A Dance of Blades (18 page)

“Ditch the boy,” said one. “Either way he’s dead. No reason to go with him.”

“Assume yourself a better man than that. What then?”

“Carry him until I find the closest shelter.”

Oric tapped his forehead. “Exactly. Patt, take Rat and go north. Stop at the first two homes off the road, and you search them thoroughly. The rest of you, come with me.”

They split, two north, three south. Oric had a feeling this Watcher, when in danger, would have gone south instead of north, since by all appearances Veldaren was his home. They saw no dwellings for the rest of that first day, but come the second, a farm appeared in the distance. Oric led the way, feeling his pulse quicken. This had to be it. The Watcher would have stopped here, maybe not for long, but at least for food and water.

When he knocked on the door, it was a long time before he heard a response.

“Who’s there?” asked a woman’s voice.

“Oric Silverweed, soldier of lord Hadfield of the north. I demand entrance.”

A lock rattled from inside. Oric leaned back toward his men and whispered, “Hands on your hilts at all times.”

The door opened, revealing a mildly attractive woman in her early thirties. Beside her stood a teenage boy, a dagger tucked into his belt. From where Oric stood, he saw several more children, all younger, huddled about a wood stove.

“Where’s the man of the house?” he asked as they stepped inside.

“That’s me,” said the eldest boy. Oric raised an eyebrow as he glanced at the woman. Something already felt off.

“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, glad to see him ruffle at being called boy. If he was angry, he might say something stupid, something he’d rather have kept quiet about.

“Trevor.”

“Where’s your pa, Trevor?”

That brief hesitation, along with the woman’s sudden flare of her eyes, was all Oric needed to know.

He had two men with him, one a young soldier named Uri, and the other a skilled fighter named Ingram. Oric turned to them, purposefully putting his back to Trevor and his dagger.

“Ingram, search out back. Check the barn, the fields, anywhere they might keep him. Uri, search the house. Pull up the floors if you have to.”

“You can’t do this!” the woman shouted. Oric struck her with the back of his hand. Finally Trevor drew his dagger. Before he could do a thing, Oric crossed the distance, rammed his throat with one arm, and grabbed Trevor’s wrist with the other. He held him pinned against a wall as the younger children screamed.

“You pulled a blade on me, boy,” Oric said, feeling like a wolf among sheep. He let a wildness appear in his eyes, knowing it’d frighten them more. “That means I can do whatever I want, and I got half a mind to leave you a cripple. Think your ma here will keep feeding a worthless belly that can’t help out in the fields? How you think she’ll like watching me cut off your fingers one at a time?”

Trevor’s eyes were wide, and he looked ready to cry. He couldn’t speak, only cough, and Oric kept the pressure up to keep it that way. He wanted him lightheaded, scared, convinced he was about to die.

“Stop it, please,” the woman pleaded. She still stood near the door, a red mark swelling on her face. Meanwhile Uri flung open drawers and dressers as he searched the house, occasionally stamping hard with his heel to test for false floorboards.

“Stand over there with your children,” Oric snapped at her. “You make a move toward me, anything at all, and you can watch as I pull your son’s guts out one inch at a time.”

She reluctantly obeyed, sitting between her two girls. A young boy was with them, and he moved to sit at her feet. Oric turned back to Trevor, who had dropped the dagger and started retching silently.

“Take a deep breath,” he said, lessening the pressure. As air sucked into his windpipe, Trevor coughed, every gasp he made strained. “Good. Now you listen to me, got it? I’m missing two of my men, and I’m thinking they were here. But let’s not worry about that right now. Right now, I want to know about a little boy, red hair, about five years old. Did someone bring him here? The truth, you worthless shit, tell me the truth.”

Trevor’s face contorted with pain. He had something to say, no doubt about it. But he didn’t want to. Even threatened with death, he didn’t want to say. He was protecting his parents, Oric realized. Nothing else could keep his tongue still when so blatantly faced with death. Well, there were ways around that.

“Uri,” he shouted. The man appeared seconds later.

“Yeah, Oric?”

“Find anything?”

Uri shook his head. “He ain’t in here. Nothing for Ben or Gert, either.”

Oric looked to the adjacent room, which was curtained off, decided there would work.

“Come take him,” he told Uri. The other soldier grabbed Trevor by the wrists and shoved him through. Meanwhile, Oric walked over to the woman.

“What’s your name?” he asked her.

“Evelyn,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Pretty name, that. You come with me now, or I’ll drag you away by the hair while your little ones watch. Your choice.”

She kissed her daughters and stood. Oric put a hand on her neck and guided her into the room where Uri pinned Trevor against a wall.

“You’re trying to protect your ma, maybe your pa, or both,” Oric said as he shoved Evelyn onto the small bed in the cramped room. “But you ain’t protecting them, not anymore. Gonna show you what’ll happen, Trevor, if you don’t tell me what you know, got that? Hold him tight, Uri.”

“Will do.”

Oric struck the mother, spun her onto her stomach, and ripped at her skirt. When she started to sob, he took a wad of the blanket and shoved it into her mouth. Trevor struggled, but Uri stood a foot taller and easily outweighed him. Oric pulled off his belt, pushed aside the rest of Evelyn’s skirt, and shoved himself inside. She screamed into the gag, tears streaming down her face. Oric beat her when her screams got too loud, or when Trevor’s struggles lessened. He needed the horror to continue. He wanted that fucking brat scarred.

When he finished, Oric pulled back and refastened his belt. Evelyn pulled at her skirt, trying to hide her nakedness, but Oric yanked at it, denying her even that.

“Let him go,” he said to Uri.

Trevor flung himself at Oric, who expected the reaction. He ignored a single punch, caught Trevor by the throat, and flung him back against the wall.

“You want to know what will happen next?” he asked as Trevor clutched his wrist. “I’m thinking Uri wants a turn, but I’m not letting him. Know why? Because
you’re
going next unless you tell me everything that happened here.” He laughed. “How’s that sound? Ever wanted to needle your ma, Trevor? Here’s your chance. No one will blame you. You were just being a man, right, protecting your family? How about one of your sisters out there? Think they could use a good poke? Maybe I’ll make you do all three, just one after another, until…”

“Just stop,” he screamed with what little breath he had. “I’ll tell, everything, I’ll tell everything, please, just stop, just stop…”

He let Trevor go, who collapsed at his feet. Oric knelt before him so they could stare eye to eye.

“You tell me every goddamn detail you know, or next time, I might not be so nice.”

Oric listened as Trevor told of Haern’s arrival with a boy he knew only as Tristan. He listened as he detailed Tristan’s amputation. Then came Ben and Gert’s arrival, and Oric felt his blood boil as he heard of how their father killed them. Both of them, Trevor insisted. He seemed determined to make that clear. Last came their father’s departure for Veldaren only a few days prior, mounted and following the main road.

“Good boy,” Oric said, slapping the boy across the face when he was finished.

“Mind if I have a go?” Uri said, nodding to where Evelyn remained upon the bed, her face wet with tears. Oric shrugged.

“Get on out, boy. No need for you to watch this.”

The three soldiers gathered outside the house ten minutes later.

“No sign of anything strange,” Ingram said. “Found where they maybe did some digging recently, but the ground’s too hard and cold for me to check.”

“Don’t bother,” said Oric. “We know what they did. Nathaniel’s with their father riding south. If we press hard we can overtake him.”

Uri pointed a thumb back at the house.

“You leaving them alive? They helped kill two of us, tried lying as well. Don’t set much of an example.”

“Leave them all for now,” Oric said. “When we find this Matthew, I want to drag him back to his home so he can watch as we kill every last member of his family. Let that story spread across the north. No one opposes Arthur, and no one dares kill his soldiers. Now ride. No matter what, they can’t get to Felwood before we do.”

1

D
eathmask and Veliana toasted their success with stolen wine in wooden cups. They’d killed three of Thren Felhorn’s Spiders before fleeing, and their cloaks had made their guild affiliations clear. As far as both guildmasters knew, they were at war with one another. Given how close the attacks had been, and the overall chaos of the night, it’d be near impossible to prove which had been first, so neither could prove theirs had been mere retaliation.

“Thren’s a cautious, paranoid bastard,” Deathmask said as he sipped the wine. It tasted terrible, but his head pounded, and he needed alcohol, no matter how cheap a form. “He might think something’s amiss, or the attack a bit too blatant for Garrick’s taste. Still, the doubt’ll be there, and neither’s going to be happy with one another.”

“You should hurry back before they wonder where you were,” she told him.

“Quite true. Looks to be another long day. Finish your glass. I want you to come with me, keep an eye out on the guildhouse entrance. If Garrick suspects something, I might need you to cover my hasty escape.”

“As you wish, your majesty,” she said with none-too-thick sarcasm.

They left their basement and hurried to the Ash Guild’s headquarters. With Veliana watching from the rooftop, Deathmask strode inside. He couldn’t have been happier with what he saw. The entire room was in disarray. Pillows lay scattered and shards of glass covered the floor by the bar. Garrick stood trembling at the far end. About twelve Ash members were inside, and none seemed eager to be near their guildmaster.

“Greetings,” Deathmask said, pretending nothing was amiss. “Good to see you survived last night intac—”

“Where were you?” Garrick shouted. Deathmask blinked, and he glanced at one of the other men as if to show how confused he was.

“Running for my life out in the streets, much like every other thief in Veldaren. I stopped by here once, but found the place empty, so I hid until morning.”

Garrick paced back and forth. His eyes were bloodshot. Deathmask wondered how much crimleaf the man had coursing through his veins. His speech was also slurred, perhaps from one, or several, of those broken bottles over at the counter. Drunk and stoned. Deathmask struggled to contain his amusement.

“Spiders!” Garrick shouted, as if none of them were there anymore. “Goddamn Spiders! What is Thren thinking? He think I betrayed him? He think I’d be stupid enough to do that? We had a deal, you fucking Spider, you fucking…fucking…damn fucking Spider!”

Deathmask’s eyes lit up at that. A deal? Could Garrick have been working for Thren?

“Someone showed up about half an hour ago,” offered one of the nearest thieves, keeping his voice low so his guildmaster would not hear. “Claimed that two members of the Ash came and killed several of Thren’s men, and he demanded an explanation.”

Garrick still overheard, and he stormed closer. Deathmask saw how incredibly dilated his pupils were, and he decided his guess was correct. If Garrick’s entire strength and confidence were built upon Thren’s protection, then having that suddenly taken away would probably scare the shit out of him. Deathmask couldn’t wait to tell Veliana. She’d been ready to kill the man before. What might she do knowing he’d sold the entire guild out to the man who’d executed her former guildmaster?

“Serious accusations,” Deathmask said, repeatedly telling himself not to smile. “What did you say?”

“This is bullshit,” Garrick said, waving an unsteady finger in his face. “And I’ll convince him of that. But I want to know what’s going on. Mercenaries by the hundreds running through the street, and for what? And tomorrow night, will they do the same? We need to plan. We need to prepare. Shit. What about the other guilds? Maybe they know what’s going on. We should ask. Someone should go.”

Behold your glorious leader,
Deathmask mused, glancing at the rest of the Ash that mingled about.
He was a puppet for Veliana, then a puppet for Thren. Yet now the strings are cut, and he can do nothing but collapse.

“I will go,” Deathmask said. “And to the Spider Guild, no less. We should show them we mean no ill will, and most of all, that the survival of all the guilds is more important than our petty squabbles. How many of us died last night? This is now a war, a true war. Let me take that message to Thren.”

Garrick bit his lip, no doubt trying to process the idea in his drug-addled mind. The rest of the thieves looked pleased. Deathmask wasn’t surprised. He’d arrived in the chaos, remained calm, and then presented a plan. This was something they could latch onto, however simple. Let the guild see that he was in control, not Garrick.

“Fine,” he said. “You may speak for me. Be careful, and don’t press if Thren turns you away. Friends. That’s what we must be. Good friends. We’ll teach the Trifect to mess with us. Won’t we?
Won’t we?
”

A half-hearted cheer came from the rest of the thieves. As Deathmask left, he caught the looks they gave him, and this time he did not hide his smile. He was a stranger, a newcomer to the guild, but he was still becoming more of a leader in their minds than Garrick. Come a crisis, men and women search for stability. Let them see that in him.

When he stepped out to the street, he looked to the rooftop for Veliana, but she was not there. Odd. Had someone else spotted her? He approached that same building, looped around to its back, and then climbed up. He expected Veliana to be lying there, perhaps bored or asleep. Instead, no one.

“Vel?” he wondered aloud.

Then he saw it, a single streak of blood. He followed it to an alley, and when he peered down, he saw Veliana kneeling over the body of a fallen man. Deathmask climbed down to find her bandaging the man’s wounds.

“What the Abyss is going on?” he asked.

“It’s him,” she said, not at all surprised by his arrival. “It has to be. I fought him once, years ago, but who else might the Watcher be? It’s Aaron…Thren Felhorn’s son.”

Deathmask’s mouth dropped, and every plan whirling through his head rearranged itself to match this new set of circumstances.

“Take him,” he said. “Hurry. We have so much to discuss.”

*

Z
usa had scoured the south and found nothing. The night had come and gone, bathed in blood and lit with fire, yet she had seen nothing of this elusive Watcher. Too much chaos, too much death. How do you pick one murderer out of a thousand? It was a question she had no answer for. Still, it seemed Alyssa’s desires had been met. Hundreds of thieves died, though many mercenaries had fallen as well. She doubted her master would grieve for their loss. Her grief was saved solely for herself.

Her only strategy left was to hope the Watcher had lain low during the night, knowing he wasn’t needed. Come morning, though, perhaps he’d try to escape, or survey the damage. As she ran along the rooftops, Zusa crisscrossed between the various thief guild headquarters, at least those that she knew. She saw various men pass below her, staying to the alleys and quiet streets, but they all wore the colors of various guilds. From what she’d gathered from men she’d interrogated the night before, the Watcher never appeared wearing any guild colors, only a multitude of gray cloaks and shirts. Still, gray was akin to both the Ash and the Spiders, so to those she went.

At the Ash Guild she leaned atop a triangular rooftop, rested her arms on its tip, and overlooked the square. Nothing. The magnitude of her task set upon her then. She was trying to find a lone man in the entire city, one who appeared to have no friends, no allegiances, and no clear motive other than killing thieves. She had a vague description to go on based on his clothes, and a rumor that he had blond hair. Some said he had red eyes, but she dismissed those, as well as the stories claiming he had demon blood and blades for hands. But blond she could work with.

She dozed for a while, not meaning to. Sometime later she startled, ashamed of her weakness. It’d been a long twenty hours, sure, but she’d handled worse.

“Nava would be so disappointed,” she whispered, feeling sad and tired. Nava had been one of the last three Faceless women, killed at the hand of a dark paladin of Karak. They’d been deemed outcasts, traitors to their God. But it was their God that had abandoned them, and so she’d turned on his paladin that had come for Alyssa, protecting her. Zusa had given Karak no prayers for the last five years. She missed Nava and Eliora more than his presence.

Not far to her right, down in the alley, she heard someone cry out in pain. Curious, she rushed over and leaned down. Her eyes widened. Whirling below her was a mass of gray cloaks, spinning and sliding as if possessed. Three men fought against it, all wearing the colors of the Ash. A man lived inside those cloaks, and she saw his face, his blond hair…but even that wasn’t what convinced her. She saw his eyes, and they were tormented yet lost in pleasure. One by one the thieves fell, throats sliced and chests cut open. His skill was incredible.

“Watcher,” she whispered, drawing her daggers. “I find you at last.”

She felt a seed of worry planted in the back of her mind. Her master wanted the Watcher brought back alive, but the way he fought, the way he moved, it might be impossible. He’d die before surrendering, she knew that the way she knew he’d prepared for her attack from above despite all her silence.

His swords danced, their weapons collided. Her feet slammed into his chest, but he held his ground. She pushed off, flipping twice in the air before landing on her feet. The two stared at one another, a smile blooming across her face.

“Ethric was the last true challenge I fought,” she said. “Can you be the next, Watcher?”

“Damn woman,” said the Watcher. He pointed a blade at her cloak. “Who is it you work for? What fool have you sold your soul to?”

Zusa laughed, the amusement only half acted. The man was watching her, analyzing her. She felt naked before his eyes, as if in time he might know every movement. She was doing the same to him, true, but he was too guarded, too still.

“You seek my colors?” she asked. Slowly she lifted one arm, slashed it, and let the blood drip down onto the cloth of her cloak. She wondered if her spell would take hold. Her strength had come from Karak, or so she’d always thought. She’d once lived within shadows, danced with cold fire on her blades, but not since Ethric had she tapped Karak’s power.

The color spread through the cloak in seconds, turning it a vibrant red. It coiled around her, as if suddenly alive. Zusa felt her blood pound in her ears, her head ached from the effort, but still she smiled. Perhaps Karak hadn’t abandoned her after all.

“I serve willingly,” she said, tensing for an attack. “I have sold nothing.”

She lunged, one dagger looping upward to block, the other thrusting for his chest. Her cloak wrapped about her like a shield. When the Watcher countered, her dagger parried his blade away, but her thrust met his other sword, and her arm jarred at the strength of the block. Her cloak lashed out like a whip, its fine edges sharp as razors. It slashed across his face, blood splattered them both, and then he leapt back. His hood fell lopsided, and she saw how blue his eyes were, how dirty his face was. Who was hidden beneath the guise? Who would Alyssa find when she dumped his body before her?

“Neat trick,” the Watcher said before leaping into his own attack. Their weapons clashed again and again, his speed incredible. Twice Zusa had to spin and let her cloak snap inward, deflecting a killing thrust. This was no spar, no game. He wanted her dead. That seed of worry in her mind grew to a thorn. One of his swords slashed her thigh. The other pierced her chest, shallow but painful. The worry bloomed like a deadly flower.

It was the narrowness of the alley they fought in that saved her. When he lunged for a killing blow, she kicked off the wall, sailing over his head. Her feet hit the opposite side, the collision jarring, but she pushed off, higher. Her cloak trailed below her, twisting. It lashed at him, cutting deep grooves into his arms. He’d expected her to land, not continue back the way she came. The cloak kept him off balance, and when she landed, she lunged in, daggers leading.

She underestimated his speed.