David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

The man stepped through the flames, and as the violet fire passed across his skin and armor, it did not burn, nor did he show signs of pain.

“Oh,” the paladin said from the other side. “So you know … these flames are designed to burn, and hurt, but very rarely will they kill. Though if you stay within them long enough, if you can endure the pain, you just might find death. Consider that a gift we offer the strong … but only a very few have managed it. But who knows … perhaps you’ll be one of them?”

With that, he was gone, leaving Haern alone in his prison, sick before the glow of the fire, in pain from the torture, and his chest aching from where the pendant of the golden mountain rested against his skin. Tears running down his face, he clutched it with a shaking hand, felt the cold metal dig into his skin.

“Ashhur,” he prayed, turning his back to the flame. “Please, Ashhur, I know you hear me…”

One day. Just one day, and he felt a quivering in his chest, a breaking of something so vital to everything he knew.

Just one day.

“Delysia,’ he whispered, and his tears fell harder.

Just after dawn, when all his men were in place, Muzien strode into the marketplace, pockmarked Ridley at his side. He kept his hood off, wanting others to see his face, his scarred ears, and know exactly who he was. The four-pointed star was sewn large on his tunic, and it amused him to see the way the commoners’ eyes widened upon his entrance. How long had he been in Veldaren, a few months at most? Already they feared him. But not enough. Not yet.

They would, though, after today.

Waiting for him were several crates stacked together in the heart of the market, and he leaped atop them and looked about. In all directions, he saw members of his guild watching at the various entrances and exits, and each one saluted with their left hand to show they were ready.

“People of Veldaren!” Muzien screamed, and his voice carried over the rest, for he knew how to project his authority, how to command the attention of any in his presence. “Come forth, and witness the rise of the Sun!”

Frightened murmurs rapidly spread, and with his face like stone, he watched their reactions. Many turned to flee, recognizing him, but there was nowhere to go. From all corners came members of his guild, bearing torches in one hand and brandishing swords in the other. Following his strict orders, they said nothing, only blocked the people’s way with fire and steel. Muzien’s reason had been simple. The people were sheep and needed to learn to behave without word or order but by the mere sight of the four-pointed star.

A circular gap spread about Muzien, no one wanting to be near him where he stood. Muzien waited, knowing there was no reason to hurry. The king was in his pocket, the remaining guilds all but crushed. Who else could stand against him?

“Come closer,” he yelled to them, estimating nearly two hundred trapped there in that center stretch of the marketplace. “To me, now, for I would have you watch!”

More members of the Sun Guild came through the alleys, pushing people in, threatening with club and blade when necessary. The two hundred bunched in, unable to flee, unable to hide. Muzien nodded, pleased with the efficiency of his guild. Many members were newly recruited, either from other guilds or the streets, but they were learning swiftly. Again, he felt a pang of frustration. Why had Thren Felhorn struggled for so long, when he lived with such fertile recruiting ground?

Muzien stayed there, merely watching, wanting the people to grow accustomed to his presence above them. Sealing in the circle of people were two dozen Sun Guild members holding torches aloft. It conveyed the feeling of a ritual, and Muzien knew how powerful rituals could be. It gave the humans a sense of awe, of belief that their ephemeral lives might somehow continue on while connected to things greater and more permanent than they. Even the most mundane of events could carry the weight of mysticism and power by adding a few ancient words and predetermined motions.

From the north, pushing through the crowd, came two city guards, prodded on by more members of the Sun. Neither had drawn their weapons, and they looked equally terrified by the sudden events. Muzien crossed his arms at their approach, still saying nothing. At last, he hopped down from the crate and walked toward them. He saw fear in their eyes, and it made him sick.

“Give me your sword,” he said, extending his hand.

The one on the left was an older man, his face scarred from an ancient cut running from the left side of his chin to his right eye. At Muzien’s demand, he shook his head and looked away. The man on the right, far younger, glanced around at the people, the torches, and blades, and then drew his sword and slowly flipped it around so he might extend the hilt in offering.

Muzien took it as all eyes of the marketplace watched. Symbols, thought Muzien. Symbols and rituals, all carrying power. Let the city see who the guard truly feared, and obeyed.

“Bring me the merchant,” Muzien said to Ridley, who put his fingers to his lips and blew. From the other side, the crowd parted and into the empty circle came a scrawny merchant with a waist-length beard. He looked middle-aged and, given his pallid skin and recessed eyes, of poor health. Muzien didn’t remember his name, but he knew what he was there for.

“This man,” Muzien cried, “denied us our right. Veldaren is mine now, and if you would seek protection in my city, then your coin must go to my hands and no others. This fool, this oaf, dared to reject my outstretched hand. He dared to believe he would not suffer the consequences.”

Muzien took a step closer.

“He was wrong.”

He kicked the merchant in the face, knocking him onto his back, and then struck with the guard’s offered sword. Over and over, he hacked into the merchant’s neck, purposefully ensuring no blow snapped the spine. He wanted carnage; he wanted brutality. Let them watch as the blood flowed, the flesh separated, and the stupid man flailed and screamed as the blood poured down his opened windpipe. Blood splashed everywhere, and with one final hack, Muzien ensured a spray went across his own face and clothes. Another turn, and he flung the sword to the feet of the soldier who offered it to him. The crowd gasped at the sight of him, fine elegance covered with crude gore.

“You obeyed, and so you live,” Muzien said to the younger guard. He turned to the older. “You hesitated, and you refused.”

Two steps and a thrust. That was all it took. No one saw him draw the dagger from the belt at his waist, no one dared to move as Muzien jammed the blade into the older guard’s neck, twisted it once, and then jerked it free. The body collapsed, and with that done, Muzien tossed aside the dagger as well. With his darkened hand, he beckoned the other city guard to leave him be.

The market was deathly silent now but for a few children crying in their parents’ arms. It put a smile to Muzien’s face. What he stood in now, that combination of awe and terror, was something his elven brethren would never understand. With their skills, they could instill a fear no human could match. They didn’t need to hide in forests. They didn’t need to stalk roads with arrows to win a war against mankind.

They only needed the ability to sacrifice, to kill, to live among the wretches. Everything else came in time.

“Hear me, people of Veldaren!” Muzien cried, hopping back up top of the crate. “Here at the dawn, you will witness the rise of the Sun!”

“ The rise of the Sun! ” cried the members of his guild in perfect echo.

Muzien turned, let his eyes fall upon them all.