David Dalglish - A Dance Of Death

Fires burned across the city, guards patrolled the area surrounding Ingram’s mansion, and by the docks, Alyssa hung tied and bound, waiting for Zusa to rescue her. Yes, Haern, thought, he could see it just fine.

“Nothing,” he said. “You and I are nothing alike.”

“Try opening your eyes, then, and perhaps you’ll see differently.”

Haern stepped to the side, feinted a thrust, and then came rushing in, his sabers slashing with all his strength.

“What could you know of me?” he cried as his sabers whirled and cut, flooding the rooftop with the sound of steel on steel as Graeven blocked each one with a deft twist of his blade. Growing desperate, Haern tried a complicated series of short thrusts he’d learned from one of his many trainers. The idea was to overwhelm his opponents with attacks so that when one finally slipped through, Haern could step in and put all his force behind it. But Graeven was no normal opponent, and he retreated step by step to each thrust, parrying only when Haern tried to press in. When Haern at last could not keep it up, he tried to pull back, and that’s when Graeven struck.

Haern flung his sabers up in defense as the elf charged in, but he left himself vulnerable to one side, and in slipped Graeven’s foot, tripping him. He hit the ground with a thud, the blow knocking the wind out of him. Again he expected a killing blow, but Graeven retreated, twirling his sword as if he were bored.

“I know so much about you, Haern,” he said. “I know the role you played against the guilds and the Trifect. When rumors of that pathetic little war’s end reached my ears, all blamed on the actions of one man, I scoffed. But the truce lasted, so in disguise I came to Veldaren. Piece by piece, story by story, I learned what you did. I listened to the way the scum of the city spoke your name. You were a beacon to me, a hope in this dying world. My race is outnumbered, and every day it dwindles while the race of man spreads like an unstoppable plague. But your cities, your true places of power, were your weakness. If I could bring them toppling down, we might survive. And there you were, one man, with an entire city in your grip.

“And now here was Angelport, reaching to our forests with its bloody fingers. Within every faction, even my own, I slaughtered those who desired peace, who would rather make deals and concessions than face the true ugliness and conflict that must be fought if we are to endure another century. When I first used your bloody eye, I did so as an homage, not a calling. Imagine my delight when you actually arrived. I thought you could help me, that you would see the need for this. Angelport is worse than Veldaren ever was. There is no salvation in it, no desire for peace, no hope for something better. There is greed, and hatred, and nothing else.”

Haern took to his feet, and Graeven attacked him with such viciousness he had to retreat. The long blade sliced through the air, always a half second behind.

“You tamed the vile darkness in Veldaren,” the elf said as he chased. “You killed hundreds to force a final confrontation, and subdue the guilty. Help me do the same here. Everything I’ve done has been to force the war needed to bring everything into focus, to give clarity to the nations. My kind will burn this city to the ground, a glorious purification that all Dezrel, both elf and man, so desperately needs.”

“I am not you!” Haern cried, attempting a counter that was quickly blocked. “I will not murder the innocent!”

“You murder innocents with your actions, you damn fool. You’ve left children to starve, wives without protection, guilds so weak others tore them to pieces. Celestia help me, how are you so naive?”

Haern tried to shut him out, to ignore the words that echoed his own thoughts, awakening guilt he’d carried for years but done his best to deny. Graeven could see his torment, and he fought closer, forcing an opening in his sabers so he might slash a shallow cut across Haern’s chest. As Haern stumbled back, blood dripping down his shirt, Graeven shook the droplets from his sword.

“We are alike, Watcher. I am your twin, your shadow, the natural progression to what you began. Do not throw your life away without reason. Look what you and I have done by ourselves, through manipulation and sheer, brute strength. Imagine what we could do together! We can thrust the darkness of man into the light. We can find the vile corners in which the sickness hides and burn it all to the ground. Help me. Fight beside me. We have the same goals, the same methods. Do you not see?”

“Our methods might be the same,” Haern said, mustering the last of his strength. “But I never wanted to destroy Veldaren, only save it. I won’t be the monster you want me to be.”

Graeven shook his head.

“Then to Veldaren I will go next. I’ll finish what you started. I’ll hunt down everyone you knew, everyone you loved. No one betrays me, Watcher. Whatever legacy you had, I’ll destroy it and replace it with my own.”

Haern felt time slowing as he settled once more into a stance. He thought of the Wraith running loose in Veldaren, slaughtering priests, thieves, mercenaries, all to bring about chaos and riots. He thought of every step of his life made worthless, the brittle peace breaking into a slaughter worse than it had ever been. He thought of Tarlak and Brug trying to fight it, only to be overwhelmed. Most of all, he thought of Delysia, dying at the hands of the Wraith.

“No,” he said, shifting his weight onto his back leg. “You won’t.”

Help me Ashhur, he prayed as Graeven twirled his sword. Not for me, but for them.

The elf leapt, and Haern met the charge. They crashed together in the air, a brutal collision of kicks and slashes. The sword cut a wound across his thigh, the pain terrible. His heel caught Graeven’s jaw, and a saber slashed across his knuckles. They landed with their backs to one another. Graeven swung behind him, twisting his body while keeping his feet planted. Haern arched backward, the edge slicing the air above his chest. Returning to a stand, he thrust both his blades, but the elf looped his arm around, smacking them away.

Now face to face, they dueled once more, Haern driven on by a fury approaching madness. He kept on the attack, spinning and thrusting with such precision he couldn’t help think his father would be proud. All his inhibitions, all his doubt, faded away as his sabers sang out a song of violence. He’d once thought himself a monster, but now he faced a true monster, a being sworn to death and destruction, to whom life was only to be taken, not preserved. Whatever limits he knew, he pushed beyond them, despite the pain of his cuts, the ache of his muscles, and the blood that poured across his cloaks.

But Graeven would not fall, and at last Haern knew his energy was almost at an end. He had but one last trick, the cloak dance he’d relied on for years. Pulling back, he weaved himself into a spin, his cloaks separating and flailing in a bizarre pattern to hide his weapons and the positioning of his hands and feet. Graeven had faced it before, and as Haern’s vision was momentarily blocked, up came the smoke. He’d been shifting left just before vanishing, and denying every instinct, every piece of information he’d seen otherwise from the elf’s stance, eyes, and momentum, Haern turned and thrust his sabers blindly to the right.

Graeven’s sword slashed across his arm, spilling blood but failing to achieve the lethal hit he desired. His eyes grew wide, and his momentum carried him all the way into Haern’s arms, as if in an embrace. His mouth opened, his lips trembling. After a twist of his wrists, Haern pulled his sabers free from deep in Graeven’s belly. With a clang of metal and ruffle of cloth, the elf hit the ground, lying upon his back. Haern stood over him, watching, his sabers dripping blood.