David Dalglish - A Dance of Blades

He lifted his swords into position, and slowly, as if in a dream, Haern did the same. In the back of his mind he felt anger building and building, like it belonged to someone else but would soon be given to him whether he wanted it or not.

“You monster,” he said, crouching into position.

“Monster? I see one body at my feet, Watcher, and five at yours. How am I the monster?”

What could he say to that? That his kills had a pure motive? That he wasn’t motivated by greed? The arguments felt hollow, petty. They were two killers, and they eyed one another with an understanding so few could know.

“Then I’m the monster this city needs,” Haern said. “But we don’t need you.”

Ghost lunged, no doubt hoping to catch him off guard while he talked. Haern was better than that, though still his heart leapt in his chest. How could the man be so huge and yet so fast? With little ground behind him, he refused to retreat. His sabers met the swords, and they rang with deafening volume. Haern’s tired arms jolted with pain.

“Need?” Ghost asked, and his voice washed over him like a physical wave. With every word he struck again, hammering away at Haern as if he were a door barring his way. “This city needs its eyes opened. It needs its cowardly heart ripped from its chest and held up to the light. It needs to see those it fears go beyond all possibilities. What it does not need is some damn fool vigilante.”

So fast were his movements, and so strong, Haern could only twist and parry without hope of retaliation. The few times he blocked he felt the impact travel all the way up his arm. Even at the peak of his skill he might have struggled to win. Now, a full night without rest, his nerves frayed, his energy spent, he had only one last desperate gasp to hold onto, fueled by the corpse of Senke slumped beside the door.

“No,” he whispered, a denial of everything before him. Of failing so close to his goal. Of letting Senke’s murderer go unpunished. Of succumbing to the anger in those brown eyes surrounded by paint and blood. Of dying.

“No.”

At the end of the room was a single large window, and Haern turned toward it, running with a speed Ghost could not hope to match. He crossed his arms, ducked his head, and leapt through. Glass shattered, and he felt its edges cut into his flesh. It didn’t matter. Hitting the ground, he rolled, then dug his heels into the earth. He glared back at the window, suppressed anger bursting free with a fire he felt sear his veins. Not caring for the blood, not caring for the jagged edges still lodged in his arms and forehead, he took two steps and leapt back through.

He caught Ghost pulling up before the broken glass, and his sabers slashed an ‘x’ across his muscular chest. Their bodies collided. Haern’s knee rammed into Ghost’s groin. His forehead slammed the man’s neck. The glass lodged in his head tore skin, blood ran free, but several shards ripped into Ghost’s throat. Despite Haern’s momentum and surprise, Ghost refused to go down. He held his ground, matching Haern fury for fury. With no room to cut or thrust, he punched Haern in the chest with a hilt, then caught his chin with a roundhouse. Feeling a tooth fly loose, Haern dropped to his knees and rolled forward. His sabers slashed out, cutting the tender flesh above Ghost’s heels. The giant man’s shriek rewarded his efforts.

But Haern wasn’t done. Tears filled his eyes, born of pain both physical and from the torment of Senke’s corpse refusing to fade from his sight. He kicked back into Ghost, stabbing his sabers again and again. Warm blood poured across his hands. Steel punctured lung, liver, heart. Ghost crumpled to his knees, then fell upon a gore-filled smear atop the bare floor. Haern hovered over him, one eye swollen shut, the cut on his chest reopened, his face rivulets of blood from cuts of glass, his clothes equally soaked. And then he screamed, the saddened, burdened, victorious monster.

Slowly the sane part of him returned. He thought to carry Senke’s body, to make sure they could bury him properly, but he knew he lacked the energy. Limping over, he knelt and kissed the man’s forehead.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Thinking of a distant memory, he reached underneath Senke’s bloody shirt and retrieved a pendant-that of the Golden Mountain.

“I hope you’re with him now, Senke. Think well on me. Might not be long before I need you to plead my case to enter within.”

He slipped the pendant over his neck, sheathed his sabers, and crawled out the window. He stayed close to the house, wary of any more traps. At the front, he followed the path. The gateway was empty, and dimly he wondered where Tarlak had gone off to. He stood there dumbly, looking, and then saw him two blocks down the street, his yellow robes rather hard to miss. As he approached, he saw that Tarlak slumped against a building.

“Had to get away,” the wizard said, sounding drowsy. “Just in case he…just in case he came back.”

All across the front of his robes was an ominous circle of blood.

“How bad?” Haern asked, kneeling beside him so he could check the wound.

“Not bad,” Tarlak said, his eyes drooping. “Better than you, from what I see. Where’s Senke?”

The name nearly made Haern choke. Every last bit of his self-control kept him speaking, kept him moving.

“He won’t be coming back,” he said.

Tarlak heard this, went to ask something else, then remained quiet. Tears fell from his eyes.

“He’ll be with Ashhur now,” he whispered.

“Come on,” Haern said, putting an arm around him to help support his weight. “We will too if we don’t hurry. I think there’s about to be a lot of angry people on the street.”

“I think I agree.”

They limped down the street, and whether through luck or the grace of Ashhur, they made it to the Crimson and Delysia’s healing hands without any further trouble.

Come the morning, Alyssa awoke feeling like her temples were ready to explode. The dim light hurt her eyes, and she covered them with an arm.

“Milady?” she heard someone say.

“What is it?” she asked. “Can it not wait?”

“Forgive me, milady. My name is Cecil Glenhollow, and I come with a message from Lord John Gandrem of Felwood.”

Alyssa removed her arm and glared. The knight stood over her, looking a mixture of awkwardness and impatience. She wondered what fool of her guard had let the man come to her, especially with her so indecent. She pulled her blankets tight about her and sat up.

“Whatever business you have, it can wait,” she said. “Have my servants prepare you some food, and my guards will-”

“My lady,” said Cecil, “it is about your son.”

Her mouth dropped open, and then she saw the parchment in the knight’s hand. She took it from him and unrolled it. Her eyes scanned, not reading, only looking for the one sentence that meant everything. She missed it the first time, but there it was, just the second line of the entire thing.

I believe you will be pleased to know that, contrary to what you have been told, your son Nathaniel is alive, well, and in my company.

Alive…

She flung her arms around the knight and hugged him as tears wet her face.

“Thank you,” she whispered. The knight stood shocked-still, as if unsure what he might or might not do to avoid insult. Pulling back, she kissed the man’s scruffy cheek, then rushed for her bedroom, not caring that she wore only loose bedrobes.

“You’ll take me to him?” she asked even as she exited the room.

“But, yes…of course,” said Cecil, having to hurry to keep up.

Alyssa couldn’t believe how giddy she felt. Everything the Watcher had said was true. Nathaniel was alive, and now she could go to him, could hold him, could keep him close for the rest of his life as he grew into the man to lead her fortune.