A Dance of Cloaks

24

H aern awoke on a simple bed stuffed with straw. A blanket covered him. Bandages wrapped the cuts across his body, every one of them stinging like freshly opened wounds. The room was dark and without windows, but light from the hallway crept in through the crack of the door, allowing him to see.

Tears filled his eyes. Haern fought down a wild laugh. He’d lived. He’d come face to face with the Lion and lived. His father would be furious…if he ever found out. Haern had no intention of letting him. His days as Thren’s heir were done. He’d tear himself free or die trying. No matter what his fate, he’d make sure Delysia’s death meant something.

“Please,” he prayed. “I am in the den of lions. Keep me safe.”

He slid off the bed. His gray clothes were shredded, but the cuts were thin and the cloth mostly intact. He wished he had his mask, though. Without it, he still had the face of Aaron. His smile grew as he realized he wore the face of a dead man. How many would truly know that was the case?

His pillow had a covering, so he removed it and then quickly searched the room. His footsteps made no sound, and his fingers were like feather-strokes upon his surroundings. He found no weapon in the lone drawer, nor stashed under his bed or beside the door. Disappointed, he tied the covering across his mouth as if he were a low-rate bandit. It’d have to do for now.

Haern crept to the door and lay flat upon the floor. From what he could see through the crack, the hallway was empty. A lone torch flickered opposite, the source of his light. Now the real test. He stood and gently tested the door. It wasn’t locked.

“Thank you,” he whispered to the answerer of his prayer. “Now keep it up, alright?”

He heard no sound, not the fall of footsteps, the bored shuffling of a guard, or the soft breathing of a slumbering man. Knowing it was all a matter of luck, or faith, Haern pushed the door open a crack and slid out into the hallway.

It was empty. Haern gently shut the door behind him just in case. The carpet was thick and soft. He couldn’t have asked for better. Small torches lit every twenty feet, hanging from iron loops embedded in the walls. Bits of purple flickered in their centers. They released no smoke.

Faced with yet another choice, Haern glanced left, then right. The hallway ended with sharp turns at either way. He didn’t have the slightest clue where he was within the temple complex. One way might lead out. The other might lead further in. He decided to go right, and if it didn’t look promising, he’d hurry the other way.

It turned out the way was correct, but it still was far from promising. Looming before him was the great open chamber of worship. The statue of Karak towered before him, still intimidating even in profile. The purple fires burned at his feet, the only light visible. Shadows danced across the pews. Two men knelt in prayer before their altar. A third slowly circled the room, softly singing something more akin to a funeral dirge than a worship hymn. His hands were lifted to the ceiling and his eyes half-closed.

The two praying he might sneak past, but the circling priest was another matter. Haern leaned back into the hallway, knowing his time to escape was fleeting. He couldn’t let three men stop him. He was the former son of Thren Felhorn. He wouldn’t let three-thousand men stop him.

“Keep circling,” Haern whispered. When the priest was on the opposite side of the room, Haern ran as fast as he could, his upper body crouched down. The motion made his legs ache and his back twinge, but he recited a mental litany against pain taught him by one of his tutors. When he was halfway to the first row of pews, one of the praying men leaned back and shouted in a twisted cry of pain and triumph.

Haern’s instinct was to freeze but he didn’t obey it. That was something else he’d long ago been trained to ignore. He rolled behind the first row then spun about to look. One priest stood before the statue, a knife in hand. Blood spilled from his other arm, his severed hand lying on the smooth obsidian altar. Haern’s eyes locked upon the knife. It was a bit ornate, no doubt intended for sacrifice instead of battle, but it would do.

The other praying priest stood and wrapped his arms around the bleeding man. The third continued his circling and singing as if nothing unusual were happening.

“Do not fight the pain,” the unwounded one said. “In darkness we bleed to prevent the darkness spreading to others. We must give all to defy the chaos of this world. Your pain is nothing compared to the suffering of thousands.”

Haern crawled along the right side of the pews. Time was running out. The hallway leading to the center aisle of the pews clearly looked like a way out, but if he didn’t reach it before the circling priest came up behind him, he’d be spotted.

“Karak be praised!” shouted the first priest. Haern felt his stomach tighten at another cry of pain. He didn’t dare look, but it sounded like one of them was sobbing. The dire hymn continued in its low, maniacal consistency.

At last Haern was at the final row. He lowered himself to the ground, looking for the feet of the circling priest. Once he was on the opposite yet again, Haern ran toward the center.

He immediately fled when he saw what awaited him: two priests leaning against the door, their heads bowed and their arms crossed. He couldn’t see their eyes in the split-second before he rolled to the other row of pews. Their hoods were pulled low. They might be asleep…or they might have spotted his roll.

No shouts of warning came from the doors. He had gone unnoticed.

“Thanks, Ashhur,” he whispered under his breath. There was no way he could sneak past the two of them, nor could he subdue them with his bare hands. Only one option remained.

He made his way back toward the front. The bleeding priest had stopped crying, instead sucking in loud, labored breaths. The other had begun reciting a series of scriptures that cooled Haern’s blood.

“Only in death is life reborn. Only in blood is sin denied. Only in darkness is the world saved. Only in absolute emptiness is there order. Praise be to Karak.”

“Praise be,” the other priest stammered.

The priest circling had switched hymns, his voice deepening and the words slowing. Haern couldn’t understand them, but the song gave him the shivers. The two priests up front weren’t helping, either. Judging by the song, the man was near the door. Time was short.

Haern looked around the pew to the statue. The first priest had placed the dagger upon the altar, its hilt and blade covered with blood. Beside it was a severed hand. The other was clutching the wounded priest, repeating his scriptures while blood seeped into the bandages wrapped around the stump.

“Forgive me my theft,” the wounded priest murmured, his skin pale and his eyes rolled back into his head. His words mingled with the scriptures, blending in perfect harmony. “Forgive me of my theft, Lord. Wounded I enter, but enter I will.”

“Only in blood is sin denied.”

“Forgive me my theft, Lord. Whole I sinned, but wounded I enter.”

“Only in darkness is this world saved.”

“Forgive me my theft, Lord. I deny myself the chaos.”

“Only in absolute emptiness is there order,” the two repeated as one.

Haern chose that moment to strike. He kicked the first behind the knee, his head smacking the altar on the way down. Planting his feet firm, Haern rammed his body against the other, elbowing the bloody stump. The priest cried out, staggering backward on weak legs.

Giving neither time to respond, Haern scooped up the dagger, spun, and slashed open the first priest’s throat. As his body spasmed, he turned to the other and lunged. The dagger pierced the man’s chest.

“Only in blood,” the priest whispered with his dying breath.

A bolt of shadow struck Haern’s side. He cried out, stunned by the immense pain. It felt like every nerve in the area was firing off sensations of pain. Rolling to avoid the next, Haern clutched the dagger with both hands. The hilt was slick with blood, and he might lose it if he wasn’t careful.

“Killed amid worship!” the third priest shouted, his deep voice booming in the great room. “You will suffer for such blasphemy!”

Two more bolts of shadow flung from the priest’s hands, splintering wood and cracking stone where they struck. Haern ran between the pews, using their wood for cover. The priest was halfway down the center aisle. Close enough. Haern stepped onto a pew and leapt with all his strength. His body stretched, the dagger lashing out. The priest, stunned by the sudden assault, tried to ward himself. The spell died on his lips as the dagger slashed his face.

Then their bodies collided. Haern screamed as his shoulder rammed the priest’s chest, wrenching his whole body violently. He spun and landed awkwardly on a pew, his feet sticking into the air and his stomach pressed against the seat. The priest fared better, collapsing into a sitting position on the pew.

“Suffer!” the priest shouted. The word carried power with it. Haern rolled to the floor, his mind white with pain. His wounds from the Lion raged in anger. Blood soaked his clothing, some his, some not. He felt the dagger slipping from his weakened hand.

“You cannot resist Karak’s power,” the priest said, reaching down to take away the dagger. “How such a simple boy could kill two of his…”

Haern put a leg underneath him and pushed, shoving him into the priest’s lap. The dagger twirled and stabbed backward. The man’s hands clawed about him, flailing as if in search of a hug. Haern twisted the blade and then yanked it out. Blood shot across the front of his shirt.

“Karak is nothing to me,” Haern said, feeling a sick joy at denying the man’s dark god even as he died.

He had no time, though. The two priests had come running down the long entryway. Unlike the other three, they were not caught unaware. Dark magic crackled around their fingertips as they summoned the might of their god.

Haern ducked below the pew, cleaned the handle on the dead priest’s robe, and then took a deep breath. With the sounds of battle, the rest of the priesthood would soon awaken and join them. He had once chance to escape, and that involved a head-on approach against two furious priests.

“Protect me, or make sure I die,” Haern prayed. Either way, he had no intentions of staying any longer. Dagger clutched tight in his right hand, he made his charge.

Bolts of shadow struck the pews, exploding their wood into splinters. They hit either side of him, for Haern had leapt over the first row, using the seat to catapult him into the air. He flew heels first, curling gracefully to land atop the very last row. More bolts chased him but he twirled into another jump, the dagger flashing with each spin as it caught the light of the altar’s fire.

When he landed he did not engage but instead ran between them, his dagger lashing outward. The one on the right screamed as the tendons underneath his arm tore, blood rushing down his side. Haern went to cut the other, but the priest clapped his hands together. A wave of power rolled outward, knocking the boy aside as if he were an insect before a storm.

“Get back,” the priest on the left told his wounded friend, who reluctantly obeyed. Haern took two steps toward the door as if to flee, then dropped flat on the ground. A blast of red lightning shot above his head, breaking the thick bar across the doors. Haern rolled to his knees and kicked. Instead of directly charging the priest he lunged to the side, ramming his shoulder against the wall. Another bolt of shadow struck the ground, missing by inches.

Both priests began their prayers for another spell, but Haern was too close. Their hands moved as if in a dream, their bodies surrounded by molasses. Haern kicked off the wall, spun once, and slashed his dagger into the nearest priest’s chest. Without slowing he spun about the body, stabbed again, and then jumped toward the other. His foot crushed windpipe; his dagger pierced lung.

The priests fell. Haern tossed the sacrificial dagger.

“Karak can keep it,” he told the bodies. With the bar broken, he pushed open the doors with ease. He avoided the obsidian steps, not liking the way they glowed in the waning moonlight. The soft grass felt wonderful to his feet, as did the sudden rush of fresh air. Only the fence blocked his way. Haern laughed. After five priests, a fence would be child’s play.

He swung his weight side to side as he shimmied up the bars, then somersaulted over the sharpened tops. The landing jarred his legs, adding more pain to his already impressive list, but he was out. He was free. Haern looked back the temple, watching as it slowly turned into an earthly mansion, its columns fading into shadow and lies.

It seemed an appropriate place to entomb the sins of Aaron Felhorn forever. Free at last, Haern ran on, knowing he had much to do if he were to ruin his father’s plans for the Kensgold.

N ot long after the dawn, the first of many wagons exited the western gate of Veldaren. More followed. They were Connington’s, loaded with barrels of wine and ale. Rows of mercenaries guarded them. Leon would have no repeat of the peach-pissing disaster. A few women went with them, trailing just behind. They were the first of what would soon be an army of camp followers.

The wagons circled the hills, held back from the peaks by Keenan’s men. Tents occupied every open spot. The whores drifted among the mercenaries, latching onto those who appeared handsome or wealthy. More wagons arrived, these carrying wood and utensils for building fires and cooking the enormous amounts of food soon to follow. Old tables snaked throughout the camp, mismatched in color and style.

By mid-afternoon, the noise had grown so loud those within Veldaren could hear the cacophony. Merchants not directly associated with the Trifect packed up their wares and shifted west, setting up shop beside the gates or along the winding path leading toward the camps. Coin traded between a thousand hands. Lord Gemcroft’s wagons arrived next, loaded with silks, chains, jewels, earrings, and a veritable army of mercenaries with swords drawn. The camp followers bedecked themselves in decorations far above their station, knowing the Kensgold would be their best night in years. Gold flowed at the Kensgold, as they always said.

The meat wagons arrived late from the southern farms, much to the ire of Connington’s cooks. Leon had appointed himself master of the meal, but that meal could not truly begin until the first cows arrived for the butchers. They dug a ditch in the dirt south of the hill and let the blood flow. Flies buzzed about it, stubbornly refusing the chill of the newly arrived winter. As cooks cut and chopped the meat, small fires spread across the hill, surrounded by stones and covered with spits and cauldrons. Until the meat was ready, the men and women gorged on biscuits, honey, and rolls basted with spices.

Much of it was free, and much was not. It never seemed to matter. The consumption grew. Atop the larger hill was a great pavilion, and within feasted the highest members of the Trifect. Leon had staggered up the hill, all fat and sweat and silk, and boisterously clasped Laurie’s hand.

“I tell you, it’s been many years since I feasted in the open air,” he nearly shouted. “And the taxes? Preposterous! Thank the gods you thought of this place. You saved me a fortune on the cattle alone.”

Leon’s family was distant, having no children of his own. Various aunts, uncles, and cousins traveled with him, decadent in their clothes and obstinate in their attitudes. Laurie quickly ushered them all into the pavilion, promising warmth, food, and drink…much of it Connington’s, but still he offered.

Maynard Gemcroft was the last of the three to arrive. He traveled in a caravan of over two hundred mercenaries, along with another hundred in servants, food-tasters, singers, jugglers, and other performers. While Connington had declared himself master of the meal, Maynard had taken over the entertainment.

Slowly joining them in a steady stream were friends and families of the mercenaries, the cooks, the servants, the wealthy and the poor, along with many members of the thief guilds, their daggers poisoned and their eyes wide at the proliferation of gold and silver.

An hour before nightfall, the Kensgold officially began.