A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 11

The night was deep as, from the nearby rooftop, Cynric watched the Sun Guild surround his guildhouse with their torches held high.

“I used to think Veldaren was the most dangerous city in all of Dezrel,” said the master of the Wolf Guild. “But now I see differently. We have grown weak, soft. We should have crushed the Sun Guild the moment they stepped foot into our city, but instead we listened, we bartered and hid. Only the Ash resisted. Why did we not? Why did we act so timid?”

Beside him on the rooftop were seven of his best men, the most trusted and loyal. All of them had filed their teeth down to fangs, in mimicries of their guild leader.

“We sensed the change in the wind,” said one of them. “The Sun Guild could have been an ally against the Trifect.”

“And now they are our executioners,” Cynric said. “The Trifect is more ally than foe in this battle. What a twisted world we live in.”

They fell silent as below them Muzien called out to the guildhouse for the Wolf Guild’s surrender. Cynric smirked when he heard it.

“Corner any animal, and it will bite,” he said. “And we are no timid animal. We are wolves.”

He turned to the seven.

“I may never see any of you again, but know you are my best, my bravest, and I take pride in having your allegiance. Go, and show the Sun Guild that we will make them bleed before we break.”

They each dipped their heads in respect, then scattered in all directions along the rooftops, where the remaining fifty of Cynric’s guild waited in ambush. Now alone, Cynric leaned back on his haunches and looked up to the moon, and slowly he breathed in and then let it out.

“Shame you’re not with us anymore, Thren,” he whispered.

The other guilds had always mistrusted the cold-blooded man, but Cynric had known Thren’s heart. He’d sensed the ambition within it, the craving for an empire. Such desires fitted Cynric just fine, and together they’d orchestrated the Bloody Kensgold, killed Maynard Gemcroft, and burned Leon Connington’s mansion to the ground. That same power, that commanding presence, would have served them well tonight.

Cynric drew a long dagger from his belt.

Victor had suddenly grown timid, the Trifect silent. Thren was gone, as was the Watcher. Veldaren’s salvation would have to rest in his hands.

Again, Muzien cried out for surrender. He was a wraithlike figure, looking thin in his long coat. The circle of torches around the building lifted higher, and the whole of it carried the feel of a religious ceremony. Cynric smirked. At least Muzien had a sense of showmanship about him. The Darkhand shook his head, and he turned his back to the building. The rest of the Sun Guild, at least thirty by Cynric’s count, advanced upon the building. Within were only three men, those willing to die for the cause, and Cynric waited for them to act.

The Wolf Guild’s headquarters was a two-story building, full of curtained windows, and from three different windows they appeared, all facing Muzien. The three held crossbows, and they fired wildly, unable to aim for a single moment due to the sudden barrage of bolts unleashed at them by Muzien’s men. Still, the damage was done, Muzien untouched but two men on either side of him dead with crossbow bolts deep in their bodies. A good start.

Cynric turned and ran from the guildhouse, knowing time would be short. Already the building burned behind him, the Sun guildmembers throwing torches through windows and pressing them up against the base. A glance at either side showed the rest of his guild following suit, racing fast as they could along the rooftops.

The plan was simple. Muzien would never leave himself vulnerable, Cynric knew that, and those thirty men were but a scrap of the Darkhand’s total power. He’d have had more men ready, waiting to attack the moment the Wolf Guild dared attempt an ambush. So, they wouldn’t ambush Muzien at all.

They’d ambush the ambushers.

Cynric’s men had located them prior to the attack, two different sections of thieves gathered on opposite sides of the Wolf Guild’s headquarters. Heading toward the south, escorted by twenty more Wolves, Cynric approached the two alleyways where the Sun guildmembers gathered. They waited patiently, over forty of them, with two at the end of the alley, keeping watch for Muzien’s signal. Cynric didn’t wait, didn’t slow down or even fire a crossbow bolt or two to soften their ranks. Blind, overwhelming fury was what he needed to take down his foes. Upon their prey they descended, and he howled to announce his arrival.

He landed atop one man, his heel colliding hard with the man’s neck so that it snapped upon slamming to the stone ground. A slash, and the woman beside him gasped as blood gushed out the length of her throat. All around him, he heard his enemies crying out in surprise, heard them drawing weapons and shouting conflicting orders. Amid the chaos, Cynric felt right at home. As his men continued to fall upon them from the rooftops, Cynric charged three to his left that had put their backs to a wall. The first rushed at him, thinking to catch him off guard, but Cynric easily shoved the dagger aside, drew a blade with his free hand, and slashed across the man’s face. Unable to stop to ensure its fatality, he continued on, wielding both blades now. The remaining two threw up swords in defense, and he nearly laughed at the attempt.

They wanted to swordfight, to thrust and parry in the dance people like Thren and the Watcher excelled at. But that wasn’t Cynric’s game. He was never much of a dancer.

Cynric crashed right into him, twisting his body out of sheer reflex to avoid his prey’s weak thrust. His knee drove into the man’s stomach, his daggers stabbed chest and shoulder. Even Cynric’s forehead slammed the man in the nose, splattering blood across both their faces. Spinning his body in a half circle, he yanked his daggers out of the first man’s chest only to whirl around and bury them in the face of the other, one piercing the eye, the other an open mouth. His death scream was gargled nonsense as the blood poured down the blade.

Cynric kicked him in the stomach for good measure as he drew the weapons free. He took no time to assess the battle, for the sounds of combat told him it was not yet over, and by sheer ferocity, he would find new opponents to face. Running full speed along the wall, he leaped up so he could kick off it, and then elongated so that he soared through the air, slamming dagger-first into another of the Sun Guild, who fell backward out of panic at the sight of Cynric flying at him, blood dripping down his face and past his maniacal grin. The two collided, rolled along the ground, and all the while, Cynric kicked and slashed and bit. Coming out of the roll, his foe was dead, and already he searched for another. He found one in a woman battling another of his Wolf Guild, her back to him. On his knees still, he slashed her heel, and as she crumpled backward, he lifted his other dagger so he could stab her throat on the way down.

Rising to his feet, he let out a deep breath, his combat rush settling. The fight was over, only a handful of the Sun Guild left, and they quickly died to the now-overwhelming numbers of the Wolves. Cynric took a quick count of the dead, and for the forty they killed, they’d lost only seven in return.

“Jaff, lead three Wolves down into the slums,” Cynric said. “Milly, take four and patrol east of here. Engage any of the Sun Guild you see, no matter their number. They must remain scattered as long as possible.” He turned, pointed at those in the group who were most coated with blood from the previous fight. “You three, come with me.”

With that they scattered, Cynric leading his group back north. If they’d succeeded at the northern ambush site as well, then Muzien should have been left isolated with his men back at the Wolf Guild’s headquarters. Soon, Wolves would come from all corners, firing crossbows, surrounding them, spurring them into a retreat. As for Cynric, well, he knew where that retreat would lead to. It’d taken patience, but at last he’d found the simple home Muzien retired to when he needed to sleep or plot out his next phase of Veldaren’s takeover. It was a gamble, but Cynric had to believe that Muzien, upon realizing his own ambush had failed, would try to return to where he was safest until he could regroup and reassess the situation.

The night was full of cries of the dying when Cynric found him. Muzien hurried down the center of the street, dark coat flapping behind him, two members of the Sun Guild in escort. Cynric led his own men to block the path, and he bared his sharpened teeth in greeting.

“Did you have fun burning down my home?” he asked as on either side of him, his Wolves unleashed bolts from crossbows. The two escorts died, but the one aimed for Muzien somehow missed despite the short distance, the bolt veering off just past the elf’s head. Muzien never even flinched.

“Burning down an abandoned building?” Muzien asked, walking toward them as if unbothered in the slightest by their arrival. “No, I found no enjoyment in that.”

Cynric drew his daggers, and the other three dropped the crossbows and readied their own blades.

“Killing you, though,” Muzien said, pulling his swords from their sheaths, “in that I will take great pleasure.”

“As a pack,” Cynric said in a low voice to his crew. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t even think. Surround him, then take him down.”

The four moved forward, keeping a wide berth as they moved to put a man on all sides. Muzien stayed where he was, swords pointed to the ground as he watched them. The smile on his face never faltered.

“You’ll die last, Cynric,” said Muzien. “Consider it my gift to you, one final chance to pledge loyalty before death.”

“And consider this my gift to you,” Cynric said. “My blade in your gut!”

He leaped forward, and the other three joined, rushing in from all sides. Cynric knew no opponent, no matter how skilled, should have been able to withstand them. His men were ferocious, unrelenting, and when they came crashing in, they should have overwhelmed their foe with a flurry of steel. The night would be theirs, followed by all of Veldaren.

The moment of the attack, Muzien sprang to his right, assaulting Cynric’s fellow Wolf with a double slash that moved so fast, Cynric could barely see it. Steel flashed in the moonlight, followed by blood. Cynric shifted the angle of his run, and he swung his swords from left to right, hoping to bury them in Muzien’s side. The other two reacted similarly, either thrusting with their daggers or chopping in with both weapons in an attempt to overwhelm the elf.

Muzien’s movements never halted, his feet never still. On one foot he spun, his swords lashing out, and the night rang with the sound of steel hitting steel as he batted away all three of their attacks. Cynric swung back in as Muzien continued to spin before him, but he hit only cloak. The elf had danced away, down the street directly opposite Cynric, but before he could follow, Muzien had already turned about. Having escaped their cage, he sprang back onto the offensive, tearing into the remaining two that had accompanied Cynric. The Wolves stood side by side, lifting their weapons to defend, but watching Muzien move was like watching a ghost of the fighter Thren had been during his rise to power. Before Cynric could rush to their aid, both were falling back, Muzien’s twin blades slashing in tandem, constantly shifting their angle, and the elf’s body twisted and slid, fluid as a river.

The man on the left died, a sword piercing his neck so fast, it seemed his throat opened by itself, spilling scarlet blood down the front of his shirt. Cynric took his spot as he fell, trying to aid the last member of his guild, perhaps the last in all of Veldaren. As the Wolf took another step back, slashing with the dagger in his right hand while attempting to parry Muzien’s thrust with the left, Cynric swung both his swords, all his strength behind the chop. If he could only hit the damn elf, get him bleeding …

The sword in Muzien’s left hand, which had been thrusting in to pierce a vital lung, instead curled right, smacking aside the Wolf’s own thrusts. With his other blade, he lifted it up in defense, planting his foot to steady himself as Cynric’s swords connected. Despite all Cynric’s strength, despite how wiry the elf seemed, he resisted it with ease. It was as if Cynric had smashed his swords against the side of the king’s castle, so badly did it hurt his hands.

Press harder! Cynric screamed to himself as he pulled back and slashed again and again, beating his swords at the elf as if he were a tree to be felled. Muzien took step after step backward, alternating which of his swords blocked the blows, always matching Cynric swing for swing. There was no moving him out of position, no tiring him, no fooling with a feint. At last, Cynric tried desperate surprise, flinging himself forward out of sheer madness, with no care for what Muzien might do in retaliation or counter. Instead of skewering the elf or being skewered in return, Muzien twirled around him, coat flapping in the air, and assaulted the other Wolf who had fallen back to give his guildmaster space to fight.

Two hits knocked his swords away, the third took his life.

“What the fuck are you?” Cynric asked as he stood there trying to catch his breath. “We had you trapped. You should be dead.”

Muzien shook some of the blood off his swords, chuckling as he did.

“Did you?” he asked. “Look around, Cynric. Tell me, do you think it is your trap we are in?”

Cynric glanced to the rooftops, and he felt his stomach tighten. All along them he saw men and women watching, the four-pointed star sewn on their chests. The way they lurked there, silent and still as statues, infuriated him more. This wasn’t some damn ritual for them to observe, and for Muzien to be so confident in his abilities, so unafraid of Cynric’s blades …

“You’re down here, and they’re up there,” Cynric said. “If it’s a trap, it’s a poor one.”

“They’re only eyes in the night, to bear witness to your death,” Muzien said. “Forget them, Cynric. We are alone here, just the two of us. Again, I offer you a chance to live. Men will serve you, just as they do now. You will have a position of power and respect. Would it be so terrible for you to cast aside your cloak and bear the star?”

Cynric stood tall before them all, and he puffed out his chest.

“I won’t be made into your pet, nor beaten and bludgeoned until I obey. Kill me if you can, Muzien. I may die, but I’ll die fighting. What other end could I have hoped for?”

The elf shook his head.

“If you see defeat as your only future, then your mind lacks imagination, your spirit void of true ambition. Die well, Cynric, and know the Wolf Guild dies with you.”

Muzien charged straight ahead, building up a frightening speed before vaulting into the air. Cynric estimated the distance, saw he’d come up short, and used the heartbeat’s time he had to brace himself for the eventual assault.

Except a ring on Muzien’s blackened hand flashed when he landed, and suddenly there were two of the Sun Guild’s master. One dashed to the left, the other to the right, and Cynric was baffled as to what to do. Once they had him flanked, they rushed in simultaneously, the coordinated attack leaving him helpless. With no choice, he moved to block the strikes from his right. His blades passed right through Muzien’s, scattering the image like smoke.

Something sharp pierced his back. A hand reached around his neck, holding him still as he bled.

“Your pride cost you your life,” Muzien whispered into his ear. “Do you feel it piercing your flesh? Bleeding you dry? Pride, in a meager creature of failed gods? Fools, all of you, your whole damn race…”

Swords fell from Cynric’s limp hands. He opened his mouth to retort, some last insult against the elf’s victory, but then a sharp pain spread across his throat, and when he breathed in, his lungs filled with blood. When he fell, he was still gagging, failing to gargle out a final curse against Muzien and his blasted Sun Guild.

Muzien looked down at the dead body of the former Wolf Guild’s master and shook his head.

“If only you had served,” he said. “In time, you could have earned a place of honor at my side.”

Not that it surprised him, though. It was a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy. Those he wanted at his side were the strongest, the bravest, the ones with a sense of pride and destiny to their lives. Yet those same people would always be the ones who would resist him, who would deny the perceived insult at having anyone else lord over them as master. Muzien needed to find such people when they were young, before they’d tasted power, such as he had with Thren Felhorn.

Muzien glanced up and down the street. He heard distant sounds of combat, but it had mostly died down from what it’d been only moments before. The Wolf Guild would be defeated soon, their numbers too thin to cause much permanent harm. If anything, Cynric’s ambush had made things interesting compared to some of the others. At least the Wolves had had the wisdom and strength to fight, unlike the Hawks, who had only burned. As the days of his takeover faded into history, Muzien would let his men talk of this night with wonder and pride, reminiscing on the ferocity of their foes, the cleverness and brutality of their final death throes.

The Hawks, though, would never have their name whispered again.

“Scour the city for any who remain in hiding,” Muzien called up to those on the rooftops. “Search until dawn, then consider the matter finished. The few you miss will not dare bear the cloak of their fallen master.”

The rogues saluted, then dashed away. Alone, Muzien continued his way back toward his home in the eastern quarter of Veldaren, not far from the city’s entrance. Normally, he’d have stayed back to enjoy the last of the hunt, but Daverik was waiting for him, and Muzien knew the priest was an annoying sod whenever their meetings did not begin on time. So he walked, refusing to give Daverik any more haste than that. He took in the sight of the city as he did, amused by what he saw. The night life had slowly died off since his arrival, a fear growing in the populace at what the omnipresent symbol of the Sun meant to them. Doors to the various taverns were shut instead of left open in an attempt to entice more clientele by the sound of merriment within. Many of the street women had taken to lurking deeper in the dark spaces of the alleys, and it wouldn’t surprise Muzien if many others had gone to the brothels, seeking their protection.

Change was frightening, and all of them could sense the change blowing the wind. But they’d yet to see his true revealing to the populace. No, Muzien had something special planned for that defining moment, when the entire city would witness their new lord and then bow in obedience.

Muzien’s home was plain, a one-story building with a front door and a single window without glass or covering beside a thick brown curtain. The wood was old but sturdy, the roof flat with wooden slats to keep out the rain. Muzien knew such a bland outer appearance would prevent anyone from thinking it would be his home, but that was a common shortcoming of humans. They assumed a man of wealth and power could not bear to live without it, even for a moment. Muzien flexed his dark hand, whose ache had never left him over the decades.

Yes, he’d sacrificed far worse than a comfortable bed and vaulted ceilings to accomplish his goals. Let the humans remain blind fools. Was that not the reason he’d come to live among them in the first place?

“I hope your wait was not long,” Muzien said as he stepped through the door.

“Longer than I would prefer,” said Daverik, the priest waiting with his back against the wall. He’d positioned himself facing the window, and Muzien had little doubt the man would have leaped through if he had felt himself in danger.

“I had business to attend to first,” Muzien said, walking past Daverik to the far wall. Lifting up a board from the floor, he reached down into a deep pit dug into the earth, then pulled out a cool glass bottle. He removed the cork and drank it straight, without glass or cup.

“Were you successful?” Daverik asked.

“I always am.”

Daverik smirked.

“Come now, even for one as skilled as you, I find it hard to swallow that you yourself believe that. What of Grayson’s first attempt to move into the city?”

“Grayson’s attempt,” Muzien said, setting down the bottle. “Not mine.”

“And your other apprentice, Thren Felhorn, would you consider him a success as well?”

Muzien narrowed his eyes.

“You had a reason to meet with me, priest, and I suggest you get to it before my mood sours.”

Daverik reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag tied with a red string, and tossed it to him. Muzien caught it in one hand and, with a twist of his fingers, removed the knot to glance inside. Rattling within the small pouch were over two dozen gold coins.

“This is a pittance of what I was promised,” Muzien said.

“It’s all I can procure for now,” Daverik said. “Everything else has gone to the guards to ensure they continue looking the other way when your wagons pass through our gates.”

“The guards are greedy, then. Many still hold out their hands, demanding coin so we may smuggle in your tiles.”

“My tiles?” asked Daverik. “They bear your symbol, not mine.”

Muzien took another drink, then pushed the cork back into the bottle.

“My symbol,” Muzien said, staring into Daverik’s green eyes, “but your coin, your request. I am content to scrawl the symbol of the Sun with chalk, to carve it with a knife, or even paint it with blood so all may know. But you insist on stone and even tell my men where to place them. If you think me daft, Daverik, you should reconsider while you still have the chance. I’m fond of games, and it’s clear you are playing one … but no one has ever turned against me and lived. I pray you remember that.”

Daverik pushed aside the curtain so he might look outside, then let it drop.

“All I do, I do for my god,” he said. “I do not play games.”

Muzien couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are mistaken. The only thing the gods know are games, just games, and we are their pieces.”

“What do you know of gods?”

Muzien took a step closer to the priest, and he held out his blackened, aching hand so the man might see its charred flesh.

“I was marked by the goddess Celestia herself,” Muzien said, his good mood from crushing the Wolf Guild leaving him. “I know more of the gods and their foolishness than you can possibly imagine. I do not care what Karak intends for this city. All I care is that the true city, the real world underneath, remains in my hands. I would have an empire that stretches from coast to coast, and not even a god will prevent that.”

“I seek to save the lives of hundreds of thousands,” Daverik said. “No matter how important you think you are, you are still nothing compared to the importance of what we do. Keep out of our affairs, and we will let you rule like the king you’ve always pretended to be.”

“Enjoy your battle for souls,” Muzien said as the priest headed for the door. “I will remain here, lording over all that truly matters.”

Daverik opened the door, shook his head.

“The things of men and kings turn to ash, held only by hands of bone,” he said.

Muzien lifted his blackened hand, and he smiled despite the burning anger in his chest.

“Even a hand of ash and bone may still wear a ring of gold,” he said. “Even a darkened hand may force a man to kneel. We are the dust, priest, swirling against the stones of time and the will of gods. To either, we mean nothing, but to each other … to each other, we rise and fall, shine and dim, build great kingdoms and burn others to the ground. Nothing we do matters but what echoes on in the night, and I swear to you, I care not for my soul, but I do care for the echo.”

Muzien turned away, heading once more for his bottle.

“The next time you say the name of a god in my presence, I will kill you,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

He drank, and Daverik left him, and as the alcohol burned down his throat, he offered his own goodbye to the Wolf Guild.

“Echo on into the night,” he whispered. “Remembered, and lost only to the echoes of others just as proud, just as meaningless.”