Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (19 page)

The man on the left died, a sword piercing his neck so fast, it seemed his throat opened by itself, spilling scarlet blood down the front of his shirt. Cynric took his spot as he fell, trying to aid the last member of his guild, perhaps the last in all of Veldaren. As the Wolf took another step back, slashing with the dagger in his right hand while attempting to parry Muzien’s thrust with the left, Cynric swung both his swords, all his strength behind the chop. If he could only hit the damn elf, get him bleeding …

The sword in Muzien’s left hand, which had been thrusting in to pierce a vital lung, instead curled right, smacking aside the Wolf’s own thrusts. With his other blade, he lifted it up in defense, planting his foot to steady himself as Cynric’s swords connected. Despite all Cynric’s strength, despite how wiry the elf seemed, he resisted it with ease. It was as if Cynric had smashed his swords against the side of the king’s castle, so badly did it hurt his hands.

Press harder!
Cynric screamed to himself as he pulled back and slashed again and again, beating his swords at the elf as if he were a tree to be felled. Muzien took step after step backward, alternating which of his swords blocked the blows, always matching Cynric swing for swing. There was no moving him out of position, no tiring him, no fooling with a feint. At last, Cynric tried desperate surprise, flinging himself forward out of sheer madness, with no care for what Muzien might do in retaliation or counter. Instead of skewering the elf or being skewered in return, Muzien twirled around him, coat flapping in the air, and assaulted the other Wolf who had fallen back to give his guildmaster space to fight.

Two hits knocked his swords away, the third took his life.

“What the fuck are you?” Cynric asked as he stood there trying to catch his breath. “We had you trapped. You should be dead.”

Muzien shook some of the blood off his swords, chuckling as he did.

“Did you?” he asked. “Look around, Cynric. Tell me, do you think it is
your
trap we are in?”

Cynric glanced to the rooftops, and he felt his stomach tighten. All along them he saw men and women watching, the four-pointed star sewn on their chests. The way they lurked there, silent and still as statues, infuriated him more. This wasn’t some damn ritual for them to observe, and for Muzien to be so confident in his abilities, so unafraid of Cynric’s blades …

“You’re down here, and they’re up there,” Cynric said. “If it’s a trap, it’s a poor one.”

“They’re only eyes in the night, to bear witness to your death,” Muzien said. “Forget them, Cynric. We are alone here, just the two of us. Again, I offer you a chance to live. Men will serve you, just as they do now. You will have a position of power and respect. Would it be so terrible for you to cast aside your cloak and bear the star?”

Cynric stood tall before them all, and he puffed out his chest.

“I won’t be made into your pet, nor beaten and bludgeoned until I obey. Kill me if you can, Muzien. I may die, but I’ll die fighting. What other end could I have hoped for?”

The elf shook his head.

“If you see defeat as your only future, then your mind lacks imagination, your spirit void of true ambition. Die well, Cynric, and know the Wolf Guild dies with you.”

Muzien charged straight ahead, building up a frightening speed before vaulting into the air. Cynric estimated the distance, saw he’d come up short, and used the heartbeat’s time he had to brace himself for the eventual assault.

Except a ring on Muzien’s blackened hand flashed when he landed, and suddenly there were two of the Sun Guild’s master. One dashed to the left, the other to the right, and Cynric was baffled as to what to do. Once they had him flanked, they rushed in simultaneously, the coordinated attack leaving him helpless. With no choice, he moved to block the strikes from his right. His blades passed right through Muzien’s, scattering the image like smoke.

Something sharp pierced his back. A hand reached around his neck, holding him still as he bled.

“Your pride cost you your life,” Muzien whispered into his ear. “Do you feel it piercing your flesh? Bleeding you dry? Pride, in a meager creature of failed gods? Fools, all of you, your whole damn race…”

Swords fell from Cynric’s limp hands. He opened his mouth to retort, some last insult against the elf’s victory, but then a sharp pain spread across his throat, and when he breathed in, his lungs filled with blood. When he fell, he was still gagging, failing to gargle out a final curse against Muzien and his blasted Sun Guild.

Muzien looked down at the dead body of the former Wolf Guild’s master and shook his head.

“If only you had served,” he said. “In time, you could have earned a place of honor at my side.”

Not that it surprised him, though. It was a cruel self-fulfilling prophecy. Those he wanted at his side were the strongest, the bravest, the ones with a sense of pride and destiny to their lives. Yet those same people would always be the ones who would resist him, who would deny the perceived insult at having anyone else lord over them as master. Muzien needed to find such people when they were young, before they’d tasted power, such as he had with Thren Felhorn.

Muzien glanced up and down the street. He heard distant sounds of combat, but it had mostly died down from what it’d been only moments before. The Wolf Guild would be defeated soon, their numbers too thin to cause much permanent harm. If anything, Cynric’s ambush had made things interesting compared to some of the others. At least the Wolves had had the wisdom and strength to fight, unlike the Hawks, who had only burned. As the days of his takeover faded into history, Muzien would let his men talk of this night with wonder and pride, reminiscing on the ferocity of their foes, the cleverness and brutality of their final death throes.

The Hawks, though, would never have their name whispered again.

“Scour the city for any who remain in hiding,” Muzien called up to those on the rooftops. “Search until dawn, then consider the matter finished. The few you miss will not dare bear the cloak of their fallen master.”

The rogues saluted, then dashed away. Alone, Muzien continued his way back toward his home in the eastern quarter of Veldaren, not far from the city’s entrance. Normally, he’d have stayed back to enjoy the last of the hunt, but Daverik was waiting for him, and Muzien knew the priest was an annoying sod whenever their meetings did not begin on time. So he walked, refusing to give Daverik any more haste than that. He took in the sight of the city as he did, amused by what he saw. The night life had slowly died off since his arrival, a fear growing in the populace at what the omnipresent symbol of the Sun meant to them. Doors to the various taverns were shut instead of left open in an attempt to entice more clientele by the sound of merriment within. Many of the street women had taken to lurking deeper in the dark spaces of the alleys, and it wouldn’t surprise Muzien if many others had gone to the brothels, seeking their protection.

Change was frightening, and all of them could sense the change blowing the wind. But they’d yet to see his true revealing to the populace. No, Muzien had something special planned for that defining moment, when the entire city would witness their new lord and then bow in obedience.

Muzien’s home was plain, a one-story building with a front door and a single window without glass or covering beside a thick brown curtain. The wood was old but sturdy, the roof flat with wooden slats to keep out the rain. Muzien knew such a bland outer appearance would prevent anyone from thinking it would be his home, but that was a common shortcoming of humans. They assumed a man of wealth and power could not bear to live without it, even for a moment. Muzien flexed his dark hand, whose ache had never left him over the decades.

Yes, he’d sacrificed far worse than a comfortable bed and vaulted ceilings to accomplish his goals. Let the humans remain blind fools. Was that not the reason he’d come to live among them in the first place?

“I hope your wait was not long,” Muzien said as he stepped through the door.

“Longer than I would prefer,” said Daverik, the priest waiting with his back against the wall. He’d positioned himself facing the window, and Muzien had little doubt the man would have leaped through if he had felt himself in danger.

“I had business to attend to first,” Muzien said, walking past Daverik to the far wall. Lifting up a board from the floor, he reached down into a deep pit dug into the earth, then pulled out a cool glass bottle. He removed the cork and drank it straight, without glass or cup.

“Were you successful?” Daverik asked.

“I always am.”

Daverik smirked.

“Come now, even for one as skilled as you, I find it hard to swallow that you yourself believe that. What of Grayson’s first attempt to move into the city?”

“Grayson’s attempt,” Muzien said, setting down the bottle. “Not mine.”

“And your other apprentice, Thren Felhorn, would you consider him a success as well?”

Muzien narrowed his eyes.

“You had a reason to meet with me, priest, and I suggest you get to it before my mood sours.”

Daverik reached into his pocket, pulled out a bag tied with a red string, and tossed it to him. Muzien caught it in one hand and, with a twist of his fingers, removed the knot to glance inside. Rattling within the small pouch were over two dozen gold coins.

“This is a pittance of what I was promised,” Muzien said.

“It’s all I can procure for now,” Daverik said. “Everything else has gone to the guards to ensure they continue looking the other way when your wagons pass through our gates.”

“The guards are greedy, then. Many still hold out their hands, demanding coin so we may smuggle in your tiles.”

“
My
tiles?” asked Daverik. “They bear your symbol, not mine.”

Muzien took another drink, then pushed the cork back into the bottle.

“My symbol,” Muzien said, staring into Daverik’s green eyes, “but your coin, your request. I am content to scrawl the symbol of the Sun with chalk, to carve it with a knife, or even paint it with blood so all may know. But you insist on stone and even tell my men where to place them. If you think me daft, Daverik, you should reconsider while you still have the chance. I’m fond of games, and it’s clear you are playing one … but no one has ever turned against me and lived. I pray you remember that.”

Daverik pushed aside the curtain so he might look outside, then let it drop.

“All I do, I do for my god,” he said. “I do not play games.”

Muzien couldn’t help but laugh.

“You are mistaken. The only thing the gods know are games, just games, and we are their pieces.”

“What do you know of gods?”

Muzien took a step closer to the priest, and he held out his blackened, aching hand so the man might see its charred flesh.

“I was marked by the goddess Celestia herself,” Muzien said, his good mood from crushing the Wolf Guild leaving him. “I know more of the gods and their foolishness than you can possibly imagine. I do not care what Karak intends for this city. All I care is that the true city, the real world underneath, remains in my hands. I would have an empire that stretches from coast to coast, and not even a god will prevent that.”

“I seek to save the lives of hundreds of thousands,” Daverik said. “No matter how important you think you are, you are still nothing compared to the importance of what we do. Keep out of our affairs, and we will let you rule like the king you’ve always pretended to be.”

“Enjoy your battle for souls,” Muzien said as the priest headed for the door. “I will remain here, lording over all that truly matters.”

Daverik opened the door, shook his head.

“The things of men and kings turn to ash, held only by hands of bone,” he said.

Muzien lifted his blackened hand, and he smiled despite the burning anger in his chest.

“Even a hand of ash and bone may still wear a ring of gold,” he said. “Even a darkened hand may force a man to kneel. We are the dust, priest, swirling against the stones of time and the will of gods. To either, we mean nothing, but to each other … to each other, we rise and fall, shine and dim, build great kingdoms and burn others to the ground. Nothing we do matters but what echoes on in the night, and I swear to you, I care not for my soul, but I do care for the echo.”

Muzien turned away, heading once more for his bottle.

“The next time you say the name of a god in my presence, I will kill you,” he said. “Pleasant dreams.”

He drank, and Daverik left him, and as the alcohol burned down his throat, he offered his own goodbye to the Wolf Guild.

“Echo on into the night,” he whispered. “Remembered, and lost only to the echoes of others just as proud, just as meaningless.”

H
aern’s shoulder had nearly recovered by the time the three of them walked into the town of Leen. It was a far more populous settlement than Trass, largely due to the modest docks built on the Rigon River. Many people walked about, their clothes simple and homespun, their faces tanned from working the fields, long days fishing in the boats, and sailing both up-and downstream to sell their goods. Already feeling like he stuck out as an oddity due to his clothing, the blood on his shoulder and all over Thren’s shirt did little to help.

“You should be able to find suitable clothes here,” Delysia said as they approached a large inn. She gestured to the river, where a couple ramshackle booths were selling food to the men, others replacement gear and clothing.

“I’ll smell like fish for weeks,” Thren said.

“Better than smelling like blood.”

Haern and Delysia stepped into the tavern as Thren headed off to the meager market. Inside, a weathered man, much of the top of his head both bald and tanned, greeted them warmly.

“Two rooms,” Haern said, dropping coins atop the man’s desk. “The other is for a friend,” he added at the man’s raised eyebrow.

“Of course,” he said.

As Delysia put away their things in their room, Haern returned to the man up front, who was clearly wary. Given his hood and clothing, Haern couldn’t blame him.