David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Rising to his feet, he let out a deep breath, his combat rush settling. The fight was over, only a handful of the Sun Guild left, and they quickly died to the now-overwhelming numbers of the Wolves. Cynric took a quick count of the dead, and for the forty they killed, they’d lost only seven in return.

“Jaff, lead three Wolves down into the slums,” Cynric said. “Milly, take four and patrol east of here. Engage any of the Sun Guild you see, no matter their number. They must remain scattered as long as possible.” He turned, pointed at those in the group who were most coated with blood from the previous fight. “You three, come with me.”

With that they scattered, Cynric leading his group back north. If they’d succeeded at the northern ambush site as well, then Muzien should have been left isolated with his men back at the Wolf Guild’s headquarters. Soon, Wolves would come from all corners, firing crossbows, surrounding them, spurring them into a retreat. As for Cynric, well, he knew where that retreat would lead to. It’d taken patience, but at last he’d found the simple home Muzien retired to when he needed to sleep or plot out his next phase of Veldaren’s takeover. It was a gamble, but Cynric had to believe that Muzien, upon realizing his own ambush had failed, would try to return to where he was safest until he could regroup and reassess the situation.

The night was full of cries of the dying when Cynric found him. Muzien hurried down the center of the street, dark coat flapping behind him, two members of the Sun Guild in escort. Cynric led his own men to block the path, and he bared his sharpened teeth in greeting.

“Did you have fun burning down my home?” he asked as on either side of him, his Wolves unleashed bolts from crossbows. The two escorts died, but the one aimed for Muzien somehow missed despite the short distance, the bolt veering off just past the elf’s head. Muzien never even flinched.

“Burning down an abandoned building?” Muzien asked, walking toward them as if unbothered in the slightest by their arrival. “No, I found no enjoyment in that.”

Cynric drew his daggers, and the other three dropped the crossbows and readied their own blades.

“Killing you, though,” Muzien said, pulling his swords from their sheaths, “in that I will take great pleasure.”

“As a pack,” Cynric said in a low voice to his crew. “Don’t hesitate. Don’t even think. Surround him, then take him down.”

The four moved forward, keeping a wide berth as they moved to put a man on all sides. Muzien stayed where he was, swords pointed to the ground as he watched them. The smile on his face never faltered.

“You’ll die last, Cynric,” said Muzien. “Consider it my gift to you, one final chance to pledge loyalty before death.”

“And consider this my gift to you,” Cynric said. “My blade in your gut!”

He leaped forward, and the other three joined, rushing in from all sides. Cynric knew no opponent, no matter how skilled, should have been able to withstand them. His men were ferocious, unrelenting, and when they came crashing in, they should have overwhelmed their foe with a flurry of steel. The night would be theirs, followed by all of Veldaren.

The moment of the attack, Muzien sprang to his right, assaulting Cynric’s fellow Wolf with a double slash that moved so fast, Cynric could barely see it. Steel flashed in the moonlight, followed by blood. Cynric shifted the angle of his run, and he swung his swords from left to right, hoping to bury them in Muzien’s side. The other two reacted similarly, either thrusting with their daggers or chopping in with both weapons in an attempt to overwhelm the elf.

Muzien’s movements never halted, his feet never still. On one foot he spun, his swords lashing out, and the night rang with the sound of steel hitting steel as he batted away all three of their attacks. Cynric swung back in as Muzien continued to spin before him, but he hit only cloak. The elf had danced away, down the street directly opposite Cynric, but before he could follow, Muzien had already turned about. Having escaped their cage, he sprang back onto the offensive, tearing into the remaining two that had accompanied Cynric. The Wolves stood side by side, lifting their weapons to defend, but watching Muzien move was like watching a ghost of the fighter Thren had been during his rise to power. Before Cynric could rush to their aid, both were falling back, Muzien’s twin blades slashing in tandem, constantly shifting their angle, and the elf’s body twisted and slid, fluid as a river.

The man on the left died, a sword piercing his neck so fast, it seemed his throat opened by itself, spilling scarlet blood down the front of his shirt. Cynric took his spot as he fell, trying to aid the last member of his guild, perhaps the last in all of Veldaren. As the Wolf took another step back, slashing with the dagger in his right hand while attempting to parry Muzien’s thrust with the left, Cynric swung both his swords, all his strength behind the chop. If he could only hit the damn elf, get him bleeding …

The sword in Muzien’s left hand, which had been thrusting in to pierce a vital lung, instead curled right, smacking aside the Wolf’s own thrusts. With his other blade, he lifted it up in defense, planting his foot to steady himself as Cynric’s swords connected. Despite all Cynric’s strength, despite how wiry the elf seemed, he resisted it with ease. It was as if Cynric had smashed his swords against the side of the king’s castle, so badly did it hurt his hands.

Press harder! Cynric screamed to himself as he pulled back and slashed again and again, beating his swords at the elf as if he were a tree to be felled. Muzien took step after step backward, alternating which of his swords blocked the blows, always matching Cynric swing for swing. There was no moving him out of position, no tiring him, no fooling with a feint. At last, Cynric tried desperate surprise, flinging himself forward out of sheer madness, with no care for what Muzien might do in retaliation or counter. Instead of skewering the elf or being skewered in return, Muzien twirled around him, coat flapping in the air, and assaulted the other Wolf who had fallen back to give his guildmaster space to fight.

Two hits knocked his swords away, the third took his life.

“What the fuck are you?” Cynric asked as he stood there trying to catch his breath. “We had you trapped. You should be dead.”

Muzien shook some of the blood off his swords, chuckling as he did.

“Did you?” he asked. “Look around, Cynric. Tell me, do you think it is your trap we are in?”

Cynric glanced to the rooftops, and he felt his stomach tighten. All along them he saw men and women watching, the four-pointed star sewn on their chests. The way they lurked there, silent and still as statues, infuriated him more. This wasn’t some damn ritual for them to observe, and for Muzien to be so confident in his abilities, so unafraid of Cynric’s blades …

“You’re down here, and they’re up there,” Cynric said. “If it’s a trap, it’s a poor one.”

“They’re only eyes in the night, to bear witness to your death,” Muzien said. “Forget them, Cynric. We are alone here, just the two of us. Again, I offer you a chance to live. Men will serve you, just as they do now. You will have a position of power and respect. Would it be so terrible for you to cast aside your cloak and bear the star?”

Cynric stood tall before them all, and he puffed out his chest.

“I won’t be made into your pet, nor beaten and bludgeoned until I obey. Kill me if you can, Muzien. I may die, but I’ll die fighting. What other end could I have hoped for?”

The elf shook his head.

“If you see defeat as your only future, then your mind lacks imagination, your spirit void of true ambition. Die well, Cynric, and know the Wolf Guild dies with you.”