David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“Easy there,” Brug said, reaching over and pushing Haern back down onto the bed. Haern lacked the strength to resist, and he slowed his breathing so his heartbeat might return to normal.

“Where’s Delysia?” Haern asked.

Brug lifted an eyebrow at him and let out a grunt. “Forced her to take a rest,” he said. “Been at your side nearly all night. It’s midday now, in case you can’t tell. You were out all morning.”

Haern remembered the fires he’d seen, the chaos unfurling at his supposed death.

“How’d everything go?” he asked.

Brug scraped the stone across his blade. “Well…”

He began talking, and Haern listened. He heard of the smaller fires, the delay, and then of the larger attack on the dungeon. Haern shook his head at this, thinking of so many he’d put away managing to escape. It seemed the guilds were not just eager to celebrate, but wanted to wipe away every shred of his accomplishments in a single night.

“It was all just a feint, though,” Brug said, putting down one dagger and grabbing the other. “The real fight was at Alyssa Gemcroft’s. I’d say you should have been there, but from what my eyes were seeing, you already were.”

Haern frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean someone dressed up as you, grabbed similar swords, and went to town killing thieves to protect the Gemcroft mansion. Saw him, or you, or whatever, fighting alongside that Zusa girl who’s always protecting Alyssa. He was damn good too. Might have fooled me if I hadn’t seen the gaping hole in your chest earlier that morning. Not even Delysia can get someone up and running just a day after that.”

Haern lay down and closed his eyes to think. Someone had impersonated him, but why? The obvious reason was to convince the town he was not, in fact, dead. But who benefited most? Who had the skill, and the physical ability, to so closely imitate him? It was a small list indeed, and none of the names made any sense.

“What of the fight?” he asked, trying to pull his mind back to other matters.

Brug shrugged. “Was just a huge mob for the most part. Plenty died, but at least a good chunk were thieves as well.”

“Which guild?”

Brug scratched at his beard. “Now that I think of it… all of ’em. Alyssa must have pissed someone off good. Grudge from letting all those mercenaries loose, perhaps?”

It was possible, but didn’t feel right.

“Thren’s the only one who’s been able to unite the guilds before,” Haern said. “I wouldn’t doubt he’d hold a grudge, but this feels too similar to the failed attack during the Bloody Kensgold. He would have learned from that. And this may sound crazy, but I think he likes things as they are. That’s why he attacked Victor.”

“He attacked Victor because Victor was taking down his men and cutting off their heads.”

“Small-timers, minor thieves. He didn’t like Victor threatening the delicate balance I’ve created.”

Brug grunted, rocked his chair back and forth.

“You’re starting to sound like that hit on your head really got to you worse than we thought. Listen to yourself. Are you saying Thren likes having you lord over the underworld? Why? Next you’ll be saying that it was him pretending to be you last night.”

Haern gave him a look, and Brug closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his thick, callused fingers.

“Really? You actually think he did? If that’s the case, then I don’t know what’s going on in Veldaren anymore. Everyone’s losing their damn minds, you included.”

Haern laughed. “Be useful, and get me something to eat.”

As Brug left the room, muttering to himself, Haern closed his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the beginnings of another headache coming along, and if it was anything like the last, it’d be crippling. Shifting from side to side, he tested his wounds. The skin was tightening up, though when he lifted the bandages he found his stab wound was now a deep purple scar. Rocking back and forth didn’t seem to strain it too badly, though it did make his muscles ache. Worse was how his balance still felt off. Even that slight motion sent his stomach looping.

Not too frightening, a foe who keeps vomiting mid-fight , thought Haern.

Brug returned carrying a small tray of food, and it was more cruelty than kindness. The smell was divine, and Haern’s mouth watered, but his stomach heaved, and he turned to the side of his bed so he could vomit. No blood in it this time, so he tried to console himself with that fact.

“Thought it looked pretty good myself,” Brug said, glancing down at the plate of carrots and beef. “Perhaps just some ale for now?”

Haern looked at the offered mug.

“Why not,” he said. At least it would get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. He took a few swallows, just enough to clear his throat. Brug put the tray down beside his bed and settled back down in the chair.

“Tarlak said he’s hearing some bizarre rumors coming in from the city,” Brug said. “Looks like Victor moved against the Spider Guild. Those he caught are all claiming the same thing: Spider Guild’s been disbanded, and Thren’s vanished.”

Haern lowered his drink, and his mouth opened and closed as his mind feebly attempted to make sense of what he’d heard.

“You can’t be serious,” he said dumbly.

“I’m not much for joking, Haern. I’m starting to think you might be right about Thren pretending he was you, because let’s face it, he’s completely falling apart.”

Haern pressed his palms against his forehead. “What now?” Brug asked.

“Headache,” Haern said, slowly breathing in and out. “Feels like someone stuck a knife in my brain, and every few minutes they can’t help but give it a good twist.”

“Del said that hit to your head was a nasty one. What smacked you, anyway? A brick?”

“A foot.”

Brug snorted. “I’m not sure I want to meet the guy who did it, then,” he said, stealing Haern’s mug and downing a third of it. “What’s his heel made of, stone?”

The confrontation with the mysterious man came back to Haern, much as he didn’t want it to. His attacker had shown no guild affiliations, at least not in any way Haern recognized. He’d been a giant man, dark-skinned, incredibly fast for his size…

“Can’t stay like this,” Haern said. “Still in the dark about too much. The Spider Guild’s disbandment proves that. I need to find out what’s going on. I need to know who’s playing us all like fools.”

Run, run little spider…

“You aren’t going anywhere as is,” Brug said. “At least give yourself another night to…”

Haern caught Brug glancing out the window, and whatever he saw gave him pause.

“What is it?”

He shifted in bed so he could look out. From his window in the tower they could both see the pathway stretching toward them from Veldaren. Walking alone on that path was a man, his lanky form wrapped in a thick red leather coat. A wide-brimmed hat colored crimson hung low over his face. Across his back, easily visible despite the hundreds of yards between them, was an enormous two-handed sword. A red ribbon fluttered from the hilt in a soft breeze.

“Friend of yours?” Brug asked.

Haern shook his head. “Perhaps he knows Tarlak?”

Something about the way he moved made both of them uneasy. The fashion of both the hat and the coat suggested he was an outsider, from far from Veldaren. Brug fetched his daggers, then moved to the door.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Haern chuckled as the door closed.

Stay here?

He pushed himself out of bed, clutching the wall to keep his balance. Vertigo came over him a second time, but he fought through it. He’d been trained better than this, he thought, taught to overpower far greater. His father had supplied him with tutors, teachers, masters of both mind and body. So what if a man the size of an ox had nearly caved in his skull? He was still stronger.