David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Quiet,” Veliana hissed.

The door opened, and out stepped Deathmask. He wore his red robes and the dark gray cloak of their guild. As always when he went out in public, he’d tied a gray cloth around his face, hiding all but his eyes and hair. His back was to her. She glanced at Rick, who shot her a thumbs up. When she looked back down, Deathmask was staring up at her. Slowly he shook his head, as if berating a child.

“Fuck,” Veliana whispered. She pulled back from the ledge as Garrick asked her what was going on. “He’s spotted me.”

“Then Rick should…”

He stopped as they both watched Rick tumble over the edge of the building, blood gushing from his mouth and ears. When his body hit the ground, Veliana let out an involuntary gasp. Rick hadn’t even fired, his crossbow lying useless atop the flat roof. Deathmask laughed, and he called out from the quiet street.

“I’m disappointed, Vel! Only the one?”

He walked west, and both remained silent as they watched him. Veliana hadn’t seen what he’d done to Rick, but she knew now that he was far beyond any normal thief or trickster. Only a spell could have done what she’d just seen, a dark and powerful one. She was playing a game against an opponent she knew nothing about. Such was a sure path toward losing.

“That son of a bitch,” Garrick said. “He’s toying with us. He knows we want him dead, and he doesn’t care! If we don’t do something soon, I’ll be a mockery to the rest of the guild.”

“Of course you will,” Veliana said as she stood. “You’re trying to kill someone you accepted into our guild, all without any proof or reason. That is what will upset them, not that you can’t kill him.”

She thought Garrick would explode, but instead he gave her an amused grin.

“You failed, Vel, so now I choose the attempt. Enough of poison and cowardly arrows. It’s time you bloodied your hands.”

“So long as you don’t have to bloody yours,” she said, offering him a mock bow. Her sarcasm hid her fear. She couldn’t back down, not when Garrick was starting to develop a spine, but did she really want to mess with Deathmask?

She hung from the edge of the roof, dropped down to a windowsill, and then used it to fall to the street. A closer look confirmed what she’d already realized: Deathmask was equal to her in skill, if not superior. She found a thin razor embedded deep in Rick’s neck. No doubt Deathmask’s spell had required some sort of physical contact, and he’d thrown the razor as a way of carrying that spell. A simple but foolproof ambush, but it was her man that lay dead.

Laughter floated down. She flipped Garrick the finger, knowing he stood at the roof’s edge watching her. So be it. No matter what Garrick thought, the Ash Guild was hers, and she would remind him of that fact. No doubt he viewed her coming attempt as a win-win, for either she or Deathmask would die. There had to be another way. More importantly, she had to think of a replacement for him, and soon.

“Bury him somewhere,” she said to her guards at the door as she marched inside to think.

*

A ny deviation from Deathmask’s normal routine would immediately alert him, so Veliana played it patient. Two days after the third failed attempt she had one of her lower ranked members tell him he was to stay up late working as a guard. She hoped the tedium might dull his senses for when she struck. Despite him spotting her before, she took to the rooftop and waited. Four hours before dawn, when her own eyes started to droop, she decided it was time. She drank a mixture she’d prepared earlier in the day, a combination of strong tea and herbs. A few minutes later, she felt the mixture kick in. Her head ached, but her drowsiness was gone.

She drew her daggers and crept to the rooftop’s edge. No arrows or crossbows this time. If he really was a skilled spellcaster, her only chance was at close range, where she could disrupt the intricate movements needed to cast. She looked down, saw him standing several feet away from the building.

Damn it, she thought. Won’t be a straight drop. He can’t possibly know I’m coming, can he?

But of course he could. He might be able to read her mind for all she knew. Now was the time. He was mortal. He was fallible. She was the better. She had to prove that not just to Garrick, but to herself.

She leapt from the roof, silent as a ghost, her daggers aimed for his neck, her knees bent and ready to absorb the impact of their collision. She felt exhilaration soar through her, the wind blowing her hair as she fell. In that half-second, she saw him turn, saw him step aside. She twisted, suddenly panicking. He’d known. Somehow he’d known.

Rolling with the landing helped reduce the pain, but not by much. Her legs throbbed, though most of her weight slammed against her shoulder. She heard a pop and felt her right hand go numb. It no longer held her dagger. She tumbled along, then forced herself out of the roll. Turning around, she expected her death, some sort of spell to sap her breath, or explode her blood out her nostrils. Instead Deathmask stood there, shaking his head.

“Not good enough,” he said. “I need you stronger, faster. Otherwise you are useless to me.”

She clutched her numb hand to her chest and glared.

“No matter what it is, I won’t help you,” she said. “I’ve worked too hard to let you destroy everything.”

“Destroy?” Deathmask said as he looped his arms in a circle. “I’ve come to perfect, not destroy.”

She lunged at him as shadows pooled around his feet, bursting upward to form a wall that her dagger could not penetrate. She stabbed again, then spun about looking for an opening. There was none. Unsure, she closed her eyes and focused. She’d be vulnerable, but so long as the shadow wall remained, she might have the time. Purple fire surrounded the blade of her dagger, and with a cry she thrust it forward. It broke through the wall, which shattered and vanished as if it were made of fine glass. She had the briefest moment to enjoy the look of panic on Deathmask’s face before her dagger cut flesh.

It wasn’t fatal, and she cursed her foul luck. She’d guessed wrong where he stood, and her dagger only slashed his side and cut his robe. Warm blood spilled across her hand. They were so close, it seemed time froze as they eyed one another, preparing the next move for their dance. He drew a blade as he shifted away from her. Her kick sent it flying, and she stabbed again, wishing she had her other dagger. Deathmask fell back, his palms open. A light flashed from them, except it was black instead of white. It dazed her all the same, and her next two swings cut only air.

“What is wrong?” she asked as she took two steps and jumped. Her heel smashed into his stomach, and he gasped as he crumpled to the ground. “Where is the brutal killer that bested all my plans?”

Veliana dropped to one knee and thrust for his throat, not caring for his answer. He caught her wrist just as the tip entered his flesh. A single drop of blood ran down his neck as they struggled. By the gods he was strong!

“Still here,” he said, all trace of amusement gone. His voice was cold, merciless. She felt a shiver run up her spine. She jerked her arm back, but still he held her. His brown eyes met hers. If only she could tear off that damn mask of his. If only she could see his face, remind herself he was human, for his strength was unreal.

She swept her left leg around, taking out his feet. He never let go even as he fell. Together they hit the ground. The collision bumped her injured hand, and her fingers throbbed in agony. They had to be dislocated, if not broken. Still her dagger hovered inches from his flesh, unable to either attack or pull away. He landed on his back, and instead of rolling over, he reached up and held her good arm with both hands.