David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“The city is mine,” he said. “I own its streets. I own its castle. From the lowliest whorehouse to the greatest of the bazaars, it is mine. No guard will stand against me. No thief will steal from me. To no king, no lord, no priest will I bow. I bring you fire that will cast light upon you, but that same fire will also burn.”

He lifted his forever-burned hand above him so all might see it.

“I am the Darkhand,” he said. “In the west, I am the lord of shadows, the king of riots, the bringer of ghosts, and now I come to you. Upon every street you have seen my symbol, and even those of you who are blind will have felt it with your fingertips. Yet still you hesitate to serve. Men deny me protection money. Women sell their bodies, then hide my portion in cupboards and jars. Others yearn for former guilds or whisper the name of the Watcher as if he might save you.”

Muzien let his words echo, let the moment linger. This was it, the grand proclamation that would spread throughout Veldaren, the nation of Neldar, and all the way to the southern oceans of Omn. He wanted every word right, every syllable filled with ice and conviction.

“There is room for no other in your hearts,” he said. “Let go of your false hope. Deny your past, forsake your gods, abandon your king. I am your king. I hold the essence of your existence within the palm of my hands. Your coin, your lives, the very blood in your veins, it is mine, and I am a jealous master. Today, at this beautiful dawn, you will finally learn the truth, and like the children you are, I will teach it to you in the simplest of ways. I am your god, and I will have my tithe.”

He nodded to Ridley, and immediately, the man barked out commands, sending the men with torches back to the various exits so that there’d be three blocking each one. Soft murmurs grew among the people, confusion as to the lesson and what was expected of them. But he would not tell them. Like dogs, he would show them.

“Kill one of every ten,” he ordered Ridley.

The man hurried off, bouncing from exit to exit, relaying the orders. The two hundred in the market waited, eager, wanting to leave but fearful to disobey after the death of the guard and the merchant. When the first of the exits opened up, people surged forward, and Muzien watched as his men let one through at a time, counting. At the tenth, one of the three stepped forward, stabbed with his dagger, and then shoved the corpse out of the way.

More exits opened, and despite the screams, despite the bleeding, the people continued to surge toward them, eyes low, heads downcast, murmuring prayers and clenching fists as they hoped they might not be the tenth.

“Glorious,” Muzien said when Ridley returned. “Is it not glorious?”

“Only you would find beauty in this,” Ridley said.

“The weak die before us, and with each corpse, they learn no one will save them,” Muzien said. “After today, we will hold the very heart of this city in our hands, and it will never be tempted by another.”

He headed toward the southern entrance of the market, left alone so that it would be ready for only him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cloth and began wiping the merchant’s blood off his face.

“Come share a drink with me,” he told Ridley. Behind him, a woman let out a wail as her child was knifed through the throat.

“I feel a celebration is in order.”

Tarlak sat in his chair before the fireplace, glass of wine in hand. Today will be a good day, he told himself. No matter if I have to drink until it comes true. He was bringing the last of the glass to his lips when Brug’s voice sounded in his ear, ruining whatever hope he had of accomplishing his modest goal.

Get to the market, damn it, and hurry!

The wizard winced, annoyed by the volume of his friend’s voice. Every member of his mercenaries had a ring they could speak into a single time, sending a message across the wind for him to hear, and he’d always stressed for them to whisper. Brug, however, seemed to have forgotten that instruction; either that or he wanted to make sure his words pounded throughout Tarlak’s brain like a thunderstorm trapped in a teakettle.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Tarlak said, cracking his knuckles and rising from his chair. The market was several miles away in the city, and he had no intention of walking. If Brug wanted him to hurry to the market, then by the gods, he’d hurry. Teleportation was always a tricky business, and one of the key requirements was to have a strong mental image of where he was going. Going to a busy, ever-changing market would be a nightmare, so instead, Tarlak focused on a spot nearby, then opened his eyes as he spoke the necessary words of magic. A blue portal ripped open the fabric of space before him, and before it could close, he stepped on through.

He emerged on top of a large stone building, one of many shops that formed a border around the large open market. Wondering what was so important, he leaned over, spying down at the very center of the market, and that was when he saw the crowd attempting to disperse.

“What in blazes…” he wondered aloud, for it seemed like the crowd was fleeing through several entrances and alleys, and at each one, they passed three members of the Sun Guild. At first, he thought they were fleecing the crowd, demanding coins or reaching into the pockets of those that passed, but instead, he saw nothing. They were only letting them by, watching, as if they were searching for someone they …

One of the exits was directly to Tarlak’s left, and as he watched, one of the Sun guildmembers jammed a dagger through a woman’s throat and kicked her to the side. Her body toppled to the ground, and as she landed, Tarlak realized others lay around here, all perfectly still, like corpses.

Eyes widening, he looked to the other exits, saw similar piles, and on the far side of the street, he watched a child no older than ten get lifted off his feet, stabbed in the stomach, and then carelessly tossed among the bodies.

Fire burst around Tarlak’s hands as he stepped to the edge of the building.

“Oh, fuck you, Muzien,” he said as he leaped off.

He landed between the three blocking the exit beside him, a great burst of air billowing from his feet right before he touched ground. As he halted in midair, he stretched out either hand and let his anger flow in the form of fire. The flames exploded on either side of him, burning their flesh, incinerating their bodies and that damned four-pointed star sewn onto their shirts. The third rushed at him, drawing a dagger, but Tarlak turned and aimed a palm his way. More fire, this time in a concentrated bolt that struck him in the face. The man screamed as his skin peeled.

“Get back!” Tarlak screamed, not to the thief but to the others trying to pass through. Not waiting to see if they obeyed, he clapped his hands together and then flung them downward. From the clear sky sounded thunder, and then a bolt of lightning struck the burning man, the power of it lifting him from his feet before dropping him onto his back, smoke rising from his skin as the fire on his face slowly spread to consume the rest of him.

Now unblocked, the people poured out the exit. Tarlak pushed through, far from satisfied. Once free of the people, he caught sight of a battle raging on the opposite side of the marketplace. It was Brug, hollering and banging his plate mail as he fought against three of the rogues. In his heavy armor, he was fairly well defended, and his flailing with his punch daggers was unpredictable to say the least, but Tarlak knew they’d get a knife in eventually. Brug wasn’t good enough to handle more than one opponent at a time, at least not for long.

Breaking out into a sprint, he ran a list of spells through his head, trying to decide on the best one for the situation. There were too many people everywhere, too many innocents he might hit. Still, he wouldn’t let these bastards live, not after what they’d done.