David Dalglish: A Dance of Blades

“Including you?”

He looked insulted by the notion.

“I do this for the legacy of your entire family, generations before and generations yet to come. Not myself. Never for myself. I hope you understand.”

He lunged for her, and she rolled to the side. Compared to Zusa or the Watcher, he was slow, but she had no weapon, no dagger or club. She grabbed the sheets as she hit the ground beside her bed and flung them at Bertram.

“ Help! ” she screamed as she circled around, putting the broken window to her back. Bertram shoved the blankets aside, his dagger catching momentarily on them. He was between her and the door, and she thought to run past while he was entangled, but it wasn’t a long enough distraction. He stepped over the sheets, his eyes locked onto her, watching, waiting for the slightest twitch so he might react. For an old man, he seemed reenergized, his movements carrying purpose.

“It won’t matter,” he said. “You will be gone by the time they arrive, and even if they execute me, I’ll have removed the sickness within our house.”

She thought of Nathaniel, of Arthur, and of Bertram’s insistence on marriage. Deep inside, she wondered just how involved he’d been with those events, and the anger that burned within gave her the courage to do what she might never have done otherwise. When he stabbed for her chest, she didn’t dodge. Instead she flung herself at him, twisting to one side in hopes of avoiding the blow. The edge slashed her flesh, the pain almost unbearable, but her mind was full of fury and adrenaline. Her left hand grabbed his arm so he couldn’t stab again, the other clutching the front of his robes. She might have lacked the strength of a man, but Bertram was old and thin.

With a mindless cry she flung him behind her, toward the shattered window where many shards still remained. He cried out once, a surprised yelp that ended in a painful shriek. Still trembling with rage, she watched as blood poured across the glass. He’d been impaled by one of the thick shards, the pointed edge digging deep into the flesh below his throat. Bertram tried to suck in another breath, but it came in gargled and wet. His arms flailed uselessly at his side, slicing his hands as he grabbed more shards trying to push himself off the window.

Behind her, the door broke as her guards smashed it open. They poured in once more, and this time they did not allow her to resist as they took her by the hand and led her out. She looked back only once, to make sure Bertram was still there, still bleeding.

The sickness within her house, she thought. Bertram was right. At last, it had been removed. And then she broke down and cried.

The main quarters for the Serpents were unsurprisingly empty when Haern searched them. Given what he knew of William Ket, their leader, they would not dismiss him as lightly as the others. William took every threat seriously, and he dealt with them as harshly as possible. Kadish was a gambler, a drinker, and a man too proud to stop celebrating when he should have been in hiding. William was easily the opposite, and would therefore be far more difficult.

Of course, Haern knew where they’d go. They’d retreated there several times, usually after one of the guilds engaged them in a skirmish over territory. Unlike their main guildhouse, this one was smaller, with only a single door and no windows. It had once been the armory for the city guards stationed deep in the south of Veldaren, before the king had repositioned them farther north and sold the building.

On his way there, Haern checked the cut on his side. He’d hid it from lady Gemcroft and her frightening female guard, though the guard might have noticed given her incredible skill. It was shallow, a flesh wound along his ribs. It was bleeding though, as such cuts liked to do. Pausing to catch his breath, he leaned against the wall of a smithy and drew one of his sabers.

“Something tells me you’ll get reopened a dozen times tonight,” he said as he cut the edge of a cloak to make a bandage. It reminded him of trying to bandage that boy’s arm while out in the snow. At least he knew who he was now: Nathaniel Gemcroft. No wonder he’d been a target. Of course, who it had been and why was no real concern. The Serpents were. Assuming Deathmask handled the Spider Guild like he said he would, the Serpents were the only guild left to be dealt with one way or another.

A shadow shifted in the corner of his eye, elongated in a way that was unnatural to the moonlight. His mind cried out in alarm, and he dropped to one knee just in time. A crossbow bolt smacked into the wood behind him and then ricocheted off. Haern drew both his sabers as he rushed toward the main street, where the buildings would be further apart and he’d have more room to dodge.

Some finely-honed instinct in him lifted the hairs on his neck. He slid as he heard the twang of two more crossbows. Bolts flew above him, striking the ground harmlessly. At least three attackers, he realized, given the how close together they’d fired. Not good. Back on his feet in a heartbeat, he continued running, relying on the slow reloading of a crossbow to give him time.

His way was blocked, however. A man in the cloak of a Serpent landed before him, his dagger already drawn.

“Damn fool,” the Serpent said.

“Same to you.”

He crashed right into him, positioning his sabers so they pushed the tip of his opponent’s dagger to the side. Haern’s forehead rammed the Serpent’s nose. Blood splattered across them both, blinding an eye. Trying to ignore the pain, Haern rolled atop him and into the wide street beyond. When he spun, he saw bolts flying in. One missed. A second passed an inch from his leg as he dodged to one side. The third thudded into his side, and he gasped at the impact. If not for his dodge, it would have found the bottom of his throat.

Is it poisoned? he wondered, but he dismissed the thought. Poison wouldn’t matter if several more buried their tips into something vital.

The man he’d rammed struggled to his feet, and Haern reacted on instinct. He knew he needed to get away from the men with the crossbows, but he also couldn’t leave an opponent free to chase. He lunged, slashed away the Serpent’s pitiful defense, and then cut his throat. As he bled out, Haern dove around a corner. A single bolt fired after him, missing by a foot. And then he was running. He sheathed one of his sabers so he could wipe at the blood in his eye, then glanced back. Three Serpents leapt after him, two men and a woman, their green cloaks trailing, the color an eerie haze in the moonlight.

He crossed to the other side of the street, giving them no choice but to climb down. Again he made a decision, this one more on pride than rational thinking. They’d hurt him, maybe even poisoned him. They had to pay. His reputation was all that would hold this arrangement together with the guilds and Trifect. If they felt they could wound him, make him run, then all would be for naught.

“Come on!” he shouted, slamming his sabers together before charging. The three had abandoned their crossbows on the rooftop so they could climb down, and all of them drew shortswords. As he charged, they formed a triangle, trapping him in the center. He grinned at the maneuver. Clever, but it was too late to change his mind. His tactics, however, he could change. Instead of lunging at the first, as they thought, he spun in place, beginning his cloakdance. His feet twisted and spun, pushed to the very limits of his speed. He relied fully on instinct, for what his eyes saw through his cloaks were but snippets of his opponents. Thrust after thrust he smacked away, until one overextended, confused as to where he actually was within the cloaks. Haern broke out from the spin, double-slashing his arm. Down went the weapon as blood spilled and the Serpent screamed.