A Dance of Blades

29

Because of the breastplates the guards wore, Senke led the way, his flanged maces able to punch through if swung hard enough. Haern followed, watching behind them as much as ahead. The entire mansion was in chaos. Servants fled every which way, and several times he heard them cry out the name of a thief guild. His lips curled into a vile grin every time. No thief guild, not this time. They were worse than any guild. They’d come, live or die, to complete their mission, though so far it was only the guards that did the dying.

“Where might Leon be hiding?” Haern asked as he yanked his saber free from the armpit of a dead mercenary.

“Holed up in his bed?” Senke suggested. “He’s not the most mobile of men.”

“And where would that be?”

Senke gestured ahead, and then behind them.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The cries of ‘intruder’ followed them as they rushed along. They shoved servants aside if they got in the way, but most were smart enough to cower or turn and run.

“Bottom floor,” Haern said as they passed a set of stairs. “I can’t imagine him climbing those every night.”

As Senke opened another door, he slammed it immediately shut, and on the other side arrows sunk into the wood with heavy thunks.

“I think we’re getting somewhere,” Senke said, and he grinned.

They backtracked, weaving through the natural flow of the building so they might curl around their ambushers. Sure enough, they found them at the intersection of another hallway, kneeling behind small overturned tables that had once housed vases of immeasurable wealth. All three held crossbows and wore boiled leather armor. Senke crashed into two of them, Haern the third. Making quick work of them, they turned left and continued along.

“It should be harder than this,” insisted Senke, needing to shout to be heard over the commotion.

“Don’t say it, or it might come true.”

The next hallway they met six mercenaries, all wielding shortswords and small circular shields of wood latched together with iron. Senke laughed and rushed the six with wild glee, as if he could see Haern’s glare behind him. Despite his exhaustion, Haern couldn’t help but feel energized, and he raced to his side so they might crash into the mercenaries in a single brutal collision. Every turn might house more men ready to kill them. Every door might hide archers ready to shoot a barb into their throats. And neither could care less.

The shields proved difficult, mostly because Haern had little experience dealing with them. It wasn’t like a shield was standard issue for the men who stalked the night. He kicked and stabbed as he and Senke slammed into them, cutting the tendons of one guard’s arm and tripping another. Before he could finish him off another was there, and his saber slapped harmlessly against the wood, not even drawing a splinter from the finely polished surface. The soldier thrust for his midsection, but Haern parried it aside with his left hand, leapt closer to the wall, and then kicked off it to give the maneuver speed. His saber crashed into the guard’s neck, punching through the leather armor and into flesh.

Swords stabbed for where he should have been, but he dropped to the ground and rolled. Senke, as if in some mental link with him, saw and jumped over him, blocking blow after blow with his maces. Haern leapt to his feet, slamming his left shoulder against the wall to painfully kill the rest of his momentum. Only one guard remained within reach, and Haern desperately flung one of his sabers in the way. The shortsword deflected and stabbed the wall, close enough that Haern could see his reflection in the blade. And then his sabers were thrusting in, and the shield could not block all of the attacks.

Senke took down the last, hammering his shield with his maces until the guard made a mistake, not surprising given how the rest of his fellows had fallen and panic was surely crawling through his veins. His sword slashed, but he overextended, and Senke broke his elbow with an upward swipe of his mace. A kick to his neck blasted him against the wall, and he slid to the ground, unconscious.

“You hurt?” Senke asked. Haern shook his head. “Good. One of those sons of bitches cut my leg. Delysia’s going to be pissed at me.”

Deeper and deeper in they went, until at last they found Leon’s bedroom. It was empty.

“Slap me silly,” said Senke, looking around. “Where could that giant tub of lard have gone off to?”

He took a step forward, not seeing the thin string laced across the door. Haern did, and he pulled Senke back by his cloak, just before the entire room erupted in flame. The fire swirled about in a momentary funnel before fading away, leaving nothing but ashes inside, the rest of the house safely intact.

“A trap?” Senke asked, his eyes wide. “A fucking magical trap?”

“You’re welcome,” Haern said. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wishing he could just order away the headache pounding in his forehead.

“Damn traps. Where to now? He might have left, Haern, and then what the fuck do we do?”

“Stay calm,” he said, eyes still closed. “He slept here until an alarm sounded because of your wizard friend, and so he gets up, activates the trap. He’s in a hurry, but not moving fast. The rest of his guards are ushering him along. Where do you go? Where is safe, close, and defensible?”

“You take him where no one could have gotten to yet, where there couldn’t possibly be an ambush waiting. You take him to the mercenaries’ quarters.”

Haern opened his eyes and shot his mentor a wink.

“Good a guess as any. In the back, and away from the other quarters. He wouldn’t want their low class manners upsetting any of his privileged guests.”

“You going to make it, Haern?”

“Worry about yourself.”

They rushed along, and this time Haern pushed himself to the front. Despite the help, this was still his task, his responsibility. If anyone should be springing traps, it should be him. But there was only one trap left, and they sprung it together. Finding a long corridor leading to a thick set of double-doors, they rushed into it only to have doors behind them fling open. Out rushed mercenaries, five in all.

“Leave them to me,” Senke cried. “Go after Leon, now!”

Haern accepted the order without delay. He rushed toward those doors, flinging out a leg to kick them open so he might go crashing in, a frightening display of skill and strength.

His foot slammed into the door, followed by the rest of him. His whole body aching, he realized the doors opened outward only. Feeling far more humble, he grabbed a handle and pulled. Instead of a vicious display of skill and strength, he walked inside a hurt, calm, exhausted man.

“You,” said Leon from the far side of the room. Rows of bunks were built into either side of the walls. Four personal guards stood before him, forming a human wall of protection.

“Me,” Haern said, bowing low.

“Who is paying you for this?” Leon asked. Sweat dripped down his thick neck, and blotches covered his face. To Haern, he looked like a pig overfed and then stuffed into fine clothing. “Thren? Alyssa? Maybe the king? Tell me, what did they offer you?”

Haern laughed. He couldn’t help it. Would Leon even believe the truth? Could a man in his position understand there were things beyond wealth and influence? Could he understand a desire for atonement, for a single moment of rest and relief from a life devoted to slaughter and revenge? Or would he just see a madman? Would he hear only nonsense and lies?

“I do it because I want to,” he said, figuring if there was anything Leon might understand, it was that. “And you don’t have the ability to make me not want to. Last chance, Leon. Accept the terms, or accept my blades.”

“Neither. You’re just a rabid dog, and my men will put you down.”

Two of the guards pulled out crossbows. In a single smooth motion Haern unclasped the cloaks from his neck and spun them into the air, just before they pressed the triggers. Twisting behind the cover, he made himself as small a target as possible. The arrows punched holes through the cloaks and sailed on, neither hitting flesh. As the cloaks fell Haern rushed the mercenaries, his sabers feeling light as air in his hands, just extensions of his body, keen edges of his will. This was it. This was the last. His night was done. The men would die, Leon would die, and he would have his truce.

The two abandoned their crossbows and drew swords, falling behind the others who pushed ahead. There was only enough space for two to stand side by side, and even that was crammed. Haern used his greater mobility to his advantage, weaving like a snake preparing to strike. Every thrust he smacked down and then struck with the other saber, cutting thin slashes across their faces and necks. Each hit made them angrier, until at last they tried rushing as one.

Haern wrapped an arm around the post of a bunk, whirling across the mattress and to the other side. A whirlwind of steel, he cut down both mercenaries from behind, then turned on the other two, who were unprepared for the sudden assault. A third fell before lifting his sword into position, and one versus one, the last stood no chance. He was only a sellsword, and had maybe killed a handful of men in his lifetime. Haern had killed twenty just breaking into Leon’s mansion.

When Leon realized he was alone, he fell to his knees and pleaded in his high-pitched voice.

“Please, you’re a reasonable man. You can listen, yes? I’ll pay you, double, triple whatever you were offered. That deal of yours, that’s it, right? I’ll accept, of course, anything you want!”

Haern approached him, his sabers dripping blood.

“You’re lying,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, your lips, your trembling hands. Besides, I’m just a rabid dog.”

He cut Leon’s throat, and he watched the life leave the fat man’s eyes as the door behind him opened.

“He dead?” he heard Senke ask.

Haern turned. He wanted to smile, but he felt exhausted, and he knew getting out of the mansion might not be any easier than entering. Senke stood in the doorway, and he seemed happy enough, but something was wrong. Something was moving…

And then the sword pierced through the front of Senke’s chest. The man arched back, his eyes wide. His limbs trembled, and blood dribbled from his lips. As his body collapsed, slipping free of the blade, Haern was too stunned to even scream. Behind him, now occupying the doorway, stood Ghost, the white paint on his face speckled with wet blood. His grin was as wide as Senke’s had been.

“I found you Watcher,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in the confined room.

“Why?” Haern asked. It was the only question he seemed able to think. “Why? Why now?”

“Because I have a reputation to keep, Watcher. I’ve been paid to kill you, and so you’ll have to die. It’s the way things work.”

He lifted his swords into position, and slowly, as if in a dream, Haern did the same. In the back of his mind he felt anger building and building, like it belonged to someone else but would soon be given to him whether he wanted it or not.

“You monster,” he said, crouching into position.

“Monster? I see one body at my feet, Watcher, and five at yours. How am I the monster?”

What could he say to that? That his kills had a pure motive? That he wasn’t motivated by greed? The arguments felt hollow, petty. They were two killers, and they eyed one another with an understanding so few could know.

“Then I’m the monster this city needs,” Haern said. “But we don’t need you.”

Ghost lunged, no doubt hoping to catch him off guard while he talked. Haern was better than that, though still his heart leapt in his chest. How could the man be so huge and yet so fast? With little ground behind him, he refused to retreat. His sabers met the swords, and they rang with deafening volume. Haern’s tired arms jolted with pain.

“Need?” Ghost asked, and his voice washed over him like a physical wave. With every word he struck again, hammering away at Haern as if he were a door barring his way. “This city needs its eyes opened. It needs its cowardly heart ripped from its chest and held up to the light. It needs to see those it fears go beyond all possibilities. What it does not need is some damn fool vigilante.”

So fast were his movements, and so strong, Haern could only twist and parry without hope of retaliation. The few times he blocked he felt the impact travel all the way up his arm. Even at the peak of his skill he might have struggled to win. Now, a full night without rest, his nerves frayed, his energy spent, he had only one last desperate gasp to hold onto, fueled by the corpse of Senke slumped beside the door.

“No,” he whispered, a denial of everything before him. Of failing so close to his goal. Of letting Senke’s murderer go unpunished. Of succumbing to the anger in those brown eyes surrounded by paint and blood. Of dying.

“No.”

At the end of the room was a single large window, and Haern turned toward it, running with a speed Ghost could not hope to match. He crossed his arms, ducked his head, and leapt through. Glass shattered, and he felt its edges cut into his flesh. It didn’t matter. Hitting the ground, he rolled, then dug his heels into the earth. He glared back at the window, suppressed anger bursting free with a fire he felt sear his veins. Not caring for the blood, not caring for the jagged edges still lodged in his arms and forehead, he took two steps and leapt back through.

He caught Ghost pulling up before the broken glass, and his sabers slashed an ‘x’ across his muscular chest. Their bodies collided. Haern’s knee rammed into Ghost’s groin. His forehead slammed the man’s neck. The glass lodged in his head tore skin, blood ran free, but several shards ripped into Ghost’s throat. Despite Haern’s momentum and surprise, Ghost refused to go down. He held his ground, matching Haern fury for fury. With no room to cut or thrust, he punched Haern in the chest with a hilt, then caught his chin with a roundhouse. Feeling a tooth fly loose, Haern dropped to his knees and rolled forward. His sabers slashed out, cutting the tender flesh above Ghost’s heels. The giant man’s shriek rewarded his efforts.

But Haern wasn’t done. Tears filled his eyes, born of pain both physical and from the torment of Senke’s corpse refusing to fade from his sight. He kicked back into Ghost, stabbing his sabers again and again. Warm blood poured across his hands. Steel punctured lung, liver, heart. Ghost crumpled to his knees, then fell upon a gore-filled smear atop the bare floor. Haern hovered over him, one eye swollen shut, the cut on his chest reopened, his face rivulets of blood from cuts of glass, his clothes equally soaked. And then he screamed, the saddened, burdened, victorious monster.

Slowly the sane part of him returned. He thought to carry Senke’s body, to make sure they could bury him properly, but he knew he lacked the energy. Limping over, he knelt and kissed the man’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Thinking of a distant memory, he reached underneath Senke’s bloody shirt and retrieved a pendant-that of the Golden Mountain.

“I hope you’re with him now, Senke. Think well on me. Might not be long before I need you to plead my case to enter within.”

He slipped the pendant over his neck, sheathed his sabers, and crawled out the window. He stayed close to the house, wary of any more traps. At the front, he followed the path. The gateway was empty, and dimly he wondered where Tarlak had gone off to. He stood there dumbly, looking, and then saw him two blocks down the street, his yellow robes rather hard to miss. As he approached, he saw that Tarlak slumped against a building.

“Had to get away,” the wizard said, sounding drowsy. “Just in case he…just in case he came back.”

All across the front of his robes was an ominous circle of blood.

“How bad?” Haern asked, kneeling beside him so he could check the wound.

“Not bad,” Tarlak said, his eyes drooping. “Better than you, from what I see. Where’s Senke?”

The name nearly made Haern choke. Every last bit of his self-control kept him speaking, kept him moving.

“He won’t be coming back,” he said.

Tarlak heard this, went to ask something else, then remained quiet. Tears fell from his eyes.

“He’ll be with Ashhur now,” he whispered.

“Come on,” Haern said, putting an arm around him to help support his weight. “We will too if we don’t hurry. I think there’s about to be a lot of angry people on the street.”

“I think I agree.”

They limped down the street, and whether through luck or the grace of Ashhur, they made it to the Crimson and Delysia’s healing hands without any further trouble.