Blood of the Underworld

7

Haern awoke a little after midday to the sound of the tower doors slamming shut. Instinct told him that something was wrong, a bad feeling in the air. Grabbing his sabers and cloaks, he slipped out his room and down to the bottom floor. There, before the fireplace, he found Delysia sitting on a couch, her brother pacing furiously.

“The audacity!” the wizard muttered.

“Care to fill me in, Tar?” Haern asked, still on the steps. Tarlak heard him and stopped. His look was none too friendly.

“Honestly? No. I’m too pissed.”

“Behave,” Delysia said, and despite her brother’s mood, she laughed. “You’re overreacting and you know it. And good morning, Haern.”

Haern joined Delysia on the couch, and together they watched Tarlak fume. Delysia leaned over, her head resting against his chest. After a sniff, she sat back up.

“Your cloaks smell like death.”

Haern shrugged.

“That tends to happen.”

The priestess sighed, and reached out her hand. When he removed his cloaks, she took them to the door and set them down to be washed later that day. As she did, Tarlak stopped pacing, and instead crossed his arms and frowned at the assassin.

“Lord Victor was just here,” said the wizard.

“That so?” Haern lifted an eyebrow. “What did he want?”

“Wanted me to ward the home he’s currently staying in, cover it with various protection spells so no clever thief can teleport under his bed and stab him while he sleeps.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Haern said as Delysia returned, leaning against his arm and resting her head on his shoulder. “Why the fuss?”

“He wanted…bah!” He threw up his hands. “He wanted to pay us after his quest or mission or whatever this nonsense he’s doing is over. Said he couldn’t spare the coin just yet, something about mouths to feed. Worse, he actually hinted he’d appreciate me doing it for free. You hear that? Free!”

“Truly, he is an evil man,” Haern said.

Tarlak stopped and gave him a death glare.

“Care to share your opinion, mister cloak and saber?”

“It’s pretty simple, though you won’t want to hear it. I think you should help him.”

Tarlak blinked.

“You do?”

Haern shrugged. He still hadn’t fully made up his mind about the man, but he had little doubt Victor meant to see through to the end his desire to clean the streets of Veldaren. If he could be trusted to at least do that…

“I think he truly thinks he’s helping. More importantly, I think he might pull it off. The thief guilds haven’t faced a man quite like him before. Look at you. The only reason you’re so bothered is because you’re thinking of helping him for free, despite all desire otherwise.”

Tarlak shook his head.

“He’s an egotistical ass.”

“Hardly the only one around here.”

The wizard glared as his sister covered her mouth with a hand to hide her laughter.

“Careful,” he said to Haern. “Otherwise I might turn you into an actual ass for a day and rent you out to a farmer.”

Haern only grinned at him. With a sigh, Tarlak relented, and he took a seat in a wooden rocking chair beside the fire. Removing his yellow hat, he scratched the top of his head with his fingers, then ran them through his red hair to straighten it.

“If we help him, then he’ll live long enough to actually accomplish something,” he said, all his bluster and anger fading away. “That means the current peace with the thief guilds cannot last. They’ll react soon, and violently. But how? If they focus on just Victor, we might counter, but if they target the rest of the Trifect, Veldaren will fall to chaos within days.”

“We can’t let there be another thief war,” Delysia said. She said it softly, but it weighed heavily on her heart. “The last one went on for more than ten years. So many died, so many…”

Haern shifted, feeling uncomfortable, especially with her so close to him. Her father had been just one of the many casualties of that conflict, killed by Thren while Haern watched. It had been his first true mission, to kill Delysia when she fled. But hearing her heartfelt sobbing for her father, and her prayers for safety, he had not been able to bring himself to go through with it. He’d later told her, and she’d forgiven him. He didn’t know how, but she had.

“I won’t let it happen,” Haern insisted.

Tarlak shook his head.

“Then perhaps instead of helping Lord Victor, we should get him out of Veldaren as fast as possible?”

“Even if he has a chance to succeed?”

Tarlak threw up his hands in surrender.

“If that’s your idea of intelligence, then so be it. No matter what we do, we risk this blowing up in our faces, so might as well go for broke.”

A knocking turned their attention to the door.

“Who is it now?” Haern asked.

Tarlak shook his head, for scrying spells embedded in the tower let him see the visitor.

“Day just keeps getting better,” he said. With a snap of his fingers, the door opened on its own, and in stepped Zusa, clad in her dark wrappings, her gray cloak fluttering behind her.

“Magic is a poor host to greet at a door,” she said, sheathing her daggers.

“Yes, but it keeps my lazy ass in a chair,” Tarlak said. “Come in, and share whatever terrible news you’ve brought with you. Gods know you’re never here to tell us something good.”

Delysia scolded her brother’s poor hospitality, and hurried up to greet Zusa. The Faceless woman awkwardly accepted her embrace, then set aside her daggers. A wave of Tarlak’s hand, and a glass of wine appeared on the nearby table. Haern watched Zusa settle in, taking a seat opposite Tarlak. She looked odd dressed in such a way, yet was sitting comfortably in an old wooden rocking chair. Though she tried to appear gracious, Haern could tell she was in a hurry, and that whatever reason brought her to their tower was an urgent one.

“Thank you,” she said, sipping the wine before putting it aside. “But my time is short. One of our servant boys was attacked this morning, just before dawn. His eyes were cut out and replaced with silver coins, and two pieces of gold were put on his tongue.”

The news struck Haern like a brick to the head.

“A rhyme,” he said. “Was there also a rhyme?”

To his dread, Zusa nodded.

“Tongue of gold,” she recited, “eyes of silver. Run, run, little Nathan, from the Widow’s quiver.”

With each word, Haern felt his fingers tighten against the fabric of the couch. After the first two murders, he’d thought it was just someone with an agenda against the Spider Guild, but to also strike the Gemcroft family, especially in such a petty, cruel way?

“Do you know of this…Widow?” Zusa asked.

Haern sighed, and he caught Tarlak staring at him, clearly also eager to hear. Nodding, Haern shared what he’d discovered, of the two bodies, and of Victor also requesting help in discovering who it was. When finished, Tarlak leaned back in his chair, stroking his red goatee.

“He’s taking their eyes?” he wondered aloud. “That’s a little…odd.”

“Odd?” said Zusa. “You insult a dead child saying such a thing. It is the cold, cruel act of a sick mind. Whoever this Widow is, let him kill Spiders night and day, but to threaten Alyssa’s son…no. We must stop him. Despite your reputation otherwise, your Eschaton Mercenaries are the best. My mistress wants this killer found, and will pay whatever it takes.”

Tarlak’s eyes widened.

“Now that’s what I like to hear,” he said, grinning.

“He’s striking at night,” Haern said, glaring at Tarlak. “And he bears a grudge against both the Spider Guild and the Gemcroft family. Any ideas?”

“Perhaps a rival guild?” Tarlak asked.

Haern shrugged.

“Maybe a rogue thief wanting the truce ended?”

Neither idea sounded right, didn’t have that correct feel in the gut. And then Delysia spoke.

“What about Victor?” she asked.

Haern and Tarlak exchanged a glance.

“He’s made his hatred of the thief guilds clear,” Delysia insisted.

“He has no love of the Trifect, either,” Zusa said, and she told them of Victor’s visit to their mansion just that morning. Haern heard it, knew it made sense, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said. “I don’t believe it. He’s doing this with a sense of purpose, a sense of honor. Brutal murders, mocking rhymes…how does that help him? What agenda does that serve?”

Tarlak frowned, and he bit his lower lip as he thought.

“Zusa,” he said, glancing at the woman. “Tell Alyssa we accept her request, and I’ll have a contract brought to you before tonight. We’ll start patrolling the Spider Guild territory come nightfall, see if we can spot him attempting kill number four. All of us except Haern, that is.”

“You want me to watch Victor,” Haern said. “Don’t you?”

“Consider it protecting him,” Tarlak said, standing. “That is, if he’s innocent. And if he’s not, well…” The wizard shrugged. “You’ll be right there to stop him, won’t you?”

Haern thought of the way Victor had responded seeing the body in the alley. His anger, his revulsion…that couldn’t have been an act. Could it? The timing would have been difficult, but he didn’t have to be the one committing the killings himself.

“It’s not him,” Haern said, reaching for his sabers.

“I hope it isn’t,” Zusa said as she left for the door. “Because his scribe sits in our mansion, recording our every deed. Find him quickly, Eschaton. Our city is dangerous enough without a madman.”

Silence greeted them as the door closed behind her. Haern stood there, feeling unsure, then buckled his sabers to his belt.

“Where are you going?” Delysia asked.

“To speak with a contact,” Haern said. “If the Spider Guild is being targeted, someone in their organization might have an idea why.”

“Be careful,” she told him.

He leaned in close to gently kiss her cheek.

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

“You sure it’s safe to be out here?” Peb asked as they neared the castle. His wide eyes darted every which way, as if guards were trying to sneak up behind him from all directions. With his big ears, the act only reminded Alan why Peb had once been called Mouse.

“I’m not sure it’s safe to be anywhere in Veldaren right now,” Alan said, twirling a copper coin between his thumb and forefinger, something he did when nervous. “So why should the castle be any worse?”

Peb nodded toward the rows of men and women waiting to be interrogated by Lord Victor’s men.

“Maybe because any one of them people might be blubbering our names any second?”

Alan ran a hand through his long dark hair.

“Thren wants answers, wants something new, so either we get him something new, or we get a tongue-lashing…if we’re lucky. Given the mood he was in, I’m not willing to gamble on that. I’d rather tempt the city guards than the boss.”

Peb didn’t look convinced, but Alan didn’t care. The guy was a coward, and more importantly, he hated to be alone. He’d follow Alan, so long as things still looked safe. Alan patted his leg, glad for the dagger hidden there. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and then walked out from the alley and into the main street, where the interrogations continued. Peb quickly followed. The two were in ratty clothing, their faces dirty, their hands calloused. Anyone who bothered to notice them would think them nothing but poor, hungry peasants. At least, that was the hope.

Alan led the way, faking a limp toward the lines. At the front he saw scribes jotting down the guts that their current pigeons spilled. Not that Alan blamed them. When your life was on the line, or the coin was right, honor was nothing but a hindrance. Making as little noise as possible, he listened as they got closer, hoping to catch an errant phrase, but a soldier noticed them before he could.

“Stay back, you two,” said the armored man, his hand already on his sword. He stood between them and the tables of scribes. On his chest was a tabard bearing a crest Alan did not recognize, some strange circle with wings drawn in gold. “Any closer, and I’ll think you a threat.”

“Forgive me,” Alan said, bowing low and turning away. Peb followed, saying nothing.

“That was pointless,” Peb mumbled.

“Did you see Lord Victor?”

Peb shook his head.

“No. You?”

Alan glanced back, scouring the guards, the lines, the scribes.

“Not here,” he said. “But only twelve or so are set to talk. Yesterday had far more.”

“He’s slowing down?” Peb asked.

Alan shrugged.

“Either that, or he’s being more careful. Never know if…”

He had about two seconds to react before it hit. Alan grabbed Peb by the arm and pulled him hard into the side of a building. His shoulder throbbed upon slamming the wood, and Peb let out a cry when his forehead struck, having been unable to twist in time. Still, it was better than being impaled by the barrage of arrows that sailed toward Victor’s proceedings. Over twenty men stood far down the road, bows and crossbows in hand, their cloaks revealing their allegiance to the Hawks.

“Starting already,” Alan said before swearing up a storm. “Get down!”

The two dropped as another barrage flew. Screams filled the air. The first barrage had landed among the guards and scribes, the second aimed squarely for the men and women brought out for interrogation. People fled every direction, while the guards swarmed in a panic, some flinging the older men to the ground for protection, others rushing to meet the new threat.

“We need to get out of here!” Peb said, scrambling out from beneath Alan.

“Thren will want to know what happened here!”

Peb spun about, shaking his head.

“Then let him come count the bodies.”

Alan looked back, saw the soldiers rushing with swords drawn. Arrows and bolts shot toward them, no longer in any organized barrage. Some men dropped, but most endured, even those who were hit. Their armor was thick, and the thieves used small bows and crossbows designed to take out fellow thieves, to pierce cloth, not metal. Alan thought to draw his dagger, then realized that might label himself on the side of the Hawks. So instead he hunkered down, pretending to cower as the battle unfolded.

Seven soldiers, all bearing the same gold crest, crashed into the group of Hawks. At first Alan thought numbers would lead the thieves to victory, but the initial exchange showed otherwise. Victor’s men had long blades granting them better reach, their armor protecting them from the quick, weak thrusts of daggers and dirks. Hawks dropped in a bloody clash, the thieves’ attempt to swarm and surround failing miserably. Half were dead before they had the presence of mind to flee.

“Damn,” Alan whispered, watching the display. Victor’s men were well trained; he’d give them that. Glancing the other way, he saw the remnants of the interrogations. Most interrogators had fled into the castle, carrying parchments with them. Nine bodies lay amid the overturned desks, their blood mixing with ink. Alan chuckled. Would anyone be surprised? Victor had come in and openly mocked the guilds. Surely he didn’t expect to go unscathed…

When he turned back to the battle, he’d expected a route, to see Victor’s men chasing in vain after a scattered collection of Hawks. Instead, he watched the trap fully unfold. As the remaining men on the ground fled, twenty more emerged from the rooftops, all armed with crossbows. Bolts flew down like lethal rain. Despite their armor, the soldiers could do nothing, not against that many attackers. They ran toward the safety of the castle-the few who lived beyond the first volley-blood dripping from bolts embedded in their arms, legs, and chest. With even fewer targets to pick from, the second volley was even worse. Alan winced as the last died, some with over five bolts thudding into their backs.

A trumpet sounded, bringing Alan’s attention to the castle. He caught a glimpse of castle guards rushing out with swords drawn, but then something grabbed his cloak and pulled, hard. He was thrown into the same alley Peb had fled into, though Peb appeared long gone. Rolling to his knees, Alan looked up to see the Watcher standing at the entrance to the alley, a black shadow in the daylight.

“Stay here,” he said, drawing his sabers.

That was it, that one command, and then he rushed off, moving fast enough to be a blur. Alan rubbed his neck, muttered, and rose to his feet. Despite the Watcher’s fearsome reputation, he had no intention of missing this. Returning to the alley entrance, he peered out to watch the carnage.

Fifteen castle guards ran out to engage the Hawks. Unlike Victor’s men, they wielded shields, and kept them raised high to protect them from the arrows. For a brief moment, it looked like the Hawks were going to make a stand against them, as well. A few climbed down, forming a line of fifteen while the rest fired into the group of soldiers.

And then the Watcher arrived, tearing through their ranks upon the rooftop. He struck from behind them, killing several before any knew they were under attack. The distance was too great for Alan to see clearly, but the gray of the Watcher’s cloak looked like a phantom, darting and weaving throughout their numbers, never still, never hesitating. One after another dropped dead. When the arrows from up top stopped, the soldiers below lowered their shields and charged. The Hawks, without armor or significant weaponry, did the intelligent thing and fled. They could easily outrun and outmaneuver the city guard. The Watcher, on the other hand…

Alan sunk deeper into the alley, glancing about to see if any eyes watched. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted. He liked living, and wanted to keep doing it for many, many years. Minutes passed, and with ebbing interest Alan listened to the various trumpets and calls by the guards. At last he heard a soft rustle of cloak. Turning, he held down a startled cry upon finding the Watcher mere feet away.

“Did you know this was to happen?” the Watcher asked.

Alan reached out a hand. The Watcher glared, then tossed a small bag of coins at him. Alan caught it, and within seconds, the bag had vanished into one of his many pockets. He didn’t have to check it. The Watcher paid in silver, and always in significant amounts. Buying information from the Spider Guild was not cheap, nor safe, given how vicious Thren could be. But Alan wasn’t one to let fear or honor get in the way of making a healthy sum of coin.

“We hadn’t heard a word,” Alan said, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. “Kadish Pel must be getting ballsy if he thinks his guild can take Lord Victor all on his own.”

“What do you know about Lord Victor?”

Alan shrugged.

“Just what everyone knows. Can’t help you there.”

The Watcher frowned, clearly displeased.

“I’m starting to doubt giving you your coin.”

Alan chuckled.

“I never promise what I tell will be useful, or new to you. But I dare you to find anyone else insane enough to sell out Thren Felhorn.”

“Enough. Tell me this, then…what do you know about the murders, the ones being claimed by the Widow?”

Alan grunted, caught off guard by the question. Reaching into his tattered vest, he pulled out one of the silver coins the Watcher had paid him with and began twirling it in his fingers.

“Honestly, we don’t know shit. I might have believed it was you, if I thought you had the ability to rhyme. The two dead were Bert and Troy, neither of them special, or even important. No one’s seen nothing, no one’s heard nothing.”

“What were the two doing when they were killed?”

“Keep asking questions, I might think I don’t have enough silver in my pocket.”

The Watcher’s glare made him chuckle, but his nerves were starting to rise. All it would take was one person telling Thren he’d been seen speaking with the Watcher, just a whisper of betrayal, and he’d be gutted from the Spider Guild’s rooftop…if he were lucky.

“Fine. I don’t know what Troy was doing, but Bert was out looking for whores. That help you any?”

“Perhaps.” The Watcher pulled his hood lower across his face, then leapt from one side of the alley to the other, vaulting himself up to the rooftops. “I’ll find you three days from now, on your patrol by the south wall. If you can tell me anything about this Widow, I’ll pay you in gold.”

“Should be paying me in gold anyway,” Alan said, but the Watcher was already gone. Turning to leave, he found a man leaning against one of the walls, his large frame blocking half the alley. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, and he almost looked like he was sleeping, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Alan felt a chill, but the stranger bore no cloak, nor any other sign of allegiance to the various guilds. Hoping the man just hid there from the carnage, Alan walked past him toward the main street.

As he did, the man let out a soft whistle, that of a songbird.

Alan didn’t dare look back, nor acknowledge the blatant accusation. His hand dropped to his dagger. He slowed his walk, started to shift. But it was too late. Somehow the man was already halfway down the alley, his movement having gone completely unnoticed by Alan. The man turned, smiled at Alan, and then let out another bird whistle.

“The songbirds are singing,” the stranger said, then laughed as he touched one of the nine rings in his left ear.

Alan fled. He knew he should return to his guild, to tell Thren everything he’d seen. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Halfway across Veldaren, he stepped into his favorite tavern, a silver coin in hand. He’d still tell Thren, but he needed a lot more alcohol in him to keep from shaking, and to keep his perceptive guildmaster from seeing the terror in his eyes. With every sip he took, he heard the whistle, the accusation.

It didn’t matter which guild you were in, or even which city. Songbirds died.

“Keep it coming,” he told the tavern wench, pushing away the change she’d brought for the silver. “Go until there ain’t a damn thing left of it.”