A Dance of Death (39 page)

“We are alike, Watcher. I am your twin, your shadow, the natural progression to what you began. Do not throw your life away without reason. Look what you and I have done by ourselves, through manipulation and sheer, brute strength. Imagine what we could do together! We can thrust the darkness of man into the light. We can find the vile corners in which the sickness hides and burn it all to the ground. Help me. Fight beside me. We have the same goals, the same methods. Do you not see?”

“Our methods might be the same,” Haern said, mustering the last of his strength. “But I never wanted to destroy Veldaren, only save it. I won’t be the monster you want me to be.”

Graeven shook his head.

“Then to Veldaren I will go next. I’ll finish what you started. I’ll hunt down everyone you knew, everyone you loved. No one betrays me, Watcher. Whatever legacy you had, I’ll destroy it and replace it with my own.”

Haern felt time slowing as he settled once more into a stance. He thought of the Wraith running loose in Veldaren, slaughtering priests, thieves, mercenaries, all to bring about chaos and riots. He thought of every step of his life made worthless, the brittle peace breaking into a slaughter worse than it had ever been. He thought of Tarlak and Brug trying to fight it, only to be overwhelmed. Most of all, he thought of Delysia, dying at the hands of the Wraith.

“No,” he said, shifting his weight onto his back leg. “You won’t.”

Help me Ashhur,
he prayed as Graeven twirled his sword.
Not for me, but for them.

The elf leapt, and Haern met the charge. They crashed together in the air, a brutal collision of kicks and slashes. The sword cut a wound across his thigh, the pain terrible. His heel caught Graeven’s jaw, and a saber slashed across his knuckles. They landed with their backs to one another. Graeven swung behind him, twisting his body while keeping his feet planted. Haern arched backward, the edge slicing the air above his chest. Returning to a stand, he thrust both his blades, but the elf looped his arm around, smacking them away.

Now face to face, they dueled once more, Haern driven on by a fury approaching madness. He kept on the attack, spinning and thrusting with such precision he couldn’t help think his father would be proud. All his inhibitions, all his doubt, faded away as his sabers sang out a song of violence. He’d once thought himself a monster, but now he faced a true monster, a being sworn to death and destruction, to whom life was only to be taken, not preserved. Whatever limits he knew, he pushed beyond them, despite the pain of his cuts, the ache of his muscles, and the blood that poured across his cloaks.

But Graeven would not fall, and at last Haern knew his energy was almost at an end. He had but one last trick, the cloak dance he’d relied on for years. Pulling back, he weaved himself into a spin, his cloaks separating and flailing in a bizarre pattern to hide his weapons and the positioning of his hands and feet. Graeven had faced it before, and as Haern’s vision was momentarily blocked, up came the smoke. He’d been shifting left just before vanishing, and denying every instinct, every piece of information he’d seen otherwise from the elf’s stance, eyes, and momentum, Haern turned and thrust his sabers blindly to the right.

Graeven’s sword slashed across his arm, spilling blood but failing to achieve the lethal hit he desired. His eyes grew wide, and his momentum carried him all the way into Haern’s arms, as if in an embrace. His mouth opened, his lips trembling. After a twist of his wrists, Haern pulled his sabers free from deep in Graeven’s belly. With a clang of metal and ruffle of cloth, the elf hit the ground, lying upon his back. Haern stood over him, watching, his sabers dripping blood.

“Killing me stops nothing,” Graeven said, coughing. Blood spilled across his lips. “Your war, your hatred, it’s a disease that will destroy you, a flame that will consume you. Even without me, you humans will destroy one another.”

“I know.”

“Then why this, Watcher? Why stop me?”

Haern knelt over Graeven, and he made sure the elf could see the fire in his eyes.

“Because I must. I will
fight
it, until my dying breath. I will fight our failures, our weakness, our destruction. Whether I stop it or not, I will never sit by and watch Dezrel burn. There is good in us, even if you cannot see it. Somehow I’ll find a way to save it.”

Graeven rolled onto his stomach, and he crawled toward where Dieredon knelt on one knee, having watched the entire encounter.

“They will consume us,” the elf said, his voice growing weak. “Just as they consume themselves. But must we die with them?”

Dieredon shook his head.

“Never your place, Graeven. Die now, and may Celestia grant you the mercy I cannot give.”

Haern put his saber against the elf’s back, its tip aimed for the heart.

“Farewell,” he said, thrusting. Graeven gasped, his hands twitched, and then he lay still.

Dieredon slowly rose to his feet, careful to put as little weight on his wounded leg as possible. Meanwhile, Haern took a saber to his own cloak and cut off his hood. Tossing the cloth aside, he removed Graeven’s hood and held it in his hands. Flecks of blood stained it, but they were well hidden by the dark material. Taking a deep breath, he pulled it over his head. Shadows immediately covered his face, and when he spoke, his voice changed, a subtle magic weaving over his words.

“It’s finished,” he said.

Dieredon frowned at him.

“You would honor him in his death?” he asked, gesturing to the hood.

Haern shook his head.

“No honor, and not for him,” he said. “Remembrance, so I might never forget what I may one day become.”

“And what is that?”

He glanced at Graeven’s corpse.

“We’re men, not gods, regardless of how many lives we take. Can you run?”

Dieredon shook his head.

“Go on without me. Find your friends at the docks. I’ll not be far behind.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

No running, no leaping from rooftops. Haern carefully climbed down from the roof, put his feet on solid ground, and limped toward the docks.

D
awn was fast approaching, but that only meant the night was at its darkest as Haern slowly approached the docks. Even from afar, he saw a sight that made his heart ache. Clenching his teeth, he tried to hope for the best.

“No,” he whispered. “Please, Ashhur…no, it can’t end like this. It can’t be this way.”

Yet Zusa’s body lay so very still.

Holding his cloaks tighter, for he suddenly felt terribly cold, he kept walking. Alyssa was nowhere in sight. Even the many docked boats appeared empty. Haern could imagine where they’d gone, to Ingram’s most likely. Let them fight over the city, he thought. Far as he was concerned, they could have it.

At Zusa’s body, he knelt, and put his hand against her neck. He held his breath, and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the bloody wounded in her chest, not wanting to think about who had done it.

There was a pulse.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Tearing at his own cloak, he stuffed the cleanest parts he could find against the wound, to stem the soft blood flow. After that he tied it, careful when he lifted her. She grunted at the movement, and he saw her open her eyes. With tender care, he removed the wrappings from her face so he could see her better. A moment later her eyes came into focus, and she looked his way. Despite her obvious pain, a hint of a smile crossed her lips.

“Knew…you would,” she said, her voice hoarse.

“Shush,” he told her, focusing on bandaging the wound. “Lie still until I can look at this better. Can’t believe you’re even alive.”

He heard the sound of soft footsteps on the wood, and he glanced back to see Dieredon arrive. He’d wrapped his wounded leg, and somewhere had found a long stick of wood to use as a crutch.

“Where is Alyssa?” he asked, glancing about the empty dock.

“They took her,” Zusa said, having to swallow repeatedly so her voice would not crack.

“Who?” Haern asked.

“Merchants…They’ll give her to the elves.”

Dieredon shook his head and muttered a few words in elvish.

“If we’re to save her, I need to act quickly. Can you escape the city on your own?”

“We’ll need to heal her first,” said Haern. “Give me an hour or so, and I think I can get us out.”

The elf nodded.

“I cannot be seen in here come daylight,” he said. “For obvious reasons, I don’t think the guards would take too kindly to my presence.”

Haern chuckled.

“Where shall we find you?”

“I’ll find you,” Dieredon said. “That’s what I’m best at. Just stay on the roads, and good luck, Watcher.”

He hurried away, moving at a remarkable pace for having to use a crutch. Haern watched him go, then turned back to Zusa. Her dark skin was growing pale, and he knew time was short.

“Should be used to this by now,” he muttered as he took her into his arms.

“Still don’t….like it,” she said, and despite the chaos of the night, he laughed.

Step by step, he told himself as he took her down the quiet street. Step by step.

A
t the entrance to the temple, he tried the door and found it locked. Beating on it with his fists, he waited, leaning beside the door to help support both his weight and Zusa’s. When he was met with only silence, he tried again, then a third time, refusing to be turned away. At last the door cracked open, first only a little, then wide as Nole realized who was there.

“We had nowhere else to go,” Haern told him. “She needs healing, and quickly. Will you help us?”

Nole chewed on his lower lip.

“You would trust me?” he asked.

“As I said…I have little choice.”

The priest nodded.

“Bring her in.”

Haern carried her into the empty temple.

“I sent Logan home when the fires started,” said the priest as he gestured to the nearest bench. “Thought it best he be with his family should something happen. This city grows worse with every day. What happened to Zusa?”

“She was stabbed by a blade,” Haern said, stepping away so he could lean against a wall. His breathing had grown short, and carrying Zusa had sapped what little strength he’d had left. Nole looked over the wound, a deep frown across his face.

“I’m not sure I can heal this,” he said.

“You better damn well try.”

“You don’t understand, my faith the past few days has been…weak. I fear this is beyond me. Ashhur may not hear my prayers.”

Haern took a step toward him, then suddenly lunged and grabbed the priest by the front of his robe and yanked him close so they could speak face to face.

“I don’t care,” he said. “You hear me? I don’t care what you did, that you betrayed me, or how badly you’ve failed before. You kneel there and you heal her. Don’t give Ashhur a choice to hear you, you understand?”

Nole nodded, and he looked visibly relieved when Haern let him go. Turning back to Zusa, the priest knelt, his hands on her wounds. He bowed his head and began to pray. Too scared to watch, Haern closed his eyes and waited. And hoped.

At last the prayers ceased. Still hesitant to look, he waited, head low, until he felt a hand touch his face. Opening his eyes, he saw Zusa standing there, her bloody bandages still on the bench, her revealed skin scarred but healed. Nole sat beside her, in tears.

“Thank you,” she said to both of them, gently resting her head against Haern’s chest as her arms wrapped about him. “Just…thank you.”

“We have little time,” he said. “Are you ready to go?”

She nodded. Haern put his hand on Nole’s shoulder, squeezed it, and then left him kneeling there on the floor as they walked out of the temple and toward the city’s walls.

L
ord Egar and newly named Lord Warrick were in the mansion discussing when the servant knocked at the door.

“Yes?” Warrick asked.

The servant came in and bowed low, looking incredibly nervous. He’d been one of many originally staffed by Ingram, and it seemed every single one, from top to bottom, thought they were a heartbeat away from being executed should they show a lack of skill at their position.

“Milord, we’ve received word from your messenger sent to the elves.”

“Already?” asked Egar. “But it’s hardly been an hour.”

“I know,” said the servant, licking his lips. “Your messenger said he was waiting outside the city, as if expecting him. The elf said he’ll accept your, uh, gift.”

Egar shrugged.

“Not entirely surprising. Shall I fetch her?”

“No,” Warrick said. “I must be the one to do this. It only feels just. You…”

“Jarl,” said the servant.

“Good, Jarl. Go tell this elf that we will be bringing Alyssa to him, if he will kindly wait for us.”

The servant bowed low, then hurried away. Warrick promised Egar he’d return soon, then ventured out into the mansion grounds. They’d cleaned away most of the bodies, but the blood still remained. The grass would grow strong next spring, he thought, feeling a bit of grim amusement. The understaffed servants hurried about, trying to put everything back in order as if the battle had never happened. They’d never succeed, of course. Warrick was in charge now. Things would never be as they were, and the city would be all the better for it.