David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

All that determination still felt small compared to the pain in his temples, and it did nothing to reduce the obnoxious white glare that seemed to come off everything. But he forced it away, thrust it into the corners of his mind, let it ache but not distract. He found his shirt lying beside the bed, a hole still in it where he’d been stabbed. He put it on, then grabbed his cloak as well, tying it over his shoulders and then pulling the hood over his head. As the shadows covered his face, he felt his tension ease. No matter the injury, no matter all that had happened, he was still the Watcher. He was greater than this.

A glance out the window showed the man was almost to the tower. So far he had not drawn his blade. At the shorter distance, Haern could see strange markings tattooed across his neck and hands. Set into the hilt of his sword was an enormous crystal, clear as water. Haern could only guess its worth, but the estimate was staggering. Stopping just shy of the path to the door, the man looked up at the window, right at Haern. A wide smile spread across his face, which was half covered by lanky strands of blond hair. That smile was like an icicle to the eye.

“Eschaton!” the man shouted. His voice tore through the quiet afternoon, and it was strangely high-pitched. “I am Nicholas Bloodcraft, and I have come to kill all of you. If you surrender now, your death will be merciful, a swift, painless beheading. If not…”

Before the man could even finish, the door to the tower opened, and Tarlak stepped out, fire burning on his hands.

“Consider this my counterproposal,” Tarlak said. A ball of fire shot from his palm, directly for Nicholas. Haern tensed, convinced it would not be so easy. The strange man pulled his sword off his back and held it blade-downward, the hilt raised before his chest. Mere feet away from him, the fireball suddenly winked out of existence, without even a hint of smoke. Tarlak hurled a second ball of fire, and it vanished in the same way.

Haern grabbed his sabers from beside the window as Tarlak lifted his hat and scratched his head.

“Huh.”

Tarlak slammed the door shut after rushing back inside. Nicholas calmly approached the tower, sword still drawn, grin still from ear to ear. Haern pushed away from the window and staggered toward the stairs. The man was a professional, there was no doubt about that. Worse, he looked to be the perfect counter to their mercenaries. If Delysia and Tarlak could not use their magic, that left only Brug…

Haern shoved his door open, pausing a moment to tighten the bandages about his chest. No, Brug would not be able to handle someone of that skill. His talents lay in smithing, not combat. Haern had to get down there. He had to hurry. Step after step, each one jolting him with pain. The sabers in his hands shook, and he felt sweat start to cover the leather of the hilts. Had to hurry. Had to be stronger.

The door smashed open as Haern reached the bottom step. Nicholas’s massive sword cleaved it in two, a feat that should have been impossible. Besides the enchantments Tarlak had placed upon it, the wood itself was incredibly thick. But Haern’s mind’s feeble protests changed nothing as the man stepped inside, red coat billowing as dusty air poured into the tower. Brug stood guard opposite him, Tarlak and Delysia behind.

“You’re not welcome here,” Brug said, clanging his two punch daggers together. He wore his plate mail, though Haern wondered how useful it’d be against a blade that could chop an oak door in half.

“Least he was polite enough to knock,” Tarlak said, ice swirling in his palm.

Nicholas lifted his sword with a single hand and pointed it at the three.

“Last chance,” he said. “Not that I mind the gore, or a good fight, but this won’t be any competition. Won’t be any fun . Kneel down, offer me your necks, and you’ll die easy.”

Haern saw more tattoos on his hand, swirling lines like arcane runes. They shone a soft blue, pulsing along with the man’s heartbeat. Everything about Nicholas screamed danger, but those runes told Haern to expect more than the humanly possible from his opponent. Well, that and the split door.

“The only one dying today is you,” Brug said, stomping his feet. “Just try it, come on, come on!”

Haern slipped farther into the room, hugging the wall. Brug was trying to be a distraction, he knew, doing everything he could to hide Haern’s approach. Just a few feet closer and he could lunge.

Nicholas whirled, and his sword stretched out, the tip aimed for Haern’s throat.

“And you,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be dead?”

Brug leaped forward, bellowing. Nicholas spun, his blade cutting through the air with unnatural speed. Both Brug’s daggers were smacked aside, and he had to pull back to avoid having his head lopped off. Haern rushed to his friend’s aid before Nicholas could finish him. His sabers stabbed in, and when Nicholas pulled his sword close to his chest to parry, Haern pressed the attack, weaving a continuous assault so the man would have no chance to counter. A mindless roar flowed out of his mouth, a primal cry to overwhelm the pain as blood dripped down his leg from reopened wounds.

But his foe was too good. When Brug made to stab him in the back, he pretended to turn to block, then flung himself at Haern, who had to twist to shift his aim. The twist hurt too much, and he let out a gasp as his vision turned white. Only instincts kept him falling back, kept his sabers up to push aside the killing chop.

“Get back!” Tarlak yelled, and both Haern and Brug obliged, flinging themselves away. Lances of ice crossed the room, points deadly sharp. Nicholas turned to face him, his sword spinning in his grasp so the hilt neared his face. The lances vanished amid a subtle flash of the crystal within the hilt. But that was not all of the attack. Delysia cried out the name of her god, and from her out-turned palms shone a brilliant flash of white. Nicholas swore, and he turned away, rubbing his eyes.

Brug came barreling in, all clattering plate mail. He slammed headfirst into Nicholas, but instead of bowling the man over, Brug let out a cry as he bounced to the side. His helmet was dented as if he’d struck stone. Up went Nicholas’s sword, ready for the kill. Another flash of light from Delysia, but he squinted and shifted his head so it did not blind him. That half-second delay was enough, though. Haern stretched to his limits, his sabers piercing through the man’s coat and into flesh. The leather was thick and heavy, rendering the cut a shallow flesh wound. Worn out as he was, Haern did not have the strength to force it deeper. Blood dripped to the floor as Nicholas clenched his teeth and brought his full fury to bear on Haern.

“I’m glad you are alive,” he said, swinging his sword in wide arcs so Haern had to remain back. A bolt of fire shot in from Tarlak, but it winked out of existence, not even giving Nicholas pause. “At least you make this interesting. You even made me bleed.”

Haern ducked underneath a swing, then tried to roll to one side. Nicholas predicted the maneuver, and Haern screamed as a heavy boot slammed into his stomach. His old wound tore, and it was like being stabbed all over again. He tried to move, to keep going, but his body convulsed against his wishes, doubling over amid his cries of pain. Nicholas’s sword lifted, but a heavy brick slammed into his shoulder before he could swing. Startled, Nicholas fell back as two more flew in, one striking his sword, the other his chest.

“Don’t like magic, eh?” Tarlak said, still hiding on the far side of the room. “How about something more real?”

More stones dislodged themselves from the walls, held in the wizard’s mental grip. They flew at Nicholas, and though the magic propelling them died when nearing the man, that did not remove the natural momentum of the stone. Nicholas dove from side to side, flinging his sword about to block. Upon reaching a wall he leaped into it and kicked off into a dive straight at the wizard.