David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“What madness is this?” he wondered aloud.

Troops marched into the southern district, coordinating their movements with the blasts of the trumpets. It couldn’t be the city guard, at least not alone. The king was too cowardly for that. Only one person made sense, and given the audacity that man had already shown, Thren knew he shouldn’t be as surprised as he was.

Victor was coming to play.

Thren rushed toward Roark’s. He wouldn’t let Victor get Grayson. That was his kill, his chance to send a message west to the guilds in Mordeina. They would never fear Victor, no matter how many men he had. He was still an outside lord, a man not of their world. No matter how brightly he shone, he would never find them all in the shadows. For it to matter, Thren had to be the executioner.

Sounds of combat reached his ears, first quiet, then gradually louder. The marching of feet soon followed. Screams, scattered and few, accompanied the progressive movement south. As Thren ran he saw Suns joining him on the street, all fleeing to the same place. Thren drew his swords, stabbed a man beside him wearing their colors. Without losing a step he shifted to the side, overtaking a fleeing woman. She sprawled headfirst into the dirt after he slashed out her heel.

At the doors of Roark’s Oddities, several men were dispersing as a squad of ten armored men turned the corner. One of the soldiers lifted a horn to his lips and blew. Thren hooked a right, finding the alley occupied by a man furiously pulling at a scrap of cloth sewn onto the sleeve of his shirt that identified his guild allegiance.

“Having second thoughts?” he asked the dirty man, grinning. Thren cut out his throat before he could answer, his fingers still in the hole he’d torn in the fabric. Glancing from side to side, Thren gauged the cramped distance between the two buildings, decided them close enough. He leaped from wall to wall, constantly kicking himself higher so that on the third kick he landed atop the building directly adjacent to Roark’s. As he’d expected, Grayson was up there, surveying the movement of the troops. Thren knew well how he felt, for he’d done the same when Victor stormed his headquarters. But how had Victor discovered Grayson’s place?

A black fire gave him his answer, rising up from the ground toward the rooftop. Grayson dropped to his stomach, avoiding Deathmask’s attack. Glancing over the edge of the roof, Thren saw the Ash guildmaster leading a squad of six armored soldiers, Victor at his side. Grayson looked up from where he lay, saw Thren watching. His lips were grinning, but his eyes promised death. Thren grinned right back. The two were about to be kindred spirits in their homelessness. Grayson, as if imagining his thoughts, only shook his head in disagreement.

Thren turned and ran, still shaking off surprise that Victor would ally himself with someone as unpredictable as Deathmask and his Ash Guild. On the only safe path out he raced across the rooftops toward the edge of the sweeping net Victor had created. And sure enough, when he glanced back, Grayson was in pursuit. They understood each other well, knew neither would settle for capture by the meddlesome lord. They had a score to settle. Behind them smoke billowed into the air as Roark’s shop went up in flames, burning away the last of the Sun’s leaf.

Thren ran, ran, leaping over the gaps between buildings without slowing in the slightest. His short swords grew heavy in his hands as he held them. Grayson had often defeated him when they sparred, and he’d near-fatally wounded his son as well. What hope did Thren have that now would end any way other than with his death?

Digging in his heels, Thren came to a halt, spinning on Grayson like a deer turning on a chasing wolf. He’d made a promise, sworn his vows. He was Thren Felhorn. How could he lay claim to a city yet fear to fight one making similar claims? He would not let Grayson be right. No running, not from this. Standing firm, he held his swords together in an X, eyes locked on the giant man barreling toward him. Let death come for him if it must, but it would not find him a coward.

They crashed together, Grayson’s weight and momentum pushing Thren back. In the light of the stars, upon the rooftops, the two battled. Thren constantly circled, refusing to give Grayson a chance to bring his full strength to bear. The ringing of their swords was a song, and the battle felt so comfortable, so familiar, that only the pounding of his heart in his ears assured him that it was not some old training match, not some unimportant spar.

“This stops nothing,” Grayson said, hammering at Thren’s defenses. His short swords, dwarfed by his enormous arms, moved with both speed and unmatched power. “Veldaren is ours.”

Thren dove underneath a swipe, circled to his left, then slashed upward at Grayson’s side. One sword he parried, but the other cut into flesh. It was a minor wound, like a bee stinging a bull, but it angered Grayson nonetheless.

“It’s mine, Grayson!” Thren shouted as he retreated once more, leaping back and forth in the constrained limits of their chosen place of battle. “Veldaren, its people, its fear… mine, and I do not share!”

“Liar! Wretch!” Grayson continued, showing no impatience despite Thren’s stalling tactic. He knew better than to give Thren any sort of edge. When Thren fell too far back, Grayson took the moment to catch his breath and rebalance himself before slowly approaching. “You’ve lost that title, that respect. The Watcher took it from you. I fought him, Thren. He died, and at my hand. You could have killed him at any time, yet you never did. You coward…”

Thren stood there, hunched low, ready to spring into an attack at any time. Grayson shifted his feet, ready to meet it.

“Coward?” Thren asked. “Is that so?”

“All this time you let him live. Why?”

Thren’s grin spread from ear to ear, and despite his exhaustion, despite his inability to score more than a single scratch on his opponent, he laughed.

“Because he’s my son,” he said.

Grayson froze, just for a moment, as he realized all that meant. “Your son?” he asked.

“Marion’s son,” Thren said. “Your blood as well as mine, you damn fool. The Watcher and I are two sides of a single coin. Every man, woman, and child of this city fears one of us. Together we own the night. You are nothing to him, nothing to me. Come, Grayson. Let’s see which of us still lives come the dawn.”

Thren leaped at him, every ounce of his speed sending him flying toward the giant man. Once more their swords clashed, but Grayson’s mind was overcome for just a moment, unable to maintain the balance needed against such an opponent. Thren had cried his tears for Marion, and he’d long since buried her in his heart. Grayson’s wounds, though, they’d stayed fresh, and because of it new ones slashed across his chest as Thren pressed harder and harder. He felt rage boiling in his veins, and it gave him strength. Looping closer, he slashed through Grayson’s left wrist, severing tendons. The blade dropped to the ground. Thren hammered the other, staying close, denying Grayson the chance to flee. The other blade fell, its hilt soaked with blood as Thren hacked into his arm.

Grayson tried to sweep out his feet with a kick, but Thren leaped into the air, his knee catching Grayson’s forehead. The man fell back, and Thren stabbed through his side, the blade puncturing the roof so it held him there like a stake. Grayson screamed, and he pulled against the blade. Another stab, this one through the shoulder, kept him down.

Thren leaned close, so they were mere inches apart.

“Who is he?” he asked. “Your arrival was not coincidence. You’ve spit in my face, and for that you’ll die, but first you’ll tell me who.”