“The only one dying today is you,” Brug said, stomping his feet. “Just try it, come on, come on!”
Haern slipped further into the room, hugging the wall. Brug was trying to be a distraction, he knew, doing everything he could to not look toward the stairs to the side. Just a few feet closer, and Haern could lunge.
Nicholas whirled, and his sword stretched out, the tip aimed for Haern’s throat.
“And you,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be dead?”
Brug leapt forward, bellowing. Nicholas spun, his blade cutting through the air with unnatural speed. Both Brug’s daggers smacked aside, and he had to pull back to avoid having his head lopped off. Haern rushed to his friend’s aid before Nicholas could finish him. His sabers stabbed in, and when Nicholas pulled his sword close to his chest to parry, Haern pressed the attack, weaving a continuous assault so the man would have no chance to counter. A mindless roar exited his mouth, a primal cry to overwhelm the pain in his side as blood dripped down his leg from reopened wounds.
But his foe was too good. When Brug went to stab him in the back, he pretended to turn to block, then flung himself at Haern, who had to twist to shift his aim. The twist hurt too much, and he let out a gasp as his vision turned white. Only instincts kept him falling back, kept his sabers up to push aside the killing chop.
“Get back!” Tarlak yelled, and both Haern and Brug obliged, flinging themselves away. Lances of ice crossed the room, points deadly sharp. Nicholas turned to face him, his sword spinning in his grasp so the hilt neared his face. The lances vanished amid a subtle flash of the crystal within the hilt. But that was not all of the attack. Delysia cried out the name of her god, and from her outward palms shone a brilliant flash of white. Nicholas swore, and he turned away, rubbing his eyes.
Brug came barreling in, all clattering platemail. He slammed headfirst into Nicholas, but instead of bowling the man over, he let out a cry and bounced to the side. His helmet was dented as if he’d struck stone. Up went Nicholas’s sword, ready for the kill. Another flash of light from Delysia, but he squinted his eyes and shifted his head so it did not blind. That half-second delay was enough, though. Haern stretched to his limits, his sabers cutting through the coat. The leather was thick and heavy, rendering it a shallow flesh wound. Worn out as he was, Haern did not have the strength to force the cut deeper. Blood dripped to the floor as Nicholas clenched his teeth and brought his full fury to bear on Haern.
“I’m glad you are alive,” he said, swinging his sword in wide arcs so Haern had to remain on the defensive. A bolt of fire shot in from Tarlak, but it winked out of existence, not even giving Nicholas pause. “At least you make this interesting. You even made me bleed.”
Haern ducked underneath a swing, then tried to roll to one side. Nicholas predicted the maneuver, and Haern screamed as a heavy boot slammed into his stomach. His old wound tore. It was like being stabbed all over again. He tried to move, to keep going, but his body convulsed against his wishes, doubling over amid his cries of pain. Nicholas’s sword lifted, but a heavy brick slammed into his shoulder before he could swing. Startled, Nicholas fell back as two more flew in, one striking his sword, the other his chest.
“Don’t like magic, eh?” Tarlak said, still hiding on the far side of the room. “How about something more real?”
More stones dislodged from the walls, held in the wizard’s mental grip. They flew at Nicholas, and though the magic propelling them died when nearing the man, it did not remove the natural momentum of the stone. Nicholas dove side to side, flinging his sword about to help block. Upon reaching a wall he leapt into it and kicked off into a dive straight at the wizard.
And that’s when Tarlak lifted the couch into the air and swatted Nicholas with it as if he were a bug.
“Need some help here,” Tarlak shouted as he flung more chairs and stones at Nicholas. Haern saw that the wizard was losing strength, the velocity of each one considerably slower than the last. Struggling to his feet, he staggered into a run. Nicholas caught one of the slower stones, flung it straight back at Tarlak. It struck his forehead, and with a soft gasp the wizard slumped against the wall, blood trickling down his face and neck. Haern ignored it, couldn’t afford to worry about the fate of his friend. Pushing through the wall of agony, he thrust for Nicholas’s stomach.
Too slow. Nicholas parried the sabers, then stepped in so that his elbow collided with Haern’s throat. He fell gasping, and the hard stone below him jarred his bleeding side further.
“I see why your band was such trouble,” Nicholas said, standing over him. Blood dripped from his cut side, and his tattooed skin was a mess of bruises. “But not any longer.”
He jerked forward, then collapsed to his knees as Brug’s daggers pierced his back in a flurry of punches.
“Why—”
He shoved his daggers together into Nicholas’s lower back.
“—does everyone—”
Twisted them left, then right.
“—always—”
Yanking them free, he clubbed Nicholas across the head.
“—ignore me?”
Nicholas collapsed to the ground in a dead heap. Brug stood over him, whole body shuddering as he gasped in air. He kicked the corpse with his armored foot.
“Stupid bastard,” grumbled Brug.
Haern laughed where he lay, despite the pain it caused. Delysia was soon there, holy light shining on her hands.
“You’re an angel, Del,” Haern said, nearly delirious from the pain.
“I’m all right,” Tarlak said, staggering to his feet, having to hold onto an upended couch beside him to stay balanced. With glazed eyes he looked about the room, then grunted. “We need a new door.”
“Who was that?” Delysia asked as the healing light poured into Haern’s wounds. Haern did his best to relax, and he let his sabers go limp in his hands.
“Nicholas Bloodcraft,” Haern mumbled. “He said it pretty clearly.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“But that’s all that matters,” Tarlak said, walking unsteadily about his tower, inspecting the damage both he and Nicholas had caused. “The Bloodcrafts are a bunch of mercenaries from Mordan. They’re ruthless, powerful, and apparently have terrible taste in fashion.”
“You mean there’s more than one like him?” Brug asked, giving the corpse another kick for good measure.
Delysia kissed Haern on the cheek, then went to her brother. When she tried to inspect the growing bruise on his forehead, he gently pushed her away.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And yeah, there’s more than one. If what I’ve heard is true, there’s always four.”
Haern scooted until he could sit with his back against a wall. Leaning his head against the cold stone, he watched as Tarlak knelt beside the corpse and inspected the sword. With a frown, he grabbed the crystal in the hilt and carefully twisted it until it broke free. When he lifted it up, Haern saw that it had turned gray in color.
“A damn expensive enchantment,” Tarlak said, peering at it. “Banishes all magic in the area, at least until the crystal’s thoroughly filled.” He looked at Nicholas’s body, and after a thought, pulled off the cloak, then removed his shirt as well. Tattooed all across the body were hundreds of runes, some still shining a soft blue, others having faded down to just black ink. Noticing this, Tarlak grunted.
“Let’s see, strength, more strength, speed, a few blade enchantments, here’s one for balance...these tattoos were impervious to the effects of the crystal. He banished all magic about him except for his own.”
“Clever,” Haern said.
“I’d call it cheating,” Tarlak muttered.
“Will the others be like him?” Delysia asked, cleaning off Haern’s blood from her hands.
“I don’t know,” Tarlak said. “But someone wants us dead, and they brought out the best. We need to be careful. If there’s more of the Bloodcrafts here, we’re all in severe danger.”
“If they�
�re here, why aren’t they…well, here?” asked Brug.
“Again, I don’t know.” Tarlak chuckled. “But we might not be their only target in Veldaren. If so, I feel bad for the other sorry bastards they’re after.”
“Great,” Haern said, closing his eyes. It suddenly felt like a perfect time for him to sleep, his pain ebbing away and his headaches returning. The last thing he wanted to think about was more frighteningly powerful men running about his city, not to mention whoever it was that had brought the expensive mercenaries to bear against them.
“Just...great.”
21
Half a mile outside the walls of Veldaren, Grayson inspected his three wagons, particularly their cargo. All around, his fellow Suns gathered, thirty in all. Each man and woman sported at least two earrings in their left ear, for he would consider no less for such an important job. The first few days would be crucial, not a time for amateurs.
“Not sure I’ve ever seen so much leaf in one place,” said Boggs, the hefty man in charge of operations in Grayson’s absence. He scratched at the dark stubble on his face, then sniffed. “How much we charging? Four silver? Five?”
“One,” Grayson said as he hopped down from the last of the wagons, inspection complete. Several others scoffed at that, and Boggs shook his head.
“That’s insane. This trip to Veldaren will cost us a fortune.”
“One silver on the first day,” Grayson repeated. “Two after that, until it’s all gone. The Trifect won’t be able to match, and neither will any of the guilds. We’re spending money now to make it all back later. Consider it an investment.”
“Don’t understand why we need to go through all this,” said Pierce. He was a thinner man, and often complained, but his ear was full of rings, and he’d proven himself one of the more adept killers for the Suns. “You hear what they say back home? Every guild here’s weak, full of pussies too frightened to go after a coin purse lying open on the ground. If we want territory, I say we just take it, and anyone who gives a shit can die.”
“I give a shit, Pierce,” Grayson said, grinning at the man. “You gonna kill me?”
“Only if I get to take your earrings afterward.”
Grayson laughed.
“We’ll have our share of killing, and pay no attention to the rumors you’ve heard. The thieves here are dangerous, even with their balls chopped off. But we’ll be better, won’t we? We’ll kill everyone we need to kill, but for now, no reason to fight. When the money starts running dry, the underworld will turn to us. It’s only a matter of time before the other guilds crumble. Now ready up the oxen. I want us at the gates before the midday trade is done.”
“Get ‘em harnessed!” Boggs shouted.
The thieves scattered about, gathering the few supplies they’d broken out for their rest and preparing the wagons to move. Grayson hopped into the frontmost wagon and leaned back in the seat, hands behind his head.
“Think it’ll be easy getting through the gates?” Boggs asked, taking a seat beside him and grabbing the reins. Grayson fingered the medallion in his pocket, then shrugged.
“We’ll find out,” he said. “No reason to panic until then.”
“Never a bad thing to be prepared,” Tracy said, hopping up to join them as the wagon shuddered into motion. Tracy was Boggs half-sister, and far more pleasant to look at. Her brown hair was tied into a tight ponytail, clearly showing her seven lengthy dangling earrings as she took a seat behind them.
“If the guards give us trouble, just flash them your tits,” Grayson said.
“And if they’re not into that?” she asked.
“Then I’ll show them my dick. Hardly complicated.”
Boggs let out a laugh. Grayson shot him a look.
“Care to share, Boggs?”
“Don’t you see?” Boggs asked. “We’re the most dangerous men Veldaren’s seen in ages, and they’re going to let us right through their walls because of some tits and a dick?”
“Don’t forget a little help from on high,” Grayson said, pulling the medallion out from his pocket by its bronze chain.
“Just seems shameful,” Boggs said. “Shouldn’t we be climbing over walls at night or something?”
Tracy kicked him in the back with her heel, the hilt of the knife hidden in her boot jamming him hard in the kidney.
“Just shut up and steer.”
“Yes, sister.”
They followed the road through the shallow hills, enduring the jostle of the wagons. Grayson lay back so his eyes were free of the sun and did his best to relax. Getting through the gates would be trickier than he let on. There was no room for error. Even if they were fast enough to get away, there’d be no way they could take the wagons with them in their escape. Drastically undercutting their rivals was one thing, but losing all that product without any gain would be unacceptable.
“Remember,” Grayson said, sitting up as the walls of Veldaren grew closer. “You keep your mouths shut and let me do the talking. Don’t want anything to draw attention to us.”
“Not our first time smuggling,” Tracy said.
“And all things considered, I’d prefer it not to be our last, either,” Boggs said. “You got your wish, Grayson. Just hope you’re right about your little helper.”
Grayson grunted. He hoped he was right, as well.
The wagons approached the west side entrance, the portcullis open during the daytime traffic. Boggs stopped the lead wagon at behest of two guards who approached with hands raised.
“Been here before?” the first asked.
“Can’t say we have,” Grayson said.
“Need you to register your cargo, as well as pay a fee if you’re not with the merchant’s guild. I’ll let you know the tariff once I look it over.”
“Not sure that’s necessary,” Grayson said, leaning closer to the guard. He lifted the medallion, given to him by Laerek to ensure entrance to the city without incident. The guard’s eyes widened upon seeing it, and he glanced about.
“Back to your post,” he said to the other. The man looked unsure, but did as he was told.
“You’re asking a lot,” the guard said when they were alone. “We allow the temple to bring in supplies as necessary, but three wagons? And you’re yet to tell me what it is you carry.”
“What I carry is of no concern,” Grayson said, reaching into his pocket. He thought the priests of Karak might not have enough sway to get all his men and crimleaf through. But of course, power wasn’t the only way to get what one wanted in the world...
“This, however,” he said, tossing a bag of coins at the guard, who caught it. “I think this is what will most interest you.”
The guard opened it, saw the gold within. The yellow sparkled in his eyes. Closing it, he pocketed the bag and then nodded.
“I’ll still need to inspect it,” he said. Grayson motioned to the others so they might know to leave him be. The guard climbed into the back of each wagon, giving only cursory glances and not once opening a crate. After the third, he returned to the front.
“Your tariff plus merchant fee is seventeen silver,” he said. “Going rate for such low quality wheat.”
“You heard him,” Grayson told Boggs. “Pay the man for our wheat.”
Boggs grumbled but pulled out the demanded coin from his own pocket. That done, the guard waved them through, then went back to his station to hand over the tariff.
“So much for your help from on high,” Tracy said as the wagons rolled forward.
“We’re through, and untouched,” Grayson said. “That we had to grease the wheels a little shouldn’t be much of a surprise.”
“Just preferred we used your grease instead of mine,” Boggs muttered. “Where to now?”
“Head south. I already have a contact there waiting. Once we’ve claimed the hearts of the city’s most poor and desperate, and established our territory, we’ll worry about moving north.”
The quality of roads steadily deteriorated as they tr
aveled deeper into the southern district, the neglect apparent with potholes and even gaps where the brick had been covered with long swathes of dirt in half-hearted attempts to smooth out the passage. The wagons slowed, and the jostling increased. Grayson saw Pierce hop out of the second wagon and come running. At first he thought him just tired of the rough ride, but it turned out not the case.
“We got a tail,” he said, walking beside them.
“To be expected,” Grayson said. “I doubt too many merchants travel south. Did you catch which guild?”
Pierce shook his head.
“I don’t know them well enough. Sorry.”
“Just keep your eyes open,” Grayson said. “And don’t let them know we see them.”
Pierce nodded.
“They’re running ‘long the rooftops,” he said. “Watch them if you can.”
Pierce returned to the second wagon. Grayson leaned back, imitating his relaxed position earlier. As he did, he looked to the rooftops, trying to see who shadowed them out of the corner of his eyes.
“Any of them a threat?” Boggs asked as they shifted to one side to avoid a nasty stretch of mud.
“Not really,” Grayson said. “Just the Ash Guild. But if that is them, well, they might have a tail of their own...”
They continued until they reached their contact, one of the few merchants still maintaining a presence in the far south of Veldaren. He was an overweight man, sweaty and with his shirt overstuffed with his own fat.
“Afternoon, Billick,” Grayson said as they stopped the wagons in front of his shop.
“I assume no guards followed you?” Billick asked, furtive eyes bouncing between the wagons.
“Guards?” Grayson asked, hopping down from the front of the wagon. “No, guards are the least of our problems, my friend. Where can we store our merchandise?”
“Space for everything,” Billick said, gesturing toward the open door to his shop. “Carry it in, and put it the back room.”
“You heard him!” Grayson roared, amused at how the fat man jumped at the volume of his voice. One by one the wagons were unloaded, his Suns lugging the crates into their place of storage for their time in Veldaren.
Blood of the Underworld Page 21