David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

How disappointing.

“Forgive me,” Ghost said, “but I do not enjoy this fact any more than you will. I am to kill you, Zusa.”

She froze, her whole body going tense. Those brown eyes widened, and Ghost knew a single quick movement on his part would set her tumbling. So instead, he remained calm, the hilts to his swords still comfortably resting in his large palms.

“It’s a strange assassin who reveals himself and then his plans,” Zusa said, clearly distrusting his statement.

“Look at my face,” Ghost said. “Strangeness and I are welcome bedfellows. But I only wished to speak with you, Zusa, and give you warning. You deserve as much, so consider this a token to make up for my earlier rudeness.”

“I am not one for games,” Zusa said, taking a careful step backward. “If you are to kill me, then draw your swords now and try.”

“I said strangeness and I are welcome bedfellows,” said Ghost. “Not foolishness. We will fight when I am ready, Zusa.” His grip on his swords tightened. “Either that, or you can charge me now and die. The choice is yours.”

He stared her down, the animal instincts of the killer resurfacing with such clarity and familiarity, he was shocked by their strength. This moment, this calm before the bloodshed, was one he’d always cherished. Never more was he so close to death, yet so alive.

Zusa leaped, but it was backward, a vaulting flip that sent her over the spiked tips and onto the grass behind the fence.

“So full of surprises,” Ghost said. “Perhaps you will not be the first to die.”

“Stay away from my family,” Zusa said. “Stay away from my home.”

“I’m only here for you,” Ghost said, deciding to toss her a bone. “If you seek threats to your home and family, look elsewhere.”

Zusa’s eyes narrowed.

“Be gone by morning,” she said, then turned and fled back toward the house.

Ghost let go of a blade and saluted her departure. Yes, she was definitely interesting, the strange wrappings, that intense stare … not to mention her ability to leap through the air as if she were but a sparrow on the wind. He would save her for later, perhaps even for after the Watcher’s death.

He strolled away from the fence, a bounce to his step. If she was to wait and the Watcher was to be last, then that meant the Eschaton Mercenaries would be the first to die.

There were fifteen men, women, and children in the two wagons, and despite the late hour, the group drove to the following hill rather than staying among the corpses of the orcs. Haern kept to the rear of their formation, uncomfortable with the tearful thanks many gave. Following them all like a shadow was Thren.

When at last a new fire burned and the families lay down for sleep, Haern built his own fire beyond the outer ring of the wagons and waited. Part of him was curious who would arrive first, and in the end, it was Delysia.

“They’ll be telling stories of tonight to their children for ages,” she said, crossing her legs and sitting down next to him.

“It was just a few dead orcs.”

“The Watcher of Veldaren saved them on the road to Ker,” she said, nudging him in the side. “Not everyone is lucky enough to have such an experience.”

He chuckled.

“I doubt I’d consider them lucky, other than to have had you with them as well. They’d be long dead if you hadn’t kept them back.”

Delysia inched closer to the fire, and she leaned toward it, her red hair cascading down the side of her face.

“It wasn’t easy,” she said. “I managed to kill those first two right when they entered the clearing, then blinded the rest. That scared them enough to pull back, and from then on, I kept either blinding or striking the loudest of the brutes to keep them frightened.”

She shivered.

“Such horrible creatures,” she said. “They’re like the elves, only drained of everything good.”

“Good in an elf? I think you might have hurt your head in the fight.”

She laughed and elbowed him again. When she did, he jerked to the side, and when she leaned further in, he slid his arm around her and held her against him. She didn’t seem to mind, her head on his shoulder as they both stared into the crackling fire.

“Why did you follow me?” Haern asked, knowing he’d have to ask and wanting it out of the way now, while they were at peace and his father away.

“I was worried about you,” she said.

“Me? Trust me, Del, I can handle myself.”

“That’s not what worried me. You were to be alone and with him. I know you still bear scars from the way he raised you…”

He squeezed her tight, but it was less a gesture of comfort and more an excuse to say nothing, for he wasn’t sure what to say.

“I’m not the little boy I was,” he said, trying to explain it. “He’s still Thren, but this time, I think … I think I might be the one to reach him. I might be the one to show him a way to build a legacy without cruelty or murder.”

She snuggled in closer against him.

“I’m glad you’re trying, Haern, but he scares me nonetheless. Just … just don’t let him change you, all right? I’d hate to lose the sweet boy I first met all those years ago.”

He chuckled.

“You won’t lose me. So long as you’re here, I will be, too. What does surprise me, though, is that Tarlak was willing to let you go off alone.”

She pulled away from him, scoffing.

“As if I need his permission,” she said, feigning outrage. “But no, he was not pleased, especially knowing where you two are going and that I’d be alone. I only left a day behind you, though, and I caught up with the Bartlets over there, whole family riding west to start a new life in Ker. My hope was to find you when you neared the Stronghold. Needless to say, I didn’t expect you to find me in mid-battle.”

“I seem to be quite good at that,” Haern said. “Let’s see; there was tonight, and there was that first night Alyssa unleashed her mercenaries, where I found you hard-pressed at a fountain. Oh, and when I stumbled upon you and that Ghost fellow having a nice talk…”

“I believe I saved your life that time,” she said. “Or has your pride conveniently forgotten my blinding spell right when he was to cut you in half?”

“Well, that taught him to think a little girl like you was no threat,” Haern said. He smiled, but the remembrance was tinged with pain, for when he’d come stumbling into the Eschaton home, he’d found Senke badly wounded and leaning against the wall. He’d lived, but that same killer, Ghost, had finished the job during Haern and Senke’s combined assault on Leon Connington’s mansion, which had put an end to the thief war that had strangled the city for ten years.

Delysia fell silent as well, and he felt the memory hanging over both of them, stealing away the weightless mood.

“You pick strange company to keep, Watcher,” Thren Felhorn said, stepping out from the trees and into the light of the fire.

Haern grinned at his father.

“Of course I do,” he said. “You’re here, aren’t you?”

Thren grunted and took a seat opposite them of the fire. There was no hiding his disapproval of Delysia’s presence.

“Your humor is wasted at this hour,” he said. “Besides, we have decisions to make. The wagons will only slow us down, though if we share in their food, it might make up for the delay. Given our recent heroics, I’m sure it would be easy enough to take advantage of their gratitude.”

“There won’t be any need to take advantage of anyone,” Delysia interjected. “The Bartlets will share their food willingly, especially after all you’ve done.”