A couple of the priests thanked him, but most eyed him warily and scooted further away when he neared.

“Why?” asked Calan, his arm still around one of the younger priests. “Why did you help us?”

Ghost shrugged. “Can’t stand disrespect, and that’s all that was. They should respect me, and respect you. They didn’t, and now they’re dead.”

“Not all of them,” Calan said, gesturing to the many wounded. He turned to his priests. “Go and tend to them.”

“I doubt they’ll bother you now,” Ghost said. “But I’d consider getting rid of those with colors in your temple while it’s still calm.”

“If I did that,” said the head priest with a smile, “I wouldn’t be worthy of much respect, would I?”

Ghost laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Then I hope your god watches over you. Before this night ends, you might still need him.”

*

D eathmask watched the carnage from the window of a room currently absent of its original occupants. No doubt they’d fled to safer territory, assuming there was anywhere safe within the city walls. He’d gone out with the initial patrols, under orders from Garrick to help ambush some of the smaller mercenary groups. When the first fight began, he’d slipped away, joining Veliana in the large apartments overlooking their headquarters. After a few initial confrontations that left many on both sides dead, the area had remained quiet for the past hour. Most recently, a squad of fifty men had checked the headquarters for thieves, found none, and then moved on.

“I doubt there’ll be much guild left for you to rule after tonight,” Veliana said, relaxing on a moth-eaten chair. “Hope Garrick survives, though. Would be heartbroken if some lousy sellsword gets the honor of cutting off his head.”

“He’s too cowardly to die tonight,” Deathmask said as he tied gray cloth over his face and straightened it so the eyeholes lined up properly. Behind him, Veliana did the same, using the knot of the cloth to also keep her hair in a tight ponytail. They both wore loose gray clothing, and cloaks of a darker shade. Veliana had killed a pair of Spiders in the initial chaos before joining Deathmask in the building, bringing with her their clothes and weapons.

“While unexpected, tonight certainly works in our favor,” he said, once more looking to the window. “The fewer we have to thin out, the better. Have you given thought as to who we should spare?”

“The only ones who come to mind are the twins,” she said. “They have a head on their shoulders, though it seems like they share it. They think so alike it’s creepy.”

“Can they wield a blade?”

“They’re better at throwing them than wielding them, but no average cutthroat could handle them, either.”

“Good. Names?”

She tugged at her mask, trying to get it to fit comfortably. “Mier and Nien.”

Deathmask rolled his eyes. “What wonderful parents. Gods forbid their names be at least a little different.”

He leaned away from the window as a man rushed down the road, a jittery fellow who kept glancing in every direction. Two more followed after. Veliana saw Deathmask’s reaction and straightened in her chair.

“Someone there?” she asked.

“Looks like some scouts, no doubt making sure it’s safe to come home. Get ready. We’ll have little time between their leaving and Garrick’s arrival.”

The Ash scouts vanished into the building. Deathmask peered out the window, watching, waiting. When the scout emerged, Deathmask beckoned Veliana closer.

“Go!” he said when the scout turned a corner. They tossed a rope that was tied to the bed in their room, sliding down even as it uncoiled. They hit the street in seconds and sprinted for the headquarters. Deathmask led the way, Veliana at his heels. Once inside they slowed, walking through the hallway into the lavish rooms.

“Pick your spot,” he said, his eyes darting about. “Keep close to the doors for when we make our escape.”

“I’m no stranger to this sort of thing,” Veliana said, glaring at him through her mask.

“Keep your hood raised. If they see your hair, they might figure out who you are, instead of just assuming you another Spider.”

She lifted the hood of her cloak and let it fall across her face as Deathmask did the same. He entered one of the side sections curtained off to give privacy with the dancer women, leaving a gap through which he could watch the entrance. Veliana adjusted a giant pile of pillows, hiding behind it. She drew her daggers and waited. Deathmask did the same. There would be no magic for him, no spells of blood and shadows. The moment he did, he’d reveal himself to Garrick. Veliana had trained him for a few hours, but at knife work he was far from proficient. He’d spent an hour casting spells of speed and strength on himself to try and make up for the lack, but he wouldn’t know for sure until the ambush. Not being much of a praying man, he crossed his fingers and swore to succeed whatever the cost.

The door slammed open. In rushed a collection of the Ash Guild; all men closest to Garrick, Deathmask noticed. Their clothes were lacking in blood and gore. No ambushes for Garrick, which put a smile on his face. That fact would work wonders for them later, should he and Veliana survive for the second part of their plan. The thieves went straight for the obvious: the bar filled with bottles of wine and ale. Deathmask was glad he couldn’t see Veliana, who was no doubt smirking. She’d insisted that would be their reaction, whereas he thought many would rest atop the pillows to relax after a brutal night of fighting.

“They’ll drink it off before they sleep it off,” she’d said while they waited through the night.

Need to listen to her more often, he thought. She thinks more like a man than I. What I get for growing up among wizards, I guess.

They both waited, Deathmask watching until he was sure…and there he was, standing amid his men, holding his glass the highest as they toasted a night of survival.

“To standing atop the dead!” he heard Garrick say.

Toasting your own cowardice? And to think I thought I was a bastard.

He pushed aside the curtain and charged, his dagger drawn and ready. As he pushed himself to the limit, he felt his feet move faster, the world almost imperceptibly slower. He buried his dagger into the back of the nearest thief, whose glass fell from his hand. Before it hit the ground, two daggers flew across the room, thudding into the back of another. Veliana scattered pillows as she lunged, much of her face thankfully hidden by her hood. She kicked the closest thief, the one she’d hit with her daggers, yanking out the blades as her foot slammed him into the others. Wine splashed to the floor as the rest dropped their drinks and drew their blades, crying out warnings of trap and ambush.

Garrick was in their center, and he fell back instead of drawing his dagger. Deathmask knew he was Veliana’s target, not his, but he had to clear a path for her. Side-stepping a thrust, he jammed his dagger into the chest of another, using the body to protect himself from several more. The Ash members were starting to spread out, better to take advantage of their numbers. That thinned the wall toward Garrick, and Veliana wielded her daggers like a demoness, twisting and curling to avoid every thrust. Blood soon joined the wine that stained the floor. Deathmask felt pride in seeing her work. No one that survived could possibly doubt that the best of the Spider Guild had come to take the life of a rival.

Well, those that watched her, anyway. He, on the other hand, struggled to stay alive. His dagger batted side to side, sometimes faster than he expected thanks to the earlier enchantment. The impulse to cast a spell to blind his opponent filled him, and only at the last second did he refrain. The ruse was more important. He gained nothing giving himself away. The Ash needed to be his guild to rule. He couldn’t do that if revealed in the guise of a rival guild. His arms trembled as he felt steel cut into them. He fought three men at once, and they grinned at the sight of blood. He was outmatched, and now they knew it.

“Finish it!” he cried to Veliana, hurrying to the door.

Veliana was in the middle of disemboweling another man, and at his cry, she shoved him aside. The path between her and Garrick was clear. Instead of charging, she lifted a dagger and threw. Its aim was true. The point pierced his shoulder and lodged deep, burying up to the hilt. Garrick howled as his blood ran.

That was enough. Deathmask rushed for the exit, feeling like his legs didn’t belong to him. Veliana hesitated for just a moment, and he saw her other dagger trembling in her hand. Trusting her to do the smart thing, he burst through the door and into the night. She appeared a moment later, looking none too pleased.

“Come on,” he said. He took a zigzag course through the city, on a path he had memorized by heart. They arrived at an inn with rooms they’d already paid for several hours before. Deathmask climbed in through a window, which had no glass, only thick wood shutters that he had left unlocked. He was already changing back into his Ash Guild outfit when Veliana climbed inside.

“Did you kill him?” he asked.

“I wanted to.”

“That a no?”

She yanked the mask off her face and flung back her hood. “What do you think?”

He grinned. Knowing his skill was nowhere near hers, he’d left the delicate task of harming, but not killing, Garrick up to Veliana. Up until the throw itself, he hadn’t been sure if she would make it lethal or not.

“You did marvelously,” he said, tossing the old cloak to the bed and pulling off his tunic. “And now I can trust you all the more. If I was in your position, I might have accidentally hit Garrick’s throat.”

“That would have left me homeless and guildless,” she said, grabbing her old Ash outfit from the bed. She reached for the door.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“To change.”

The door shut behind her. Deathmask sighed. No fun at all.

She returned moments later, dressed in the colors of the Ash and looking to be in an even fouler mood.

“They’re still stained with my blood,” she said, referring to the red patch on her chest.

“I’ll try to get you something newer when I can,” he said. “Didn’t want to attract any attention. They might wonder why I was requesting an outfit for someone half my weight.”

“You’re a thief now, remember? Steal it.”

Deathmask shrugged. “Ready?”

She pushed him aside and climbed out the window.

“This better work,” she muttered. “Otherwise we’re in for a lengthy death.”

“I’m in for one perhaps, but you’ve already had your public execution, remember?”

She slammed the shutters in his face.