Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

armor, and swearing softly, he rolled over and died.
    “Oh gods,” the young girl sobbed. Madelyn took her face in her hands and pressed their foreheads together. Blood covered them both, and its sickly-sweet aroma was all she could smell.
    “Hush now,” Madelyn told the girl. “Hush. We’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine.”
    Meanwhile Nigel unleashed a storm of curses at Thren, hoping to distract him. He’d retreated several steps, his shoulder ached, and he’d avoided death twice by the sheer thickness of his chain mail. Breathing was difficult. Thren, however, was still smiling. He had not a drop of blood on him.
    “Are you ready?” Thren asked, suddenly hopping backward and letting his cloak fall forward to hide his weapons.
    “For what?” Nigel asked.
    “On the count of three, I’ll kill you,” Thren said.
    “Overconfident ass.”
    Madelyn watched, desperately hoping the mercenary would pull off a stunning victory. Thren swayed left to right, as if waiting. Nigel lunged with the greater reach of his sword, hoping to catch him off guard. Instead Thren smoothly parried to the side.
    “One,” he said, stepping forward with his left foot.
    Nigel looped his sword around above his head and struck for Thren’s neck. The rogue stepped forward again, blocking with his short sword.
    “Two.”
    His foot curled around Nigel’s. Their weight connected. Thren lunged forward, slamming his elbow into Nigel’s face. The mercenary captain went down. A short sword stabbed through the crease of his chain mail underneath his armpit and into his chest.
    “Three.”
    “Not dead yet,” Nigel said, his voice sounding wet.
    Thren laughed.
    “A worthy attitude,” he said as he kicked the blade from Nigel’s hand. “Would you care to work for me, or die like the rest of your men?”
    Nigel chuckled even as blood dripped down his lips.
    “Cut my damn head off already,” he said. “I ain’t going to eternity as a traitor.”
    Thren shrugged as if it didn’t matter to him either way. He pulled his sword out, raised its tip, and prepared to thrust it into Nigel’s throat.
    Before she could witness the execution, Madelyn saw a great burst of white, so powerful her eyes ached. She turned away, unable to watch. All around she heard voices shouting, many of them panicked. And then she heard singing. As her vision returned, she saw Thren was gone. Nearby, the rest of the serving girls sobbed, as did the petrified girl still in her arms.
    A man stepped over to her and looked into her eyes. His bald head was smooth and rounded, as were his large ears. His mouth was pulled into a tight frown.
    “Are you two all right?” he asked.
    “Yes,” Madelyn said, her voice quivering. All around she saw men in similar garb, white robes with gold chains. “Yes, we are.”
    “Good.”
    And then he left her, instead going to Nigel’s side.
    “Hold still,” the man said to him. He put his hands through the armor and against the wound on his chest. Nigel coughed.
    “Madelyn?”
    “The noblewoman?” the stranger asked.
    Nigel nodded weakly.
    “I’m here,” Madelyn said, still cradling the serving girl. “I’m well.”
    “Brave too, considering what she had to do. Be quiet. I must say my prayers without interruption.”
    The man closed his eyes and whispered words that Madelyn could not understand. White light glowed, as if his skin were luminescent. The bleeding in Nigel’s chest stopped. When he coughed again, the cough was dry and healthy.
    “Who are you?” Madelyn asked as Nigel slumped into a sudden, peaceful sleep.
    “Calan, high priest of Ashhur,” he said, turning to offer her a hand. “And as of now, consider yourself and your charges under my protection.”

CHAPTER
25
    E thric had been involved in many riots, but he’d never seen one created so spontaneously out of so little. Someone’s hands were certainly behind it, and the manipulation involved left him impressed. He walked down the middle of the open street, almost euphoric at the chaos. Karak, being a god of order before his banishment by Celestia, should have frowned upon such activities, but Ethric felt them lift his heart. The only thing worse than chaos was false order, the kind established by faithless kings and the worshippers of Ashhur. Let chaos burn down the falsehood like fire upon a crumbling home. From the ashes, he and his kind would build anew.
    At the western gate he came across a filthy beggar sitting beside the road. He was