David Dalglish: A Dance of Blades

“Don’t worry,” Kenny said as Biggs took a step forward, doing his best to ignore the charred corpses before him. “I keep this baby for special occasions like this.”

Biggs saw him pull a bolt out from one of his many pockets, its tip glistening with silver. The stranger rolled along the floor until safely hidden behind a giant hearth. Kenny took a wide step around, trying to get a clear shot.

“What are they paying you for?” Kenny asked. “Wizards aren’t supposed to get involved with mundane affairs, and they sure as shit aren’t supposed to hire out as assassins. What’s your game?”

“No game.” Biggs kept close to Kenny, standing opposite his trigger-arm and keeping his dagger ready in case the stranger charged. “And I am no wizard.”

“A necromancer then?” Kenny asked. “What’s this to you?”

Another side-step, each one slow and careful. Just as Kenny prepared his crossbow, so too could he be preparing a spell.

“Not a necromancer. How are you so blind? You, the lowest rung of the world’s ladder, cannot see what I am?”

“Enough riddles. What’s your name, and your price?”

“Out of everything, you ask name and price?” the stranger said, suddenly stepping from the shadows and into their line of sight.

The bolt fired. Biggs saw Kenny shift the crossbow to the side, just the slightest amount as if anticipating a dodge. None came. The stranger let the bolt hit him, and it pierced into his shoulder just below his collarbone. He gasped at the pain, leaned forward, and then to Biggs’s horror, steadied himself and stood erect.

“Name…price…I have neither.”

“Reload!” Biggs shouted, stepping between them and holding his dagger out. Fire danced in the stranger’s eyes, then to his hands. Knowing he had to buy his ally time, Biggs let out a curse and dashed in, swinging for the man’s neck. He never made it. The fire consumed his clothes, its heat beyond anything he’d ever felt. His legs refused to obey. As he collapsed, he looked back, hoping Kenny would at least kill the bastard who’d done him in, but of course the rogue was long gone, running like the intelligent coward he was.

“You died for nothing,” he heard the stranger say as the pain vanished amid a wave of darkness. His voice echoed in the chambers of his mind, slowly fading, slowly dying.

“Nothing…”

*

V eliana led them down the alleyway, her daggers sheathed at her hip. Still, her hands never strayed far from their hilts. Something about this meeting felt worrisome. Perhaps it was the great amount of coin about to change hands. Ever since James Beren’s death, things had gone poorly for the Ash Guild. James had been more than their leader: he’d been a sign of stability during the chaos and bloodshed. He’d died defying Thren Felhorn, and while in a nobler world that might have meant something, in theirs it brought about the near dissolution of the guild.

“Hurry,” she whispered, ushering the rest of her guildmates along. They were at the very edge of their pitifully small territory. The last thing she needed was an ambush. Even if they fought if off, the delay might be enough to disrupt their sale. They were supposed to meet a wealthy, and eccentric, merchant from Ker. All it’d take was a few minutes of fret and worry before he took his things and left.

Assuming the men she’d sent in advance let the merchant leave.

They curved through the streets, which narrowed because of the stalls that sprang up along the sides. They were passing many leatherworks and metal smiths. Almost there. She stopped at an intersection with a main road leading toward the castle, looked about for patrols, and then continued on when she saw none. The sky was clear and bright, but still the chill seeped through her clothes and into her skin. She hated winter. It made her hurry, made her spend only four seconds checking a turn when she should spend five. If she were to make any prediction, it’d be that when she was buried, it’d be when the ground was cold and hard. Assuming she was buried at all. Given her life, even that was far from a given.

“We’re here,” she said. A quick set of instructions sent two around to the other side, and then the remaining six followed her through the main door. She let one of her guildmembers, Pryor, go first, just in case there was a trap. When she heard him gasp, she thought it so, and she drew her daggers. But instead, she heard her name.

“Vel?”

She followed Pryor in and surveyed the area.

A man waited for them. He sat atop a large crate, presumably their red powder for the deal. His body bent over as if greatly burdened. He wore red robes stained with ash and blood. His skin was dark, and his hair darker. In one hand he held a dagger, the other, a long piece of gray cloth. When he lifted his head, she stared into his brown eyes and saw a combination of fury and hopelessness that frightened her. He was handsome, but she felt no attraction. How could she, seeing a gaze like that?

All around him, burned to ash and bone, were bodies.

“What is going on?” she asked, stunned by the sight.

“You were betrayed,” said the strange man. “One of your own helped kill the others so they might prepare an ambush.”

“Who?” Veliana asked.

The man slowly shook his head.“This is my time to speak,” he said. “Ask your questions when I am done, for I need your ears listening and your mind open. I do not know who prepared your betrayal, but I am sure they are one of the dead at my feet. They are ash now, a fitting end given the name of your guild. Think now on what you see. I handled what seven men of yours could not. Where they died, betrayed, I came and killed the betrayers. I am alone, woman. Now ask yourself, what use might I be to you? Surely I am worth the seven that died.”

“He’s lying,” said Pryor. “He killed them all! Greg, Brendan…he killed them!”

The man shook his head, and his shoulders sagged further.

“Don’t make a fool of yourself. Fools die around me, as is fitting.”

Veliana cried out for her Pryor to stop, but it was too late. He flung a dagger at the stranger, who avoided the hasty throw by a simple tilt of his head. His retaliation came swift, his dagger piercing a lung as it embedded into the thief’s chest. The rest of the Ash Guild prepared to attack, but Veliana snapped at them to remain back.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”

For a moment his look shifted, and she saw an incredible sadness lurking behind those eyes. He lifted the gray cloth and let it unfurl from his hand, revealing the eyeholes.

“My real name is lost,” he said. “For it was banished from me by a power I cannot challenge. I have only the name they left me. I am Death, and this is my mask.”

And then he smiled, and she found that just maybe she could find him attractive.

“You’ll start as the lowest rank,” she told him. “You’ll receive no special treatment, no favors. That acceptable?”

He nodded. A quick word from her, and the Ash members hurried forward to grab the crate. ‘Death’ stepped aside, and he watched with disinterest. Veliana chewed her lip as she thought of what exactly she would tell Garrick Lowe, their new guildmaster. He wouldn’t be too thrilled with the loss of men, but at least they still had their merchandise. As for this Death and his mask…

She slipped closer. She wanted to understand him, his motives. He might be a trap, or a disaster she was blindly bringing in to their guild. The blame would all fall on her.

“Don’t betray me,” she whispered to him as the rest hauled off the crate. “I don’t care how strong you think you are, I’ve fought stronger, I’ve survived better. You walk into this willingly, but the only way you walk out is dead. Do you understand me?”