David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

It looked like three of them had originally given chase, but he heard Maneth screaming at them to come back. Together they circled around Thren, who remained prone. His father made no sound, but best he could tell, the man was still alive. Haern wondered if the shards had driven in deep enough to fatally wound his father, or if there were some sort of toxin on them, but he’d have no chance to find out until the Sun Guild killers were dealt with.

“Looks like Thren brought the best with him!” Maneth shouted out in Haern’s direction. “You’re good, no question there. But are you loyal?”

Maneth knelt down beside Thren, lifted his head up by the hair, and pressed a dagger against his throat.

“We were ordered to take him alive,” Maneth continued. “But damn it, sometimes accidents happen. So, what’ll it be? You willing to watch your boss die, or will you come on out like a good little lapdog?”

Perhaps a member of the Sun Guild would give their life for Muzien in a heartbeat, but Haern knew they were wrong if they thought the Spider Guild still had that sort of loyalty. Thren looked pale, his chest a vague blob of red from where Haern lurked. The knife slowly scraped up and down against Thren’s neck, mocking Haern.

Deep down, part of him wanted to remain, to let him bleed out. All his confusion, all his worries, it’d all end right there, and by the hands of another. After what his father had told him, after his disregard for anything Haern believed … was there really anything human left to save? But without Thren, any hope of succeeding in finding Luther in the Stronghold dwindled down to nothing. Which was greater, his desire to help the people of Veldaren or his desire to finally be free of his past?

“Come on, now,” Maneth shouted. “I don’t have all night to wait. Not care for your master? Fine. How’s about this, then? Your cute little priestess who was with you … where do you think she is? If we go looking for you, we also go looking for her, and I swear she won’t be too happy when we find her.”

That ended Haern’s argument. Still crouched, he slowly made his way forward, the grass scraping against his face and hands as he pushed through. He kept his breathing steady, which seemed to help with the lingering effects of the smoke. His right arm was already starting to go numb from the pain, and the slightest movement sent jolts of agony throughout his body. Seeing the remaining men with masks across their faces, he wished he could have been equally prepared. If he could only breathe normally, he might have a chance. But weak lunged and wounded by a crossbow bolt still lodged in his shoulder? It was a madman’s hope.

Still Maneth lurked over Thren, and clearly his patience was nearing its end.

“You have to die, you know that,” Maneth continued. “Can’t have anyone chasing after us. But that pretty redhead, she won’t know we took Thren, nor where we’re taking him. She can escape this. If you care for her at all, then give yourself up.”

Haern’s jaw clenched tight as he neared. He cared for her, there was no doubt to that, but Maneth was delusional if he thought Haern would willingly give himself up to save her. No, he’d go down fighting, taking as many with him as he could. Two had reloaded their crossbows, and they scanned the grass, searching for movement. Haern slowed, only halfway there. He wiped at his eyes again, clearing away the building tears. They felt like a swathe of cotton was pressed against them, constantly rubbing up and down every time he blinked.

“I said, come on out!” Maneth shouted, temper lost. Haern thought to call out in return, to mock him, but someone else answered in return.

“Leave us,” said Delysia, walking toward them from back down the road, her white robes seeming to glow in the moonlight. She walked with her head held high, her hands at an angle from her sides. Haern panicked at seeing her in the open, and he wondered what madness possessed her to go walking straight into their midst. His legs tensed, and he prepared for a charge.

“Well, hello, beautiful,” Maneth said, turning toward her. “We were just about to go look-”

Light circled around her hands, like whips made from the sun, and then she clapped them together. The following sunburst was blinding in the darkness, and even Haern had to look away from its shine. He heard screams, the twang of crossbow strings, but when he managed to clear his eyes and look, Delysia remained unharmed. She continued her approach, lips in a constant murmur of prayers. When she neared the first of them, a man still clutching at his face and a crossbow limp in his free hand, she lashed at him with her left hand. The light struck him like a sword, cutting into his body and dropping him to the ground. Her other arm extended the opposite direction, and twin circles of golden light twirled out, cutting into the chest of another. The power of it lifted him off his feet, breaking bones in his arms and chest. When he landed in the tall grass, he showed no sign of moving.

“Kill her!” Maneth screamed, but when the last of his men moved to attack her she simply showed them her open palms. Pure white light shone upon the men as it radiated from the center of her hands, releasing a sound like the constant ringing of a bell. Her red hair billowed behind her, twirling in a sudden storm of wind. The ringing grew louder and louder, until it was like a thunderclap, each boom a force that blasted the men backward as if struck by the fist of Ashhur himself. Against such power, they had no chance to endure.

Her face still calm as ever, Delysia walked up to Maneth, who had fallen to his knees, now alone but for the bleeding body of Thren at his side. She reached down to take him by the chin, lifting his head up so he might look upon her. As he did, he drew a dagger from his belt and moved to stab her chest. Haern felt panic shoot through him, but it was all for naught. Delysia’s eyes flared brilliant white, and Maneth screamed, the dagger falling from his hands. When the priestess released him, he staggered to his feet and stumbled away. As Haern watched, he took a few wild steps, a hand out before him. Blinded, Haern realized. She’d left him blind.

Haern rose to his feet, having watched the entire display take place over what seemed like mere seconds. There was no reason to hide now, the men broken, blinded, or unconscious. Maneth continued staggering until one of his men managed to take him by the arm, and together they made their way north. Those that were wounded joined them, limping and clutching their wounds. They said nothing as they left, offered no threats, no promises of retribution. Haern could hardly believe it.

“Delysia…” he said as he made his way through the grass, his right arm limp against his stomach.

She ignored him, instead kneeling beside his father. She put a hand to his chest, an ear to his lips.

“He’s alive,” she said. “But he won’t be for long.”

No hesitation, no debate. She put her other hand atop the first, clean, pale skin mixing with blood, and then bowed her head. He heard her whisper the name of Ashhur, saw a soft glow spread across the bleeding skin. It was nothing like before; instead of hurting his eyes, it was soothing, a reassuring sight in the darkness. For several minutes Delysia prayed, stopping only to remove a hand and toss yet another shard of metal that somehow appeared in her palm.

At last, she wiped her hands clean on the leg of Thren’s pants, then stood, pulling hair from her face that had stuck to the sweat running down from her brow.

“Your turn,” she said, coming over to glance at the bolt in his back.

“You should rest first.”

“I have all night to rest.”

He winced as he felt her touch the skin around the entrance to the wound.