David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

Except that when his sabers should have made contact, when he should have heard a familiar ring of steel, instead they passed straight through as if the daggers were not there.

Her momentum continued, and in a panic Haern kicked with his leg, forcing her to twist to avoid it. In that split second he dropped to the ground and rolled as her daggers stabbed the air above him. Pulling out of the roll, he found himself with no reprieve, for Joanna was already after him, the daggers in her hands dancing. Dancing, and it was a dance he couldn’t be partner to…

“What’s the matter?” Joanna asked, slowly stalking him, each movement like the step of a feline predator. “We’re still playing the same game you’ve always played. I’ve just changed the rules.”

She lunged again, and he pushed aside any reflex to parry or block. He had reach on her, and despite his inability to parry her daggers, he could still go for her wrists. His sabers curled in again, but the girl was ready, contorting her body so that she twisted both hands out of the way, then thrust downward with her left hand.

This time he couldn’t stop her. The dagger sank into his shoulder, and she followed it up with a knee to his stomach. Agony flooded him, her knee striking close to the wound Grayson had given him. Before her blade could sink in farther he stabbed toward her stomach, forcing her to dance away. Blood, his blood, flecked across the rooftop. Her dagger, now glistening with red, she held before her face, just between her eyes.

“You’re bleeding,” she said. “Now it’s just a matter of time.”

Time , thought Haern. With each passing moment, Lord Victor was getting farther away. Tarlak had mentioned there were always five Bloodcrafts, and while one was dead, and he fought against another, that still left three to go after the man while he was vulnerable…

Joanna lifted her daggers, and as they shimmered the blood on one of them suddenly fell from the blade like rain, leaving the surface perfectly smooth. Shoving the pain into a far corner of his mind, Haern settled into a stance, and he stared into the girl’s blue eyes.

“You live by forcing a fight your opponents have little practice in,” he said. “But how well do those daggers work when on defense?”

Before she could respond he leaped at her, sabers slashing. She pulled back, but he was too fast, his reach too great. Up came her daggers, and he saw the sheen about them fade just before they made contact. The block was only partially effective, for Haern was much stronger and had all the momentum. As she stumbled back he continued, weaving his blades into patterns he knew by heart. At first he’d been thrown off by an inability to guide the duel, to use his parries and thrusts to position her weapons where he wanted them. But there was another way to control a fight.

Every cut, every thrust, he ensured would be fatal. She twisted and shifted, showing a flexibility and speed that rivaled Zusa’s. Each time, she tried to find a gap in his routine, a moment’s breath for her to counter. He refused to give it to her, pushing his speed to its limit, casting aside all his fear so he might strike all the more aggressively.

The glare in her eyes had been replaced with fear. She wanted to run, but he would not let her. Twice now the Bloodcrafts had threatened his life, and out there Lord Victor might already be dead. When Joanna turned to leap, he extended his arms, having already predicted this long before she even realized she meant to do it. In went the tips of his sabers, piercing her coat and slicing through flesh. The girl let out a scream, and despite his own pain, his own bleeding, Haern felt a tug of regret.

Joanna rolled across the rooftop, coming to a halt just beside the edge. She left a streak of blood across the dirty wood. Slowly Haern approached, unsure if his attack had been fatal. She knelt on her hands and knees, struggling to rise as blood dripped down the sides of her coat.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t kill me.”

She rolled onto her back, let her weapons drop from limp fingers. Haern stood before her, weapons shaking in his own hands.

“My father,” she insisted, staring up at him with those blue eyes. “He made me… he made me do it. Made me a killer. Please don’t, please, please…”

For the shortest moment he hesitated, and that was all Joanna needed. Her right hand grabbed the blade beside her, and curling forward she lunged with all her strength, the tip of the dagger aimed for his stomach. So close, so fast, Haern knew he could not parry it away. Instead he dropped the sword from one hand as he fell to one knee, and just before the blade could pierce his chest he caught her wrist. His arm tensed as he struggled against her, and it was not long before she wilted. Her skin had grown pale, and he realized just how much blood had pooled beneath her.

“Damn you,” she said, slumping back to the rooftop. “At least you could have… could have let me k…”

He released her hand, let it fall beside her. The dagger fell from limp fingers. Haern picked up his swords, sheathed them both. Touching a ring on his forefinger, he twisted the thin yellow stone atop it, just slightly, then brought it to his lips.

“To me, Tar,” he whispered to it. “Victor’s in danger.”

That done, he glanced back at the body of Joanna, swallowed down the lump in his throat, and then ran toward the castle, praying he was not too late.

As Victor passed by a row of homes, not much more than a quarter mile from the castle, he heard a soft voice call out to him.

“Sir?”

He slowed and glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of a home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.

“Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

“They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they… they… please help. They’re in my home…”

Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.

“How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”

“They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”

“Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”

“I’m not sure you can, Victor.”

Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.

“Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger. “What do you know of justice?”

Stupid , thought Victor as the bolt hit his side, just below the curve of his breastplate. Proud and stupid.

He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to who she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.

“I know you can’t move,” she said, kneeling down beside him. From within the folds of her dress she pulled out a knife, its sharp edge reflecting the starlight. “You might think you won’t feel it, but I assure you, you will. You’ll…”