David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

Zusa landed beside him, her long cloak trailing after her in the air.

“The other Blackwater’s home is damaged, but not destroyed,” she said. “I see two other houses burned, but both still stand. Men patrol them, and they are not Madelyn’s.”

“They failed then,” Haern said, pressing his knuckles to his lips as he thought. “Now the question is, how will the Merchant Lords respond?”

“They are not known for their forgiveness. No doubt Madelyn hides in her mansion, surrounded by what’s left of her mercenaries. With her high walls, she can survive anything they throw at her…assuming Lord Ingram does not intervene.”

“That man has lost all control of the city. Anarchy will soon follow if things continue as they have.”

Zusa shrugged.

“Then we will thrive in the anarchy. I think it’s time we made those in power fear our presence.”

Haern looked to the dying fire.

“Who will you go after?”

She grinned, and the eagerness in it was both frightening and exhilarating. Her face remained uncovered, for there seemed little point in disguising her identity.

“Ingram has given you an ultimatum, but he knows nothing of me. Alyssa has stayed in his dungeons long enough. Either he frees her, or I slit his throat.”

“He said if he dies, his guards are to execute every prisoner. That includes Alyssa.”

“Ingram is a coward,” she said, drawing her daggers. “And cowards will always give up every promise to protect their lives. You should have learned this by now, Watcher.”

Zusa turned and ran, leaping rooftop to rooftop toward the distant mansion on the hill. Haern watched her go, wishing he could share her reckless abandon. But he had his own man to find, a Wraith that had framed him for a vicious attempted murder. Let Zusa free Alyssa. He’d prove their innocence his own way. His instincts told him the Wraith would be lingering about the fires. No man could declare Angelport his, then ignore the bloodshed that had filled the streets during the day.

Haern dropped to the ground and began circling the compound. Every nerve in his body remained on alert, and his eyes scanned the deepest shadows. Twice he looped around the burning mansion, then moved on to the next place Madelyn’s men had assaulted. From his initial scouting of Angelport, he’d learned it belonged to Arren Goldsail. The attacks had gone worst there for the merchants. By the time Haern had learned of the attack, it’d been halfway over. He and Zusa had watched to the very end, unwilling to help either side. Arren had been dragged out from his mansion, strung up by his feet from the branches of a nearby tree, and then had his stomach slit open. They’d wrapped his intestines around his neck before he finally died.

After watching that, Haern knew it was only a matter of time before the merchants retaliated, even if Zusa was right about the Keenan mansion being able to repel an attack. Given Haern’s distaste for both of them, he had no intention of stopping it, so long as the violence didn’t spill out among the innocents.

As he looked upon the ruins of the Goldsail mansion, lost in memories, he felt a tingle in the back of his mind. Peering over his shoulder, he spotted a hunched shadow, nearly invisible in the darkness. Someone was following him.

“Let’s play,” Haern whispered, suddenly bolting to his right. Figuring it was the Wraith, he moved at full speed, his legs pumping. He weaved through the quiet street, then cut into an alley. A glance behind showed no pursuer, but he knew that wasn’t true. That left but one place. Digging in his heels, he changed directions, running straight at a wall. Leaping into it, his knees pressed into his chest, he somersaulted into the air. As he’d guessed, his pursuer came crashing down from the rooftops, blades slashing. He hit nothing, unprepared for Haern’s maneuver. As Haern landed, he drew his swords, his eyes narrowing.

Whoever this attacker was, it wasn’t the Wraith.

“Why do you follow me?” Haern asked, his whole body crouched low and ready to spring, his sabers angled outward.

The attacker turned, and he removed his hood. Pointed ears poked out from beneath his brown hair, which was long and tied away from his face. He wielded two ornate knives, each one gleaming with silver. His cold eyes stared, and Haern felt his every feature being analyzed.

“Are you the Watcher of Veldaren?” this strange elf asked.

“If I am, will you attack again?”

The elf glared, clearly not amused.

“I have little patience for human sarcasm.”

“And I for unwarranted attacks. Be gone. I have no wish to hurt you.”

The elf chuckled, a small smile pulling at the edges of his mouth.

“You won’t.”

He moved to attack, and Haern went to block, only too late realizing it was a feint. The elf slashed again, one knee bent so his whole body could attack at a bizarre angle. Haern blocked the first, and as the knife slid off with a loud scraping of steel, he used his other hand to parry the second attack. But the elf stood just before contact, and he tilted the knife so it avoided the parry. Pure instinct saved Haern’s life. As the knife went for his throat, he went limp, falling so it only cut the air above his head. When he hit the ground, he rolled, then kicked away, avoiding a double thrust that would have impaled him.

Upon landing, he crouched again, eyeing the elf with newfound respect. No, he wasn’t the Wraith, though he was just as good. If he had any hope, it certainly wasn’t on the defense. The elf remained back for a moment, as if he too were reassessing the skill of his opponent.

Haern assaulted, pushing his skills to their limit. He let his countless hours of training throughout his childhood take over, let his sabers act as if they were their own sentient beings. The elf countered the first three hits, and each time Haern twisted side to side, narrowly avoiding the killing thrusts. His sabers a blur, he slashed with one and thrust with the other, doing so even as a knife passed within an inch of his cheek. The elf battered away the thrust, but he was not fast enough to avoid the other. The saber pierced his shoulder, but he twisted so that the wound remained shallow.

As the elf retreated a step, Haern kept back. He peered from underneath his hood, and he fought to keep his breathing under control. Keeping pace required tremendous exertion, and he knew the fight was far from over. The nameless elf didn’t seem winded, and if not for the tiny trickle of blood running down his chest, he might have looked like he hadn’t fought at all.

“Most amazing, for a human,” the elf said.

“Who are you?” Haern asked, frustrated at how he sounded out of breath.

“You deserve as much. My name is Dieredon, and I’ve been sent to kill you.”

Before Haern could protest, the elf attacked. He fought his initial instinct to retreat, and instead met the charge head on. Their weapons danced, and they shifted their feet and twisted their bodies so neither could find advantage. Dieredon gave him no opening except false openings, traps he refused to fall for. Haern felt sweat drip across his forehead, his vision narrowing so that he saw only his opponent and the dark street about them. Still, he sensed the fight slipping away. Dieredon pressed the attack, his knives scoring a dozen shallow cuts. Haern bled, but would not go down.

At last the elf made a mistake. Haern narrowly ducked a swipe, then vaulted away. As his body curled through the air, his foot connected with Dieredon’s chin, snapping his head back. His vision dazed, he retreated, his knives slashing in a bewildering defense. But Haern had no intention of attacking.

He ran. A quick look behind showed him at least fifty yards of separation, and that would be enough. After the past few nights he’d searched for the Wraith, he felt confident he knew the city more than any outsider elf. He weaved and ducked through the alleys, sometimes looping back, sometimes taking to the rooftops. At last he felt himself safe as he neared the docks, dropped behind a stack of three barrels, and collapsed against the wall of a tavern. He gasped in air as his chest ached and the many thin wounds bled and stung.