David Dalglish - A Dance of Shadows

“Start talking,” Thren said as he continued to saw. He kept his fist clenching down against the veins so Laerek would not bleed out. His sword reached bone, and its sharp edge began to pry into the joint. “Why the Suns? Why did you have to send Grayson after me after all these years?”

“I didn’t!” Laerek cried. “The Suns were willing, that’s all I know!”

“Then why the Widow?”

Haern crossed his arms and frowned. The Widow? Laerek was behind that as well?

“Never part of our plan,” Laerek said. “By Karak, please, it hurts…”

“Who is he?” pressed Thren.

“Stephen Connington,” said Zusa from the rooftops, drawing their attention her way. She looked furious, and her gaze frightened Haern more than Thren’s. “He was the Widow, your little puppet. Let me guess, priest… you told him Thren killed his father, not the Watcher?”

Laerek’s skin was already pale, but it somehow turned paler. Thren pulled away his sword, put the bloody tip against his throat.

“You claimed I killed Leon?” he asked. “I’d have gladly done so, but I wasn’t given the privilege. The Watcher here took that from me. So why? What has my guild done to you?”

“Alyssa, as well,” Zusa said, leaping to the ground with daggers drawn. “You tried to have her killed. I can’t forgive you, not for that.”

Laerek’s eyes bounced among all three of them, and he saw no comfort in any, no signs he might live. Closing them, he began praying again, until Thren shoved his short sword between his lips. The priest’s clattering teeth rattled against the steel. Thren leaned close, and Haern saw how easily his father’s gaze broke the man, so much easier than it had been for Haern with Percy.

“Why?” Thren asked. “We’re all here, now tell us why.”

“I only followed orders,” Laerek said when Thren withdrew the blade. Tears ran down his face. “I’m a messenger, just a messenger.”

“Messenger for whom?” asked Haern.

Laerek looked at them all. For a brief moment he paused, as if afraid to say, but his will was weak.

“He’s my teacher,” Laerek said. “A powerful priest named Luther. He sends me his orders by letter from the Stronghold, and I carry them out. That’s all I know.”

“Luther?” Thren asked, and he looked to the other two. Both shook their heads, not recognizing the name.

“I swear it’s true!” Laerek insisted, seeing their doubt.

“One more question,” Zusa said, moving closer. Thren stepped away, and bowed as if he were a gentleman making way for a lady. Zusa knelt before Laerek, and glanced down at her daggers.

“You blinded my beloved,” she said, looking up at him. “I hope you burn for an eternity.”

Her dagger thrust into his throat, twisted, and then tore out, taking flesh and blood with it. Laerek flailed at her with shaking hands, but she held him as she watched him die. When at last he went still, Zusa stood and spit on his corpse.

“I thought you had a question?” Haern asked.

Zusa glared at him, then walked away. At a loss for words, he turned to Thren, whose face was locked in a grim smile. Haern tensed, wondering if he might try something, if their shadowed feud might come to a head now they were alone.

“Clearly she lied,” said Thren. And then he laughed.

For some reason Haern couldn’t believe it. This was the specter of his nightmares, the lone man he’d feared, above all others, might recognize the face beneath his hood. He’d avoided fighting him so many times over the years, dreaded any sort of confrontation, yet here he was… laughing.

Thren sheathed his swords, and he nodded to the blades in Haern’s hands. “Put those away,” he said. “Or do you plan on using them still?”

“You’re still alive,” Haern said. “I’d say that leaves a good chance I’ll have need of them.”

His father shook his head, and he gestured to Laerek’s corpse. “The one controlling that fool is who needs your sabers,” he said. “Who am I to you, Watcher?”

“I’ve been your enemy for years.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. Was it you who dissolved my guild? Was it you who marched into my territory, who turned my men against me with bribes, who butchered my men and left coins in their throats and eyes? No, that was Victor, that was Grayson, that was that sick man, the Widow. You?” Thren laughed again. “The only thing you have done is keep my men on their toes whenever they prowl the streets. You’re stories of the Abyss to impressionable children, a way to terrify them into more proper behavior.”

Haern paused a moment, and he felt tempted to sheathe his blades as a gesture of trust. It felt so strange, hearing his father talk like that. To talk as if he’d been defeated.

Thren walked over to the corpse, knelt down so he could stare more closely into the young priest’s face.

“Someone manipulated us,” he said, and his deep voice softened. “Both of us, you and I. Deep down, I know we are similar. I know the pride you feel in your skills, the ruthlessness with which you rule the empire you’ve created. Perhaps you won’t believe it, but I’ve been… impressed by what you’ve accomplished.” He stood, turned his way. “My guild is in pieces, and your city flails out of control before your eyes. Both of our accomplishments are turning to ash in our hands, and our futures are bleak and empty. We are not enemies, not anymore. Not when a common enemy would consume us both. So either sheathe your swords and listen to what I have to say… or get out of my damn sight. Your choice.”

More than anything, more than the dozens of memories that flashed through his mind, more than the fear of his father and an undeniable desire for his approval, Haern thought he saw something inside his father that desired better. Something that might be worth saving.

He sheathed his sabers, crossed his arms.

“So be it,” he said. “Now talk.”

“There isn’t much to it,” Thren said. “We now have a name. The puppet master of this farce. The priest, Luther…”

Would you like me to come with you, my lord?” asked Sef as Victor stepped out the door of his tavern and into the street. Victor fought down his initial denial. His pride had put friends and allies at risk already, and despite the crushing of the Sun Guild, the rest of the city was still filled with men who wished him harm.

“If you wouldn’t mind the walk,” Victor said instead, forcing a smile. Sef nodded, motioned two other men over. They took up positions, following Victor as he led them along.

“Where is it we go?” Sef asked.

“We go where I lead,” Victor said, having no desire for conversation. Thankfully Sef took the hint, and together the four marched toward the center of town.

Bitterness dwelt in Victor’s heart as tired and cautious eyes watched him walk the worn dirt roads. It burned him deep inside to require Deathmask’s help, and the help of his Ash Guild. No matter how hard he tried to justify it, the fire remained. Was it his own weakness that allowed it? His own inadequacies? But of course, Victor wasn’t like them. He didn’t hold the power of death in his skilled hands. He was a man. They were the monsters.

But he’d deal with the monsters, if it saved his city. Memories had haunted him over the week, of his past, his family, of times both good and bad. He wanted to relive them, to view them again. He had to remind himself that every sacrifice he made, every ounce of effort he gave, went toward something good. Something pure. The safety of the people of Veldaren. What could be purer than that?

Without need to think, with hardly more than glances at the markings for the street names, he found his way. As they approached he heard Sef shuffle nervously alongside him, clearing his throat to signify his desire to speak.