David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“Help for those less fortunate,” said the chubby man as he looked around for someone to aid him. There were none. Everyone recognized Ethric’s black armor, the dark flame of his blade, and the white lion skull painted on his breastplate. Just like the priests of Karak, the paladins were forbidden from entering Veldaren, but when inside they were never seen. Better to safely ignore the darkness than call it out and risk death.

“Shall you buy your way into eternity?” asked Ethric. The coin slowly melted, the copper dripping down the length, bubbling and popping. “If copper to a blind man saves your soul, imagine your rewards if you threw gold to the feet of a truly holy man.”

“You’re evil,” the merchant said. Ethric felt impressed by his courage.

“Evil?” he asked. He ripped the silks from the man’s tunic and held them aloft. “You parade before a blind man in wealth that could feed him for years while tossing him a pittance you will never miss. That is not piety. That is disgusting.”

He turned and rammed the silk into the blind man’s pot. The merchant stood with his hands shaking, his eyes torn between the dark paladin and the silk.

“No fighting, have mercy. A kindness is a kindness no matter the size,” the blind man said, trying to defuse the situation. Ethric only smiled and gestured to the pot. His sword still burned with fire.

“What is more important to you?” he asked. “Your wealth, or your supposed bribes to the fates?”

When the merchant reached down for the silk, Ethric cut him down. With two vicious hacks, he separated the head and dumped it atop the pot. The blood poured freely, ruining the silk and drenching the few coins within.

“Gifts are always repaid in blood,” Ethric said to the blind man. “Mercy is a delusion. Grace is weakness masked in lies.”

By now a crowd had surrounded him, shouting and pointing angrily. The dark paladin smiled, and when he stretched out his sword, the people made him a path. With so many swarming the streets, it took a good while for the city guard to arrive. The guards, hearing his description, put up only a token search before returning to their patrols. They would cross no swords with a dark paladin of Karak, not without an army at their back.

Despite the delay, Ethric’s mood remained good. He had very little to work with in his search for the faceless women, but Pelarak had given him one tangible lead. On the inside of the wall, about half a mile north of the western gate, Pelarak had told him of a crack. It was wide, running perpendicular to the stones of the wall like a lone bolt of lightning. If he ever needed to contact the faceless women in urgency, he would have an apprentice leave a note in the crack while the stars were bright. By morning, it’d be gone.

Ethric found the crack, looking exactly as it’d been described to him. The street was quiet, modest homes with immodest fences on either side. They appeared new, most likely built after Thren’s little war had started. He removed his glove and put his hand against the deepest part of the crack.

A smile lit up his face. His lengthy training had taught his body to become attuned to all things magical, both clerical and wizardly in nature. Deep inside the crack was a simple alert spell, one that would send warning to the caster whenever the ward was tripped. The faceless women would never need to check, yet would always know when they had a message and could retrieve it before the dawn. Seeing such beauty in its simplicity, Ethric reminded himself to treat his foes with greater respect.

Deciding to treat simplicity with simplicity, he found a large rock and shoved it into the crack, tripping the ward. Now the only question that remained was how long it’d take one of the women to arrive. Since he’d placed the ‘message’ in the middle of the day, they’d certainly know something was amiss.

“Patience serves the wise,” Ethric said, finding himself a seat beside a fence. He leaned his back against the bars. He was out of sight from any travelers on the road, and he doubted the owner of the home would be stupid enough to call him out from his position. All he had to do was watch and wait.

T hren led the way, the rest of his guild following, minus Aaron and Senke who were still busy cleaning blood off the floor. They weaved through the Merchant Way, for once their hands staying out of foreign pockets. The riots would soon be there. Thren had personally started two fires, and his men had started three more. They did not burn homes. They torched the storehouses, rendering food all the more precious. Butcher after butcher retreated into his shop, persuaded through either coin or dagger. Bakers fared no better. They either shut their ovens down for a day, or shut them down forever.

“The tradesmen will point their finger at you once this day is done,” Kayla said as she traveled beside him. Thren only laughed.

“After this day is done, I don’t care. Today we need hunger and riots.”

With quick hand gestures, Thren positioned his men up and down the road. In every corner, in every stall, the Spider Guild occupied Merchant Way. Thren stood at the intersection with Castle Road, the main throughway that led north to south from the wall to the castle. A few of his most trusted men had discarded their cloaks and joined the hungry, complaining masses in the south. If they did their jobs, the riots would surge north at a frightening pace.

For twenty minutes, they waited. Thren kept his hood pulled low, and he smiled at those that noticed him. He felt unafraid. Only a full troop of mercenaries would give him concern. Beside him was a modest jeweler selling baubles in preparation for the Kensgold. Accompanying Laurie Keenan’s return to Veldaren would be a host of camp followers, not to mention the many servant girls, dancers, and singers. Every one of the jeweler’s trinkets was sold with the promise of irresistible allure to those women.

“My things are safe?” the bald jeweler asked him at one point. Thren nodded.

“You’ve been good to me, Mafee,” the guildmaster said. “When I draw my sword, take your merchandise and go.”

More minutes crawled by. The only tense moment was when a squad of mercenaries marched through. They didn’t give the gray cloaks a second look, instead hurrying on toward the castle. Thren scratched at his chin, his signal to leave them be.

A chorus of shouts rose from the south. Thren looked down Castle Road and was pleased at the sight. Over four hundred made up the first wave. He recognized one of their shouts as an anthem Senke had devised. ‘Bread or blood,’ they shouted. One or the other, they’d have it, and Thren knew which one he preferred. He drew his sword and placed the tip by his right foot. All down Merchant Way, gray cloaks did the same. Mafee saw it, shoved his cheap jewelry into a burlap sack, and bolted into his home directly behind his stall.

“Bread or blood!” Thren shouted as the mob reached him.

“Bread or blood!” the mob shouted in return, led loudest by spies of the Spider Guild. They had meant to travel north to the castle, but by skillful prodding, they turned down Merchant Way instead. Stalls for bakers and meat carvers were empty and unguarded, and as the mobs passed, gray cloaks kicked and tore them apart. Given a taste of carnage, the mob wanted more.

More men of Thren’s appeared, holding lit torches and shouting angrily. More stalls tipped over. Wagons burned. Donkeys bled out, their mournful screeches haunting the chaos. The crowd swelled in number, joined by looters, bullies, and the cold-hearted who felt power in the mob. Like a human swarm they tore Merchant Way to pieces. Fires spread along the houses, yet no men came rushing with buckets.

Thren personally set fire to Mafee’s house and then barred the door. Those pathetic trinkets were a disgrace, and even worse, he’d paid a pittance for protection compared to the money he drained from the desperate and the clueless.