David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

“Innocent?” Again, he laughed. “What do you know of this city, Watcher? Nothing. You know nothing, and that is what I’ve come to show you. Veldaren is a temple of saints compared to here.”

He gestured to the street below. Wary of a trap, Haern leaned closer to the edge and looked down. Four men gathered in the alley, all with the sword tattoos on their faces. At their feet was a corpse, which they rifled through, taking any valuables. Haern drew his sabers, furious at the sight.

“These men protect the city?” he asked, incredulous.

“Ingram’s hired any thug with a blade to work for him. Once they were pirates, mercenaries, thieves; now they are the protectors of the innocent. Reminds you of someone, yes?”

Haern felt his chest tighten.

“You know nothing of me, Wraith. I do not shed innocent blood.”

“Is that so? Neither do I. How much do you truly know of the Trifect, and what it’s done? Or how about the Merchant Lords? You’ve walked into a fire, Watcher, blind and dumb. I must say, I had higher hopes than this.”

He gestured to the guards below.

“Go. Men rob and take from a murdered man. Give them their due.”

The Wraith tilted his head at him, as if staring from beneath that strangely dark hood. Haern thought of the four, and the forty that would hang if he took their lives-as he would have in Veldaren.

“If I deliver justice for the innocent, more innocent will die,” Haern said. “Is that what you’ve brought me here for?”

The Wraith shook his head, and there was a hint of disappointment in his sigh.

“I thought you better than that. Innocents will always die. Will you let those with power hide behind them forever?”

He leapt off the building, his black cloak trailing behind him. Haern leaned over the edge, and he knew he had only a fraction of a second to decide. The four guards were below, preparing to dispose of the body in a way that would prevent them any trouble. No matter what he did, more people would die. Except for one option.

Haern leapt off the building after him, his sabers drawn.

The Wraith’s descent ended in a bloody eruption of gore as his sword pierced the nearest guard’s back, punching through his chest. Upon landing, he spun, yanking the blade free and slashing for a second. It tore through his throat. The guard collapsed to his knees, clutching his neck as it gushed. The Wraith continued spinning, his blade turning on the third. It would have opened his chest, but Haern was there, his sabers blocking the strike.

“Get away!” he screamed to the other two, who needed little encouragement. They fled, all the while crying out for more of the city guard.

The smile was gone from the Wraith’s face.

“You protect guilty men, all because you fear the actions of other guilty men,” he said, slowly falling into a stance. “A shame.”

Haern watched the man’s movements carefully. Already he’d seen enough to know he was brutally efficient with his attacks, which came with lightning intensity. The Wraith tilted his sword, shifted a foot, and then lunged. Haern let out a gasp, still surprised by the speed. He blocked the slash for his neck with his left saber while thrusting with his right. The Wraith stepped aside, looped his sword about, and thrust again. When he tried to parry it, Haern found the longer blade shifting aim, a subtle dip that threw his entire defense off. Falling back, he smashed the attack back with both his sabers. In the distance, they heard guards rallying.

“Tell me why,” Haern said, slowly shifting side to side to get his cloaks into motion. “Why did you summon me? Why am I here?”

“I thought you could help me,” the Wraith said. “But it seems you are not the man I thought you were.”

Haern spun, flinging his cloaks about. He let the gray fabric hide his movements, disguise the motion of his hands and the location of his sabers. His cloakdance had only one risk, and that was the brief span of time he lost sight of the Wraith as he turned. On the third rotation, he saw a great puff of smoke where the Wraith had been. Haern hesitated, then realized his error. A heel slammed into his back, and he let out a cry of pain. Rolling across the ground, he desperately blocked as the Wraith came slashing in, repeatedly battering his sabers so they could never settle into position.

The Wraith’s movements grew faster, and Haern fought solely on instinct, nervous to use the cloakdance again. A high feint fooled him, and in came the Wraith’s foot, blasting the air from his chest.

“You made an entire city fear your name,” the Wraith said as his sword stabbed and cut. Nothing about him gave away his intentions, and everything about his stance and reactions was unfamiliar. Haern could not fall into a rhythm. The few times he tried to riposte or counter, he found himself stabbing air, or cancelling the hit to prevent having his throat slashed open. The sound of steel rang out a chorus, and Haern knew he was losing the song.

“I thought you were the best!”

The sword tip cut a gash across his arm, just enough to bleed. Haern retreated on instinct, only to realize he’d put his back against a wall. The Wraith positioned himself directly across, his legs tensed to lunge. There’d be no escaping. The sword was a blur, and Haern blocked the first four hits. The fifth plunged through his shoulder, and he screamed.

“I was wrong,” the Wraith said, twisting the blade, eliciting another scream.

A trio of arrows whizzed by, one punching a hole through the Wraith’s hood. The man freed his sword and fell back as dozens of city guards came rushing in. Haern tried to give chase, but the Wraith suddenly darted back at him, his heel smashing Haern’s forehead. Vision a blur, he dropped to the ground, his sabers falling from his lifeless hands. As he lay there, he watched feet march by. Rough hands rolled him onto his back. Haern screamed. It felt like pain was everywhere in his body, yet nowhere in particular. Through the tears in his eyes, he saw men peering down at him, familiar tattoos across their faces.

“Sure it’s him?” asked one.

“Damn sure. I’d be dead if not for him.”

“Thought he went after Ingram, though?”

The rest fell silent. Haern tried to ask for water, but his voice came out a mumble.

“Take him to the dungeon,” said the biggest of the men. “We got time to figure it out.”

They grabbed Haern by his arms and legs. When they lifted him, his shoulder exploded with waves of agony. He knew ten different litanies against pain, techniques to hang onto consciousness no matter how horrible the trauma. Haern used none of them, and slipped away.

When Ingram awoke, he was in an irritable mood. His shoulder hurt despite the tonic his healer had given him, preventing any real rest after the Watcher’s departure. Once out of bed, he bathed in a tub of hot water prepared by servants while he’d struggled for sleep. After bathing, the healer came and changed the wrappings.

“Clean wound,” the old man said as he looked it over. “You’ll be fine.”

“Just keep away the infection,” Ingram muttered.

After he was gone, his captain of the guard stepped inside his bedroom and saluted.

“What is you want?” Ingram asked.

“We have him,” the captain said. “The Watcher.”

Ingram went through the rest of his morning rituals with a smile on his face. Despite the first major meeting with the elves, all he could think about was making his way to the dungeon. Leaving his house, he exited the outer fences, accompanied by a small squad of guards. With murderous elves running about his city, he would not travel anywhere unprotected. Dug into the lower side of the hill he’d built his mansion on was Angelport’s dungeon. It had one entrance, sealed and watched day and night.