David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“Three.”

“Not dead yet,” Nigel said, his voice sounding wet.

Thren laughed.

“A worthy attitude,” he said as he kicked the blade from Nigel’s hand. “Would you care to work for me, or die like the rest of your men?”

Nigel chuckled even though his chest was on fire.

“Cut my damn head off already,” he said. “I ain’t going to eternity as a turncoat.”

Thren shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him either way. He pulled his sword out, raised its tip, and prepared to thrust into Nigel’s throat.

Nigel saw a great burst of white, so powerful his eyes ached. He thought he was dead, yet his ears continued to hear. Voices shouted, many voices, some of them panicked. He heard singing. As his vision returned, Thren was gone. He tried craning his neck to look, but his muscles seemed oddly tight. For some reason, he could still hear the serving girls sobbing. Unknown voices spoke in hushed tones from seemingly all directions.

A man stepped over him and looked into his eyes. His bald head was smooth and rounded, as were his large ears. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown.

“Hold still,” the man said. He put his hands through the armor and against the wound on his chest. Nigel coughed. The stranger wore white. A gold pendant hung from his neck.

“Madelyn?” Nigel asked.

“The noblewoman?” the stranger asked.

Nigel nodded weakly.

“She’s quite alright. Brave, too, considering what she had to do. Be quiet. I must say my prayers without interruption.”

The man closed his eyes and whispered words that Nigel could not understand. White light glowed, as if his skin were luminescent. The pain in Nigel’s chest dulled. When he coughed again, it was dry and healthy.

“Who are you?” Nigel asked as the stranger opened his eyes and stood.

“Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” he said as he offered the mercenary a hand. “And as of now, consider you and your charges under my protection.”

A t some point he must have fallen asleep. Ethric remembered no dreams, but when his eyes snapped open he felt a distinct disorientation at the loss of daylight. The sun was barely visible through a pale scattering of clouds as it hovered above the western wall of the city.

Ethric knew he had awakened because of his finely honed instincts. At first he saw no intruders and heard no footsteps. But he was hunting skillful prey, and lack of sight and sound meant nothing. He looked to the wall. The rock wedged inside the crack was gone.

“I thought you’d wait until dark,” Ethric said as he stood. His hand reached for the hilt of his sword. A dagger slid through a crease of his armor by his shoulder blades and pressed against unprotected flesh.

“It seems the priests have grown desperate,” he heard a voice behind him say. “A dark paladin alone in Veldaren in broad daylight? Will they soon announce their existence to the land, or are they just hoping a mob will kill you?”

“It would take far more than a mob,” Ethric said. “Pull back your blade, woman. I know what you are.”

She hesitated for a moment, and then the dagger withdrew. Ethric turned, his arms crossed over his chest.

“With whom do I speak?” he asked.

“I am Eliora,” the faceless said. “What message do you bring from the temple?”

“Just that Alyssa must be returned, immediately,” Ethric said. “Bring me to her at once.”

Eliora clicked her two daggers together as she gently weaved back and forth.

“Matters are not as simple as Pelarak believes,” she said. “Alyssa is surrounded by guards and protected by a wealthy tax collector.”

“None of which should matter to a faceless.”

Through the thin veil of white, Ethric could see hints of Eliora’s face. He’d swear she winked at him.

“Only if we wanted her dead, paladin. Escaping alive is another matter. I’m sure Pelarak told you she is worthless to us if harmed.”

“Where is she held?” Ethric asked. “Tell me and you may go.”

Eliora tilted her head to the side. Her swaying slowed, then came to a stop.

“Who do the dark paladins serve, Karak, or his priests?” she asked.

“They are the same,” Ethric said. “His priests speak the word of Karak.”

Eliora took a step back.

“Then I will not bring you to her. Karak has given us faith, and a mind to use it. We are not Pelarak’s slaves, not anymore. We do the will of our god. Our god. Will you remain blind to Pelarak’s manipulation and control?”

“You will bring me to her, or you will die.”

Eliora cocked her head. She seemed to be staring into Ethric’s heart.

“You would kill me anyway. Pelarak has made his move. So be it.”

Ethric drew his sword and lashed out in a single smooth motion, the blade bathed in dark fire. The faceless woman fell backward, her spine arching and her knees bending outward. After the sword passed harmlessly above her, she snapped forward, lunging with her daggers. One scraped against his platemail and caught in a crease while the other gouged the flesh underneath his chin.

Before she could finish the kill, Ethric rammed an open palm against her chest. The strength of Karak was with him, and she flew backward, a shockwave of sound and fire exploding from their contact. Eliora rolled, shadows splashing off her body and laying like deep puddles. Her feet touched ground, she spun, crossed her arms, and vanished in a puff of smoke.

A long shadow stretched from the western wall from the sunset, and out of that shadow leapt Eliora. Her feet slammed into the small of Ethric’s back. He cried out in pain as he stumbled forward, his sword slashing behind him blindly. Its fire singed some of her wrappings, but cut no flesh. A dagger struck Ethric, cutting a thin but bloody wound across the back of his head.

Ethric fell forward, avoiding the vicious thrust aimed between his collarbone and neck that would have surely finished him. The dagger struck his armor. The magic in both collided together, strength against strength. Sparks showered to the ground. The dagger dulled. When Eliora spun, thrusting it forward, Ethric twisted so she stabbed directly into his thick breastplate. The dagger exploded into shards that bit her hand. Blood soaked her wrappings.

“Yield and I will be merciful,” Ethric said as he went on the offensive, slashing back and forth with his blade. Eliora ducked, shifted, and leapt away like a dancer, each cut passing close enough to burn more of her wrappings. When his sword stabbed forward, it should have pierced her heart. Instead he cut smoke, for she was gone.

Anticipating the attack, he spun, cutting the air between him and the wall’s shadow. Eliora was there, her foot outstretched for a kick, but again his sword passed through only smoke. He coughed and retched as it swarmed over him, burning his lungs and tasting foul on his tongue. Within the smoke, he heard laughter. Within the laughter, he heard rage.

Something sharp pierced his side just above his belt. Warm blood poured down his thigh. He felt it twist, and the pain doubled. Ethric swung, but he felt blind and dull. His sword cut air and smoke, nothing more.

“I will not be treated as a fool,” Ethric shouted. He struck the ground with his blade, both hands gripping the handle to increase his strength. Power rolled from the blow, pushing away the smoke. Clean air filled Ethric’s lungs. Before his head could clear, he saw Eliora lunging at him, her dagger aimed for his eye.

His reactions were quicker. He dropped his sword. His left hand shot up, blocking the stab with his vambrace. His right reached forward, grabbing Eliora’s neck and crushing her throat. Before she could turn to smoke in his hands, he shouted the name of his god and let his full power roll forth.