David Dalglish: A Dance Of Death

As Darrel rolled himself out of the fire, Ingram took the bottle by the neck, turned, and swung it with both hands. It smashed against Darrel’s nose, crunching it inward before the bottle broke against his skull. Alcohol splashed across his face and beard, including a few coals that had remained lodged against him. His beard caught fire first, followed by the rest. As the man howled and flailed, Ingram staggered toward the steps. There was no way Egar would leave the front entrance unguarded, not until he saw a body. But perhaps up top, he might escape…

He climbed the stairs to the second floor. The room was even smaller, the roof slanted in sharp angles. Within was a dresser, a bed, and an open, dirt-covered window. On the bed, as if he’d been waiting for him the whole while, sat the Wraith.

“You lasted this long,” the Wraith said. “I will give you credit for that.”

His sword lashed out, cleanly slicing through Ingram’s throat. He collapsed, clutching his neck as blood gushed through his fingers. Gasping for air, he saw the Wraith lean over, a sad smile on his face.

“I could have saved you, Ingram. To think you’d weaken, and offer peace. So disappointing.”

As he died, Ingram watched the Wraith leap out the window and into the bloody night.

Upon seeing his own kind besieging Ingram’s mansion, Dieredon felt torn between loyalty and fury. Surely such a brazen attack had not been condoned by Graeven, nor Ceredon himself. He’d heard of the attempt at the jail, and best he could tell, it’d been initiated by Laryssa. His gut told him Laryssa had done the same tonight. The attack might as well be an admission of war, something she had no authority to do.

But at the same time, as the humans battled and fired their crossbows, he watched many elves, some he’d known for hundreds of years, fall and bleed out on the grass. The sight was enough to make his stomach sick. He knelt from the rooftop of a nearby home, just barely able to peer over the stone wall.

“This is your doing,” Dieredon said, shaking his head. “I won’t help you start a war, Laryssa.”

He wanted to go, but could not. He watched the ebb and flow of the fight, which at first was drastically in the elves’ favor, despite their fewer numbers. The humans gathered at the front, for what appeared to be their last hurrah before dying in a blur of elven steel.

But then they arrived.

Dieredon had never seen the woman before, but the man spinning and slashing with those sabers could be no one else. Suddenly things became far clearer. He might not support Laryssa in her attempts at a pointless war, but to see the one who’d nearly killed elven royalty out there slaughtering elven troops…

Leaping off the rooftop, he hit the ground and rolled, his long, ornate knives flashing into his hands. He wished he had his bow, but he’d left the enormous thing in hiding outside Angelport, knowing he couldn’t carry it around without drawing immediate attention. Still, his knives would be sufficient, despite the Watcher’s surprising skill. Not many opponents fought Dieredon and lived for a second exchange.

Despite his speed, Dieredon kept his approach low and hidden, wanting no one, not even the other elves, to know of his presence. Should word get back to Quellassar he had witnessed the battle and not helped, there’d be many eager to deem him a coward and a traitor. He had no intention of delving into that type of political nonsense. As he was halfway there, smoke billowed out the windows of the mansion, and elves fled from all directions. One side or the other had set it aflame, though Dieredon couldn’t begin to guess which. He dove into the cover of shadows as they fled, and he waited.

The Watcher vaulted over the wall in chase, and Dieredon followed him in return. Far down an alley, his target having eluded him, the Watcher slowed. Dieredon did not. Only sheer honor kept him from stabbing him in the back. Someone who fought with such skill deserved to die in fair combat.

“Watcher!” Dieredon called, mere seconds before he launched himself into an attack. The human spun, his cloaks whipping about. His eyes widened at sight of him, and Dieredon felt the tiniest amusement at the worry he saw. Even against the Watcher, Dieredon still carried a frightening reputation.

Their blades clashed together, and this time Dieredon was prepared for his speed. He settled into an attack routine, keeping on the offense. At last the Watcher tried for a riposte, and Dieredon slid into the opening. His foot shot out, connecting against the human’s chin.

“Blow for blow,” Dieredon said, grinning despite the horror of the night. Armies of humans might soon march upon their forests, but at least for now he could fight an opponent of equal skill and know the human deserved death.

The Watcher didn’t seem as amused. He leapt away, then fled toward a nearby building. Grabbing the side of a low-hanging roof, he vaulted atop it. As Dieredon was about to follow, his finely honed instincts cried out in warning. Instead he dropped back down and spun, his knives already out to parry.

The red-cloaked woman slammed into him, her daggers ringing as Dieredon parried slash after slash. Her speed was nearly equal to the Watcher’s, but it was her fluidity that struck him, and as he launched an offensive to ensure she couldn’t pin his back to the building, he felt as if he were fighting another elf. Her skill with the daggers, however, was not anywhere as finely honed. He parried a thrust to the side, stabbing with his right hand. She twisted, and should have avoided his thrust, but it was just a feint. Instead he closed the distance between them, batting both her daggers outward when she tried to bring them in. Her defenses broken, Dieredon pulled back for a killing thrust.

The Watcher’s heels slammed into his shoulder before he could. Sabers slashed the air where he’d been as Dieredon rolled with the blow, then leapt twice to give himself some space. Both the Watcher and the woman faced him, their weapons clutched tightly in their hands. Dieredon tensed, realizing that, skilled as he was, combined they posed a dangerous fight.

“I have no quarrel with you,” he said to the woman.

“Nor I with you,” she said, her body slanting lower. “But you’re not killing Haern.”

She attacked, and the Watcher followed. Her daggers danced like snakes, and Dieredon could only defend against them with just his left hand, for the Watcher assaulted the other side. The elf felt his skills tested as never before, twisting and shifting as his two knives blocked and parried with nearly every movement he made. The woman increased her ferocity, but Dieredon faked a counter, then launched himself at the Watcher. The two intertwined, a chaotic clash of blades, kicks, and punches. Blood flew.

Dieredon rolled away, his chest stinging from a shallow cut. The Watcher fared no better, two fresh wounds bleeding from his left arm. The woman came at him, refusing to give him rest. He blocked her daggers, shoved them aside, and then caught her with his hilts on the way back. As her body twisted with the blow, he kicked out, delivering a satisfying hit to her midsection. She let out a cry as she staggered away. Dieredon took the time to gain some distance between them, and catch his breath. The Watcher looked ready for another attack, his legs braced for a leap.

“Why do you hunt me?” the man asked, shifting the angle of his sabers every few moments to ensure Dieredon did not anticipate his next move. “I have never struck at the elves before tonight.”

“You stabbed Laryssa and left her dead. There will be no courts for you, no lies, only justice.”

“ Justice? ”

Dieredon took advantage of the man’s confusion, breaking into a dead run. When the woman tried to intervene, he slide-kicked, forcing her to leap away to avoid his low slash. He rolled once, then kicked out of it with his knives leading. The Watcher was ready, unafraid to meet his charge. Knife and saber collided, the alley ringing with the sound of their contact. Dieredon’s arms weaved at the very limits of their speed, and the Watcher met him blow for blow. Each scored another pair of cuts, shallow wounds that would do little else than bleed.