David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“I’d rather neither die,” Calan said, his voice dropping lower.

“Good luck with that.”

Ghost had hoped the brutal display would cow the crowd, but he underestimated their desire. Too many seemed eager for a fight. They’d gone unchallenged, no doubt thought themselves already nearing the end of their task. If they went south, they’d probably think differently. The fires were growing, the smoke blanketing the city. This fight wasn’t over; not even close.

“Stun as many as you can,” he said to the head priest. “Blind them, knock them back. Leave the killing to me. I’ll be better at it than you, anyway.”

He drew his other weapon and lifted both high above his head, as if worshipping a god of the sky.

“Draw swords or flee!” he shouted to the crowd. It was time to end this stalling. It was time for blood or cowardice.

The mercenaries surged forward, not following any spoken command, only a collective realization to attack now or be revealed as bluffers. The priests raised their hands, their palms facing down the steps. Light shone from them, the intensity blinding. Ghost heard the sound of a hundred claps of thunder, and it passed over him like a physical force. Those at the front staggered or fell back, forcing the rest behind to pull them out of the way. Ghost took advantage of the confusion, leaping forward to gut one mercenary and cut down another. He backpedaled up the steps, parrying random thrusts that seemed wild, as if his opponents were still struggling to see.

“Fall back,” he ordered. The priests exchanged a quick look, but then Calan nodded.

“As he says!” shouted the head priest.

The fifteen climbed the steps, prayers still on their lips. Walls of force slammed into the crowd, invisible but their effects not. He watched noses break, heads bruise, and fingers snap in painful directions. More stumbled upon the steps, crushed by those who rushed behind them. Ghost stayed before Calan, figuring him the most important to protect. He was the strongest, and as long as he stood, the other priests wouldn’t break rank and flee.

“We must hide inside,” Calan said. “We can’t hold them back.”

Ghost lunged left to right, taking out those who pushed through the spells ahead of the pack. They fell, disadvantaged by the lower ground and disoriented beyond measure. If not for the sheer numbers, Ghost feared he might have gotten bored.

“We go inside and they’ll burn us out,” he insisted. “Stand and fight, old man. Stand and fight.”

He kicked another body down the steps. They were gathering before the door, nearly out of space to retreat. Calan nodded, accepting the man’s decision.

“So be it,” he said, standing beside Ghost and lifting his arms. “Forgive me, Ashhur, but I need your retribution this night.”

He lowered his hands. A sound of thunder rolled, and then the steps to the temple trembled and broke. Dust rippled outward in concentric circles, giving visibility to the shockwave. There were about twenty men pressing upward at the time, and they collapsed, crying out in pain. The amount of broken limbs Ghost witnessed was staggering. It was like Ashhur had stepped down and crushed them with his heel. Calan trembled, then stepped back and accepted the support of two more priests. The rest of the mercenaries, not willing to even think of climbing those corpse-strewn steps, turned and fled. Ghost leapt among them, killing a few more for good measure. Coated with gore, he returned to the temple, where he heard songs and lamentations coming from within.

A couple of the priests thanked him, but most eyed him warily and scooted further away when he neared.

“Why?” asked Calan, his arm still around one of the younger priests. “Why did you help us?”

Ghost shrugged. “Can’t stand disrespect, and that’s all that was. They should respect me, and respect you. They didn’t, and now they’re dead.”

“Not all of them,” Calan said, gesturing to the many wounded. He turned to his priests. “Go and tend to them.”

“I doubt they’ll bother you now,” Ghost said. “But I’d consider getting rid of those with colors in your temple while it’s still calm.”

“If I did that,” said the head priest with a smile, “I wouldn’t be worthy of much respect, would I?”

Ghost laughed. “Maybe you’re right. Then I hope your god watches over you. Before this night ends, you might still need him.”

*

D eathmask watched the carnage from the window of a room currently absent of its original occupants. No doubt they’d fled to safer territory, assuming there was anywhere safe within the city walls. He’d gone out with the initial patrols, under orders from Garrick to help ambush some of the smaller mercenary groups. When the first fight began, he’d slipped away, joining Veliana in the large apartments overlooking their headquarters. After a few initial confrontations that left many on both sides dead, the area had remained quiet for the past hour. Most recently, a squad of fifty men had checked the headquarters for thieves, found none, and then moved on.

“I doubt there’ll be much guild left for you to rule after tonight,” Veliana said, relaxing on a moth-eaten chair. “Hope Garrick survives, though. Would be heartbroken if some lousy sellsword gets the honor of cutting off his head.”

“He’s too cowardly to die tonight,” Deathmask said as he tied gray cloth over his face and straightened it so the eyeholes lined up properly. Behind him, Veliana did the same, using the knot of the cloth to also keep her hair in a tight ponytail. They both wore loose gray clothing, and cloaks of a darker shade. Veliana had killed a pair of Spiders in the initial chaos before joining Deathmask in the building, bringing with her their clothes and weapons.

“While unexpected, tonight certainly works in our favor,” he said, once more looking to the window. “The fewer we have to thin out, the better. Have you given thought as to who we should spare?”

“The only ones who come to mind are the twins,” she said. “They have a head on their shoulders, though it seems like they share it. They think so alike it’s creepy.”

“Can they wield a blade?”

“They’re better at throwing them than wielding them, but no average cutthroat could handle them, either.”

“Good. Names?”

She tugged at her mask, trying to get it to fit comfortably. “Mier and Nien.”

Deathmask rolled his eyes. “What wonderful parents. Gods forbid their names be at least a little different.”

He leaned away from the window as a man rushed down the road, a jittery fellow who kept glancing in every direction. Two more followed after. Veliana saw Deathmask’s reaction and straightened in her chair.

“Someone there?” she asked.

“Looks like some scouts, no doubt making sure it’s safe to come home. Get ready. We’ll have little time between their leaving and Garrick’s arrival.”

The Ash scouts vanished into the building. Deathmask peered out the window, watching, waiting. When the scout emerged, Deathmask beckoned Veliana closer.

“Go!” he said when the scout turned a corner. They tossed a rope that was tied to the bed in their room, sliding down even as it uncoiled. They hit the street in seconds and sprinted for the headquarters. Deathmask led the way, Veliana at his heels. Once inside they slowed, walking through the hallway into the lavish rooms.

“Pick your spot,” he said, his eyes darting about. “Keep close to the doors for when we make our escape.”

“I’m no stranger to this sort of thing,” Veliana said, glaring at him through her mask.

“Keep your hood raised. If they see your hair, they might figure out who you are, instead of just assuming you another Spider.”