David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

It seemed the two worried over the wrong thing. Thren had just reached the painting, and Haern the center of the room, when shouts came from downstairs. They were muffled, distant, but the alarms wouldn’t take long to travel up the stairs. Knowing the time for caution was over, Haern quickened his steps, crossing the room at a blistering pace as his father tugged on a corner of the painting, then slid it to the side. The movement made the tiniest of creaks, but the creaks were nothing compared to the growing shouts of alarm.

Move! Thren mouthed before diving into the slender gap revealed behind the painting.

The children were stirring in their beds. No time left, Haern sprinted the last few steps and then leaped feetfirst into the gap. As he slid, he turned, grabbed the corner of the painting, and yanked it shut.

Total darkness bathed him, and letting out a relieved sigh, Haern began to scoot down what appeared to be a slender stone chute. He’d passed by several openings on his climb up, and he figured he was in one of them.

“The tunnel ends abruptly,” Thren said from further down, his voice startling in the quiet. “Make haste, but don’t be careless.”

“Noted,” Haern muttered as from the other side of the painting he heard a ruckus growing.

The chute wasn’t long, and at its end, Haern found his father waiting for him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“I am,” Haern said. “But I’m going first.”

Instead of arguing, Thren merely laughed and shifted aside so Haern had room. Reaching out to his right, he felt one of the rungs, grabbed it tight. It felt so similar to when his father had first sent him tumbling down, but if Thren desired to kill him, there were certainly far better ways than breaking into the Stronghold to do it.

Swinging onto the ladder, he began climbing down, rung after rung, as he listened to the Stronghold continue its search for the escaping intruders on the other side of the stones.

“We had little to go on regarding your fate,” Thren said as they descended. “I felt they would not kill you if you were captured, nor let you die easily. I’m glad my assumptions were not wrong.”

“What of my little fall you sent me on?” Haern asked, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“Clearly, you survived,” Thren said. “Spare me your tantrum.”

That was it, then? His betrayal was nothing to concern him, his frustrations mere tantrums of a child? Haern rolled his eyes in the darkness. Why had he ever believed it might be otherwise?

When his foot felt no more rungs beneath, Haern took in a deep breath and then leaped blindly to the other side. Sure enough, he rolled into the tunnel he’d come from, and on his stomach, he crawled into the narrowing space. Ignoring the scrapes to his elbows and the cuts to his outfit as he rushed along, he did his best to dismiss the contradiction of his father betraying him on their way in, yet risking his life coming back to rescue him from the dungeon. He reached the end, found the hidden door above him. With only a moment to brace himself, he pushed it open and pulled himself out.

As Thren crawled out behind him, Haern quickly spun to survey his surroundings. In all directions from the Stronghold, he saw men in armor carrying torches, searching in parties of two.

“To the wheat fields,” Thren said in a hushed voice as he kicked the door shut to the secret entrance, not bothering to hide it. They sprinted, and when they were halfway there, Haern saw the stalks split and Delysia slip out, urging him onward with a hand. Seeing her there, unharmed, flooded him with relief. The relief did not last long, for his instincts cried out warning, and from the corner of his right eye, he saw a single paladin bedecked in the dark armor of his order riding toward them on a black steed.

No torch, thought Haern, diving out of the way. Sneaky bastard.

The dark paladin’s sword cleaved where he’d been, the fire around the blade darker than the night itself. Instead of trying to gain distance, Haern flung himself into the fight, knowing he had to strike immediately before the paladin could ride away. His swords cut into the side of the mount, but not enough to score a fatal hit. The man rode on, his sword blocking an attempted thrust from Thren on the other side. The dark paladin looped around, and he cried out warnings to the rest.

“Here!” he shouted, lifting his enormous two-handed sword into the air. “Over here, my brethren!”

“Shit,” muttered Thren.

The dark paladin rode toward them, blade still raised, but before coming into range, he suddenly pulled back on the reins.

“You’ll suffer for such insolence,” said the paladin, and he held his sword in one hand, the other balling into a fist. Violet flame leaked through his fingers, and then the man thrust it outward. Haern crossed his swords and ducked his head, unable to dodge in time. Fire roared, bursting forth in a tremendous cone from the paladin’s palm. Turning his face, Haern shifted in a desperate hope to absorb the brunt of it against his side, but before it could burn him, he saw movement, a flash of light.

Delysia stood between him and the dark paladin, hands clasped, red hair fluttering in a silent breeze that swirled about her from all directions. The fire could not touch her, could not even withstand being in her presence. As the dark paladin recoiled with surprise, she reached out with a glowing hand.

“The flames are yours,” she said. “Take them.”

And then the fire erupted back to life, only this time engulfing the paladin and his horse, consuming them. He opened his mouth in a final, horrific scream matched only by the dying cries of his mount. After but a second, they were both silenced, the heat so intense, the dark paladin was ash and bone before his melting armor hit the ground, landing amid a cloud of all he had once been.

“Come on,” Delysia said, turning and offering her hand. Haern took it, and together they fled into the wheat fields, Thren at their heels, as dozens of horses from the Stronghold thundered in chase.

They said nothing as they ran, all concentration on putting one foot in front of the other. Haern felt the toll of his imprisonment wearing on him, his heart pounding and his lungs gasping for each breath. He did everything he knew to ignore the pain, but it didn’t take long until Delysia was tugging on his arm to keep him moving. With how tall and tight the wheat grew, he could only see Thren on occasion, trailing alongside them, his head constantly on a swivel. The horses were spreading out, and it’d only be a matter of time before they were spotted.

“Delysia,” Haern said, his hand slipping free from hers. Noticing, she stopped, rushed back to him. A glowing hand touched his chest as her body pressed against his.

“Stay strong,” she said, and he felt the exhaustion in his body fade as if it had never been. On impulse, he kissed her forehead, then grabbed her hand.

“Stay with me,” he said, and they resumed their run, this time with him in the lead. To their right, a paladin burst through the wheat, and Haern dropped to the ground as the horse passed on by. Too close, he knew. Just a matter of time, but they had to run, had to keep gaining distance. Every second that passed, more of the paladins were waking up, throwing on their armor, grabbing their weapons, and rushing out into the night to join the chase. Distance was their friend, delay their enemy.

Another rode on to their left, and when he let out a cry, Haern knew they’d been spotted. To confirm, Thren rejoined their side, shouting orders.

“Surprise is our only hope!” he shouted. “Crouch low, and cut them down as they ride by!”

Between the darkness and the wheat, any rider would have difficulty spotting them, and Haern knew his father was right. In open battle against an armored, horsed rider? Hopeless. But cutting them down as they closed about, keeping them off-balance and confused? Haern dropped to his knees, willing himself into becoming a specter of the fields, a coiled animal ready to strike. At his side, his father did the same as Delysia ducked low, watching intently.