Blood of the Underworld

by David Dalglish

  “The city seems to know you well,” Nora said. Carson could tell his wife was examining her closely, trying to reach an opinion of some sort. He trusted her ability to read someone, and when their talk was done, he’d listen well to what she had to say. “Yet I wonder why. All you’ve done is kill a few members of a guild. Others do it all the time. Why are you so special to Laerek, or to us?”

  “People die all the time,” the strange woman said. “I give the city something to remember, to both fear and enjoy.”

  “What’s your real name?” Carson asked, putting aside his pipe.

  “Don’t you know? I’m the Widow.”

  The woman laughed, and something about it unsettled Carson’s stomach. He shifted in his seat, and his hand reached for the sword strapped to his belt.

  “Keep your secrets, then,” Nora said. “Whatever Laerek’s plan is, let him keep it. But why are you here? What business do you have with us?”

  “I’m here to help you,” she said.

  Percy laughed, and even Carson had to fight to keep down a chuckle.

  “Is that so?” he asked. “Who are you to help us? And help us do what, exactly?”

  “I know this city,” the Widow said. “Know it far better than you. I’ve seen its gross underbelly, know its scabs and scars. If you want, I can draw the Watcher out. You’ll have a clean shot, all of you. All I ask is that you kill him quickly. I don’t want him to escape, and trouble me further.”

  Carson looked to the other two. Nora’s nod showed she approved. Her gut told her that the Widow was to be believed. Percy merely shrugged.

  “It’s either the Watcher, or the Ash,” he said. “We need to stick together no matter who we go after.”

  Carson nodded, but Percy’s remark about trusting no one still echoed in his head. He looked to this strange, nameless woman, then gestured for her to continue.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Let’s hear your plan.”

  24

  The first night was terrible, but Nathaniel managed. Several times he woke up thinking he’d heard a noise, or that he’d seen movement in the shadows.

  “Zusa?” he called out each time, squinting to see. Always nothing, but he couldn’t help but think monsters lurked within the dark corners of his room. Normally he told himself it was Zusa, but he knew it wasn’t. She’d left. Somehow, by the way his mother had kissed him goodnight, he knew she was gone. The night crawled along, until at long last daylight met his ragged eyes.

  The day came and went, him sleepwalking through most of it. At one point he fell asleep at the table, his uneaten food beside his face. One of the servant women had scolded him harshly for that, and he’d only been able to offer the most meager of apologies. All the while, he waited for Zusa’s return. And waited. The servants whispered of how the previous night had been far safer, and that Victor was winning over the city. Nathaniel knew this should have made his mother happier, but it did not.

  Night came again, and Zusa still hadn’t returned. Nathaniel once more tried to sleep alone in his room, but this time he heard monsters scratching, and every shadow bore a blade. He squeezed his eyes shut and pushed his face into a pillow, but then they were all around him, stepping closer, mouths drooling, claws reaching. Zusa wasn’t there to protect him. His mother’s guards weren’t about to rescue him. It took all his courage to pull down his blankets and look, and no matter how many times he saw his room empty, he knew without a doubt they were there.

  At last he’d gotten up and left. He felt like a thief sneaking through the dark halls, but at each corner stood a house guard, looking somber and dangerous in the lantern light. They watched him as he passed, and it made his skin crawl. At his mother’s room, he stopped and gently pushed open the door with his arm.

  “Mother?” he called out. At first, nothing, then louder, “Mother?”

  “I’m here, Nathan,” she said, and he saw a feminine form lean up from the pillows.

  Nathaniel curled his shoulders together, and he grabbed his stump with his other hand, as if he were cold.

  “I’m scared,” he said. The question within was implicit, and his mother heard it well.

  “Come here,” she said. “The bed’s big enough.”

  He climbed up and then crawled forward until he reached the top. His mother’s arms wrapped about him as he curled against her and lay his head on a pillow. Immediately he felt his fears ebbing, and his exhaustion clawed at him with pent up fury.

  “Getting too big for this,” Alyssa said as she moved to give him room.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She kissed the back of his neck to show she wasn’t angry. Nathaniel shifted and slid his legs underneath the blanket.

  “Mom...when is Zusa coming back?”

  For a long while she did not answer.

  “I don’t know,” she said at last. Nathaniel closed his eyes, glad to be safe from the monsters, glad that he could rest. Still, the question nagged at him.

  “She is coming back, isn’t she?” he asked.

  An even longer pause. His mother sniffed, and he realized she was crying. It made his stomach queasy, and he pulled himself into a tighter ball to fight the uncomfortable feeling growing in his chest.

  “I hope so,” his mother said. He felt her fingers brushed against his face, lovingly touching his features with her fingertips. “Gods, I hope so.”

  He didn’t know what to say, but he wanted to comfort her. He wanted to make her feel better.

  “I hope so, too,” he said.

  He closed his eyes and slept. Come the morning, he awoke to find himself alone in the bed. Feeling embarrassed, he slid out from the blankets and hurried back to his room to change. On his way there, he passed by his grandmother’s room. The door was cracked open, and he heard voices from within. The past two nights had left him wary, and something about the hushed tones made him slow. Pressing against the wall, he peered inside to see Lord Gandrem talking with his grandmother. Melody sat on the bed, and he could just barely see her hands as they gestured along with her words. John stood before her, arms crossed. His face was turned away, so he could not read his expression.

  “I cannot leave my lands unprotected,” John was saying. “Surely between Stephen and your daughter, the house guards are sufficient.”

  “They aren’t,” Melody insisted. “Alyssa lost so many, and is yet to rehire, instead focusing on repairing her mansion. She puts her faith in that strange woman, Zusa. I don’t trust her, John. I just don’t. And Stephen’s guards are loyal only to him.”

  John sighed and looked away, right toward the door. Nathaniel’s breath caught in his throat, and he pulled back and pressed himself tighter against the wall. Counting to five before peering in again, he saw his grandmother had stood and put her arms around John’s waist.

  “My lands are tame, and my steward is a good man, and runs my affairs well,” he said. Nathaniel could hear weakness in his voice, a bending of his will toward his grandmother. “Are you really so sure we need more men to protect us? What of Lord Kane? They say Victor has done much to make the city safe.”

  “I’m scared, John,” Melody said, pressing tighter against him. “I came back from such a dark place. I don’t want to be scared anymore. Victor can’t be everywhere, and those thieves are like rabid dogs. You saw what they did to our mansion. They’ll come again. They’ll come, with torches, with daggers, with...with...”

  She buried her face into his neck, and as she shuddered, John wrapped his arms about her.

  “I just want to feel safe,” she said. “Is that so terrible of me?”

  “Of course not,” John said. “I’ll send for my footmen. They’ll stay until all of this business in Veldaren settles down.”

  In response, Melody kissed him across the mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said, then kissed him again. “Thank you.”

  Her hands were at his belt, tugging. John reached down and grabbed one of her breasts.

  Nathaniel ran, scared a
nd confused and wanting to see no more.

  Thren watched as the men and women gathered about the entrance to the alley, all thin and meager looking. They surrounded the hooded figure, who kept looking for guards as he took in silver and gave out his crimleaf. As if guards would come to the southern district. They were too busy in the north and west, protecting the trade and homes of the wealthy. No guards, Thren knew. No control. The Suns had come into the lawless anarchy of the slums, and it was time they paid for it.

  He kept his walk lumbering, as if he was just another overworked member of the city, barely staving off his hunger each day. He’d discarded his guild colors, instead wrapping a thin coat about him. It was dark brown, stained, and had many holes, but it hid the swords strapped at his waist, which was all that mattered.

  There were three men still buying when Thren joined them, lurking at their backs.

  “Shit man, wasn’t it just one silver?” argued the closest. His eyes were bloodshot, and lice crawled in his hair.

  “It’s two now,” said the Sun thief. “Don’t act all pissed off, either. You know you still can’t get it cheaper elsewhere, not by a mile.”

  “I wouldn’t buy from him,” Thren said, stepping closer.

  “Piss off, and mind your own,” the thief said, glaring. “My leaf’s good, and my prices fair.”

  “That’s not why,” Thren said, taking another step. “It’s just not wise to buy from a dead man.”

  He leapt forward, shortsword drawn. It rammed into the man’s stomach. A twist and a yank sent his innards spilling out across the ground. Two of the three men fled, while the third made a desperate lunge for the falling bag of crimleaf. A single well-placed kick knocked the man out, sprawling him beside the corpse. Cleaning his blade, Thren then sheathed it and knelt down to grab the bag.

  “Save your coin for food,” he said to the unconscious man, spitting on his chest.

  Leaf pocketed, he ran back into the alley, hooked a right, and then emerged into heavier traffic, where he allowed himself to slow. One by one he’d been taking out the Sun pushers, always on the lookout for the ones who strayed too far from the rest, or were too foolish to have others with them for protection. It was slow work, but he’d killed five so far. In a few more days, he’d have another five.

  And by then, another fifty Suns might have moved in from the west. He shook his head. It was a losing battle, perhaps, but he’d still fight it until he knew of a way to really hurt Grayson. Out of instinct, he traveled toward his old territory, now claimed by three separate guilds. Not that he was surprised. With the city turning wilder by the hour, such a vacancy would never last long. A thought hit him, an image of other guilds using his former base as their own, and it stirred an anger in his chest. Heading that way, he found the old tavern, now shuttered and closed down after Victor’s raid. The upper levels were ruined by the fire, but what of the underground portion?

  It was a risk doing so in daylight, but he went ahead anyway. What did caution matter, now that his guild was disbanded? He opened the door to the stairs downward and found everything dark. Sighing with relief, he stepped further in, grabbing a lantern hanging from the side. He checked it for oil, found a little, and then nodded. In a gap in the wall he pulled out some flint, and after a few sparks had the lantern lit. Holding it aloft, he stepped down into his former headquarters.

  Everything was in disarray. Tables were overturned, chairs broken. Guards had torn it apart in their search. The small slanted windows near the ceiling were covered with cloth, and one by one Thren yanked them off, letting in more light. At first he was confused as to why the guards would have done so, and then he saw the lone upright table in the center.

  “No,” he whispered, feeling his fury rise. “Damn it, how dare you do this now?”

  One of his former members lay on the table, arms and legs spread wide. An arrow protruded from his chest. Carrying the lantern over, he felt stones turn in his gut as the light glinted off silver coins in the man’s eyes. Alan, Thren realized. His name was Alan. After the raid, all of the captured Spider guildmembers had been questioned and brought before judges. Those who turned on others had been spared and sent away. Alan had been one of them.

  Pulling open his mouth, he found the two gold coins, there as always. Lifting the lantern, he looked at the opposite wall for the message.

  silver silver

  gold and gold

  here in the thief den

  where are you spider

  where are you thren

  It was written not once, not twice, but a dozen times all along the walls. Checking the body, Thren found a slit across Alan’s neck, no doubt where this madman had gotten the necessary amount of blood. And Thren knew for certain it was a madman. Unlike in the streets, he, or she, had had time in the basement, and they’d indulged themselves with the display. Everywhere he cast his lantern light he saw the message, and it left no question as to whom it’d been intended for.

  The killings had nothing to do with his guild, nothing to do with power or territory. Someone wanted him to suffer. Whatever vendetta they had, it was personal.

  “I’m here!” Thren shouted, kicking the table so it slid a foot, and rocking the body atop it. “You want me, here I am! Think you’ll take my eyes? Think you’ll shove gold coins down my throat? Here! Right here!”

  Childish outburst out of the way, Thren forced himself to calm down, to think. If the Widow had taken his time, then so could he. First, he needed more light than the little coming in through the windows. Much of their things had been ransacked, but he found a discarded skin with a bit more oil in it, and he refilled the lantern, set it to burning brighter. That done, he dug through the scattered mess in the supply room, scavenging a few candles that he lit and placed about. That done, he began his investigation.

  He started with the body, looking it over for any sort of clue. He found no sign of clothing, no dropped personal items. Moving on to the floor, he looked, but again found little. Too much tramping about by guards, too much activity prior to their arrival. Next he scanned the messages, each one. He read them all, to see if they said the same. He looked for any hint to the mindset of the Widow, even something as basic as whether or not the man or woman wrote with their right hand or left.

  On the sixth message he checked, he at last found his clue. Pressed against the wall and held there by dried blood was a long strand of brown hair, clearly that of a woman. Thren pulled it free and then wrapped it around his finger. At least he had a color to go on. A flash of thought, and he grinned. No, he had far more than that. Returning to Alan’s body, he took the silver and gold before rushing out.

  The Council of Mages’ presence was weak in Veldaren, but they did have a few members. They were unanimously unimpressive, failures to master the craft. Thren viewed them as little more than charlatans, taking the coin of others and offering petty fortunes and trinkets in return. One such charlatan, however, had been somewhat useful. In what felt like an age past, a wizard had once been a member of the Spider Guild. It was his shop Thren went to, the hair still tightly wrapped around his finger.

  Inside was cramped, with hardly room for three men to stand side by side. The fat wizard sat on a stool, only a table separating him from the door. A few odds and ends hung from the walls, and behind the wizard was a shelf full of jars, each containing a strange organ or insect. From experience, Thren knew little of them were necessary for spells, only kept there for looks.

  “Welcome, welcome,” said the wizard. Most of his clothing was simple, dull browns and grays, but he wore a thin green robe over it, no doubt meant to impress the simpletons. Thren snorted at the sight.

  “Hello, Cregon,” Thren said. “How has business fared since you tossed aside your cloak?”

  Cregon leaned closer, and then his eyes widened as he realized who was before him.

  “Y-y-you let me go willingly,” he stammered. “And I know my protection money’s not been consistent, but business comes and goes...
”

  “Drop it,” Thren said, taking a seat opposite the wizard. “If I wanted you dead, I’d just kill you. I have a use for your talents.”

  “Talents?” Cregon asked. He was already sweating. The sight of it disgusted Thren. Sure, he’d been useful, but he’d let the man go just because he couldn’t stand the sight of his bloated self. “Talents, of course. Whatever you need, I’m sure I can help. What spell would you like? Or do you need some sort of enchantment?”

  “I need a scrying spell,” Thren said.

  Cregon licked his lips.

  “Who is it? If they’re unknown to me, I’ll need a drawing or strongly personal object to see them.”

  “I don’t know who she is, and don’t care about her name or what she’s doing. I just need to know where to find her.”

  Cregon nodded, but Thren could tell he was starting to worry.

  “That’s better, but still not cheap, nor easy. Do you have anything of hers?”

  In answer, Thren tossed the silver and gold he’d taken from Alan’s body, then put the strand of hair atop it.

  “That’s for the cost, and that’s for the spell,” Thren explained. “Just a location.”

  Cregon pocketed the coins, then grabbed the hair. He frowned at it as he wrapped it twice around his beefy hand.

  “Not a lot to go on,” he said. “But I think I can manage. This person important to you in some way?”

  Thren chuckled.

  “You might say that. I want her dead, but to do that, I need to find her.”

  Cregon nodded, the movement shaking his fat jowls.

  “Of course, of course. Just wait a moment. I’ll see what I can do.”

  He put his hands over the hair, closed his eyes, and began murmuring the spidery words of magic. Thren waited, wise enough to not interrupt such an incantation. A soft light surrounded Cregon’s fingers, and then it plunged into the hair. It shimmered yellow, then faded. Cregon frowned.