Blood of the Underworld

14

Haern felt the darkness peeling away into layers of dreams that came and went. Within were friends and foes, even those long dead. As the dreams faded, he realized he slumbered, and a pain in his head suddenly roared to life. Slowly he opened his eyes, almost regretting the return. His skull throbbed, and the pain in his side was frightening in its strength. He tried to remember where he was, what he was doing. He was on a rooftop, hiding from his unknown assailant. No, there weren’t any stars, so where…

“Haern?”

He knew that voice. Something soft and warm took his hand, and he looked down. Delysia’s hand. It was her face he saw next, tears in her eyes.

“Del,” he said, and despite his pain, his exhaustion, he smiled. “You found me.”

“My brother did, to be fair. How do you feel?”

“Like I was run through by a bull. Do you have any water?”

A moment later she handed him a glass. He tried to sit up, but the movement was unbearable. Carefully he lay back down and sipped the cold water. It felt divine on his parched throat.

“How long?” he asked, setting it aside.

“Almost a full day. You lost a lot of blood, as well as took a vicious hit to your head.”

“Yeah,” Haern said, the attack replaying over and over in his mind. “I remember that. Felt like an ox kicked me. Could hardly see straight afterward. Where’s Tarlak?”

He saw a shadow cross over her face.

“Don’t worry about that right now. You need to rest.”

Haern frowned.

“Something wrong? Is he all right?”

She nodded, but still refused to say anything. He tried to think through his headache. He’d been bleeding, inches from death, by the time he fled from his attacker. What was the point? What was the goal? And if Tarlak was out and about, what for?

“He’s not searching for the Widow,” he said. “You’d tell me that. What’s going on, Del?”

She dipped a washcloth in a basin at her feet, then wiped his forehead. The cold water felt glorious, and he tried to relax as she dipped it again, this time moving it across his neck.

“The man who attacked you,” she said hesitantly. “His name is Grayson. He told all the guilds that he’d killed you, and they believed him.”

Haern felt his blood chill.

“How bad is it out there?” he asked. “Do you even know?”

She shook her head, clenched her teeth. Into the basin went the washcloth.

“I can see the fires from the window,” she said. “Beyond that…I don’t know.”

Haern curled his hands into fists. As his heart pounded, a bright light flashed across his eyes, and his headache intensified tenfold. He clenched his eyes shut, let out a gasp. Immediately Delysia’s hands were upon his face, still cold from the water. He heard whispers of a prayer, and a distant ringing of an unearthly bell. Waiting out the pain, he focused on her touch, until at last her fingers pulled away, and the pain with it.

“I know you were stabbed deep,” he heard her say. “But the blow to your head worries me more. I never saw this when at the temple, but I did hear of warriors who suffered symptoms such as yours. It can last for days, if not weeks or months. You need to rest. I’ll do what I can, I promise.”

The thought of enduring such headaches, of feeling that pain throbbing from the top of his head down to his feet, was horrifying. He remembered how when fighting Grayson his balance had consistently eluded him, and at times his vision even went blank. How could he be the Watcher under such a handicap? How could he tame the chaos Tarlak was out there struggling against while he lay there stricken?

“He was right,” Haern said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Damn it, he was right.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Victor. He said this would happen. He knew I’d fail like this one day. He knew it. I was a fool to think I could control them. To think I could do this forever.”

A sudden cough hit him, and he turned to one side. Each sharp breath hurt, and he coughed louder, harder. Blood spat across his white sheets, the rest dribbling down his lip.

“Shit,” Haern said, seeing it. He lay back down and closed his eyes as he felt the beginning of another headache forming. Tears swelled, and he was too sick to stop them. Delysia’s cloth went back to work, cleaning away the blood, even dabbing at his tears.

“What am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “Was it ever right?”

“It isn’t my place to tell you,” Delysia said. “But I don’t think you’re a fool. I don’t think you’re a failure. You’re allowed to err, Haern. No one would believe you human otherwise.”

“And what if Tarlak dies out there tonight? Does that make me even more human?”

It was a cheap blow, but it was the truth, and what weighed most heavily on his mind. It should be him out there bleeding and dying to protect his city. He’d given his life away as an orphaned child, swore it while watching the Connington mansion burn years ago during the Bloody Kensgold. He could have kept killing. He could have continued his attempts to wipe them all out. But instead he’d forced peace. A fool’s peace, the weight of it solely on his shoulders. And now it was breaking, and it seemed all the world but him had seen it coming.

“Stop this,” Delysia said. Her voice was soft, wavering from the anger and determination behind it. “This isn’t you. I didn’t sit at your bedside praying so you could wallow in misery and doubt. I didn’t do it because you are a fool, or I feared for my brother’s safety.”

“Then why?”

In answer, she knelt down over him, her hair cascading across his face, and then pressed her lips to his. His eyes still closed, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. He almost resisted, almost turned away, but could not. He kissed back, gently lifting a hand so he could touch her face. His mind whirled, too sick and tired to think of anything beyond the softness of her lips. When she pulled back, he finally dared open his eyes to look. She was tired, her eyes swollen and black from exhaustion, but through it all he saw a strength greater than him, and he clutched her hand tightly as if to never let it go.

“The world will continue without you,” she told him. “People will kill, steal, bleed, and die, whether you live or not. Stop judging yourself by what you’ve done with your swords. If you would despair, remember those who love you. Let your life by judged by that instead.”

“Do you love me, Delysia?” he whispered.

She met his eye, and he saw the hardness in her soften. She nodded, and he reached for her. She curled against his chest, and he let his hands surround her, let his face press against her hair as he kept his breathing controlled so he would not cough blood upon her. Together they lay there, not moving, not talking. The comfort of their presence was enough.

“I don’t know if I can,” Haern said after a time. “I’ve hurt everyone I loved. And I can’t hurt you, Delysia. I could never live if I did.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’ll still be here. I always will be.”

A memory came to him, from when they were just children, and he still in the care of his father. Together they’d met in secret on a rooftop, for Thren had denied him any knowledge of faith or love, all to make him the perfect killer. With Delysia, Haern had glimpsed a life with meaning, with purpose…only to have Thren shoot Delysia with an arrow, her bleeding body falling into his arms. That she’d survived at all was a miracle, a parting gift from another woman he’d loved before Thren killed her, as well. He thought of that moment, of how his cruel life had so vehemently rejected such a light as hers.

He couldn’t bear the thought of it again. He couldn’t hold her in his arms and watch her die. Whatever good in him existed would break. Did she know that? Did she understand?

“Let me sleep,” he said.

Her fingers went to stroke his cheek, but hesitated just before. Before she could pull away, he leaned forward, forcing the touch, turning his face so she could cup him with her hand. She said nothing, only held him for a moment, before leaving him alone in his room to sleep.

But instead of sleeping, he turned to one side and watched the distant flicker of flame that spread throughout his city, burning away like a hundred candles lit in memorial.

“These damn idiots have a funny way of celebrating,” Brug muttered as he kicked a corpse that lay at his feet. Tarlak had to agree.

“Whatever they don’t want, they’re burning,” Tarlak said, rubbing his throbbing temples. “Good thing they want nearly everything.”

The two stood near the center of town, before a home with wrecked windows and a smashed in door. Tarlak could only begin to guess why they’d chosen that particular place. The owner lay at the entrance, dragged out and throat cut. They’d arrived too late to do much of anything other than give the dead man vengeance. Three dead Wolves-just a fraction of the guilds roaming the night.

“It’s all meager pickings,” Brug said, wiping blood off his punch daggers. “Been out here for hours, and only small-time stuff. One of them’s got to have something bigger planned. Maybe the Connington’s place, or Alyssa’s.”

“Might not have any place big to hit,” Tarlak said, walking aimlessly north. “Both have got their places crawling with guards. It’s the rest of the city that’s vulnerable, but Victor and Antonil have got their men running round like mad.”

“Still a big city,” Brug grumbled.

Tarlak shot his friend a look.

“You sound disappointed.”

Brug shrugged.

“Was hoping to gut a bunch of thieves. Only seems fair, given what they did to Haern. Instead, they’d rather set fires, burn down some stalls, and then run like cowards. Pathetic.”

“Thieves tend to not be known for their bravery.”

They followed the road, listening for sounds of combat and keeping their eyes open for signs of fire. Much as he might mock Brug for it, he understood how he felt. They’d expected far more chaos, a true call to arms in celebration of the Watcher’s death. The night was half over, and all they’d seen was little worse than the food riots they’d had in years prior.

“Maybe all the patrols are actually working,” Tarlak said, voicing his thoughts.

“Haven’t seen anything by the Spider Guild,” Brug said.

“Ash Guild tore them up pretty bad. They might be sitting this one out.”

Brug laughed.

“Yeah. I believe that.”

Tarlak shrugged.

“Can always hope, right?”

A deep explosion roared from near the castle, hard enough to shake the ground they stood upon. Brug tapped his daggers together.

“Nope.”

They hurried north, passing by wrecked stalls, broken windows, and dark alleys that all seemed filled with men and women lurking within the shadows. Tarlak couldn’t help but feel like they were waiting for something, just stalling for the true celebration. If anything, perhaps they were wondering if the Watcher would appear and prove the rumors untrue. Every spreading fire, every theft unpunished, only confirmed his absence.

But then again, that explosion had been really loud…

They rushed faster, and Tarlak saw smoke billowing near the castle.

“Makes no sense,” he muttered. “Why attack the castle?”

“Not the castle,” Brug said, and that’s when Tarlak realized what they’d done. Stepping out to the wide space before the castle, where Victor had held his interrogations, he found the area filled with rubble and dirt. Several guards lay about, all dead. The west side of the city’s prison had blown open, and Tarlak recognized a magical explosion when he saw one.

What could be more symbolic than freeing all captive members of their guilds from a prison?

Too much time had passed between the explosion and their arrival. Whatever combat had taken place was long over. Men in tattered clothes flooded out, with a few armed and dressed in the colors of the Hawk Guild amid their ranks, revealing the guild responsible.

“With the guard scattered across the city, too few must have been here to stop them,” Brug said, clearly nervous at seeing so many.

Tarlak nodded in agreement. He lifted his hands, let fire surround them.

“Stop as many as possible,” he said.

“Will do.”

Brug charged ahead, trusting his platemail to keep him safe. The prisoners and Hawks were fleeing west, away from their road. Knowing he needed to slow them to have a chance, Tarlak hurled a ball of fire over their heads, detonating it in the road beyond. It set fire to the street, as well as a nearby home. Tarlak winced, but figured one more blaze wouldn’t hurt the city too badly. He hoped. Their route cut off, the prisoners veered various directions, many having to turn about and retrace their steps to find another road. Tarlak clapped his hands, and a bolt of thunder struck in their center, killing two. More important was the confusion the light and sound made, giving Brug his chance to reach them.

He barreled through their numbers, head low, helmet leading. He punched and kicked with wild abandon. Tarlak knew his friend was not the best of fighters, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in eagerness and stupidity. He didn’t try to block attacks, nor avoid blows, just let them hit his armor and slide off. Blood soon covered his punch daggers. The escaped prisoners fled, but the Hawks among them converged, daggers and shortswords ready.

“Keep ‘em busy,” Tarlak said, hurling bolts of ice from his palms. They slammed into the thinning crowd, bowling over men and women and then freezing them to the ground. A glance behind saw a squad of soldiers rushing their way. Tarlak grinned, glad for the help. Brug wouldn’t last much longer. With a few well-placed spells, he flung small stones at blinding speeds, striking the Hawks that surrounded him and knocking them unconscious, or dead.

Then the soldiers were rushing past, the symbol on their tunics that of the Kane family. It seemed they were smart enough to realize who was friend and who was foe. Ignoring him and Brug, they spread out to chase down the thieves. Tarlak ended his casting, watched as the soldiers pulled two thieves off of Brug, who, other than a multitude of bruises, was no worse for wear.

One of the men gathered a group of five and then passed by, abandoning the chase, and Tarlak recognized his face well.

“Victor?” he asked.

Victor turned, hand on his sword, until he realized who it was.

“The people here are in your debt,” Victor said, saluting quickly before hurrying on.

“Wait,” Tarlak said, falling in step. “What’s going on? You need to help us find the escaped…”

“Alyssa Gemcroft’s mansion is on fire,” Victor said over his shoulder.

“What?”

“Riot broke out, completely surrounded their estate. I went for the castle first, for the king and his guard are of more importance. Time is not on our side, wizard, and unless you have a spell to turn it backward, this night will not end well. It’s the thief war all over again. Gods damn it, I should have returned years earlier.”

Tarlak glanced back, saw Brug hurrying to catch up. Sighing, the wizard began casting a spell.

“If you want to get there now, then come with me,” he said as a portal ripped open before him. Without waiting for their answer, he stepped through, to see the chaos that had overtaken the Gemcroft mansion.