Blood of the Underworld

13

When word reached Antonil, he pushed aside his morning meal and hurried to his room. A knot in his stomach, he put on his tunic with trembling hands. Over it went his armor, needing the hard metal against his body to feel safe. If it were true…if the Watcher were dead…

He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the cold truth. Victor had already stirred them into a frenzy. With the Watcher gone, his ability to keep the peace, whether it was symbolic or real, was over.

“Antonil,” Sergan said, spotting him as he exited the castle.

“I have matters to attend to,” Antonil said, not slowing.

“The King’s looking for you,” Sergan said. “He’s talking about calling in soldiers from all corners of Dezrel, even leaving his throne to…sir, please, listen to me!”

“It sounds like Edwin needs comforting,” Antonil said, spinning about and grabbing his friend by the shoulders. “Shame you weren’t able to catch me before I left the castle.”

Sergan swallowed, and his jaw clenched.

“Understood, sir,” he said.

In peace, and without escort, Antonil passed through the streets. He looked like any other guard, and earned himself hardly a second glance. Ears open, he listened to the conversations, the hushed whispers of the marketplace. All wondered the same thing. The Watcher was dead. What did that mean? A few were glad, and some blamed all the bloodshed on him, but most understood. Most remembered the chaos of Thren’s decade-long personal war.

Antonil passed through the western gates of the city, then hooked off the beaten path. It wasn’t often he went to the Eschaton mercenaries, only when he needed a matter dealt with quickly and quietly. But this was something he had to know. Rumors and questions would not suffice, nor would he entrust this knowledge to a messenger, either. Eyes downcast, he approached their tower along the edge of the King’s Forest. Pausing a moment before the door, he took a breath, then knocked.

“I am Sir Antonil, and I come to…” he hesitated a moment, “I come to speak with the Watcher.”

The door opened halfway, and Tarlak peered out from within.

“You alone?” the wizard asked.

“I am.”

“Good. Then come in.”

Antonil stepped into the well-furnished bottom floor of the tower. A fire burned low in their fireplace. Their blacksmith, Brug, sat beside it, a full mug of ale sitting ignored beside him as he stared into the fire. Both the priestess and the Watcher were gone.

“You must know why I am here,” Antonil said as the door shut behind him.

“I know,” Tarlak said as he headed toward the stairs. “Follow me.”

On the fifth floor, Tarlak opened the door, and they stepped into the sparse room of the Watcher. He lay on his bed, pale, eyes closed, a blanket pulled all the way up to his neck. His hood was off, and Antonil looked upon his face. He was a handsome man, and that made his sickly look all the more noticeable. Beside his bed sat Delysia, dark circles under her eyes. Blood covered her white robes.

“Try not to disturb him,” the priestess said. “He needs his sleep.”

“So he’s alive?” Antonil asked, trying to keep his relief in check.

“Barely,” Tarlak said, his voice low, per Delysia’s request. “We’ve been out the past few nights trying to find this Widow killer, at Alyssa Gemcroft’s expense. Last night, Haern got himself in a fight. With whom, I have no idea. Throw a dart into a crowd and odds are high you’ll hit someone who wants him dead.”

It took Antonil a moment to realize the wizard had given him the Watcher’s true name. Did that signify their trust, or how much he was truly worried for his friend? Of course, Antonil had already seen his face…did his name really matter? He looked to the wounded man, repeated the name in his head. Haern…a simple, earthy name. For some reason, he’d always imagined the Watcher coming from a line of kings or assassins. But carrying the name of poor farmers?

“How’d he survive?” Antonil asked. “Rumors are saying his killer watched him die.”

“Who?” Tarlak asked, his voice rising. His fingers twitched, and they sparked with fire. “Who do they say it was?”

“His name is Grayson. I know little more than that.”

Tarlak nodded, repeating the name as he looked down at Haern.

“If you pull down his covers, you’ll see burn marks around his middle finger. It was a ring I had Brug make for him. If he ever got in trouble, all he had to do was break the gem on top and I’d know where he was, sort of like a beacon. Found him hiding on a rooftop down in the southern district, bleeding like a stuck pig.”

“How bad are his wounds?”

“They would have been fatal,” Delysia said, slowly standing. She looked beyond exhausted. “Whoever this Grayson is, he was right to think him dead. He’d been stabbed through the side, pierced his lung so that it was filling up with blood. Something also hit the back of his head, and hard. If I hadn’t been there, if I’d shown up even a minute later…”

She fell silent, looked back to where Haern lay asleep. Tarlak hugged her, kissed her forehead.

“Sometimes it pays to have a priestess of Ashhur as a little sister,” he said, forcing a smile.

Delysia smiled back, then took her seat once more at his bedside. Tarlak took Antonil by the arm and led him from the room.

“How long until he’s better?” Antonil asked as the door shut behind them.

“Del’s been praying at his side every few hours,” Tarlak said. “She’s a miracle worker, but this is taxing her far more than I’d like. By the time we found him, I honestly thought Haern was dead. It’ll take two days, maybe three, before he’s a shadow of his former self.”

“That’s two to three days too long,” Antonil said as they returned to the bottom floor. “Everyone thinks this Grayson killed him. The truce between the guilds and the Trifect was already fraying. It is all but torn without him.”

“What do you want me to do?” Tarlak asked, his temper flaring. “Prop him up with some rope and dance him about the rooftops? He’s not leaving that bed. Announce to the city you’ve seen him, he’s alive and well, and that you expect everything to go on as normal.”

“They won’t believe me, and you know it.”

“Then get every soldier out into the streets, because tonight’s going to be anarchy!”

“Will you two shut your traps?” Brug called from over by the fire. “Making it hard for a man to enjoy his drink.”

Tarlak looked away, as if ashamed. Antonil frowned and felt the same.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I only fear for the people I must protect.”

“I understand,” Tarlak said. “Whatever peace of mind this gives you, just know we’ll be out there tonight, doing what we can. Just endure, and mitigate this. When Haern’s fine and well, he’ll come storming into the underworld like a demonspawn of the Abyss, making every one of them cowardly buggers regret celebrating the Watcher’s ‘death’.”

Antonil nodded, giving the wizard a half-smile.

“You’re a good man, Tarlak,” he said. “I’ll do what I can to make sure the King’s treasury pays you well.”

“Thought never crossed my mind,” Tarlak said, giving him a wink. “Good luck, and pray to Ashhur we escape this madness unscathed.”

Antonil bowed low, then stepped out. As the door shut behind him, he saw a strange woman sitting cross-legged just off the path. Her dress was plain, simple, but it looked poorly fitted, as if never worn by her before. She had olive skin and hair cut short. Two daggers twirled in her hands.

“Does he live?” she asked him.

Antonil’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.

“Who?” he asked.

The woman stared at him, her head tilted to one side.

“Haern,” she said at last. “I’m a friend.”

Knowing his name had to mean something, Antonil decided, though he still kept his hand on the hilt.

“He’s alive but hurt,” he said. “I don’t know how long until he recovers.”

The woman nodded, stood. Her daggers slipped into her sash.

“I will try to quell the rumors,” she said. “But it will not matter. They want to believe he’s dead, even if for only a night. Blood will spill when the sun sets, Guard Captain. Do what you must to make it of the underworld, and not the innocent.”

Lazily she stood and began walking toward the city. Antonil waited, not wanting to be near her as he traveled. Something about her wasn’t quite right…

Shaking his head, he banished the thoughts and headed down the path, seeing no sign of her. Upon reaching the gates of Veldaren, he saluted the guards and denied their offer of an escort. Antonil was not yet ready to return to the castle. Instead, he hurried to Victor’s tavern, where he was allowed entrance with hardly a glance over. Inside, Victor sat at a table, a map of Veldaren unrolled before him. Sef sat beside him, pointing at various districts and muttering. Upon Antonil’s entrance, they both stood.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Antonil said. “I’m sure you’ve heard the talk of the day.”

“We have,” said Victor.

“I hate to do this, but my guards will not be enough. I don’t know what coin I can guarantee, but…”

“Save your words,” Victor said, sitting back down at the table. “My men will be out there, and I with them. We’ll do everything we can to save this city. You won’t be doing this alone.”

“Thank you,” Antonil said, feeling a brief glimmer of hope. Between the Eschaton, the city guard, and now Victor’s men, they just might endure. “I am relieved to hear it.”

“You shouldn’t have doubted in the first place,” Victor said. “Even if you never asked, I’d still be out there. You should know that by now, Antonil. I’m here for you. For all of the city. By my life or death, we will see brighter days.”

Antonil bowed low, convinced of the man’s sincerity and honored by it.

“The Watcher is alive,” he said before leaving. “We only need to buy him time.”

“That’s good,” Victor said. “I feared his death would one day tear down everything, but I thought it many years in the distance. Shame on him for giving us such a scare. I’ll have harsh words for him the next time we meet. I daresay I might even yell and call him selfish for nearly dying on us so early.”

The lord grinned, and Antonil grinned back.

“Protect the peace,” he said.

“You, as well.”

Antonil left, and, finally ready, he went to the castle to endure his King’s frightened rants and calls to action.

Tarlak adjusted his hat, smoothed out his robes, and made sure his bag of spell components was fully stocked in case he needed some of his trickier spells. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out, and then stepped into Haern’s room. Delysia still sat at the edge of his bed, her red hair a rumpled mess. She saw him, straightened up.

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Sun’s almost set. The party should start soon enough.”

His sister nodded.

“I’ll get ready,” she said.

Tarlak took another deep breath. This was the conversation he’d been dreading.

“You’re not going,” he said.

Delysia’s eyes narrowed, and he saw her stubborn streak surfacing.

“I am not afraid,” she said. “Nor am I helpless. You need all the help you can get tonight, and you know it. I will not sit idly by while you risk your lives.”

“That’s not it,” Tarlak said, sitting down at the edge of Haern’s bed. He gestured to Haern, who still slept. “You’re needed here. If you get hurt, or captured, then his recovery will only take longer. Not sure how this happened, but Haern’s the most important man in the city right now. We’ve got to get him up and stabbing people with the pointy end of those sabers.”

He pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his hair.

“Besides, sis, I’m already in over my head. Haern’s the one who knows these people, who their leaders are, what they’ll do. I just plan on roasting anyone who looks at me funny, and praying to Ashhur that I got a bad guy.”

Delysia shifted so she sat beside him, and he wrapped his arm about her.

“I’m tired of this room,” she said, letting out a tired laugh.

“I know. You don’t look too good, either.”

She elbowed him, and he mussed her hair in return. Their cheer was forced, and it died quickly. Tarlak looked to Haern, and he felt the weight of the night pressing on him.

“I think he’ll wake soon,” he said. “Someone should be here when he does, and I think he’ll be happiest to see you. Let him know what’s happening. He’ll try to be stupid and leave the tower before he’s ready, so don’t let him sway you with his masculine charms.”

Delysia kissed his cheek.

“I’ll be praying for you,” she said.

“Thanks. I’ll need the help. And don’t you worry. Me and Brug’ll be back by dawn.”

He waved goodbye, then climbed down the stairs to where Brug waited. The man was trying to adjust his platemail, and grumbling all the while.

“Be hard to sneak up on them with you making a ruckus,” Tarlak said, earning him a glare.

“You see this armor? It’s perfect. Made it myself. No dagger’s slipping between these creases. Rather be last to the fight, and live, than first and dead.”

“How much all that weighs, there won’t be a fight left by the time you arrive anywhere.”

Brug shrugged.

“I’ll still be alive.”

Tarlak chuckled. Couldn’t argue with that.

“You ready?”

Brug gave his breastplate one more hard twist, then readied his punch daggers.

“Lead the way, magey, or are we taking a portal?”

“We’re walking,” Tarlak said. “Expect a long night ahead of us, and need to conserve every shred of energy I have.”

Brug grunted.

“Del not coming?”

“She’s staying with Haern.”

“So just you and me against the world, eh?” Brug asked, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

Tarlak nodded.

“Looks like I’ll have to rely on you to keep them off me. Must say, Brug, I think I miss Haern already.”