David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

Remembering how that cuteness had helped corrupt his son, Thren snarled and struck the wall with his fist.

“Or not…” Kadish said before going from Hawk to Hawk ensuring their readiness for the ambush.

M aynard Gemcroft knew something was afoot when Laurie disbanded the Kensgold early, but he wasn’t sure what. His wife’s absence was conspicuous, but that wasn’t something he could know for certain. Leon had no shortage of grumblings and complaints, calling Laurie every possible name for a bad host, plus a few more that he probably made up on the spot.

Then they saw the fire and knew the thief guilds had chosen that night to play. By the smoke, he guessed it to be Connington’s home. The fat man had stood outside the giant pavilion, swearing up a blue storm at the sight.

“They torched my home?” he asked after a minute to compose himself. “Those…those…imbeciles torched my home? I’ll gut them all. I’ll piss on their heads, rape their ears, feed their pricks to swine, and have them rape them too.”

“Go to your home, and go well-protected,” Maynard had told him. “The streets are not safe for us, no matter how many soldiers walk with us.”

With over six hundred armed men at his side, Maynard still felt insecure on his march home. Trailing after the six hundred was a tail of several hundred more, servants and dancers and singers wanting their pay or some beds to rest in. Maynard knew that many more wagons would come throughout the night, carrying whatever remained of his goods to sell, along with a handsome amount of gold. He’d left another two hundred to guard the wagons, but he wasn’t worried about theft. It was fire that worried him.

When they reached the mansion, Maynard felt his heart sink. The outer gate was open. All throughout the yard were massive holes from the trap spells he’d had a trio of wizards cast. No bodies remained, though he was certain from the wreckage that many must have died.

“What are your orders?” Maynard’s mercenary captain asked him.

“They must have looted while we were gone,” Maynard said. “The same probably happened to Connington. Yet why did they not burn it down?”

“A trap,” the mercenary said. “That is all that makes sense.”

Maynard glanced back at the rest of his men. He had the makings of a small army with him. What would they say if he fled to Keenan or the rolling hills, all in fear of a few rogues in his own house? His reputation had already suffered greatly from the war with the thief guilds. Whatever they had planned, he would not back down.

“Take four hundred of your men and scour my home,” Maynard ordered. “Leave the rest to protect me and my servants.”

“As you wish,” said the mercenary captain before turning and relaying the orders in loud, barking yells. Maynard stayed with the remaining two hundred at the gate entrance. He might not run from a trap, but he had no intention of walking into it, either.

The mercenaries had reached the door when the first men appeared at the windows. Arrows rained down upon them, fired by men of the Hawk and Spider Guilds. Maynard saw this and swore. His mercenaries rushed the door, knowing getting inside would greatly reduce the threat of the archers. Something prevented it, though he could not see what. He heard screams coupled with horrific sounds of battle. Stopped at the door, his mercenaries started to turn and make their way back to the gate.

“Behind!” several shouted. Maynard spun, then felt himself pushed to his knees. Mercenaries stood above him, holding shields high as arrows rained down. Fear lumped in his throat. Swords rang as men assaulted them from the back. Mailed hands grabbed his shoulders, and under cover of shield Maynard slowly shifted within the ring of guards.

“We’re pressed on both sides,” one said.

“They’re flooding out of the mansion,” said another.

Maynard tried to look but he was surrounded by flesh and armor. He smelled sweat and blood. The air whistled with arrows, followed by the wooden thumps as they hit shield, or screams when they hit something softer.

Stupid, thought Maynard. Even knowing, I walked right into their trap.

With attackers on both sides, and archers firing from the windows and houses, he knew their hope was slim. He pushed aside a soldier, determined to see how dire his fate truly was. As if he had taunted the gods, an arrow sailed through the gap he’d made and slammed into his chest. He collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching the shaft as his warm blood flowed across his hands. Around him, his mercenaries swore and crowded closer together.

“So stupid,” he chuckled. “Oh, Alyssa, if you could only see your father now.”

T hren led the initial assault, feeling like a hundred killings would only lessen his anger, not sate it. The soldiers, frantic to avoid the arrows, were unprepared for the fury of his assault. He knocked aside swords, danced between thrusts, and slashed out throat after throat. Bodies piled at the door, and although Kadish and his Hawks stood ready to aid him, Thren needed no help. After the first few, the mercenaries had to climb over bodies to reach the door. That momentary loss of solid footing was all it took for a master swordsman like Thren Felhorn.

When Maynard’s mercenaries pulled back, Thren signaled the charge. Over a hundred men in cloaks rushed out through the windows, slashing with their daggers and swords. Thren nimbly leapt over the bodies, stabbed a soldier in the back, and then shouted to the rest.

“Run, run! Kill them, and Maynard with them!”

He watched the arrows rain down from the Wolf Guild stationed in the houses. The mercenaries had plenty of shields, lessening the effect of the bowmen. No bother. Even though their numbers were equal, they had them pressed on both sides. And besides, no one could match him in skill.

Thren lunged into the sea of metal, spinning, cutting, and slashing with a wild rage that filled him with pleasure. This was what he was meant for. He belonged on a field of battle. Perhaps once the city was under his control, he might have a chance to become a warrior general and fulfill his potential.

Thren was pushing his way through the soldiers, making his inevitable approach toward Maynard, when he heard the trumpets call.

A lyssa Gemcroft stood in the center of her troops, Zusa at her side. She’d marched through the city like a returning conqueror, knowing that her father had already returned moments before her. She was done with their quarrel. Her plan had been to kneel before Maynard and apologize for following the Kulls’ stupidity, and then pay back that stupidity with the heads of Theo and Yoren. Instead, she came upon a great battle waging before her very gates.

“Hurry,” she told her mercenaries. “Kill the cloaks! Save my father and I will reward you tenfold!”

Beside her, a mercenary captain raised a horn to his lips and blew. The clear call rang throughout the city. With a great shout, her troops rushed the gates. A few split into the houses with the archers. Not long after, the barrage of arrows halted. Now crushed between two sides, the Wolf Guild pulled back, turning tail and running in a manner appropriate to their name.

“May I join in?” Zusa asked as the mercenaries turned on the remaining threat within the gates.

“Go right ahead,” Alyssa said. Zusa flicked her hair over her shoulder and then dashed into the fray. Alyssa approached, still flanked by ten men. No arrows were being fired, but she felt safer with them there nonetheless. In the middle of the gateway she found her father lying on his side, an arrow in his chest.

“Alyssa?” he said when he saw her. His voice was weak.

Alyssa felt her heart harden at the sight of him. He’d thrown her in the cold cells. He’d insulted her, made her an outcast…