David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Don’t!” Brug shouted. Ghost turned on him, and this time his kick was lower, and harder. Brug howled like an animal, and his face turned a beet red.

“Enough out of you,” he said. “You’re beaten, and at my mercy. Lies and silence get you pain, only pain. Not honor. Not sacrifice. No nobility. Just pain.”

Tarlak mumbled something into his gag. Ghost debated, but then left him alone. He’d go to the wizard only if the others proved uncooperative. So far, this Delysia appeared the most compliant. He knelt before her, all teeth and smiles.

“Senke’s bleeding over there,” he said, dropping his voice lower. She went to look, but his eyes held her. He knew he could do that, had so many times before. He felt like a snake charmer, controlling them by the sheer ferocity of his personality. “You can feel it, his pain washing over you like a heat. You’re a priestess, so you could help him, tend his wounds. How badly you must wish to go to him. Such sweet compassion.”

He shifted behind her, pressing a painted cheek against hers as they both looked to where Senke lay.

“But is it just compassion? I don’t think it is. I think it’s fear. I smell the stink on you. It’s rising in your chest, crawling upward like a beast. You don’t want to watch him die, yet that’s what you are doing. Life is draining away before you, and all you can do is sit here. Struggling against your ropes won’t seal the hole in his gut, Delysia. Only one thing will, and that is talking to me. Tell me the truth, and only the truth. Can you do that, pretty girl? Can you do that for Senke?”

She bit her lower lip. Tears ran down her face.

“Yes,” she said at last. Brug sighed. By the wall, Senke chuckled. Tarlak let out another mrmph into his gag.

“Good lass. It’s a simple question, really. I have a contract to find the Watcher, and your group knows of him. Tell me, where can I find him?”

“I don’t know,” she said. She stared into his eyes, and he realized she wanted him to know she didn’t lie. “He’s only stayed here twice. Where he goes when he leaves…please, I don’t know. None of us do.”

Ghost frowned.

“Tell me his name, then. He must have a name.”

Tears ran down her face. She looked to Senke, but Ghost grabbed her jaw and forced her back to him.

“Haern,” she said. “He calls himself Haern.”

“Last name? First?”

“Just Haern.”

Possibilities ran through Ghost’s head, and he didn’t like any of them. A single, plain name would be marginal help at best in tracking him down. Still, it was better than nothing, which is what he’d been going on before. But mostly, he didn’t want a name. He wanted the man in person.

“Will he be coming back here?”

She hesitated, just a second, but Ghost saw it and smiled.

“No lies,” he said. “That just gives pain, remember?”

“I don’t know,” she said at last. “But I think he will. Please, can I help him now? He’s almost gone.”

“Of course my dear.”

He untied her wrists and then gestured for her to go. She ran to Senke’s side and knelt. He whispered something to her, and he heard her begin to cry. Ideas raced through Ghost’s head as he watched out of the corner of his eye. If this Haern were coming back, then he had to keep them all here until he did, otherwise they might find a way to warn him. Of course, it could be days until he showed, or worse, this Haern might spot the ambush through a window, or sense it through a lack of common activity. Troubling. He’d have to dump them in one of the rooms, preferably without a window. Once done, then he might…

And that was when the door opened, and in stepped the Watcher.

H aern’s elbow still ached like the Abyss, but at least it’d stopped bleeding. He felt naked without his swords, so he kept his head down and shambled along as if he were drunk. Given the horror of the previous night, he knew he was far from the only one that staggered along the road. Many had buried their grief in alcohol. His nerves rose as he hurried down the Crimson, but he reminded himself it was safer in the day than at night. Sure, some of the young cutpurses might try to swipe his coin, but he had nothing to steal.

When he reached the Eschaton’s building he put his hand on the door and closed his eyes. Returning here meant many things, and he wasn’t sure if he was prepared for the implications. Could this place become a home to him? Could he accept the companionship of Senke, even knowing his presence was danger? Deep in his heart, he knew he desired nothing else. It was his head that kept getting in the way. But sometimes you needed to think like that to protect others. To Haern, the self had never mattered more than those he cared for. He’d learned that lesson from watching his teacher, Robert, sacrifice his life to protect him.

He opened the door with his good arm. So lost in his thoughts, so focused on what he might say to them, and they say back, that he was unprepared for the sight before him. Tarlak sat bound and gagged in a chair. Brug lay on the floor, also bound. Senke slumped against the wall, blood covering his clothes. Delysia knelt before him, her hands also covered with blood. And there amid them all was a giant stranger, skin like obsidian, face painted white as a skull. It seemed the stranger was as surprised as he was, and they both froze for a split-second. Haern looked into this man’s eyes and saw death.

“Watcher,” said the painted man. Not a question, just a statement. His deep voice chilled Haern to the bone, telling him it was time to act. This was no game. Their lives hung in the balance.

“Run!” Delysia screamed.

But he couldn’t leave them like this. Damn it, what he’d give to have his swords!

The stranger lunged, drawing two swords as he did. Haern dove further into the house, tumbling to avoid his attack. His eyes searched for a weapon, any weapon. There, on the wall, he saw the shortswords Senke had used when pretending to be Thren. Scrambling to his feet, he ran for them, not even slowing when he slammed into the wall. His good arm snatched one free, and then he rolled aside, the stranger’s sword cutting several inches into the thin wall.

“Who are you?” Haern asked as he held the blade before him and crouched into position.

“I am Ghost,” said the man. His brown eyes shone beneath the paint. Sweat dripped down his neck and arms, every inch seemingly nothing but muscle. His swords lifted and dipped into a stance, perfectly smooth, perfectly calm. Haern felt terror at the sight. For all his reputation, all his killings, this man faced the Watcher unafraid. He even smiled.

Every instinct told Haern to retreat, but he wouldn’t. He thought he’d lost Senke in a fire, and he’d never come back to look. He’d been dragged off by his father while Delysia bled. This time, he’d stay until the end, whatever that might be. Death or victory, he thought. His father would be proud.

“Come then,” Haern said. “Kill me if you can.”

He kicked aside the table, and in the limited space, began spinning in place. His multitude of cloaks dipped and rose, hiding his presence. Ghost watched it, the concentration in his eyes frightening. When he moved to attack, out lashed Haern’s shortsword, nearly slicing off his nose. Again Ghost watched, waited. Haern knew his cloakdance could defeat lesser foes, and give him advantage against several attackers at once, but against someone so skilled, it was a stalling diversion, nothing more.

“Stop dancing and kick his ass!” Brug shouted, unable to do anything but watch from his spot on the floor.

A sword swung in. Haern dipped below it, his spine nearly parallel to the floor. Out went his blade, cutting into Ghost’s knee. It’d be painful, but not debilitating beyond a bad limp. He hadn’t been able to get enough force due to his awkward position. Worse was that the blade caught on the bone instead of slicing free. Ghost stepped in, unafraid of the cloaks and defiant of the weapon lodged in his flesh. He swung downward with both swords. Haern’s momentum had him rising to a stand, so he kicked out his own feet to fall instead. The swords missed, but only barely. Haern landed flat on his back, the impact knocking the breath from his lungs. His wounded elbow hit hard as well, and the pain of it filled his vision with black dots. Ghost twirled a sword in his right hand, pointing the blade downward, eager for a killing thrust.