Shadowdance 05 - A Dance of Ghosts (54 page)

“So, where is it we’re going?” asked Brug.

“Somewhere quiet and isolated,” Tarlak said. “Just in case things go horribly wrong, of course.”

Brug gave him a rather rude, displeased look, but Tarlak just grinned at it and continued on. Over the past weeks, they’d drawn up an extensive map of the location of all of Muzien’s tiles. Brug had called it both pointless and wasteful, but Tarlak’s gut kept insisting it’d pay off eventually, even if he had no clue how. But then Haern had mentioned Luther’s supposed connection to the tiles, and suddenly, Tarlak had a feeling he knew what he’d been missing all those times before. So, now they went to one of the many tiles he’d marked, in a quiet little street that dead-ended at the western wall.

“Here we are,” Tarlak said, stopping in the center of the street, where the tile was buried mere feet away from the wall. It looked like all the others, with no special markings or engravings, just the same symbol of the sun. Brug stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, as he watched Tarlak kneel.

“I thought you already tried this,” Brug said.

“Not quite,” said Tarlak. Closing his eyes, he began repeating a spell he’d memorized over the past hour. While before he’d used a simple spell all young magic-users learned, this one was far more demanding. It wasn’t the world of magic he wanted to see, that shadowy place of the arcane. Instead, it was a different type of magic, that of priests and paladins and necromancers. He sought power tied to the deities themselves and to view its markings. A wave of dizziness came over him as he finished the last phrase of the spell, and he felt a bit of power leave his chest. Taking in a deep breath, he opened his eyes to view the tile.

It shimmered red in the darkness, and swirling about it were three long chains composed of intricate runes he couldn’t begin to decipher. They dipped into the very earth, then came back out, always in constant motion, while the red glow pulsed as if tied to a distant heartbeat. The very sight of it filled Tarlak’s throat with bile, and he had to force himself to remain calm.

“Brug,” he said. “I want you to get away from me, all right?”

“What’s going on?” asked his friend.

Tarlak looked to either side of him, saw the dilapidated homes.

“Check both of them,” he said. “If there’s anyone inside, make them leave.”

Brug nodded, and he kept whatever questions he wanted to ask silent. Tarlak turned his attention back to the tile. Despite the ache to his head, he focused harder, and within the pulsing he saw what could only be described as thin pieces of string intertwined with the runes, each a slightly different hue of red. That was how he could decipher the magic’s purpose, he knew, what all it could do if activated. Because that was the one thing he was certain of, that the magic contained within the tile was being held back.

“Both empty,” Brug said a few moments later.

“Good,” Tarlak said.

He swallowed, then clapped his hands together.

“All right,” he said. “Let’s do this.”

He could undo the strings, he knew, slowly untangling them as well as breaking the spinning runes, but it was no different from undoing a particularly insidious knot. If he didn’t know how, or didn’t know the exact details of the spell, then he would accomplish nothing at best, or harm himself at worst. Removing any curse was a tricky matter—same with any skillful enchantment (which the tile clearly had).

But
activating
the magic …

“Here goes,” he whispered. Safely undoing a knot was one thing. Chopping it in half with a sword was another. With but a thought, he pulsed magic into the tile, putting whatever spell was buried in its center into motion.

The runes vanished, and for a moment, all was silent. Tarlak’s skin tingled with anticipation. This was it, the true purpose of the tiles, the reason for their very existence. In its center he watched a tiny black spot appear, crackling with white lightning. It shimmered, then vanished. The tile cracked, its center rimmed with fire, and then Tarlak had the briefest moment to react before the shock wave hit him. As a great roar shook his being, he crossed his arms, enacting a protection spell out of pure instinct. The ground trembled beneath him, and then suddenly, he was flying through the air. When he landed, he rolled, and all the while, he heard nothing but a constant ringing. When he came to a stop, Brug was hovering over him, his mouth moving but producing no words. It was only when the ringing faded that Brug’s voice finally returned.

“…all right, Tar?”

Instead of answering, Tarlak pushed himself up to a sitting position, and with his mouth hanging open, he stared at where the tile had once been. In its place was a gaping crater, and fire burned within it, the flames a deep violet. On either side, the homes were shattered, the roofs collapsed in and the wood already aflame. Even the great stone wall, which had surrounded the city since the day Karak himself built it, was cracked, with large portions having collapsed and layering the surrounding area beneath with debris.

“My god, Tar,” Brug said, staring with his mouth hanging open. “What did you do?”

“What it was meant to do,” Tarlak said, viewing the wreckage while feeling dazed and lost. Another large chunk of the wall collapsed, the rumble deafening, as was the sound of the stone breaking upon the road, sending pieces rolling in all directions.

“One tile,” Brug said, and he sounded as horrified as Tarlak felt. “How many throughout the city are there?”

“As of last count?” asked Tarlak as all around people flooded out of their homes to see what was the matter. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he thought of all their planning, their little map detailing the tiles’ locations. Not a single street unmarked. Not a man or woman safe. He put a hand on Brug’s shoulder and slowly stood as dust and stone fell.

“Over three hundred and twenty-seven.”

For once, Brug was speechless. Tarlak watched the strange purple flames dwindle down to nothing in the crater, and he let out a sigh.

“Brug,” he said. “We’re fucked.”

Well, it feels like it’s been ages since I got to write one of these and
not
have it be about the various tweaks and changes I made to my self-published version. So, instead, I get to discuss legitimately new stuff, the first new Haern book I’ve written in over a year. Shocking concept, eh?

Going into this one, I had a few specific goals in mind, direct attempts to counter either things I failed to adequately deal with earlier or areas I just felt I had not given near the attention they deserved. The first, and most important to me, was Haern and Delysia’s relationship. I wanted to establish her better as a character, as well as how she and Haern complemented one another. And then on the other side, Haern and Zusa … there were more than a few asking me what happened with them, particularly after the chemistry they showed in
A Dance of Mirrors
. Well, hopefully, this book has done both (obviously, I have more to do still in book six, but hey, one book at a time).

The other big part, and one that clearly dominated much of this book, was Haern and his father. There’d be no more relegating Thren to the background, no more leaving it ambiguous as to why he tolerated his son’s nighttime adventures. This was their attempt to recruit each other, and honestly, that chapter where they just savaged each other near the end was the most difficult one to write in this entire book. No others were even close. I’ve never wanted Thren to be a simple cardboard-cutout villain, and between this and the Cloak and Spider collection, I’d like to believe I’ve at least elevated him to a three-dimensional cardboard cutout.

To those of you who’ve read the Paladins, I hope you enjoyed Luther’s little moment to shine, as well as his callback to his final meeting with Jerico. To those of you who have
not
read my Paladins books, I did everything I could to fill you in without spoiling the previous adventures. I do my best to include events and characters from other series yet, at the same time, try never to leave anyone in the dark if they haven’t read them. As usual, I hope I succeeded, and if not, I hope you forgive me for the failed attempt.

So, what’s next? Well, I’m stupidly excited about Muzien the Darkhand. One thing I’ve realized I’ve lacked over the course of the first four books was any sort of consistent villain. It was Thren in one book, then Ghost, then the Wraith, and finally, a whole mess of people like Grayson and the Bloodcrafts in book four. It lent more of an episodic feel to the series, which honestly isn’t a bad thing, but I really, really like my villains. With Muzien, I finally have someone I can set up for more than a single book. Not only that, I have someone who can legitimately look at my hero and smirk.

Of course, that’s not to say Muzien will be the only villain in book six. Is there such a thing as bad guy overload? Because I might be getting close …

Oh, and speaking of Ghost … yeah, he was totally dead in the self-published edition (there goes my earlier excitement about not discussing self-pub editions). No excuses, no possibilities; I left him butchered and bleeding and with his internal organs as an eviscerated goo. But! There’s advantages to going over every single book and changing whatever I feel like for the Orbit relaunch. In case you never read the redone
A Dance of Blades
, I made sure Ghost actually survived Haern’s thrashing, and had them speak a quick bit of dialogue to establish that yes, Ghost is still breathing. He’s in bad shape, and anyone can expect him to die shortly, but the last thing I wanted to do was cheat. So he survived, he vanished, and now I got to bring him back in. Every chapter with him was a ton of fun, and yes, I got the idea to bring him back while re-editing
Blades
. Consider it a weakness of mine. Dead people tend not to stay dead, not when I think there’s more fun to be had (Half-Orc fans in particular are rolling their eyes at me right now, I’m certain).

So, was bringing back Ghost worth it? I think so. I got to finish the character arc that was only hinted at with his initial scenes with Calan, as well as take the overall direction of his return in a way that hopefully no one saw coming. Obviously, you all will be the final judge of that.

All that’s left now is to put a nice bow on everything I’ve built. This book in particular was one that daunted me for quite some time, and I actually put it off to write the sixth Half-Orc book instead, solely as a way to stall. Having it finished is stupidly rewarding. The next book, though?
A Dance of Chaos
has been stewing in my head for quite some time, and I’ve been rubbing my hands in anticipation for so many scenes. The showdown with Muzien? The assault on Veldaren? The climactic confrontation between Haern and his father? Oh, yes. This will be fun.

And to those of you who have read
The Weight of Blood
… yes, it is
that
battle that’s approaching. I’ve always wondered where the heck Haern and the Eschaton were when it happened.

Time to show just that.

Thanks to all of you for sticking with me, putting up with my little idiosyncrasies, and this overall transition from self-publishing to Orbit’s guiding hand. I hope it’s all been worth it, and that this book, and the next, will be worthy of Haern’s shadowy legacy.

David Dalglish

October 31, 2013

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Into the secluded shrine below Palace Thyne walked Muzien Ordoth, and he was pleased to see he was not alone. He’d feared the high priest of Celestia would be afraid to meet with him in such a clandestine manner, or even worse, deem such a meeting beneath him. They met in a place long forgotten, accessible only through ancient tunnels cut into the granite beneath the palace. The shrine itself was lit with forever-burning torches that produced no smoke, their yellow light reflecting off the emerald walls.

“You should have been here before me, kneeling in prayer to our goddess,” said Varen Dultha, rising from his knees before the statuette of Celestia that rested atop an oaken altar. When he turned, his smug distaste tested the limits of Muzien’s patience and control. “But then again, you’ve never been much for prayers and worship, have you?”

“I do not appreciate having my faith questioned,” Muzien said. “My loyalty to the goddess has not wavered once over this past decade.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Varen said. “Living among humans? Trading with them? Keeping many in your employ? The goddess commanded us to watch over them, guide them, and remain neutral in their affairs if they would not listen. Pray tell me, how you were doing
Celestia’s
work there in Mordeina?”

Muzien took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out. He needed to remain calm and not let his regular disagreements with the high priest get in the way of all he’d done. In the secret records of their people, he would have himself placed as the savior of their city, perhaps their entire race. What did a few insults to his pride matter compared to that? But before he answered, he walked past Varen and put a hand atop the nude statuette. It was of their goddess, arms raised above her head, mouth open. Carefully carved to represent the delicate nature of balance, she could have been bound and in pain or finding pleasure in freedom. Often, it was the viewer’s mood that was reflected back, a subtle point Muzien wished more elves would understand. Above the statuette, carved into the emerald and filled with gold, was a four-pointed star, the fabled form Celestia had taken when coming down to speak with the brother gods before their war thousands of years ago. It was as symbolic as it was historical, for that same star often represented the sun, showcasing the duality of the goddess, of her watchful eye in both day and night.