David Dalglish - A Dance of Cloaks

No, she thought. I did those things myself. With my foolishness. With my pride.

“Father,” she said, kneeling down beside him and wrapping her arms around his neck. Tears welling in her eyes, she kissed his forehead and held him close.

“Daughter,” he said, a smile creasing his bloodstained lips. “You were right.”

He coughed. More blood spilled across his mouth. The arrow was in his lung, there was little doubt about that.

“No,” she said. “Please forgive me. I’ve come home. I’ve come back for you, father, to pledge myself to…”

“Quiet girl,” Maynard said. He relaxed in her arms. “My daughter. My heir.”

His voice failed him. His eyes grew distant. He died in her arms, his eyes closed by her fingers, his forehead bathed with her tears. All around them stood Maynard’s mercenaries, men of power and influence within the household.

“We heard his words,” one of them said. “Give us your orders, Lady Gemcroft.”

Alyssa looked up at them as if it should be obvious.

“Slay every last one of them that killed your Lord,” she said.

E verything was falling apart. Thren fought to the very limits of his skill. Men fell like wheat to a scythe, yet still it was not enough. He watched the Wolf Guild scatter, and in his heart he could not blame them. He’d have done the same thing in their situation.

“Fall back,” Thren shouted. Fighting further would only sacrifice whatever good men he had left. The soldiers had grouped together, and their expert formations were far superior to men used to attacking from shadows. Even worse, a strange woman in dark wrappings vaulted through his men, slaying them as if they were no more dangerous to her than toys.

They’d left ropes in the back of the mansion just in case they had to make a quick getaway. The last of the Hawks and Spiders turned and fled. In the red haze of his anger, Thren realized he had sent no one in to ignite the fires. The mansion would stand. The failure of it burned in his gut. He’d been so confident of victory he’d never prepared for defeat. So unlike him. So stupid.

The mercenaries gave chase, but they wore heavy armor and carried shields. They slaughtered a dozen that still remained at the ropes, but the rest scattered on the other side of the gate and into the night. Thren led the way, wishing for some way to gain the night over again.

T ake him,” Alyssa said once the guilds were gone and Zusa had returned to her side. Bodies lay everywhere, and the yard stank of battle. Two soldiers lifted Maynard’s into their arms. They must have known him well, Alyssa realized, for they showed true sadness at his passing. She shook her head, wishing for a moment of privacy so she might shed her tears. But now she was Lady Gemcroft, member of the Trifect. There was too much to do.

Her father in her escort’s arms, she approached the mansion feeling like the lost heir come home.

Home. No matter how sad the moment, the word still felt achingly comfortable in her heart.

Deep inside his safehouse, Thren talked with two men newly appointed as his advisors. None had the strength of Will, the cunning of Kayla, or the skill of Senke. They were sycophants, pure and simple, but he needed them now. He had little else.

Their news was grim. The assassination attempt on the king had failed. The men stationed at Connington’s had suffered horrible casualties, eventually setting fire to the mansion before frantically fleeing. Somehow, Madelyn Keenan had been found and rescued, along with the king’s advisor’s wife. His own son was missing, and some one-eyed woman was spreading rumors that she’d killed him and left him to die in the fire at Connington’s. Worst of all was his defeat at the Gemcroft estate.

“The priests of Karak have sworn no retribution for the acts of your son did against them,” one of the sycophants said. “At least Maynard died, and you kept your word to them.”

Thren shook his head.

“Get out,” he said. The men quickly obeyed. In silence, Thren brooded. His mystique, his prestige, his years and years of respect, had vanished in a single night. Every aspect of his plan had collapsed. Every single guild in the city had taken massive casualties. None would trust him. He’d have men poaching on his territory. The Trifect was already coming down hard, swarming the streets with their troops. Priests of Ashhur roamed as well, putting a halt to many of his enterprises.

Thren drew a sword and slashed his palm. He raised a clenched fist to the ceiling and bared his teeth.

“This isn’t over,” he swore. “Not now. Not ever. Not until every Lord and Lady of the Trifect lies rotting in their grave.”

He kissed his fist, tasting the blood on his lips. He had no son. No heir. Death would be his legacy.

T he man paced nervously before the wreckage. Despite the massive amount of ash and rubble, he felt certain some juicy remnants still hid within the remains of the Connington estate. The castle guards patrolled by every so often, but soon they’d switch shifts and he’d have his chance.

He backed away from the gate a bit, slinking further into the shadows. As he did he felt something sharp poke against his back.

“A Spider?” he heard a boy’s voice ask.

“Serpent,” the man said, his hand slowly dropping to his dagger.

“They are all one and the same.”

The man whirled but not fast enough. The dagger flew from his hand. Something sharp pierced his belly. As the pain doubled him over, pain slashed his face. Through the blood in his eyes, he saw a blurry image of a young boy standing before him, his face fully covered by a thin cloth of gray. Quiet, unmoving, the boy watched him die, then vanished into the night.