A Dance of Ghosts

CHAPTER 21

Just after dawn, when all his men were in place, Muzien strode into the marketplace, pockmarked Ridley at his side. He kept his hood off, wanting others to see his face, his scarred ears, and know exactly who he was. The four-pointed star was sewn large on his tunic, and it amused him to see the way the commoners’ eyes widened upon his entrance. How long had he been in Veldaren, a few months at most? Already they feared him. But not enough. Not yet.

They would, though, after today.

Waiting for him were several crates stacked together in the heart of the market, and he leaped atop them and looked about. In all directions, he saw members of his guild watching at the various entrances and exits, and each one saluted with their left hand to show they were ready.

“People of Veldaren!” Muzien screamed, and his voice carried over the rest, for he knew how to project his authority, how to command the attention of any in his presence. “Come forth, and witness the rise of the Sun!”

Frightened murmurs rapidly spread, and with his face like stone, he watched their reactions. Many turned to flee, recognizing him, but there was nowhere to go. From all corners came members of his guild, bearing torches in one hand and brandishing swords in the other. Following his strict orders, they said nothing, only blocked the people’s way with fire and steel. Muzien’s reason had been simple. The people were sheep and needed to learn to behave without word or order but by the mere sight of the four-pointed star.

A circular gap spread about Muzien, no one wanting to be near him where he stood. Muzien waited, knowing there was no reason to hurry. The king was in his pocket, the remaining guilds all but crushed. Who else could stand against him?

“Come closer,” he yelled to them, estimating nearly two hundred trapped there in that center stretch of the marketplace. “To me, now, for I would have you watch!”

More members of the Sun Guild came through the alleys, pushing people in, threatening with club and blade when necessary. The two hundred bunched in, unable to flee, unable to hide. Muzien nodded, pleased with the efficiency of his guild. Many members were newly recruited, either from other guilds or the streets, but they were learning swiftly. Again, he felt a pang of frustration. Why had Thren Felhorn struggled for so long, when he lived with such fertile recruiting ground?

Muzien stayed there, merely watching, wanting the people to grow accustomed to his presence above them. Sealing in the circle of people were two dozen Sun Guild members holding torches aloft. It conveyed the feeling of a ritual, and Muzien knew how powerful rituals could be. It gave the humans a sense of awe, of belief that their ephemeral lives might somehow continue on while connected to things greater and more permanent than they. Even the most mundane of events could carry the weight of mysticism and power by adding a few ancient words and predetermined motions.

From the north, pushing through the crowd, came two city guards, prodded on by more members of the Sun. Neither had drawn their weapons, and they looked equally terrified by the sudden events. Muzien crossed his arms at their approach, still saying nothing. At last, he hopped down from the crate and walked toward them. He saw fear in their eyes, and it made him sick.

“Give me your sword,” he said, extending his hand.

The one on the left was an older man, his face scarred from an ancient cut running from the left side of his chin to his right eye. At Muzien’s demand, he shook his head and looked away. The man on the right, far younger, glanced around at the people, the torches, and blades, and then drew his sword and slowly flipped it around so he might extend the hilt in offering.

Muzien took it as all eyes of the marketplace watched. Symbols, thought Muzien. Symbols and rituals, all carrying power. Let the city see who the guard truly feared, and obeyed.

“Bring me the merchant,” Muzien said to Ridley, who put his fingers to his lips and blew. From the other side, the crowd parted and into the empty circle came a scrawny merchant with a waist-length beard. He looked middle-aged and, given his pallid skin and recessed eyes, of poor health. Muzien didn’t remember his name, but he knew what he was there for.

“This man,” Muzien cried, “denied us our right. Veldaren is mine now, and if you would seek protection in my city, then your coin must go to my hands and no others. This fool, this oaf, dared to reject my outstretched hand. He dared to believe he would not suffer the consequences.”

Muzien took a step closer.

“He was wrong.”

He kicked the merchant in the face, knocking him onto his back, and then struck with the guard’s offered sword. Over and over, he hacked into the merchant’s neck, purposefully ensuring no blow snapped the spine. He wanted carnage; he wanted brutality. Let them watch as the blood flowed, the flesh separated, and the stupid man flailed and screamed as the blood poured down his opened windpipe. Blood splashed everywhere, and with one final hack, Muzien ensured a spray went across his own face and clothes. Another turn, and he flung the sword to the feet of the soldier who offered it to him. The crowd gasped at the sight of him, fine elegance covered with crude gore.

“You obeyed, and so you live,” Muzien said to the younger guard. He turned to the older. “You hesitated, and you refused.”

Two steps and a thrust. That was all it took. No one saw him draw the dagger from the belt at his waist, no one dared to move as Muzien jammed the blade into the older guard’s neck, twisted it once, and then jerked it free. The body collapsed, and with that done, Muzien tossed aside the dagger as well. With his darkened hand, he beckoned the other city guard to leave him be.

The market was deathly silent now but for a few children crying in their parents’ arms. It put a smile to Muzien’s face. What he stood in now, that combination of awe and terror, was something his elven brethren would never understand. With their skills, they could instill a fear no human could match. They didn’t need to hide in forests. They didn’t need to stalk roads with arrows to win a war against mankind.

They only needed the ability to sacrifice, to kill, to live among the wretches. Everything else came in time.

“Hear me, people of Veldaren!” Muzien cried, hopping back up top of the crate. “Here at the dawn, you will witness the rise of the Sun!”

“The rise of the Sun!” cried the members of his guild in perfect echo.

Muzien turned, let his eyes fall upon them all.

“The city is mine,” he said. “I own its streets. I own its castle. From the lowliest whorehouse to the greatest of the bazaars, it is mine. No guard will stand against me. No thief will steal from me. To no king, no lord, no priest will I bow. I bring you fire that will cast light upon you, but that same fire will also burn.”

He lifted his forever-burned hand above him so all might see it.

“I am the Darkhand,” he said. “In the west, I am the lord of shadows, the king of riots, the bringer of ghosts, and now I come to you. Upon every street you have seen my symbol, and even those of you who are blind will have felt it with your fingertips. Yet still you hesitate to serve. Men deny me protection money. Women sell their bodies, then hide my portion in cupboards and jars. Others yearn for former guilds or whisper the name of the Watcher as if he might save you.”

Muzien let his words echo, let the moment linger. This was it, the grand proclamation that would spread throughout Veldaren, the nation of Neldar, and all the way to the southern oceans of Omn. He wanted every word right, every syllable filled with ice and conviction.

“There is room for no other in your hearts,” he said. “Let go of your false hope. Deny your past, forsake your gods, abandon your king. I am your king. I hold the essence of your existence within the palm of my hands. Your coin, your lives, the very blood in your veins, it is mine, and I am a jealous master. Today, at this beautiful dawn, you will finally learn the truth, and like the children you are, I will teach it to you in the simplest of ways. I am your god, and I will have my tithe.”

He nodded to Ridley, and immediately, the man barked out commands, sending the men with torches back to the various exits so that there’d be three blocking each one. Soft murmurs grew among the people, confusion as to the lesson and what was expected of them. But he would not tell them. Like dogs, he would show them.

“Kill one of every ten,” he ordered Ridley.

The man hurried off, bouncing from exit to exit, relaying the orders. The two hundred in the market waited, eager, wanting to leave but fearful to disobey after the death of the guard and the merchant. When the first of the exits opened up, people surged forward, and Muzien watched as his men let one through at a time, counting. At the tenth, one of the three stepped forward, stabbed with his dagger, and then shoved the corpse out of the way.

More exits opened, and despite the screams, despite the bleeding, the people continued to surge toward them, eyes low, heads downcast, murmuring prayers and clenching fists as they hoped they might not be the tenth.

“Glorious,” Muzien said when Ridley returned. “Is it not glorious?”

“Only you would find beauty in this,” Ridley said.

“The weak die before us, and with each corpse, they learn no one will save them,” Muzien said. “After today, we will hold the very heart of this city in our hands, and it will never be tempted by another.”

He headed toward the southern entrance of the market, left alone so that it would be ready for only him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cloth and began wiping the merchant’s blood off his face.

“Come share a drink with me,” he told Ridley. Behind him, a woman let out a wail as her child was knifed through the throat.

“I feel a celebration is in order.”

Tarlak sat in his chair before the fireplace, glass of wine in hand. Today will be a good day, he told himself. No matter if I have to drink until it comes true. He was bringing the last of the glass to his lips when Brug’s voice sounded in his ear, ruining whatever hope he had of accomplishing his modest goal.

Get to the market, damn it, and hurry!

The wizard winced, annoyed by the volume of his friend’s voice. Every member of his mercenaries had a ring they could speak into a single time, sending a message across the wind for him to hear, and he’d always stressed for them to whisper. Brug, however, seemed to have forgotten that instruction; either that or he wanted to make sure his words pounded throughout Tarlak’s brain like a thunderstorm trapped in a teakettle.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Tarlak said, cracking his knuckles and rising from his chair. The market was several miles away in the city, and he had no intention of walking. If Brug wanted him to hurry to the market, then by the gods, he’d hurry. Teleportation was always a tricky business, and one of the key requirements was to have a strong mental image of where he was going. Going to a busy, ever-changing market would be a nightmare, so instead, Tarlak focused on a spot nearby, then opened his eyes as he spoke the necessary words of magic. A blue portal ripped open the fabric of space before him, and before it could close, he stepped on through.

He emerged on top of a large stone building, one of many shops that formed a border around the large open market. Wondering what was so important, he leaned over, spying down at the very center of the market, and that was when he saw the crowd attempting to disperse.

“What in blazes…” he wondered aloud, for it seemed like the crowd was fleeing through several entrances and alleys, and at each one, they passed three members of the Sun Guild. At first, he thought they were fleecing the crowd, demanding coins or reaching into the pockets of those that passed, but instead, he saw nothing. They were only letting them by, watching, as if they were searching for someone they …

One of the exits was directly to Tarlak’s left, and as he watched, one of the Sun guildmembers jammed a dagger through a woman’s throat and kicked her to the side. Her body toppled to the ground, and as she landed, Tarlak realized others lay around here, all perfectly still, like corpses.

Eyes widening, he looked to the other exits, saw similar piles, and on the far side of the street, he watched a child no older than ten get lifted off his feet, stabbed in the stomach, and then carelessly tossed among the bodies.

Fire burst around Tarlak’s hands as he stepped to the edge of the building.

“Oh, fuck you, Muzien,” he said as he leaped off.

He landed between the three blocking the exit beside him, a great burst of air billowing from his feet right before he touched ground. As he halted in midair, he stretched out either hand and let his anger flow in the form of fire. The flames exploded on either side of him, burning their flesh, incinerating their bodies and that damned four-pointed star sewn onto their shirts. The third rushed at him, drawing a dagger, but Tarlak turned and aimed a palm his way. More fire, this time in a concentrated bolt that struck him in the face. The man screamed as his skin peeled.

“Get back!” Tarlak screamed, not to the thief but to the others trying to pass through. Not waiting to see if they obeyed, he clapped his hands together and then flung them downward. From the clear sky sounded thunder, and then a bolt of lightning struck the burning man, the power of it lifting him from his feet before dropping him onto his back, smoke rising from his skin as the fire on his face slowly spread to consume the rest of him.

Now unblocked, the people poured out the exit. Tarlak pushed through, far from satisfied. Once free of the people, he caught sight of a battle raging on the opposite side of the marketplace. It was Brug, hollering and banging his plate mail as he fought against three of the rogues. In his heavy armor, he was fairly well defended, and his flailing with his punch daggers was unpredictable to say the least, but Tarlak knew they’d get a knife in eventually. Brug wasn’t good enough to handle more than one opponent at a time, at least not for long.

Breaking out into a sprint, he ran a list of spells through his head, trying to decide on the best one for the situation. There were too many people everywhere, too many innocents he might hit. Still, he wouldn’t let these bastards live, not after what they’d done.

“Brug!” he screamed as he neared. “Get your head down now!”

His friend heard and promptly obeyed. His three opponents, however, did not understand, and when they turned to face him, he skidded to a halt, flung his hands outward, and unleashed a massive blast of air. It lifted them off their feet and sent them sprawling, nothing fatal, but Brug recovered far faster than they. He’d already stabbed one before the other two were up, and by then, the people had scattered, and Tarlak finally had room to play.

“You like killing?” he asked, hurling a jagged lance of ice the size of his arm. It pierced the chest of one and burst out his back, the clear blue shard stained red. “You like suffering?” Another shard of ice, this through the leg of the only survivor. He dropped to one knee, screaming at the pain. “Then have a nice taste of it for yourself!”

The man tried to stab Tarlak, but Brug was there, grabbing his arm and breaking it. The dagger fell, and Tarlak leaned out and clenched the man’s throat in his fingers.

“Tell Karak hello for me,” he said, and then he let his power roll forth, an invisible force that shattered the man’s spine. Letting out a curse, he flung the body down, looked about the marketplace. It was empty of all but the corpses, the rest having escaped the exits. None lingered of the Sun Guild.

“Damn it!” Tarlak screamed, kicking the body.

“I’m sorry, Tar,” Brug said, sheathing his daggers. “I wanted something fresh to eat and decided to swing by. If I’d only gotten here sooner, we might have stopped this. I waited until you got here too, waited like a damn coward.”

“Stop it,” Tarlak said, taking in deep breaths to calm himself down. He put a hand on Brug’s shoulder, tapped the plate mail. “You did what you could. Better question is, what in Karak’s name happened here?”

“I heard the Darkhand just before he left,” Brug said, gesturing toward a pile of dead behind him. “He called this his tithe.”

Tarlak shook his head. He knew the Sun Guild’s arrival meant bad tidings, but this? This made Thren Felhorn look sane.

“I don’t understand,” he said, walking toward the center. “Where are the guards? The city watch? Why did no one…”

He froze, for at one of the exits stood Lord Victor Kane, arms crossed over his chest as he looked upon the carnage.

“You!” Tarlak screamed, pointing a finger as he hurried over. “Did you watch all this? Did you know this was happening?”

Victor nodded.

“I watched like the others,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you do something?” Tarlak asked. “Where’s your soldiers? Why didn’t you stop this?”

“At least two hundred watched him butcher a merchant,” Victor said, his face hardening. “Two hundred men and women who did nothing as a guard of the city died for refusing to be a pawn of the Darkhand’s game. And then as their own people shed blood, nine living for every one that died, do you know what they did, wizard? Nothing. They kept their eyes shut, their heads down, and prayed that they wouldn’t be the unlucky tenth. Tell me, Tarlak, why should I fight for a city that won’t fight to save itself?”

“But that’s why you fight,” Tarlak said. “Because you’re the one who’s strong enough. You’re the one willing to risk everything; you’re the one that knows something has to be done. Isn’t that what you wanted to do, to inspire the city, to give them hope?”

“Hope?” Victor laughed. “Look around you, Tarlak. This is the hope our fair city now dwells in, and I say they’ve earned it.”

“Is that it?” Brug asked as Victor turned about and walked down the alley toward the street beyond. “You’re giving up?”

Victor glanced over his shoulder.

“Not giving up,” he said. “Just changing how I play the game. From top to bottom, this city is wretched. I’ve stopped trying to polish the skin of a rotten apple. We need true change, starting at the crown itself. I just pray I didn’t take too long to realize it.”

Brug moved to follow, but Tarlak grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Let him go,” he said. “We have bigger problems to worry about than that jackass.”

The shorter man nodded, and he looked back to the market, the disgust and sorrow as plain as the beard on his face.

“You’re right,” he said. “But what do we do about it?”

As the city guard finally arrived from the north, wordlessly gathering the bodies onto a wagon, Tarlak had no answer.