“You walked into a nest of hornets and started swatting,” Tarlak said. “Surely you can’t be surprised that they’ve begun to sting back.”
Victor let out a half-hearted chuckle.
“I’m not surprised. No, what troubles me is that my men are afraid. The people we drag in here are afraid. The King is afraid. Everyone is afraid, so I can’t be, yet I’m as terrified as any. How did it get so terrible here? How could an entire city live its life full of fear?”
Tarlak tapped his empty mug.
“This here’s a start. But when your eyes are shut tight enough, you can convince yourself that you’re safe from anything. It’s only when bold, brash outsiders come in braying and waving swords around that everyone remembers just how terrible the guilds can be, and how cruel a bedmate we’ve made.”
“Indeed,” said Victor, motioning for another drink. “Cruel, cold, and ruthless. But you know what frightens everyone most? The Spider Guild has yet to act. All the others—the Hawks, the Serpents, even the Ash—they’re nothing compared to Thren Felhorn. The rumors I hear treat him like the reaper man, a monster from a child’s fable.”
“He started a war that lasted ten years,” Tarlak said, feeling his mood grow somber. “And the only reason it ended was because he allowed it. Thren is the one you need to watch for most. He’s getting old, but that won’t matter. Long as he’s alive, he’ll be a danger. And if you’re hoping someone will turn on him, mention where he lives or some illegal Violet he’s smuggled in…” He laughed. “It won’t happen. Unless you want to abandon this charade of law and order and declare full war on the guilds, you won’t find him, won’t send him to the executioner’s axe. Not unless you kill him trying to kill you.”
Victor frowned. His face hardened, as if the blood beneath his skin was turning to stone. Tarlak shifted, wondering what it was he’d said that angered him so.
“It is no charade,” Victor said. “We will not be monsters, not like them. I would rather die. With every breath of mine, I’ll tear them down, cast them from the shadows and into the light. But I won’t let them drag me down with them. I won’t become like them. That is why I must adhere to the law. I must be stronger, smarter, better prepared. The first day was too easy, and I grew soft.”
He looked to Tarlak, and the earnest desperation was clear in his eyes.
“That is why I need you,” he said. “Why I need the Watcher. I need you to trust me, to help me. I’ve looked into your dealings, Tarlak, and those of your mercenaries. You’ve helped others even when they couldn’t pay. You’ve refused any assassinations, even when the Watcher could do them with ease. You have a sense of right and wrong, just like I do. You know they must be stopped. Please, help me.”
Tarlak stood, smoothed out his robes.
“I must be going,” he said. “Thank you for the drink, and the company. I’ll consider your request, but I wouldn’t hold your breath. You want my trust; so far you have it. What you don’t have is my approval. I’m not convinced you’ll make Veldaren a better place. The guilds were growing lazy, their numbers starting to dwindle. Already they were turning on each other, killing more and more.”
“All it’d take is the Watcher’s death,” Victor said, shaking his head. “The Trifect fears the guilds, and the guilds fear the Watcher’s wrath. Remove that fear, and their greed resurfaces, voracious and starving. Whatever growing pains I create will be a thousand times better than the chaos that was certain to happen otherwise.”
“Perhaps so.” Tarlak bowed low. “I’ll escort myself home, if you don’t mind.”
Victor gave him a sly smile.
“Headache gone?”
“Never felt better. Must be some amazing ale you have.”
“Must be.”
Victor stood, offered his hand. Tarlak looked at it as if it were a trap, then accepted it.
“Just give me a chance,” Victor said. “I’ll prove myself to you, to everyone in Veldaren.”
“I’d be careful of that,” Tarlak said, putting back on his pointy yellow hat. “The more the underworld sees who you are, and believes you’re here to do what you say, the more frightened they’ll be.”
“Good,” Victor said. “Let them be afraid.”
“They fear the Watcher, and they fear Thren Felhorn. Should your name one day be among theirs, I’ll treat you to drinks at my tower.”
Tarlak left, ignoring the cold glares from the guards at the door. While heading down the street, he stopped and turned back to observe his handwork on the walls and think on the man hiding within.
“Crazy bastard,” Tarlak muttered, shaking his head. “What in the world are you thinking?”
He headed back, feeling terribly annoyed. Worse, he wasn’t sure if it was at Lord Victor’s insanity, or his own for helping the man in his impossible quest.
Time was not on his side, but Peb felt confident he could finish quickly. Not that he’d brag about that to anyone else, or even admit it. But with such a daring mission approaching, Peb needed some release, otherwise he’d be a nervous wreck throughout. After Thren had heard what happened from Alan, he’d been deathly quiet, talking to no one for a full hour. When he exited his study, his plan was simple, and his mind set.
Victor Kane died tonight.
“Like it’ll be that easy,” Peb muttered to himself as he headed toward the darkest alleys of Veldaren. He was in too much of a hurry to watch his surroundings, but he feared no attack, not so deep in the heart of their territory. A few coins rattled in his pocket, just enough to pay for what he needed. He usually had his pick of the women, given how weak he looked, how unthreatening. The whores talked, Peb knew that. They knew he needed just a touch, just a kiss, and that he’d never hurt them, not like some of the others who needed to punch or beat someone weaker to get themselves off.
Turning right, he passed a dimly lit tavern, then veered into an alley beside it. He knew many men preferred brothels, wanting a bed where they could lie back and do nothing, or to have clean sheets they could ruffle and cast about. Peb needed none of that, just him standing, and a pretty girl on her knees. What did anything else matter, especially when the cost would go up twofold for all the extravagances?
“Hello?” Peb asked the alleyway as he stepped inside. Normally there’d be three or four girls there, eager to sell themselves to the men who stayed in the tavern. The night was still young, though, so perhaps they were elsewhere.
“Can I help you?” a soft voice asked. Squinting, Peb saw a petite woman further in the shadows. Long brown hair curled around her neck, and she smiled at him with such delicate, pretty features...
“I think you can,” he said, smiling. Gods, those eyes, just staring at them would have him done in no time. He’d be able to go charging ahead of Thren, feeling on top of the world as they tore Victor from his room and beat his face to a pulp. He reached into his pocket as she beckoned him closer.
“How much?” he asked, fearing the normal rates might not apply to someone so clearly of a higher class.
“Not much,” the whore said, her eyes twinkling. “In fact, cute as you are, I might pay you.”
She was just flattering him, he knew, but Peb liked hearing it anyway. His hand reached for the sash of his pants.
“That so?” he asked. “How much you think I’m worth?”
That smile darkened, and those delicate features suddenly seemed far less innocent.
“Two silver, and two gold.”
Peb was too stunned to even move. By the time he saw the small crossbow, it was too late. She pulled the trigger, and the bolt thudded into his neck. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His stomach heaved, and he dropped, unable to maintain his balance. He tried to run, to scream, but his muscles ignored every command. Poison, he realized, his terror increasing. The bolt was poisoned.
“I know you can’t move,” the whore said, kneeling down beside him, covering the front of her brown dress with dirt. “Maybe you think that means you won’t feel
anything. You’re wrong. I just want you to know that. You’ll feel every...single...thing.”
A knife flashed before him, held aloft so he could see the sharp edge in the moonlight. Then it turned, and Peb felt tears run down the side of his face. The tip pressed beneath his right eye, slipped deeper. It cut through nerves, muscle, and then with a sickening plop, pulled free. With his remaining eye, he saw her holding aloft his severed eyeball, a thin, bloody strand of tissue still attached to the back. Satisfied, the whore put it into a pocket of her dress, then leaned forward, dagger leading, hungry for his remaining eye.
It was true.
He felt every bit of it.
9
The hours passed, the sun setting and the moon rising, all while Haern watched the tavern. After Tarlak’s departure, Lord Victor had remained inside. As night approached, more and more of his men filtered back, increasing the protection of their lord while he slept. Haern shifted his weight back and forth so his legs never fell asleep. The tedium wore on him, but he was used to such things. Most nights he patrolled the city, he saw nothing, and accomplished little.
But he knew tonight would not be one of those nights. The Hawks had drawn first blood, but someone else would come in for the kill. He had a sneaking suspicion that his father would elect himself the one to do it.
“Come on,” he whispered, glancing up and down the street from his spot. “I know you want him, now come and get him.”
Opposite Victor’s repurposed tavern were several businesses, including a smith. In the recesses of the smith’s doorway Haern waited, hunched over with a ratty blanket covering his body. He kept his hood off, for, amusingly enough, he was less likely to be noticed and recognized with his blond hair and blue eyes showing. Just a drunk, that’s all he was, with his sabers hidden beneath a blanket and his cloaks bunched into a pillow to ease his back as he leaned against the door. From where he sat, he could see the main entrance to Victor’s home, plus one of the sides. Based on what Tarlak had told him after placing the runes, the only possible way of entrance was through the front door. The windows were too heavily boarded, the roof and walls solid, and Tarlak’s runes ensured no magical means allowed someone to bypass them.
A frontal attack then, where many of Victor’s guards waited, armed and armored. No, there was only one person who would be mad enough to do it, and it was the one man who might succeed, as well.
Haern closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Patience, he had to have patience. Thren would leave nothing to chance. He had to keep ready, to plan ahead. Cracking his eyes just enough so that he’d still look asleep, he watched and waited. Minutes crawled by, turning into another hour. He shifted again, grimaced at the tingles that shot up his leg. Waited too long, leg asleep. He was getting nervous, and he knew why. Ever since faking his death during the Bloody Kensgold nine years ago, Haern had never crossed swords with his father. Yet if he was right about tonight, there was no avoiding that possibility. Growing up, Haern had known his father was one of the best in the world when it came to swordplay, certainly the best in Veldaren. That was a long time ago, and now the thieves whispered that it was the Watcher who deserved that claim. But what if they were wrong?
Movement in the shadows forced his mind away from such worried thoughts.
There, thought Haern. A scout from the Spider Guild, peering from around the corner of a building far to his right. By his guess, the scout could just barely see the guards at the doorway. Taking in positions, looking for patrols, confirming numbers. That was Thren’s way. Haern wondered if his father had prepared for him, as well, and shivered. A grown man, yet he still felt like a child when he compared himself to that stern, imposing figure. More than anything, he did not want to face him. Swallowing that fear down, he watched the scout, all while being careful to make no movement that might give away his presence.
After less than twenty seconds, the scout was gone. A hunch made him shift so he could watch the other way, and sure enough, another scout appeared along the rooftops. Checking the other direction, of course, as well as seeing if there was a patrol the first might have missed. No doubt they both saw the same thing: a well-boarded, protected tavern, with the lone entrance guarded by four soldiers in armor. Two wielded swords, two others long spears. The scout vanished, and Haern shifted so he might have easier reach for his sabers. As an afterthought, he touched the pendant of the Golden Mountain that hung beneath his shirt.
“Please help me, Ashhur,” he whispered. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Oh, and protect Victor, if you think he’s worth protecting.”
That done, he readjusted so he was on his knees instead of his buttocks. Tilting his head to one side, he let his mouth drop, let his breathing slow. With a single eye he watched. Waited. But the attack didn’t come. Haern felt his patience tested. Why not? Everything was ready. The scouts had checked. The guards at the front look tired and bored. Why did he not see their approach?
The soft creaking of wood gave him his answer. Above him. The massed Spider Guild had traveled across the rooftops, and now overlooked the tavern, same as him. Suddenly uncertain, Haern lay there as the silence of the night was interrupted with the sound of crossbow strings. A deadly barrage of bolts sailed towards the four guards. Their aim was true, piercing through throats and eyes. All four men dropped, unable to call out. The sound of their chainmail rattling was the only warning they gave to those inside.
Haern bit down a curse.
Ropes rolled down in front of him, and then the thieves descended. Haern kept perfectly still, hoping his presence might go unnoticed. Through a crack in his eyelids he counted their number. Twenty...thirty...forty...
Thren Felhorn landed before him, and Haern stopped counting. His father looked almost exactly like he remembered. His strong jaw, his coldly intelligent blue eyes, his reddish blond hair cut short so it would not interfere with his hearing or vision. The only differences were the wrinkles, and the way his skin looked stretched and thin. It was a strange thing, realizing how much his father had aged, but peering up at him, Haern still felt like a child. For a brief moment of terror, he thought Thren might see him, and without his hood hiding his face, recognize his long lost son. If he did turn and draw his shortswords, Haern didn’t know if he would be able to react in time to save himself.
The first of the thieves reached the door, and Thren followed after. Haern slowly exhaled. His hands were shaking, and as he sat up, he relied on his years of training to steady his breath and calm his heart. This is what he’d expected, what he’d known would happen. In times past, Haern had stormed through the mansions of the Trifect, slaughtering mercenaries and thieves alike to bring about peace. He’d fought the most skillful of opponents, from the Wraith to Dieredon. He would show no fear—not here, not now. The Spider Guild must fear him, not the other way around.
Should have kept Tarlak with me, Haern thought. One well-placed fireball, and the entire fight would already be over. With so many of the thieves’ backs to him, it was tempting to rush into their ranks, but he knew Thren would not be so foolish as that. Instead, Haern slunk to the side of the building, then ran to the back. Scrambling to the top, he drew his swords and pulled his hood over his head, letting its magical darkness hide his features. Four men with crossbows remained on the rooftop, guarding the flank. Haern crossed the shingles without a sound. Two were already dead before they knew he was there. Another fell to the hard stone below, blood gushing from his throat. The fourth managed a single scream before a saber took away his voice, and his life.
In the tense silence, that scream was enough. Standing to his full height, Haern held his swords out wide, let the Spider Guild see him there, looming, a promise of death in the dark night. The guards inside had started to shout, for several thieves had jammed thick iron crowbars against the hinges and begun to jar them loose. Those in the back turned, though, and they readied their weapons. At least fifty on one, thought Haern.
Could be worse.
The
door shook, men rammed against it, and then it broke. The Spider Guild rushed the opening, and from within the tavern Haern heard the sound of combat. He knew soldiers protected Victor, but how many? And would they hold? Below, a line of thieves remained, about ten left to protect their flank from the lurking Watcher. Haern smiled despite himself. Now that was better.
He leapt into the air, his cloaks trailing silently behind him. Sabers eager, he twirled so that they could not guess his direction upon landing. They’d cut in, try to bury him in sheer numbers. And he’d be ready. His feet touched the ground, and he dropped, rolling to help soak up his momentum. He felt his shoulder connect against a man’s legs, and when the thief went down Haern pulled up, leaping again, avoiding frantic cuts. This time he was fully in control, parrying away hits with vicious speed. Pirouetting on one foot, he lashed out, cutting down two nearby thieves.
More rushed in, but they were simple attacks, thrusts and chops that showed their lack of formal training. Most could only dream of training with the masters Thren had brought in from around the world on a monthly basis. He’d wanted Haern to be his heir, his lord of the underworld. As the Spiders died around him, Haern felt in himself the fulfillment of that destiny, in a way his father never could have anticipated. Parry, shift, counter, and another two fell. Spinning, he let his cloaks flare out, let them disguise his movements. One thief slashed only to miss, stabbing into gray cloth instead of flesh. Haern lunged at him, knowing him vulnerable. His sabers pierced the man’s belly, and a twist sent the contents spilling.
Blood of the Underworld Page 10