A Dance of Cloaks

19

T hey’d been inside the city for less than a minute when they saw the first sign of riots.

“Look there,” said Susan as she pointed above the houses to their right. “Is that smoke?”

“Looks like someone better be grabbing some buckets,” said Nigel, an older mercenary missing half his teeth. He’d been put in charge of seeing Madelyn safely to her estate.

“What say you, Susie? Shouldn’t you get to running?” he asked, smiling a gapped smile.

“Let their houses burn, long as they aren’t ours,” Susan said with a huff.

“Never let a fire burn, for the next home that catches could be your own,” Madelyn said, feeling light-headed. The walk from their wagons to the city had been long and steep. After so long riding in wagons and on horses, the exercise was unwelcome. The sweat on her fine clothing made it stick to her body, cold and uncomfortable. She’d almost taken a litter, but Laurie had insisted the added attention would be ill-advised with so many thieves and ruffians running loose in the city.

Still, her litter had curtains and walls, something she sorely lacked walking amid her serving women and house guards. Holding a hand to her face, she looked at the smoke curling into the air.

“Several fires,” she said. “Either it spread, or they were started on purpose…”

“Leave it to Thren to give you such a welcome,” said Nigel.

“That’s not our place, is it?” one of the other girl’s asked, suddenly worried. Madelyn rolled her eyes.

“Wrong part of the city. Your mind moves as slow as tree sap. Do you think you’d be the first to realize our home was ablaze?”

The girl blushed and stepped away from Madelyn, toward the outer ring of servants that surrounded her.

“Sorry, milady,” she murmured.

“Lay off the brat,” Nigel said. “I was thinking the same thing myself. Not everyone has been to the estate. It’s been, what, two years since we’ve returned?”

“Four,” Madelyn said, her voice tired. “At least for me. I let Laurie attend the last Kensgold alone. I tired of cloaks and daggers long ago.”

The twelve mercenaries encircled the women as they marched. When they reached the start of Merchant Way, they drew their weapons.

“What in Karak’s name happened here?” one of them asked.

It seemed as if the wind had shifted, so the smoke now blew in their faces. Stalls lay smashed, their signs broken and their boards cracked as if by hammers. The windows of every store were shattered. Fires had consumed a block of five stores on the north side, with three more along the south. Castle guards stood around the smoking wreckage, killing the flames while men and women arrived carrying buckets of water pumped from Veldaren’s wells.

“Not good,” Nigel said. “We’re in the middle of Veldaren with no clue what’s going on. We should have waited, damn it! Should have sent someone to make sure things were calm.”

“Too late for second guessing,” Madelyn said, feeling his nervousness catching. “The estate’s not far, and soldiers are about. But just in case, keep your swords drawn, and take no nonsense from anyone. I do not mind arriving safe at home with blood on my clothes, as long as the blood is not mine!”

They continued traveling down Merchant Way, approaching the wealthy eastern district. The closer they came to the center of the city, the more eyes watched their passing. Madelyn wondered how many were spies of the thief guilds. Half? None? All? She thought ‘all’ the most likely.

“We’re not far now,” she said aloud, trying to calm the girls around her. Most of them were younger than her, and they felt vulnerable despite the soldiers. They were not used to having so many eyes leering angrily at them. Madelyn clutched her hands tight against her waist. Let the peons seethe with jealousy. She had earned her wealth, on her back as much as her feet. Laurie had fought tooth and nail to keep the wealth he had, as had the entire Keenan family line. She would not feel pity or guilt for the standing that was rightfully hers.

“It’s in the eastern district,” Madelyn continued. “Merchant Way ends in a fork at Iron and Cross. Not far up Iron Street is our estate. We’ll be safe there.”

The girls seemed to calm a little, although Madelyn’s mind raced. She had seen several men following them, all wearing cloaks of gray.

“Gray is the Spider Guild?” she whispered to Nigel.

“Believe so,” Nigel said, his eyes darting about as frantic as Madelyn’s. “Your dress might just get that blood you wanted, milady.”

“Not wanted,” she said. “But I’ll endure if I must. Watch the rooftops as well. Spiders cling from rafters just as well as they hide under rocks.”

A few of the gathered men and women shouted insults.

“Whores!”

“Hoarding bastards!”

“Cowards!”

The mercenaries raised their swords and cursed back. The first few skitted away, but more and more gathered to follow them. Madelyn felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck. There was something deliberate about the way the small crowd seemed to stalk them. More curses were hurled their way, but the mercenaries let them be. For the first time they had to push their way through. Nothing serious, nothing overtly deliberate, just a man standing in the center moving away too slowly, or a woman with her wash who refused to budge.

Two men rolled dice in the center of the street. Each wore a gray cloak. They looked up from their game, pulled their cloaks back to reveal their daggers, and then let them fall.

“Push through ‘em?” asked Nigel. Madelyn looked about. She felt as if she walked through a forest of dry tinder, and every person traveling with her carried a blazing torch. A single false move meant fire.

“We’re starving!” shouted a young man in dirty clothes.

“Bread or blood!” was the answer from someone unseen within the crowd.

“Move around them,” Madelyn said, her decision made. “Do it quickly. I can almost see our gate.”

“I see the Reaper’s eyes,” said one of the men as Madelyn’s group passed. She glanced down at the dice. Both showed a one.

They reached the fork at Iron and Cross. The south path on Cross Street seemed bare and quiet, but Iron bustled with a waiting gang of twenty. It seemed a merchant with a load of bread had been assaulted, his cart toppled. He lay unconscious, his face covered with bruises. With shouts of ‘food,’ more and more came their way, jostling the mercenaries and smothering them with noise.

As the people rushed past, one slid a knife through the side of a mercenary. He crumpled, his pained cry the only alert they had. Two more dropped, blood spurting from cut throats.

“Stay back!” Nigel shouted, cutting down a woman who had dared step too close. Her blood coated his armor. “All of you, stay back!”

The rest of the mercenaries took his cue, swinging wildly at any who came too close. Their progress slowed to a crawl, and with one of their own fallen, the mob turned their attention from the bread to the blood.

“Murderers!” another unseen man cried.

“Butchers!” shouted another, this a woman with raven hair cut short. She wore the gray of the Spider Guild. When she saw Madelyn looking over at her, she shot her a wink and a smile.

None of the mercenaries carried shields, so when rocks pelted them, they could only duck. Susan collapsed, a heavy stone cutting across her temple. Two more servant girls fell screaming, blood pouring out their mouths and noses. Once outside the protective circle of the mercenaries, the crowd assaulted the servant girls. They tore off their clothes, cut their hair, and smeared them with mud.

“Don’t look back,” Madelyn told the others. “Hurry for the gate, and for the love of Ashhur, don’t look back!”

The screams of the other girls spurred them on. They fled north on Iron Street, past the toppled cart of bread, and deep into the wealthy eastern district. Madelyn’s eyes lingered on a dead merchant’s body laying beside what must have once been his wares.

Iron Road appeared empty but for a single man standing in the center. He raised his hood as he approached, his body wrapped in the thick fabric of his gray cloak.

“Madelyn Keenan,” the man said, a pleased smile on his face. “It is so good to meet you.”

The shouts of the mob seemed to have dimmed behind them. The mercenaries stepped closer together, and their pace slowed once more.

“What business have you with me?” she asked, her glare at Nigel urging him onward.

“I am Thren Felhorn. Everything and everyone inside Veldaren is my business.”

The mercenaries stopped completely.

“What is it you want?” she asked him, struggling to keep her composure. “Ransom? Or perhaps words of truce or surrender?”

Thren laughed.

“I want your husband tearing at his tunic and dusting his head with ashes. I want your family praying desperately for your return. Do you know who they’ll pray to when they do? I’ll be the one who determines your death or release. They’ll be praying to me. ”

Men in gray cloaks stepped out from houses, alleys, and even fell from the rooftops.

“Surrounded,” Nigel whispered as he counted. “And at least twenty. Make an offer, milady. We won’t win this fight.”

“I have nothing to offer other than myself,” Madelyn said. “You have armor and a blade. Do your job.”

“Whatever she is paying you cannot be worth your life,” Thren said. A few of his men stepped closer, while others drew loaded crossbows and aimed them at the mercenaries. Their strings were thick and the bolts thicker. Nigel was certain they would pierce right through his chainmail.

“Forget this,” said one of mercenaries. He threw down his sword. Before he could take a step, Nigel stabbed him in the back and kicked his body to the dirt. He pointed the bloody blade at Thren, then saluted. Thren nodded, and the rest of Spider Guild took heed of the message; the mercenary captain was for their guildmaster to kill.

At the twang of the first crossbow, Nigel lunged. Thren drew his short swords, swinging them in a dance that was beautiful to behold. Two more mercenaries fell, their vitals punctured by crossbow bolts. The serving women screamed. Madelyn drew a dagger from her sash, determined to bloody the first man that touched her. The remaining house guards defended as best they could, their thick armor deflecting the stabs of the daggers, but they were horribly outnumbered and doomed to fall, and both sides knew it.

Nigel wielded his bastard sword with both hands, needing the grip to hang on when Thren smacked it aside with his blades. The mercenary captain had fought several battles, and even participated in the winter war between Ker and Mordan. Compared to battling armored men in thick lines, Thren was like a ghost. Every swing Nigel made seemed to cut air.

Blood splattered across his armor. Pain spiked up his left wrist. He’d been cut, yet he had no clue how. Nigel stepped back and thrust. Thren parried it aside with his left hand, then stepped forward and slashed with his right. Desperate, Nigel twisted so the blow would strike the thin pauldron atop his shoulder. It did, and the pain was brutal, but the deep bruise was far better than the gash it would have given his neck.

Behind him, a few of the serving girls dashed away. Crossbow bolts tore into their backs. Another fell, a rogue slicing her ankle with his dagger before unbuckling his belt. He was on top of her in moments, not caring that several of the mercenaries remained alive.

No longer caring for her safety, Madelyn leapt from the group. Her dagger stabbed the man’s neck. Blood gushed across his armor, and swearing softly, he rolled over and died.

“Oh gods,” the young girl sobbed. Madelyn took her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. Blood covered them both, and its sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell.

“Hush now,” Madelyn told the girl. “Hush. We’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”

Meanwhile, Nigel unleashed a storm of curses at Thren, hoping to distract him. He’d retreated several steps, his shoulder ached, and he’d avoided death twice by the sheer thickness of his chainmail. Breathing was difficult. Thren, however, was still smiling. He had not a drop of blood on him.

“Are you ready?” Thren asked, suddenly hopping backward and letting his cloak fall forward to hide his weapons.

“For what?” Nigel asked.

“On the count of three, I’ll kill you,” Thren said.

“Overconfident ass.”

Thren swayed side to side, as if waiting. Nigel lunged with the greater reach of his sword, hoping to catch him off guard. Instead, Thren smoothly parried it to the side.

“One,” he said, stepping forward with his left foot.

Nigel looped his sword around above his head and struck for Thren’s neck. The rogue stepped forward again, blocking it with his short sword.

“Two.”

His foot curled around Nigel’s. Their weight connected. Thren lunged forward, slamming his elbow into Nigel’s face. The mercenary captain went down. A short sword stabbed through the crease of his chainmail underneath his armpit and into his chest.

“Three.”

“Not dead yet,” Nigel said, his voice sounding wet.

Thren laughed.

“A worthy attitude,” he said as he kicked the blade from Nigel’s hand. “Would you care to work for me, or die like the rest of your men?”

Nigel chuckled even though his chest was on fire.

“Cut my damn head off already,” he said. “I ain’t going to eternity as a turncoat.”

Thren shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him either way. He pulled his sword out, raised its tip, and prepared to thrust into Nigel’s throat.

Nigel saw a great burst of white, so powerful his eyes ached. He thought he was dead, yet his ears continued to hear. Voices shouted, many voices, some of them panicked. He heard singing. As his vision returned, Thren was gone. He tried craning his neck to look, but his muscles seemed oddly tight. For some reason, he could still hear the serving girls sobbing. Unknown voices spoke in hushed tones from seemingly all directions.

A man stepped over him and looked into his eyes. His bald head was smooth and rounded, as were his large ears. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown.

“Hold still,” the man said. He put his hands through the armor and against the wound on his chest. Nigel coughed. The stranger wore white. A gold pendant hung from his neck.

“Madelyn?” Nigel asked.

“The noblewoman?” the stranger asked.

Nigel nodded weakly.

“She’s quite alright. Brave, too, considering what she had to do. Be quiet. I must say my prayers without interruption.”

The man closed his eyes and whispered words that Nigel could not understand. White light glowed, as if his skin were luminescent. The pain in Nigel’s chest dulled. When he coughed again, it was dry and healthy.

“Who are you?” Nigel asked as the stranger opened his eyes and stood.

“Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” he said as he offered the mercenary a hand. “And as of now, consider you and your charges under my protection.”

A t some point he must have fallen asleep. Ethric remembered no dreams, but when his eyes snapped open he felt a distinct disorientation at the loss of daylight. The sun was barely visible through a pale scattering of clouds as it hovered above the western wall of the city.

Ethric knew he had awakened because of his finely honed instincts. At first he saw no intruders and heard no footsteps. But he was hunting skillful prey, and lack of sight and sound meant nothing. He looked to the wall. The rock wedged inside the crack was gone.

“I thought you’d wait until dark,” Ethric said as he stood. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword. A dagger slid through a crease of his armor by his shoulder blades and pressed against unprotected flesh.

“It seems the priests have grown desperate,” he heard a voice behind him say. “A dark paladin alone in Veldaren in broad daylight? Will they soon announce their existence to the land, or are they just hoping a mob will kill you?”

“It would take far more than a mob,” Ethric said. “Pull back your blade, woman. I know what you are.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then the dagger withdrew. Ethric turned, his arms crossed over his chest.

“With whom do I speak?” he asked.

“I am Eliora,” the faceless said. “What message do you bring from the temple?”

“Just that Alyssa must be returned, immediately,” Ethric said. “Bring me to her at once.”

Eliora clicked her two daggers together as she gently weaved back and forth.

“Matters are not as simple as Pelarak believes,” she said. “Alyssa is surrounded by guards and protected by a wealthy tax collector.”

“None of which should matter to a faceless.”

Through the thin veil of white, Ethric could see hints of Eliora’s face. He’d swear she winked at him.

“Only if we wanted her dead, paladin. Escaping alive is another matter. I’m sure Pelarak told you she is worthless to us if harmed.”

“Where is she held?” Ethric asked. “Tell me and you may go.”

Eliora tilted her head to the side. Her swaying slowed, then came to a stop.

“Who do the dark paladins serve, Karak, or his priests?” she asked.

“They are the same,” Ethric said. “His priests speak the word of Karak.”

Eliora took a step back.

“Then I will not bring you to her. Karak has given us faith, and a mind to use it. We are not Pelarak’s slaves, not anymore. We do the will of our god. Our god. Will you remain blind to Pelarak’s manipulation and control?”

“You will bring me to her, or you will die.”

Eliora cocked her head. She seemed to be staring into Ethric’s heart.

“You would kill me anyway. Pelarak has made his move. So be it.”

Ethric drew his sword and lashed out in a single smooth motion, the blade bathed in dark fire. The faceless woman fell backward, her spine arching and her knees bending outward. After the sword passed harmlessly above her, she snapped forward, lunging with her daggers. One scraped against his platemail and caught in a crease while the other gouged the flesh underneath his chin.

Before she could finish the kill, Ethric rammed an open palm against her chest. The strength of Karak was with him, and she flew backward, a shockwave of sound and fire exploding from their contact. Eliora rolled, shadows splashing off her body and laying like deep puddles. Her feet touched ground, she spun, crossed her arms, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

A long shadow stretched from the western wall from the sunset, and out of that shadow leapt Eliora. Her feet slammed into the small of Ethric’s back. He cried out in pain as he stumbled forward, his sword slashing behind him blindly. Its fire singed some of her wrappings, but cut no flesh. A dagger struck Ethric, cutting a thin but bloody wound across the back of his head.

Ethric fell forward, avoiding the vicious thrust aimed between his collarbone and neck that would have surely finished him. The dagger struck his armor. The magic in both collided together, strength against strength. Sparks showered to the ground. The dagger dulled. When Eliora spun, thrusting it forward, Ethric twisted so she stabbed directly into his thick breastplate. The dagger exploded into shards that bit her hand. Blood soaked her wrappings.

“Yield and I will be merciful,” Ethric said as he went on the offensive, slashing back and forth with his blade. Eliora ducked, shifted, and leapt away like a dancer, each cut passing close enough to burn more of her wrappings. When his sword stabbed forward, it should have pierced her heart. Instead he cut smoke, for she was gone.

Anticipating the attack, he spun, cutting the air between him and the wall’s shadow. Eliora was there, her foot outstretched for a kick, but again his sword passed through only smoke. He coughed and retched as it swarmed over him, burning his lungs and tasting foul on his tongue. Within the smoke, he heard laughter. Within the laughter, he heard rage.

Something sharp pierced his side just above his belt. Warm blood poured down his thigh. He felt it twist, and the pain doubled. Ethric swung, but he felt blind and dull. His sword cut air and smoke, nothing more.

“I will not be treated as a fool,” Ethric shouted. He struck the ground with his blade, both hands gripping the handle to increase his strength. Power rolled from the blow, pushing away the smoke. Clean air filled Ethric’s lungs. Before his head could clear, he saw Eliora lunging at him, her dagger aimed for his eye.

His reactions were quicker. He dropped his sword. His left hand shot up, blocking the stab with his vambrace. His right reached forward, grabbing Eliora’s neck and crushing her throat. Before she could turn to smoke in his hands, he shouted the name of his god and let his full power roll forth.

Eliora’s whole body went rigid. The wrappings around her face blasted off, revealing her beautiful face locked in a grimace of pain. Ash billowed from her nostrils and open mouth. Her entire weight hung by the fierce grip of his hand.

“Chaos…must…end!” screamed Ethric. He slammed her head-first to the dirt. As she gagged, trying to force air through a charred throat, the dark paladin picked up his sword.

“Karak will abandon you,” she said, her voice hoarse and weak.

“Don’t you see?” Ethric said, showing her the blaze of dark flame on his blade. “My faith is strong, and his presence is stronger. You’re the one abandoned, heretic.”

With one vicious stroke, he cut off her head. So hot was the flame on his sword that her body never bled, the flesh and veins cauterized by its heat.

“Two left,” Ethric said, leaving the body to rot. “Take her soul, Karak. Punish her as you please.”

Eliora had told him enough. Before he’d left, Pelarak had informed Ethric of the entire matter of Alyssa Gemcroft, the thief guilds, and Theo Kull. Tax collector Theo Kull. At first he’d thought Alyssa was secreted away somewhere with the other faceless. To be with Theo Kull meant servants, living quarters, and mercenaries. Pelarak had never mentioned them being inside the city, which meant only one thing…they lurked outside the walls, and a collection that large could not hide from him.

Ethric traveled south toward the gate, determined to see his business done before nightfall.