David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

At last he reached a nice secluded spot tucked against the outer wall of the city. There’d be no patrols, and anyone who heard screams would be wise enough to keep the matter to themselves. Haern propped the man against the wall, then opened up his red coat to see the rows of leather loops for holding knives, half of them empty. Removing the rest of them, Haern cut strips of the coat into lengths, then bound the man’s hands and feet. The throwing knives he left in a pile nearby, having every intention of using them if the need presented itself. Ready, he started slapping the man’s face and pinching his nose to disrupt his breathing. It took a bit, but at last he awoke, gasping for air.

“Where the fuck am I?” the man asked.

Haern drew a saber and smacked him across the face with the flat side.

“I’m asking the questions,” he said. “Let’s start with your name.”

“Percy,” the man said. “And that’s the only question you get an answer to.”

Haern grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the wall. “For your sake, I’d hope not,” he said.

Percy grinned at him despite the blood that dripped down his neck. “You think you can frighten me?” he asked. “You got Veldaren fooled, but you won’t be fooling us. You’re nothing.”

“Us?” Haern asked. “There’s no ‘us,’ not anymore. The rest of your group is dead. You’re the last.”

This seemed to shake him a little, but not much. Percy bit his lip, then turned and spit. “Such a shame. We had a nice thing going.”

Haern narrowed his eyes. “Who hired you to kill us? I want a name, and where to find him.”

Percy shook his head. “Can’t do it. If I’m to have any work as a mercenary after this, it can’t be with the reputation of a snitch. Bad enough a bunch of pussies like you beat us.”

“Work as a mercenary?” Haern asked, leaning in closer. “You think I’ll let you live?”

“If you don’t, what reason have I to talk?”

In answer, Haern grabbed one of the throwing knives and jammed it into Percy’s leg. Percy winced, but held down his scream.

“You think you can break me?” he asked after gathering his strength. “I don’t think it’s in you. Too soft.”

A second knife, an inch higher up the leg. This time Percy did scream, but not for long.

“You,” he said, laughing despite being out of breath. “You think this will work? I’ll bleed out too quick. Don’t have much”-he winced as Haern jammed in a third-“practice at this, do you?”

“Tell me his name,” Haern said, grabbing Percy by the shirt and pulling him close. He’d frightened others before, often with just the intensity in his eyes, but this man seemed to be close bedfellows with pain and fear.

“You try to act the monster,” Percy said, spitting in Haern’s face. “But I grew up with monsters. I know who they are, how to smell ’em. You’re not a monster. Thren is. Carson was. But you?” Another laugh. “You’ve killed so many, Watcher, yet you’ve somehow prevented it from changing you. Why? You think it makes you a better pers-”

Haern jammed his saber into Percy’s stomach, then twisted it. The moment he removed the blade, blood would gush out, along with intestines.

“Now…” Percy said, slumping against the wall. “Now that’s the monster. Were you hiding it, Watcher? How… adorable…”

“Tell me where,” Haern said.

“His name’s Laerek,” Percy said. “One of Karak’s priests. He’ll be…”

He launched into a coughing fit, each cough weaker than the last. His skin was turning pale. Haern felt sick in his stomach realizing how far he’d gone. The man might die before giving him more than a name, all because he’d lost control. All because he’d wanted, for whatever reason, to prove that he could be the monster Percy doubted he could be.

“Down on Songbird,” Percy said. “He’s… at… shop…”

More coughing. His eyes had turned glassy. Too much blood lost, Haern knew.

“Damn it,” he whispered. “Tell me where, quickly!”

Percy shook his head. “Pull out the sword,” he said. “And go look for yourself.”

Haern yanked it free. Blood gushed out, and as it did, Percy’s body began convulsing in his death throes. Haern watched, feeling strangely guilty for the act. At last, when all life was gone, he sheathed his sabers and then ran. Songbird was about a mile long. There were only so many shops on it, but it’d take a lot of time to search them all. Still, time he had, at least to try.

Starting at the southern edge of the road, he followed it north, his mind racing. Why would a priest hire the Bloodcrafts to kill the Eschaton? That a priest of Karak would want them dead wasn’t much of a stretch, and Tarlak tended to be meddlesome when it came to their darker affairs, but there had to have been some specific reason.

As Haern ran, he checked each shop, those of bakers, jewelers, smiths, makers of cloth and wool. Most were dark, and their doors locked. Feeling his desperation grow, he continued, until he heard a man scream from an alley behind him. Spinning about, Haern rushed into it, only to come to a halt.

Thren Felhorn was there, swords drawn. Lying at his feet was a priest wearing the black robes of Karak. So far he was alive, but his face was covered with blood. Haern realized why when Thren tossed the man’s severed ear onto his chest.

“I said talk,” Thren told him.

“Laerek,” Hearn said, grabbing his father’s attention. “This man’s name is Laerek, isn’t it?”

Thren looked up, and his expression was one Haern could not read. Was it one of anger, or amusement?

“It is,” Thren said. “Do ghosts have business with him as well?”

So far he’d made no overtly threatening motions, but he still held his swords, which was enough to make him incredibly dangerous. Haern slowly stepped farther into the alley with his weapons drawn.

“I’m no ghost, and no dead man, despite what rumors you might have heard,” Haern said, making sure his hood was pulled low to hide his face in its magical shadows. “This man hired mercenaries to kill me and my friends. I want to know why.”

Laerek refused to look his way. He was a thin man with a long nose, and now missing an ear. Thren kicked him once, blasting the air from his lungs.

“It seems you’ve been messing with very dangerous people,” Thren told the priest before turning back to Haern. “This man sent the Suns into Veldaren, and specifically after my guild. I’d appreciate knowing why as well.”

Laerek rolled off his back and pressed against the nearby wall.

“Karak be my strength,” he prayed. “Not pain, nor death, nor threats of this world…”

Thren kicked him in the teeth to stop the prayer.

“Karak will not help you,” Thren said, kneeling before him. “And you will feel pain, so much pain, before your death. If you want to do something useful with your words, then talk. The more you talk, the less you suffer.”

Haern watched as Thren grabbed Laerek’s hand, took his short sword, and slowly sliced into the tendons of his wrist. Laerek let out a cry, yet as Haern watched, he felt no pity, no remorse. Instead he felt himself back as a child, watching his father cut off the hand of a man who had cheated them. Despite the passing of time, Thren was still in charge, still holding the lives of others in his hands. Haern knew he should object. He’d spent his whole childhood rebelling against everything Thren had taught him. Yet this priest had played with all their lives. Everyone Haern knew and loved would be dead if he’d had his way. And so he watched the blood drip to the ground and hardened his heart against it. Had he not just thrust his own blade into the belly of another, all for a name?