David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

Two men rolled dice in the center of the street. Each wore a gray cloak. They looked up from their game, pulled their cloaks back to reveal their daggers, and then let them fall.

“Push through ‘em?” asked Nigel. Madelyn looked about. She felt as if she walked through a forest of dry tinder, and every person traveling with her carried a blazing torch. A single false move meant fire.

“We’re starving!” shouted a young man in dirty clothes.

“Bread or blood!” was the answer from someone unseen within the crowd.

“Move around them,” Madelyn said, her decision made. “Do it quickly. I can almost see our gate.”

“I see the Reaper’s eyes,” said one of the men as Madelyn’s group passed. She glanced down at the dice. Both showed a one.

They reached the fork at Iron and Cross. The south path on Cross Street seemed bare and quiet, but Iron bustled with a waiting gang of twenty. It seemed a merchant with a load of bread had been assaulted, his cart toppled. He lay unconscious, his face covered with bruises. With shouts of ‘food,’ more and more came their way, jostling the mercenaries and smothering them with noise.

As the people rushed past, one slid a knife through the side of a mercenary. He crumpled, his pained cry the only alert they had. Two more dropped, blood spurting from cut throats.

“Stay back!” Nigel shouted, cutting down a woman who had dared step too close. Her blood coated his armor. “All of you, stay back!”

The rest of the mercenaries took his cue, swinging wildly at any who came too close. Their progress slowed to a crawl, and with one of their own fallen, the mob turned their attention from the bread to the blood.

“Murderers!” another unseen man cried.

“Butchers!” shouted another, this a woman with raven hair cut short. She wore the gray of the Spider Guild. When she saw Madelyn looking over at her, she shot her a wink and a smile.

None of the mercenaries carried shields, so when rocks pelted them, they could only duck. Susan collapsed, a heavy stone cutting across her temple. Two more servant girls fell screaming, blood pouring out their mouths and noses. Once outside the protective circle of the mercenaries, the crowd assaulted the servant girls. They tore off their clothes, cut their hair, and smeared them with mud.

“Don’t look back,” Madelyn told the others. “Hurry for the gate, and for the love of Ashhur, don’t look back!”

The screams of the other girls spurred them on. They fled north on Iron Street, past the toppled cart of bread, and deep into the wealthy eastern district. Madelyn’s eyes lingered on a dead merchant’s body laying beside what must have once been his wares.

Iron Road appeared empty but for a single man standing in the center. He raised his hood as he approached, his body wrapped in the thick fabric of his gray cloak.

“Madelyn Keenan,” the man said, a pleased smile on his face. “It is so good to meet you.”

The shouts of the mob seemed to have dimmed behind them. The mercenaries stepped closer together, and their pace slowed once more.

“What business have you with me?” she asked, her glare at Nigel urging him onward.

“I am Thren Felhorn. Everything and everyone inside Veldaren is my business.”

The mercenaries stopped completely.

“What is it you want?” she asked him, struggling to keep her composure. “Ransom? Or perhaps words of truce or surrender?”

Thren laughed.

“I want your husband tearing at his tunic and dusting his head with ashes. I want your family praying desperately for your return. Do you know who they’ll pray to when they do? I’ll be the one who determines your death or release. They’ll be praying to me. ”

Men in gray cloaks stepped out from houses, alleys, and even fell from the rooftops.

“Surrounded,” Nigel whispered as he counted. “And at least twenty. Make an offer, milady. We won’t win this fight.”

“I have nothing to offer other than myself,” Madelyn said. “You have armor and a blade. Do your job.”

“Whatever she is paying you cannot be worth your life,” Thren said. A few of his men stepped closer, while others drew loaded crossbows and aimed them at the mercenaries. Their strings were thick and the bolts thicker. Nigel was certain they would pierce right through his chainmail.

“Forget this,” said one of mercenaries. He threw down his sword. Before he could take a step, Nigel stabbed him in the back and kicked his body to the dirt. He pointed the bloody blade at Thren, then saluted. Thren nodded, and the rest of Spider Guild took heed of the message; the mercenary captain was for their guildmaster to kill.

At the twang of the first crossbow, Nigel lunged. Thren drew his short swords, swinging them in a dance that was beautiful to behold. Two more mercenaries fell, their vitals punctured by crossbow bolts. The serving women screamed. Madelyn drew a dagger from her sash, determined to bloody the first man that touched her. The remaining house guards defended as best they could, their thick armor deflecting the stabs of the daggers, but they were horribly outnumbered and doomed to fall, and both sides knew it.

Nigel wielded his bastard sword with both hands, needing the grip to hang on when Thren smacked it aside with his blades. The mercenary captain had fought several battles, and even participated in the winter war between Ker and Mordan. Compared to battling armored men in thick lines, Thren was like a ghost. Every swing Nigel made seemed to cut air.

Blood splattered across his armor. Pain spiked up his left wrist. He’d been cut, yet he had no clue how. Nigel stepped back and thrust. Thren parried it aside with his left hand, then stepped forward and slashed with his right. Desperate, Nigel twisted so the blow would strike the thin pauldron atop his shoulder. It did, and the pain was brutal, but the deep bruise was far better than the gash it would have given his neck.

Behind him, a few of the serving girls dashed away. Crossbow bolts tore into their backs. Another fell, a rogue slicing her ankle with his dagger before unbuckling his belt. He was on top of her in moments, not caring that several of the mercenaries remained alive.

No longer caring for her safety, Madelyn leapt from the group. Her dagger stabbed the man’s neck. Blood gushed across his armor, and swearing softly, he rolled over and died.

“Oh gods,” the young girl sobbed. Madelyn took her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. Blood covered them both, and its sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell.

“Hush now,” Madelyn told the girl. “Hush. We’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”

Meanwhile, Nigel unleashed a storm of curses at Thren, hoping to distract him. He’d retreated several steps, his shoulder ached, and he’d avoided death twice by the sheer thickness of his chainmail. Breathing was difficult. Thren, however, was still smiling. He had not a drop of blood on him.

“Are you ready?” Thren asked, suddenly hopping backward and letting his cloak fall forward to hide his weapons.

“For what?” Nigel asked.

“On the count of three, I’ll kill you,” Thren said.

“Overconfident ass.”

Thren swayed side to side, as if waiting. Nigel lunged with the greater reach of his sword, hoping to catch him off guard. Instead, Thren smoothly parried it to the side.

“One,” he said, stepping forward with his left foot.

Nigel looped his sword around above his head and struck for Thren’s neck. The rogue stepped forward again, blocking it with his short sword.

“Two.”

His foot curled around Nigel’s. Their weight connected. Thren lunged forward, slamming his elbow into Nigel’s face. The mercenary captain went down. A short sword stabbed through the crease of his chainmail underneath his armpit and into his chest.