Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (51 page)

“Your city?” Thren whispered. “This isn’t your city. It will never be your city, not while I live.”

The elf’s words repeated in his head, deepening his anger. “
How?
” Muzien had asked, as if there were no possible way, as if the task were so insurmountable. Thren, a mere human, overthrow the demigod that was Muzien?

But it wasn’t impossible. In fact, it was terrifyingly easy.

“Fire and destruction,” Thren whispered, echoing the words Luther had spoken just before his death. From underneath his shirt he pulled out Luther’s medallion, held the cold metal in his palm.

“My city,” he said, remembering the promise he’d made in what felt like ages past. “My city, or ashes.”

He could make it come to pass. All the lives and toil of man could come crashing down with a single word, and the medallion was the key, the catalyst. In his hand, the medallion twirled. Life or death, all contained in a single disc of gold. Luther would have him destroy Veldaren to save it. Better in ruin than in the hands of the prophet, the priest had insisted. It was a feeling he understood so well. Better to leave the city in ashes than in Muzien’s hands.

But there was still a way to reclaim his city, to bravely stand before a conquering army without fear. A way to defeat the legendary Darkhand and return Veldaren to the rule of the Spider. A way for Thren to prepare his legacy, his heir, as he had always dreamed.

“Aaron,” he whispered. “Watcher. Haern. Whoever it is you are … given the choice, the Sun, the Spider, or nothing at all, which would you choose?”

To the night sky he looked, imagined his little boy on his lap, listening to him, adoring him, trusting him above all others. Before the world tore him away. Before gods and priests and little red-haired girls made him believe in a world that would never be.

“Would you join my side to prevent the deaths of thousands, my son?” Thren wondered, but the stars could give him no answer, only silence.

H
aern paused before the Eschaton Tower, and he almost didn’t go inside. The night was late, and for all he knew, those inside were asleep. It was a nice enough excuse in his head, but as the cicadas droned on, he knew it was a lie. Ever since their fight the day before, he was yet to see Delysia. She’d surely beaten him home, given the time it’d taken him to bury Ghost’s body. What might she have told her brother? Everything? Nothing?

On either side of him were long hills covered with flowing grass, and behind the tower was the King’s Forest, and either sounded like better places to sleep. Cowardly places, of course, and that was what kept him going, walking up the path, to the door, and inside.

“Was wondering when you’d show up,” Tarlak said, stretched out on a couch with a drink in his hand and his feet pointed toward the low fire that burned in the fireplace.

“I had a body to bury,” Haern said, and he realized how absurd a greeting that was. He’d not seen his friend in months, and those were the first words out of his mouth?

“So I heard.” Tarlak gestured to the chair opposite him. “Take a seat. It feels like forever since your skulking hood graced my tower.”

Haern hadn’t even realized he had it on, and he quickly pulled it off as he sat down beside the fire. His swords and pack he put down beside him. He felt awkward, wishing he could just come right out and ask what Tarlak knew but was unable to be so direct. So, instead, he let out a deep sigh and sank into the chair. No matter what, he was indeed home, and it felt good to be there, despite all the awkwardness.

“Did you talk to Delysia?” Haern asked, thinking it about as gentle a way to broach the subject as possible.

“I did,” Tarlak said.

Haern tried to read the wizard, but whatever thoughts were behind those green eyes and red goatee were well hidden.

“And?” Haern asked.

Tarlak sat up, and with a sigh he let go of his glass, which hovered in the air for a brief moment before vanishing.

“And I can tell something happened between the two of you,” he said. “Though I admit I’m hopeless as to what, because my dear sister is as stubborn as she is beautiful when she wants to be. All she’ll tell me is that Ghost showed up, you two fought, and Ghost lost. I don’t know if that has something to do with why Delysia was so upset, or something else. My gut says your father’s involved, given the only thing good that’s ever come out of him is, well, you.”

“The months were definitely long,” Haern said. He shifted, not liking the way Tarlak was looking at him. “As for Delysia … we had a disagreement; that’s all. We’ll be fine.”

The wizard lifted an eyebrow.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Haern rubbed his eyes.

“Honestly … I have no clue, Tar. Can we talk about something else? How’s life been here in Veldaren?”

Tarlak chuckled.

“If you’re hoping for more happy subjects, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

He snapped his fingers, and his glass reappeared, this time full of a white wine. Tarlak took it from the air where it floated, sipped at it.

“Pretty much everything you’ve ever set up in the city has been eradicated,” Tarlak said. “The agreement with the Trifect, the truce between the guilds … it’s all gone.”

Haern sat frozen in his seat, unable to believe it. Everything he’d worked for, all the blood and sweat and killing, was over? The wizard said it nonchalantly, just no big thing, but Haern felt as if he’d been slapped in the face with a wet rag.

“All gone?” Haern asked. “How is that possible?”

“Well, your absence didn’t help matters,” Tarlak said. “Nor did Thren’s, honestly. The Sun Guild came back with a vengeance, and this time with their leader, Muzien the Dark-hand. Every guild that refused to submit to his command, he crushed, one by one. After that, he cowed the king, putting himself safely out of reach of the city guard, and then began working on the Trifect. The elf’s a cruel bastard, and what he’s done to secure his power is sickening, to say the least.”

“Why haven’t you stopped him?”

Tarlak frowned.

“I’d say that’s
your
job, actually, but you were too busy traipsing west in search of … what was it again? Luther? What did you find out about that, anyway, because Delysia was none too talkative?”

Haern sighed.

“Nothing,” he said. “Thren betrayed me when we reached the tower, and he was the only one to speak with Luther. The man was a priest held prisoner at the top of the Stronghold; that’s all I know. Beyond that, his task in Veldaren was some plan involving Karak and those stone tiles the Sun Guild’s using. I’m sorry, Tar; I really can’t offer more than that.”

Tarlak downed the rest of the wine, made the cup vanish, and then rose to his feet.

“Glad to know it was all worthwhile,” he said. “A priest working for Karak … I never could have guessed that. Meanwhile, Muzien controls every inch of our fair city. We’ve needed you bad, Haern, but I don’t know where to even start. I feel like a war happened right underneath my nose, and something tells me under no circumstances were we the victor.”

“I’m sorry,” Haern said. “It isn’t too late, though. I’ll get to the bottom of this; I promise.”

“Like you got to the bottom of this whole Luther business?”

“Enough, Tarlak. Quit acting like this is my fault!”

“Will you two kiss and make up already?” Brug said as he emerged from the staircase, his own beer mug in hand. “Gods, I could hear the two of you yammering from my bedroom.”

He tipped his head in Haern’s direction.

“Good to see you, bud,” Brug said, and he grinned. “Now come give me a hug. After months with dealing with just that idiot over there, I could practically kiss you for finally coming home.”

Haern felt his face flushing, and embarrassed, he went over and clapped Brug across the shoulder.

“Good to see you, too,” Haern said.

“Aye, a happy homecoming,” Tarlak said. Haern glared his way, expecting more sarcasm, but it seemed the wizard himself was embarrassed by his earlier outburst.

“It really is good to have you back,” Tarlak said. “This city isn’t the same without you, and neither is this tower.”

Haern pulled away from Brug and retrieved his swords from the chair.

“I’ve had more than enough time to rest,” he said. “Has every guild fallen to Muzien?”

“All but the Ash,” Tarlak said. “And I’m not sure if they’re still alive.”

Haern pulled his hood over his head, feeling the comfortable shadow encasing him.

“Let’s hope so. We could use whatever allies we may find.”

Haern went to the door, and he saw Tarlak go to stop him, then change his mind.

“Stay safe,” Tarlak called after him. “It’d be a damn shame for you die on your first night back home.”

Despite his dour mood, Haern chuckled.

“That it would, Tar,” he said, shutting the door to the tower behind him.

The walk to the looming walls of the city was a long and familiar one, and Haern felt himself slipping back into the persona he’d carefully crafted. His hood hung low over his face, his cloak disguising his movements, melding him into the darkness. At his sides were his swords, and at least they were a reliable comfort. He knew the fear he carried, the reputation, and as he began to run to close the distance, his troubles drifted away. Just like when he’d come home from the snow-covered northern plains or the distant city of Angelport, there was something comforting about his city’s familiarity. The guilds, the Trifect, the cowardly king: he knew them all and they him.

Using disguised handholds he’d had Tarlak magically carve into the side, Haern scaled the wall, slipped across it after a patrol passed on by, and then raced down the steps and to the street below. Home at last, he ran, letting the familiar sights welcome him … only, the sights weren’t so familiar. Street after street, he checked for the hidden markings of the Wolf Guild, the scrawled legs of the Spider Guild, even the thick smear of Ash, but they were not there. Along the sides of homes and stalls, and even in the very street, he saw only where they’d been. The symbols had been burned, scraped, and painted over if necessary. No guilds, no colors.

Just the Sun.

“You weren’t kidding, Tar,” Haern said as he continually scanned the rooftops on either side of him. Surely a scout from one of the guilds would have located him by now. Haern used a window to vault up, and from atop a shop he looked about. No one. The night was calm, and he did not like it. Panic nipped at the edges of his mind. Going into the city, he’d always felt in control, the mad puppeteer holding all the strings, but it seemed his absence had been far too long.

Haern raced along the rooftops, extended his body to leap across the alleys, his legs pounding to keep up speed, his body shifting to adjust his weight as he moved across the consistently uneven terrain. Sometimes he stopped, but each time was only to see the symbol of the Sun, a reminder of the underworld’s new king. The truce, his deal with the king … Haern tried not to dwell on it, to let the pounding blood in his veins drown it out, but all he could think of was how his entire legacy, everything he’d killed for, had vanished like a puff of smoke from the end of Tarlak’s pipe.

His movements slowed. It seemed there would be no trouble that night, not unless he went looking for it in the various safe houses about the town … and even then he had no guarantee they’d be in use anymore. And with the silence, with the isolation amid the shadows, he could not hide from his thoughts.

You wanted me to be there for you …

Always, he thought. Always, he’d relied on Delysia to understand, to never judge him for the blood on his blades.

… I’m not sure I can …

His foot slipped, and he rolled down a slanted rooftop, gaining his balance only moments before leaping over an alley and crashing along the wood shingles of another.

I can’t be the one to help you remember who you are.

Teeth clenched, he tried pushing himself back up, to run with a frenzy and purpose that showed he still ruled the night. Instead, he stumbled again, and when he leaped to the next home, he did not cover the distance necessary. Arms out, he caught the side, felt the shingles dig into his hands. His momentum sent his knees smacking into the side, and he sucked in air to keep his cry down. Pulling himself up, he crouched there, body heaving breaths in and out, as he felt his deadened mind betray him with its cruel remembrance.

Your father would be so proud.

It wasn’t the same. It couldn’t be. He’d denied him, denied everything his father would have him become. That’s why he wore the Wraith’s hood … wasn’t it? His choices, his killing of Ghost, they all had their reasons. The type of man to treat life as a mere obstacle in the way of his goals … that wasn’t him. It couldn’t be.

But Delysia was supposed to be there for him, to let him know if he ever stepped foot on his father’s path; only, now she was gone, he was alone, and all he had were his memories of the arrow piercing her breast intertwined with the way she’d stared at him with a mixture of horror and rage as he lifted a bloodied saber to ensure she did not heal the dying Ghost.

Slowly, he rose to his feet and looked out across the city. He’d once sworn to never call it
his
city, and he understood the wisdom of that even more clearly. Only a few months gone and it had forgotten him, moving on to new masters, with the Darkhand spreading fear with strength far beyond what he as the Watcher had fostered. There was a way to pull it back to him, he knew. All he had to do was inspire fear above all others, just as he’d once set out to do that night Senke died. But doing so would take him to places far beyond comfort. Onto a path he might recognize all too painfully well.

As he looked, he finally saw another with him on the rooftops, and a familiar face at that. Trying to shove away his troubled thoughts, he carefully made his way there, having to climb down only once to cross a street and then snake back up the side of a home. Sitting with her back against a stone bird atop a modest mansion, Zusa stared into nowhere, head resting on her knuckles.