David Dalglish - A Dance of Ghosts

“My city,” he said, remembering the promise he’d made in what felt like ages past. “My city, or ashes.”

He could make it come to pass. All the lives and toil of man could come crashing down with a single word, and the medallion was the key, the catalyst. In his hand, the medallion twirled. Life or death, all contained in a single disc of gold. Luther would have him destroy Veldaren to save it. Better in ruin than in the hands of the prophet, the priest had insisted. It was a feeling he understood so well. Better to leave the city in ashes than in Muzien’s hands.

But there was still a way to reclaim his city, to bravely stand before a conquering army without fear. A way to defeat the legendary Darkhand and return Veldaren to the rule of the Spider. A way for Thren to prepare his legacy, his heir, as he had always dreamed.

“Aaron,” he whispered. “Watcher. Haern. Whoever it is you are … given the choice, the Sun, the Spider, or nothing at all, which would you choose?”

To the night sky he looked, imagined his little boy on his lap, listening to him, adoring him, trusting him above all others. Before the world tore him away. Before gods and priests and little red-haired girls made him believe in a world that would never be.

“Would you join my side to prevent the deaths of thousands, my son?” Thren wondered, but the stars could give him no answer, only silence.

Haern paused before the Eschaton Tower, and he almost didn’t go inside. The night was late, and for all he knew, those inside were asleep. It was a nice enough excuse in his head, but as the cicadas droned on, he knew it was a lie. Ever since their fight the day before, he was yet to see Delysia. She’d surely beaten him home, given the time it’d taken him to bury Ghost’s body. What might she have told her brother? Everything? Nothing?

On either side of him were long hills covered with flowing grass, and behind the tower was the King’s Forest, and either sounded like better places to sleep. Cowardly places, of course, and that was what kept him going, walking up the path, to the door, and inside.

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” Tarlak said, stretched out on a couch with a drink in his hand and his feet pointed toward the low fire that burned in the fireplace.

“I had a body to bury,” Haern said, and he realized how absurd a greeting that was. He’d not seen his friend in months, and those were the first words out of his mouth?

“So I heard.” Tarlak gestured to the chair opposite him. “Take a seat. It feels like forever since your skulking hood graced my tower.”

Haern hadn’t even realized he had it on, and he quickly pulled it off as he sat down beside the fire. His swords and pack he put down beside him. He felt awkward, wishing he could just come right out and ask what Tarlak knew but was unable to be so direct. So, instead, he let out a deep sigh and sank into the chair. No matter what, he was indeed home, and it felt good to be there, despite all the awkwardness.

“Did you talk to Delysia?” Haern asked, thinking it about as gentle a way to broach the subject as possible.

“I did,” Tarlak said.

Haern tried to read the wizard, but whatever thoughts were behind those green eyes and red goatee were well hidden.

“And?” Haern asked.

Tarlak sat up, and with a sigh he let go of his glass, which hovered in the air for a brief moment before vanishing.

“And I can tell something happened between the two of you,” he said. “Though I admit I’m hopeless as to what, because my dear sister is as stubborn as she is beautiful when she wants to be. All she’ll tell me is that Ghost showed up, you two fought, and Ghost lost. I don’t know if that has something to do with why Delysia was so upset, or something else. My gut says your father’s involved, given the only thing good that’s ever come out of him is, well, you.”

“The months were definitely long,” Haern said. He shifted, not liking the way Tarlak was looking at him. “As for Delysia … we had a disagreement; that’s all. We’ll be fine.”

The wizard lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Haern rubbed his eyes.

“Honestly … I have no clue, Tar. Can we talk about something else? How’s life been here in Veldaren?”

Tarlak chuckled.

“If you’re hoping for more happy subjects, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

He snapped his fingers, and his glass reappeared, this time full of a white wine. Tarlak took it from the air where it floated, sipped at it.

“Pretty much everything you’ve ever set up in the city has been eradicated,” Tarlak said. “The agreement with the Trifect, the truce between the guilds … it’s all gone.”

Haern sat frozen in his seat, unable to believe it. Everything he’d worked for, all the blood and sweat and killing, was over? The wizard said it nonchalantly, just no big thing, but Haern felt as if he’d been slapped in the face with a wet rag.

“All gone?” Haern asked. “How is that possible?”

“Well, your absence didn’t help matters,” Tarlak said. “Nor did Thren’s, honestly. The Sun Guild came back with a vengeance, and this time with their leader, Muzien the Dark-hand. Every guild that refused to submit to his command, he crushed, one by one. After that, he cowed the king, putting himself safely out of reach of the city guard, and then began working on the Trifect. The elf’s a cruel bastard, and what he’s done to secure his power is sickening, to say the least.”

“Why haven’t you stopped him?”

Tarlak frowned.

“I’d say that’s your job, actually, but you were too busy traipsing west in search of … what was it again? Luther? What did you find out about that, anyway, because Delysia was none too talkative?”

Haern sighed.

“Nothing,” he said. “Thren betrayed me when we reached the tower, and he was the only one to speak with Luther. The man was a priest held prisoner at the top of the Stronghold; that’s all I know. Beyond that, his task in Veldaren was some plan involving Karak and those stone tiles the Sun Guild’s using. I’m sorry, Tar; I really can’t offer more than that.”

Tarlak downed the rest of the wine, made the cup vanish, and then rose to his feet.

“Glad to know it was all worthwhile,” he said. “A priest working for Karak … I never could have guessed that. Meanwhile, Muzien controls every inch of our fair city. We’ve needed you bad, Haern, but I don’t know where to even start. I feel like a war happened right underneath my nose, and something tells me under no circumstances were we the victor.”

“I’m sorry,” Haern said. “It isn’t too late, though. I’ll get to the bottom of this; I promise.”

“Like you got to the bottom of this whole Luther business?”

“Enough, Tarlak. Quit acting like this is my fault!”

“Will you two kiss and make up already?” Brug said as he emerged from the staircase, his own beer mug in hand. “Gods, I could hear the two of you yammering from my bedroom.”

He tipped his head in Haern’s direction.

“Good to see you, bud,” Brug said, and he grinned. “Now come give me a hug. After months with dealing with just that idiot over there, I could practically kiss you for finally coming home.”

Haern felt his face flushing, and embarrassed, he went over and clapped Brug across the shoulder.

“Good to see you, too,” Haern said.

“Aye, a happy homecoming,” Tarlak said. Haern glared his way, expecting more sarcasm, but it seemed the wizard himself was embarrassed by his earlier outburst.

“It really is good to have you back,” Tarlak said. “This city isn’t the same without you, and neither is this tower.”