David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“A wig,” Thren said, tossing the skull back into the shallow grave. “What is it you hide, Widow? Who are you really?”

Still, he had a few clues now, however meager. Standing, he kicked dirt into the grave until the body was covered, then looked back to Veldaren. Her lanterns were starting to twinkle into existence one by one. There had been a time when Thren considered Veldaren his city, all his. How far had he fallen to be outside it, digging up a poor woman’s corpse while the rest of the guilds and the Trifect plotted and maneuvered? Hands clenched into fists, he stabbed the trowel into the earth to serve as a burial marker. Alone he walked toward the road.

Veldaren would be his city again. He swore it. Once he had his vengeance, once he knew who was out there pulling the strings of puppets, he would retake his city brick by brick.

My city.

The thought put a grim smile on his face. For a while he’d accepted that the city was no longer his, but instead his son’s. That was over. The rumors of the Watcher’s survival meant nothing to him, for he’d started them, acting out the sham in a failed attempt to shame Grayson in the eyes of the underworld. But Victor’s arrival had shifted things beyond his control, had made it so Grayson needed only to watch as Thren’s guild was broken.

Darkness settled across the land as he walked his path. He’d take it all back. He’d rebuild, fight for it with every last measure of his skill. He would find victory.

And if he couldn’t, then he’d burn it all to the ground.

Victor stepped inside his makeshift home and let out a sigh of relief. Another day over, another twelve gone to the executioner’s blade. The light was fading as the sun dipped below the walls of the city, but inside was well lit, and crowded with families still seeking refuge from the vengeance of the thief guilds.

“Where’s your guard?” Sef asked, sitting at the bar, where Victor joined him. “You did have a guard, right?”

“What business of yours is that?” Victor asked, accepting the drink Sef slid over to him.

“My business is to keep you alive, and to kill the rats of Veldaren. So far I think I’m doing better at one than the other.”

Victor shrugged. “The streets have grown calmer. You know that.”

Sef rolled his eyes. “So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”

“Lay off. I am no helpless child.”

Sef stroked his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.

“Our foes aren’t so helpless either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”

Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.

“You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”

Sef grunted. “Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”

Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.

“Did I? But my advisers insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”

“Bastard.”

Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.

“Sleep well, milord,” said one as he pushed the door wide.

“That’s the hope.”

As Victor removed his armor, he glanced at the far wall, which was now bare wood without painting or decoration. The carpenters he’d hired had rebuilt it at an impressive pace, repairing the gaping hole Tarlak’s spell had left. Victor chuckled. Next time he’d make sure he learned all the details of any spells that that wizard placed for his protection. He’d expected a few planks to fall loose, or some magical porthole of sorts to open up. When the wall had exploded as if a dragon had let loose its rage against it, he’d nearly soiled his armor. Of course it was his own fault for expecting subtlety from a wizard who dressed in bright yellow.

After checking underneath his bed, Victor climbed in, lay down, and tried to sleep. Try as he might, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, he felt time crawling along. The sounds from the tavern below quieted as those under his protection settled in as well. That helped, but only a little. Sleep had grown steadily rarer during his time in Veldaren. The faces of the men who had died that day flashed before his eyes, and they joined the ghostly choir that wailed in his head. They all had something different to say, some plea or explanation, when they knelt before the chopping block. It was as if they could never admit they’d done their wrongs for themselves, to satisfy their own greed and lust. They cried of children, mothers, families, debts, mistakes made, and long-forgotten histories they always insisted they regretted.

Victor tossed and turned, tossed and turned. Perhaps he needed to have the executioners use a gag on them. The only other option was to not be present, but he refused. He might not swing the blade, but he was the reason for their deaths, and his pride demanded he be in their presence. Cowardly hiding might make it easier, but that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted it to be hard. He wanted every death to weigh on him, despite what he showed others. The final moment, when there was no one left to give to the executioner’s ax, would be that much sweeter for it.

The night dragged on. Victor’s thoughts turned to his parents, to brighter memories in his childhood. Lost in them, he almost didn’t hear the soft clink of armor hitting the floor. Almost. Victor tensed, not once doubting his instincts and the danger they cried. It might just have been his guard shifting positions, but it didn’t sound right. It almost sounded as if a guard had chosen to sit down, something one of his guards would never, ever do.

His sword was beside him on the floor, just within reach. Trying to make little noise, he reached down and lifted it still in its scabbard. As the door crept open a crack, he managed to slide it underneath his blankets. Victor half-closed his eyes so that his intruder might believe him asleep. With the smallest movements possible, he held the hilt with one hand and pulled the scabbard down with the other. Didn’t want to let them know, didn’t want to scare them off, especially if there was more than one.

The door opened wider. Victor clenched his jaw to prevent any giveaway. Stay calm , he told himself. Just wait. Still, he quickened his pace with the scabbard. The blade of his sword was halfway exposed, but it’d be cumbersome to use in the cramped quarters. Stupid, stupid, why hadn’t he just kept his dagger with him instead?

Two men stepped inside, each one carrying a small blade. Victor choked down his fury at his guards for letting such things pass by their scrutiny. They’d slacked on their precautions because of how many came and went, he had no doubt. Victor waited until they stepped all the way in, and were just starting to move to opposite sides of his bed, before he struck. In a single motion he freed his sword from his scabbard and flung aside the blankets, giving him freedom of movement.

If the men were surprised, they showed no sign of it. Victor lashed out with his sword, a long arc that had far more reach than they did with their daggers. The one on the right tried to block, but he lacked both the strength and the weapon to do it. Victor’s sword bounced off, angling higher so it hit the man’s neck instead of his chest. It struck his neck bones with a wet chop. Victor tried to swing back to the other side, to where the second thief was lunging, but his blade had caught between two vertebrae. Panicking, Victor let go and fell back, narrowly avoiding a slash. He rolled away and off the bed, trying to gain some distance.