David Dalglish: A Dance Of Death

Warrick chuckled.

“And little here that will miss you after you leave. Go on, Watcher. Return to the world you know. This one is beyond you.”

The cloaked man leapt out the window, onto the rooftop, and into the night. Warrick let out a sigh of relief, then vowed to have the damn window boarded up first thing in the morning.

Haern saw the fire as he traveled north, yet almost did not go to it. He didn’t think it could be them, not with how close it was to the city. If they’d walked a steady pace north, they should have been several miles beyond. Still, he went, and sure enough saw Alyssa and Zusa lying side by side, with only each other and the fire to keep warm amid the cold night. Haern took a seat beside it, tossing on a few branches to bring it roaring back to life. On the other side, Zusa stirred, and she sat up alert, as if she had not even been sleeping.

“Oh,” Zusa said, seeing him there.

Haern pulled the hood off his head and tossed it to the dirt beside him.

“Why’d you wait?” he asked after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

To that, Zusa laughed.

“Go to bed, Watcher,” she said. “And try not to ask foolish questions.”

The casual dismissal put his mind at ease, and spreading out his cloaks as a blanket, he slept beside the roaring fire.

Torgar removed his armor and shirt with a satisfied grunt. Slamming the door shut behind him was just as satisfying. Keeping things sane seemed far harder than it had for Laurie, or even Madelyn. So many people wanting things, making offers, calling up debts. No matter how much wealth Torgar’s new advisors insisted they had, it never seemed enough.

“Damn shame Madelyn killed you,” Torgar murmured, imagining a ghostly Laurie standing beside him. “Should be you doing this, not me, but oh well.”

A rumble sounded from outside, a heavy storm rolling in from the ocean. The raindrops pinked against the glass, first light, then at a rapid pace. Lightning flashed, and in its light, Torgar saw eyes glinting at him from atop his bed. Torgar froze as his vision adjusted to the darkness, and what he saw didn’t give him much hope. An elf crouched on his bed, an enormous bow in hand. An arrow was pressed against the string, but not yet pulled taut.

“Greetings, Torgar,” said the elf as the house shook from thunder.

“What do you want?” Torgar asked, sounding more annoyed than afraid.

“You should know. I talked with Alyssa, and she had a very interesting story to tell me…”

Torgar’s sword was across the room, atop his dresser. He had no chance of reaching it in time.

“Ah, fuck me,” he said as the arrow flew.

Haern sat atop the hill, staring at the lights of Veldaren in the distance. The Wraith’s old hood lay in his lap, and beside him on grass were his sabers. He held his chin in his hand, his elbow resting on his knee. He more heard than saw Delysia’s approach. With a soft rustle of her robes, which shone silver in the starlight, she sat beside him.

“Tarlak says the Trifect won’t disband after all,” she said. “The King’s agreed to nullify the treaty Alyssa signed. If the Trifect broke apart, the guilds would receive no bribes to remain at peace. After Alyssa reminded Edwin of that, he seemed far more willing to listen.”

“Good,” Haern said absently.

Delysia’s arm slid about him, and he felt her head rest against his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” she asked him. “You’ve been morose ever since returning, and I don’t think you’ve gone out at night once to patrol.”

Haern started to say something defensive, but fought it down. Instead he leaned against her, and he closed his eyes as he forced himself to relax.

“Back at Angelport… no one there knew what was right, what was wrong. Worse, they didn’t seem to care. They killed and betrayed to accomplish what they desired, all while pretending their aims justified the bloodshed. And now I sit here, and I look to a city where I’ve killed hundreds…how am I any better? How do I justify this, how do I pretend I’m the one in the right? My vengeance on the thief guilds, on the Trifect, is no better than what they themselves have done.”

“Do you really think that?” Delysia asked.

Haern shook his head.

“I don’t know.”

He felt her lips press against his cheek, and it seemed time slowed.

“You never really hated the guilds, Haern. I know you better than that. You never fought against them. You never fought to destroy the Trifect. You wanted to save Veldaren from the world you escaped from. You wanted people to live without fear. It was never for you. Go do what must be done, and we’ll be here when you need us.”

Haern wrapped his arms about her, kissed her lips, and then held her tight as he felt his body shiver. His guilt drained away, and he clutched her as a man might hold a piece of driftwood in a storm.

“Always be there for me,” he whispered. “If you’re there, if you’re able to forgive me, I can continue to go on. I’ll know I’m still me, still something worthwhile to save…”

She kissed him again, then handed him his hood. He put it on, and as the shadows enveloped his face, he grabbed his sabers and hooked them to his belt. Waving goodbye, he ran to Veldaren, to the many secret ways over the walls and into the dens of thieves and nobles. Angelport might have been beyond saving, or at the least, beyond his understanding. But he’d never let Veldaren become the same. He’d stalk the night, and let his fury fuel the fear he bestowed upon those who would turn their blades upon another. The slaughters of the past, the riots, the betrayals…they’d not happen, not here, not again. Not while he watched.

Warrick was right. He couldn’t save all of Dezrel. But Veldaren was his city, the place of his father, the home of his friends.

Along the rooftops ran the Watcher, cloaks trailing, sabers in hand.