Trevor flung himself at Oric, who had expected the reaction. He ignored a single punch, caught Trevor by the throat, and flung him back against the wall.
“You want to know what will happen next?” he asked as Trevor clutched his wrist. “I’m thinking Uri wants a turn, but I’m not letting him. Know why? Because you’re going next unless you tell me everything that happened here.” He laughed. “How’s that sound? Ever wanted to needle your ma, Trevor? Here’s your chance. No one will blame you. You were just being a man, right, protecting your family? How about one of your sisters out there? Think they could use a good poke? Maybe I’ll make you do all three, just one after another, until…”
“Just stop,” he screamed with what little breath he had. “I’ll tell, everything, I’ll tell everything, please, just stop, just stop…”
Oric let go of Trevor, who collapsed at his feet. The boy huddled there trying to stop his crying. A grin on his face, Oric knelt so he and Trevor could stare eye to eye.
“You tell me every goddamn detail you know, or next time I might not be so nice.”
Oric listened as Trevor told of Haern’s arrival with a boy he knew only as Tristan. He listened as he detailed Tristan’s amputation. Then came Ben and Gert’s arrival, and Oric felt his blood boil as he heard of how their father had killed them. Both of them, Trevor insisted. He seemed determined to make that clear. Last came their father’s departure for Veldaren only a few days prior, mounted and following the main road.
“Good boy,” Oric said, slapping him across the face when he was finished.
“Mind if I have a go?” Uri said, nodding to where Evelyn remained upon the bed, her face wet with tears. Oric shrugged.
“Get on out, boy. No need for you to watch this.”
The three soldiers gathered outside the house ten minutes later.
“No sign of anything strange,” Ingle said. “Found where they maybe did some digging recently, but the ground’s too hard and cold for me to check.”
“Don’t bother,” said Oric. “We know what they did. Nathaniel’s with their father riding south. If we press hard we can overtake him.”
Uri pointed a thumb back at the house.
“You leaving them alive? They helped kill two of us, tried lying as well. Don’t set much of an example.”
“Leave them all for now,” Oric said. “When we find this Matthew, I want to drag him back to his home so he can watch as we kill every last member of his family. Let that story spread across the north. No one opposes Arthur, and no one dares kill his soldiers. Now ride. No matter what, they can’t get to Felwood before we do.”
CHAPTER 18
Zusa had scoured the south and found nothing. The night had come and gone, bathed in blood and lit with fire, yet she had seen nothing of this elusive Watcher. Too much chaos, too much death. How do you pick one murderer out of a thousand? It was a question she had no answer for. Still, it seemed Alyssa’s desires had been granted. Hundreds of thieves had died, though many mercenaries had fallen as well. She doubted her master would grieve their loss. Her grief was saved solely for herself.
Zusa’s only strategy left was to hope the Watcher had lain low during the night, knowing he wasn’t needed. Come morning, though, perhaps he’d try to escape, or survey the damage. As she ran along the rooftops, Zusa crisscrossed among the various thief guild headquarters, at least those that she knew. She saw various men pass below her, staying to the alleys and quiet streets, but they all wore the colors of various guilds. From what she’d gathered from those she’d interrogated the night before, the Watcher never appeared wearing any guild colors, only a multitude of gray cloaks and shirts. Still, gray was worn by both the Ash and the Spiders, so to those she went.
At the Ash Guild she leaned against a triangular rooftop, rested her arms on its tip, and overlooked the square. Nothing. The magnitude of her task set upon her then. She was trying to find a lone man in the entire city, one who appeared to have no friends, no allegiances, and no clear motive other than killing thieves. She had a vague description to go on based on his clothes, and a rumor that he had blond hair. Some said he had red eyes, but she dismissed that as easily as the stories claiming he had demon blood and blades for hands. But blond she could work with.
She dozed for a while, not meaning to. Sometime later she startled, ashamed of her weakness. It’d been a long twenty hours, sure, but she’d handled worse.
“Nava would be so disappointed,” she whispered, feeling sad and tired. Nava had been one of the last three faceless women, killed at the hand of a dark paladin of Karak. They’d been deemed outcasts, traitors to their god. But it was their god who had abandoned them, and so Zusa had turned on his paladin, who had come for Alyssa and protected her. Zusa had given Karak no prayers for the last five years. She missed Nava and Eliora more than his presence.
Not far to her right, down in the alley, she heard someone cry out in pain. Curious, she rushed over and leaned down. Her eyes widened. Whirling below her was a mass of gray cloaks, spinning and sliding as if possessed. Three men fought against it, all wearing the colors of the Ash. A man lived inside those cloaks, and she saw his face, his blond hair … but that wasn’t what convinced her. It was the sheer ferocity of the stranger, a shocking rage somehow still held in check. One by one the thieves fell, throats sliced and chests cut open. His skill was incredible.
“Watcher,” she whispered, drawing her daggers. “I find you at last.”
She felt a seed of worry planted in the back of her mind. Her master wanted the Watcher brought back alive, but the way he fought, the way he moved, it might be impossible. He’d die before surrendering, she knew that, just as she knew he’d be prepared for her attack from above despite all her silence.
His swords lifted high, colliding with her daggers. Her momentum continued, her feet kicking out mid-fall to slam into his chest. Still he held his ground. She pushed off, using a hand to cartwheel away before landing on her feet. The two stared at one another, a smile blooming across her face.
“Ethric was the last true challenge I fought,” she said. “Can you be the next, Watcher?”
“I’m more than a challenge,” said the Watcher. He pointed a blade at her cloak. “Who is it you work for? What fool have you sold your soul to?”
Zusa laughed, the amusement only half acted. The man was watching her, analyzing her. She felt naked before his eyes, as if in time he might know every movement. She was doing the same to him, true, but he was too guarded, too still.
“You seek my colors?” she asked. Slowly she lifted one arm, slashed it, and let the blood drip down onto the cloth of her cloak. She wondered if her spell would take hold. Her strength had come from Karak, or so she’d always thought. She’d once lived within shadows, danced with cold fire on her blades, but not since Ethric had she tapped Karak’s power.
The color spread through the cloak in seconds, turning it a vibrant red. It coiled around her, as if suddenly alive. Zusa felt her blood pound in her ears, her head ached from the effort, but still she smiled. Perhaps Karak hadn’t abandoned her after all.
“I serve willingly,” she said, tensing for an attack. “I have sold nothing.”
She lunged, one dagger looping upward to block, the other thrusting for his chest. Her cloak wrapped about her like a shield. When the Watcher countered, her dagger parried his blade away, but her thrust met his other sword, and her arm jarred at the strength of the block. Her cloak lashed out like a whip, its fine edges sharp as razors. It slashed across his face, blood splattered them both, and then he leaped back. His hood fell lopsided, and she saw how blue his eyes were, how dirty his face was. Who was hidden beneath the guise? Whom would Alyssa find when she dumped his body before her?
“Neat trick,” the Watcher said before leaping into his own attack. Their weapons clashed again and again, his speed incredible. Twice Zusa had to spin and let her cloak snap inward, deflecting a killing thrust. This was no spar, no game. He wanted her dead. That seed o
f worry in her mind grew to a thorn. One of his swords slashed her thigh. The other pierced her chest, the wound shallow but painful. The worry bloomed like a deadly flower.
It was the narrowness of the alley they fought in that saved her. When he lunged for a killing blow she kicked off the wall, sailing over his head. Her feet hit the opposite side, the collision jarring, but she pushed off, higher. Her cloak trailed below her, twisting. It lashed at him, cutting deep grooves into his arms. He’d expected her to land, not continue back the way she’d come. The cloak kept him off balance, and when she landed she lunged in, daggers leading.
She underestimated his speed.
The sound of steel hitting steel rang in her ears, and her carefully coordinated attack broke as his swords danced. She refused to relent, chasing every backward step he took. There was still no fear in his eyes, only death. Whether it was for her or himself she didn’t know.
The ache in her head grew. She couldn’t maintain the cloak’s enchantment much longer. It’d never hurt like this before, never drained her so terribly. Maybe Karak truly had abandoned her, as she’d abandoned him. Or perhaps Karak wasn’t with her at all? Intrigued, she suddenly somersaulted away from the Watcher, pulling out in mid-attack while he was unprepared to give chase. She’d once been able to treat the shadows as doorways. Could she still do so?
The sun was low enough that several deep stretches of darkness remained in the alley. Zusa focused on one behind the Watcher, then turned and leaped at the shadowed wall behind her. Part of her expected to hit stone, but she passed cleanly through. Again her mind ached, but when the distortion ended she was behind her opponent. Her cloak its normal color and shape, she flung herself at him, knowing her chance to surprise him like this again was nonexistent.
Any normal opponent would have died, but this Watcher was beyond normal. He looked a man possessed, and the moment she vanished he was already spinning, searching for her. He parried her leading thrust, and she was forced to use her other dagger to counter a slash aimed for her throat. Her momentum continued, and they slammed into one another. His head cracked against the wall. Her hands a blur, she cut once, twice, into the tendons at his elbow. The sound of his sword hitting the ground was music to her ears.
He screamed, but the pain did not slow down his other blade. She felt its edge dig into her skin, and she rolled with it to prevent too deep a cut. Blood ran down her face and neck, urging her on. She used both her daggers to pin his sword aside, then rammed her elbow into his throat. He gasped for air, his gag reflex leaning him closer. Pulling her daggers back, she hit his temple with the hilts. The Watcher dropped to his knees.
“I’ll kill you if I must,” she said as he leaned on his arms, as if bowing to her. “Come now, and face the woman you wronged.”
“I’ve wronged no one,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Liar. Murderer of children. Surrender now.”
He laughed. It was tired and broken.
“I am the murdered child, woman. Ask my father.”
He flung one of his cloaks at her. As she batted it aside, his heel followed after, ramming into her forehead. Fearing an attack, she retreated, her daggers falling into defensive positions. Her blurred vision saw no one. He was gone, but where? Follow the blood, she thought. Follow the blood.
She caught a speck of it halfway up the building to her left. The rooftops. He was running away. Knowing her time was short, she jumped from one windowsill to another and grabbed hold of a ledge. Before she could pull herself up, a woman lurked above her, weapon drawn.
“I’m sorry, Zusa,” Veliana said. “But this one is mine. Go back.”
Zusa tensed, hating the awkward position she found herself in. The other woman’s dagger was drawn, and in a flash of movement could easily sever her throat.
“Alyssa desires his blood for what he did to Nathaniel,” Zusa said.
“And we need him for something more than petty revenge. Please, Zusa, I’m asking you.”
Zusa frowned, finding her loyalties torn. Veliana was her apprentice, and had trained so much with her over the past five years. Yet Alyssa was even more than an apprentice, even more than a friend.
“Will you kill him?” she asked.
Veliana shook her head.
“No. Not unless he makes us. Just one meeting, that’s all we need. Is my friendship at least worth that?”
Zusa met her eye, let Veliana know the seriousness of her words.
“It is, but consider it an end to our friendship. Do you still desire to take him?”
“I do.”
“Then have him, Veliana. And pray we never meet again.”
She released, and down she went, falling, refusing to look up as Veliana turned and raced after the bleeding body of the Watcher.
Deathmask strode into the Ash Guild’s headquarters with a smile on his face and his head held high. His head pounded as if within his skull was a caged orc, and the wine he’d drunk with Veliana to toast their success had done little to take off the pain’s edge, but that didn’t matter. The sight before him, the horrible disarray of the room, was enough to lift his spirits. Pillows lay scattered and shards of glass covered the floor by the bar. Garrick stood trembling at the far end. About twelve Ash members were inside, and none seemed eager to be near their guildmaster.
“Greetings,” Deathmask said, pretending nothing was amiss. “Good to see you survived last night intac—”
“Where were you?” Garrick shouted. Deathmask blinked, and he glanced at one of the other men as if to show how confused he was. In truth, after attacking his own guild, he and Veliana had attacked the headquarters of the Spider Guild, slaughtering three and then leaving the symbol of the Ash scrawled into the dirt by the bodies. But he had no intention of telling Garrick that.
“Running for my life out in the streets, much like every other thief in Veldaren,” Deathmask smoothly lied. “I stopped by here once, but found the place empty, so I hid until morning.”
Garrick paced back and forth. His eyes were bloodshot. Deathmask wondered how much crimleaf the man had coursing through his veins. His speech was also slurred, perhaps from one, or several, of those broken bottles over at the counter. Drunk and stoned. Deathmask struggled to contain his amusement.
“Spiders!” Garrick shouted, as if none of them were there anymore. “Goddamn Spiders! What is Thren thinking? That I betrayed him? He think I’d be stupid enough to do that? We had a deal, you fucking Spider, you fucking … fucking … damn fucking Spider!”
Deathmask’s eyes lit up at that. A deal? Could Garrick have been working for Thren? It would explain so much…
“Someone of Thren’s showed up around half an hour ago,” offered one of the nearest thieves, keeping his voice low so his guildmaster would not hear. “Claimed that two members of the Ash came and killed several of Thren’s men, and he demanded an explanation.”
Deathmask lifted his eyebrows in surprise.
“That obviously can’t be correct,” he said.
Garrick overheard and stormed closer. Deathmask saw how incredibly dilated his pupils were, and decided his guess was correct. If Garrick’s strength and confidence were built upon Thren’s protection, then having that suddenly taken away would probably scare the shit out of him. Deathmask couldn’t wait to tell Veliana. She’d been ready to kill the man before. What might she do knowing he’d sold the entire guild out to the man who’d executed her former guildmaster?
“Serious accusations,” Deathmask said, repeatedly telling himself not to smile, not to reveal how terribly amused he was. “What did you say?”
“That it’s bullshit,” Garrick said, waving an unsteady finger in his face. “And I’ll convince him of that. But I want to know what’s going on. Mercenaries by the hundreds running through the street, and for what? And tomorrow night, will they do the same? We need to plan. We need to prepare. Shit. What about the other guilds? Maybe they know what’s going on. We should ask. Someone should go.”
&n
bsp; Behold your glorious leader, Deathmask mused, glancing at the rest of the Ash members who mingled about. He was a puppet for Veliana, then a puppet for Thren. Now the strings are cut, and he can do nothing but collapse.
“I will go,” Deathmask said. “And to the Spider Guild, no less. We should show them we mean no ill will, and most of all that the survival of all the guilds is more important than our petty squabbles. How many of us died last night? This is a war now, a true war. Let me take that message to Thren.”
Garrick bit his lip, no doubt trying to process the idea in his drug-addled mind. The rest of the thieves looked pleased. Deathmask wasn’t surprised. He’d arrived in the chaos, remained calm, and then presented a plan. This was something they could latch onto, however simple. Let the guild see that he was in control, not Garrick.
“Fine,” he said. “You may speak for me. Be careful, and don’t press if Thren turns you away. Friends. That’s what we must be. Good friends. We’ll teach the Trifect to mess with us. Won’t we? Won’t we?”
A halfhearted cheer came from the rest of the thieves. As Deathmask left he caught the looks they gave him, and this time he did not hide his smile. He was a stranger, a newcomer to the guild, but he was still becoming more of a leader in their minds than Garrick. Come a crisis, men and women always searched for stability. Let them see that in him.
When he stepped out to the street, he looked to the rooftop for Veliana. At his request she’d remained hidden there when he went inside, just in case Garrick decided to do something stupid like try to kill him. Yet despite having been inside for only a few minutes, she was no longer waiting for him. Odd. Had someone else spotted her? He approached that same building, looped around to its back, and then climbed up. He expected Veliana to be lying there, perhaps bored or asleep. Instead no one.
“Vel?” he wondered aloud.
Then he saw it, a single streak of blood. He followed it to an alley, and when he peered down he saw Veliana kneeling over the body of a fallen man. His clothes were dark, well-worn, and lacking any local guild affiliation. His hair was short and blond, and across his chest was a smear of blood. At first Deathmask thought she’d attacked him, but when he climbed down he was surprised to see her bandaging the man’s wounds.
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