David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

Slow, mocking applause met his speech, and they all turned to see a hooded figure enter the dark room, a grand smile on his face.

“Well spoken,” said the Wraith. “Brave, but stupid, just as I’ve come to expect from you merchants.”

Stern bolted to his feet, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. Durgo armed himself as well, though Flint stood there perfectly still. Warrick felt only tired amusement at the attempted grand entrance.

“You,” said Flint, sounding terrified. “How did you get past the guards?”

The Wraith hopped atop the round table, crouching down as he grinned at Flint.

“I killed them, of course.”

“We want no trouble here,” Stern said, tensing. The Wraith shifted his way.

“Strange, given that amusing bounty you placed on my head. Are you still upset about my killing William? His replacement, while young, seems far more competent. I thought you’d be happy for the improvement.”

Warrick knew he’d be furious at such a statement made against his own father, but Flint just sat there looking sick. So much for the bravado, he thought. At least William wouldn’t have pissed his pants staring face to face with a murderer. The others had been happy to see William go, but they had never truly seen William’s strength, his ability to make deals without his pride getting in the way.

“Why are you here?” Warrick asked. “I’m too old for games, and not foolish enough to believe we stand a chance should you wish us dead. Now speak, or draw your blade.”

the Wraith bowed, and Warrick held in his smile. The man wasn’t there to kill, after all. If it came to deals, then who in Angelport was better at making them than him?

“Of course. I am not much for wasting time, either. Your plans for revenge are amusing, I must admit, but they are irrelevant. Madelyn Keenan is not your worry. Lord Ingram is, and he’s the one you should be stringing up by the ankles at the docks.”

“He’s got armored men,” Stern said. “Well-trained, with many of them killers and thugs long before adopting his standard. Even with our forces combined, we cannot yet challenge him.”

the Wraith’s grin grew.

“I don’t want you to challenge him. I want you to save him.”

Stern’s brow furrowed, and Warrick tilted his head to one side and tapped his lips.

“How so?” he asked.

the Wraith hopped down from the table and walked over to one wall, which was decorated with a painting of the docks, the waters full of majestic boats and tanned men hard at work.

“Tonight, a large group of elves will launch an attack against the city,” he said as he looked the painting over. “Don’t worry about your walls…they’re already inside. They’ll kill everyone in Ingram’s mansion, his dungeons, and they’ll come hunting for you as well. This is their last desperate attempt, a hope to win their war before it has even started.”

Warrick leaned back in his chair, his hands pressed against his chin as the gears in his head began turning.

“Why come to us?” Stern asked, glancing at the others as if to gauge their opinions. “And why would we help Ingram?”

“My affairs are my own,” the Wraith said. “And I come to you because the elves must not win. Prepare your forces. Prepare for battle! Let them find an ambush waiting for them, instead of fat merchants and helpless servants. Otherwise…”

He pulled out something from his pocket. Warrick could not see what it was he did, but suddenly the portrait began to burn. The fire spread across the canvas, consuming the docks and turning the boats to ash. The Wraith turned back to them, his grin looking demonic in the red light.

“Fight them, kill them, or watch every last remnant of your wealth burn.”

“Thank you for this warning,” Warrick said, slowly standing. “You have given us much to think about, and discuss.”

the Wraith bowed low.

“I aim to help,” he said. Shooting one last grin at Flint, he headed for the door. Just before leaving, he turned back. “Oh, and should you cooperate, I have a gift for you, one I’m sure you’ll appreciate.”

With that, he exited the room, having never once drawn his sword. Immediately the tension lessened, and Stern plopped back into his seat. The others looked about, as if unsure what to say.

“Well?” Stern asked, throwing up his hands. “Do we trust him?”

“He’s killed too many,” Durgo said, shaking his head. “Lies are not beyond him.”

“No,” Warrick said. “I think he’s telling the truth.”

Stern nodded, and frustrated as he looked, it seemed he agreed.

“I have no delusions the elves will leave us be after dealing with Ingram. Should we prepare, and do what the Wraith says?”

Warrick’s wrinkled face stretched into a smile. All around him, he saw the others take notice of the sparkle in his eyes, the sheer amusement at manipulating one who thought himself above all manipulation.

“As he says?” Warrick shook his head. “Oh no, not quite.”

Darrel sat in the back of the tavern, his beard soaked with spilled ale. He was in no mood for cheer or talk, and his glare made that clear to several women who drifted over. Any other day, he might have taken one or three back to his ship…

“Damn it,” he muttered, spilling his mug when he reached for it. As the liquid splashed across the floor, he realized a man had joined him at the table.

“What in Karak’s name do you want,” Darrel asked.

“A sober man to talk to,” said Stern, frowning at him. “Though it appears I hope for too much.”

“Fuck off.”

He waved for one of the wenches to bring him more, but Stern’s look sent them back to the bar, leaving Darrel dry and unhappy.

“We have matters to discuss,” Stern said. “I’d prefer you keep your attention on me, not your mug.”

“Far as I know, you don’t give me orders,” Darrel said. “That was your brother. How’s the fellow doing, anyway? Oh, that’s right. He’s dead. Bastard. Did he leave the ship in my name? Course not. I got no gold, no crew, all because he wanted us here to fight instead of doing our damn jobs and sailing out with cargo.”

“Much of Ulrich’s belongings are now mine,” Stern said, leaning back in his chair. “That means I can give you the Ravenshade , if I felt it a wise decision.”

Through Darrel’s alcohol-clouded mind, a realization forced its way through. He straightened up, and decided that just maybe he should be a bit nicer to Stern.

“Been on boats since I was nine,” he said, trying to wipe ale from his beard, a hopeless task. “I know my crew, my boat, and every trick the seas can throw at me.”

Stern’s smile was full of condescension, but Darrel tried not to show he noticed.

“Have no worries, the Ravenshade is yours,” Stern said. “But first, there’s something you must do for me. My brother trusted you, and you never betrayed him. I’m hoping I might be able to trust you as well.”

“These lips stay sealed,” Darrel said. “I don’t even mutter secrets to my whores. I’ll forgive plenty, but oathbreakers deserve to be strung up by their toes and beaten with rods. You want something done, I’ll get it done.”

Stern scratched at his neck and looked him over.

“Perhaps,” he said, motioning over a serving wench. Darrel grinned as two large mugs were set before them, both frothing at the top.

“So what is it you need?” Darrel asked as he took one into his hands. “Special cargo? Message delivered? A body to vanish?”

Stern smiled.

“I have someone I need you to kill.”

Ingram paced the halls of his mansion, muttering to himself.

“Where is that damn elf?” he wondered aloud.