“Not bad,” he said, wiping some ash off his yellow robe. “My turn.”
Shards of ice flew from his hands, their points deadly sharp. A dozen shattered across the rooftop of the inn, each one missing their mark as the woman dove side to side, faster than Tarlak could adjust. Without slowing she ran for the edge, and when Tarlak hurled a bolt of lightning, she vaulted into the air, over the blast and across the thin gap between the two buildings. Before landing she crossed her arms, and another wave of fire lashed out, like she was the center of a great explosion. Tarlak braced himself, once more summoning a protection spell. The fire hit, and this time he felt the heat of it on his skin. He gritted his teeth, poured more of his strength into it.
When the woman landed, she pressed her palms together, and the burst of fire was tremendous. But Tarlak had had enough.
“Remember this?” he said, pulling out the sword hilt from his pocket. The crystal on it flared to life, and all about him the fire died as if it had never existed.
“You have Nicholas’s sword,” she said.
At the woman’s shocked expression, Tarlak grinned.
“Just the hilt,” he said, twirling it in his fingers. He’d had Brug remove the blade, and then over the course of a few hours, he’d replenished the magic in the crystal, turning it back to clear. “I must say, I thought it cheating. Shame Nicholas died before I could tell him so.”
The woman rushed him, abandoning the fire. Tarlak took a step back, but she was faster, and her kick connected with his midsection. He let out a gasp as the air was blasted from his lungs. She swiped at the sword hilt, but he clung to it as if his life depended upon it. She unleashed a flurry of punches, half of which he failed to dodge. Her fists struck his face, his chest, and when he collapsed onto his back she fell atop him. Tarlak tensed every muscle in his body as she put his head into a lock, her slender arms choking tighter and tighter.
“What good is that sword if you can’t cast either, you damn fool?” she asked, driving her knees into his stomach so she might apply more pressure on his neck. The hand holding the hilt was caught by her legs, but his other was free, and he pressed it against her chest in a futile attempt to push her off. As the arm of his robe fell back, he saw her eyes go wide, catching sight of the blue tattoo glowing across his wrist.
“I can cheat, too,” Tarlak gasped as her panicked grip loosened.
The magic within the tattoo enacted, flowing through his hand and into her chest. It was a solid force, like an invisible battering ram blasting her entire body, and it hit with a tremendous boom. Her head arched back, her arms flailed, and Tarlak winced at the sound of a dozen breaking bones. Her body flew several feet back, landing in a sprawl atop the roof. Tarlak stood, tossed the sword hilt aside, and rubbed his bruised neck.
“Think I might have overdone it,” he muttered. He glanced at the tattoo, which was already fading from his skin. His entire arm ached, and it itched where the ink had been.
Never again, he swore.
Haern leapt up to the rooftop, landing silently mere feet away from the body. He was bleeding at the shoulder, but seemed otherwise fine.
“Dead, too,” he said, letting out a curse. “Need someone alive.”
He turned and leapt back off, toward the alley where Brug and Delysia had been waiting. Tarlak rushed after, and he peered off the rooftop to see where the fight continued below.
Brug stood protectively before Delysia, hunched over with several daggers sticking out from the creases of his armor. He still held his punch daggers, and he kept them up at the ready. Behind him, Delysia cast a barrage of spells, blinding and disorientating their opponent, the rail thin and final member of the Bloodcrafts.
“Come on,” Brug was saying. “You can do better than this!”
The Bloodcraft seemed to agree. He flung several more, but Brug kept in his way. Most bounced off his thick platemail, except for the one that sailed wide, missing because of a blinding white light that flared from his sister’s hand. Tarlak shook his head, relieved the two could fight in such a odd but effective pair.
The man pulled out several more daggers, and through rapidly blinking eyelids tried to find a way around, to get close without enduring the priestess’s barrage or Brug’s daggers. He apparently saw none, and then his chance was gone. Haern emerged from the shadows behind him, striking him hard on the back of the head with the hilt of a saber. The man dropped, his body going limp.
Tarlak cast a spell to slow his fall, then stepped off the roof and gently floated down. When his feet touched ground, he crossed his arms and glared at Haern.
“Some ambush,” he said.
Haern shrugged.
“At least we won, right?”
Despite Delysia’s insistence, Brug marched over to Haern and smacked him in the chest with a mailed glove.
“I had him,” he said, clearly unhappy.
Haern lifted an eyebrow.
“Sorry?”
“Get over here,” Delysia said, grabbing Brug’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
Tarlak gestured toward the unconscious man as his sister pulled Brug away so she could remove the knives and work her healing magic.
“What do we do with him?”
Haern sheathed a saber, then tapped the man with the other.
“We get some answers,” he said. “I want to know who hired them.”
Tarlak frowned.
“Think he’ll talk?”
A dark edge entered Haern’s eyes, and Tarlak didn’t like it one bit.
“Get Delysia out of here—Brug, too,” his friend said. “I don’t want them to see this. And yes. He’ll talk.”
Tarlak put a hand on Haern’s shoulder.
“Be careful,” he said.
“He’s no threat to me.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
Haern looked away, sighed.
“I know. But someone wants us dead, and I intend to find out who. If it comes between this man’s life, and all of yours...”
“Just be careful,” Tarlak said, turning to the others.
“Let’s go home,” he said. “And Ashhur help us, you really are bleeding everywhere, Brug...”
29
Thren lurked at the edge of the newly acquired Sun territory, watching the people come and go. Night had just fallen, but deep in the southern district it seemed a new life blossomed, ignorant of the light. Men and women were flocking to the new guild, Thren knew. He’d even spotted several adopting the four-pointed star and casting aside their cloak. Very little ceremony or fanfare. He’d done his best to cull their numbers, but it was beyond controlling now. With the promise of coin, trade, power, and overthrowing of the Trifect...what did the rest of the guilds have to offer against that?
“Tread lightly,” Thren whispered to himself as he watched yet another man throw off his cloak. How many of his own Spiders might now be with the Suns? And when he put out his call, would they come to him, or dare hope they might go unpunished?
Thren chuckled. Of course they’d ignore him. Loyalty was bought with power. There was a changing of the guard in the underworld, and until something happened to shake everyone’s confidence in the Suns, none would dare return to his side. Which is why Thren lurked, hidden beside a building where there was no light, so he could watch and wait. Only one thing could slow down the Suns, at least in his mind. Just one.
Killing Grayson.
To do that, he needed to know where the man was hiding, where he’d chosen to set up his base. So far he’d been patient, not wanting Grayson to even know he was being hunted, at least by him. The other guilds would no doubt be doing the same, but they’d be hesitant about out and out warfare. Thren knew their leaders, knew how cowardly they were deep down in their black hearts. They’d want to know if they could make alliances, if they could grab hold of the Suns’ rise and use it to reestablish their own dominance in the city. They didn’t realize the fire they played with. Didn’t realize Grays
on had no intention of letting a single guild other than his own operate within the walls of Veldaren.
Thren tensed, the sight before him jarring him from his thoughts. One of the original members of the Suns that had come over from Mordeina was meeting with two others at the street corner. He passed them a bag, no doubt of some cheaper leaf, and then whispered a few words. Thren watched to see if he’d return the direction he’d come from, or move elsewhere, and then prepared to follow. When the man continued on, Thren slipped in behind him, just a shadow in the street.
The Sun walked as if in no hurry, then suddenly burst into a run, hooking a sharp left into an alley. Thren chuckled, and he calmly drew his swords. He’d been spotted, which meant the man was skilled. That he’d given away this knowledge by bursting out in a run meant he was overconfident, and hasty, for one so skilled would not panic easily, nor be spooked by a simple tail. The man had no intention of running, only giving the appearance of it.
Which meant an ambush, one Thren willingly entered.
Six steps into the alley, Thren spun, sword slashing. As he’d thought, the Sun member had crouched behind a barrel at the entrance, and leapt out with dagger ready. Thren batted it aside, stepped closer, and then thrust. To his surprise, the man managed to pull back in time to parry. Skilled indeed, but not enough. Thren flung at him with the ferocity of a wild animal. He had the man trapped against the wall, and with the greater reach of his blades, had every advantage.
Ten seconds later, the daggers fell from bleeding hands. Thren pressed the tip of his sword against the man’s neck.
“Your name?” he asked.
“Pierce,” said the thin man.
“Well, Pierce,” said Thren, “How much pain do you wish to feel?”
The man licked his lips, as if he were facing a trick question.
“Little as necessary,” he said.
“A wise answer. Tell me where Grayson is, and that is what you’ll receive.”
“Only a dead man turns on Grayson,” Pierce said.
Thren pressed his blade tighter against Pierce’s neck.
“You are a dead man,” he said. “But that’s not what matters. That’s not the question. The question was, and still is...how much pain do you wish to feel?”
Finally he saw a hint of true fear in Pierce’s eyes.
“You can’t do shit to me,” he said. “You do, and you’ll get it back ten times worse. Veldaren’s our city now. Go back to whatever guild you serve and tell them that.”
Thren laughed.
“I am my guild,” he said. “I serve none but myself. And I can do a lot, Pierce. So much in so little time...”
It took a few minutes, but he got his answers.
Billick’s Oddities wasn’t too far away, and he knew the shop well. The man was a notorious cheat, and he showed no loyalty to any guild. Because of that, everyone liked him, and everyone used him to deal stolen goods. With him, gold was all that mattered, which meant you knew exactly how far to trust him. Thren grinned at the thought. It looked like Billick had found a partnership worth far too much for him to turn down.
Pierce had said they only used Billick’s place to store their goods, not stay themselves, but Thren had a feeling Grayson would always be nearby. His takeover of Veldaren depended on his product. He wouldn’t leave it unguarded. Thren approached cautiously, watching for any inquisitive pairs of eyes. He couldn’t rely on cloaks and colors anymore. With so much in flux, everyone could be a snitch.
When he was at the top of the road leading down to Billick’s, and almost within sight of the store, Thren heard the first of the horns. He stopped, confused by what they meant. When a second sounded, further away, he realized what it was, but could hardly believe it.
“What madness is this?” he wondered aloud.
Troops marched into the southern district, coordinating their movements with the blows of trumpets. It couldn’t be the city guard, at least not alone. The King was too cowardly for that. Only one person made sense, and given the audacity he’d already shown, Thren knew he shouldn’t be as surprised as he was.
Victor was coming to play.
Thren rushed toward Billick’s. He wouldn’t let Victor get Grayson. That was his kill, his chance to send a message west to the guilds in Mordeina. They would never fear Victor, no matter how many men he had. He was still an outside lord, a man not of their world. No matter how bright he shined, he would never find them all in the shadows. For it to matter, Thren had to be the executioner.
Sounds of combat reached his ears, first little, then gradually louder. The marching of feet soon followed. Screams, scattered and few, accompanied the progressive movement south. As Thren ran, he saw Suns joining him on the street, all fleeing to the same place. Thren drew his swords, stabbed a man beside him wearing their colors. Without losing a step he shifted to the side, overtaking another fleeing woman. She sprawled headfirst into the dirt after he slashed out her heel.
At the doors of Billick’s Oddities, several men gathered, simultaneously dispersing as a squad of ten armored men turned the corner. One of the soldiers lifted a horn to his lips and blew. Thren hooked a right, finding the alley occupied with a man furiously pulling at a scrap of cloth sewn into the sleeve of his shirt that identified his guild allegiance.
“Having second thoughts?” he asked the dirty man, grinning. Thren cut out his throat before he could answer, his fingers still in the hole he’d torn in the fabric. Glancing side to side, he gauged the cramped distance between the two buildings, decided them close enough. He leapt from wall to wall, constantly kicking himself higher so that on the third kick he landed atop the building directly adjacent to Billick’s. As he’d expected, Grayson was up there, surveying the movement of the troops. Thren knew well how he felt, for he’d done the same when Victor stormed his headquarters. But how had Victor discovered Grayson’s place?
A black fire gave him his answer, firing up from the ground toward the rooftop. Grayson dropped to his stomach, avoiding Deathmask’s attack. Glancing over the edge of the roof, Thren saw the Ash Guildmaster leading a squad of six armored soldiers, Victor at his side. Grayson looked up from where he lay, saw Thren watching. His lips were grinning, but his eyes promised death. Thren grinned right back. The two were about to be kindred spirits in their homelessness. Grayson, as if imagining his thoughts, only shook his head in disagreement.
Thren turned and ran, still shaking off surprise that Victor would ally with someone as despicable and unpredictable as Deathmask and his Ash Guild. On the only safe path out he raced across the rooftops toward the edge of the sweeping net Victor created. And sure enough, when he glanced back, Grayson was in chase. They understood each other well, knew neither would settle for capture by the meddlesome lord. They had a score to settle. Behind them, smoke billowed into the air as Billick’s shop went up in flames, burning away the last of the Sun’s leaf.
Thren ran, ran, leaping over the gaps between buildings without slowing in the slightest. His shortswords grew heavy in his hands as he held them. Grayson had often defeated him when they sparred, and he’d near fatally wounded his son, as well. Could he win now?
Digging in his heels, Thren came to a halt, spinning on Grayson like a deer turning on a chasing wolf. He’d made a promise, sworn his vows. He was Thren Felhorn. How could he lay claim to a city yet fear to fight one making similar claims? He would not let Grayson be right. No running, not from this. Standing firm, he held his swords together in an X, eyes locked on the giant man barreling toward him.
They crashed together, Grayson’s weight and momentum pushing him back. In the light of the stars, upon the rooftops, the two battled. Thren constantly circled, refusing to give Grayson a chance to bring his full strength to bear. The ringing of their swords was a song, and the battle felt so comfortable, so familiar, that only the pounding of his heart in his ears assured him that it was not some old training match, not some unimportant spar, but a meeting to the death.
“This s
tops nothing,” Grayson said, hammering at Thren’s defenses. His shortswords, dwarfed by his enormous arms, moved with both speed and unmatched power. “Veldaren is ours, Thren.”
Thren dove underneath a swipe, circled to his left, then slashed upward at Grayson’s side. One sword he parried, but the other cut into flesh. It was a minor wound, like a bee stinging a bull, but it angered him nonetheless.
“It’s mine, Grayson!” Thren shouted as he retreated once more, leaping back and forth in the constrained limits of their chosen place of battle. “Veldaren, its people, its fear...mine, and I do not share!”
“Liar! Wretch!” Grayson continued on, showing no impatience despite Thren’s stalling tactic. He knew better than to give Thren any sort of edge. When Thren fell too far back, Grayson took the moment to catch his breath, and rebalance his stance before slowly approaching. “You’ve lost that title, that respect. The Watcher took it from you. I fought him, Thren. Whatever miracle kept him alive doesn’t change that he should have died, and by my hand. You could have killed him at any time, yet you haven’t. You coward...”
Thren stood there, hunched low, ready to spring into an attack at any time. Grayson shifted his feet, ready to meet it.
“Coward?” Thren asked. “Is that so?”
“You let him live. Why?”
Thren’s grin spread ear to ear, and despite his exhaustion, despite his inability to score more than a single scratch on his opponent, he laughed.
“Because he’s my son,” he said.
“Your son?”
Grayson froze, just for a moment, as he realized all that meant.
“Marion’s son,” Thren said. “Your blood as well as mine, you damn fool. The Watcher and I are two sides of a single coin. Every man, woman, and child of this city fears one of us. Together we own the night. You are nothing to him, nothing to me. He lives, as do I. Come, Grayson. Let’s see if the same can be said of you come the dawn.”
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