David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

The door crept open. In the yellow light of lamps he saw the glint of an old shortsword. A man looked through the crack, saw him holding the boy.

“Winter’s nearing its end,” said the man. “We have little to spare.”

“I’ll pay,” Haern said. “Please, I’ve walked without rest for days.”

The man glanced inside, whispered something, and then nodded.

“Come on in,” said the farmer. “And by Ashhur’s grace, I pray you mean no trouble.”

Haern found what appeared to be the entire family gathered in the front room, under blankets and around a stove whose heat felt glorious on Haern’s skin. He saw two girls huddled beside each other, their hair a pretty brown. The farmer had two boys, one of them of age, and they held knives as if to help their father should it come to bloodshed. His wife sat beside the fire, tending it.

“He has a fever,” Haern said, setting the boy down beside the stove. “And he hasn’t had food or drink for days.”

“I’ll get some water,” the wife said as she stood. She cast a worried glance at her husband, then vanished into the next room.

“My name is Matthew Pensfield,” said the farmer, extending his hand. Haern accepted it, and was shocked at how much his own hand shook. He hadn’t eaten much, he knew, but had it really affected him so greatly?

“Haern,” he said as he pulled his cloaks tight about him and surveyed the house. It seemed cozy enough, and not a hint of draft. The man had done well in building it.

“I know some of the Haerns,” said Matthew as his wife returned. He had a hard look, his square jaw covered with stubble, but he spoke plain and seemed more at ease now that Haern showed no inclination to violence. “Good men, own several fields west of here. What’s your full name? I might have heard them speak of you.”

“Just Haern,” he replied, nodding to the boy. “And I have no name for him. I found him wounded; why does not concern you. That room beyond there, is that your kitchen? Might we speak in private?”

Some of the farmer’s worry returned, but he nodded anyway.

“I reckon we can.”

Once in the other room, Haern dropped his voice to a whisper.

“I have a difficult request for you,” he said. “I need you to take care of that boy until he’s regained his health. I cannot stay.”

“We don’t have enough food to…”

He stopped as Haern drew out a handful of coins and dropped them upon the table. His eyes stretched wide. The gold shone in the dim light.

“People will be hunting for him,” Haern said. “No matter what, you treat him like your own child. When he regains his health, he’ll tell you his name and where his family might be, assuming they’re still alive. Until then, give him up to no one.

“What if they threaten violence?” Matthew asked, his eyes lingering on the gold.

“Would you give up one of your daughters?”

The farmer shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t.”

Haern let his cloak fall away from his left side, exposing one of his swords.

“I hope you understand,” he said. “I’ll return, and if I find him abused, or dead, I will repay you tenfold in blood.”

“He’s sick and wounded. What if he dies of fever?”

Haern smiled, and he let the coldness he felt in his bones creep into his eyes.

“How well do you trust your children, your wife, to tell the truth? I will know one way or the other what happened to him. Do not give me cause to wonder.”

Matthew swallowed. “I understand. This land is harsh, and we’ve taken in children before. Once he heals up, and the weather breaks, I’ll take him where he needs to go. If he doesn’t know, well, there’s always a need for more hands on a farm.”

Haern slapped him on the shoulder, nearly laughed at his terrified jump.

“Good man,” he said. “Now how about a warm meal?”

He ate some soup while he watched the wife tend to the boy. She put a wet cloth across his forehead, dressed his wounds far better than he had, and then used a spoon to slowly get him to drink. Haern was impressed. Seemed these Pensfields knew how to take care of themselves. Whoever the boy was, he could do far worse for a temporary home.

The soup did wonders for his mood. Its warmth seeped deep into his chest and then spread to the rest of his limbs. Combined with the heat of the wood stove, he felt warmed within and without. He could feel his muscles tightening from lack of motion after so much exertion, and he did his best to stretch in the cramped quarters.

“You can spend the night here if you wish,” Matthew said as the day neared its end. “I’d be a sad man to banish a guest just as the sun sets.”

“Thank you,” Haern said. He shifted further away from the fire so the children could take a turn. He wrapped his blankets around his body and closed his eyes. For the first time in his entire life, he found himself in a true home, with a real family. The children bickered, but there was a harmless familiarity to it. He thought of his own childhood, never spent with someone his own age, only the parade of tutors and mentors, training him to read, to write, to move, to kill. Had he ever curled up on the floor beside a fire, surrounded by a family that would never wish him harm? Had he ever been inside a house that felt at peace? Had he ever…

He slept, and his dreams were dull, calm, and he did not remember them when he woke.

I t was Veliana’s third attempt at killing Deathmask, and the first she was personally involved in. She lay atop the roof to their headquarters, a crossbow in hand.

“What if you miss?” asked Garrick, who stood behind her so he couldn’t be seen from the street.

“Then Rick will take him down,” Veliana said. She pointed to the building on the opposite side of the street. A man in gray lay atop it, a crossbow beside him.

“I can’t believe he’s not dead yet,” said Garrick as he took a chunk of Crimleaf from his pocket and began chewing. “Are our men truly so incompetent?”

Veliana rolled her eyes. The first attempt to kill Deathmask had been a simple stabbing in the night. She’d selected one of their lower ranking thugs for the deed. They’d found the thug’s body rotting beside Deathmask’s bed in the morning. How he’d died, no one knew. Deathmask hadn’t shown the slightest irritation at the attempt, either. Veliana held in a chuckle. Shit, the guy had tossed her a wink on the way to breakfast.

Their second attempt was actually three separate instances of poisoning his food. He hadn’t eaten any of it. During the third, Veliana caught him casting a spell over his meal, no doubt detecting the poison. That same day, both their cooks died vomiting blood. Garrick ranted and assumed they had mishandled the poison. Veliana knew differently.

“We’ve given him a simple task,” Veliana said, sighting the crossbow for their door. “He’s to collect protection money from a handful of vendors a few blocks over. When he exits the door, he should see Rick preparing to fire. In fact, I’m counting on it. He’s too damn clever not to notice. Maybe he’ll run, or cast a spell, or pretend he doesn’t see. It won’t matter. That’s when I put an arrow through his back.”

“So confident,” Garrick said. “Remember, if this fails, I make the next plan. This was your last shot to get things done safe and clean.”

“I figured you’d like things safe,” she muttered.

“What?” he asked.

“I said we should reconsider. He’s clearly skilled. What if he isn’t here on someone else’s payroll? What if he really wants a position in our guild?”

Garrick chuckled. “If he’s that good, why choose ours? We’re far from the most powerful. Others would have made more sense. Or why not become a mercenary? The pay would be better, and then he could kill our kind all he wants. I’m sure the Trifect would love to have him on their…”