David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

A gray shape descended upon her, and she let out a cry as a heel slammed against her chest. Her momentum carried her until she hit a wall, just beside the door to a lightless home. Victor felt hope stir in his chest.

The Watcher loomed over him, sabers drawn. “I’ve found you,” he said to the Widow. “About damn time.”

Instead of showing fear, the woman started laughing, the sound of it chilling. “No, Watcher,” she said. “I’ve found you.”

The door blasted open, and out rushed a man in a long red coat. He had short dark hair, and he wielded an ornate blade in one hand. He crashed into the Watcher, his sword a blur. Their combat continued behind Victor’s head, and he could not watch, only listen to the shockingly loud clash of steel. From where he lay, he saw two more on the rooftop of the home, both wearing similar red coats. One leaped to the ground, just a wiry thing who barely filled out his outfit. The air pulled the coat open in the fall, and Victor saw dozens of small throwing knives. The man threw several as he fell, a vicious barrage. Victor heard them clink and ping against the wall and ground. He could only hope none had hit flesh.

Still, outnumbered and surprised, could the Watcher fight off so many?

It appeared he could, at least for the moment, as their fight returned to his line of sight. The Watcher was a twisting confusion of cloak and blade, his sabers fending off the advance of the man with the sword. He kept flinging himself from side to side, his motions nearly impossible to predict, as was evident by the daggers thrown by the other man in chase. Each one missed by inches.

Amid the chaos, Victor watched the Widow flee deeper into the alley, desiring no part of it. Victor wanted to scream out his fury at seeing her escape, but he could do nothing, not even lift his fingers.

As if the two on the ground were not enough, the third up top suddenly clapped her hands, and just like that the alley filled with fire. It burst along the walls, feeding on nothing. Victor’s eyes watered, for he could not squint against the sudden barrage of light and heat. The Watcher went on the offensive, crashing into close quarters with the swordsman. The man with the daggers closed as well, wielding them instead of throwing them. The skill on display took Victor’s breath away. He’d thought himself capable. He’d thought he could handle any foe. But what he saw wasn’t human. More fire burst around the alley, roping the Watcher in. So far none had scored a solid hit, but Victor could sense the Watcher’s desperation.

Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.

The Eschaton had arrived.

Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew and bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amid it all Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.

The battle split, traveling deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.

When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it was the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.

“Can you not move?” she asked.

He looked from left to right with his eyes by way of answer.

“I will see what I can do.”

She reached down and pulled the bolt from his side. The pain was intense, but did not last long. Her hand touched the wound, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears, slowly growing stronger, as she whispered words to a prayer he could not understand. When it faded he felt a fire flood through his veins, followed by the tingling sensation of a waking limb. With the feeling all across his body, he grimaced, nearly overwhelmed.

A soft flutter of cloaks signaled the arrival of the Watcher.

“Two fled, but it might be a feint to try to isolate Tarlak,” he said. “How is he?”

“I’m fine,” Victor said, his tongue feeling thick.

“Get him to safety,” Delysia said, standing. “I can’t lift him.”

“Are you sure?”

The priestess nodded. “I’ll find Brug and my brother. They’ll need me in case you’re right. For now, take him somewhere safe until he can recover.”

“City… guard,” Victor said, sounding slurred, as if he were drunk.

“You saw what those people can do,” Haern said, putting his arms around Victor. “You think a few guards will protect you from that?”

A good point, however frightening. The Watcher pulled him to his feet and began carrying him deeper into the alley.

“Where… are we going?” Victor asked, grimacing against the overwhelming sensations. It was as if a thousand wasps stung his exposed skin. The Watcher’s touch was like fire.

“To be honest,” said the Watcher, “I don’t have a clue. But anywhere’s better than here.”

Victor felt his legs regaining strength, and he worked them as best he could so they might move faster. The Watcher’s eyes constantly scanned the environment about them, both rooftop and street. If one of the attackers returned, they’d be in a sore spot for sure. After a moment he shook his head, then pulled them back around.

“Never mind,” he said. “I have a better idea.”

The Watcher carried him to the building that the attackers had been hiding inside, pulling him in through the busted door. Inside was a meager home. Bodies lay about, brutally slaughtered. Victor let out a gasp at the sight. Even children, cut down and left to die, all so the attackers might wait in ambush. The Watcher said nothing about it, but the rage rolled off him like a physical presence.

“Who are they?” Victor asked as the Watcher pulled him into the next room, where only a single body, that of a woman, lay facedown on the floor.

“A family in the wrong place at the wrong time,” was his bitter response.

“I mean their murderers.”

The Watcher helped him sit in a corner, then turned to the woman’s body. “They’re a group of mercenaries known as the Bloodcrafts,” the Watcher said. “Now give me a moment.”

The Watcher dragged the body out to be with the others, then came back in and leaned against the opposite wall. Victor studied him, finally noticing the blood soaking into his shirt at his side, plus more from his shoulder.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“It’s an old wound,” the Watcher said. He shifted so that the blood was hidden by a cloak. “Well, the worst one is, anyway. Forget it. I can endure worse. What of you?”

“Starting to feel like myself. A child could probably beat me at fisticuffs, though.”

The Watcher looked back at the door, and Victor could tell he wanted to be with his friends. Victor’s guilt grew. A trap sprung, an innocent family dead, the Eschaton fighting, perhaps even dying, and all for what reason?

When the Watcher turned on him suddenly, his guilt magnified tenfold.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “You’ve driven this city insane, infected it with your own madness. What’s going on, Victor? Attempts on my life, yours, the Trifect… is it all worth it? For your pride? Your attempts at power? I had this city under control .”