David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Still nothing. Tarlak dared a glance at Brug, who was inching forward, daggers raised.

“Ghost?” Brug asked after another moment.

The door behind them shattered and Tarlak spun, hands whirling through the air on instinct. Ghost came crashing through at a full sprint, the mansion’s front door but a nuisance for him to slam aside. In a panic, Tarlak extended his left hand, and from its center appeared a single long, slender shard of ice, wickedly sharp at its point. It flew through the air, straight at the charging Ghost.

The man crossed his arms and dove, slamming into the wall of the hallway while turning his body to the side. The shard flew harmlessly past, and then Ghost continued on, his pace hardly even slowed. As the giant man leaped through the air, Tarlak knew he was a dead wizard, but he kept casting anyway, twisting his fingers into the necessary shapes, human mimicries of the arcane runes necessary to put form to the powerful magic that dwelled within him.

As Ghost’s swords came slicing in, Brug leaped into the way, letting out a battle-mad howl. His daggers smacked aside both thrusts, and then he ducked his head and went charging in, both arms punching. Within the cramped space, Ghost could only leap backward in an attempt to gain space as well as recover his positioning. The first two of Brug’s punches missed, the third and fourth he parried aside, opening up room for an attack.

But despite all his screaming and wild attack, Brug had no desire to continue the assault, and the moment Ghost parried, Brug turned and dove to the ground toward Tarlak, and the wizard felt the briefest moment of appreciation for the man’s ability to improvise in a hectic situation.

In that exact moment, Tarlak activated his spell. A red line spread across the floor of the hallway, and then it erupted, a burst of fire that crawled up the hallway and rolled across the ceiling, forming an impenetrable wall of flame between Brug and Ghost. Tarlak had hoped the man would be caught trying to pass through, but Ghost did not. Instead, when the fire dissipated seconds later, leaving the walls charred black and smoke billowing across the ceiling, Ghost was nowhere to be found.

“Damn it, too many exits and entrances,” Tarlak said.

“Up the stairs, then,” Brug said, scrambling back to his feet. “If we’re going to fight, let’s make it harder for him to come to us.”

Sounded like as good a plan as any to Tarlak. He followed Brug up the circular staircase, climbing into a second story that appeared even more dilapidated than the lower. There were only two rooms, each barren with large glass windows. Tarlak smelled the distinct smells of alcohol and urine, and he wondered if others had been making use of the building since its owner’s departure. Tarlak remained at the top of the stairs, while Brug turned back and forth, keeping an eye on the windows of both rooms.

“What’d we ever do to that bastard to make him come back for us?” Brug asked, still keeping his head swiveling.

“He beat us bloody, tied us up, killed Senke, and nearly killed me as well,” said Tarlak. “If anyone should be hunting, it’s us…”

“You’re right, of course,” said Ghost, leaning around the edge to appear at the foot of the staircase. Tarlak flung a small ball of fire his way, but the man easily sidestepped out of sight, the fire harmlessly splashing across the dirty floor and vanishing without catching.

“About what?” Tarlak asked, another ball of fire hovering above his palm. “Us needing to hunt you?”

“Indeed, but you misunderstand my being here.”

“Are you here to kill us?”

“I am.”

Tarlak laughed.

“Then I think we understand you just fine.”

Ghost dashed in front of the staircase entrance, going from the left side to the right. Tarlak felt baited, and he kept his spell at ready. When Ghost vanished from sight, he shouted back up the staircase.

“I do not come for you out of malice,” Ghost insisted. “And I bear you no grudge for what you’ve done.”

“Bear us a grudge?” Brug asked, standing beside Tarlak looking bewildered. “ You killed Senke, you stinking son of a bitch. Haern said you were dead, and that’s exactly what you should be.”

“Keep your eyes open,” Tarlak whispered, grabbing his friend by the arm. “He won’t charge the stairs, so he’ll have to come through a window.”

Brug’s face was red with fury, but he nodded and continued to scan both the rooms. Tarlak cracked his neck, then continued focusing on keeping the fire burning on his hands. Just in case Ghost tried to make a desperate climb … or finally came crashing through one of the many upper-floor windows.

“Your friend never killed me,” Ghost shouted after a moment. His voice sounded distant, and Tarlak guessed him slowly shifting toward one of the windows to the outside. “I wish he had. Then I’d have been spared the past four years. I’d have been spared their touch, their needles…”

The voice trailed off to nothing. Climbing on the outside, surely, but where? Which side? Still above the staircase, Tarlak glanced left, right, turned his attention back to the stairs. Behind him, he heard Brug shifting on his feet, trying to remain loose. The waiting was driving Tarlak mad, and he hated how Ghost was controlling the entirety of the fight. If only he could find him out in the open!

To his left, he heard the shattering of glass. He spun that way, and Brug rushed toward it without the slightest hesitance. The window was beyond where Tarlak could see from his position, and as the glass fell upon the upper floor, he felt a warning in his gut he dared not ignore. Despite the danger, despite how horrible a position Brug would be in if left to fight Ghost on his own, Tarlak turned and slammed his hands together. Seeing nothing, hearing nothing, he still cast his spell, pointing his hands down the stairs and unleashing a massive barrage of fire, as if his palms were the mouth of a furious dragon.

Just as the fire began to roll, Ghost appeared from around the left corner, legs pumping, swords drawn, his large body traveling at a bewildering speed so great that he was halfway up the stairs before he could even register the fire bathing him. Tarlak heard him scream, and it sent chills racing up his spine. Ghost dropped to his stomach, hands crossing to protect his face. The moment he hit the stairs, he rolled, and Tarlak doubted if he cared about the blows he took as he rolled down. Anything would be better than the fire.

“You killed my best friend,” Tarlak said, looping his hands around once, ice shards growing in the air before him. “Whatever torture you suffered, you deserved a hundred times worse.”

He flung the shards, aiming to spear Ghost through the chest. The man was tougher than Tarlak guessed, though, and even as he lay at the bottom of the stairs, his arms and face horribly burned, he was still not beaten. Even as Ghost screamed, he rolled along the floor and out of the way. Out of sight, Tarlak swore and rushed down the steps, wishing he were half as fast as the giant man. At the bottom of the steps, he saw what he knew he’d find: no one.

“You get him?” Brug asked, rushing down the stairs after him.

“He’s badly burned, but he might live,” Tarlak said, looking left to right as he briefly thought of chasing. But he couldn’t even guess whether the man had fled out the window or the front door. Haern was the tracker in their group, not him.

Furious, he punched a wall, then again, tempted to tear the whole building down with his magic in an attempt to accommodate the overwhelming anger he felt.

“I don’t get it,” Brug said, sheathing his daggers and then gingerly touching his bruised nose with his fingers. “He was dead, wasn’t he? Where was he all this time if not?”