David Dalglish: A Dance of Blades

“This Watcher…he claims he’ll kill everyone who refuses. Do you think he’ll succeed?”

“You and I are alive,” said Thren. “It seems to me he is doing a poor job. And it doesn’t matter. He could kill everyone, but he won’t kill me, and as long as I survive, the Trifect will never have a moment of peace.”

Deathmask tapped his forehead with a finger.

“As long as you are alive…that’s the clincher right there, Thren. Don’t tense up, I’m not here to kill you. That wasn’t a threat, just a statement. This war is yours, solely yours, and it is yours to end as you see fit. But you won’t have the ending you’re hoping for. The Trifect is too big. Yes, you’ve hurt it, killed many, and taken away their coin. But has it mattered? If an opponent is not allowed to surrender, they’ll keep fighting, and fighting. Give them the option of defeat. That’s what this deal is, if you look at it from their perspective. They admit they cannot defeat you, cannot protect themselves from you. So they make it worth your while to instead do the protecting for them. It’s a bribe, nothing more, nothing less, and in a city where this is hardly an unusual circumstance.”

Thren looked tired of the debate, and Deathmask knew he was treading on thin ice. He’d lied when he said he hadn’t come there to kill him, at least partially. Could Thren have read him correctly, despite his best attempts otherwise? More than anything, he wanted a victory here without bloodshed. Other thief leaders could come and go, but if Thren died, the Trifect might decide it didn’t need protection after all.

“Aren’t you tired of this?” he asked, letting his voice soften. “Every man and woman in this city has lost someone these past ten years. Despite the rumors, I know you are human, and lost as much as any.”

For a moment, so quick Deathmask thought he might have imagined it, Thren allowed himself to look exhausted, look torn with despair.

“It’s for that loss I continue,” he said. “Why else would I go on? To accept anything less than total victory would be an insult, not just to myself, but my wife, my…”

He seemed to return to his senses, and he glared at Deathmask as if he were the reason for the sudden weakness.

“I will not agree,” he said. “And if that is your sole purpose here, get out now.”

Deathmask chuckled. The slightest misstep might cost him his life. But this was it. This was the heart of everything.

“That Watcher, I hear he is good, almost impossibly good. I also hear he fights like you. Did you know that? As if he might be your own son, but we both know that couldn’t be. He died in a fire, of course. I’m sure you saw his body…”

He looked to Thren, letting the guildmaster know there was far more he wasn’t telling. No lie. No bluff. Thren opened his mouth, and then closed it. Those blue eyes barely moved. What firestorm of thought must rage behind them, Deathmask wondered. Taking a deep breath, he performed his wildest gambit.

“If he succeeds, the Watcher will be a legend. He’ll have beaten both the Trifect and the thief guilds, all in a single night. He’ll have ended ten years of conflict with a stroke of his swords. The entire city will fear him, for he will be the king’s Watcher, enforcer of the truce. The night won’t belong to us anymore. It’ll belong to him.”

He swallowed. Now or never. Take the risk.

“He’ll have surpassed even you, Thren. How amazing must that man be?”

Thren looked like a heavy burden had settled upon him. His muscular frame wasn’t quite so strong anymore. The terrible will that had ruled him weakened, and a million questions died unspoken on his lips. For perhaps the first time ever, Thren Felhorn looked uncertain.

“Did he send you here?” he finally asked. Deathmask nodded. “So be it. Give him his chance. My guild will accept the terms, so long as the Watcher lives. This city is a cruel one, and even now, it might have claimed him.”

“I doubt it,” Deathmask said, his heart pounding in his chest. “Given who he is, who made him. Come the morning, we’ll count the bodies, and we’ll see what remains of those in power. I have a feeling, though, that tonight is when it all ends.”

“Get out of here,” Thren said. “And never speak a word of this to anyone, or I will kill you.”

Deathmask bowed low.

“As you wish,” he said, glad the mask could hide his enormous smile. More relieved than he’d ever been in his life, he exited the room, weaved unguided through the halls, and emerged from the mansion, alive and victorious.

Because of the breastplates the guards wore, Senke led the way, his flanged maces able to punch through if swung hard enough. Haern followed, watching behind them as much as ahead. The entire mansion was in chaos. Servants fled every which way, and several times he heard them cry out the name of a thief guild. His lips curled into a vile grin every time. No thief guild, not this time. They were worse than any guild. They’d come, live or die, to complete their mission, though so far it was only the guards that did the dying.

“Where might Leon be hiding?” Haern asked as he yanked his saber free from the armpit of a dead mercenary.

“Holed up in his bed?” Senke suggested. “He’s not the most mobile of men.”

“And where would that be?”

Senke gestured ahead, and then behind them.

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

The cries of ‘intruder’ followed them as they rushed along. They shoved servants aside if they got in the way, but most were smart enough to cower or turn and run.

“Bottom floor,” Haern said as they passed a set of stairs. “I can’t imagine him climbing those every night.”

As Senke opened another door, he slammed it immediately shut, and on the other side arrows sunk into the wood with heavy thunks.

“I think we’re getting somewhere,” Senke said, and he grinned.

They backtracked, weaving through the natural flow of the building so they might curl around their ambushers. Sure enough, they found them at the intersection of another hallway, kneeling behind small overturned tables that had once housed vases of immeasurable wealth. All three held crossbows and wore boiled leather armor. Senke crashed into two of them, Haern the third. Making quick work of them, they turned left and continued along.

“It should be harder than this,” insisted Senke, needing to shout to be heard over the commotion.

“Don’t say it, or it might come true.”

The next hallway they met six mercenaries, all wielding shortswords and small circular shields of wood latched together with iron. Senke laughed and rushed the six with wild glee, as if he could see Haern’s glare behind him. Despite his exhaustion, Haern couldn’t help but feel energized, and he raced to his side so they might crash into the mercenaries in a single brutal collision. Every turn might house more men ready to kill them. Every door might hide archers ready to shoot a barb into their throats. And neither could care less.

The shields proved difficult, mostly because Haern had little experience dealing with them. It wasn’t like a shield was standard issue for the men who stalked the night. He kicked and stabbed as he and Senke slammed into them, cutting the tendons of one guard’s arm and tripping another. Before he could finish him off another was there, and his saber slapped harmlessly against the wood, not even drawing a splinter from the finely polished surface. The soldier thrust for his midsection, but Haern parried it aside with his left hand, leapt closer to the wall, and then kicked off it to give the maneuver speed. His saber crashed into the guard’s neck, punching through the leather armor and into flesh.