David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

Peb nodded toward the rows of men and women waiting to be interrogated by Lord Victor’s men.

“Maybe because one of them people might be blubbering our names any second?”

Alan ran a hand through his long dark hair.

“Thren wants answers, wants something new, so either we get him something new, or we get a tongue-lashing… if we’re lucky. Given the mood he was in, I’m not willing to gamble on that. I’d rather tempt the city guards than the boss.”

Peb didn’t look convinced, but Alan didn’t care. The guy was a coward, and more important, he hated to be alone. He’d follow Alan so long as things still looked safe. Alan patted his own leg, glad for the dagger hidden there. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and then walked out from the alley and into the main street, where the interrogations continued. Peb quickly followed. The two were in ratty clothing, their faces dirty, their hands callused. Anyone who bothered to notice them would think them nothing but poor, hungry peasants. At least that was the hope.

Alan led the way, faking a limp toward the lines. At the front he saw scribes jotting down the guts that their current pigeons spilled. Not that Alan blamed them. When your life was on the line, or the coin was right, honor was nothing but a hindrance. Making as little noise as possible, he listened as they got closer, hoping to catch an errant phrase, but a soldier noticed them before he could.

“Stay back, you two,” said the armored man, his hand already on his sword. He stood between them and the tables of scribes. On his chest was a tabard bearing a crest Alan did not recognize, some strange circle with wings drawn in gold. “Any closer, and I’ll think you a threat.”

“Forgive me,” Alan said, bowing low and turning away. Peb followed, saying nothing.

“That was pointless,” Peb mumbled.

“Did you see Lord Victor?”

Peb shook his head. “No. You?”

Alan glanced back, scouring the guards, the lines, the scribes.

“Not here,” he said. “But only twelve or so are set to talk. Yesterday had far more.”

“He’s slowing down?” Peb asked.

Alan shrugged. “Either that, or he’s being more careful. Never know if…”

He had about two seconds to react before it hit. Alan grabbed Peb by the arm and pulled him hard into the side of a building. His shoulder throbbed upon slamming the wood, and Peb let out a cry when he struck his forehead, having been unable to twist in time. Still, it was better than being impaled by the barrage of arrows that sailed toward Victor’s proceedings. Over twenty men stood far down the road, bows and crossbows in hand, their brown cloaks revealing their allegiance to the Hawks.

“Impatient bastards,” Alan said before swearing up a storm. “Get down!”

The two dropped as another barrage flew. Screams filled the air. The first barrage had landed among the guards and scribes, but the second was aimed solely at the men and women brought for interrogation. People fled in every direction, while the guards swarmed in a panic, some flinging the older scribes to the ground for protection, others rushing to meet the new threat.

“We need to get out of here!” Peb said, scrambling out from beneath Alan.

“Thren will want to know what happened here!”

Peb spun about, shaking his head. “Then let him come count the bodies.”

Alan looked back, saw the soldiers rushing with swords drawn. Arrows and bolts shot toward them, no longer in an organized barrage. Some men dropped, but most endured, even those who were hit. Their armor was thick, and the thieves used small bows and crossbows designed to take out fellow thieves, to pierce cloth, not metal. Alan thought to draw his dagger, then realized that might label him as being on the side of the Hawks. So instead he hunkered down and pretended to cower as the battle unfolded.

Seven soldiers, all bearing the same gold crest, crashed into the group of Hawks. At first Alan thought numbers would lead the thieves to victory, but the initial exchange proved otherwise. Victor’s men had long blades granting them better reach, their armor protecting them from the quick, weak thrusts of daggers. Hawks dropped in a bloody clash, the thieves’ attempt to swarm and surround failing miserably. Half were dead before they had the presence of mind to flee.

“Damn,” Alan whispered, watching the display. Victor’s men were well trained; he’d give them that. Glancing the other way, he saw the remnants of the interrogations. Most interrogators had fled into the castle, carrying parchments with them. Nine bodies lay amid the overturned desks, their blood mixing with ink. Alan chuckled. Would anyone be surprised? Victor had come in and openly mocked the guilds. Surely he didn’t expect to go unscathed…

When he turned back to the battle, he expected to see a rout, Victor’s men chasing in vain after a scattered collection of Hawks. Instead he watched the trap fully unfold. As the remaining men on the ground fled, twenty more emerged from the rooftops, all armed with crossbows. Bolts flew down like lethal rain. Despite their armor, the soldiers could do nothing, not against that many attackers. They ran toward the safety of the castle-the few who lived beyond the first volley-blood dripping from bolts embedded in their arms, legs, and chests. With even fewer targets to pick from, the second volley was worse. Alan winced as the last died, some with over five bolts thudding into their backs.

A trumpet sounded, bringing Alan’s attention to the castle. He caught a glimpse of castle guards rushing out with swords drawn, but then something grabbed his cloak and pulled, hard. He was thrown into the same alley Peb had fled into, though Peb appeared long gone. Rolling to his knees, Alan looked up to see the Watcher standing at the entrance to the alley, a black shadow in the daylight.

“Stay here,” he said, drawing his sabers.

That was it, that one command, and then he rushed off, moving fast enough to be a blur. Alan rubbed his neck, muttered, and rose to his feet. Despite the Watcher’s fearsome reputation, he had no intention of missing this. Returning to the alley entrance, he peered out to watch the carnage.

Fifteen castle guards ran out to engage the Hawks. Unlike Victor’s men, they wielded shields, and kept them raised to protect themselves from the arrows. For a brief moment, it looked as if the Hawks were going to make a stand against them as well. A few climbed down, forming a line of fifteen while the rest fired into the group of soldiers.

And then the Watcher arrived, tearing through their ranks upon the rooftop. He struck from behind, killing several before they knew they were under attack. The distance was too great for Alan to see clearly, but the gray of the Watcher’s interlocking cloaks looked like a phantom, darting and weaving throughout their numbers, never still, never hesitating. One after another dropped dead. When the arrows from up top stopped, the soldiers below lowered their shields and charged. The Hawks, without armor or significant weaponry, did the intelligent thing and fled. They could easily outrun and outmaneuver the city guard. The Watcher, on the other hand…

Alan sank deeper into the alley, glancing about to see if any eyes watched. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted. He liked living, and wanted to keep doing it for many, many years. Minutes passed, and with ebbing interest Alan listened to the various trumpets and calls by the guards. At last he heard a soft rustle of cloak. Turning, he held down a startled cry upon finding the Watcher mere feet away.

“Did you know this was to happen?” the Watcher asked.

Alan reached out a hand. The Watcher glared, then tossed a small bag of coins at him. Alan caught it, and within seconds the bag had vanished into one of his many pockets. He didn’t have to check it. The Watcher paid in silver, and always in significant amounts. Buying information from the Spider Guild was not cheap, and selling it wasn’t safe, given how vicious Thren could be. But Alan wasn’t one to let fear or honor get in the way of making a healthy sum of coin.