David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

“Greetings, tax collector,” the intruder said. Alyssa might have thought him handsome if not for the cold look in his eyes and the looping tattoos across his naked face and head. Just looking at them made her stomach queasy. He wore dark platemail, the skull of a lion emblazoned in white across his chestpiece. Fresh wounds marked his body.

“Greetings,” Theo said. “Though I’d prefer you call me by my name. Do the paladins of Karak know nothing of respect?”

“No less than the men of Riverrun,” said the paladin. “I am Ethric, and you are Theo Kull. Consider our pleasantries exchanged.” He pointed his giant sword at Alyssa. “I’ve come for Lady Gemcroft. Is this her?”

Yoren drew his sword and stepped in front of her. Before returning to Veldaren, Alyssa might have felt humbled by his chivalrous nature, but now she felt like a beautiful gem being squabbled over in the marketplace. Again she wished for the faceless women. Their offer of safety and hiding seemed all the more desirable.

“You will not touch her,” Yoren said. “Alyssa is in our safekeeping. Karak has no claim on her.”

“And you do?” Ethric asked. “Only a fool would believe himself above the desires of a god.”

“She is my betrothed,” Yoren said. Alyssa felt like vomiting.

Ethric looked to his left, then to his right, pointedly dismissing the men.

“Cover your steel, boy, or I’ll put your blood on it,” Ethric said.

“Be gone from my camp,” Theo said. “I dismiss you. You are not welcome here.”

Ethric laughed.

“I am never welcome. Last chance. Hand her over.”

“Kill him,” Yoren said.

Alyssa let out a sharp cry at the sudden eruption of blood. The two nearest mercenaries fell back, deep gashes in their chests. Their armor did nothing to slow the blade. Ethric pivoted to the side and cut down another man, his finely-crafted and god-blessed sword shattering the mercenary’s cheap iron weapon. Two more died attempting an attack, their swords clanging uselessly off Ethric’s platemail or sailing wide from an impossibly fast parry.

“Cease this!” shouted a feminine voice, with such volume and authority that both sides obeyed. Nava walked into the light of the fire, her daggers drawn and dripping shadows.

“I wondered if you would show,” Ethric said, taking a step closer and holding his sword before him. “Pelarak has ordered the disbandment of your order. You must return to the temple immediately.”

“Alyssa is under our protection,” Nava said. “Be gone, and tell Pelarak we no longer follow his command, only Karak’s.”

Hands grabbed Alyssa’s wrist. Startled, she turned to shout, but a wrapped palm covered her mouth.

“Quiet,” Zusa whispered. “Like a mouse, now follow.”

N ava crossed her daggers before her chest as Ethric took a step closer.

“I hoped you would say no,” he said. “I cherish the honor of killing another heretic. Eliora is dead, you whore. Your kind dies tonight.”

If Nava was upset, she did not show it. Slowly she swayed her body side to side. While Ethric watched, she cut just above her elbow and let the blood drip down onto her cloak. Like a drop of dye into clear water, the red swirled and spread across the black cloth.

“Blood for blood,” Nava said. “I’ll bury you in my cloak.”

She lunged across the fire. Her cloak whipping around her like a funnel, its length suddenly twice that of her body. When Ethric swung, his sword clanged off as if he’d struck stone.

Nava’s foot snapped out, striking his head. He rolled with the blow, ending on his knees. He swung behind him, but Nava leapt over the blade and stabbed her daggers for his neck. Ethric turned just in time, one dagger striking his chestplate, the other slashing his cheek. He rammed his fist into Nava’s gut, grinning in satisfaction at the gasping cry of pain she made.

The faceless woman somersaulted backward, her cloak twirling before him. He tried to push it aside, but he might as well have tried to push down a tree with his bare hands. Blood ran down his face, a trickle curling in at the corner of his mouth. He licked it and then spat.

“Fight me,” he shouted as the cloak slowly drifted downward. He weaved his sword side to side, smoothly shifting between stances. Then she was there, ducking and spinning beyond his sword’s edge. Normally he’d feel confident having such reach over his opponent’s daggers. The length of his blade meant nothing, however, if she could weave about it as if in a dance.

She spun full circle about him, her cloak stretching longer and longer. Laughing, Nava jumped into the air, her cloak snapping behind her. Realizing he was surrounded, and soon to be crushed, Ethric poured every bit of his power into an overhand chop. A horrific screech sounded as his blade hit the cloak. The blood-red cloth shook, cracked, and then broke like shattered steel. All around him, the red material crumpled to the dirt.

Sensing opportunity, one of Theo’s mercenaries swung at Ethric’s back. The paladin heard his approach and swung about. Fury raged in his eyes. He blocked the blow, then looped his sword underneath and upward. The mercenary crumpled to the ground, his intestines spilling from his belly like freed snakes.

Feet slammed into Ethric’s back. The remnants of the cloak wrapped around his head. The blow jerked his body forward, but his head could not move. Pain flooded his mind as his neck wrenched awkwardly. Knowing her daggers would soon follow, Ethric fell limp, his sword swinging above his shoulder. The cloak vanished as Nava retreated away.

Ethric spun on his knees, his weight resting on one hand as he gasped for air. His fight with Eliora had already drained him, and Nava was proving no easier.

“A shame,” he said, hoping to buy some time. “You could do great things for Karak with such skill.”

Nava began swaying side to side, her tattered cloak only hanging down to her waist.

“But Karak wants us dead,” Nava said. “Who is it we should pray to now?”

Ethric stood and gripped his sword. The black flame roared higher, his faith unshaken by the difficulty of the fight. He would kill the heretic. Of that, he had no doubt.

“Ask Karak when you see him,” Ethric said. He stepped toward the bonfire and suddenly punched his free hand into the flame. He was not burned. The fire turned from yellow to purple, its smoke from a deep gray to clear.

“Can you stand the heat of the abyss?” he asked as he stepped back, his left arm completely wreathed with purple flame. Nava lunged, trusting her speed. Ethric parried her first two thrusts and countered a third. When she spun about trying to get closer, he opened the palm of his burning hand. Fire exploded out as if from the mouth of a dragon. The fire swarmed over Nava’s cloak, setting it aflame.

Nava wasted no time, jumping backward and slicing off her cloak where it attached to the clasps atop her shoulders. But Ethric did not chase like she expected. Instead he stabbed his sword into the flame, turned it once, and then swung. A massive arc of fire lashed outward, catching her across the chest. All about, wagons burned and men died as the fire consumed them with frightening speed.

Faring little better, Nava dropped to a roll. Her chest throbbed in pain, and even the dirt did little to stop the burn. Ethric rushed after, and when she rolled underneath a wagon, he punched it with his fist. The fire left his arm and set the cover aflame. An upward swipe of his sword cut the rest of it in half. Nava was underneath, gasping for air and clutching her horribly burned chest. The wrappings were gone, revealing blistered skin blackened by the heat.

“Shouldn’t…have burned me,” she said with labored breaths.