Blood of the Underworld

25

Victor stepped inside his makeshift home and let out a sigh of relief. Another day over, another twelve gone to the executioner’s blade. The light was fading as the sun dipped below the walls of the city, but inside was well lit, and crowded with families still seeking refuge from the vengeance of the thief guilds.

“Where’s your guard?” Sef asked, sitting at the bar where Victor joined him. “You did have a guard, right?”

“What business of yours is that?” Victor asked, accepting the drink Sef slid over to him.

“My business is to keep you alive, and to kill the rats of Veldaren. So far, I think I’m doing better at one than the other.”

Victor shrugged.

“The streets have grown calmer. You know that.”

Sef rolled his eyes.

“So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”

“Can’t help it. I am no helpless child.”

Sef stroked at his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.

“Our foes aren’t so helpless, either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”

Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.

“You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”

Sef grunted.

“Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”

Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.

“Did I? But my advisors insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”

“Bastard.”

Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.

“Sleep well, milord,” said one as he pushed the door wide.

“That’s the hope.”

As Victor removed his armor, he glanced at the far wall, which was now plain and bare wood, without painting or decoration. The carpenters he’d hired had rebuilt it at an impressive pace, repairing the gaping hole Tarlak’s spell had left. Victor chuckled. Next time, he’d make sure he learned all the details of any spells that that wizard placed for his protection. He’d expected a few planks to fall loose, or some magical porthole of sorts to open up. When the wall had exploded out as if a dragon let loose its rage against it, he’d nearly soiled his armor. Of course, it was his own fault for expecting subtlety from a wizard who dressed in bright yellow.

After checking underneath his bed, Victor climbed in, lay down, and tried to sleep. Try as he might, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, he felt time crawling along. The sounds from the tavern below quieted as those under his protection settled in, as well. That helped, but only a little. Sleep had grown steadily rarer during his time in Veldaren. The faces of the men who died that day flashed before his eyes, and he remembered them all, joining the ghostly choir that wailed in his nightmares. They all had something different to say, some plea or explanation when they knelt before the chopping block. It was as if they could never admit they’d done their wrongs for themselves, to satisfy their own greed and lust. They cried of children, mothers, families, debts, mistakes made, and long forgotten histories they always insisted they regretted.

Victor tossed and turned, tossed and turned. Perhaps he needed to have the executioners use a gag on them. The only other option was to not be present, but he refused. He might not swing the blade, but he was the reason for their deaths, and his pride demanded he be in their presence. Cowardly hiding might make it easier, but that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted it to be hard. He wanted every death to weigh on him, despite what he showed others. The final moment, when there was no one left to give to the executioner’s axe, would be that much sweeter for it.

The night dragged on. Victor’s thoughts turned to his parents, of brighter memories in his childhood. Lost in them, he almost didn’t hear the soft clink of armor hitting the floor. Almost. Victor tensed, not once doubting his instincts and the danger they cried. It might have just been his guard shifting positions, but it didn’t sound right. It almost sounded like a guard had chosen to sit down, something he’d never, ever do.

His sword was beside him on the floor, just within reach. Trying to make little noise, he reached down and lifted it still in its scabbard. As the door crept open a crack, he managed to slide it underneath his blankets. Victor half-closed his eyes so that his intruder might believe him asleep. With the smallest movements possible, he held the hilt with one hand and pulled the scabbard down with the other. Didn’t want to let them know, didn’t want to scare them off, especially if there was more than one.

The door opened wider. Victor clenched his jaw to prevent any giveaway. Stay calm, he told himself. Just wait. Still, he quickened his pace with the scabbard. The blade of his sword was halfway exposed, but it’d be cumbersome to use in the cramped quarters. Stupid, stupid, why didn’t he just keep his dagger with him instead?

Two men stepped inside, each one carrying a small blade. Victor choked down his fury at his guards for letting such things pass by their scrutiny. They’d slacked on their precautions because of how many came and went, he had no doubt. Victor waited until they stepped all the way in, and were just starting to move to opposite sides of his bed, before he struck. In a single motion he freed his sword from his scabbard and flung aside the blankets, giving him freedom of movement.

If the men were surprised, they showed no sign of it. Victor lashed out with his sword, a long arc that had far more reach than they did with their daggers. The one on the right tried to block, but he lacked both the strength and weapon to do it. Victor’s sword bounced off, angling it higher so the sword hit his neck instead of his chest. It hit his neck bones with a wet chop. Victor tried to swing back to the other side, to where the second thief was lunging, but his blade had caught between two vertebrae. Panicking, Victor let go and fell back, narrowly avoiding a slash. He rolled away and off the bed, trying to gain some distance.

“There’s no hope for you,” the assassin said, his voice a whisper.

The crossbow bolt thudding into his neck seemed to say otherwise. The assassin slumped to the bed and bled out on the sheets as Victor scrambled to his feet. A third man stood at the door, miniature crossbow in hand. He was an older man, and wore the plain browns of a commoner.

“Friend,” the man said when Victor reached for his sword.

“That so?” Victor asked, putting a foot on the dead man’s head so he could yank his blade free. “Then who are you, friend?”

“No lie, milord. I’m here to help. My name’s Gart. Antonil put me here to protect you.”

The light was dim, but Victor saw Gart pull down his shirt, revealing a city guard’s tunic underneath as proof.

“Antonil’s keeping his eye on me, is that it?” Victor asked.

“You expressed concern with the families staying here. He thought it best to help keep an eye on them.” Gart nodded at the two bodies. “Caught them sneaking toward the stairs when they thought everyone asleep. Killed the guards at the stairs by your door. Real pros.”

Victor rolled over the one at his feet using his heel, then looked him over.

“Any idea the guild?” Victor asked.

“Not really. Not like they’d have been foolish enough to send people with colors or tattoos identifying them.”

It made sense, but was still frustrating. Standing, he looked to Gart and frowned at the crossbow.

“How’d you sneak that past my guards?”

Gart stood up straight.

“I told them it was with the authority of the King, and that they were to tell no one, not even you. If it makes you feel better, your men were most displeased, and I feared they might inform you despite my warnings.”

Victor felt his anger growing. Not only had two men come into his place of safety and nearly killed him, but Antonil was spying on him as well, and hiding things from him?

“It’s no longer safe here,” Victor said, grabbing his armor. “I told Antonil bringing in civilians would put me at risk. I told him! They will not stay here, not any longer. And much as I owe you, Gart, I still resent that your presence was kept hidden from me.”

“Just following my orders, milord.”

“I know. It’s those orders I plan on questioning.”

Armor on, sword buckled to his waist, he stepped into the hall. His guards lay slumped against the wall, throats opened and tunics stained with blood. Victor closed their eyes with his fingers, offered a silent word of thanks to the men who had given their lives to protect him. And then he was moving on, Gart in tow.

“Summon your guard, and have them clean up this mess,” Victor told him. “After that, start gathering the people here and bring them to the castle. If Antonil wants them kept safe, and wants to position men in secret to guard them, then let him take their responsibility in full. I need no more assassins in my bedchambers.”

“Milord, I’m not sure if I should do that until…”

Victor spun on him while still halfway down the stairs.

“I will speak with Antonil myself, and I assure you, I will not have my request denied. Take them to the castle. Do you understand me?”

The older man nodded.

“As you wish, milord.”

They continued down the stairs, to where the commoners slept all across the floor. Victor navigated around, and then he and Gart stepped out into the night. Four men stood guard at the door, and they saluted when they realized it was him.

“City guard will soon arrive,” Victor told them. “Help them in any way you can.”

He started toward the castle unescorted. One of his men called out after him.

“Milord…”

Victor glared back, silencing his comment. Gart followed him a little ways, then stopped.

“Nearest guard station is this way,” he said, gesturing east.

“I will be at the castle,” Victor said, not slowing. “Safe travels.”

Gart didn’t look happy, but he left anyway. Victor knew he was being proud, but he didn’t care. He was a skilled fighter, and he wore his shining armor. Piss on anyone that thought him vulnerable. The scum of the city needed to catch him sleeping in his bedclothes to even have a chance. Marching down the quiet night streets, he made his way toward the center of the city, then hooked north toward the castle. Only a few times did he see signs of life, those of taverns burning their midnight oil to fill the poor and destitute with enough alcohol to forget their dreary lives. Victor both pitied them and despised them. They’d be either fodder for thieves, or new recruits. Once their lives continued to fall apart. Once they lost enough to believe they could never replace it without taking by force.

Several times he thought he saw someone following him out of the corner of his eye, a gray blur along the rooftops. Every time he turned back he saw nothing. Just nerves, he told himself, but his instincts said otherwise. So be it. He would show no fear. It was the thieves that must fear him.

As he passed by a row of homes, not much more than a quarter mile from the castle, he heard a soft voice call out to him.

“Sir?”

Victor slowed, and he glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.

“Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

“They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they…they…please help. They’re in my home…”

Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.

“How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”

“They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”

“Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”

“I’m not sure you can, Victor.”

Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.

“Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger.

Stupid, thought Victor as the bolt hit his side, just below the curve of his breastplate. Proud and stupid.

He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to whom she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first, or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.

“I know you can’t move,” she said, kneeling down beside him. From within the folds of her dress she pulled out a knife, its sharp edge reflecting the starlight. “You might think you won’t feel it, but I assure you, you will. You’ll…”

A gray shape descended upon her, and she let out a cry as a heel slammed against her chest. Her momentum carried her until she hit a wall, just beside the door to a lightless home. Victor felt hope stir in his chest.

The Watcher loomed over him, sabers drawn.

“I’ve found you,” he said to the Widow. “About damn time.”

Instead of showing fear, the woman started laughing, the sound of it chilling.

“No, Watcher,” she said. “I’ve found you.”

The door blasted open, and out rushed a man in a long red coat. He had short dark hair, and he wielded an ornate blade in one hand. He crashed into the Watcher, his sword a blur. Their combat continued behind Victor’s head, and he could not watch, only hear the shockingly loud clash of steel. From where he lay, he saw two more on the rooftop of the home, both wearing similar red coats. One leapt to the ground, just a wiry thing that barely filled out his coat. The air pulled the coat open in the fall, and Victor saw dozens of small throwing knives. The man threw several as he fell, a vicious barrage. Victor heard them clink and ping against the wall and ground. He could only hope none hit flesh.

Still, outnumbered and surprised, could the Watcher fight off so many?

It appeared he could, at least for the moment, as their fight returned to his line of sight. The Watcher was a twisting confusion of cloak and blade, his sabers fending off the advance of the man with the sword. He kept flinging side to side, his motions nearly impossible to predict, as was evident by the daggers thrown by the other man in chase. Each one missed by inches.

Amid the chaos, Victor watched the Widow flee deeper into the alley, wanting no part of the chaos. Victor wanted to scream out his fury at seeing her escape, but he could do nothing, not even lift his fingers.

As if the two on the ground were not enough, the third up top suddenly clapped her hands, and just like that, the alley filled with fire. It burst along the walls, feeding on nothing. Victor’s eyes watered, for he could not squint against the sudden barrage of light and heat. The Watcher went on the offensive, crashing into close quarters with the swordsman. The man with the daggers closed as well, wielding them instead of throwing them. The skill on display took Victor’s breath away. He’d thought himself capable. He’d thought he could handle any foe. But what he saw wasn’t human. More fire burst around the alley, roping the Watcher in. So far none had scored a solid hit, but Victor could sense the Watcher’s desperation.

Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.

The Eschaton had arrived.

Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew, and they bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amidst it all, Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.

The battle split, traveling both deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive, and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting, and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.

When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.

“Can you not move?” she asked.

He looked left to right with his eyes as a way of answer.

“I will see what I can do.”

She reached down and pulled free the bolt from his side. The pain was intense, but did not last long. Her hand touched the wound, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears, slowly growing stronger, as she whispered words to a prayer he could not understand. When it faded, he felt a fire flood through his veins, followed by the tingling sensation of a waking limb. With it all across his body, he grimaced, nearly overwhelmed.

A soft flutter of cloaks signaled the arrival of the Watcher.

“Two fled, but it might be a feint to try to isolate Tarlak,” he said. “How is he?”

“I’m fine,” Victor said, his tongue feeling thick.

“Get him to safety,” Delysia said, standing. “I can’t lift him.”

“Are you sure?”

The priestess nodded.

“I’ll find Brug and my brother. They’ll need me in case you’re right. For now, take him somewhere safe until he can recover.”

“City…guard,” Victor said, sounding slurred, as if he were drunk.

“You saw what those people can do,” Haern said, putting his arms around him. “You think a few guards will protect you from that?”

A good point, however frightening. The Watcher pulled him to his feet and began carrying him deeper into the alley.

“Where…are we going?” Victor said, grimacing against the overwhelming sensations. It was as if a thousand wasps stung his exposed skin. The Watcher’s touch was like fire.

“To be honest,” said the Watcher. “I don’t have a clue. But anywhere’s better than here.”

Victor felt his legs regaining strength, and he worked them as best he could so they might move faster. The Watcher’s eyes constantly scanned the environment about them, both rooftop and street. If one of the attackers returned, they’d be in a sore spot for sure. After a moment, he shook his head, then pulled them back around.

“Never mind,” he said. “I have a better idea.”

The Watcher carried him to the building that the attackers had been hiding in, pulling him in through the busted door. Inside was a meager home. Bodies lay about, brutally slaughtered. Victor let out a gasp at the sight. Even children, cut down and left to die, all so they might wait in ambush. The Watcher said nothing about it, but the rage rolled off of him like a physical presence.

“Who are they?” Victor asked as the Watcher pulled him into the next room, where only a single body, that of a woman, lay facedown on the floor.

“A family in the wrong place at the wrong time,” was his bitter response.

“I mean their murderers.”

The Watcher helped him sit in a corner, then turned to the woman’s body.

“They’re a group of mercenaries known as the Bloodcrafts,” the Watcher said. “Now give me a moment.”

The Watcher dragged the body out to be with the others, then came back in and leaned against the opposite wall. Victor studied him, finally noticing the blood pooling at his side.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“It’s an old wound,” the Watcher said. He shifted so that the blood was hidden by a cloak. “It’s nothing. I can endure worse. What of you?”

“Starting to feel like myself. A child could probably beat me at fisticuffs, though.”

The Watcher looked back at the door, and Victor could tell he wanted to be with the rest of his friends. Victor’s guilt grew. A trap laid for him, an innocent family dead, the Eschaton fighting, perhaps even dying, and all for what reason?

When the Watcher turned on him suddenly, his guilt magnified tenfold.

“Why are you here?” he asked. “You’ve driven this city insane, infected it with your own madness. What’s going on, Victor? Attempts on my life, yours, the Trifect…is it all worth it? For your pride? Your attempts at power? I had this city under control.”

“Control?” Victor laughed. “Control? If you say so, but that’s not what I saw.”

“What do you know of Veldaren? You’re an outsider, some foreign born…”

“No!” Victor shook his head, and he forced himself to sit up. “No, this is my home, Watcher. I was born here, raised here. It was the thief war that drove us out. It destroyed everything I had, Watcher, everything. You know nothing, and I won’t dare let you disgrace me so.”

The Watcher fell silent, and he resumed scanning outside the building, as if unwilling to speak. The silence wore on Victor, and when the Watcher returned to the room, he did his best to push away his anger.

“I don’t know how old you were,” Victor said, gesturing toward his hidden face. “For all I know you were a child, or an elderly man even then. Do you remember when the thief war started? That first night was the worst. The Trifect had bargained and bartered for months, trying to establish certain boundaries-rules of engagement, you might say. They were fools to have done so, and because of that, all of Veldaren paid the cost. My mother and father heard of Leon’s failed attempt to kill Thren and knew everything was about to go to pieces. We tried to flee, the three of us, our belongings crammed into a coach.”

Victor sighed, and a shudder ran through him.

“The streets were chaos,” he said. “Every single guild rose up, determined to shock and cower the city into submission. Mercenaries ran about, with hardly any orders beyond killing anyone they caught looting or vandalizing. I watched from the window of our coach. Buildings aflame, people screaming. And they hated us for it, the lowborn folk of this city. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. We had failed them. With all our wealth, all our power, we had failed to prevent the carnage. My family is not part of the Trifect, but we had dealings with them, we visited their homes and we basked in the light of their coin. To Veldaren, we were just like them. They blocked our horses, flung stones, and screamed a thousand curses as we tried to flee.”

The Watcher shifted, pulling his cloak tighter about him.

“I was just a child, but I do remember,” he said. “It was on that night my older brother died.”

Victor grunted, rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

“Nearly everyone lost someone that day, and the commoners released that anger upon us. I still remember my father pulling me back from the window, telling me to ignore them. ‘That isn’t them,’ he told me. ‘That is their fear talking, their sorrow, their anguish. Don’t hate them for it. We are as much to blame as they’.”

“A noble man,” said the Watcher.

“A kind man,” Victor said. “Gentle. Compassionate. Scared the shit out of me sitting across from him in that coach and seeing the fear in his eyes. They…the mob surrounded us. I saw the thieves among them, those damn cloaks. Even now, they wear them without fear. Arrows hit the sides of the coach, along with rocks. I still thought we could push through. Our driver, he just urged the horses on. I remember the first person we hit, the sound I heard as the wheel crushed bone…”

Victor felt his memories threatening to overwhelm him, and for once, he was too tired to fight them away. His tears swelled, and he let them fall. What did it matter if the Watcher saw weakness, after all that had happened?

“I still thought we’d make it out safely,” he said. “But then they killed the horses. That was when I knew. My mother was crying, but my father, he never hesitated. He grabbed my shirt and tore it, then yanked the boots off my feet. I didn’t understand, but he knew what was to happen. He knew. And then he struck me, again and again, until I bled across my clothes. I was too stunned to respond. He did it all so I could hide. I could be just one of the mob. Right before they tore off the doors, he had me crawl through a small window in the back and then roll to the ground. I thought they’d notice, but there were too many people, all focused on the doors. Without a single copper to my name, I ran. I didn’t look back. Those thieves…those bastards…do you realize what they did to me? It isn’t the coin. It isn’t even the murder.”

He smashed his fists against the floor, pressed his head against the wall.

“My last memory of my father is of him striking me!”

The Watcher had remained silent throughout, and he let Victor calm himself, let him sit there with his fists shaking.

“How did you survive?” he at last asked.

“I left Veldaren,” Victor said. “Walked on bare feet north. Begged for food whenever I met strangers, and hitched rides with a few that seemed kindly. When I reached our family’s castle, I walked into the court, muddy faced and bleeding feet, and announced my presence.”

Victor shook his head, and he wiped his tears away.

“You ask why I do this? You ask what madness drives me? That is it. I want revenge against everything the guilds took from me. I had to flee my childhood home, while the beaten corpses of my parents were stripped naked, robbed of every possession, and then left to rot beside our dead horses.”

He wiped away his tears, and as he did, he chuckled.

“Do you know the worst part?” he asked. “The greatest insult? I found out Thren used our mansion as his home when he discovered it was vacant. For years he tunneled out holes and boarded up windows, and that scum lived and slept in the bed of my father. And when he left, he burned it all down, to the last brick and board. That’s when I knew. That’s when I swore to come back, to make every man bearing the colors of a guild tremble in fear of my name. Day after day I trained. My family is not the wealthiest, but I saved money like a tightfisted miser. This is my purpose. This is how I will honor the memory of my parents. Before I die, I will rid my beloved city of the rats and vultures that have done nothing but destroy.”

The Watcher stood over him, staring, thinking. Something burdened him greatly, but Victor could only guess at what.

“I understand more than you can possibly believe,” he said. “I am sorry for the loss of your parents, and your home.”

Victor closed his eyes and shook his head.

“It doesn’t matter, not anymore. What I saw out there…I am nothing to you, to your kind. I thought Veldaren full of thieves, cowards, men with daggers and poison and little else. But I was wrong. Now I see the monsters. How can I stop men who summon fire with a wave of their hand? How can I hunt down those who move faster than my eyes can follow, whose skill borders on that of gods? I’ve done nothing but throw stones into a cave, and at last I’ve woken the beasts within it. I’m a fool, Watcher, a damn fool.”

“No,” the Watcher said, kneeling down before him and grabbing his shoulders. His blue eyes pierced out from the magical darkness of his hood. “You are what we need. You can be where I cannot, you can fill the streets with a hundred men while I am but one. One man can be stopped, but a hundred? A thousand? You told me I would inspire fear from the shadows, yet you would be the light to banish all shadows. You still can. Be stronger than them. Be stronger than any of us. Prove to Veldaren that you can stand against the darkness, without mask or cloak, and live. Can you do that for me, Victor?”

Victor took a deep breath, and he thought of his mother and father, sitting opposite him in the coach as the mob surrounded them. No one should be that afraid, he decided. Not ever again.

“I will,” he said. “Forgive my moment of doubt.”

The Watcher grinned.

“Good. Continue on as you have. As for me, well…”

A change came over the Watcher, hardening those blue eyes. A chill swept through Victor as he realized he saw what others must see when the cloaked man descended from the rooftops, sabers drawn, fury in his every movement.

“I’ll handle the monsters.”