Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

collector,” the intruder said. Alyssa might have thought him handsome if not for the cold look in his eyes and the looping tattoos across his naked face and head. Just looking at them made her stomach queasy. He wore dark plate mail, the skull of a lion emblazoned in white across his chest piece. Fresh wounds marked his body, none of them remotely serious.
    “Greetings,” Theo said. “Though I’d prefer you call me by my name. Do the paladins of Karak know nothing of respect?”
    “No less than the men of Riverrun,” said the paladin. “I am Ethric, and you are Theo Kull. Consider our pleasantries exchanged.” He pointed his giant sword at Alyssa. “I’ve come for Lady Gemcroft. Is this her?”
    Yoren drew his sword and stepped in front of her. Before returning to Veldaren, Alyssa might have felt humbled by his chivalrous nature, but now she felt like a beautiful gem being squabbled over in the marketplace. Again she wished for the faceless women. Their offer of safety and concealment seemed all the more desirable.
    “You will not touch her,” Yoren said. “Alyssa is in our safekeeping. Karak has no claim on her.”
    “And you do?” Ethric asked. “Only a fool would believe himself above the desires of a god.”
    “She is my betrothed,” Yoren said.
    Ethric looked to his left, then to his right, pointedly dismissing the men who might come to Yoren’s aid.
    “Cover your steel, boy, or I’ll put your blood on it,” Ethric said.
    “Begone from my camp,” Theo said. “I dismiss you. You are not welcome here.”
    Ethric laughed.
    “I am never welcome. This is your last chance. Hand her over.”
    “Fuck you and your lion god,” Yoren said. “Kill him.”
    Alyssa let out a sharp cry at the sudden eruption of blood. The two nearest mercenaries fell back, deep gashes in their chests. Their armor did nothing to slow the blade. Ethric pivoted to the side and cut down another man, his finely crafted and god-blessed sword shattering the mercenary’s cheap iron weapon. Two more died attempting an attack, their swords clanging uselessly off Ethric’s plate mail or sailing wide from an impossibly fast parry.
    “Cease this!” shouted a feminine voice, with such volume and authority that both sides obeyed. Nava walked into the light of the fire, her daggers drawn and dripping shadows.
    “I wondered if you would show,” Ethric said, taking a step closer and holding his sword before him. “Pelarak has ordered the disbandment of your order. You must return to the temple immediately.”
    “Alyssa is under our protection,” Nava said. “Be gone, and tell Pelarak we no longer follow his command, only Karak’s.”
    Hands grabbed Alyssa’s wrist. Startled, she turned to shout, but a wrapped palm covered her mouth.
    “Quiet,” Zusa whispered. “Like a mouse, now follow.”
    Nava crossed her daggers before her chest as Ethric took a step closer.
    “I hoped you would say no,” he said. “I cherish the honor of killing another heretic. Eliora is dead, you whore. Your kind dies tonight.”
    If Nava was upset, she did not show it. Slowly she swayed from side to side. While Ethric watched, she cut just above her elbow and let the blood drip down onto her cloak. Like a drop of dye into clear water, the red swirled and spread across the dark cloth.
    “Blood for blood,” Nava said. “I’ll bury you in my cloak.”
    She lunged across the fire, her cloak whipping around her like a funnel, its length suddenly twice that of her body. When Ethric swung, his sword clanged off as if he’d struck stone.
    Nava’s foot snapped out, striking his head. He rolled with the blow, ending on his knees. He swung behind him, but Nava leaped over the blade and stabbed her daggers for his neck. Ethric turned just in time, one dagger striking his chest plate, the other slashing his cheek. He rammed his fist into Nava’s gut, grinning in satisfaction at the gasping cry of pain she made.
    The faceless woman somersaulted backward, her cloak twirling before him. He tried to push it aside, but he might as well have tried to push down a tree with his bare hands. Blood ran down his face, a trickle curling in at the corner of his mouth. He licked it and then spat.
    “Fight me,” he shouted as the cloak slowly drifted downward. He braced his sword, smoothly shifted between stances. Then she was there, ducking and spinning beyond his sword’s edge. Normally he’d feel confident having such reach over his opponent’s