Shadowdance 01 - A Dance of Cloaks

Michael is an agent. Thank you, Mrs. Patterson, Mrs. Borushaski, and Dr. Joey Brown, for never once making me feel ashamed of telling horror and fantasy stories in your writing classes. Thank you, Sam, for being such a great wife as well as an open ear for all my silly ideas. And a clandestine thank-you to my little super-secret Facebook club, and all the people therein who have helped me so much throughout my entire writing career.
    And of course, thank you, dear reader. Despite everything, the good and the bad, I do this for you. In return you’ve allowed me to live a dream, and to tell the stories I’ve wanted to tell ever since I was a little kid.
    Never in my wildest dreams did I think I could be so blessed.
    David Dalglish
    March 19, 2013

extras
     
     
     
     

if you enjoyed
A DANCE OF CLOAKS
    look out for
A DANCE OF BLADES
Shadowdance: Book 2
    also by
David Dalglish

Haern watched the ropes fly over the wall, heavy weights on their ends. They clacked against the stone, then settled on the street. The ropes looked like brown snakes in the pale moonlight, appropriately enough given the Serpent Guild controlled them.
    For several minutes, nothing. Haern shifted under his well-worn cloak, his exposed hand shivering in the cold while holding an empty bottle. He kept his hood low, and he bobbed his head as if sleeping. When the first Serpent entered the alley from the street, Haern spotted him with ease. The man looked young for such a task, but then two older men arrived, their hands and faces scarred from the brutal life they led. Deep green cloaks fluttered behind them as they rushed past the houses and to the wall where the ropes hung like vines. They tugged each rope twice, giving their signal. Then the older ones grabbed a rope while the younger looped them about a carved inset in the aged stone wall, then tied the weighted ends together.
    “Quick and quiet,” he heard one of the elder whisper to the younger. “Don’t let the crate make a sound when it lands, and the gods help you if you drop it.”
    Haern let his head bob lower. The three were to his right, little more than twenty feet away. Already he knew their skill was laughable if they had not yet noticed his presence. His right eye peeked from under his hood, his neck twisting slightly to give him a better view. Another Serpent appeared from outside the city, climbing atop the wall and motioning down to the others. Their arm muscles bulging, the older two began pulling on the ropes. Meanwhile the younger steadily took in the slack so it wouldn’t get in their way.
    Haern coughed as the crate reached the top of the wall. This time the younger heard, and he tensed as if expecting to be shot with an arrow.
    “Someone’s watching,” he whispered to the others.
    Haern leaned back, the cloak hiding his grin. About damn time. He let the bottle roll from his limp hand, the sound of glass on stone grating in the silence.
    “Just a drunk,” said one of them. “Go chase him off.”
    Haern heard the soft sound of a blade scraping against leather, most likely the young one’s belt.
    “Get out of here,” said the Serpent.
    Haern let out a loud, obnoxious snore. A boot kicked his side, but it was weak, hesitant. He shuddered as if waking from a dream.
    “Why … why you kick me?” he asked, his hood still low. He had to time it just right, at the exact moment the crate touched ground.
    “Beat it!” hissed the young thief. “Now, or I’ll gut you!”
    Haern looked up into his eyes. He knew shadows danced across his face, but his eyes … the man clearly saw his eyes. His dagger dipped in his hand, and he took a step back. Haern’s drunken persona had vanished as if it had never been. No defeat, no inherent feeling of lowliness or shame. Only a calm stare that promised death. As the crate softly thumped to the ground, Haern stood, his intricate gray cloaks falling aside to reveal the two swords sheathed at his hips.
    “Shit, it’s him!” the thief screamed, turning to run.
    Haern felt contempt ripple through him. Such poor training … did the guilds let anyone in now? He took the young man down, making sure no hit was lethal. He needed a message delivered.
    “Who?” asked one, turning at the cry.
    Haern cut his throat before he could draw his blade. The other yelped and stepped back. His dagger parried the first of Haern’s stabs, but he had no concept of positioning. Haern smacked the dagger twice to the right, then slipped his left