David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

Haern ducked below the pew, cleaned the handle on the dead priest’s robe, and then took a deep breath. With the sounds of battle, the rest of the priesthood would soon awaken and join them. He had once chance to escape, and that involved a head-on approach against two furious priests.

“Protect me, or make sure I die,” Haern prayed. Either way, he had no intentions of staying any longer. Dagger clutched tight in his right hand, he made his charge.

Bolts of shadow struck the pews, exploding their wood into splinters. They hit either side of him, for Haern had leapt over the first row, using the seat to catapult him into the air. He flew heels first, curling gracefully to land atop the very last row. More bolts chased him but he twirled into another jump, the dagger flashing with each spin as it caught the light of the altar’s fire.

When he landed he did not engage but instead ran between them, his dagger lashing outward. The one on the right screamed as the tendons underneath his arm tore, blood rushing down his side. Haern went to cut the other, but the priest clapped his hands together. A wave of power rolled outward, knocking the boy aside as if he were an insect before a storm.

“Get back,” the priest on the left told his wounded friend, who reluctantly obeyed. Haern took two steps toward the door as if to flee, then dropped flat on the ground. A blast of red lightning shot above his head, breaking the thick bar across the doors. Haern rolled to his knees and kicked. Instead of directly charging the priest he lunged to the side, ramming his shoulder against the wall. Another bolt of shadow struck the ground, missing by inches.

Both priests began their prayers for another spell, but Haern was too close. Their hands moved as if in a dream, their bodies surrounded by molasses. Haern kicked off the wall, spun once, and slashed his dagger into the nearest priest’s chest. Without slowing he spun about the body, stabbed again, and then jumped toward the other. His foot crushed windpipe; his dagger pierced lung.

The priests fell. Haern tossed the sacrificial dagger.

“Karak can keep it,” he told the bodies. With the bar broken, he pushed open the doors with ease. He avoided the obsidian steps, not liking the way they glowed in the waning moonlight. The soft grass felt wonderful to his feet, as did the sudden rush of fresh air. Only the fence blocked his way. Haern laughed. After five priests, a fence would be child’s play.

He swung his weight side to side as he shimmied up the bars, then somersaulted over the sharpened tops. The landing jarred his legs, adding more pain to his already impressive list, but he was out. He was free. Haern looked back the temple, watching as it slowly turned into an earthly mansion, its columns fading into shadow and lies.

It seemed an appropriate place to entomb the sins of Aaron Felhorn forever. Free at last, Haern ran on, knowing he had much to do if he were to ruin his father’s plans for the Kensgold.

N ot long after the dawn, the first of many wagons exited the western gate of Veldaren. More followed. They were Connington’s, loaded with barrels of wine and ale. Rows of mercenaries guarded them. Leon would have no repeat of the peach-pissing disaster. A few women went with them, trailing just behind. They were the first of what would soon be an army of camp followers.

The wagons circled the hills, held back from the peaks by Keenan’s men. Tents occupied every open spot. The whores drifted among the mercenaries, latching onto those who appeared handsome or wealthy. More wagons arrived, these carrying wood and utensils for building fires and cooking the enormous amounts of food soon to follow. Old tables snaked throughout the camp, mismatched in color and style.

By mid-afternoon, the noise had grown so loud those within Veldaren could hear the cacophony. Merchants not directly associated with the Trifect packed up their wares and shifted west, setting up shop beside the gates or along the winding path leading toward the camps. Coin traded between a thousand hands. Lord Gemcroft’s wagons arrived next, loaded with silks, chains, jewels, earrings, and a veritable army of mercenaries with swords drawn. The camp followers bedecked themselves in decorations far above their station, knowing the Kensgold would be their best night in years. Gold flowed at the Kensgold, as they always said.

The meat wagons arrived late from the southern farms, much to the ire of Connington’s cooks. Leon had appointed himself master of the meal, but that meal could not truly begin until the first cows arrived for the butchers. They dug a ditch in the dirt south of the hill and let the blood flow. Flies buzzed about it, stubbornly refusing the chill of the newly arrived winter. As cooks cut and chopped the meat, small fires spread across the hill, surrounded by stones and covered with spits and cauldrons. Until the meat was ready, the men and women gorged on biscuits, honey, and rolls basted with spices.

Much of it was free, and much was not. It never seemed to matter. The consumption grew. Atop the larger hill was a great pavilion, and within feasted the highest members of the Trifect. Leon had staggered up the hill, all fat and sweat and silk, and boisterously clasped Laurie’s hand.

“I tell you, it’s been many years since I feasted in the open air,” he nearly shouted. “And the taxes? Preposterous! Thank the gods you thought of this place. You saved me a fortune on the cattle alone.”

Leon’s family was distant, having no children of his own. Various aunts, uncles, and cousins traveled with him, decadent in their clothes and obstinate in their attitudes. Laurie quickly ushered them all into the pavilion, promising warmth, food, and drink…much of it Connington’s, but still he offered.

Maynard Gemcroft was the last of the three to arrive. He traveled in a caravan of over two hundred mercenaries, along with another hundred in servants, food-tasters, singers, jugglers, and other performers. While Connington had declared himself master of the meal, Maynard had taken over the entertainment.

Slowly joining them in a steady stream were friends and families of the mercenaries, the cooks, the servants, the wealthy and the poor, along with many members of the thief guilds, their daggers poisoned and their eyes wide at the proliferation of gold and silver.

An hour before nightfall, the Kensgold officially began.

W hile the Kensgold was gearing up, the leaders of the thief guilds met in a strange place for their kind: open air in broad daylight. They stood before the large fountain in the very center of Veldaren. Any gathering of so many leaders needed to be somewhere neutral, and with many exits, otherwise none would come. Given the absolute chaos of the Kensgold outside the city, traffic was almost non-existent within. As if inflicted with a massive plague, the whole city had emptied outward, flooding the surrounding hills with torches, campfires, tents, and song.

Thren was the first to arrive. Any delay on his part might worry the others. Kadish Vel of the Hawk Guild was next, looking ugly as ever with his red teeth and loose eyepatch. Then came Norris Vel, brother to Kadish and newly appointed master of the Serpent Guild after Thren had killed Galren, their old leader. The Shadow Guild had a new leader as well, a bulky man named Oligart.

“Just Oligart,” the man had said when introducing himself to Thren. His hands were meaty and his voice slow. “My last name’s a bitch.”

“What happened to Yorshank?” Thren had asked.

“I’m slow,” Oligart said, flexing his hands. “He was slower.”

James Beren of the Ash Guild was the last to arrive. All the leaders had been allowed to bring one trusted member, and Veliana was his. She glared at Kadish but wisely held her tongue.