A Dance of Shadows

CHAPTER 32

Thren lurked at the edge of the newly acquired Sun territory, watching the people come and go. Night had just fallen, but deep in the southern district it seemed a new life blossomed, ignorant of the light. Men and women were flocking to the new guild, Thren knew. He’d even watched several adopting the four-pointed star and casting aside their cloaks. Very little ceremony or fanfare. He’d done his best to cull their numbers, but it was beyond controlling now. With the promise of coin, trade, power, and the overthrow of the Trifect… what did the rest of the guilds have to offer against that?

“Tread lightly,” Thren whispered to himself as he watched yet another man throw off his cloak. How many of his own Spiders might now be with the Suns? And when he put out his call, would they come to him, or dare hope they might go unpunished?

Thren chuckled. Of course they’d ignore him. Loyalty was bought with power. There was a changing of the guard in the underworld, and until something happened to shake everyone’s confidence in the Suns, none would dare return to his side. Which is why Thren lurked, hidden beside a building where there was no light so he could watch and wait. Only one thing could slow down the Suns, at least in his mind. Just one.

Killing Grayson.

To do that, he needed to know where the man was hiding, where he’d chosen to set up his base. So far he’d been patient, not wanting Grayson to even know he was being hunted, at least by Thren. The other guilds would no doubt also want Grayson dead, but they’d be hesitant about out-and-out warfare. Thren knew their leaders, knew how cowardly they were deep down in their black hearts. They’d want to know if they could make alliances first, if they could grab hold of the Suns’ rise and use it to reestablish their own dominance in the city. They didn’t realize the fire they played with. Didn’t realize that when all was said and done, Grayson had no intention of letting any guild other than his own operate within the walls of Veldaren.

Thren tensed, the sight before him jarring him from his thoughts. One of the original members of the Suns who had come with Grayson from Mordeina was meeting with two others at the street corner. He passed them a bag, no doubt of some cheap crimleaf, and then whispered a few words. Thren watched to see if he’d return in the direction he’d come from, or move elsewhere, and then prepared to follow. When the man continued, Thren slipped in behind him, just a shadow in the street.

The Sun walked as if in no hurry, then suddenly burst into a run, hooking a sharp left into an alley. Thren chuckled, and he calmly drew his swords. He’d been spotted, which meant the man was skilled. That he’d given away this knowledge by running meant he was overconfident, and hasty. Someone skilled enough to notice Thren wouldn’t panic so easily, nor be spooked by a simple tail. Which meant the man wasn’t actually running.

It meant an ambush, one Thren willingly entered.

Six steps into the alley, Thren spun, sword slashing. As he’d thought, the Sun member had crouched behind a barrel at the entrance, then leaped out with dagger ready. Thren batted it aside, stepped closer, and then thrust. To his surprise, the man managed to pull back in time to parry. Skilled indeed, but not enough. Thren flung himself at him with the ferocity of a wild animal. He had the man trapped against the wall, and with the greater reach of his blades, had every advantage.

Ten seconds later the daggers fell from bleeding hands. Thren pressed the tip of his sword against the man’s neck.

“Your name?” he asked.

“Pierce,” said the thin man.

“Well, Pierce,” said Thren, “how much pain do you wish to feel?”

The man licked his lips as if he were facing a trick question. “Little as necessary,” he said.

“A wise answer. Tell me where Grayson is, and that is what you’ll receive.”

“Only a dead man turns on Grayson,” Pierce said.

Thren pressed his blade tighter against Pierce’s neck. “You are a dead man,” he said. “But that’s not what matters. That’s not the question. The question was, and still is… how much pain do you wish to feel?”

Finally he saw a hint of true fear in Pierce’s eyes. “You can’t do shit to me,” he said. “You do, and you’ll get it back ten times worse. Veldaren’s our city now. Go back to whatever guild you serve and tell them that.”

Thren laughed. “I am my guild,” he said. “I am Thren Felhorn, and I serve none but myself.”

There it was. The fear he wanted. His smile grew.

It took a few minutes, but he got his answers.

Roark’s Oddities wasn’t too far away, and he knew the shop well. The man was a notorious cheat, and he showed no loyalty to any guild. Because of that everyone liked him, and everyone used him to deal stolen goods. With him, gold was all that mattered, which meant you knew exactly how far to trust him. Thren grinned at the thought. It looked as if Roark had found a partnership worth far too much to turn down.

Before Thren pulled the last of his intestines out of his stomach, Pierce had said they only used Roark’s place to store their goods, since their first safe house, Billick’s, had been burned to the ground. They weren’t staying there themselves, but Thren had a feeling Grayson would always be nearby. His take-over of Veldaren depended on his product. He wouldn’t leave it unguarded. Thren approached cautiously, watching for any inquisitive pairs of eyes. He couldn’t rely on cloaks and colors anymore. With so much in flux, anyone could be a snitch.

When he was at the top of the road leading down to Roark’s, and almost within sight of the store, Thren heard the first of the horns. He stopped, confused as to what it meant. When a second sounded, farther away, he realized what it was, but could hardly believe it.

“What madness is this?” he wondered aloud.

Troops marched into the southern district, coordinating their movements with the blasts of the trumpets. It couldn’t be the city guard, at least not alone. The king was too cowardly for that. Only one person made sense, and given the audacity that man had already shown, Thren knew he shouldn’t be as surprised as he was.

Victor was coming to play.

Thren rushed toward Roark’s. He wouldn’t let Victor get Grayson. That was his kill, his chance to send a message west to the guilds in Mordeina. They would never fear Victor, no matter how many men he had. He was still an outside lord, a man not of their world. No matter how brightly he shone, he would never find them all in the shadows. For it to matter, Thren had to be the executioner.

Sounds of combat reached his ears, first quiet, then gradually louder. The marching of feet soon followed. Screams, scattered and few, accompanied the progressive movement south. As Thren ran he saw Suns joining him on the street, all fleeing to the same place. Thren drew his swords, stabbed a man beside him wearing their colors. Without losing a step he shifted to the side, overtaking a fleeing woman. She sprawled headfirst into the dirt after he slashed out her heel.

At the doors of Roark’s Oddities, several men were dispersing as a squad of ten armored men turned the corner. One of the soldiers lifted a horn to his lips and blew. Thren hooked a right, finding the alley occupied by a man furiously pulling at a scrap of cloth sewn onto the sleeve of his shirt that identified his guild allegiance.

“Having second thoughts?” he asked the dirty man, grinning. Thren cut out his throat before he could answer, his fingers still in the hole he’d torn in the fabric. Glancing from side to side, Thren gauged the cramped distance between the two buildings, decided them close enough. He leaped from wall to wall, constantly kicking himself higher so that on the third kick he landed atop the building directly adjacent to Roark’s. As he’d expected, Grayson was up there, surveying the movement of the troops. Thren knew well how he felt, for he’d done the same when Victor stormed his headquarters. But how had Victor discovered Grayson’s place?

A black fire gave him his answer, rising up from the ground toward the rooftop. Grayson dropped to his stomach, avoiding Deathmask’s attack. Glancing over the edge of the roof, Thren saw the Ash guildmaster leading a squad of six armored soldiers, Victor at his side. Grayson looked up from where he lay, saw Thren watching. His lips were grinning, but his eyes promised death. Thren grinned right back. The two were about to be kindred spirits in their homelessness. Grayson, as if imagining his thoughts, only shook his head in disagreement.

Thren turned and ran, still shaking off surprise that Victor would ally himself with someone as unpredictable as Deathmask and his Ash Guild. On the only safe path out he raced across the rooftops toward the edge of the sweeping net Victor had created. And sure enough, when he glanced back, Grayson was in pursuit. They understood each other well, knew neither would settle for capture by the meddlesome lord. They had a score to settle. Behind them smoke billowed into the air as Roark’s shop went up in flames, burning away the last of the Sun’s leaf.

Thren ran, ran, leaping over the gaps between buildings without slowing in the slightest. His short swords grew heavy in his hands as he held them. Grayson had often defeated him when they sparred, and he’d near-fatally wounded his son as well. What hope did Thren have that now would end any way other than with his death?

Digging in his heels, Thren came to a halt, spinning on Grayson like a deer turning on a chasing wolf. He’d made a promise, sworn his vows. He was Thren Felhorn. How could he lay claim to a city yet fear to fight one making similar claims? He would not let Grayson be right. No running, not from this. Standing firm, he held his swords together in an X, eyes locked on the giant man barreling toward him. Let death come for him if it must, but it would not find him a coward.

They crashed together, Grayson’s weight and momentum pushing Thren back. In the light of the stars, upon the rooftops, the two battled. Thren constantly circled, refusing to give Grayson a chance to bring his full strength to bear. The ringing of their swords was a song, and the battle felt so comfortable, so familiar, that only the pounding of his heart in his ears assured him that it was not some old training match, not some unimportant spar.

“This stops nothing,” Grayson said, hammering at Thren’s defenses. His short swords, dwarfed by his enormous arms, moved with both speed and unmatched power. “Veldaren is ours.”

Thren dove underneath a swipe, circled to his left, then slashed upward at Grayson’s side. One sword he parried, but the other cut into flesh. It was a minor wound, like a bee stinging a bull, but it angered Grayson nonetheless.

“It’s mine, Grayson!” Thren shouted as he retreated once more, leaping back and forth in the constrained limits of their chosen place of battle. “Veldaren, its people, its fear… mine, and I do not share!”

“Liar! Wretch!” Grayson continued, showing no impatience despite Thren’s stalling tactic. He knew better than to give Thren any sort of edge. When Thren fell too far back, Grayson took the moment to catch his breath and rebalance himself before slowly approaching. “You’ve lost that title, that respect. The Watcher took it from you. I fought him, Thren. He died, and at my hand. You could have killed him at any time, yet you never did. You coward…”

Thren stood there, hunched low, ready to spring into an attack at any time. Grayson shifted his feet, ready to meet it.

“Coward?” Thren asked. “Is that so?”

“All this time you let him live. Why?”

Thren’s grin spread from ear to ear, and despite his exhaustion, despite his inability to score more than a single scratch on his opponent, he laughed.

“Because he’s my son,” he said.

Grayson froze, just for a moment, as he realized all that meant. “Your son?” he asked.

“Marion’s son,” Thren said. “Your blood as well as mine, you damn fool. The Watcher and I are two sides of a single coin. Every man, woman, and child of this city fears one of us. Together we own the night. You are nothing to him, nothing to me. Come, Grayson. Let’s see which of us still lives come the dawn.”

Thren leaped at him, every ounce of his speed sending him flying toward the giant man. Once more their swords clashed, but Grayson’s mind was overcome for just a moment, unable to maintain the balance needed against such an opponent. Thren had cried his tears for Marion, and he’d long since buried her in his heart. Grayson’s wounds, though, they’d stayed fresh, and because of it new ones slashed across his chest as Thren pressed harder and harder. He felt rage boiling in his veins, and it gave him strength. Looping closer, he slashed through Grayson’s left wrist, severing tendons. The blade dropped to the ground. Thren hammered the other, staying close, denying Grayson the chance to flee. The other blade fell, its hilt soaked with blood as Thren hacked into his arm.

Grayson tried to sweep out his feet with a kick, but Thren leaped into the air, his knee catching Grayson’s forehead. The man fell back, and Thren stabbed through his side, the blade puncturing the roof so it held him there like a stake. Grayson screamed, and he pulled against the blade. Another stab, this one through the shoulder, kept him down.

Thren leaned close, so they were mere inches apart.

“Who is he?” he asked. “Your arrival was not coincidence. You’ve spit in my face, and for that you’ll die, but first you’ll tell me who.”

“What are you talking about?” Grayson asked, still struggling against the two blades. Thren had made sure neither punched through a vital organ, wanting to control Grayson’s death, to have it be exactly when he desired it.

“The one mocking me,” he said. “The one who has killed my members, taken their eyes, and left rhymes written in blood. The Widow. Tell me who it is.”

“I don’t know,” Grayson said. He reached toward Thren with a shaking hand, and despite his wounds, tried to grab his neck to strangle him. Thren admired his dedication, but had no time for that. He released the hilts of his swords, grabbed Grayson’s wrists, and held him down.

“You lie.”

“I was never told his name.”

Thren’s eyes narrowed. “Told by who?”

Grayson shook his head, and he laughed despite his pain.

“It’s all a game, Thren, and I played along because it suited us well. His name’s Laerek, a priest of Karak.”

It made no sense, but Thren detected no lie. “A priest?” he asked. “What have I done to them that Karak’s followers would hate me?”

Another laugh. “I don’t know, and I don’t give a shit. Laerek helped us get into the city, all so we’d help him with something later. It was too tempting to say no.”

Thren grabbed Grayson’s neck with a hand and pushed his head down. “Tell me where to find him.”

“Are you going to kill me?”

Thren swallowed, and then he nodded. “Yeah. I will.”

Grayson let out a soft sigh. His dark skin was turning pale, yet he kept total control of his voice.

“So be it. He’ll be waiting for me in an alley off Songbird Road, by that shoemaker’s place.”

Thren again sensed no lie. He stood, and his hand closed around the hilt of one of his swords.

“Thren,” Grayson said, and for the first time his voice wavered.

“Yes?”

Grayson grinned darkly. “The Sun Guild doesn’t die with me. You know that. The Darkhand will be here soon. Whatever life you have now, cherish it. Once he arrives, your time is done.”

Thren knelt down beside him so he could whisper in his dying friend’s ear.

“Let him come. This student has long ago surpassed his teacher.”

Thren stood, yanked the blade free, spun it around, and then slashed open Grayson’s throat. His body convulsed for a moment as blood spilled across his neck and chest, and then he lay still. Thren stood over him, breathing heavily, and despite himself, he felt tears run down his face.

“You loved Marion more than I,” he told the corpse. “A shame it cost you so.”

He yanked the other sword free, not bothering to clean off the blood. He still had work to do.

“Laerek,” Thren whispered as trumpets sounded, the raid on the Sun Guild nearing its end.