Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

whole body violently. He spun and landed awkwardly on a pew, his feet sticking into the air and his stomach pressed against the seat. The priest fared better, collapsing into a sitting position on the pew.
    “Suffer!” the priest shouted. The word carried power with it. Haern rolled to the floor, his mind white with pain. His wounds from the Lion raged. Blood soaked his clothing, some his, some not. He felt the dagger slipping from his weakened hand.
    “You cannot resist Karak’s power,” the priest said, reaching down to take away the dagger. “How such a simple boy could kill two of his…”
    Haern put a leg underneath him and pushed, ramming himself into the priest’s stomach before the man could close his fingers about the hilt. The man’s hands clawed about him, flailing. Haern stabbed once, twice, then twisted the blade upon yanking it out. Blood shot across the front of his shirt.
    “Karak is nothing to me,” Haern said, feeling a sick joy at denying the man’s dark god even as he died.
    He had no time, though. The two other priests had come running down the long entryway and into the room beyond. Unlike the other three, they were not caught unaware. Dark magic crackled around their fingertips as they summoned the might of their god.
    Haern ducked below the pew, cleaned the handle on the dead priest’s robe, and then took a deep breath. With the sounds of battle, the rest of the priesthood would soon awaken and join them. He had one chance to escape, and that involved a head-on approach against two furious priests.
    “Protect me, or make sure I die,” Haern prayed, staring at the dagger. Either way, he had no intention of staying. Dagger clutched tight in his right hand, he made his charge.
    Bolts of shadow struck the pews, exploding their wood into splinters. They hit to either side of him, for Haern had leaped over the first row, using the seat to catapult himself into the air. He flew heels-first, curling gracefully to land atop the very last row. More bolts chased him but he twirled into another jump, the dagger flashing with each spin as it caught the light of the altar’s fire.
    When he landed he did not engage but instead ran between them, his dagger lashing outward. The one on the right screamed as the tendons underneath his arm tore, blood rushing down his side. Haern went to cut the other, but the priest clapped his hands together. A wave of power rolled outward, knocking the boy aside as if he were an insect before a storm.
    “Get back,” the priest on the left told his wounded friend, who reluctantly obeyed. Haern took two steps toward the door as if to flee, then dropped flat on the ground. A blast of red lightning shot above his head, breaking the thick bar across the doors. Haern rolled to his knees and kicked. Instead of directly charging the priest he lunged to the side, ramming his shoulder against the wall. Another bolt of shadow struck the ground, missing by inches.
    Both priests began their prayers for another spell, but Haern was too close. Their hands moved as if in a dream, their bodies surrounded by molasses. Haern kicked off the wall, spun once, and slashed his dagger into the nearest priest’s chest. Without slowing he spun about the body, stabbed again, and then jumped toward the other. His foot crushed windpipe; his dagger pierced lung.
    The priests fell. Haern tossed the sacrificial dagger.
    “Karak can keep it,” he told the bodies. With the bar broken, he pushed open the doors with ease. He avoided the obsidian steps, not liking the way they glowed in the waning moonlight. The soft grass felt wonderful to his feet, as did the sudden rush of fresh air. Only the fence blocked his way. Haern laughed. After five priests, a fence would be child’s play.
    He swung his weight from side to side as he shimmied up the bars, then somersaulted over the sharpened tops. The landing jarred his legs, adding more pain to his already impressive list, but he was out. He was free. Haern looked back to the temple, watching as it slowly turned into an earthly mansion, its columns fading into shadow and lies.
    It seemed an appropriate place to entomb the sins of Aaron Felhorn forever. Free at last, Haern ran on, knowing he had much to do if he was to ruin his father’s plans for the Kensgold.
    Not long after the dawn, the first of many wagons exited the western gate of Veldaren. More followed. They were Connington’s, loaded with barrels of wine and ale. Rows of mercenaries