David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

Lord Victor fought at the entrance to the mansion grounds, a squad of his men surrounding him. Amid his group she saw the yellow robes of the wizard Tarlak. Powerful magic flew from his fingertips, bolts of lightning and boulders of ice slamming across the corpse-covered yard. The various guilds turned on them, hoping to bury them quickly, but then the Ash Guild arrived as well. Somehow they’d gotten over the wall, and they methodically moved through the yard, wiping out those who neared. Dark fire leaped from Deathmask’s hands, and Veliana shredded terrified men with her daggers. Whirling about them were the twins, preventing anyone from flanking.

“Let’s rub salt in their wounds,” the Watcher said, rushing out. Zusa followed, and together they chased down thieves who knew not where to retreat, for they had enemies on all sides. Eventually they fled toward the gate, enduring Tarlak’s assault so they might push back against Victor’s men and dash for the safety of the dark streets.

The Watcher leaped to the wall and climbed up, balancing himself so he stood in the gaps between the spikes without harm. As the chaos died down, and men fled in all directions, the Watcher lorded over it all, let every eye look upon him. Zusa sheathed her daggers, the battle over. As the Ash Guild met up with Victor’s men, the Watcher leaped to the street and vanished. Deathmask gave a mock salute, and then he too made his exit.

Zusa waited, feeling so tired that standing seemed a burden, as Victor made his approach.

“We are safe,” she told him. “My thanks for your arrival.”

“I don’t know how you lived,” Victor said, glancing about. “Gods, it reeks of shit and blood. You’d think we fought a war.”

Hundreds of corpses, all throughout the yard and mansion. It would take months to clean it all, she knew, and to completely banish the odor.

“We did fight a war,” Zusa said, looking up to the window to see Alyssa peering down. “But we won.”

“If you say so,” Tarlak said, his attention still drawn outward. She knew what he had to be thinking.

“It seems the Watcher is not dead after all,” she said, baiting a response.

“Seems like it,” Tarlak said, but she heard the doubt in his voice, the confusion. It was no ploy of his. Whoever the imposter was, the Eschaton were not involved. What did that mean?

“I must go to my mistress,” Zusa said, bowing low.

“I should return to my patrols,” Victor said. “Though I think the bulk of the trouble has passed. Give Alyssa my regards.”

Tarlak tipped his hat, and then they trudged off with their soldiers, leaving Alyssa to deal with the mess. Zusa tried not to think about it. Entering through the door, she quickly scanned the mansion, looking upon the destruction. Paintings were slashed or stolen, furniture broken. Every shred of silver or gold, from the candles to the dinnerware, had been taken. The bodies of servants and guards lay in every room, side by side with thieves and looters.

At the foot of the stairs she found Alyssa, come to survey the damage.

“We’ll rebuild, replace it all,” Zusa offered. “Your loved ones survived. That is what matters.”

Alyssa slowly wrapped her arms about her, leaned her head against her breast, and cried.

“Ten years,” she whispered. “Gods help us, ten years.”

“Not this time,” Zusa said, stroking her hair. “Not this time.”

It was shallow comfort, a weak promise, but right then she had little else to offer.

Grayson knew he should be infuriated by the defeat, but he was far too amused. He’d gathered together men of all guilds, united with promises of the Watcher’s death and a luxurious future. At each guild he’d been treated like a prince, and cheered with raised glasses despite its knowing so little about him. Only a rare few had glanced his way with untrusting eyes, realizing what the others did not. He was a fearsome man, and a thief, but a thief from a distant nation, one with foreign guilds.

Foreign guilds eyeing Veldaren with hungry mouths open.

“To the Watcher’s killer,” said one of the members of the Spider Guild as Grayson stepped into the guild’s tavern, the man lifting his glass in a mocking toast. Grayson grinned at him, the look sapping away whatever cheer the man had.

“I stuck my sword through his gut and out his back,” Grayson said. “Perhaps this Watcher of yours is a devil after all. No man lives through that.”

The thief was smart enough to say nothing, only shrug and resume drinking. Still grinning, Grayson looked about the tavern, counting numbers. A pathetic remnant of what they’d been, especially compared to when he and Thren had been working together so many years ago. Hardly a merchant would quake at seeing the ragtag group of fifteen men drinking and bandaging wounds. Thren would recruit like mad to replace his numbers, but it would take time. With so much death and conflict, and so little coin in return, he’d gain only the desperate and delusional.

Now that he thought of it…

He found Thren drinking with a group of three in a far corner. Stealing a drink from the man who had mocked him, Grayson guzzled it down as he walked over to Thren’s table, slamming his empty cup atop the hard wood. Three of them jumped, but not Thren.

“So how goes your night?” Grayson asked, grin spreading.

“As poorly as your ill-conceived plan,” Thren said, leaning back and looking as if he had not a care in the world. He couldn’t pull off the image completely, though. Thren was never much of a bluffer, Grayson knew, never had been and never would be. His eyes always gave him away. Too much intensity.

“That so?” Grayson glared down at the man opposite Thren, who glanced at his guildleader.

“Go check and see if any others have made it back, Martin,” Thren said.

Martin shrugged and gave up his seat so Grayson could take it.

“I must say, I thought things would go differently,” Grayson said, his elbows on the table. “With the rioters loosening up the guard, should’ve had easy pickings. Sadly, looks like the looters got the bulk, and we just shed the blood.”

“Blood that shouldn’t have been shed,” Thren said, tilting his head slightly. His eyes narrowed. “You are no master here, no leader. Whatever your influence with the Suns, this is Veldaren, not Mordeina.”

“Don’t remember you forbidding it,” Grayson said, and he laughed at the way Thren twitched. He was furious, Grayson could tell, but something kept him in check. Was it the way the attack had failed? Perhaps, but with his guild suffering such losses, that couldn’t be enough. Had to be something more. Had to be…

“So where were you during all this?” Grayson asked, looking over to the bar and frowning when he realized he would have to fetch a drink himself. “With you at our side, I daresay we still might have broken through. Might have even taken down the Watcher.”

Thren stared him in the eye, not moving, not answering. So smug. It was answer enough.

“Yeah, guess it’s foolish of me to think you’d have helped,” Grayson said, standing. “You couldn’t kill the Watcher all these years, doubt you’d be able to now. Shit, you’d probably take his place if you could.”

It was as direct a challenge as he could make without proof. Instead of rattling Thren, it only made him smile.

“You’ve attempted to usurp control of my guild,” Thren said as the thief on either side of him stood and reached for his weapons. “You lied about killing the Watcher, and led my men to their deaths in a battle you had no stake in. You are no longer welcome in my home. Go elsewhere, old friend, for you cannot stay here.”

Grayson’s hand drifted to his sword. All about, the tavern had gone deathly quiet. Hopelessly outnumbered, Grayson knew he could not win, not then.