David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“I’m not here for a fight,” Ghost said. The very sound of his voice was like razors cutting across Haern’s skin.

“I am.”

Haern pushed away to gain separation, then slashed for the man’s neck. Ghost blocked it easily enough, his superior strength batting away Haern’s follow-up strokes as if they were those of a child. The sound of steel rang out, twice, three times, before Haern positioned his weapons high, interlocking them with Ghost’s so he could kick at the man’s knee from the side. The bigger man sidestepped it, then shoved both swords out to push Haern away.

“There’s no need for this,” Ghost said, stepping backward, each one matching Haern’s steady approach. “Leave me be, Watcher. I’ve given Delysia my apologies, and she her blessing. After this, I go west, and you’ll never see me again. I want nothing to do with you.”

“A new life?” Haern said, quickening his steps. Ghost would soon back himself against a tree, and the moment he ran out of room to retreat … “You don’t deserve a new life. You want to offer an apology? Stick out your neck, and I’ll accept it with my blade.”

Ghost’s back bumped against the bark of the tree. If he was worried, he didn’t show it. Behind them, Delysia shouted for them to stop, but both refused to acknowledge the demand.

“Your friend has given me my life,” said Ghost, “and I won’t disgrace that gift by letting you take it, Watcher.”

A grim smile tucked at the corners of Haern’s lips.

“Let me?” he asked, suddenly lunging into an attack. His swords crossed side to side, ringing off of Ghost’s expertly positioned blocks. Undaunted, Haern continued weaving his weapons in, feeling like a lumberjack trying to cut down a tree by pummeling it into submission. So far, Ghost showed no signs of countering, so Haern pushed himself on, trying to find the slightest opening for the kill.

“Let me?”

Ghost tried and failed to parry a wide slash aimed for his face. The man ducked backward, striking his head against the bark of the tree. The tip of Haern’s saber cut through his cheek, just a thin slice that sprayed a thin jet of blood through the air. Haern looped both weapons around, slamming them down into the X that Ghost had crossed his swords into just prior to the stroke.

“Have you forgotten, Ghost?” Haern asked as he tried to push through, to close that minute gap between the sharpened edges of his blades and the exposed flesh of his foe’s throat. “I was the better fighter. I killed you once, and I’ll kill you again.”

Despite his efforts, Haern’s strength seemed to not bother Ghost in the slightest. Instead, the man grinned, and a bit of life sparkled in his eyes.

“Better?” he asked. “Perhaps then … but now? Let us see.”

The man flung himself forward, and given his size, his speed, Haern had no choice but to retreat as those swords came slicing in. Left, right, he batted them aside, spun while ducking to avoid having his head cut off his shoulders, then sprinted away to gain space. Six steps later, he dug his heel into the soft earth, pivoted, and flung himself right back into the fight. Again, they crashed together, swords interlocking and pushing aside so neither was impaled. Haern angled himself so his knee struck Ghost’s stomach, and the other man likewise slammed his elbow into Haern’s cheek. Blood dripping from his teeth, Haern spun away, fighting through a brief wave of dizziness.

“Stop it, both of you!” he heard Delysia shout. Haern again pretended not to hear her, instead rekindling the anger in his breast as Ghost crouched down, anticipating another barrage.

Before he could attack, a flash of light burst between them, blinding in its brightness. Haern let out a cry at the pain, but he refused to be slowed. Rushing forward, he used every bit of his childhood training. He knew how to anticipate an opponent’s reaction, how to sense their location by the sound of their feet scraping the dirt. But Ghost was no common foe, no stranger to sightless battles. The world a haze of yellow and white, Haern cut where the larger man should have been, only to have both his swings blocked. Stepping left, he tried sweeping Ghost’s feet out from underneath him, but the man was not there. Instead, he’d already fallen back, and through the spots in his vision, Haern watched him weave his swords into a defensive pattern in case he’d pushed onward.

“The better fighter,” Ghost said as he halted upon realizing no one chased. “I’ve learned of you since my release, Watcher. I know what it was you sought to do at the Conningtons’ mansion. I fought for coin and my reputation, but you fought for peace; you fought for the love of your friends.”

Ghost’s face darkened as he crouched down and lifted his swords.

“But now?” he asked.

Without warning, he burst forward. So big, so strong, he was as terrifying as a charging bull. Haern dared not meet him head-on, instead having to constantly leap away. Anything to keep Ghost moving, to keep him from being able to close the distance fully or brace his feet to put all his strength into a swing. Parrying one swing, he leaped back, caught a tree with his shoulder, and then rolled along the ground. Ghost’s swords struck dirt, and then Haern was on his feet, bolting forward as his foe’s swords sliced through the air where he’d been.

“What is it you fight for now?” Ghost asked. “Pride? Retribution?”

“What does it matter?”

Haern spun around a tree, and when one of Ghost’s swords struck the bark, Haern rolled back around it and launched into an offensive. Awkwardly positioned, Ghost had to retreat, violently yanking on the sword to free it in time for a block. Haern kept it up, pushing forward, hammering at Ghost’s swords. His hands were a blur, his every nerve on fire. Overwhelm him , thought Haern. He had to overwhelm him.

“What does it matter?” asked Ghost, and despite his apparent exhaustion, despite Haern’s onslaught, he was grinning. “It’s the only thing that matters.”

One of his steps back suddenly wasn’t a retreat at all, but a shift forward. Haern’s left-hand blade was easily blocked, the other thrusting too far to the side. Taking advantage of the opening, Ghost kneed Haern in the stomach, then smashed a fist into the side of his neck. Letting out a scream, Haern toppled back, swords raised in a meager defense. Except Ghost did not pursue. Instead, he hovered over him, yelling, mocking him as he paced.

“I was a monster!” he shouted. “I thought you were too, but you fought for something. You bled for others. You’re bleeding again, Watcher, so tell me, who’s it for?”

Simply breathing hurt, but Haern forced himself to his feet, stumbling backward to gain some space. Ignoring the pain, he stood tall and stared down the giant man. In his mind, he replayed that horrible moment when Senke had lurched forward, a blade piercing his chest. The way the pain had overtaken him. The way the life had left his eyes. Haern needed that rage again. He needed to remember why, no matter the cost, this man must die.

“A monster?” he asked. “Is that what you want? Then raise your swords, Ghost. I’ll show you a monster.”

Before either could move, Delysia stepped between them, a hand outstretched toward each.

“Enough!” she cried. White light shone from her palms. “This fight ends now, I swear it. Drop your blades. The moment either of you moves against the other, I will take your life.”

Haern could hardly believe the anger in her eyes. This was the man who’d killed her best friend … yet now she’d threaten murder to protect him? He couldn’t abide it. He couldn’t allow it. This man … this Ghost … deserved death. Every bone in his body knew it, every pounding of his heart screamed it.