David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

She could tell he was weakening. Just a little more, and she’d have the bloodbath she craved. Alyssa had dared call her husband a failure, and worse, she’d been right. Madelyn would not have that same failure hanging over her head for the rest of her life. No, she’d excise it in a single night of slaughter, the one thing she knew Torgar could do better than anyone.

“I have over five hundred men at my disposal,” she said, lowering her voice. “If I fail, you can denounce me in public, threaten me for a bit, and in return I’ll hand over a few of my mercenaries for you to hang. If I succeed, though…”

She thought of what Torgar had said, and she knew Ingram had to be hearing the same rumors. Perhaps she could use that.

“If I succeed, you’ll save this city from the hundreds of elves that have already infiltrated your walls.”

He twitched as if she’d cut him with her fingernails.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Only rumors,” she said. “But sometimes stories turn out to be true. Give me permission. End this now.”

Ingram walked to the window, and he stared at his city. She calmly waited, her hands crossed behind her back.

“Do it,” he said. “But know you alone will bear the consequences. You’ll receive no help from me.”

“Thank you,” she said, curtseying. He waved her away, and the servant at the door came to escort her back to Torgar.

“How’d it go?” he asked her.

“Prepare all but a handful of the house guards,” she told him as she hurried toward the street. “Ingram’s given me the freedom to deal with the Merchant Lords as I wish. I hope you haven’t drunk away what little skill you used to have.”

Torgar flashed her a grin.

“A bunch of fat merchants waiting for a butcher? Madelyn, if you think I can’t handle them, you sorely insult me.”

Ulrich lay naked from the waist up, eyes closed so he might better enjoy the sensations. In his left hand he held what little Violet he had left, made all the more frustrating since he’d had to steal it from his brother. The elves had abandoned all pretense of civility. Every single day brought new reports of casualties. So far the human camps hadn’t struck back, but it’d only be a matter of time before they brought out the torches. Ulrich wondered if Violet would grow in the ashes of the forest. If so, perhaps they could change their tactics…

He took out his last leaf, hardly the size of his thumb. He crushed it between his fingers, and on a whim, pressed it to the bottom of his nose. It was the aroma that did it, he knew, when they crushed the leaf between their teeth. With so little, he didn’t expect much, but it hit him with twice the strength such a small amount should have. He snorted out of instinct, and suddenly his whole body was alive with sensations. He rode it like a wave, time lacking any meaning. As he felt it ebb, a realization hit so strong he rolled off the bed.

Breathing it in through the nose increased the Violet’s power tremendously. They didn’t need even a fifth of what they’d thought necessary to flood Dezrel with the plant.

“Stern!” he cried out, thoroughly excited to tell him. For some reason he thought his brother was standing in the corner, waiting, but it was a trick of the light. Laughing, Ulrich dressed himself. As he was fighting with his twitching fingers to button his shirt, he heard shouts from down below. At first he thought it was the rest of the merchants, thrilled about his discovery, but he hadn’t told them yet. Then what?

The clang of steel pierced his haze. Fighting? Screaming? But why?

He opened his door and stepped out. From his balcony he looked down and saw armored men rushing in through his front door, fifty of them at the least. The few guards he had were fighting valiantly, but they were badly outnumbered.

“Shit,” Ulrich said, and he spoke it so calmly it surprised him.

He dashed back into his room, slammed the door shut, and pushed in the lock. Hitting his head against the door, he tried to think, to understand what was going on. Nothing was coming to him. The King? The Trifect? Who would dare strike against him? He felt his hands reaching for the pouch with the Violet, but it was empty, and screaming, he flung it against the door. His troops, his loyal men that he’d had Darrel buy, were still scattered throughout the city, awaiting his orders. Gods damn it, he needed them here, to protect him!

But no, he was alone, helpless, and listening to the screams of his dying guards and servants. He had minutes until they stormed into his room. Or seconds. The Violet was still draining away, and without its presence, it felt so fucking hard to think.

“Deep breath, Ulrich, deep breath.”

He closed his eyes, forced himself to ignore the pounding of his heart, forced himself to think. His mansion was overrun. Already he heard heavy footsteps thumping up the stairs. He had to escape, to live long enough to bring together his fighting men, but how?

Opening his eyes, he spun about, putting his back to the door, and saw the heavy curtains across his bedroom window.

“Why not,” he said, rushing toward it as behind him a fist struck against the wood. The lock held, but it rattled, the strength of the bolt far from impressive. Heart in his throat, Ulrich yanked down the curtain and pressed his nose against the glass. He was on the second floor, and beneath the window was a large enough ledge to stand on. Grabbing his sword off the wall, he broke the window with the hilt, then stepped outside. Blood ran down his arm as his elbow caught on a jagged edge. He didn’t even feel it.

From the rooftop, he could better see what was going on. The gate to his mansion had been broken open, and he saw the trampled bodies of his guards beside the wreckage. A squad of men guarded the exit, while the rest poured into the mansion, with only a few circling about. Ulrich felt panic creeping through his chest, and he tried to ignore it. He thought for certain they’d have noticed him, but so far no one had. Running toward the back, and away from the gathered group, he looked for another way out.

Behind him, he heard shouts, and a quick glance showed the first of many mercenaries climbing onto the rooftop, having broken through the door to his room. Swearing, Ulrich hurried to the very edge of the roof, but there was no way down other than a painful fall. Worse was, even if he made it down, he’d have to climb over the iron gate surrounding his property. He might make the climb…or he might die with a blade shoved in his back as he desperately scrambled up.

Ulrich drew his sword, flung the scabbard to the ground, and held his weapon with both hands.

“Come on!” he shouted, wiping sweat from his eyes with his forearm. “I can still kill plenty of you before I die!”

Four mercenaries were up there with him, and they paused. For a moment Ulrich thought his threat had disturbed them, but then he saw their eyes were not looking at him, but beyond. Torn between curiosity and certain death, he clenched his jaw and refused to turn.

“Scared?” he asked them, and shockingly enough, it seemed they were.

And then the Wraith vaulted over his head, landing on the slanted roof with ease. His sword flashed in his hand, killing the nearest. The mercenaries rushed him, but the Wraith danced between their strikes, his cloak twirling to hide his presence. Another mercenary fell. The final two tried to run, but the moment their guard went down the Wraith lunged, shredding into them with his sword and kicking their bodies off the roof.

Done, the Wraith turned to Ulrich, who lifted his sword in defense.

“Stay away,” he said.

“No.”

“I said stay back!”

The Wraith laughed. All but his smile was hidden by the deep shadow of his hood, a shadow that seemed oblivious to the actual position of the sun.