Blood of the Underworld

28

Haern spent the day following the Bloodcrafts’ ambush in disguise, acting like any other hungry, tired commoner as he bounced from tavern to tavern. Someone as new and strange as the Bloodcrafts would have left a trail, he knew, and it did not take long to find it. Many were frightened to speak of them, but when Haern flashed a little silver, all of their tongues opened. At last he found what he’d dared not hope for: the tavern in which they stayed, and even the rooms in which they slept. The innkeeper had been terrified to say their names, but his son had been a different matter. Three silver coins, and the young man had joined Haern in an alley, pointed up to some windows, and then ran back inside before his father noticed.

“I’ve found you,” Haern whispered, hurrying back to the Eschaton Tower.

He revealed what he’d learned to the rest as they gathered in the lower floor of the tower.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tarlak said, shaking his head. “That Nicholas guy alone nearly killed all of us, and it took everything we had to chase them off during their last ambush. Now you want to go charging into a fight with them head on?”

Haern shrugged.

“If we’re going to fight, I’d rather us be the ones doing the ambushing. Or would you rather wait for them to come to our tower while we sleep, or assault me when I’m alone upon the rooftops?”

“They’ve made their intentions clear,” Delysia said, taking her brother’s hand. “They’ll kill us no matter what it takes. You saw the bodies. How many innocents they killed.”

“I say we do it,” Brug said, hopping up from his chair. “I’ll get my armor.”

“You’re with this insane scheme, too?” Tarlak asked.

Brug shrugged.

“What? I killed one of them already. Nothing says I can’t do it again.”

Haern grinned at his friend.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “So what will it be, Tarlak? Ready for us to go on the offensive for once?”

Tarlak lifted his hat and scratched the back of his head.

“That means I’ll have to face that one lady throwing all the fire, won’t I?”

“Probably.”

“Fine.” A devilish grin spread over his face, removing his pout. “But this time, I’m coming prepared. Come on, Brug, I’ll need your help with this.”

Over the day they prepared, and then before nightfall, they hurried back. Haern felt confident the Bloodcrafts were like most thieves, sleeping in the day and going out at night. And if not, well, then they’d catch them sleeping. Hardly the most honorable kill, thought Haern, but he’d dealt worse punishments than that.

The tavern was at the corner of Iron, a major trade route heading north to south through Veldaren, and Raven, a far smaller dirt road that jutted off into the remnants of homes, most shuttered down as the wealth had traveled steadily north over the past decade. Haern watched the entrance from an alley, on the opposite side of Iron. This gave him a wide view of the tavern, as well as the positions of the rest of the Eschaton.

Tarlak waited atop the baker’s shop beside the tavern. Haern could not see him, for he’d cast a lengthy spell of invisibility across himself before climbing up. The wizard directly faced the windows of the room, and precautions were necessary for such close proximity. Brug and Delysia were up Raven Street, so that if anyone fled away from Tarlak and Haern they’d be there to intercept. No exits went unwatched, no pathways unprotected. None of them liked the potential collateral damage, but the ambush was set, and at least no innocent families would be butchered like last time when the Bloodcrafts prepared their own ambush.

Time passed, and Haern felt his nerves start to fray. Slowly the sun fell behind the wall.

“Come on,” Haern whispered. “Come on, come on.”

They sky turned red, then purple, and then at last the stars winked into existence one by one. Still no sign. With every passing moment, Haern knew something was wrong. Had the innkeeper’s boy lied, or perhaps just been misinformed? No doubt the rest of his friends were as anxious as he. Maybe he should call the ambush off, or try to sneak into their room to confirm…

It was only instinct that saved him. He saw a flash of something high above, a shadow that didn’t feel quite right, and without thinking he dove to the side. Down fell a man in a red leather coat, longsword slamming the ground where he’d been. Haern pulled out of his roll, sabers drawn, but his attacker remained back. Surprise gone, he seemed in no hurry.

“Hello Watcher,” said the man. He was middle-aged, handsome, with dark hair cut short. Haern tensed. He’d crossed swords with him once already, and been stunned by his near inhuman speed.

“I’d greet you in return,” Haern said, “but I don’t know your name.”

The man grinned.

“Carson Bloodcraft. Consider me honored to meet you a second time. Few have the skill to match blades against me and live.”

“I could say the same.”

Carson chuckled.

“Indeed. Let me make this quick, Watcher. We knew you’d come for us after our last ambush, and we have prepared one of our own. We know where your friends are, all of them. Yes, even the wizard foolish enough to think we couldn’t see through a simple invisibility spell. With but a signal, they’ll attack.”

The man was too confident, the tone of his voice and pull of his smile too consistent. No lie. Tarlak, Delysia, Brug…they were all in danger.

“What do you want?” Haern asked, subtly tightening the muscles in his legs for a leap. “Do you wish to mock me before you try to kill me?”

Carson shook his head.

“Our mission is to eliminate you as a threat, Watcher. This can be done a lot of ways. But you see, your mercenaries killed one of our members, which leaves us with an opening. Your skill is incredible. With your reputation, and your abilities, you’d make a fine addition to the Bloodcrafts.”

Carson stood, held his sword out to the side. Something sparkled in his brown eyes, and it made Haern’s head ache.

“What do you say to that? Leave this pathetic group you serve. Whatever coin they pay you, I promise we can increase it tenfold. They only hold you back.”

Haern took a single step, just enough to shift his weight so he might leap with greater speed. Carson saw it, and he held his sword before his chest.

“If you agree, we’ll leave the rest of your group alive. Decline, well…you’re still a threat needing to be dealt with. Make a choice, Watcher, but do us both a favor…make the intelligent one. You’re too good to be weighed down with petty morality and friendships.”

Despite the danger, Haern let out a laugh.

“You think I do this for the coin?” he asked. “You damn fool. Give your signal. We’ll see who dies tonight.”

It was a bold bluster, a way to keep the fear for his friends hidden. He had to trust them, trust his own abilities to finish off Carson in time to help the others. Carson shook his head, looking disappointed. Their eyes met, and there was death in them.

“And you call me the fool,” he said. Something about his voice had changed, as if he were suddenly hurrying his words. His free hand lifted, and when he went to snap his fingers Haern lunged at him, sabers leading. Sword a blur, Carson parried both to the side, then shifted so his elbow slammed into Haern’s chest as he came crashing in. Breath lost, Haern swung twice in a futile attempt to keep the man on the defensive while he fell back, gasping in air. Carson parried them with ease, holding his sword with a single hand. His movements showed no slowing, no panic. He didn’t even look like he was breathing hard.

He can’t be that good, Haern thought, trying to decide his next attack pattern. I’ve fought Thren, the Wraith, Dieredon…he can’t be greater than them.

During his indecision, Carson snapped his fingers, then winked.

“Time for some fun,” he said, again in that clipped, rapid speech, and then the roof of the bakery erupted in flame. Before he could react, Carson stepped in, sword slashing. Haern blocked, always a fraction of a second away from missing. He kept his swords out wide, using the only advantage he had. No matter where Carson thrust or slashed, Haern had a blade ready, just a flick of a wrist away from parrying. Not that it mattered. Carson thrust, looped his sword around, thrust again, and when Haern tried to block the second, he batted both sabers aside as if Haern were a child. The tip of his sword continued unabated, piercing through Haern’s shoulder.

Rolling away before it could punch deeper, Haern knelt on one knee, fighting off the urge to clutch the wound with a hand. His sabers shook in his grip as blood ran down the front of his shirt.

How? Haern wondered. How can he be that fast?

Carson stepped closer, and in desperation, Haern employed his most skillful delay. Spinning, he grabbed his cloaks and flung them into the air, turning faster and faster so that his movements were a blur, the location of his hands and swords undecipherable to any but the most skilled. It should have worked, but Carson only shook his head, as if disappointed. Something felt wrong. Haern noticed it just before Carson attacked, unnerved by the cloakdance. The cloaks were hanging lower than they should, seemingly falling faster than usual, unable to maintain momentum.

Flinging himself back, Haern realized what was wrong. It wasn’t that Carson was moving faster. It was that he was moving slower. While the magic affected him, it did nothing to the cloaks. All of his senses were dulled, delayed. The slurred speech, he realized. Even his hearing was affected. It didn’t appear to be much, just enough to sap away his greatest advantage.

Carson stalked closer, unworried about Haern’s sudden retreat. And why would he? Could Haern get away if he ran as if pushing through molasses? Forcing himself to stay calm, he continued his backward retreat. High above, smoke blotted out the stars, the results of the fire that continued to burn. Heavy concussion sounds rocked the building. Tarlak was still alive, but for how long?

“Have you given up already?” Carson asked, steadily approaching. “You’ve yet to make me break out a sweat. You fought so well earlier…what happened, Watcher? Have you lost your nerve?”

What had happened? He’d fought both Carson and the dagger thrower simultaneously. Yes, he’d been pushed to the limits, but still he’d endured. What was different now? What slowed him so?

“Come,” Carson said. “Look me in the eye so I can see your fear as you die.”

The eye…

Haern stared into those brown orbs, and again he felt an ache grow in his forehead. Tarlak’s words echoed in his ears.

I’d call it cheating…

Something about Carson’s gaze, be it spell or hypnotism, was digging into him, pooling into his mind. Haern looked down, forced himself to watch Carson’s hands and hands only. Normally he might read a man’s face to gauge their tension, to watch for tells and signs of impatience. But not now. Gaze low, Haern breathed in deep. He didn’t know how it worked, or how long it might last, but he had to endure until the effects waned. The first time they’d fought, he’d had his attention split between two opponents, no doubt weakening the effect. If he could survive then, he could survive now. He had to.

Carson stepped close, and he repeatedly thrust for Haern’s chest, pulling back every time Haern tried to parry. Haern watched, more and more aware of the sluggishness of his reactions. He felt robbed of speed, robbed of strength.

“What’s the matter, Watcher?” Carson asked. Haern noticed the strange, hurried aspect to his voice was not quite so prominent.

Haern gave no answer, only grinned.

It seemed Carson suddenly realized the shift. He pushed his attack, this time without mockery, no longer playing with him. Haern kept his eyes down, watching only Carson’s hands and the movements of his feet. Carson was a viper, trying to mesmerize his prey with his gaze. But Haern was no mouse.

No, he’d been raised a Spider.

Side to side he shifted, avoiding thrusts, smashing aside cuts. Carson tried to step in and strike him with a fist, but Haern ducked underneath, whirling so his cloaks hid his movements. This time when he stood, he counterattacked, the tip of his saber slashing open a bleeding wound across Carson’s cheek.

Much as he wanted to enjoy the shock and fear in Carson’s eyes, Haern pulled his hood lower across his face and stared at the ground.

“What’s the matter, Bloodcraft?” Haern asked. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

In his childhood, during the years of training by Thren’s hired tutors, Haern had spent several months learning how to fight in pure darkness. He knew how to predict the most common sword placements, how to listen for the movement of feet, the intake of air that marked an attack. In his mind’s eye he could visualize where Carson stood, and from their fights, he now had a feel for his favored routines. The man was good, but he was used to having speed on his side. He’d never been pushed to his limits.

But Haern had fought so much better. He’d met his limits, and surpassed them.

Eyes closed, he lashed out, and the sound of metal on metal brought a smile to his face. He pressed forward, his sabers whirling so that he could control the placement of Carson’s sword, forcing his defenses and countering his attempts to pull it close. His speed had returned in full. His strength was back. He thought of the rest of his friends, battling for their lives, and he would not fail them.

“Have you lost your nerve?” Haern asked, so close to Carson that he could smell the sweat and blood on him.

“You haven’t beaten me yet, you…”

His words confirmed his location, and more importantly, how Carson was falling backward to gain distance. It was all Haern needed.

He lunged, one saber thrusting, the other swinging wide to parry the desperate counter-thrust he knew Carson would try. Metal hit metal, and then his thrusting blade met resistance, just for a moment. Blood poured across Haern’s hand, and he felt the closeness of Carson’s body to his. Only then did Haern open his eyes to see Carson gasping for air, a saber pierced through his chest and out his back.

“Look me in the eye,” Haern whispered. “The fear you see is your own.”

Carson opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough blood. He slipped back, and Haern yanked free his saber. Carson collapsed, mouth still moving, eyes still locked on Haern’s. The ornate blade fell from his hand and clattered upon the hard stone.

The ground shook, and Haern brought his attention to the other battles still raging.

“Hold on, Tar,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

Tarlak sat on his rear, legs folded underneath him, as he leaned his chin against his palm and watched the inn. So far an hour had passed, yet no sign of life or movement through the windows.

Some ambush, he thought. I think I’ll be killing myself from boredom before the night is over. The Bloodcrafts will win by default.

He sat on the very edge of the bakery’s rooftop, and he kept bouncing his attention between the windows and the alley beneath him. There was always the possibility they were out in the day, and would return sometime soon. He knew he had to be ready, but still…

“Boooored,” Tarlak muttered.

He leaned back to stretch, and as he did, he caught sight of a woman on the roof of the inn, her slender frame dwarfed by the red leather coat she wore. Tarlak froze mid-stretch, wondering where in the world she’d come from.

“Hello?”

She lifted her palm toward him, and fire leapt from it as if it were the gullet of a dragon. Tarlak flung himself onto his back, crossed his arms, and enacted a protection spell. The fire swarmed around him, bathing the rooftop, but it did not touch his skin. The strength to keep the protection going weighed on Tarlak, and the spell of invisibility around him vanished, not that it was doing much good. When the fire subsided, Tarlak rolled to his knees, then pushed to his feet.

“Not bad,” he said, wiping some ash off his yellow robe. “My turn.”

Shards of ice flew from his hands, their points deadly sharp. A dozen shattered across the rooftop of the inn, each one missing their mark as the woman dove side to side, faster than Tarlak could adjust. Without slowing she ran for the edge, and when Tarlak hurled a bolt of lightning, she vaulted into the air, over the blast and across the thin gap between the two buildings. Before landing she crossed her arms, and another wave of fire lashed out, like she was the center of a great explosion. Tarlak braced himself, once more summoning a protection spell. The fire hit, and this time he felt the heat of it on his skin. He gritted his teeth, poured more of his strength into it.

When the woman landed, she pressed her palms together, and the burst of fire was tremendous. But Tarlak had had enough.

“Remember this?” he said, pulling out the sword hilt from his pocket. The crystal on it flared to life, and all about him the fire died as if it had never existed.

“You have Nicholas’s sword,” she said.

At the woman’s shocked expression, Tarlak grinned.

“Just the hilt,” he said, twirling it in his fingers. He’d had Brug remove the blade, and then over the course of a few hours, he’d replenished the magic in the crystal, turning it back to clear. “I must say, I thought it cheating. Shame Nicholas died before I could tell him so.”

The woman rushed him, abandoning the fire. Tarlak took a step back, but she was faster, and her kick connected with his midsection. He let out a gasp as the air was blasted from his lungs. She swiped at the sword hilt, but he clung to it as if his life depended upon it. She unleashed a flurry of punches, half of which he failed to dodge. Her fists struck his face, his chest, and when he collapsed onto his back she fell atop him. Tarlak tensed every muscle in his body as she put his head into a lock, her slender arms choking tighter and tighter.

“What good is that sword if you can’t cast either, you damn fool?” she asked, driving her knees into his stomach so she might apply more pressure on his neck. The hand holding the hilt was caught by her legs, but his other was free, and he pressed it against her chest in a futile attempt to push her off. As the arm of his robe fell back, he saw her eyes go wide, catching sight of the blue tattoo glowing across his wrist.

“I can cheat, too,” Tarlak gasped as her panicked grip loosened.

The magic within the tattoo enacted, flowing through his hand and into her chest. It was a solid force, like an invisible battering ram blasting her entire body, and it hit with a tremendous boom. Her head arched back, her arms flailed, and Tarlak winced at the sound of a dozen breaking bones. Her body flew several feet back, landing in a sprawl atop the roof. Tarlak stood, tossed the sword hilt aside, and rubbed his bruised neck.

“Think I might have overdone it,” he muttered. He glanced at the tattoo, which was already fading from his skin. His entire arm ached, and it itched where the ink had been.

Never again, he swore.

Haern leapt up to the rooftop, landing silently mere feet away from the body. He was bleeding at the shoulder, but seemed otherwise fine.

“Dead, too,” he said, letting out a curse. “Need someone alive.”

He turned and leapt back off, toward the alley where Brug and Delysia had been waiting. Tarlak rushed after, and he peered off the rooftop to see where the fight continued below.

Brug stood protectively before Delysia, hunched over with several daggers sticking out from the creases of his armor. He still held his punch daggers, and he kept them up at the ready. Behind him, Delysia cast a barrage of spells, blinding and disorientating their opponent, the rail thin and final member of the Bloodcrafts.

“Come on,” Brug was saying. “You can do better than this!”

The Bloodcraft seemed to agree. He flung several more, but Brug kept in his way. Most bounced off his thick platemail, except for the one that sailed wide, missing because of a blinding white light that flared from his sister’s hand. Tarlak shook his head, relieved the two could fight in such a odd but effective pair.

The man pulled out several more daggers, and through rapidly blinking eyelids tried to find a way around, to get close without enduring the priestess’s barrage or Brug’s daggers. He apparently saw none, and then his chance was gone. Haern emerged from the shadows behind him, striking him hard on the back of the head with the hilt of a saber. The man dropped, his body going limp.

Tarlak cast a spell to slow his fall, then stepped off the roof and gently floated down. When his feet touched ground, he crossed his arms and glared at Haern.

“Some ambush,” he said.

Haern shrugged.

“At least we won, right?”

Despite Delysia’s insistence, Brug marched over to Haern and smacked him in the chest with a mailed glove.

“I had him,” he said, clearly unhappy.

Haern lifted an eyebrow.

“Sorry?”

“Get over here,” Delysia said, grabbing Brug’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

Tarlak gestured toward the unconscious man as his sister pulled Brug away so she could remove the knives and work her healing magic.

“What do we do with him?”

Haern sheathed a saber, then tapped the man with the other.

“We get some answers,” he said. “I want to know who hired them.”

Tarlak frowned.

“Think he’ll talk?”

A dark edge entered Haern’s eyes, and Tarlak didn’t like it one bit.

“Get Delysia out of here-Brug, too,” his friend said. “I don’t want them to see this. And yes. He’ll talk.”

Tarlak put a hand on Haern’s shoulder.

“Be careful,” he said.

“He’s no threat to me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Haern looked away, sighed.

“I know. But someone wants us dead, and I intend to find out who. If it comes between this man’s life, and all of yours…”

“Just be careful,” Tarlak said, turning to the others.

“Let’s go home,” he said. “And Ashhur help us, you really are bleeding everywhere, Brug…”