David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“Neat trick,” the Watcher said before leaping into his own attack. Their weapons clashed again and again, his speed incredible. Twice Zusa had to spin and let her cloak snap inward, deflecting a killing thrust. This was no spar, no game. He wanted her dead. That seed of worry in her mind grew to a thorn. One of his swords slashed her thigh. The other pierced her chest, shallow but painful. The worry bloomed like a deadly flower.

It was the narrowness of the alley they fought in that saved her. When he lunged for a killing blow, she kicked off the wall, sailing over his head. Her feet hit the opposite side, the collision jarring, but she pushed off, higher. Her cloak trailed below her, twisting. It lashed at him, cutting deep grooves into his arms. He’d expected her to land, not continue back the way she came. The cloak kept him off balance, and when she landed, she lunged in, daggers leading.

She underestimated his speed.

The sound of steel hitting steel rang in her ears, and her carefully coordinated attack broke as his swords danced. She refused to relent, chasing every backward step he took. There was still no fear in his eyes, only death. Whether it was for her, or himself, she didn’t know.

The ache in her head grew. She couldn’t maintain the cloak’s enchantment much longer. It’d never hurt like this before, never drained her so terribly. Maybe Karak truly had abandoned her, as she’d abandoned him. Or perhaps Karak wasn’t with her at all? Intrigued, she suddenly somersaulted away from him, pulling out in mid-attack while he was unprepared to give chase. She’d once been able to treat the shadows as doorways. Could she still do so?

The sun was low enough that several deep stretches of darkness remained in the alley. Zusa focused on one behind the Watcher, then turned and leapt at the shadowed wall behind her. Part of her expected to hit stone, but she passed cleanly through. Again her mind ached, but when the distortion ended, she was behind her opponent. Her cloak resuming its normal color and shape, she flung herself at him, knowing her chance to surprise him like this again was non-existent.

Any normal opponent would have died, but this Watcher was beyond normal. He looked a man possessed, and the moment she vanished he was already spinning, searching for her. He parried her leading thrust, and she was forced to use her other dagger to counter a slash aimed for her throat. Her momentum continued, and they slammed into one another. His head cracked against the wall. Her hands a blur, she cut once, twice, into the tendons at his elbow. The sound of his sword hitting the ground was music to her ears.

He screamed, but the pain did not slow down his other blade. She felt its edge dig into her skin, and she rolled with it to prevent too deep a cut. Blood ran down her face and neck, urging her on. She used both her daggers to pin his sword aside, then rammed her elbow into his throat. He gasped for air, his gag reflex leaning him closer. Pulling her daggers back, she hit his temple with the hilts. The Watcher dropped to his knees.

“I’ll kill if I must,” she said as he leaned on his arms, as if bowing to her. “Come now, and face the woman you wronged.”

“I’ve wronged no one,” he said, his voice hoarse.

“Murderer of children. Liar. Surrender now.”

He laughed. It was tired and broken.

“ I am the murdered child, woman. Ask my father.”

He flung his cloak at her. As she batted it aside, his heel followed after, ramming into her forehead. Fearing an attack, she retreated, her daggers falling into defensive positions. Her blurred vision saw no attack. He was gone, but where? Follow the blood, she thought. Follow the blood.

She caught a speck of it halfway up the building to her left. The rooftops. He was running away. Knowing her time was short, she jumped from one windowsill to another and grabbed hold of a ledge. Before she could pull herself up, something hard and blunt struck the back of her head. The blow smacked her forehead against the side. Her vision swam. Her stomach heaved.

“I’m sorry Zusa,” she heard a familiar voice whisper. “But this one is mine.”

And then her hands clutched only air, and she was falling.

H aern awoke with his head pounding and no clue where he was. The last thing he remembered was crawling across a rooftop, just before being struck from behind. Then he’d been thrown forward, off the building and to the ground below. Then nothing. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light. He saw stone walls. A dungeon perhaps? No, that didn’t seem right. More of a cellar, windowless, lit by torches.

“You’re awake.”

He looked up. A man and a woman stood before him. The man wore a red robe, his dark hair pulled tight behind his head. As for the woman, she looked vaguely familiar, as if he’d seen her before a long time ago, in a dream. It had something to do with the long scar that ran down her face, bloodying her eye. He tried to stand, but he was tied to a chair. Whoever had tied the knots knew what they were doing. There wasn’t the slightest give, and the moment he tested them, various chords across his chest and neck tightened, choking off his breath.

“Not sure I want to be,” he said, doing his best to relax. He’d known this was the fate awaiting him. He couldn’t make enemies of every guild and expect to live forever. Still, it seemed too soon. He’d accomplished so little. He’d die without mourners, without friends, without a legacy. A damn shame.

“Do you remember me?” the woman asked. “It was during the Kensgold. You were still a boy then, almost a man. We fought…”

And then he did remember. He’d seen her twice, once when his father had tried blackmailing her to turn against her guildmaster, then later in the attic of Connington’s mansion. Her name was Veliana, and the last time they’d met, she’d nearly killed him.

“You do remember,” she said, seeing the recognition in his eyes.

“I could never forget,” he said softly. “You showed me there would never be a life for me. Aaron was dead, yet you never believed me. You refused.”

She crossed her arms and leaned back against the stone wall. The man beside her remained quiet, seemingly content to let them talk.

“You could have let the smoke take me,” she said. “Why didn’t you?”

He shrugged the best he could, given the circumstances.

“It wasn’t right to. I was there when my father left you to die at the hands of that disgusting…Worm. I couldn’t do so again.”

His words hung in the air. When she spoke, her tone didn’t seem quite so hard.

“I spread word of Aaron Felhorn’s death after that night. I did it to hurt your father, but I’d be lying if I denied doing it for you as well. Aaron was dead, and it seemed true enough. What was the name you spoke to me that night? Something plain…”

“Haern.”

“That’s right. Is that who you are now? Haern the Watcher? I find it hard to believe you’re that same boy who spared my life. Do you know how many friends of mine you’ve killed? How many associates? You’re still Thren’s son, aren’t you? Perhaps you should adopt your old name, Aaron.”

“I am not!” he shouted.

In the corner, the dark-haired man laughed.

“Such ferocity. Well, there’s no doubt you’re skilled, and Vel here was lucky enough to get the jump on you after you were injured. Seems to corroborate everything we’ve heard about you, other than the demon blood. I’d sense that if it were the case. Still, your father cavorting with a succubus is an amusing thought.”

Haern shifted in his bonds.

“What is it you want from me?” he asked.

“Before I tell you that, I want you to understand just how powerless you currently are. I could kill you right here, that’s obvious enough. But I could also tell your father you’re still alive. How beautiful a game that would be, watching him tear the city apart house by house until he found where you hid. My curiosity is almost high enough to see what exactly he’d do. Would he greet you with open arms, or a dagger? Perhaps both?”