David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

“How long?” Ghost roared, back on his feet again and lunging. Tarlak tried to ignore him, kept focused on the casting of his spell, but he knew what Ghost was implying. How long might he last casting his spells? How long until the well of energy within him ran empty, and the best he could summon was a little puff of smoke from his fingertips?

Given the pounding of his head, he didn’t think it’d be long.

His hands clapped together, and the space before him filled with a swirl of smoke and fire. Ghost’s swords passed through it, but his feet dug into the ground, halting his momentum. Tarlak muttered. He’d hoped for a charred corpse to leap through. How the Abyss did this guy react so fast?

Leaving the firewall intact, he guessed a direction and pointed. This time luck was with him, for of the two directions Ghost might have leapt, he’d chosen correctly. A bolt of lightning shot from his finger, striking the giant man square in the chest. He fired a second one, this one hitting his leg. Ghost screamed, but more in anger than pain. Tarlak felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. Short of taking the man’s head off, it didn’t look like there’d be any way to stop him.

“You hurt my friend,” Tarlak said, summoning small meteors of lava and flinging them. Ghost hunched on his knees, blocking with his swords. The meteors plinked off the steel, coupled with an impressive but harmless shower of sparks.

“You hurt my sister,” he said, pressing his wrists together and hurling shards of stone from his palms. Ghost jumped and leapt like an enormous spider. Only two shards hit, and again the wounds were superficial.

“You even hurt Brug.”

His bolt of lightning shot out, but his aim was off. Ghost didn’t dodge this time, instead lunging straight for the kill. A sword slammed into him, piercing his flesh. Tarlak gasped as the white-hot pain spread throughout his body.

“I even hurt you,” Ghost whispered, his cheek pressed against the wizard’s.

Out came the blade, and Tarlak collapsed. Unable to stop him, he could only watch as Ghost passed through the gates, continuing the hunt for his real prey. The blood flowed, staining his yellow robes red. His mind throbbing from pain and exhaustion, he crawled across the ground, bleeding upon the street as he headed for safety.

Damn you, Haern, he thought as he collapsed after hardly crossing any distance. You better kill him for me, or I’ll…I’ll…

And then he felt his thoughts slipping away like leaves in a storm, and unconsciousness came and took him.

Deathmask knew he might be walking into an early grave, but he didn’t let worry show on his face, not with the rest of his guild watching him.

“Keep an eye out for anything suspicious,” he said to the others. “I don’t expect him to do anything stupid, but it is Thren Felhorn, after all. Stupid to us is step five of a plan for him.”

They approached the headquarters of the Spider Guild. It was more a mansion than anything else, though careful examination would have shown how the windows were reinforced so no one could break through, and all other doors but the front were boarded over. Two men in gray waited at the front, and they drew their swords and daggers at his approach. Veliana glared at them, but she remained quiet.

“I am Deathmask, leader of the Ash Guild. I’ve come to speak with Thren.”

“Only if Thren says,” one said. The other banged on the door. A small window opened up, and the guard relayed the message inside. A few minutes later, the door opened.

“Just him,” said one of the Spiders from inside, pointing to Deathmask.

“It’s all right,” he told Veliana, who looked ready to object. “I can handle myself.”

He stepped inside.

The interior of the mansion might have once been well-decorated, but nearly all its treasures had been plundered and sold off. Bright squares on the walls showed where paintings had once been, and in many places the floor was scraped and dull, as if the carpet atop it had been ripped up, or a long-standing rug removed. Deathmask tracked the turns and doors to ensure he could find his way back, all the while going over every bit of information he knew about the near-legendary leader of the Spider Guild. At last they reached a door, and the thief gestured. Deathmask opened, stepped inside, and closed it behind him, leaving him alone in a small den with Thren Felhorn.

Thren looked old. That was the first thing that struck him. He knew the man’s age, still in his late forties, but his hair was fully gray. His skin had a tight, stretched look about it, but his eyes still shone with intensity. He stood beside a fireplace, a drink in hand. His two shortswords hung at his side, their hilts gleaming in the light. He smiled at Deathmask, but it hid a strong sense of impatience and contempt. Thren surely knew the reason for his coming, and was not pleased.

“Welcome,” Thren said. His voice was deep, and the power in it impressed Deathmask to no end. He wished he had such a commanding voice as that. The man could probably describe himself taking a shit and still have it sound authoritative. “I’ve heard rumors of your assuming control from Garrick Lowe, not that there is much to assume.”

“What is it we say to the ladies, it’s not the size of the sword, but the skill in the wielding?”

Thren chuckled. This was good. If he could get the man to feel a sense of kinship, things might go smoother.

“Maybe so, but even I wouldn’t assault a man with a spear wielding only a butter knife.”

“You know you would, Thren, if the price was right. You’d cut the man three times before he knew where you were, too.”

The flattery didn’t get him what he hoped. Thren waved a dismissive hand and set down his drink.

“Enough. The night is late, and you didn’t come here to banter, nor make introductions. This is about that Watcher madman, isn’t it?”

“I must admit, I am curious to your thoughts on the deal.”

“Deal? Deal? This is no deal. This is enslavement. This is the king severing our testicles and selling them to the Trifect. Do you know how this world works, Deathmask? The strong take what the weak cannot hold, and that is the proper order of things. The foolish and the naive try to prop up the weak, to protect them with strength that is not their own. Babes, all of them, nothing but babes forever suckling their mother’s milk.”

“We would still make plenty of coin,” Deathmask said. “And we have accepted protection money before. Is that not a way of the weak voluntarily giving up what they have to the strong?”

“Never on this scale before,” Thren insisted. “They don’t just protect their own, but the entire city. What insanity led to this? I have watched them bleed before me. Entire nations could live and die on the wealth I have taken from the Trifect’s safes. Yet now they throw gold at me in a pitiful attempt to barter safety and peace of mind. At least Alyssa was willing to fight back, though even that moment of pride lasted only two nights before cowardice returned, no doubt replaced by this deal from the king.”

Deathmask saw an open bottle on a small stand, and he walked over and poured himself a drink. He sniffed it once, and was pleased by the scent of strawberries. Thren didn’t object, so he took a drink and set it aside.

“This is how I see it,” he said. “It’s been what, ten years? A man can only fight for so long, even the greatest of us. We need a break. We need a return to some shred of normality.”

“Says the man wearing a mask.”

Deathmask laughed. “Relative normality, then.”

He watched Thren carefully, though he knew it was pointless. The man could guard his emotions better than anyone, probably better than even him with his mask on. Thren was watching him as well, gauging his reactions, staring into his eyes as if he could divine the true purpose of his visit.