Blood of the Underworld

18

Thren leaned back in his seat, feet up on the table. He drank alone. Martin had tried coming over to talk, but he’d waved him away. The rest had gone to various rooms of the inn to lick their wounds, rest their eyes, and sleep with their whores. He didn’t blame them. Not that he’d ever find himself a whore. To have his desires overcome him so fully that he’d pay to have them satisfied? No, he had better discipline than that. Besides, Marion was fresh in his mind, and it would be an insult to her memory to bed another woman now.

“Do you miss me, Marion?” he asked his glass. “Or do you watch me even now? How many tears have you shed?”

She’d been a stunning woman, her beauty almost exotic. While Grayson’s parents had both borne the dark skin common to those in Ker, Marion’s father had been a soldier from Neldar, instead. She’d inherited his brown hair, and her skin had softened so that no matter where she went, she stood out, his beautiful angel with sapphire eyes. She’d been no stranger to the life of a thief, and behind her well-crafted act of tenderness and humility, there’d been a will of iron. Of all the women he’d met, she’d been the only one he fully respected. The one time he’d struck her, she’d slapped him right back in return.

“Never told you,” he muttered. “I wasn’t mad, not then. I just wanted to know how you’d react. By the gods, you were fire in a dress.”

He’d had too much to drink, he knew. What had started as a celebration had settled into quiet reminiscence as the guild turned in one by one. Much as Thren didn’t want to admit it, Grayson’s comment had cut deep, but of course the man had known it would. Even though it’d been many years since their parting, few knew him better than his old friend.

Former friend, Thren thought, correcting himself. Things had changed ever since Marion’s death. Even then, he’d known Grayson would never forgive him. More than a decade later, he now had his proof. His wife was dead, and his sons were lost to him. Whatever remnants of her that remained in this world were in Thren and Grayson’s memories. Staring into his glass, he felt his stomach twist. Had Grayson told the truth about the Watcher? Was he really dead? If he was, that was just one more piece of Marion gone from the world, forever denied to him.

Thren let out a bitter laugh. Grayson had killed his own nephew. Would he even believe it if he told him?

The door opened, and the look on the man’s face upon entering was enough to startle Thren.

“What is it?” he asked as the thief shut the door. Through his alcohol-addled mind, Thren forced a name to match the face. Ricki. That was it.

“Something ain’t right,” Ricki said, his squished, oval face glancing about the empty cellar. “Where’s everyone? We need to get out, now!”

“Calm yourself,” Thren said as he rose from his chair. “Speak clearly, and tell me what is going on.”

“City Guard’s closing off streets all around here,” Ricki said, tugging at the collar to his shirt. “Was coming back from the market, spending what little I got from the Gemcroft’s place, you know? Just barely snuck past while they was setting up, yelling at people to get in their homes.”

“You think they will come for us?” Thren asked, struggling to believe it. How would they even know of their location, let alone have the guts to make a move?

“They ain’t alone,” Ricki said, pulling open the door. “I saw Victor’s men gathering far up Iron Street. Don’t take much to figure out what they’re doing. Looks like someone decided to take us out.”

That was enough to spur Thren to action. He pushed Ricki aside, dashed up the stairs, and burst into the proper rooms of the inn.

“Wake everyone,” he yelled at the innkeeper. “Now! You, too, Ricki!”

Both rushed toward the rooms, the innkeeper the ones on the lower, Ricki the upper. Thren pulled his cloak tight about him and pulled its hood over his head. The more he looked like every other thief, the better. He was no fool. Victor had no interest in scum like Ricki, or even Martin. No, they wanted him. Of course they wanted him. Question was, how did they know? Who had sold out their location?

Men and women began stumbling down the stairs and into the main hall, most drunk or in a stupor.

“Ready your things,” Thren yelled to them. “Our lives are in danger. Soldiers come with swords!”

This awoke a fire in them. The inn grew more chaotic, and amid that, Thren went back to the door and glanced down the street. In the far distance he saw squads of soldiers in approach. He had thirty seconds, perhaps a minute at most, before he was surrounded.

Thren ducked back inside, found what was left of his guild anxiously awaiting orders. He looked to them all, and feeling his insides hardening into stone, he gave them.

“This is not the end of my guild,” he told them. “But wherever you go, whoever of you lives, toss aside your cloak and colors. I know your names, your faces, and will forever remember your vows. Listen, and wait. The reaper cannot take me, the guard cannot break me, and no whoreson of a noble will defeat me. Not now. Not this day.”

He saw the shock in their eyes, the disbelief. But Thren could see the writing on the wall, whether it was carved into the stone or written with blood. Someone conspired against him. Perhaps it was Victor. Perhaps it was one of the Trifect. It might even be the Widow that killed his men and mocked him afterward. Whoever it was, he needed to be found, and killed. The lesson of the Watcher weighed heavy on Thren’s mind. Free of all ties, one man alone could accomplish so much if he had the strength and will to do it.

“Go,” he told them, and that one word broke the spell. The shattered remnants of his guild rushed to the doors, a few returning to their rooms to grab their things. Thren did not wait, nor did he make for a door. Instead he climbed the stairs, having prepared for such an event. In a far room he stood on the bed and pushed against the ceiling, lifting several boards to reveal a hole to the roof. Climbing up, Thren replaced the boards, then slunk to the edge. From there he looked down and surveyed the forces arrayed against him.

It wasn’t good. They’d brought at least a hundred armed men, if not more. Every which way he looked, there was a squad of six to ten guarding a street. No doubt more lurked in the alleyways closer to the inn. Only the rooftops remained open to him, though the crossbows he saw the various soldiers holding made him nervous. Crouching lower, he waited, just a moment, to see how the chaos played out. His former guild members fled in all directions, like rats abandoning a sinking ship. The squads closed in, and more worrisome, none gave chase. It was a perfect net, tightening in. Those that tried to make it past were attacked, and while Thren watched, he saw several shot dead with crossbow bolts.

And then the main force from Victor reached the inn, many carrying torches. They didn’t enter. They didn’t try to flush anyone out. Instead, they set it aflame.

“Oh shit,” Thren muttered. Whatever time he had was done. He’d hoped to lurk, perhaps even hide on the rooftop until the search ended, but now he had no choice. Every way was guarded. Every direction he turned, he saw armed men waiting. One after another of his guild surrendered, those not fast enough to avoid the squads. Others dove into windows and forced open doors as soldiers chased after. Thren wished them well, then drew his swords.

Either they’d kill him, or he’d kill in return. There would be no capture, not for him. The fire grew, the smoke of it reaching the ceiling and the heat of it warming the wood beneath his feet. Despite it all, Thren pulled his hood lower and grinned. Grayson had claimed Thren feared facing an opponent strong enough to defeat him. Feeling the way his senses lifted, the sudden clarity of his sight, perhaps it’d just been too long since he had faced a truly worthy opponent? With Victor, Grayson and his Suns, and now the Widow, perhaps he finally had a plethora to choose from? Before, he only had the Watcher, and his presence had been a blanket across his ambitions, smothering him.

Now it was gone, and the weakness in his heart with it. The city was once more an enemy, a thing to cower and break. His complacency had nearly killed him, but it was not too late. He was not too old to face this, not yet. A thousand soldiers might swarm the streets, but they would not catch him. His son had burned bright, and in his own way, made him proud, but at last it had come to end.

Arms out, he descended upon a squad of four that circled his side of the inn. Two died before he even landed, one sword piercing a soldier’s back, the other slashing out another’s throat. When he hit the ground he kicked out the legs of the third. The fourth turned on him, and he cried out.

“Here!”

That cry was the last word he ever spoke. Thren batted aside a hasty block and then shoved a short sword through his mouth. That done, he pulled it free and ran. Though the various alleys would be guarded, he knew they were still his best bet. In the main streets they could surround him, call in help when they realized who he was. Rushing a nearby home, he leapt through a window as crossbow bolts thudded against its side. His landing jarred his shoulder, but he rolled to his feet, almost amused by the terror he saw on the faces of the family living there.

Cutting through one room, he kicked open a back door, emerging into an alley. Three men hurried toward him, one with a raised crossbow. Thren rushed them, leaping to one side to prevent a clear shot. Catapulting himself into the air, he kicked off the wall, sailing over the soldiers while upside down. His sword lashed out, cutting the string of the crossbow as the soldier tried to follow him with his aim. Landing, he spun, swords weaving so that the remaining men fell back, expecting an attack.

But it was just a feint, and before the group realized it, he was already running. Another squad moved to cut him off up ahead, but Thren used a heavy barrel as a step ladder, catapulting himself high enough to grab the edge of a roof. Momentum swung him higher as more crossbow bolts pierced the air all about him. Rolling onto the roof, he took a moment to gasp for air, then lumbered back to a stand.

His city. His life. He knew it all too well, far better than any soldier. Without slowing, he ran for the edge of the roof, legs pumping, heart pounding. Leaping off, he sailed through the air, crashing down atop an awning stretched out from a building on the opposite side of the street. The fabric tore, but slowed him enough before he landed hard on the wares of a petty jewel crafter.

Thren laughed, rolled off, laughed some more. Tossing aside his cloak, he vanished into the thick market crowd, leaving the soldiers and the burning wreckage of his guild far behind.