Dancer in the Grove of Ghosts: Minstrels of Skaythe, #2

By Deby Fredericks

"He's dead. He just doesn't know it yet."

Mortally wounded, Cylass is abandoned on the battlefield by comrades who would just as soon have him out of the way. But as he waits for death, a strange savior appears. The dancer, Tisha, is so much more than she seems. With forbidden magic she heals Cylass, but also draws the wrath of his former lord, Count Ar-Dayne. 

Guardsman and renegade mage are on the run. Will Cylass help Tisha, as she helped him? Or will he do the smart thing, and turn her over to his vicious master?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Deby Fredericks
• Release date: Nov 15, 2019
• ISBN: 9780997780796

Deby Fredericks

Deby Fredericks has been a writer all her life, but thought of it as just a fun hobby until the late 1990s. Her first sale, a children's poem, was in 2000. Since then she has published seven fantasy novels through two small presses, and ventured into the realm of self-publishing with her novellas and novelettes.

Book preview

Dedication

For Daron,

my own personal guardsman.

Indicia

Text © 2019 by Deborah J. Fredericks.

Cover illustration by Tithi Luadthong. Designed by Deborah J. Fredericks using Canva.

All rights reserved.

No generative AI has been used in the conceptualization, development, or drafting of this work.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.

Minstrels of Skaythe

Where dark sorcery rules, they seek to restore a forbidden power — hope!

Book I — The Tower in the Mist

Book II — Dancer in the Grove of Ghosts

Book III — The Ice Witch of Fang Marsh

Book IV — The Renegade of Opshar

Book V — Prisoners of the Wailing Tower

Book VI — The Tale of the Drakanox (forthcoming)

More by Deby Fredericks

E-books

The Weight of Their Souls

The Gellboar

Wyrmflight, a Hoard of Dragon Lore*

Wolfsinger Publications

The Seven Exalted Orders

Dragon Moon Press

The Magister's Mask

The Necromancer's Bones

Too Many Princes

More by Lucy D. Ford

E-books

Aunt Ursula's Atlas*

Masters of Air & Fire

*Also available in paperback

Dancer in the Grove of Ghosts

I — THE BATTLEFIELD

Cylass lay in the dirt and weeds, curled around an agony that consumed all thought. Harsh gasps rasped in his ears, mixed with an animal's keening moan. It was his own voice, crying out. With great effort, he silenced it.

Uncaring words penetrated the torment of his mangled left arm.

What should we do about this one?

Is he dead?

Might as well be.

Why was he on the ground? Cylass groped for memory. The charge against bandits. A hostile mage striking from cover. Bolts of lightning that boiled with the color of blood. Impact from behind. So fast. Too fast.

He forced his eyes open and grated out, Not dead.

Two guardsmen loomed over him, their features blurred by his agony. Ennow gave a bark of laughter. You sure?

Ennow. Curse him, the bastard had shoved him into Ar-Dayne's line of fire. Cylass remembered that despite the tearing pain in the arm he cradled against his armored chest.

Ragis laughed, harsh and shrill as a crow. He is dead. He just doesn't know it yet.

A last shred of pride stung Cylass into full wakefulness. No way he'd let that ass Ragis make the decision for him. He rolled, avoiding his injured side, and stumbled to his feet, biting back a groan as the torn arm jarred against his body. Though they all wore the mail of Hawk Squad, the unit answering to Count Ar-Dayne of Sloram, neither man made a move to help him.

There was dirt in his mouth, grinding between his teeth. Cylass spat it out and glared at Ennow. I'm not dead. No thanks to you.

Ennow's lips twisted. Says the dead man.

They both stood tall, sizing each other up. Ennow's black eyes blazed, eager to knock an injured man down. Cylass shifting his feet so he could turn and block, avoiding a strike to the arm that throbbed with relentless intensity. That was where Ennow would aim first. He had no doubt of it.

A colder, harder voice broke in. You morons! Don't do the enemy's work for them.

Sergeant. Ragis groveled. We just found him —

Shut it. Sergeant Piyaro glowered at all of them with open contempt. He stepped closer, forcing Ennow to back away. Cylass edged aside before he got the same. His arm wouldn't bear that. Piyaro growled at Ragis and Ennow, You want to strip bodies? See to Tallon and Saylor.

Dust and smoke drifted across the field where battle had recently raged. It concealed, then revealed the scattered bodies. Mostly they were marauders, along with the rogue mage who had led them. But the closest were two of their own. The bodies were twisted like bloody rags at a butcher's stall. Cylass didn't want to look, but he made himself do it. His arm screamed in sympathy. The situation was bad enough without being labeled a coward.

Ennow looked fit to choke on his fury, but the sergeant's scathing glare sent him shuffling off to do his job. Ragis scurried after, cursing under his breath. The two men knelt by their fallen comrade and began to yank at his belt.

A guardsman's funeral, they called it. Anything useful would be salvaged — hauberk, sword, shield, the boots if they weren't too full of blood. The bodies would be left for the crows. That was all a guard was worth in Dar-Gothull's realm.

Ragis grabbed for Tallon's sword. The arm came off with it, fist tight on the hilt. Ragis dropped it with a cry of disgust.

What did he hit us with? Piyaro snarled under his breath. Cylass kept quiet. The question wasn't meant for him.

Besides that, he suddenly couldn't feel his feet. Sweat popped out on his forehead, and his stomach clenched, but he wouldn't vomit. He couldn't let his knees buckle or show any other weakness in front of the sergeant.

Satisfied that the guardsmen were following orders, the sergeant turned to Cylass. His face was neutral, the voice too calm. Let me see.

Slowly, because even the slightest movement brought searing pain, Cylass straightened his left arm. They both gave it a dour examination. The sleeve of his mail hauberk was slashed clear through. Bits of chain dropped to clink on stones in the grass. Under that, the gambeson sleeve hung in ribbons that dripped with gore. The flesh beneath was just as torn. Erratic slashes, as from a manic wildcat, exposed shards of bone that swam in the bloody trenches. The damage extended up into his bicep, but it was worst below the elbow.

Cylass heard himself panting again, staring at the ruin of his shield arm. The treacherous limb trembled, ignoring his will to be as stoic as the sergeant was. He tried not to think of it as his arm at all. The constant tearing pain made that impossible.

Make a fist, Sergeant Piyaro said. Cylass obeyed, though fresh ribbons of agony cut through his arm. Bend your elbow. Slowly, Cylass did that. Blood welled over and dripped down on his boots. Raise it over your head. Gasping with pain, Cylass tried, but he couldn't do it.

The sergeant's mouth hardened into a grim line. That's enough.

Saying no more, he wrapped Cylass' arm with brusque hands. The bandage helped the pain, but only a little, and crimson quickly seeped through it.

The men of Hawk Squad gathered nearby, openly watching. They were all of a set, brown-skinned with wide noses and black hair cut short. Each had an identical hauberk, shield and sword. Onyx eyes gleamed beneath leather caps. Cylass felt those eyes, sharp as knives, gauging his condition. The squad was a wolfish lot, hardly better than the robbers they fought. They wouldn't tolerate anyone who might slow them down or weaken the group. After years of hard service, Cylass was no longer one of them, but a liability.

He swayed on his feet, forcing a dizzy gaze to focus on the sergeant. Emotion flickered in Piyaro's jet black eyes. Was that pity, or scorn?

I can fight, Cylass began. Piyaro cut him off.

You're done, boy. Strip it off. A brief twitch of humor moved his lips. You get to see your own funeral. Lucky.

Cylass didn't feel lucky. He stood shaking, broken inside and out. Hawk Squad was his life. Not one he would have chosen — he'd been drafted by force — but it had become his identity. What was he without that?

When he didn't respond, Piyaro gave a kind of huff. Just stand there. Hyurey!

The man he called to strode over. Sergeant?

Silently, they stripped Cylass down. Helm, sword and shield were taken back just as abruptly as they had been shoved into his hands three years ago. They took the damaged hauberk, too.

This can be repaired, Piyaro declared.

Ennow and Ragis had stopped what they were doing. They watched with nasty pleasure, clearly wishing to be part of Cylass' funeral. Piyaro ignored them. He took the responsibility himself.

Cylass was left with his leather breeches, his boots because they were almost worn out, and the padded gambeson because it was dripping with blood. Hyurey went through his pack, making off with his cloak and a spare candle. Cylass stood silent, numbing himself, as pieces of his life were snatched away. Just like Ragis had said, he was dead and didn't know it.

Abruptly, Piyaro and Hyurey stopped what they were doing. A red-robed figure blurred into his sight. The men of Hawk Squad snapped to attention. Their rapacious attention suddenly turned to cowering dread.

What are you doing over here? demanded their lord, Count Ar-Dayne. The mage's eyes were still wild after the battle. His black hair was disheveled, the topknot falling out. He moved with irritable jerks, red sparks trailing from his hands as he slapped some bit of debris off his trailing sleeve.

Dealing with the dead, Lord. Sergeant Piyaro's voice was perfectly level. You'd have to know him well before you heard the accusation. For these casualties weren't down to the enemy mage. Ar-Dayne had been so intent on getting at his rival, he hadn't paid attention to what was in his way. He didn't care now, either.

Well, hurry up. I want to get home tonight, you know. The mage went to mount his horse, clearly expecting his guardsmen to follow.

At once, my lord. Without another word, Piyaro turned away from Cylass. Hyurey trailed after, leaving Cylass' pack open with his belongings scattered around it. Others of the squad hurried to keep up, still stuffing their own packs with things they'd scavenged from the fallen.

Count Ar-Dayne kicked his horse into a trot. The squad immediately fell into ranks for the long-running stride they had perfected to keep up with their lord. You couldn't even see the gaps where Cylass and the others should have been.

Then they were gone in billows of dust, leaving Cylass on the side of the trail, like trash.

THE HARSH SUN OF SKAYTHE beat down on Tisha's head as she moved along the ancient highway. Her dark curls