David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

Tarlak returned to the main crossroad, then headed west. As he left the city, a wagon was passing through the guard post, and painted in white on the wagon’s side was the symbol of the Sun Guild. Tarlak watched the guards wave the driver in without even a cursory glance at his goods.

What did you just let in? Poisons, wines, more of those damn tiles?

Ignoring a childish desire to set the wagon aflame, he continued on to his tower. The weather was fine, the sun high and warm, and so he enjoyed the breeze blowing against him as he crossed the grass. By the time he reached his tower, he was smiling, and he was thinking maybe he should just take a break and relax for a few hours. He couldn’t spend his whole life trying to keep track of the underhanded dealings of a city. Snapping his fingers, the door opened for him, and pulling his hat off his head, he moved to step inside, then froze.

Waiting for him, arms crossed and standing beside the hearth, was the giant man with the painted face.

“How did you…?” Tarlak began, mouth dropping open. He had a dozen various alarms cast all across his tower. Should a man try scaling the walls, digging through the floor, breaking down the door, even flying through one of the windows, he’d have known.

“Simple enough,” said Ghost. “I walked right in.”

Tarlak extended his right hand, palm outward, and shot a bolt of lightning straight for Ghost’s chest. The thunder of its casting echoed throughout the lower floor and hurt Tarlak’s ears. Amid the flash, Ghost dropped to his knees, and come the return of Tarlak’s vision, the man was gone. Tarlak stood there frozen, baffled. Seconds passed, and he heard nothing, saw nothing.

“I’m losing it,” Tarlak said, staring at the blackened scorch marks above the fireplace where his bolt had blasted into the stone.

“Not quite.”

He whirled, deadly shards of ice growing on his fingertips, but it was too late. A meaty fist greeted him, and then all was darkness and stars.

When Tarlak came to, he lay propped against a wall, hands bound behind his back. His head throbbed, and when he opened his mouth to groan, he tasted the coarse dirt of a gag wedged between his teeth. Vision tilting as if he’d just spun in a circle for several minutes, Tarlak shut his eyes and waited out the distortion. His stomach felt as if he’d eaten a vulture’s meal, and as for his fingers, they were tied so tightly, they’d gone numb. A precaution against any spellcasting, he knew. At least Ghost hadn’t gone the full distance and just chopped them all off.

“You’re awake,” he heard Ghost say.

Tarlak opened his eyes, and this time the world did not tilt back and forth. Ghost sat opposite him on a wooden chair. The chair from his study, he realized. To his left was the fireplace, his right the door to the tower, which was now shut. Tarlak wondered how much time had passed. If he’d been out for a few hours, perhaps Brug might return. Even the slightest distraction might be enough for him to pry his hands free …

“I want you to listen carefully,” Ghost said, rising from the chair and crossing the carpet. When he reached Tarlak, he knelt down so they might stare eye to eye. At such distance, he could easily see the white paint smeared across the man’s face … only it didn’t seem like paint anymore. It looked like scarred flesh.

“Your hands are bound, and bound well,” Ghost continued. “Now, I know there are some spells you can cast using just your words, but I’m going to risk this. Just ask yourself which will be faster, your tongue or my swords?” The man ripped the gag from Tarlak’s mouth. “Trust me, few men who doubted my speed have ever lived.”

“It’s nice to see you too, Ghost,” Tarlak said, and he swallowed. It made his stomach gag, but he needed the taste gone from his mouth. “You’re looking as cheery as ever.”

Ghost walked back to the chair and sat down. As if to purposefully contradict Tarlak’s words, he frowned all the deeper. He said nothing, though, just stared. Tarlak would hardly describe his situation as comfortable, but that stare certainly didn’t help matters. So, he did what he normally did when faced with awkward situations: he rambled.

“Sorry about burning you like I did,” he said. “Not that I had much choice, since you seemed pretty bent on killing me and Brug. Glad you’re all right, though. You nearly killed me and failed, and now I’ve nearly killed you and failed. So, let’s just call this whole thing even. Sound good?”

Ghost’s left hand drifted to the sword at his hip, and he gripped the hilt hard enough to whiten his knuckles. For the first time, Tarlak noticed how pale the man’s skin had become. He looked unhealthy, there was no denying that, yet the man also had a cold sweat breaking out across his face and neck.

“I have no true desire to kill you,” Ghost said, ignoring his earlier rambles.

“That so?” Tarlak asked. “You have a unique way of showing it.”

“The first time, you were merely in my way,” said Ghost. “A potential interference to my hunt for the Watcher. I’d not dueled a wizard in years, and I must admit, I was eager to test my abilities. You were a worthy foe, so when I say I am glad you survived, you must understand I speak the truth.”

“Comforting,” said Tarlak, still clueless as to where the conversation was going. “Is that why you gutted Senke, too? He was in the way?”

This seemed to affect Ghost far more than Tarlak expected.

“The Watcher called me a monster afterward,” Ghost said. “Do you think that is true?”

“If you’re trying to argue you’re not, you’re going about it a pretty piss-poor way.”

Finally, Ghost laughed, leaning back in his chair and running a hand across his bald head.

“I argue nothing,” he said. “Monsters. Aren’t we all monsters? You wield fire with your bare hands and summon lightning from your palms. Tell me, would men not quake in fear of you should you bring your wrath upon them?”

“Anyone afraid of me will deserve whatever wrath that befalls them,” Tarlak said. “I don’t kill the innocent.”

“Innocent?” Another laugh. “An odd way to call men and women you know nothing about. I doubt anyone would call you innocent, Tarlak.”

“Is that why you tried to kill us the second time?”

Ghost shook in his chair, and it made Tarlak all the more nervous. Something was terribly wrong with the man. He looked ready to explode, yet at the same time, it seemed he clung to consciousness by a thin thread made solely of pure stubbornness.

“I don’t have a choice, ” he said. A smile flashed on his face, vanished. “Not anymore. Right now, it’s your life or mine, Tarlak. Would you blame me for killing you when forced into such a situation?”

“Honestly?” asked Tarlak. “I think you look like a man who doesn’t care whatsoever about what I have to say. Nor do you look like a man who can be forced to do anything, not even when threatened with his life. So, if you’re going to kill me, please, for the love of Ashhur, just go ahead and kill me.”

Ghost stood, and now both hands clutched the hilts of his swords.

“Or we can continue chatting,” Tarlak offered.

“All my life,” Ghost said, slowly walking toward him. “All my life, I denied being a monster. I embraced people’s fear. I painted my face and grinned at their prejudice and unease. That fear was their own failure, not mine. The color of my skin gave them their anger, not my own self. No matter what, because of my skill, my strength, I was free. I was dangerous and proud. But now?”

He drew a sword and placed the edge against Tarlak’s neck. Tarlak tensed, and he refused to look away from Ghost’s bloodshot eyes.