David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Damn it, Brug, what am I paying you for? And you, Haern, right? Keep him alive, will you?”

Haern turned to his opponents, somewhat amused at how much redder Brug’s face grew. He blubbered, then rushed ahead, punching the air with his daggers. Haern’s amusement left. The idiot was going to get himself killed because of his pride. He rushed after, the two of them barreling at the three Wolves as if they were madmen. At the time, it was a fair assessment. The Wolves wavered, he saw the doubt in their eyes, and then they turned to flee. Haern killed two, for he was too fast and had far too much momentum to be outrun. He sliced the hamstring of the third as he ran on by, allowing Brug to catch up and eviscerate the thief with his punch-daggers.

Sucking in air, Haern turned back to the fountain. The last of the Wolves were either dead or fleeing. Tarlak stepped out of the fountain, helped Delysia follow, and then waved.

“That wasn’t so bad,” he said.

Haern shook his head. Off his rocker, indeed.

G host followed the Watcher south, though he did so with no hurry. He’d watched him fight, and learned two things: One, no puke-brained mercenary was going to be the one to do him in. Two, he had someone close to him. He might have thought his quiet voice concealed his emotions, but he heard the hint of worry, particularly about the one named Delysia. With that, it was only a matter of time before he brought the Watcher down. You couldn’t have attachments, not if you wanted to survive against someone like Ghost.

Tarlak Eschaton wasn’t well-known to him, but if he played the mercenary game, then he had contacts, friends, employers, maybe even a spot in the guild. There would be no hiding. So as he strolled down the street, always given a wide berth by the groups that rushed past with bloodied swords, he paused and looked west. A strange commotion was brewing down there-he could tell by the torches and the way several of the recent patrols all turned in that direction. Had the fighting coalesced into an actual battlefront? Surely not. They weren’t that organized, nor would that benefit the thieves in any way. So what then?

His hands on his hilts, he strode over to the mob. He estimated at least sixty men gathered around what he realized was the temple of Ashhur. So far they remained at the steps, but that appeared ready to change at any moment. Fifteen priests stood in their way, their hands at their sides. They were proficient with many spells, he knew, but how effective they’d be on armored men, he was unsure. An elderly priest with a bald head stood in the center of the steps, and he faced the crowd without any semblance of worry. Sweat ran down the sides of his neck, though, and Ghost knew him just as scared as the rest.

“You cannot enter,” the old man shouted, hardly heard over the din of the mercenaries.

“Let us in!” they shouted.

“Out of the way!”

“You harbor thieves!”

Ghost frowned. He needed a better look. To the side he found a pillar, and he used that to vault himself halfway up the steps, and from there he peered into the temple. Inside was chaos, hundreds of people crammed within seeking shelter. Given how many homes he’d seen ransacked, it made perfect sense. Where else might be safer? They sat on benches, huddled against walls, and lay in the aisles if need be. Sure enough, he caught sight of a few cloaks in there, but not many.

“I will not hand anyone over to be butchered in the streets,” the head priest was saying. “Go on your way. Curse our city with your bloodshed if you must, but I will not allow it to happen on my doorstep!”

Another patrol joined the group, this one numbering twenty. They muttered amongst each other, wanting to know the reason for their delay. Several more lit up torches. Ghost felt his blood boil. They would set fire to a temple all to meet their blood-thirst? A thousand rogues must remain hiding elsewhere, but they would come here?

The head priest lifted a hand over his head. A bright light grew from his palm, and even from the side it was painful for Ghost to look upon. He didn’t want to imagine staring into it from the front. This seemed to draw the mercenaries back a little. A captain he’d met a couple of times, named Jamie ‘Half-Ear’, for obvious reasons, stepped forward.

“We don’t want nothing bad to happen here,” he said. “But we saw plenty run inside before we surrounded the place. No one innocent needs to be hurt. Just send them out.”

“Those who came here for succor shall receive it,” said the priest.

“I know, I know, you gots to say that,” said Jamie. “Please, er…”

“Calan.”

“Calan. I doubt you want us filthy men running through your fancy place, so how about I just send one or two to point ‘em out to your little helpers? Only the guilty get taken out, and just a few. Everyone else stays safe, see what I’m saying? They ain’t your flock. They ain’t your children. They’re damn thieves, and those with more power than you say it’s time they die.”

Calan shook his head. “In time, perhaps, but not tonight. Go on your way, all of you.”

“They’re dying tonight, you stupid ass, no matter what you do. I see a lot of stone, but this building’s still got plenty that’ll burn. You hearing me, Calan? It’ll burn! ”

That was enough for Ghost. Though he couldn’t care less about their deity, the temple was a beautiful structure. Stubborn and blind, the whole lot of them. He reached into a side pocket and withdrew a handful of knives, weighted to fly true. Scanning the crowd, he waited, wanting his choices to be absolutely perfect. Jamie was too close, too public, but those near the front, most eager for blood…

Hidden behind his pillar, he flung his first knife into the crowd. It plunged deep into the throat of a man hollering at the top of his lungs, ceasing his cries for fire. His next three took down torch bearers, as Ghost decided fire was the greatest threat to the temple. Down they went, their torches clattering across the stone. By now the crowd had noticed the deaths, and while some wondered aloud, most roared for blood. They’d blame the priests, which was the goal. All the better to make the mercenaries appear the fools when he stepped out.

“You’d murder us in the street while claiming to protect life?” Jamie cried, more to the mercenaries than the priests.

“We have done no such thing,” Calan insisted. He might as well have shouted at a thunderstorm to cease its rumbling.

Ghost slipped to the other side of the pillar, then hopped lower, closer to Calan. He was directly behind him, with a clear view of Half-Ear. The captain was practically frothing at the mouth while screaming for blood, but he’d not yet drawn a blade. Not yet…but close…his hand twitching…now!

Ghost coiled his legs and pushed off, launching himself between them. He wielded a single sword in both hands, needing the power. Before Jamie could swing, Ghost’s sword tore through him, slicing from collarbone to hip. When Jamie kicked, the upper half of him collapsed backward and rolled down the steps, spilling innards, while the legs crumpled and lay in place. A flood of gasps came from the crowd, those that were not stunned silent. Ghost held the bloody blade before his face, peering over it with his eyes.

“Be gone, damn cowards. You have no business here. Go elsewhere, and slay the cloaks in their homes, the streets, wherever but here.”

“This is madness,” Calan said behind him. “I can’t allow…”

“Quiet, priest. You may not want bloodshed, but it’ll happen, and better here on these steps than inside your halls. Such disrespect, it’s shameful. They deserve to die just as much as those thieves within.”