David Dalglish: A Dance of Blades

Swords stabbed for where he should have been, but he dropped to the ground and rolled. Senke, as if in some mental link with him, saw and jumped over him, blocking blow after blow with his maces. Haern leapt to his feet, slamming his left shoulder against the wall to painfully kill the rest of his momentum. Only one guard remained within reach, and Haern desperately flung one of his sabers in the way. The shortsword deflected and stabbed the wall, close enough that Haern could see his reflection in the blade. And then his sabers were thrusting in, and the shield could not block all of the attacks.

Senke took down the last, hammering his shield with his maces until the guard made a mistake, not surprising given how the rest of his fellows had fallen and panic was surely crawling through his veins. His sword slashed, but he overextended, and Senke broke his elbow with an upward swipe of his mace. A kick to his neck blasted him against the wall, and he slid to the ground, unconscious.

“You hurt?” Senke asked. Haern shook his head. “Good. One of those sons of bitches cut my leg. Delysia’s going to be pissed at me.”

Deeper and deeper in they went, until at last they found Leon’s bedroom. It was empty.

“Slap me silly,” said Senke, looking around. “Where could that giant tub of lard have gone off to?”

He took a step forward, not seeing the thin string laced across the door. Haern did, and he pulled Senke back by his cloak, just before the entire room erupted in flame. The fire swirled about in a momentary funnel before fading away, leaving nothing but ashes inside, the rest of the house safely intact.

“A trap?” Senke asked, his eyes wide. “A fucking magical trap?”

“You’re welcome,” Haern said. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, wishing he could just order away the headache pounding in his forehead.

“Damn traps. Where to now? He might have left, Haern, and then what the fuck do we do?”

“Stay calm,” he said, eyes still closed. “He slept here until an alarm sounded because of your wizard friend, and so he gets up, activates the trap. He’s in a hurry, but not moving fast. The rest of his guards are ushering him along. Where do you go? Where is safe, close, and defensible?”

“You take him where no one could have gotten to yet, where there couldn’t possibly be an ambush waiting. You take him to the mercenaries’ quarters.”

Haern opened his eyes and shot his mentor a wink.

“Good a guess as any. In the back, and away from the other quarters. He wouldn’t want their low class manners upsetting any of his privileged guests.”

“You going to make it, Haern?”

“Worry about yourself.”

They rushed along, and this time Haern pushed himself to the front. Despite the help, this was still his task, his responsibility. If anyone should be springing traps, it should be him. But there was only one trap left, and they sprung it together. Finding a long corridor leading to a thick set of double-doors, they rushed into it only to have doors behind them fling open. Out rushed mercenaries, five in all.

“Leave them to me,” Senke cried. “Go after Leon, now!”

Haern accepted the order without delay. He rushed toward those doors, flinging out a leg to kick them open so he might go crashing in, a frightening display of skill and strength.

His foot slammed into the door, followed by the rest of him. His whole body aching, he realized the doors opened outward only. Feeling far more humble, he grabbed a handle and pulled. Instead of a vicious display of skill and strength, he walked inside a hurt, calm, exhausted man.

“You,” said Leon from the far side of the room. Rows of bunks were built into either side of the walls. Four personal guards stood before him, forming a human wall of protection.

“Me,” Haern said, bowing low.

“Who is paying you for this?” Leon asked. Sweat dripped down his thick neck, and blotches covered his face. To Haern, he looked like a pig overfed and then stuffed into fine clothing. “Thren? Alyssa? Maybe the king? Tell me, what did they offer you?”

Haern laughed. He couldn’t help it. Would Leon even believe the truth? Could a man in his position understand there were things beyond wealth and influence? Could he understand a desire for atonement, for a single moment of rest and relief from a life devoted to slaughter and revenge? Or would he just see a madman? Would he hear only nonsense and lies?

“I do it because I want to,” he said, figuring if there was anything Leon might understand, it was that. “And you don’t have the ability to make me not want to. Last chance, Leon. Accept the terms, or accept my blades.”

“Neither. You’re just a rabid dog, and my men will put you down.”

Two of the guards pulled out crossbows. In a single smooth motion Haern unclasped the cloaks from his neck and spun them into the air, just before they pressed the triggers. Twisting behind the cover, he made himself as small a target as possible. The arrows punched holes through the cloaks and sailed on, neither hitting flesh. As the cloaks fell Haern rushed the mercenaries, his sabers feeling light as air in his hands, just extensions of his body, keen edges of his will. This was it. This was the last. His night was done. The men would die, Leon would die, and he would have his truce.

The two abandoned their crossbows and drew swords, falling behind the others who pushed ahead. There was only enough space for two to stand side by side, and even that was crammed. Haern used his greater mobility to his advantage, weaving like a snake preparing to strike. Every thrust he smacked down and then struck with the other saber, cutting thin slashes across their faces and necks. Each hit made them angrier, until at last they tried rushing as one.

Haern wrapped an arm around the post of a bunk, whirling across the mattress and to the other side. A whirlwind of steel, he cut down both mercenaries from behind, then turned on the other two, who were unprepared for the sudden assault. A third fell before lifting his sword into position, and one versus one, the last stood no chance. He was only a sellsword, and had maybe killed a handful of men in his lifetime. Haern had killed twenty just breaking into Leon’s mansion.

When Leon realized he was alone, he fell to his knees and pleaded in his high-pitched voice.

“Please, you’re a reasonable man. You can listen, yes? I’ll pay you, double, triple whatever you were offered. That deal of yours, that’s it, right? I’ll accept, of course, anything you want!”

Haern approached him, his sabers dripping blood.

“You’re lying,” he said. “I see it in your eyes, your lips, your trembling hands. Besides, I’m just a rabid dog.”

He cut Leon’s throat, and he watched the life leave the fat man’s eyes as the door behind him opened.

“He dead?” he heard Senke ask.

Haern turned. He wanted to smile, but he felt exhausted, and he knew getting out of the mansion might not be any easier than entering. Senke stood in the doorway, and he seemed happy enough, but something was wrong. Something was moving…

And then the sword pierced through the front of Senke’s chest. The man arched back, his eyes wide. His limbs trembled, and blood dribbled from his lips. As his body collapsed, slipping free of the blade, Haern was too stunned to even scream. Behind him, now occupying the doorway, stood Ghost, the white paint on his face speckled with wet blood. His grin was as wide as Senke’s had been.

“I found you Watcher,” he said, his deep voice rumbling in the confined room.

“Why?” Haern asked. It was the only question he seemed able to think. “Why? Why now?”

“Because I have a reputation to keep, Watcher. I’ve been paid to kill you, and so you’ll have to die. It’s the way things work.”