David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

They ceased their walking, the campfire dwindled far behind them. Haern felt his emotions all stirred, his tongue unable to articulate what he felt or his heart know for certain what that might even be. Over and over, he saw the arrow piercing Delysia’s chest, and it was the only argument he had, the greatest denial he could offer, but to speak of that moment would reveal his identity to his father, and right then, the very idea terrified him.

“You’re wrong,” he said, the only argument he could summon. “You’d have us abandon everything and descend into anarchy.”

“The strong take from the weak,” Thren said. “I need no other universal truth than that.”

Haern started to argue, then froze. The path they walked upon, while grass, was still short and bent from the occasional carts and feet that traversed it. Beyond it was far taller grass stretching out across the plains, and in that grass he saw movement. It wasn’t much, just a swish of blades against the soft wind, or a deepened shadow where there should be none.

“Thren,” he said, lowering his voice. “We’re being watched.”

Thren’s hands drifted to the hilts of his swords as he curled around, standing in front of Haern.

“I see them,” he said. “There’s … shit.”

From the tall grass they emerged, twelve men, six wielding crossbows, six wielding swords and daggers. Their clothes were dark grays and browns, all but for the small yellow star sewn upon their chests. Across their mouths, they’d tied thick cloths hiding much of their faces. They formed a circle surrounding Haern and Thren, and leading the band was a smugly amused Maneth, the only one with his face exposed.

“Well, now,” he said, grinning as he tossed his dagger from hand to hand. “You two seem rather unhappy. Did I interrupt a lovers’ quarrel?”

“What business do you have with us, Maneth?” Thren asked, still poised to draw his blades. Haern shifted so that his own back was to Thren, doing what he could to prevent them from being surprised by any side.

“Come, now,” Maneth said. “Don’t treat me like an idiot. You should never think you have the jump on Muzien. You think we haven’t heard of your rebellious actions when Grayson moved into Veldaren? You should have helped him. You should have gladly welcomed the Sun Guild’s arrival, but it seems you did not.”

“Did you hear what happened to Grayson?” Thren asked, body tensing. “Did you hear how I slit him open and had him bleed out before me?”

Maneth’s smile faltered the tiniest bit.

“Muzien feared as much,” Maneth said. “There’ll be no allies for you in the west, Thren. We’ve all been told to keep an eye out for your passing. The Spider Guild is no friend of the Sun, not anymore. Now lift up your hands and surrender. Our orders aren’t to kill you, just bring you back to the Darkhand. That is, so long as you don’t resist…”

Haern scanned their ambushers, taking stock of where they were, what threat they presented. The men with melee weapons frightened him little. With his and Thren’s skill, they’d need far more than six to take them down. The crossbows were a different matter. All it’d take was one good shot …

“I’m impressed by your confidence,” Thren said, “but if you think a few local members of the Sun Guild you rounded up on short notice present me any threat, you’re out of your damn mind. Get out of my way, Maneth, before I send your head to Muzien in a bag.”

“We might not be as skilled as you,” Maneth said, “but our master is wealthy beyond measure, and that lets us afford such wonderful toys…”

He flung his dagger, and it twirled end over end toward Thren’s chest. Haern braced, expecting the attack to begin, but it did not. Thren drew his own swords with blinding speed, and with one blade, he batted the dagger out of the air. Instead of it flying away, it shattered, exploding into shards that pierced Thren’s chest. Accompanying its breaking was a tremendous burst of smoke, and the moment Haern breathed it in, he felt as if his lungs were on fire. He readied his swords, holding his breath even as his eyes watered. The smoke continued to spread, and his eyes itched as if someone had tossed pepper into them.

Behind him, Thren fell to his knees, screaming out in pain as blood dripped down his chest.

“Take Thren,” Maneth said to his men. “Kill the lackey.”

Despite the smoke in his eyes, despite the burning in his lungs, Haern grinned.

Lackey? Oh, how wrong he was about to show that bastard to be.

As much as the smoke burned, he knew it would aid in disguising his movements. He spun in place once before dropping to the ground, his cloak whipping above him. He heard the twang of crossbow strings, felt tugs on his cloak as the bolts pierced through, and then he was on the move, his swords drawn and hungry in his hands. He leaped opposite of Maneth, crashing into two men with daggers. Neither looked prepared for his sudden onslaught, and he gave them no chance to recover. The first failed to parry his thrust in time, and as the saber drove into his belly, Haern batted aside the other’s dagger and then cut across his face. The man stumbled away, and when Haern yanked his blade free, he leaped at the man, burying both swords in his chest to finish him off.

Shouts of warning called from all sides, but the exchange had lasted only seconds, and so long as he kept moving, he knew he had a chance. To his right he rushed, to where a man was frantically trying to reload his crossbow. A single cut and down he went. Two more beside him readied their weapons, and they rushed headlong into his charge. Haern’s eyes were filled with water as he stood before them, batting their swords about as if they were playthings. A buzzing grew in his head, a strange feeling that filled him with worry. His throat felt raw, his breath shallow. The smoke was still affecting him, and he pressed his attack before the two could try to take advantage of it. A well-placed kick to the groin sent the man on his left to the ground, and he rammed both his blades into the throat of the other. A step, a shift, and he pushed the tip of a saber through the eye of the man he kicked.

“Just fucking die already,” Maneth shouted, hurling two more daggers. Haern spun, twisting to move his body out of the way. Instinct told him both were like the ones that had taken down his father. When they hit the ground behind him, they shattered, and shards shot high into the air. Haern dropped just before, curling down to avoid the upward spray of metal. With them came the smoke, now overwhelming. Haern pressed his cloak against his mouth, and breathing through it did help, but there was little he could do for his eyes.

Sight useless, he closed his eyes and remained hunkered down in the smoke, trying to decide his next move. He’d killed less than half of the ambushers. Not good enough. Disabled as he was, there’d be no winning against such overwhelming numbers … which meant doing something to change the situation. Despite his light-headedness, he rolled out of the smoke toward the tall grass and then broke into a run. He heard another twang, saw a bolt zip by mere inches from his head. Another twang, and this time he was not so lucky. Pain shot through him as a heavy force smacked into his right side, just left of his shoulder. Letting out a gasp, he pushed himself on even as warm blood ran down his back. More cries, but Haern trusted his speed, and he ran until he felt his lungs ready to burst. Feeling he’d gained enough distance, he dropped to the ground, sliding on one leg and then flipping about to crouch on his knees. The grass around him was plenty high enough to hide in, and finally in fresh air, he rubbed at his eyes, wiping away the water and forcing himself to see through the sting.