David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

“The Wraith,” Haern whispered when she removed her hand.

“Will he stop us?”

He shook his head.

“No. I don’t think so.”

“Then let us hurry.”

He heard a clinking sound from above as Zusa began picking the locks of his chains. Haern kept his breathing steady as his pulse began to rise. No matter how many guards Zusa and the Wraith took down on the way in, escaping would be no easy task. The sheer fact that it was still daylight would prove problematic. With a loud rattle, one of the chains slipped loose and hit the floor. Further down the corridor, several prisoners called out in mocking tones.

“How bad is your wound?” Zusa asked.

Another chain slipped free, this one carefully brought to the ground. Haern tested his shoulder, and he had to bite his tongue to hold in a pained cry.

“Not good,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Can you run?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not if you want out.”

“Then I can run.”

The last of the chains loosened from around his body. Despite Zusa’s care, their rattle seemed thunderous in the stone cells.

“Who you got with you?” someone shouted from nearby. “You got yourself a whore?”

Zusa grabbed Haern’s hand and pulled him to his feet. His wounded shoulder throbbed, and he gingerly touched it. His fingers came away sticky and smelling foul. Most likely infection, thought Haern. Fantastic.

“Where are my things?” he asked.

“At the front, I believe, still guarded. We’ll get them on our way out. Ready?”

“Ready.”

She took off at a blistering pace, her hand firmly clutching Haern’s wrist. From the darkest reaches of the dungeon they emerged into torchlight, and their passing raised a ruckus from the prisoners, who hooted and hollered. At a doorway he saw a guard slumped against the wall. Blood coated his neck and chestplate. Zusa paused to listen for any approaching guards.

“He your doing?” Haern asked.

“Was unconscious when I found him,” Zusa said, glancing at the dead guard. “I only cut his throat.”

If any guards heard the ruckus behind them, none came to investigate. Haern dared breathe a sigh of relief.

“Come,” Zusa said, pulling him along. They passed two more bodies, and Haern had no need to ask what happened to them. One lay on his side, the other on his back, both with huge gashes across their throats. At the major cross-section of the dungeon, they stopped again. To their left and right stretched rows of cells, while ahead was bright light, and escape. Behind them, more prisoners shouted in either encouragement, anger, or jealousy.

“The guards remain there,” Zusa whispered.

“How did you get by?”

She pointed toward one of the side tunnels.

“Shadows are my doorways, but I cannot take you with me.”

Haern didn’t like the thought of killing more guards, and any more prisoners hanging, but he prayed Ashhur would forgive him.

“Get me my swords and cloak,” he said. “We’ll cut through.”

He saw her glance at the wound to his shoulder, and he shook his head.

“I can fight through pain. Now go!”

She strode ahead, letting go of his hand to draw both her daggers. At the doorway, a guard stepped out, no doubt to finally check why the others had not silenced the prisoners. Zusa caught him flat-footed, one dagger ripping open the belly beneath his breastplate, the other piercing his windpipe to choke down his death rattle. She kicked him aside and then ran on. Haern followed.

Three more guards sat about a small a table, a rack of weapons and crossbows behind them in the small room, along with a heavy chest. Zusa was a blur among them, slashing and cutting before they could even ready their weapons. As the corpses fell with no alarm sounded, she leaned against one of the walls and pointed to the chest.

“In there,” she said.

He knelt before it, flicked it open, and found his things. As the cloak wrapped about him, the hood pulled low over his face, he felt his confidence rise. Buckling his sabers to his waist, the feeling was complete. Blood still soaked his shirt, and he knew that once his battle lust calmed he’d be in a world of pain, but for now he could fight. He turned to Zusa, and was surprised to see her still leaning against the wall. When he stepped closer, he saw beads of sweat upon the exposed skin about her eyes.

“Were you stabbed?” he asked, though he saw no wounds.

“Fine,” she said, pushing off the wall. “I’m fine.”

She walked to the iron gate, the last obstacle to freedom. Instead of a lock or key on the inside, a bar blocked the outside. Zusa swore.

“Can we break through?” Haern asked as he inspected the situation. Outside he saw two guards, both positioned adjacent to the door as if they were asleep. All it’d take was a single patrol to notice, and they’d be swarmed.

“Can’t,” Zusa said. “It’s metal. I need to get out there.”

“How?”

She pressed her face to the bars of the door, looking.

“Remember?” she said. “Shadows are my doorways.”

Zusa retreated into the dungeon, vanishing from view. Trusting her to know what she was doing, Haern waited at the entrance, feeling strangely helpless. Here he was, the deadly Watcher, and he was stopped by a simple barred door?

“How the mighty have fallen,” he murmured, pacing to keep his blood flowing.

On the other side, Zusa fell from above the entrance, landing hard on one side.

“Zusa?” he asked as she lay there, very still. “Zusa!”

“Was spotted,” she said, her back still to him. “Careless…”

He heard shouts from far away, and his pulse doubled.

“Hurry,” he said. “We need to get out of here, now!”

Zusa looked too weak to stand, though, let alone lift the heavy bar blocking the door. She closed her eyes, and then he saw the first guard come running up the hill toward the inlet of the dungeon’s entrance.

“Zusa! Get up, Zusa. Focus on the pain, use it, and stand!”

She forced herself onto her knees, and for the first time Haern saw the thick crossbow bolt embedded in her side. The first edges of panic bloomed in the back of his mind. Turning away from the door, he grabbed one of the crossbows and a handful of bolts. Before the first guard could reach, Haern shot him down through the gaps in the bars. Another guard appeared, and though his first shot missed, the second plunged into his throat.

Zusa grabbed the bar across the door and dragged herself to her feet. Haern reloaded the crossbow, then reached through the bars to cup her face in his hand.

“You can do it,” he said. “Don’t worry about them. Don’t worry about anything. Lift it. Set me free, and I swear I’ll protect you.”

She tore the wraps free from across her mouth, then leaned her forehead against the bars.

“Too hot,” she said, breathing heavily, her eyes still closed.

Haern saw the group of guards approaching, coming up a side path from the mansion.

“Now, damn you,” he said to her. “Now, or we’re both corpses.”

He shot a bolt over her head, then dropped it to draw his sabers. Shrieking at the top of her lungs, Zusa grabbed one end of the bar and forced it upward. As it cleared the latch, she dropped it, and Haern burst through. The pain in his shoulder a distant memory, he launched himself at the six guards, all the while howling like a madman. His sabers danced, and the guards could not hope to match his fury. The first two dropped, their initial attacks clumsy compared to his. Twirling between them, he slashed the back leg of one guard, then lunged at another. Their bodies collided, and the guard went down, Haern’s knees slamming his chest. The collision with the dirt jarred them both, but Haern’s sabers were there, punching through flesh to keep him still. The final two turned to flee, but he would have none of it. He stabbed one in the back. The other he tripped, cutting out his throat on the way down.