David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

Zusa’s cry pulled him back from the animal, from the mindless killer. Despite the many dead, she was overwhelmed. Refusing to give the thieves anything, Haern descended upon them. Their backs were turned to him, and he thrust and stabbed and kicked, shoving them aside so he might link up with Zusa. She was bleeding, and so was he, but they grinned.

We were made for this, he thought.

Back to back, they turned to their foes. Of the original thirty, only ten remained. Blood and gore soaked the floor where it wasn’t covered by a body. The psychological damage was just as bad. None looked ready to attack. Whatever they had been paid, it wasn’t enough. The first turned to flee, and as if breaking a dam, the rest rushed for the door. Ignoring them, Haern looked for William, not finding him.

“Where is he?” he asked.

Zusa rushed to the chair he’d been sitting in and flung it aside. Hidden behind it, she found a ring and pulled, revealing a trapdoor. Haern followed her as the mercenaries broke down the door behind them and poured out into the night. The trapdoor led to a tunnel, tight enough that Haern had to crawl along on his elbows, worming his way through. It wasn’t a long tunnel, and Zusa pushed open another trapdoor and then helped him out.

They’d emerged behind the armory, the trapdoor hidden by a compacted layer of dirt. Haern felt his muscles aching, the familiar feeling of receding adrenaline coming over him. He’d expected to search for William, to have to hunt for wherever he’d run off to, but instead saw him laying dead in the street, two men standing over him.

“You look like shit,” Senke said, still cleaning William’s blood off his mace.

Haern tried to think of a response, but his mind only stared dumbly at him and Tarlak, who looked vaguely amused by the whole ordeal.

“Delysia spent the better part of tonight begging us to help you,” he said, his arms crossed. “And as usual, I finally gave in.”

“How?” he asked. He meant to ask how they had found him, but breathing suddenly seemed difficult. His body was finally taking account of all the blows and cuts he’d received, and it wasn’t happy.

“What, find you?” Tarlak asked. “I’m a wizard. That’s just what I do.”

Haern saw Zusa down on one knee, bracing herself with one of her arms. Her dark skin was disturbingly pale.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, stepping to her side.

“Of course I am,” she said. “Farewell, Watcher. I have done as my mistress asked. Let your friends help you from now on.”

She rose to her feet, took an uneasy step, then another, and by the time she was running her balance looked like it had returned. Haern watched her go, hoping she’d be all right.

“So,” Tarlak said, smacking him on the back. “What’s next on the agenda?”

Haern looked back at the body of William Ket, and he mentally checked another off the list in his head. One left, just one.

“Leon Connington.”

Senke whistled. “Going after the big dogs, are we? Who else after that?”

Haern shook his head. “He’s the last. Everyone else has agreed, or…”

He gestured toward the body.

“The last?” Tarlak laughed. “Aren’t you a freak? Well, let’s go. Leon’s not exactly close to here.”

They walked down the street, and for a moment, Haern let himself relax. With the three of them, one a wizard, any thieves would have to be incredibly brave or reckless to consider an ambush. He used his shirt to wipe the blood from his forehead, then pressed it against his eyes. They watered, but when he pulled away, he could see better. Senke twirled his two maces in his hands, and Haern wished he could feel as energetic as Senke looked. He might have just been the lion, but now he felt like a lamb, ready to give up everything just to lie down and sleep. Every single part of his body ached.

“How long until dawn?” he asked.

“About two hours,” said Tarlak. “You been at this the whole night?”

“Just before sunset, yes.”

“We of the magical profession call that biting off more than you can chew.”

“And we of the stabby profession call that getting yourself killed,” said Senke.

Haern winced as an awkward step flared pain along his chest and to his back.

“You two are such wonderful help,” he muttered.

Leon Connington’s estate was one of the most well-guarded places in the city, and all three of them knew it. The warning letter Haern sent certainly hadn’t given them reason to slack off, either. Tall stone walls surrounded the mansion, the single opening a thick iron gate with two guards. They stood at attention, no slacking there either. From far down the road, they observed the gate and planned.

“There will be mercenaries stationed throughout the mansion,” Haern said as they stared. “And traps along the ground, other than the path leading directly to the door. If we’re to get to Leon, I think we’ll need to be stealthy about this.”

“Stealthy?” asked Tarlak. He gestured to his bright yellow robes. “Stealthy?”

Haern gave him a dumb look, then shrugged.

“Any other ideas?”

The wizard lifted his arms high, and a steady stream of magical incantations slipped from his lips. Fire burst about his hands, growing, growing, and then soaring toward the gate as an enormous ball. It hit the iron and detonated, blasting the gates aside and tearing off chunks of stone. Haern didn’t see what happened to the guards, and he didn’t want to think about that, either.

“Stealthy,” said Tarlak, hurling a smaller ball of fire that rolled across the ground. It detonated the various traps along the grass leading toward the mansion, filling the night with the sound of their explosions. Haern didn’t know whether he should laugh or cry.

“Stealthy?” he asked Senke, who only shrugged.

Tarlak sent on more blast, this one aimed at the front door. He frowned as the spell evaporated into smoke just before contact. He sent another at a window, this a thick shard of ice. Again it broke, this time into water that showered the ground harmlessly.

“Strong wards,” the wizard said. “Looks like the rest is up to you. Have fun!”

Senke led the way, Haern following.

“Out of his damn mind,” Haern muttered.

*

Tarlak watched them go, offering a prayer for luck. He wished he could help, but the few spells he’d cast had put a deep ache in his head, and he knew he had but a few more before he’d be worthless. Unable to help it, though, he neared the gates to observe his handiwork.

“Getting better,” he said, estimating the size of the explosion.

“Tarlak Eschaton?”

He turned, and with mild surprise saw the giant man with the painted face approaching from down the street.

“I’m thrilled we could meet again,” he said. “Especially with my mouth un-gagged.”

Ghost pointed toward the mansion. “Is the Watcher inside?”

“He is,” Tarlak said, standing in the center of the gate. “He’s a bit busy right now, so you’ll have to wait until tomorrow to resume whatever grudge you have against him.”

“No grudge,” Ghost said, still approaching. “Just money.”

Tarlak snapped his fingers, summoning a spark of flame at his fingertips.

“No closer,” he warned. Ghost only laughed. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He slammed his hands together, and a ring of fire rolled out from his waist, burning the air with a heavy roar. His opponent fell back, and he landed on his shoulder so the fire could pass harmlessly above him. Tarlak gave him no reprieve, another spell already on his lips. This time it was ice, thick shards that flew like arrows. Ghost rolled, the shards shattering upon the ground behind him. Only one drew blood, a thin gash along his side. On a man so giant, it looked like a cat scratch.