Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (13 page)

“A bit simple,” Victor said, “but I’m not here to argue. Muzien surrounded me with his men today, and he’s threatened my death if I do not leave. During his little bit of bravado, he claimed the underworld was his. I’ve come to see if that really is the case.”

Deathmask walked right past Victor, stopped to kiss Veliana on the cheek, and then stepped into the darkness of the crypt. As he walked, torches hooked to the top of the hall at either side burst to life, burning purple flame that gave off no smoke. At Veliana’s beckon, Victor followed. They passed by row after row of the dead, finely crafted stone mimicries of their human bodies sealing in their dusty bones. At last, they reached the end, and upon a great stone wall that marked the crypt’s limits was a map of the city stretching from corner to corner, easily twice Victor’s size. The detail was impressive, crisscrossing streets, labeled shops, brothels, taverns, even marks to show where prostitutes gathered together when not employed by the brothels. Most important, though, were the colored lines made out of string that portrayed the limits of the various thief guilds.

Lying on the floor were piles of thread, green and red and black and blue. On the map, there were only three colors: a dark gray, a white, and a yellow. The gray and white shared but a small stretch, whereas encircling nearly the entire city from wall to wall were line after line of yellow.

“It’s down to just the two of us left to fight,” Deathmask said, snapping his fingers so that another torch sprang to life directly above them, giving them more light to view the map. “Cynric’s Wolf Guild is holding out best they can, but I’m fairly certain he’s received his final ultimatum from the Sun Guild.”

“Will Cynric cave in to Muzien’s demands?” Victor asked.

Deathmask shook his head.

“Cynric’s too much of a warrior. Plenty of his guild will turn on him, but that’s to be expected. His core group of men will stay. They all remember the glory days at the start of the thief war, and I daresay Cynric was quite fond of it, too. The other guilds may have built their little empires trading women and wine, but killing has always been what Cynric excelled at best.”

Victor crossed his arms, feeling overwhelmed by the sheer size of the map. So much yellow thread …

“Does he have a chance?” he asked.

Veliana laughed at his question.

“If he did,” she asked, “don’t you think we’d be out there with him? No, he has no chance. He’s excellent at hunting down prey, and he’ll hurt Muzien before he’s done, but this is something beyond his skill and understanding.”

“It might even be beyond ours,” Deathmask said, shaking his head. “I thought crushing Grayson’s advance would have stalled the Sun Guild, at least make them rethink things. Instead, it seems to have only made them more careful.”

“We need to act soon,” Victor said. “Find out where Muzien is, where he sleeps, where he eats. I know you can discover this, and when he’s alone, we can surround him with my soldiers and bring him down. We crushed Grayson, we crushed Thren Felhorn, and we can handle Muzien. Even if we can’t kill him, we just have to make it not worth the risk, neither the men we kill nor the coin we take.”

Deathmask chuckled, quiet at first, then louder as it seemed a bit of insanity leaked into his mismatched red and brown eyes. Reaching out, he grabbed the thread signifying the Wolf Guild and yanked it to the ground, followed by the dark gray of his own.

“You don’t get it, Victor,” he said. “The Darkhand
trained
Grayson. He
trained
Thren. At the Council of Mages, we were well aware of those two bastards long before they ever stepped foot into Veldaren to make their mark on the city. They were Muzien’s chosen heirs, just in case someone ever managed to sneak a lucky knife into the elf’s back. They were to conquer Veldaren, to make it an extension of Muzien’s empire in the west. And for a long while they looked to succeed, the Spider Guild a perfect mirror image of the Sun Guild … but then everything collapsed. Nothing Thren built seemed to endure. The guilds continued to war, the Trifect scored its victories, and then the Watcher reared his pretty little head.”

“What are you saying?” Victor asked.

Deathmask turned, jammed a finger against Victor’s breastplate.

“What I’m
saying
is that Muzien’s come to succeed where his heirs failed. Loss of coin means nothing. Death of his men means nothing. When I said he came here to conquer, I wasn’t being snide or melodramatic, because that is exactly what is happening. This is a war, and we fight against one of the greatest minds to ever take up the blade. Muzien might have one day ruled over the Dezren elves as their king, but he was banished for being viewed as too extreme by even those pointy-eared pricks. Muzien sees Veldaren as a foreign city to be conquered in war. The loyalty he inspires in his guild, the careful distribution of power, the aura of fear that accompanies his name, it all puts the guilds here to shame. Only Thren has ever come close, and now he’s dead or missing. The priests of Karak hold the king and queen of Mordan in their pockets, and even
they
have been forced to broker deals with Muzien lest they be destroyed. We have no hope here, Victor, not even the tiniest shred.”

All the while Victor’s hands clenched and unclenched. First from Muzien’s own lips, and now from Deathmask’s, he must hear how amazing the Darkhand was, how unbeatable. The sheer worshipfulness of it was infuriating, and at last he could stand no more.

“He’s not a god!” he shouted, drawing his sword and slashing through the map of Veldaren. “He can be killed, just like any other. I know you believe that, because why else haven’t you surrendered?”

Deathmask grinned, unbothered by the drawing of Victor’s sword.

“Do you know why I still fight?” he asked. “Because I cannot stand to lose. Muzien is a legend, but new legends are born in the deaths of the old. We have no hope here, but we had none to begin with. We have insanity. We have chaos. We will need to use the weapons available to us, the weapons that care not for rationality and tactics. We need men willing to kill and burn, coin to bribe and swindle. I need an army unafraid of both the king and the Darkhand. Can you get that for me, Victor?”

Victor swallowed, and he thought of the men he’d executed only hours earlier.

“I need time,” he said. “But how do I know you’re not using me for your own ends? What makes you a better choice than Muzien?”

“I sought only to use Veldaren as a playground for my amusement,” Deathmask said. “Muzien would rule it like a god. Why do you think he let you live? Every subject, from the lowliest of peasants to the greatest of kings, will have their chance to kneel in service. Those who submit will receive their rewards. Those who disobey, he’ll thoroughly destroy. If you need assurance, then have it. I will never kneel, not to a god, and certainly not to him.”

Victor turned, gestured to the map.

“Then we still do have a chance. One, just one, but it is something. I can get you your army, Deathmask, one bought and paid for. It’s already waiting for us, if only I can convince her.”

“You speak of Alyssa Gemcroft,” said Veliana.

“That’s right,” Victor said. “Her wealth, her mercenaries … combine your power with that of the Trifect and we can crush this damn elf once and for all. But I have to convince her how dangerous Muzien is, and that won’t be easy. Until she trusts me, or her fear of the Darkhand breaks her pride, she’ll refuse my advances. Can you buy me time?”

“You need not worry about us,” Deathmask said, and he smiled. “We are ghosts when we need to be. It’s you who I fear for. Keep your head down and your actions quiet. The moment Muzien thinks you still plot against him, he will crush you with his heel.”

Victor shook his head, blood still boiling in his veins.

“If he does,” he said, “then Muzien will discover that even in death, some small things can still sting.”

I
don’t see it,” Nathaniel said, rubbing his forehead with his only hand as he stared at the scroll unrolled before him on the desk. He sat in John Gandrem’s room, and the lord paced behind him, arms locked behind his back, a sign Nathaniel knew meant that John was getting closer and closer to losing his patience. Not that he’d yell or strike him, only give him that disappointed sigh and a condescending answer that always made him feel horrible.

“Think harder,” John said. “Look at the map, and remember everything you’ve learned. Sir Eldon knew he couldn’t outrun the enemy on his heels, so where would have been best to meet his foe in battle?”

Nathaniel leaned closer, scanning the colored lines drawn all across the scroll. Before him was a representation of a stretch of land he’d never see, and sketched in along the northern half with triangles, squares, and circles were various units of Sir Eldon Gemcroft. Giving chase on the southern half were even more triangles and circles of the combined forces of Derrik Blackbard. The battle had taken place hundreds of years ago, and for the life of him, Nathaniel could not figure out why he needed to know
anything
about it.

“Here?” Nathaniel asked, pointing to the only river on the map. It was the best guess he had.

“Why?” John asked, still pacing. Nathaniel let out a sigh. Of course, John had to ask why. No answer was ever good enough. A lucky guess never counted, even if it were correct, if Nathaniel couldn’t provide reason for the guess.

“The river would slow down their charge,” Nathaniel said. He pointed to the many triangles in Sir Eldon’s forces. “Since his army was mostly archers, Sir Eldon could use that advantage to win.”

“Good thinking,” John said. “But you’re wrong.”

He tapped a finger on a set of hills nearby.

“That river’s barely a foot deep, more of a stream, and Derrik’s horses would have thundered right across. No, he went and camped his army on top of this hill here, for reasons similar to what you listed earlier.”

Nathaniel frowned.

“But they could just surround him on the hill instead of charging up it. Why not wait them out?”

John beamed at the question.

“Now you’re beginning to think like a lord,” he said. “And that’s exactly what Derrik did, and exactly what Sir Eldon was hoping Derrik would do. You see, just before reaching the hill, he split off what few knights he had and…”

The door to the room opened, and with a rattle of hinges, in stepped Melody Gemcroft.

“Am I interrupting?” she asked. She wore a long crimson dress, and despite the Gemcroft family crest sewn into its sleeves with golden thread, it only seemed to make Melody all the more a stranger in Nathaniel’s mind, highlighting just how unknown she was to him.

“Not at all,” John said, and Nathaniel wished he had the courage to disagree. As frustrating as his studies with John could be, he still preferred them to the lectures Melody gave him when alone. Lectures about law, order, and the gods in particular. The way Melody talked about the gods unnerved him, made him wish he could pretend neither existed. That and the dreams …

“I fail to see why Nathaniel must learn such uncivilized matters,” Melody said, crossing the room on bare feet and standing beside the table. Nathaniel felt squished between the two, an adult on either side of his chair. “Will Nathaniel one day lead men to war on the battlefield?”

“A strategic mind excels in all battlefields,” John said, “not just those in brute warfare. And though he may not believe it himself, Nathaniel here has a good mind for it, should he ever focus on the little details and stop wildly guessing when he doesn’t immediately know the answer.”

Nathaniel felt his ears turning red. He hated when adults talked about him when he was in the room. It always embarrassed him, no matter if they were praising his virtues, condemning his failures, or pitying him for his missing arm. The pity was the worst, though, always the worst.

“I should go back to my room,” Nathaniel said, and he pushed back his chair in hopes one of the two would move out of the way so he might leave. “I haven’t practiced my numbers for today.”

“Very well, we can resume this tomorrow,” said John. Nathaniel hopped down, and he hid his smile at the sudden freedom.

“Mind if an old lady walks with you?” Melody asked, and that freedom died.

“Of course,” Nathaniel said, knowing it’d be akin to suicide to deny the request, particularly in front of John. Doing so would have earned him a reaction little different from if he spit at Melody’s feet.

His grandmother offered him a hand, and he took it. Despite the veins along her hands, her fingers were still surprisingly soft and warm. Just thinking that made Nathaniel feel awkward, and he wished he were anywhere but with her. Still, he had no choice, and he walked with his head slumped and eyes cast to the floor. From his experience, acting like the carpet was the most fascinating thing ever was the best way to slide through conversations with his grandmother.

“You would do well to listen to John,” Melody said as they walked down the hall, passing by soldier after soldier keeping guard. “Even if it seems rather … unnecessary. The future is always chaotic, and the skills you end up needing may surprise you.”

“You think I will ever lead soldiers in a fight?” Nathaniel asked. It sounded stupid to his ears. Surely Melody didn’t think differently?

“Wars have caused stranger things,” Melody said. “And a war is coming; have no doubt on that. You’ve seen the visions. You know what approaches.”

Even harder now did he stare at the floor. Of course, she mentioned his visions. Why did she always have to mention the visions? Could she not see they terrified him? Could she not just let him be instead of dragging him into stupid conversations and asking stupid questions?

“I guess so,” he mumbled.

They were almost to his room now. Desperate, he silently begged that she would leave him be when he got there, but he knew she wouldn’t. She’d come to him for a reason, and just what, he’d soon discover.

“We’ll need to make preparations soon,” Melody said, making it sound no different from if they were preparing for a picnic. “Perhaps bring in some more mercenaries from the south. John’s men will help, but they won’t be enough. I fear nothing will be enough. If only we knew more of his arrival…”