A Dance of Blades

27

The main quarters for the Serpents were unsurprisingly empty when Haern searched them. Given what he knew of William Ket, their leader, they would not dismiss him as lightly as the others. William took every threat seriously, and he dealt with them as harshly as possible. Kadish was a gambler, a drinker, and a man too proud to stop celebrating when he should have been in hiding. William was easily the opposite, and would therefore be far more difficult.

Of course, Haern knew where they’d go. They’d retreated there several times, usually after one of the guilds engaged them in a skirmish over territory. Unlike their main guildhouse, this one was smaller, with only a single door and no windows. It had once been the armory for the city guards stationed deep in the south of Veldaren, before the king had repositioned them farther north and sold the building.

On his way there, Haern checked the cut on his side. He’d hid it from lady Gemcroft and her frightening female guard, though the guard might have noticed given her incredible skill. It was shallow, a flesh wound along his ribs. It was bleeding though, as such cuts liked to do. Pausing to catch his breath, he leaned against the wall of a smithy and drew one of his sabers.

“Something tells me you’ll get reopened a dozen times tonight,” he said as he cut the edge of a cloak to make a bandage. It reminded him of trying to bandage that boy’s arm while out in the snow. At least he knew who he was now: Nathaniel Gemcroft. No wonder he’d been a target. Of course, who it had been and why was no real concern. The Serpents were. Assuming Deathmask handled the Spider Guild like he said he would, the Serpents were the only guild left to be dealt with one way or another.

A shadow shifted in the corner of his eye, elongated in a way that was unnatural to the moonlight. His mind cried out in alarm, and he dropped to one knee just in time. A crossbow bolt smacked into the wood behind him and then ricocheted off. Haern drew both his sabers as he rushed toward the main street, where the buildings would be further apart and he’d have more room to dodge.

Some finely-honed instinct in him lifted the hairs on his neck. He slid as he heard the twang of two more crossbows. Bolts flew above him, striking the ground harmlessly. At least three attackers, he realized, given the how close together they’d fired. Not good. Back on his feet in a heartbeat, he continued running, relying on the slow reloading of a crossbow to give him time.

His way was blocked, however. A man in the cloak of a Serpent landed before him, his dagger already drawn.

“Damn fool,” the Serpent said.

“Same to you.”

He crashed right into him, positioning his sabers so they pushed the tip of his opponent’s dagger to the side. Haern’s forehead rammed the Serpent’s nose. Blood splattered across them both, blinding an eye. Trying to ignore the pain, Haern rolled atop him and into the wide street beyond. When he spun, he saw bolts flying in. One missed. A second passed an inch from his leg as he dodged to one side. The third thudded into his side, and he gasped at the impact. If not for his dodge, it would have found the bottom of his throat.

Is it poisoned? he wondered, but he dismissed the thought. Poison wouldn’t matter if several more buried their tips into something vital.

The man he’d rammed struggled to his feet, and Haern reacted on instinct. He knew he needed to get away from the men with the crossbows, but he also couldn’t leave an opponent free to chase. He lunged, slashed away the Serpent’s pitiful defense, and then cut his throat. As he bled out, Haern dove around a corner. A single bolt fired after him, missing by a foot. And then he was running. He sheathed one of his sabers so he could wipe at the blood in his eye, then glanced back. Three Serpents leapt after him, two men and a woman, their green cloaks trailing, the color an eerie haze in the moonlight.

He crossed to the other side of the street, giving them no choice but to climb down. Again he made a decision, this one more on pride than rational thinking. They’d hurt him, maybe even poisoned him. They had to pay. His reputation was all that would hold this arrangement together with the guilds and Trifect. If they felt they could wound him, make him run, then all would be for naught.

“Come on!” he shouted, slamming his sabers together before charging. The three had abandoned their crossbows on the rooftop so they could climb down, and all of them drew shortswords. As he charged, they formed a triangle, trapping him in the center. He grinned at the maneuver. Clever, but it was too late to change his mind. His tactics, however, he could change. Instead of lunging at the first, as they thought, he spun in place, beginning his cloakdance. His feet twisted and spun, pushed to the very limits of his speed. He relied fully on instinct, for what his eyes saw through his cloaks were but snippets of his opponents. Thrust after thrust he smacked away, until one overextended, confused as to where he actually was within the cloaks. Haern broke out from the spin, double-slashing his arm. Down went the weapon as blood spilled and the Serpent screamed.

Back into the dance, but just a moment, just long enough to confuse the remaining two. No time left to mess around. The pain in his side was escalating, and his fingers tingled. Assaulting the nearest, he unleashed a furious display, his swords weaving around the woman’s shortsword as if it were motionless. He spun as he cut her, whirling toward the last Serpent in a single smooth motion. The thief blocked only one of the two sabers, the other taking his life.

“Damn it,” Haern said, pausing to catch his breath. He gingerly touched the bolt in his side, wincing as his fingers made it move the slightest bit. Too deep, he’d have to push it through and pray there’d been no poison. Before he could, he heard movement above. Too late, he brought up his sabers, but instead of the expected bolt a single Serpent fell bleeding to the ground, crumpling in a heap. From the rooftop, Zusa waved at him.

“The one you don’t see is the one that kills you,” she called down to him.

Despite his exhaustion, he gave her a smile.

“Why are you here?” he asked as she climbed down to the street.

“Milady wishes the Serpents punished, and so I’ve come to help you. Clearly you need it.”

He gestured to the bolt in his side.

“Clearly.”

Without giving him warning, she stepped forward, grabbed the shaft, and pushed. He clenched his jaw and ground his teeth together to hold in his scream. Warm blood dripped down the small of his back. Zusa pushed aside his cloak, retrieved the bolt, and then held it close to her eyes so she might see in the moonlight.

“Not poisoned,” she said. “Either one of the gods favors you, or they were too stupid and lazy to prepare for you properly.”

“Perhaps both?” He grinned at her, but the grin faltered. “Sorry about your arm.”

“Sorry about your chest.”

So she had noticed. He chuckled.

“If I stumble from the blood loss, make sure you kill me. I’m not sure who would be happiest to torture me, but I’d rather not find out.”

“They’d probably auction the right. More money.”

“Aren’t you a cheery soul?” He pointed further down the street. “Come on. The armory isn’t far.”

He led the way, Zusa trailing behind him, like a feminine version of his own shadow. Silent as ghosts they crisscrossed their way toward their goal. Haern checked the alleys and Zusa the rooftops for any more potential ambushes. At the armory they stopped and peered around the corner of a nearby home.

“No guards on the outside,” Zusa whispered.

“That would give them away. They think this place is safe, otherwise they wouldn’t come here.”

“Nowhere is safe in this city.”

“Well,” Haern said, drawing his sabers, “let’s go reinforce that lesson for them.”

“How many entrances?”

He thought for a moment, then held up a single finger.

“They boarded up their windows. Together, through the door. No mercy, Zusa. Can you handle that?”

She gave him a look that showed how insulted she was.

“I was raised in the heart of Karak’s temple,” she said. “Mercy is not my bedfellow.”

As if to prove the point, she rushed ahead, and silently cursing her, he followed. The door was locked, but when Haern went to draw his lockpicker’s kit, she only shook her head. She mouthed something to him, but he only caught half the words. She wanted to try something, though, that much he understood. Putting her hands on the lock, she closed her eyes, and to him it looked like she was praying. Shadows slipped off her fingertips like water dripping from a melting wedge of ice. A moment later, they both heard an audible click from within the lock.

Her balance wavered, but when she caught it, she shot him a wink. Haern rolled his eyes.

“Ladies first,” he said, loud enough to spur her into action. She flung open the door, and in he followed, two deadly specters in the night. A single Serpent waited on guard, looking half-awake. They cut his throat as they rushed past. He never even had chance to cry out alarm. They bashed through a door and into an elaborate room, one that instantly felt familiar to Haern. It was like so many others of the posh headquarters the guilds created, all curtains and pillows, alcohol and sex.

Their first warning something was wrong came when the door behind them slammed shut. The second was when William Ket greeted them with a warm smile from his chair on the far side of the room.

“Well, well, well, is it not the Watcher?” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “And you’ve brought a friend. Excellent. Did you think I’d be foolish enough to think you couldn’t find me here, not with your…storied reputation?”

“The curtains,” Zusa whispered, her body tensed like a cat before a pounce.

“I know.”

William’s grin spread.

“Alyssa called off her mercenaries, the silly girl. She had us on the run, but then suddenly she flooded Veldaren with bored, unemployed men with a penchant for violence. How could I not take advantage of such a gift?”

The curtains pushed aside, revealing armored men standing in every little alcove. Haern estimated at least thirty. He felt his blood run cold. So this would be how it ended. His side ached, every breath hurt his chest, his head pounded from exhaustion, and standing before him, William Ket laughed.

“Don’t you give in,” Zusa whispered, her voice almost a hiss. “They are children to you, you understand? We are the lions. We are the hunters.”

Haern thought of his moment in Karak’s temple, when he’d been in the very presence of the Lion of Karak. It had roared, and he’d gazed into an emptiness that seemed to go on forever. He remembered the terror, and he realized that he’d been far more afraid then than he was now. Focusing upon that fear, he knew he could be that lion to these men. He looked at them as they waited for the order to attack, let them see into his eyes that same emptiness, that same certainty of their death. Pulling his hood low, he let the shadows of the torchlight scatter his features. Beside him, Zusa wrapped her cloak tight about her body and then hunched low.

“Kill them,” William said.

Haern went left, Zusa right. He felt every nerve in his body firing, and he gave in to his instincts completely. This was the beast Thren had created over the years, day in and day out with training, practice, lectures, and tutors. This was the monster whose teeth had been sharpened by half a decade skulking in the shadows slaughtering the thieves of the night. His sabers were a blur as he cut down the first, the mercenary’s axe too slow to block. The two closest rushed in, wielding longswords. He parried their thrusts, which felt slow, as if his opponents fought in molasses. Blood soaked his sabers as the rest came rushing in, swinging with their clubs, maces, and swords.

Cutting, twisting, never staying in the same place. As his feet shifted and turned, he thought of the hours he’d been forced to stand in strange stances to pacify a tutor. As he curled his body around thrusts, he remembered the complicated stretches another tutor had taught him to do every morning. As he slashed and dodged, he thought of the words of his father.

They can’t kill you until you let them. That is why you must be better. That is why you must be perfect. Never, ever let them think they can win.

Said to an eleven-year-old boy. More than anything, he wished his father could be there to see what he had created. One after another the mercenaries fell. They knew how to bully. They knew how to put the strength of their arms into their blows, and they could handle the rudimentary thrusts and parries of the battlefield. But Haern felt himself beyond them, beyond anything. They scored cuts on him, to be sure, but he felt the pain in a distant place locked in the back of his mind. They would not kill him. He would not let them. His wrist might bleed from a lucky stab of a sword. His chest might ache from where a club struck him before he could dodge. His eyes might sting from blood running into them from where a blade slashed his forehead. But they would not kill him.

Zusa’s cry pulled him back from the animal, from the mindless killer. Despite the many dead, she was overwhelmed. Refusing to give the thieves anything, Haern descended upon them. Their backs were turned to him, and he thrust and stabbed and kicked, shoving them aside so he might link up with Zusa. She was bleeding, and so was he, but they grinned.

We were made for this, he thought.

Back to back, they turned to their foes. Of the original thirty, only ten remained. Blood and gore soaked the floor where it wasn’t covered by a body. The psychological damage was just as bad. None looked ready to attack. Whatever they had been paid, it wasn’t enough. The first turned to flee, and as if breaking a dam, the rest rushed for the door. Ignoring them, Haern looked for William, not finding him.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Zusa rushed to the chair he’d been sitting in and flung it aside. Hidden behind it, she found a ring and pulled, revealing a trapdoor. Haern followed her as the mercenaries broke down the door behind them and poured out into the night. The trapdoor led to a tunnel, tight enough that Haern had to crawl along on his elbows, worming his way through. It wasn’t a long tunnel, and Zusa pushed open another trapdoor and then helped him out.

They’d emerged behind the armory, the trapdoor hidden by a compacted layer of dirt. Haern felt his muscles aching, the familiar feeling of receding adrenaline coming over him. He’d expected to search for William, to have to hunt for wherever he’d run off to, but instead saw him laying dead in the street, two men standing over him.

“You look like shit,” Senke said, still cleaning William’s blood off his mace.

Haern tried to think of a response, but his mind only stared dumbly at him and Tarlak, who looked vaguely amused by the whole ordeal.

“Delysia spent the better part of tonight begging us to help you,” he said, his arms crossed. “And as usual, I finally gave in.”

“How?” he asked. He meant to ask how they had found him, but breathing suddenly seemed difficult. His body was finally taking account of all the blows and cuts he’d received, and it wasn’t happy.

“What, find you?” Tarlak asked. “I’m a wizard. That’s just what I do.”

Haern saw Zusa down on one knee, bracing herself with one of her arms. Her dark skin was disturbingly pale.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping to her side.

“Of course I am,” she said. “Farewell, Watcher. I have done as my mistress asked. Let your friends help you from now on.”

She rose to her feet, took an uneasy step, then another, and by the time she was running her balance looked like it had returned. Haern watched her go, hoping she’d be all right.

“So,” Tarlak said, smacking him on the back. “What’s next on the agenda?”

Haern looked back at the body of William Ket, and he mentally checked another off the list in his head. One left, just one.

“Leon Connington.”

Senke whistled. “Going after the big dogs, are we? Who else after that?”

Haern shook his head. “He’s the last. Everyone else has agreed, or…”

He gestured toward the body.

“The last?” Tarlak laughed. “Aren’t you a freak? Well, let’s go. Leon’s not exactly close to here.”

They walked down the street, and for a moment, Haern let himself relax. With the three of them, one a wizard, any thieves would have to be incredibly brave or reckless to consider an ambush. He used his shirt to wipe the blood from his forehead, then pressed it against his eyes. They watered, but when he pulled away, he could see better. Senke twirled his two maces in his hands, and Haern wished he could feel as energetic as Senke looked. He might have just been the lion, but now he felt like a lamb, ready to give up everything just to lie down and sleep. Every single part of his body ached.

“How long until dawn?” he asked.

“About two hours,” said Tarlak. “You been at this the whole night?”

“Just before sunset, yes.”

“We of the magical profession call that biting off more than you can chew.”

“And we of the stabby profession call that getting yourself killed,” said Senke.

Haern winced as an awkward step flared pain along his chest and to his back.

“You two are such wonderful help,” he muttered.

Leon Connington’s estate was one of the most well-guarded places in the city, and all three of them knew it. The warning letter Haern sent certainly hadn’t given them reason to slack off, either. Tall stone walls surrounded the mansion, the single opening a thick iron gate with two guards. They stood at attention, no slacking there either. From far down the road, they observed the gate and planned.

“There will be mercenaries stationed throughout the mansion,” Haern said as they stared. “And traps along the ground, other than the path leading directly to the door. If we’re to get to Leon, I think we’ll need to be stealthy about this.”

“Stealthy?” asked Tarlak. He gestured to his bright yellow robes. “Stealthy?”

Haern gave him a dumb look, then shrugged.

“Any other ideas?”

The wizard lifted his arms high, and a steady stream of magical incantations slipped from his lips. Fire burst about his hands, growing, growing, and then soaring toward the gate as an enormous ball. It hit the iron and detonated, blasting the gates aside and tearing off chunks of stone. Haern didn’t see what happened to the guards, and he didn’t want to think about that, either.

“Stealthy,” said Tarlak, hurling a smaller ball of fire that rolled across the ground. It detonated the various traps along the grass leading toward the mansion, filling the night with the sound of their explosions. Haern didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“Stealthy?” he asked Senke, who only shrugged.

Tarlak sent on more blast, this one aimed at the front door. He frowned as the spell evaporated into smoke just before contact. He sent another at a window, this a thick shard of ice. Again it broke, this time into water that showered the ground harmlessly.

“Strong wards,” the wizard said. “Looks like the rest is up to you. Have fun!”

Senke led the way, Haern following.

“Out of his damn mind,” Haern muttered.

*

Tarlak watched them go, offering a prayer for luck. He wished he could help, but the few spells he’d cast had put a deep ache in his head, and he knew he had but a few more before he’d be worthless. Unable to help it, though, he neared the gates to observe his handiwork.

“Getting better,” he said, estimating the size of the explosion.

“Tarlak Eschaton?”

He turned, and with mild surprise saw the giant man with the painted face approaching from down the street.

“I’m thrilled we could meet again,” he said. “Especially with my mouth un-gagged.”

Ghost pointed toward the mansion. “Is the Watcher inside?”

“He is,” Tarlak said, standing in the center of the gate. “He’s a bit busy right now, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to resume whatever grudge you have against him.”

“No grudge,” Ghost said, still approaching. “Just money.”

Tarlak snapped his fingers, summoning a spark of flame at his fingertips.

“No closer,” he warned. Ghost only laughed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He slammed his hands together, and a ring of fire rolled out from his waist, burning the air with a heavy roar. His opponent fell back, and he landed on his shoulder so the fire could pass harmlessly above him. Tarlak gave him no reprieve, another spell already on his lips. This time it was ice, thick shards that flew like arrows. Ghost rolled, the shards shattering upon the ground behind him. Only one drew blood, a thin gash along his side. On a man so giant, it looked like a cat scratch.

“How long?” Ghost roared, back on his feet again and lunging. Tarlak tried to ignore him, kept focused on the casting of his spell, but he knew what Ghost was implying. How long might he last casting his spells? How long until the well of energy within him ran empty, and the best he could summon was a little puff of smoke from his fingertips?

Given the pounding of his head, he didn’t think it’d be long.

His hands clapped together, and the space before him filled with a swirl of smoke and fire. Ghost’s swords passed through it, but his feet dug into the ground, halting his momentum. Tarlak muttered. He’d hoped for a charred corpse to leap through. How the Abyss did this guy react so fast?

Leaving the firewall intact, he guessed a direction and pointed. This time luck was with him, for of the two directions Ghost might have leapt, he’d chosen correctly. A bolt of lightning shot from his finger, striking the giant man square in the chest. He fired a second one, this one hitting his leg. Ghost screamed, but more in anger than pain. Tarlak felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Short of taking the man’s head off, it didn’t look like there’d be any way to stop him.

“You hurt my friend,” Tarlak said, summoning small meteors of lava and flinging them. Ghost hunched on his knees, blocking with his swords. The meteors plinked off the steel, coupled with an impressive but harmless shower of sparks.

“You hurt my sister,” he said, pressing his wrists together and hurling shards of stone from his palms. Ghost jumped and leapt like an enormous spider. Only two shards hit, and again the wounds were superficial.

“You even hurt Brug.”

His bolt of lightning shot out, but his aim was off. Ghost didn’t dodge this time, instead lunging straight for the kill. A sword slammed into him, piercing his flesh. Tarlak gasped as the white-hot pain spread throughout his body.

“I even hurt you,” Ghost whispered, his cheek pressed against the wizard’s.

Out came the blade, and Tarlak collapsed. Unable to stop him, he could only watch as Ghost passed through the gates, continuing the hunt for his real prey. The blood flowed, staining his yellow robes red. His mind throbbing from pain and exhaustion, he crawled across the ground, bleeding upon the street as he headed for safety.

Damn you, Haern, he thought as he collapsed after hardly crossing any distance. You better kill him for me, or I’ll…I’ll…

And then he felt his thoughts slipping away like leaves in a storm, and unconsciousness came and took him.