David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“She’s just a filthy liar, that’s all,” Ingram said, ignoring Oric’s glare. “Probably cut the arm off to torture him.”

John’s face darkened at this.

“She?” he asked.

Ingram opened his mouth, then closed it. He didn’t know how to respond to that.

“Meant he,” he said lamely.

“We discovered a lady who claimed her husband had Nathaniel,” Oric said, trying his best to amend the situation but clearly fighting a losing battle. John’s eyes had narrowed, and he had a look like a snake ready to strike. “That’s how we knew to come here is all.”

John patted the boy on the head and leaned closer to him. He whispered something, too quiet for Ingram to hear. Nathaniel whispered something back. When finished, John sank deeper in his chair.

“Take them into custody,” he said to his guards.

“Wait, you got things wrong!”

Ingram felt men grab his arms and wrench them painfully behind his back. It seemed like the very curtains had spawned armored guards. Oric reached for his sword, but the sheer number made him decide not to. One of the guards smashed his face with his fists, as if insulted he’d even considered it.

“I wasn’t there,” Ingram shouted as he was yanked backwards, but it only seemed to make matters worse. “Oric was, he saw it all, I was just doing what I was told!”

“Bring him to me!” John roared, standing from his throne.

Two guards dragged Ingram across the carpet, then shoved him to his knees. A fist grabbed his hair and forced his head to bow reverently.

“I want you to watch this,” Lord Gandrem said to Nathaniel. “You deserve it. With your arm as it is, you’ll be living a hard road, and this is something you should always remember. This is how we treat the scum who dare strike against us.”

“No,” Ingram moaned as he felt his head pulled back. John held a beautiful sword, and he pressed its edge against his throat.

“Pull back the carpet,” he said to his servants. “I don’t want to stain it.”

Ingram felt hollow fear building and building.

“Please,” he begged. “I didn’t do nothing, I didn’t, I was just…”

They lifted him up, and when they set him back down, his feet touched smooth stone.

“You killed a good man,” John said.

“Says who?”

“Says Nathaniel, and I trust his word over yours.”

The sword moved. He felt pain, but when he gasped to scream, it was as if he’d been dunked underwater. His exhalation was a pitiful garble. His head swam, and he thought to faint, but still the guards held him upright. Until the darkness came, he watched John and Nathaniel watching him die. There was no mercy in either of their eyes.

*

G uardsman Mick trudged up the road away from the castle, having drawn the shortest straw of the lot. One of the men’s horses remained standing on the path. The other had wandered off, and he grumbled and hoped it wouldn’t be far. He’d have to stable them both, work out ownership, probably even send one or both back to whoever originally owned them. Bunch of hassles. Of course, there was also the body, which needed to be stripped of any valuables and then disposed of.

Deciding the horses could wait, Mick knelt beside the body, and he glanced around to see if anyone was watching. No one was, so he put a hand into the dead man’s pockets, searching for loose coin. Of course, not all valuables needed to be handed over…

When the dead body let out a groan, Mick startled, fell back on his rump, and nearly soiled his armor. He closed his slack-jaw, put a hand on the man’s chest, and leaned close. Both were weak, but he felt the tremors of a heartbeat and heard the soft hiss of breath.

“Goddamn, you’re a stubborn one,” he said, unable to believe it. He took to his feet and ran toward the castle, crying out for a healer to make his way to the gate.

“A re you prepared to do what you must?” Deathmask asked her.

“I am,” said Veliana.

“You’ll have to kill many of them. They were once your friends, your guildmates. Maybe you even considered them family. They won’t understand, and their loyalties are anyone’s guess. This is Garrick’s guild, and you’re nothing but a feeble woman who got in his way. Last time I ask, can you stick a knife in them, every one of those familiar faces?”

“Not so familiar anymore,” she said. She tapped her sickly, bloodied eye. “Too many hate me for this. I’ve heard their whispers, their insults of my ugly mark. I’m damaged beauty. They never loved me, not like they loved James Beren. This guild may or may not be mine, but more than ever I know it should not be Garrick’s. If he sold his soul to Thren, then he betrayed every shred of James’s memory. Anyone who stays at his side is no friend of mine.”

Deathmask smiled at her.

“I want to do something for you,” he said. “This will take just a moment, but I hope you’ll appreciate it.”

He put a finger to his eye, the same as Veliana’s injured, and then whispered words of a spell. They seemed simple enough, and then came the change. His iris changed from a dark brown to a bloody red.

“This is what I think of your ugly mark,” he said. “I’ll proudly bear it so long as you stay with me. I will never cast aside your loyalty, for I’ve been cast aside enough in my own life.”

Veliana felt strangely touched by the gesture.

“One day,” she said, “I hope to believe you.”

They turned their attention to the unassuming building before them. The rooms appeared dark, but both knew of the lower expansion below ground, no doubt housing the last remnants of the Ash Guild. A few men and women wandered past them on the streets, several with dead eyes and drunken gaits. To Veliana, it seemed like the entire city was suffering a massive hangover, a crude comparison given how many of her kind had been mercilessly butchered. So far Deathmask hadn’t explained how he planned on dealing with all the mercenaries, but she had no choice but to trust him. Patting her daggers, she told him to move, and she would follow.

“Keep your hood low,” he told her. “Surprise is everything. Theatrics can turn even the most ordinary of foes into something fearsome, and you are no ordinary foe.”

They approached the door. A single thief leaned against it, looking like he’d been up for two days straight. Through bleary eyes he watched their arrival, recognizing Deathmask when they were almost within striking distance.

“Hey, we thought Thren-”

Veliana cut his throat before he finished the sentence. As his body fell, she glanced to Deathmask, and her look was clear. Look what I can do. Do not fear my loyalty. They are no longer friends of mine.

“Atta girl,” he said, his mismatched eyes sparkling behind his mask.

When she tried the door, it was both locked and barred. Deathmask gently moved her aside, put his hands upon the wood, and closed his eyes.

“Theatrics,” he whispered.

His hands shimmered between red and black, and then the door exploded inward in a great shower of splinters, accompanied by a shockwave that thumped against Veliana’s chest with enough force to make her catch her breath. Deathmask stepped through the dust and debris into a small entry room. Two men sat on either side of the doorway, their hands raised over their faces. Specks of blood dotted their clothes, damage from the shrapnel. Veliana rushed the one on the right, thrusting a dagger into his chest before he could react. Deathmask waved a hand at the other, who suddenly dropped to his knees, gagging. Before she could see the total effects of the spell, Veliana stabbed his heart.

“Sometimes quick is better,” she said.

Deathmask pushed open the second door, and they stepped into the last remnants of the Ash Guild, all gathered from the various corners of Veldaren. There were twenty of them, sitting on chairs and pillows and looking miserable. Veliana felt both anguish and elation in seeing Garrick among them. Part of her had hoped he’d died in the fire, for he deserved nothing better, but at least his survival meant that he would be hers, all hers.