Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (36 page)

He nodded to Ridley, and immediately, the man barked out commands, sending the men with torches back to the various exits so that there’d be three blocking each one. Soft murmurs grew among the people, confusion as to the lesson and what was expected of them. But he would not tell them. Like dogs, he would show them.

“Kill one of every ten,” he ordered Ridley.

The man hurried off, bouncing from exit to exit, relaying the orders. The two hundred in the market waited, eager, wanting to leave but fearful to disobey after the death of the guard and the merchant. When the first of the exits opened up, people surged forward, and Muzien watched as his men let one through at a time, counting. At the tenth, one of the three stepped forward, stabbed with his dagger, and then shoved the corpse out of the way.

More exits opened, and despite the screams, despite the bleeding, the people continued to surge toward them, eyes low, heads downcast, murmuring prayers and clenching fists as they hoped they might not be the tenth.

“Glorious,” Muzien said when Ridley returned. “Is it not glorious?”

“Only you would find beauty in this,” Ridley said.

“The weak die before us, and with each corpse, they learn no one will save them,” Muzien said. “After today, we will hold the very heart of this city in our hands, and it will never be tempted by another.”

He headed toward the southern entrance of the market, left alone so that it would be ready for only him. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a cloth and began wiping the merchant’s blood off his face.

“Come share a drink with me,” he told Ridley. Behind him, a woman let out a wail as her child was knifed through the throat.

“I feel a celebration is in order.”

Tarlak sat in his chair before the fireplace, glass of wine in hand.
Today will be a good day,
he told himself.
No matter if I have to drink until it comes true.
He was bringing the last of the glass to his lips when Brug’s voice sounded in his ear, ruining whatever hope he had of accomplishing his modest goal.

Get to the market, damn it, and hurry!

The wizard winced, annoyed by the volume of his friend’s voice. Every member of his mercenaries had a ring they could speak into a single time, sending a message across the wind for him to hear, and he’d always stressed for them to whisper. Brug, however, seemed to have forgotten that instruction; either that or he wanted to make sure his words pounded throughout Tarlak’s brain like a thunderstorm trapped in a teakettle.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Tarlak said, cracking his knuckles and rising from his chair. The market was several miles away in the city, and he had no intention of walking. If Brug wanted him to hurry to the market, then by the gods, he’d hurry. Teleportation was always a tricky business, and one of the key requirements was to have a strong mental image of where he was going. Going to a busy, ever-changing market would be a nightmare, so instead, Tarlak focused on a spot nearby, then opened his eyes as he spoke the necessary words of magic. A blue portal ripped open the fabric of space before him, and before it could close, he stepped on through.

He emerged on top of a large stone building, one of many shops that formed a border around the large open market. Wondering what was so important, he leaned over, spying down at the very center of the market, and that was when he saw the crowd attempting to disperse.

“What in blazes…” he wondered aloud, for it seemed like the crowd was fleeing through several entrances and alleys, and at each one, they passed three members of the Sun Guild. At first, he thought they were fleecing the crowd, demanding coins or reaching into the pockets of those that passed, but instead, he saw nothing. They were only letting them by, watching, as if they were searching for someone they …

One of the exits was directly to Tarlak’s left, and as he watched, one of the Sun guildmembers jammed a dagger through a woman’s throat and kicked her to the side. Her body toppled to the ground, and as she landed, Tarlak realized others lay around here, all perfectly still, like corpses.

Eyes widening, he looked to the other exits, saw similar piles, and on the far side of the street, he watched a child no older than ten get lifted off his feet, stabbed in the stomach, and then carelessly tossed among the bodies.

Fire burst around Tarlak’s hands as he stepped to the edge of the building.

“Oh, fuck you, Muzien,” he said as he leaped off.

He landed between the three blocking the exit beside him, a great burst of air billowing from his feet right before he touched ground. As he halted in midair, he stretched out either hand and let his anger flow in the form of fire. The flames exploded on either side of him, burning their flesh, incinerating their bodies and that damned four-pointed star sewn onto their shirts. The third rushed at him, drawing a dagger, but Tarlak turned and aimed a palm his way. More fire, this time in a concentrated bolt that struck him in the face. The man screamed as his skin peeled.

“Get back!” Tarlak screamed, not to the thief but to the others trying to pass through. Not waiting to see if they obeyed, he clapped his hands together and then flung them downward. From the clear sky sounded thunder, and then a bolt of lightning struck the burning man, the power of it lifting him from his feet before dropping him onto his back, smoke rising from his skin as the fire on his face slowly spread to consume the rest of him.

Now unblocked, the people poured out the exit. Tarlak pushed through, far from satisfied. Once free of the people, he caught sight of a battle raging on the opposite side of the marketplace. It was Brug, hollering and banging his plate mail as he fought against three of the rogues. In his heavy armor, he was fairly well defended, and his flailing with his punch daggers was unpredictable to say the least, but Tarlak knew they’d get a knife in eventually. Brug wasn’t good enough to handle more than one opponent at a time, at least not for long.

Breaking out into a sprint, he ran a list of spells through his head, trying to decide on the best one for the situation. There were too many people everywhere, too many innocents he might hit. Still, he wouldn’t let these bastards live, not after what they’d done.

“Brug!” he screamed as he neared. “Get your head down now!”

His friend heard and promptly obeyed. His three opponents, however, did not understand, and when they turned to face him, he skidded to a halt, flung his hands outward, and unleashed a massive blast of air. It lifted them off their feet and sent them sprawling, nothing fatal, but Brug recovered far faster than they. He’d already stabbed one before the other two were up, and by then, the people had scattered, and Tarlak finally had room to play.

“You like killing?” he asked, hurling a jagged lance of ice the size of his arm. It pierced the chest of one and burst out his back, the clear blue shard stained red. “You like suffering?” Another shard of ice, this through the leg of the only survivor. He dropped to one knee, screaming at the pain. “Then have a nice taste of it for yourself!”

The man tried to stab Tarlak, but Brug was there, grabbing his arm and breaking it. The dagger fell, and Tarlak leaned out and clenched the man’s throat in his fingers.

“Tell Karak hello for me,” he said, and then he let his power roll forth, an invisible force that shattered the man’s spine. Letting out a curse, he flung the body down, looked about the marketplace. It was empty of all but the corpses, the rest having escaped the exits. None lingered of the Sun Guild.

“Damn it!” Tarlak screamed, kicking the body.

“I’m sorry, Tar,” Brug said, sheathing his daggers. “I wanted something fresh to eat and decided to swing by. If I’d only gotten here sooner, we might have stopped this. I waited until you got here too, waited like a damn coward.”

“Stop it,” Tarlak said, taking in deep breaths to calm himself down. He put a hand on Brug’s shoulder, tapped the plate mail. “You did what you could. Better question is, what in Karak’s name happened here?”

“I heard the Darkhand just before he left,” Brug said, gesturing toward a pile of dead behind him. “He called this his tithe.”

Tarlak shook his head. He knew the Sun Guild’s arrival meant bad tidings, but this? This made Thren Felhorn look sane.

“I don’t understand,” he said, walking toward the center. “Where are the guards? The city watch? Why did no one…”

He froze, for at one of the exits stood Lord Victor Kane, arms crossed over his chest as he looked upon the carnage.

“You!” Tarlak screamed, pointing a finger as he hurried over. “Did you watch all this? Did you know this was happening?”

Victor nodded.

“I watched like the others,” he said.

“Then why didn’t you do something?” Tarlak asked. “Where’s your soldiers? Why didn’t you stop this?”

“At least two hundred watched him butcher a merchant,” Victor said, his face hardening. “Two hundred men and women who did nothing as a guard of the city died for refusing to be a pawn of the Darkhand’s game. And then as their own people shed blood, nine living for every one that died, do you know what they did, wizard?
Nothing.
They kept their eyes shut, their heads down, and prayed that they wouldn’t be the unlucky tenth. Tell me, Tarlak, why should I fight for a city that won’t fight to save itself?”

“But that’s
why
you fight,” Tarlak said. “Because you’re the one who’s strong enough. You’re the one willing to risk everything; you’re the one that knows something has to be done. Isn’t that what you wanted to do, to inspire the city, to give them hope?”

“Hope?” Victor laughed. “Look around you, Tarlak. This is the hope our fair city now dwells in, and I say they’ve earned it.”

“Is that it?” Brug asked as Victor turned about and walked down the alley toward the street beyond. “You’re giving up?”

Victor glanced over his shoulder.

“Not giving up,” he said. “Just changing how I play the game. From top to bottom, this city is wretched. I’ve stopped trying to polish the skin of a rotten apple. We need true change, starting at the crown itself. I just pray I didn’t take too long to realize it.”

Brug moved to follow, but Tarlak grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Let him go,” he said. “We have bigger problems to worry about than that jackass.”

The shorter man nodded, and he looked back to the market, the disgust and sorrow as plain as the beard on his face.

“You’re right,” he said. “But what do we do about it?”

As the city guard finally arrived from the north, wordlessly gathering the bodies onto a wagon, Tarlak had no answer.

T
he first sign to Nathaniel that something was amiss was when he woke to find it wasn’t one of his mother’s servants opening the door to his bedroom but instead Lord John Gandrem.

“John?” Nathaniel asked as he sat up, using his lone hand to rub the sleep from his eyes.

“Forgive me for waking you so early,” John said, though he hardly sounded apologetic. He was dressed in his finest, his tunic clean and his armor shining. Something about it put Nathaniel even more on edge. John looked as if he were going to march to war, and he’d not worn his armor since the first day he arrived at their mansion.

“It’s all right,” Nathaniel said. He didn’t move to leave his bed, though, instead sitting there, waiting, not even asking a question. John clearly wanted him to ask, to broach whatever subject needed discussed, but Nathaniel wouldn’t give it to him. There were so few reasons for John to be waking him, and with how cautious he was acting, how careful, it meant it was more than simple training or an interesting piece of gossip. His thoughts leaped to his mother, and he did his best to keep his lip from quivering as he anticipated hearing something dreadful.

“Nathan…” John paused again, crossed his arms. “Your mother has proven herself unfit for leadership, at least as of recently. I don’t mean to disparage her character, but I fear losing her eyesight has sunk her into a pit she needs to find a way to climb out of.”

“What did you do?” Nathaniel asked, unable to help himself. John looked offended at the unspoken accusation, and he sat up straighter and gave him a stern glare that made Nathan dip his head in respect.

“I did what needed to be done,” he said. “For the safekeeping of your family and your own future. No harm has come to your mother, I assure you, but for now, all important decisions involving your family’s wealth and that of the Trifect will be made by Lady Melody.”

At his grandmother’s name, Nathaniel pulled his blankets higher up on his chest. The idea of her in charge left him with chills. Her secretive talks of Karak … how secretive would they remain if the house was now under her control? Would he be able to avoid them any longer?

“You betrayed her,” Nathaniel said. This time, he did not wilt, despite the glare he received as John’s face gradually turned red. “Overthrew her for my grandmother.”

“This isn’t some sort of coup,” John said. “It’s only until she realizes this is what’s best. Your mother’s life is in no danger, Nathaniel, nor is her eventual rule. But Melody has just as much right as your mother, and right now, she’s the more capable head of the household.”

It sounded like shit to Nathaniel, just lies and shit, but he kept his mouth shut, not wanting to deal with the reprimand John would give him for using such language. Instead, he finally pushed aside his blankets and stepped onto the cold floor. A glance out his window showed the morning sun just barely rising above the walls of the city. He went to his dresser as John remained standing at the door.

“When can I see her?” Nathaniel asked as he pulled open a drawer and reached for a new shirt.

“You should talk to Melody first,” John said. “Listen to her and pay your respects. Once you do, I feel you’ll be in a more proper frame of mind when visiting your mother.”

“Do you have her locked up?”

John stood up a bit straighter.

“She’s being kept in a safe place, yes.”

Not a coup,
thought Nathaniel. Of course not. Only his mother was imprisoned, someone new was in charge of his family’s affairs, and the whole thing was being reinforced by John Gandrem’s soldiers.