Blood of the Underworld

5

Haern rushed across the rooftops, and he was not alone. In the moonlight he saw many others in the distance, scrambling to and fro to avoid the roads. Most fled before his arrival, for they recognized his presence above all others. He was their watcher, their punisher, their executioner. Victor might be a new enemy, but they still understood who was the deadlier threat.

Reaching the temple to Ashhur, Haern stopped, and atop a two-story building he sat on his knees. The building was rented to large families forced to share such meager rooms. From within, he heard a child crying. He prayed it might soon have food. As the moonlight dimmed from thick clouds slowly spreading across the sky, he heard a distant rumble. Rain. Pulling his hood tighter over his head, Haern chuckled. Of course it was raining. The perfect capstone to a long, terrible day. Pausing for a rest, he watched the streets. His brow furrowed when he saw a group of Victor’s men rushing north. They appeared frightened.

His knees cracked as he stood, and he let out a groan. Night after night of stalking the rooftops was taking its toll. He feared one day he wouldn’t be able to walk without a heavy stoop. Haern thought to follow the men, then changed his mind. The alley they’d appeared from led into Spider territory, and by the flickering light, he saw more torches within. The patrols had found something, but what? And more importantly, how willing would they be to share the discovery with him?

He dropped to the ground, drew his sabers, and then ran. He felt better with the hilts in his hands, cold and hard. In a fair fight, he knew of few that might challenge him, and even if overwhelmed, it was Haern who tended to come out unscathed. At the alley entrance he peered inside, saw three more soldiers standing around, torches in hand. Haern decided not to risk a scene just yet. Retreating back a space, he climbed the wall of the nearby home.

From the rooftops he heard them talking.

“What in blazes you think it means?”

“Means nothing, that’s what I’ve been saying. Just nonsense.”

“Can’t be nonsense. You don’t go to this much trouble for nonsense. It’s a message.”

Haern’s stomach hardened. He desperately hoped he was wrong, but when he peered over the edge of the building, he saw he was not. A man lay dead on his back between the three. By his cloak and dress, he was a member of the Spider Guild. When Haern looked to the wall, he saw the message written in blood, this time smaller, more hurried.

tongue of gold, eyes of silver

run, run little spider

from the widow’s quiver

The three soldiers were still discussing the rhyme when Haern crouched closer to the edge.

“Widow, eh?” the tallest of the three said. “Who’s that?”

“Black widow, that’s what I say,” said another, a red-haired man with a heavily scarred face. When the other two scoffed, he pressed on. “This guy’s a Spider, right? Think about it. They go out to some whore, only it ain’t a regular whore. It’s a black widow. And after she’s done buggering him, well…”

He curled two of his fingers and pretended to stab them into his neck. The three all laughed. It was nervous, forced. They were trying to make light of the corpse before them, to dismiss the mystery.

“And this?” asked the tall man, jamming a thumb toward the wall.

The redhead shrugged.

“Whore fancies herself a poet?”

They laughed again, this time far too loudly. Haern was tempted to startle them, show them how unsafe they were, but he had no need. A loud voice called them to attention, and they jumped. Haern’s eyes narrowed as he saw Lord Victor enter the alley with an escort of soldiers.

“What is the meaning of this?” Victor asked, approaching the corpse. The men shrugged.

“Just a dead thief,” said the third. “But this one’s a bit odd. Thought you should see. Liam, open his mouth and show him.”

The redhead knelt, grabbed the dead thief’s mouth, and pulled it open. The gold on his tongue sparkled in the torchlight. Victor muttered a curse.

“Not just this,” said the tall man. “The wall, too. Looks like the killer left her name.”

“Her?” asked Victor.

“Or him,” the man corrected. “Guess we can’t judge the tastes of a dead man, can we?”

Victor looked to the wall. Haern watched as the man’s grip on his hilt tightened with each line.

“Is this a hit between thieves?” Victor asked.

“That’d be my guess,” said one of the soldiers.

“And a foul guess it is,” Haern said, his voice startling many into reaching for their weapons. He ignored them. “Check his eyes.”

As a couple swore, Victor leaned down, and his hand brushed over the face. Seeing the silver for eyes, Victor shook his head and frowned.

“Leave us,” he said. At first Haern went to go, then realized he spoke to his own soldiers.

“Milord,” said Liam, “are you sure…”

“That’s an order.”

The protest died. The men funneled out to the main street, leaving Victor alone in the alley. Haern put a hand on the rooftop’s edge and swung himself to the ground. He landed silently, not even his cloak making a rustle. Victor stood over the body, and he let out a sigh.

“What is this?” he asked. “You know this city. Tell me.”

“I’m not sure I should help you,” Haern said.

“Forget your stubborn pride,” Victor said, glaring at him. “A man died. I want to know how, and why.”

Haern looked to the dead thief, saw the silver glinting in his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Twice now I have seen this…arrangement, along with the rhyme on the wall.” He knelt beside the corpse and lifted it up. Finding what he wanted, he gestured so Victor might see, as well: a tiny bolt embedded in the back of the man’s neck.

“Poison?” Victor asked. Haern nodded, glad the man could make the connection.

“Quick, silent, hard to stop,” Haern said. “I’m not sure it’s what kills them, though. Look.”

He pulled away the silver and gestured into the hollow eye cavities. One was filled with more blood than the other, and contained a puncture wound leading in to the brain.

“So whoever it is paralyzes them, tortures them, and then kills them?” Victor asked.

“Appears so,” Haern said. “Easy enough to understand, but then you have this…”

He gestured to the coins, the writing.

“You said it being a rival guild is a foolish idea,” Victor said. “Why is that?”

“Because a guild would either claim it, or destroy any evidence to avoid retribution. This is neither. This is mockery, or a riddle, or vengeance for a blood feud. Whatever it is, it isn’t normal, and it isn’t a guild. One, maybe two men working together.”

“Or women,” Victor said, glancing at the rhyme.

Haern stood, and he backed away from the lord. The shadows of his hood protected his face, so that only his eyes shone out. Most wilted under his stare, but this Victor was unafraid, and met them without flinching.

“Watcher,” Victor said. “I’ve wanted to meet you since I stepped foot in Veldaren. Forgive my boast before the King earlier. I know what you’ve done, and it is truly impressive. But your way is doomed to fail, and that is why I have come. You can’t control them any longer.”

“They fear me,” Haern said, shaking his head at the foolish noble. “That is why I can control them. What can you do? What terror can you inspire with a few scrolls, judges, and soldiers?”

Victor pulled the gold coins out from the corpse’s mouth, then stared into the vacant eyes.

“They fear you, for they know you are with them in the shadows.” He looked up. “But they will come to fear me more, Watcher, for I will leave them with no shadows at all. That is my terror. That is the difference between us. You skulk and hide in their midst, and with every murder, you become more like them. You are something they can understand. You are greater than them, you are frightening, but you are still just one man, and the moment you die, everything you’ve built will come crashing down. Let me help you. Let me save your legacy.”

Haern heard no lie, no doubt. Victor meant every word. As much as Haern wanted to dismiss him, he heard the promise of another life, of a chance to pull the weight of Veldaren off his shoulders.

“You really think you can cleanse this city?” he asked.

“I can. I will.”

Haern leapt, kicked off the wall, and then grabbed a windowsill. With it, he pulled himself to the rooftop, then spun, hulking like a gargoyle from a castle edge.

“Why?” he asked. “What gain? What reason?”

“You are the nameless man patrolling the rooftops at night,” Victor said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yet you wonder about my intentions?”

Despite the seriousness, despite the body, Haern let out a laugh.

“Very well,” he said. “Happy hunting.”

Zusa had sent a runner back to the Gemcroft mansion to warn of their arrival, no doubt scrambling the servants about in preparation. Normally Alyssa would have thought to do so herself, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. After all, it wasn’t often a parent returned from the dead. Alyssa and Melody sat together in the litter, with Zusa following alongside, ignoring the stares she received for her attire. There might not be room for her within, but she wouldn’t leave Alyssa unguarded. The sun had begun to set, and so the guards escorting them carried torches. Given everyone’s somber mood, it almost felt like a funeral.

Upon reaching their mansion, Zusa offered Alyssa her hand, who took it as she stepped out. Together they looked upon their home, both quiet, both sullen.

“It will be difficult, but Nathaniel must be told,” Zusa said.

“I know.”

Melody emerged from the other side. Her clothes still hung from her thin body, but a bit of energy showed in her step as she looked upon her old home.

“Just as I remembered,” she said.

Alyssa went to her mother’s side and offered her arm for support. Melody took it, smiling, and then together they walked the path toward the door. Zusa followed after, feeling like an outcast. They were family, however distant. What was Zusa, though? Friend? Bodyguard? Not blood, certainly not that. Whatever family she might have had, it had been lost to her upon entering Karak’s temple, nothing but a sacrifice made to serve.

Melody stopped in the doorway of the mansion, her whole body trembling. She looked about, saw the paintings, the lush carpet, and the wood carefully stained and cleaned by an army of servants.

“Home,” she whispered. For a moment she stood perfectly still, and then closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, as if she could pull the very essence of the mansion into her lungs. Tears fell down her face, and sobs tore from her throat. Alyssa held her as that tiny body shuddered with each breath. Whatever doubt Zusa felt vanished at the sight. The torment was real. The sorrow, the joy, all mixed, all confused. No actress could pull off such a powerful display. Her insides twisting, Zusa hurried away, more than ever feeling like a trespasser.

Her room was out behind the mansion, in a converted servant’s quarters made flat and empty so that she might train. As Zusa hurried through the halls toward the back, she was stopped by a boy calling her name.

“Zusa?”

She turned, then smiled despite her worry. Nathaniel Gemcroft stood in the doorway of his room, dressed in his finest tunic. Already it looked tight on him, and she laughed at his obvious discomfort.

“You grow like a weed,” she said.

His eyes glanced downward, obviously embarrassed. He had his mother’s features, delicate, soft, and with a moppet of red hair atop his head. Though he was only nine, he was fiercely intelligent, and Zusa had grown attached to him over the years, as had much of the mansion’s staff.

“The servants say…well, you know. Is it true?”

Nathaniel looked up at her, and she saw the turmoil in his green eyes.

“It seems so,” she said. “Why the worry? She is your grandmother, and will be pleased to see such a fine grandson.”

Nathaniel shifted his feet and tugged at the hem of his tunic with his one arm.

“Because mother will worry, won’t she? Mother’s enemies might want grandmother to take her place.”

Such intelligence for one so young. Zusa sensed John Gandrem’s influence here. The Lord of Riverrun had found and protected Nathaniel after his near-death at the hands of a vicious lover of Alyssa’s. Ever since, the old man had played the father figure, and nearly every summer, Nathaniel went to his castle to learn to ride, wield a sword, and command oneself before the people. Evidently, he’d also learned of the many ploys men might use to gain favor and power. John was currently staying as a guest in their mansion, and she tried not to think of how he might react to Melody’s return.

Zusa knelt before him, put her hands on his shoulders.

“All that matters is that you show her respect,” she said. “Do not fear for your mother, and give no thought to her enemies. I’ll be watching over her always, and no one is more dangerous than me.”

“What about the Watcher?” Nathaniel asked, and he cracked a smile.

Zusa kissed his forehead.

“Not even him. Now go, introduce yourself, and make sure John does, as well.”

He bowed, then hurried away. She watched him, biting her lip as he vanished around a corner. Hopefully if Melody and Nathaniel got along, it would ease Alyssa’s discomfort. Not that it would help Zusa any. She’d had no discomfort when Alyssa took lovers and potential suitors before. Why did this bother her so? She didn’t know. She didn’t care. Back in her room, she stripped naked, then retightened the wrappings about herself. Her mind drifted, as it often did during the lengthy, tedious task.

Alyssa had once asked why she didn’t wear regular clothes since she’d left the order of the Faceless Women. “Regular clothes get in the way,” she’d told her, and there was some truth to that. She could not leap and climb in a dress. But mostly it was that in applying the wrappings, loop over loop about her slender arms, legs, and waist, she felt herself sliding away. They were poor armor, but they protected her from the minds of men. Anyone seeing her knew she was different, and had to treat her as such. In combat, she was not a woman, but a specter, a mystery. At times she even thought to hide her face as she once did, but could not do it. That was her rebellion, however shallow it might be. Those who died to her daggers would die seeing her face, and in her eyes, they’d see no mercy, no grace, just a killer better than they.

Pulling her cloak back over her shoulders, she slipped out into the night. Alleys and rooftops passed by her, and she was dimly aware of them. At one time she’d been an assassin for her priests, and greatly feared by those aware of her existence. With enough coin given as donation, the temple of Karak could eliminate even the most powerful of lords. Rumors even told of kings and queens who had died to the Faceless for daring to publicly condemn faith in Karak. But now she was just one of many dangerous killers crawling the night, with little purpose, little meaning. Alyssa was her ward. The doings of thieves and murderers meant nothing to her.

Well, almost nothing. There was the Watcher…

“What brings you out this night?” asked Haern, as if her thoughts had summoned him into existence. Zusa turned. She crouched atop a spire of a mansion belonging to some minor lord who’d long since moved out of Veldaren to safer lands. Haern stood behind her, leaning against the chimney with a subdued smile on his face. He’d pulled back his hood, revealing his handsome face.

“Sometimes even mansions aren’t big enough,” she said.

Haern chuckled.

“I stayed in one for a few years, and was never allowed to leave except when at my father’s side. I explored every inch of it a hundred times, and I daresay they can seem quite small when they’re your whole world.”

He joined her side, and together they overlooked the city. The night was deep, and in the starlight the city seemed calm, empty, but that was not what Zusa sensed. There was a tightness in the air, and glancing at Haern, she saw she was not alone in feeling it. Perhaps it wasn’t just Melody that bothered her…

“Something the matter?” she asked him.

“Just Victor,” he said, not looking at her. “Still torn on what to think, and how much to trust him.”

“Victor?” she asked. He glanced her way, an eyebrow raised in disbelief.

“Where have you been today?” he asked.

“Busy.”

He shrugged.

“Look into it, then. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pays your mansion a visit tomorrow. A change is underway, and from the way he talks, I don’t think it is just the lowborn thieves he aims to scatter. Alyssa would do well to make friends with him.”

“I’ll remember.”

They fell silent again. As he stared, she looked him over. Ever since their time together in Angelport, he’d been a far more subdued person. Even now, as they relaxed underneath the moonlight, it looked like he carried a terrible weight on his shoulders. Zusa shook her head. He’d seen what might happen to Veldaren if he failed like in Angelport. The terror, the responsibility, it fueled him, yet drained him, as well. She wondered how long until he cracked, and could take no more.

Then again, she’d seen his strength. For good or ill, giving up didn’t ever seem to be an option with him. Slowly, carefully, as if reaching toward a frightened animal, she put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She wanted to be reassuring, but she knew so little of him, and even less of his deeper troubles.

“You are strong,” she said. “None can defeat you, so do not be afraid.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Haern said, but despite the frustration in his voice, he did not pull away from her touch. “I may kill thousands, but I will still die. What happens then, Zusa? What will I have accomplished? There will be no peace when I am buried, only a celebration of fire, theft, and murder.”

Zusa swallowed.

“Tears will be shed.”

“Not for me.”

“You are wrong.”

He stood, but his head remained low, his back hunched. His cloaks curled over him like gray wings.

“What if you’re right, and it is pointless?” Zusa said, feeling her temper flaring. “Why continue?”

Haern chuckled.

“Because I’m not dead yet. Have a safe night, Zusa.”

“You too, Watcher.”

Pulling his hood over his head hid his face in shadow, but she could still see his mouth, and the way it curled into a half-smile at the mention of the Watcher.

“Haern,” he said. “To you, let me always be Haern. The Watcher should have no friends.”

At this she laughed, then blew him a kiss as he vanished into the night. Staring where he’d been, she thought on his words.

“Victor,” she whispered. “Who is Victor?”

Haern had told her to look into it, so she would, but not yet. With his absence, her mind drifted once more to the mansion, and Melody waiting there. Must she burden Alyssa with even more worries? Whoever this Victor was, Zusa hoped that he would indeed be friend instead of foe. Their life was turned upside down enough as it was.

She took once more to running across the rooftops, the exertion welcome to her muscles. She was getting older, felt it in her bones. It had been nine years since she’d stumbled upon a frightened, endangered Alyssa. Zusa had been young then, but not anymore. It seemed everyone she knew was getting older. How long until even the Watcher was nothing but bent back and wrinkled hands? At the image, she laughed. As if Haern would ever age. He probably wouldn’t let it happen, too stubborn for even time to defeat him.

Old instincts guided her along, up walls, through windows, and across dark alleys many feared to tread when the sun went down. She was unaware of where she went, her thoughts elsewhere, but when she crept to the top of a roof and stared out across the street before her, she shivered. Sinking into old patterns, she’d come to the Temple of Karak, hidden deep in Veldaren’s wealthy district. A thousand memories assaulted her, most of them painful. The beatings. The trials. The methodical breaking of everything that made her a woman, coupled with the hiding of her body and face with cloth and wrappings. The priests had branded her a Faceless, an outcast meant only to serve in penance.

But not all the memories were terrible. She fondly recalled her fellow sisters, Eliora and Nava, and their camaraderie in face of such persecution. And of course, Daverik’s touch, the taste of his lips, before they’d been discovered, and punished…

A chill spread through her chest, and she shoved such memories away. Looking to the temple, she muttered a curse, a hope that the earth would swallow up the obsidian pillars and lion statues, leaving nothing but a scar where the temple had been. And it was then that she saw the movement, just a shadow among shadows. The sight of it nearly stopped her heart.

“No,” she whispered.

Drawing her daggers, she leapt from the roof and gave chase. It had been heading north, a black shape with a cloak. But it was no thief she’d seen. Oh no, something far worse than that. Her legs pumped, and she was but a blur on the streets. When she lost sight of her prey, she leapt atop a nearby home and catapulted herself into the air. Calling upon the innate powers she’d developed over her years of training, she sailed forward, her arms outward, her daggers pointed down like the talons of a hawk. As she slowly fell, she once more spotted her prey. Twisting her arms together, Zusa spun, and she plummeted at a vicious speed.

When she landed, it was upon a large two-story set of homes, the roof long and flat. Before her, at the edge of the roof, was her nightmare. She wore black and dark purple wrappings, tightly woven around her body. A white cloth covered her face, masking her features. A grey cloak trailed behind her.

Another Faceless.

“Who are you?” Zusa asked as the other woman turned around, her own daggers drawn.

“You?” the Faceless Woman said, her voice revealing her surprise. “Zusa, yes? The betrayer, the murderer of the faithful. They’ve told us of you, warned us of your blasphemy.”

“They?” asked Zusa, her whole body tensing. “I was the last of the Faceless. What cruel joke are you?”

“My name is Ezra,” the woman said, adopting a similar crouch as Zusa. Her body was thinner, and shorter. By her voice and the hint of features she could see through the cloth mask, Zusa guessed her to be young, and very beautiful. “And I am the first of the new. The order has been remade, and it is my honor to deliver you to Karak so we might wash away your sins with blood.”

“My sins?” Zusa asked, grinning. “Which ones?”

“You show your face,” said Ezra. “You are a disgrace. A weakling. My faith will bring you low!”

Ezra’s lithe body uncoiled, leaping out like a viper, her daggers twin fangs. Zusa fell back, surprised by the speed. Twisting to one side, she avoided a stab, then batted away the other. Planting her feet, she ducked low and cut. Ezra blocked with both her daggers, then tried to kick. A foolish move. Zusa spun again, her feet dancing. When she leapt forward, Ezra was out of position, the snap-kick having put her balance at risk. Her daggers flashed in, and found flesh. Ezra screamed, but instead of countering, she tried to retreat.

Zusa gave her no chance. Her grim smile remained. Ezra was younger, faster, but she was clearly new to the order, and could not hope to match the sheer skill Zusa had developed over many long years. She’d fought the Watcher to a standstill. This little whelp of a woman was nothing compared to that. A feint pulled Ezra’s weapons out of position, and then she stepped close, leg sweeping. Ezra hit the ground with a cry of pain. Blood spilled across the rooftop. Zusa fell atop her, knees pressing against her shoulders, locking them in place. With one hand Zusa clutched Ezra’s wrists together, the other pressing a dagger against the woman’s throat.

“You think your faith means anything?” Zusa asked, breathing the question into her ear. “You think it gives you the strength to challenge me? You are a fool, Ezra, as is whomever brought back our order.”

“Kill me,” Ezra said. “I am not afraid.”

Zusa’s eyes narrowed. She shifted her weight, tightening with her thighs so that she squeezed against the two stab wounds she’d given Ezra in her stomach. They weren’t deep enough to be fatal, but they certainly hurt like the Abyss. Ezra clenched her teeth, but Zusa squeezed tighter until she finally let out a scream.

“You should be afraid of me,” Zusa said, pressing the dagger hard enough to draw a drop of blood. It ran down the edge of her dagger, then dripped from the hilt to the dark wrappings. “I can do more than hurt you.”

She picked up Ezra’s wrists, then slammed them down to make her drop her weapons. With her unarmed, she then took her dagger from her throat and began to cut, quick, calculated strikes. She knew where. She’d only wrapped herself in a similar manner for over a decade. The wrappings about Ezra’s face fell to the roof, exposing her small nose, cream-colored skin, and short brown hair. Her hazel eyes stared up at Zusa with a mixture of horror and fury.

“How dare you?” Ezra asked through clenched teeth.

“They hide your beauty to mask their own shame, not so you might earn penance in Karak’s eyes.”

“I will not listen to your blasphemy.”

“You don’t need to.” Zusa put the tip of her dagger against Ezra’s left eye. “Tell me the name of the man who brought back our order, or I will scar your face so terribly you will have a reason to keep it hidden.”

Ezra swallowed and looked away. Zusa could see her trying to be brave, to hold fast to her loyalty to Karak. She shook her head, annoyed. Leaning even closer, she let her cheek brush against Ezra’s, let her lips touch her ear.

“Just a name,” she breathed. “All I ask is a name. Who created you, gave you your lessons, your rules, your training? Do not make me mar your beauty. You suffer enough. Trust me, I know it well, know your loathing, your anger, your frustration that the man you fucked suffered only whipping and a banishment to a new temple while you must spend every waking moment as an outcast, humbled and cowering in hopes of forgiveness by our dear, beloved Karak…”

“You would have me condemn my soul to fire.”

“I would have you speak a name, you stupid girl. Now tell me, or bid goodbye to your eye.”

Ezra breathed in deep, let it out. Zusa sensed the defeat in it, and sighed in relief herself. That relief fled the moment she heard the name.

“Daverik,” the woman said. “Come from Mordeina with the highest blessings of the priesthood.”

Daverik…

“You lie,” Zusa said. “You must lie!”

Ezra tilted her head back as the knife pressed against her eye, and she let out a cry as the tip dipped in and out of the white of her eyeball. Blood pooled, and a red tear slid down her face.

“Do not insult me,” she said. “Now do what you must.”

Zusa thought to jam her dagger through the woman’s throat, but could not. Ezra was only confused, her mind twisted, her faith a noose about her neck. She stood and took a step back as her insides churned.

“I want you to give Daverik a message,” she said.

“Why would he care what you have to say?” Ezra asked, sitting on her knees.

“He will,” Zusa said. “Tell him…tell him Katherine must speak to him, and to find her along the eastern wall tomorrow night.”

Zusa turned to leave, glanced back.

“And tell him to come alone.”

“We’ll find you,” Ezra said, struggling to a stand as the wounds in her stomach bled anew from the movement. “My sisters and I will kill you for this.”

“For what, looking upon your eyes and hair?” Zusa smirked. “We Faceless saw far more of each other than that.”

With a running leap, she soared into the air, leaving Ezra far behind. If only she could leave her troubles behind as easily. Daverik’s face flashed before her eyes, so young, so handsome. Back before she’d been forced into the order of the Faceless, her name stripped away and rebranded as Zusa. Before they’d been caught together. Before her love of him had doomed her to a life as one of the Faceless.

She’d thought him dead. Thought him gone. Thought him forever out of her life.

She’d thought wrong.

“Damn you, Daverik,” she whispered as she ran back to the Gemcroft mansion. “What cruel fate is this?”