David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

Turning right, he passed a dimly lit tavern, then veered into an alley beside it. He knew many men preferred brothels, wanting a bed where they could lie back and do nothing, or to have clean sheets they could ruffle and cast about. Peb needed none of that, just him standing, and a pretty girl on her knees. What did anything else matter, especially when the cost would go up twofold for all the extravagances?

“Hello?” Peb asked the alleyway as he stepped inside. Normally there’d be three or four girls there, eager to sell themselves to the men who stayed in the tavern. The night was still young, though, so perhaps they were elsewhere.

“Can I help you?” asked a soft voice, like tinkling glass. Squinting, Peb saw a petite woman farther in the shadows. Long brown hair curled around her neck, and she smiled at him with such delicate, pretty features.

“I think you can,” he said, smiling. Gods, those eyes, just staring at them would have him done in no time. He’d be able to go charging ahead of Thren, feeling on top of the world as they tore Victor from his room and beat his face to a pulp. He reached into his pocket as she beckoned him closer.

“How much?” he asked, fearing the normal rates might not apply to someone so clearly of a higher class.

“Not much,” the whore said, her eyes twinkling. “In fact, cute as you are, I might pay you.”

She was just flattering him, he knew, but Peb liked hearing it anyway. His hand reached for the sash of his pants.

“That so?” he asked. “How much you think I’m worth?”

That smile darkened, and those delicate features suddenly seemed far less innocent.

“Two silver, and two gold.”

Peb was too stunned to even move. By the time he saw the small crossbow, it was too late. She pulled the trigger, and the bolt thudded into his neck. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His stomach heaved, and he dropped, unable to maintain his balance. He tried to run, to scream, but his muscles ignored every command. Poison, he realized, his terror increasing. The bolt was poisoned.

“I know you can’t move,” the whore said, kneeling down beside him, covering the front of her brown dress with dirt. No longer did her voice sound like tinkling glass. Now it echoed of razors sliding against one another. “Maybe you think that means you won’t feel anything. You’re wrong. I just want you to know that. You’ll feel every… single… thing.”

A knife flashed before him, held aloft so he could see the sharp edge in the moonlight. Then it turned, and Peb felt tears run down the side of his face. The tip pressed beneath his right eye, slipped deeper. It cut through nerves, muscle, and then with a sickening plop, pulled free. With his remaining eye, he saw her holding aloft his severed eyeball, a thin, bloody strand of tissue still attached to the back. Satisfied, the whore put it into a pocket of her dress, then leaned forward, dagger leading, hungry for his remaining eye.

It was true.

He felt every bit of it.

The hours passed, the sun setting and the moon rising, all while Haern watched the tavern. After Tarlak’s departure, Lord Victor had remained inside. As night approached, more and more of his men returned, increasing their lord’s protection while he slept. Haern shifted his weight back and forth so his legs never fell asleep. The tedium wore on him, but he was used to such things. Most nights he patrolled the city he saw nothing, and accomplished little.

But he knew tonight would not be one of those nights. The Hawks had drawn first blood, but someone else would come in for the kill. He had a sneaking suspicion that his father would elect himself the one to do it. Thren viewed himself as the king of the underworld, and in his mind only he should take down someone so arrogant as Victor.

“Come on,” he whispered, glancing up and down the street from his spot. “I know you want him, now come and get him.”

Opposite Victor’s repurposed tavern were several businesses, including a smithy. In the recesses of the smith’s doorway Haern waited, hunched over with a ratty blanket covering his body. He kept his hood off, for, amusingly enough, he was less likely to be noticed and recognized with his blond hair and blue eyes showing. Just a drunk, that’s all he was, with his sabers hidden beneath a blanket and his cloaks bunched into a pillow to ease his back as he leaned against the door. From where he sat, he could see the main entrance to Victor’s home, plus one of the sides. Based on what Tarlak had told him after placing the runes, the only possible way of entering was through the front door. The windows were too heavily boarded, the roof and walls solid, and Tarlak’s runes ensured no magical means allowed anyone to bypass them.

A frontal attack then, where many of Victor’s guards waited, armed and armored. No, there was only one person who would be mad enough to do it, and it was the one man who might succeed.

Haern closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Patience, he had to have patience. Thren would leave nothing to chance. He had to keep ready, to plan ahead. Cracking his eyes just enough that he’d still look asleep, he watched and waited. Minutes crawled by, turning into another hour. He shifted again, grimaced at the tingles that shot up his leg. Waited too long, leg asleep. He was getting nervous, and he knew why. Ever since faking his death during the Bloody Kensgold nine years ago, Haern had never crossed swords with his father. Yet if he was right about tonight, there was no avoiding that possibility. Growing up, Haern had known his father was one of the best in the world when it came to swordplay, certainly the best in Veldaren. That had been a long time ago, and now the thieves whispered that it was the Watcher who deserved that claim. But what if they were wrong?

Movement in the shadows forced his mind away from such worries.

There , thought Haern. A scout from the Spider Guild, peering from around the corner of a building far to his right. By his guess the scout could just barely see the guards at the doorway. Taking in positions, looking for patrols, confirming numbers. That was Thren’s way. Haern wondered if his father had prepared for him as well, and shivered. A grown man, yet he still felt like a child when he compared himself to that stern, imposing figure. More than anything, he did not want to face him. Swallowing that fear down, he watched the scout, all while being careful to make no movement that might give away his presence.

After less than twenty seconds, the scout was gone. A hunch made Haern shift so he could watch the other way, and sure enough, another scout appeared along the rooftops. Checking the other direction, of course, as well as seeing if there was a patrol the first might have missed. No doubt they both saw the same thing: a well-boarded, protected tavern, the lone entrance guarded by four soldiers in armor. Two wielded swords, two others long spears. The scout vanished, and Haern shifted so he might more easily reach for his sabers. As an afterthought he touched the pendant of the Golden Mountain that hung beneath his shirt.

“Please help me, Ashhur,” he whispered. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Oh, and protect Victor, if you think he’s worth protecting.”

That done, he readjusted so he was on his knees instead of his buttocks. Tilting his head to one side, he let his mouth drop, let his breathing slow. With a single eye he watched. Waited. But the attack didn’t come. Haern felt his patience tested. Why not? Everything was ready. The scouts had checked. The guards at the front looked tired and bored. Why did he not see their approach?

The soft creaking of wood gave him his answer. Above him. The massed Spider Guild had traveled across the rooftops, and now overlooked the tavern, inspecting it just as he did. Suddenly uncertain, Haern lay there as the silence of the night was interrupted by the sound of crossbow strings. A deadly barrage of bolts sailed toward the four guards. The archers’ aim was true, the bolts piercing throats and eyes. All four men dropped, unable to call out. The sound of their chain mail rattling was the only warning they gave to those inside.