A Dance of Death (Shadowdance Trilogy, Book 3) by David Dalglish

By David Dalglish

“We are those who personal the evening. we're the ones with blood on our arms. we're the reapers, the demons, the darkish shadows wielding metal. we can't be denied our vengeance.”


Haern is the King's Watcher, protector opposed to thieves and nobles who may perhaps fill the evening with blood. but 1000's of miles away, an murderer often called the Wraith has started slaughtering these in energy, and leaving the emblem of the Watcher in mockery. while Haern travels south to confront his copycat killer, he unearths a urban governed via the corrupt, the grasping, and the damaging. Rioters fill the streets, and the specter of battle with the mysterious elves hangs over all. to prevent it, Haern needs to confront the lethal Wraith, and the fellow he could become.

A DANCE OF demise by way of David Dalglish
Man or God; what occurs while the strains are blurred?

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He could see the road, quiet and empty. From one of the trees a cicada crescendoed its whining song, and a bird cawed as if in answer. A rabbit darted through the small grassy lea on the downside of the camp, fleeing with sharp turns and great leaps as if terrified by the weight of Jarlaxle’s gaze. The drow slipped down from the low crook in the tree, rolling off the heavy limb that had served as his bed. He landed silently on magical boots and wove a careful path out of the copse to get a wider view of the area.

It took a moment for the implications of that boast to sink in to Elastul, and the possibility brought him little amusement, for it served as a reminder and a warning that he dealt with dark elves. Very dangerous dark elves. ” Jarlaxle asked. “I will open the tunnel to Barkskin’s storehouse,” Elastul replied, referring to a secret marketplace in the Undercity of Mirabar, the dwarf section. “Kimmuriel’s wagons can move in through there alone, and none shall be allowed beyond the entry hall. ’ Surely you do not expect that we will deign to move further into your city, good marchion.

For Hephaestus needn’t ask Yharaskrik anything ever again. Doing so would be no more than pondering the question himself. Hephaestus was Yharaskrik and Yharaskrik was Hephaestus. And both were Crenshinibon, the Ghost King. Hephaestus’s great intellect worked backward through the reality of his present state and the enthusiasm of the seven liches as his thoughts careened and at last convened, spurring him to certainty. The strand of blue fire, how ever it had come to be, had tied him to Crenshinibon and its lingering necromantic powers.

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