David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

“Excellent,” Torgar said, nodding as he listened to the words. “That’ll do.”

He lashed out, his fist striking her across the chin. She spun, her head hitting the table on her way to the ground. Spots filled her vision, and coughing, she spat blood.

“Guards!” she cried, her voice weak. Looking up through tear-filled eyes, she saw them standing there. Doing nothing. Torgar strode over, no more grins, no more amused expressions. His eyes were cold. She went to cry out again, but his foot kicked her in the teeth.

“Did you see that?” Torgar said to his guards, and only then did she realize how badly she’d erred. “How about you?”

She tried to stand, but he struck her again, blasting the air from her lungs and robbing her sob of any power.

“It’s that damn Wraith again! How’d he get in here?”

Another kick rolled her onto her back. Tears streamed across her face as Torgar leaned down and grabbed her by the hair.

“Almost impossible to keep him from killing, ain’t it?” he asked. Behind him, a couple of the guards laughed. Madelyn felt ready to vomit.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please, don’t do this.”

“You have no right to beg,” Torgar said, glaring. “Laurie was a good man, a powerful man, and he deserved a lot better fate than what you gave him. Getting his throat cut by his own wife? Fuck. You’re lucky I don’t let every guard in this mansion have a turn with you for that.”

He rammed his forehead against her face, breaking her nose.

“Please don’t hurt Tori,” she pleaded. “Please, whatever you do, don’t…don’t…”

Torgar leaned closer, and when his grin returned, her dread only grew.

“Taras was like my own kid,” he said. “I helped raise him better than you ever did. Tori’s as much my grandchild as yours. I’ll never hurt a hair on her head, so you can die knowing that. I’ll teach her, protect her. After all, I’m her godfather…which means until she comes of age, this mansion, and all its fortunes, are mine.”

The reality hit her like one of his fists. She tried to cry out, to deny it, but Torgar drew a dagger from his belt and stabbed her in the breast. As she felt blood drip across her blouse, she saw the dagger and realized it was her own. Ash from the fireplace still covered the handle. Her mouth opened and closed silently, and then she collapsed.

Her last thoughts were of Tori, and who she might become with a man like Torgar as her father.

As Lord Egar’s men marched toward the city gates, Ingram glanced back at his mansion and felt a tug of sorrow.

“It had to be done,” said Egar beside him. “Sailors and ruffians are one thing, but an army of elves?”

Ingram scowled. He understood, all right, but that didn’t mean he liked it. The second the attack began, Egar had hurried into the mansion and found Ingram watching from one of the front windows. His idea had been simple, though on the cowardly side. They’d flung a helmet on Ingram’s head, a coat of mail over his chest, and given him a shield. As the elves were scaling the walls, they pushed open the gates, Ingram hidden in the center of the hundred armed men. The city guard had sworn up a storm, but they could not stop them.

“They might keep looking if they find I’m not there,” Ingram said, forcing himself to look away from the mansion. He kept expecting it to go up in flames at any moment.

“I know, but don’t worry. I have a safe place for us to hide.”

The streets were quiet, any man with half a mind smart enough to know that tonight was a night to remain indoors. As fast as they could march, they made for the front gates. Ingram thought Egar meant to leave the city entirely, but then they veered aside, to a path that ended at one of the walls.

“In there,” Egar said, gesturing to a plain looking home. “You should be safe.”

Ingram took a step, something feeling amiss.

“Where is this?” he asked.

“A safe house I’ve kept ever since the Wraith started killing. Hurry. We can’t stay in the open for long, else we’ll be noticed.”

Ingram tested the door and found it unlocked. Pushing it open, he entered the small room. A round table was in the center, a candle burning atop it in a glass base. The fire place burned bright, casting long shadows across the far wall. At the back, a set of stairs led to the second floor. In one of the two chairs sat a man Ingram did not recognize. He reached for a weapon, but realized he carried none, only a shield. He didn’t remember forfeiting his dagger. Had it been when they put on his mail?

The door shut behind him, and the sound sent shivers up his spine.

“Who is this?” Ingram asked. “What’s going on?”

The man in the chair stood. He was dark-skinned, bearded, with a long scar running from his lip to his chin. He sipped hard liquor from a bottle, while in his left hand, he held a long blade.

“What do you think?” Egar said, his voice suddenly different. It was darker, angrier. Ingram had never heard someone speak to him with such contempt. He wanted to turn, but feared putting his back to the giant man.

“Glad to see you’re a man of your word,” said the stranger, setting the bottle down atop the table.

Ingram pulled the shield off his back, and for a moment he stood there, shaking. The stranger laughed as behind him, the door reopened.

“Make it quick, Darrel,” said Egar as he left. “We have much still to do.”

“Traitor,” Ingram muttered, eliciting a laugh from Darrel.

“To you, maybe,” said the man, tossing the weapon hand to hand, his grin so big he looked like a child given a cherished present. “But we’ve been paying him plenty, and for years. I’m thinking he might be the most loyal man in the city.”

Ingram lifted the shield, his face nothing but a mask of fear. Darrel slapped at it with his sword, which Ingram barely blocked in time. The big man shook his head, as if disappointed.

“This is going to be way too easy.”

When he pulled his sword back to stab, Ingram gave him no reason to think otherwise. But when he thrust again, Ingram launched himself forward. The sword hit the center of the shield and veered outward. Distance closed, Ingram rammed his knee into Darrel’s crotch, then followed it with an uppercut with his free hand. The man staggered backward on unsteady legs.

“You little shit!” Darrel cried, grabbing his sword with both hands and swinging. Ingram moved his shield to block, but he guessed too high. The sword clipped the bottom before continuing on, striking his mail shirt. The weapon could not cut through, but the blow knocked the air from his lungs and sent him sprawling into the table. Dropping the shield, Ingram fell to the ground, the killing blow missing and instead embedding a solid inch into the wood. Beneath the table, Ingram kicked out Darrel’s knee, and as he fell, did another shot to the man’s crotch, this time with his heel.

The effect was better the second time around. Darrel fell to both knees, and he had to grab the table to remain upright. Despite his trouble breathing, several of his ribs cracked or broken, Ingram flung himself at the man, wrapping his neck in his arms. The two hit the ground and rolled. In the scuffle, Ingram found himself flung off, with Darrel lying on his chest before the fireplace.

“Stay down!” Ingram said, kicking him in the ribs. Darrel dropped, but he pushed up again. Knowing he stood little chance in a prolonged fight, Ingram crawled closer, then wrapped his arms around Darrel’s neck. Darrel’s enormous fists closed about his arms, and they struggled, but Ingram had the better positioning. Inch by inch he lowered Darrel’s face, then at the last moment, twisted and flung him forward. Darrel’s face smashed into the burning coals, eliciting a howl that chilled Ingram to the core. It took all his strength to hold the man there for a moment longer. When he released, he scrambled for what lay beside him on the floor: the spilled bottle Darrel had been drinking from when they first entered.