They all forgot John Gandrem, all but Zusa, who forced one of the Faceless into a retreat his way. His sword pierced her back, punched out the other side. The woman convulsed on the blade, and then died. Only two left, and they were in full retreat now, fleeing to the door. Zusa let them, for she felt her strength ebbing, and a headache growing deep in her forehead. With their absence, Zusa’s cloak returned to its dull gray color, and she limped over to Alyssa. A dozen shallow cuts bled all across her body.
“You’re safe,” Zusa said, and she smiled. Alyssa caught her when she leaned forward, and Zusa accepted the embrace.
The sound of combat continued unabated, despite the emptiness of the room. Looking out the window, Zusa saw the house guards completely overwhelmed, only a small force holding fast at the crowded entryway before the mansion door. The rest were dead or had retreated all the way into the building. Windows smashed in from all directions, and nothing could be done to stop the rioters from pouring in, and looters rushing out with treasures in hand.
“The castle guard will arrive soon,” John said, wiping blood from his sword. “Surely they will not allow...”
“The city is like it is because the city guard has allowed it,” Melody said, stepping away so she, too, could watch from the window.
Zusa pulled free of Alyssa’s embrace, kissed her forehead.
“Shut and bar the door,” she said to John. Without waiting for a response, she leapt once more from the window. The many below were just unarmed men, angry, confused, whipped into a fury by the thief guilds. Despite this, she had no pity for them as she descended, a whirling tornado of blades. They trespassed upon land not theirs, seeking to take what never belonged to them and snuff out the life of those she loved. Let them die. Let them bleed out upon the grass. And that is what they did, those that did not scatter in time. Life after life she ended, losing herself in the flow of combat.
At first most fled from her, unable to overwhelm her with numbers and unable to defeat her with their simple weaponry. Zusa cut a bloody swathe toward the guards at the door, who, despite their many wounds, held firm.
“Go within!” she screamed at them. “Protect those inside. I will hold the door!”
None looked happy with the command, but they knew her closeness to Alyssa, and the danger her daggers possessed. Retreating inside, only Zusa remained in the yard. Turning about, she stared down the rioters. Many had begun to flee, overwhelmed by the carnage strewn about the place. The house guards had done their work well. Men and women still rushed the mansion, but most avoided her, choosing to crawl through the glass of broken windows than challenge her blades. Zusa shook her head, almost disappointed, but at least the mansion would be safe. The remaining house guards could handle a few looters and…
“This city is in the throes of a new birth!” boomed a deep voice outside the complex. Zusa looked, saw a large man dressed in clothes outside the norms of Veldaren, a triangular hat on his head. His left ear glittered with many rings running up and down the cartilage. “That there is blood and pain should not only be expected, but welcome! Our slavery ends tonight. The Watcher is dead, and the false peace of this land breaks. Destroy those who once pretended to be your lords.”
As he spoke, men of all guilds gathered around him, having hidden in alleys and homes to watch the carnage, while letting the hungry, frustrated, and destitute do their work for them. They were at least two hundred, perhaps more, and they brandished crossbows and daggers laced with poison. Zusa stood before them, her whole body trembling with every tired breath. Whoever the strange man was, Zusa marked him, let his face burn into her memory. It would be him that she hunted down, even if she must return from the dead to seek her vengeance.
“Those who pass through those gates die,” Zusa cried back, pointing a dagger. Her voice seemed miniscule compared to the giant that led them. “Come, then, if you are so eager to enter the Abyss.”
With so many against her, and the city guard nowhere in sight, they were not afraid. They rushed in, all but their leader, who remained back to watch. Zusa flung open the door and pressed her back against it, using it as a shield as the crossbow bolts came flying. They thudded like a heavy rain. Zusa closed her eyes, felt tears in them. Damn it, not like this. What they’d do to Alyssa, to Nathaniel...
When the footsteps were almost near, she kicked the door back open and charged, willing to bleed, to die, to keep them safe for just a minute more. But to her surprise, she was not alone. Landing before the door, his body shrouded in gray cloaks, was a man that should not have been able to leave his bed, let alone tear into the forces assembled against them.
“Haern?” Zusa asked, in her brief pause before she rushed to join him. They were terribly outnumbered, but they moved through their ranks with blinding speed, taking advantage of the sudden doubt and terror the Watcher’s presence inspired. He should have been dead. This was their night to celebrate his execution. To have him appear, sabers hungry, suddenly put every plan of theirs in doubt.
After about thirty dead, their progress slowed. Shock turned to fury and desperation, and now it was their turn to retreat, weaving side to side to avoid the occasional crossbow bolt. Instead of putting their backs to the door, they fled inside and slammed it shut, needing the brief reprieve to catch their breaths. Zusa looked to the Watcher, still unable to believe it. He looked similar, had a similar build and height, but something was wrong. Much of his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, and even his grin had that same amused yet tired edge to it. His hands, she realized. They were older, more calloused and scarred.
“Who are you?” she asked. “You can’t be him.”
“I am who I need to be,” said the imposter. He kept his voice low, but it was rougher than Haern’s whisper. “Or would you prefer to fight them alone?”
The barred door halted them only a moment. The remaining house guards had retreated further into the house, most likely to the upper floors where they could narrow down the conflict to a few chokepoints at the stairs. This left the windows unguarded, and the thieves leapt through them in a sudden wave. Zusa took one side, the Watcher the other. She parried a clumsy thrust, kicked her shin against the man’s groin, and then slashed out his throat as he doubled over. Two more neared, and she flung herself at them, her exhaustion increasing her recklessness. Both scored minor wounds, but she accepted them to cut them both down, each of her daggers burying into a throat.
An explosion roared from the outside, and suddenly there were no more coming through the windows.
“What’s going on?” Zusa asked, turning. The Watcher stood at a window, grinning.
“Not everyone is so willing to play along with Grayson’s farce,” he said.
Not understanding, she opened the door to look out.
Lord Victor fought at the entrance to the mansion grounds, a squad of his men surrounding him. Amid his group she saw the yellow robes of the wizard, Tarlak. Powerful magic flew from his fingertips, bolts of lightning and boulders of ice slamming across the corpse-covered yard. The various guilds turned on them, hoping to bury them quickly, but then the Ash Guild arrived as well. Somehow they’d gotten over the wall, and they methodically moved through the yard, wiping out those who neared. Dark fire leapt from Deathmask’s hands, and Veliana shredded terrified men with her daggers. Whirling about them were the twins, preventing anyone from flanking.
“Let’s rub salt in their wounds,” the Watcher said, rushing out. Zusa followed, and together they chased down thieves who knew not where to retreat, for they had enemies on all sides. Eventually they fled toward the entrance, enduring Tarlak’s assault so they might push back against Victor’s men and dash for the safety of the dark streets.
The Watcher leapt to the wall and climbed up, balancing himself so he stood in the gaps of the spikes without harm. As the chaos died down, and men fled in all directions, the Watcher lorded over it all, let every eye look upon him. Zusa sheathed her daggers, the battle over. As the Ash Guild met up
with Victor’s men, the Watcher leapt to the street and vanished. Deathmask gave a mock salute, and then he, too, made his exit.
Zusa waited, feeling so tired that standing seemed a burden, as Victor made his approach.
“We are safe,” she told him. “My thanks to your arrival.”
“I don’t know how you lived,” Victor said, glancing about. “Gods, it reeks of shit and blood. You’d think we fought a war.”
Hundreds of corpses, all throughout the yard and mansion. It would take months to clean it all, she knew, and to completely banish the odor.
“We did fight a war,” Zusa said, looking up to the window to see Alyssa peering down. “But we won.”
“If you say so,” Tarlak said, his attention still drawn outward. She knew what he had to be thinking.
“It seems the Watcher is not dead after all,” she said, baiting out a response.
“Seems like it,” Tarlak said, but she heard the doubt in his voice, the confusion. It was no ploy of his. Whoever the imposter was, the Eschaton were not involved. What did that mean?
“I must go to my mistress,” Zusa said, bowing low.
“I should return to my patrols,” Victor said. “Though I think the bulk of the trouble has passed. Give Alyssa my regards.”
Tarlak tipped his hat, and then they trudged off with their soldiers, leaving Alyssa to deal with the mess. Zusa tried not to think about it. Entering through the door, she gave a quick scan of the mansion, looking upon the destruction. Paintings were slashed or stolen, furniture broken. Every shred of silver or gold, from the candles to the dinnerware, was taken. The bodies of servants and guards lay in every room, side by side with thieves and looters.
At the foot of the stairs she found Alyssa, come to survey the damage.
“We’ll rebuild, replace it all,” Zusa offered. “Your loved ones survived. That is what matters.”
Alyssa slowly wrapped her arms about her, leaned her head against her breast, and cried.
“Ten years,” she whispered. “Gods help us, ten years.”
“Not this time,” Zusa said, stroking her hair. “Not this time.”
It was shallow comfort, a weak promise, but right then, she had little else to offer.
16
Grayson knew he should be furious by the defeat, but he was far too amused for that. He’d gathered together men of all guilds, united with promises of the Watcher’s death and a luxurious future. At each guild he’d been treated like a prince, and cheered with raised glasses despite them knowing so little about him. Only a few had glanced his way with untrusting eyes, realizing what the others did not. He was a fearsome man, and a thief, but a thief from a distant nation, and of foreign guilds.
Foreign guilds eyeing Veldaren with hungry mouths open.
“To the Watcher’s killer,” said one of the members of the Spider Guild as Grayson stepped into the guild’s tavern, the man lifting his glass in a mocking toast. Grayson grinned at him, the look sapping away whatever cheer the man had.
“I stuck my sword through his gut and out his back,” Grayson said. “Perhaps this Watcher of yours is a devil after all. No man lives through that.”
The thief was smart enough to say nothing, only shrug and resume drinking. Still grinning, Grayson looked about the tavern, counting numbers. A pathetic remnant of what they’d been, especially compared to when he and Thren had been working together so many years ago. Hardly a merchant would quake at seeing the ragtag group of fifteen men drinking and bandaging wounds. Thren would recruit like mad to replace his numbers, but it would take time. With so much death and conflict, and so little coin in return, he’d gain only the desperate and delusional.
Now that he thought of it...
He found Thren drinking with a group of four in a far corner. Stealing a drink from the man who had mocked him, Grayson guzzled it down as he walked over to Thren’s table, slamming his empty cup atop the hard wood. Three of them jumped, but not Thren.
“So how goes your night?” Grayson asked, grin spreading.
“As poorly as your ill conceived plan,” Thren said, leaning back and looking as if he had not a care in the world. He couldn’t pull off the image completely, though. Thren was never much of a bluffer, Grayson knew, never had been and never would be. His eyes always gave him away. Too much intensity.
“That so?” Grayson glared down at the man opposite Thren, who glanced at his guild leader.
“Go check and see if any others have made it back, Martin,” Thren said.
Martin shrugged and gave up his seat so Grayson could take it.
“I must say, I thought things would go differently,” Grayson said, his elbows on the table. “With the rioters loosening up the guard, should’ve had easy pickings. Sadly, looks like the looters got the bulk, and we just shed the blood.”
“Blood that shouldn’t have been shed,” Thren said, tilting his head slightly. His eyes narrowed. “You are no master here, no leader. Whatever your influence with the Suns, this is Veldaren, not Mordeina.”
“Don’t remember you forbidding it,” Grayson said, and he laughed at the way Thren twitched. He was furious, he could tell, but something kept him in check. Was it the way the attack had failed? Perhaps, but with his guild suffering such losses, that couldn’t be enough. Had to be something more. Had to be...
“So where were you during all this?” Grayson asked, looking over to the bar and frowning when he realized he would have to fetch a drink himself. “With you at our side, I daresay we still might have broken through with ease. Might have even taken down the Watcher.”
Thren stared him in the eye, not moving, not answering. So smug. It was answer enough.
“Yeah, guess it’s foolish of me to think you’d have helped,” Grayson said, standing. “You couldn’t kill the Watcher all these years, doubt you’d be able to now. Shit, you’d probably take his place if you could.”
It was as direct a challenge he could make without proof. Instead of rattling Thren, it only made him smile.
“You’ve attempted to usurp control of my guild,” Thren said as the thieves on either side of him stood, reaching for their weapons. “You lied about killing the Watcher, and led my men to their deaths in a battle you had no stake in. You are no longer welcome in my home. Go elsewhere, old friend, for you cannot stay here.”
Grayson’s hand drifted to his sword. All about, the tavern had gone deathly quiet. Hopelessly outnumbered, Grayson knew he could not win, not then.
“You fear me a threat, yet cannot run, so you would banish me instead,” he said. “You are a coward. You’ve never had the strength to face an opponent that might defeat you. Keep pretending you are strong. That’s what you did when Marion died. Why not continue?”
Thren was on his feet in a heartbeat, shortswords drawn.
“Say it,” he said, ice in his voice. “Say what you’ve always wanted to say, so I can kill you.”
“Say what?” Grayson asked, purposefully putting his back to Thren and walking for the door. “That you killed my sister? I would if it was true, but it ain’t.”
He stopped at the door, no one with the courage to get in his way. He looked over his shoulder, gave Thren one last smirk.
“She killed herself the day she married you.”
The door slammed shut behind him, and Grayson laughed. It’d been so long, he’d forgotten how great it felt to raise the ire of one so focused and controlled. But his humor hid the scars that Grayson himself had nearly forgotten. His poor Marion, in love with that fool. Now she was dead, and all her sons, as well. All because of Thren.
It would be such a pleasure killing him.
Entertaining the image of him plunging his sword through Thren’s throat, Grayson made his way toward the southern district. He might be late, but that was of little concern to him. The others would not leave. They’d need to hear of how things went. Whistling a tune, he cut through the alleys until he found one in particular, of little note but for the two men already t
here.
“I thought you wouldn’t show,” Daverik said.
“Why’s that?” asked Grayson.
“Because of how complete your failure was,” said Laerek, tugging at the hem of his priestly robes. Grayson chuckled and shook his head. Laerek was his and Daverik’s liaison from the west, speaking for the nameless man moving the various pieces in the game they currently played. Grayson was unaware of his full reasons, but so long as his Suns got to make their move on the streets of Veldaren, he really couldn’t care less.
“It was neither a failure, nor so complete,” Grayson said, unafraid of Laerek. He was a wisp of a man, thin, his nose long and his tongue sharp. He had no real power, just a glorified messenger for someone who had the gold and influence to bend both the guilds of Mordan and the priests of Karak to his will.
“All the guilds suffered tremendous casualties,” Daverik said. “Victor’s patrols kept them from causing too much chaos. As for Lady Gemcroft’s place, well...”
“Should have been there, Laerek,” Grayson said, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. “Dead as far as the eye could see. Doesn’t matter that Alyssa still lives. Her mansion is in pieces, and the guilds are no threat to us anymore.”
“Then who is a threat?” Laerek asked.
“The Trifect still is,” Daverik said, and Grayson noted the uncomfortable look on his face as he said it. “That, and Victor. His arrival has...complicated things.”
“Trifect should have been taken care of,” Laerek said. “You assured me your Faceless could kill Alyssa without difficulty.”
“There were complications.”
“Complications?”
Grayson laughed out loud.
“He means that devil woman in the gray cloak. I watched her tear through her enemies like they were straw men. Love to have an hour with her in bed. But so long as she’s guarding Alyssa, I doubt anyone’s killing her.”
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