“You spotted?” Alan asked as Haern dropped to the street before him.
“If someone had spotted me, do you think we’d be talking?”
Alan grunted.
“Confident, aren’t we? You have my coin?”
Haern tossed him another bag.
“Hopefully you have something more useful than last time.”
Alan caught the bag, stashed it away, and then leaned against a wall.
“Depends on what you consider useful. You just pay me to sing, anyway. Not my fault if you don’t like what you hear.”
Haern fingered his sabers, not eager to have their meeting last any longer than Alan did.
“Less arguing, more talking,” he said. “How’s Thren handling the loss?”
“Terribly. He’s planning something big against Victor, but he’s not telling us what, other than it has something to do with the Trifect, as well. I think this Widow-whoever it is-is starting to wear on him. Our numbers are thin as it is. We don’t need some crazy whore killing even more of us. Shit, it’s even making me a little nervous to do my rounds.”
“Why’d the Ash Guild ruin your attack?”
Alan shrugged.
“Grudge? Amusement? Maybe he was bored, I don’t know. I find it a poor use of time trying to guess what Deathmask is thinking. Might as well go hunting ghosts, or searching for dragons.”
Haern frowned.
“Will Thren turn on the Ash Guild for it?”
Alan shook his head.
“Not yet, not unless they provoke him again. Says that’s what everyone wants, to have all our guilds killing each other while Victor goes about picking off the remains. He ain’t falling for the bait.”
Haern figured it also might have something to do with the catastrophic casualties Thren would suffer if he tried storming the Ash Guild’s territory. Deathmask was as dangerous as he was elusive. At best, it’d be a waste of time. At worst, a death sentence. Haern kept such thoughts to himself, instead pulling his hood low and preparing to leave.
“Should you learn anything of the Widow, anything at all, make sure I know,” he said.
“I learn anything, you can be sure-shit, get down!”
Before the curse was even off his lips, Haern had seen the widening of Alan’s eyes and begun to roll. Even then, it was too late. A heavy weight struck the back of his head. Stomach lurching, he fell forward, fighting off the coming waves of darkness. His sabers drawn by instinct, he turned to face his foe.
Grayson followed after Alan with the ease of a man who had shadowed others a thousand times before. It had been years since he walked the streets of Veldaren, but they came back to him like an old friend. When Thren Felhorn was first establishing his reputation, Grayson had been there at his side, the two a vicious team. Every rival learned quickly to leave them be, and those too slow to learn that lesson died painfully. As for this songbird, Alan, the man had only a fraction of the talent Thren had at masking his movements, at sticking to the shadows with an almost unnatural awareness of the flickering of light across cloak and flesh.
Go sing your pretty song, thought Grayson. I have my own bird to catch.
By the time they reached the southern wall, Grayson let the thief slink further and further ahead. The Watcher had told Alan they’d meet there, and, unless their conversation lasted only seconds, Grayson knew he’d have time. But his presence couldn’t be known. Skulking through alleys, he found a spot where he could watch Alan patrol the wall. At last they both heard a whistle. Together they headed for the same building, albeit from different angles. Finding a way up, Grayson climbed to the rooftops and carefully made his way to the alley. Though his weight was great, he knew how to space his steps, how to shift his body, so that no sound might alert the two below.
At last he reached the edge. He drew his shortswords, crouched low. He saw the Watcher and Alan talking. A smile spread across his face. Given all the rumors, the borderline worship the man received all the way to Mordeina, surely it would not be so easy to kill him?
Grayson leapt, already disappointed, as Alan let out a frightened cry. But the Watcher was faster than he expected. Unable to slash with his swords, Grayson kicked out his leg as he fell. His heel connected with the back of the Watcher’s head, sending him sprawling. Grayson landed rough, unable to brace because of his kick. Alan took the brief respite to flee to the entrance of the alley, but he still remained nearby, watching. The Watcher spun to his feet, drawing his blades. As he did, the man turned and vomited.
“I know a concussion when I see one,” Grayson said, settling into a combat stance. His two swords tilted, looking almost puny compared to the rest of his large frame. “You should be running.”
“That so?” the Watcher asked. His voice was like a whisper, but Grayson heard it clear as day. Instincts told him it was magic, and the way shadows hid the Watcher’s face, regardless of the direction of the light, hinted at the hood as the source.
“Consider it friendly advice from an equal. Assuming you live up to your reputation, that is.”
He stepped in and slashed, careful to keep one blade back to block in case of a counter. The Watcher spun into action, and with dizzying speed, slashed at his attacks. Grayson found himself retreating, his eyes widening to take in the sight. He could tell the man was off balance, but that didn’t stop him from pressing hard, pushing Grayson to his limits to keep up the blocks. The sound of steel hitting steel rang in his ears. Grayson kept circling, countering only when the moment presented itself. A realization grew in the back of his mind, becoming stronger and stronger with every cut and parry. The fight melded into something familiar, something Grayson knew all too well from years ago.
The Watcher fought like Thren Felhorn.
Not exactly, of course, but the fluidity of movement, the constant motion, the ability to turn from the defensive to the attack within the blink of an eye…it was Thren. It had to be. His build was the same, his height, even the reach of his arms. But that didn’t make one lick of sense.
“Why?” he asked as he forced himself closer. Reach should have been his advantage, given his longer arms, but he knew from a thousand spars with Thren that shrinking the man’s room to maneuver easily outweighed any advantage as simple as reach. The Watcher batted his sabers left and right, then spun about so his cloak blocked his movements. No fool, Grayson fell back, ready for the attack, but it did not come. Instead the Watcher retreated, falling to one knee as he vomited a second time.
“What madness leads you to this?” Grayson asked, welcoming the reprieve himself. His chest ached, and his heart pounded in his chest. “Was it a ploy to save face? Did you need someone else to blame for ending your little war? Or do you like the idea of being paid twice to keep the peace?”
“What are you talking about?” the Watcher asked.
“Don’t lie to me. Take off that hood and show me your damn face, Thren. I know it’s you.”
At first, he thought the Watcher had fallen into a seizure the way his whole body shook, his shoulders bobbing up and down. And then the sound of laughter reached his ears.
“Thren?” asked the Watcher as he stood, his sabers hanging low at his sides. “You think I’m Thren? I don’t know who you are, or what stupidity sends you after to me, but if you think I am him, then you are a greater fool than I can possibly imagine.”
Grayson tensed for another lunge.
“Last chance,” he said. “Take off the hood, show me your face, and I’ll let you live. Otherwise…”
More laughter, wild, almost mad.
“So perceptive,” he said. “Yet so stupid. You want to remove my hood? Come cut it off yourself.”
Grayson charged, his long arms swinging. This time the Watcher was not so fast, his footing not so sure. The effects of the blow to his head were starting to grow more prominent. Twice he slammed into either side of the alley, miscalculating the angle of a dodge. Grayson pressed on, hammering him with his swords. The Watcher had speed, but Grays
on had strength to back up his own skill, and with every blow he saw his opponent growing weaker.
The Watcher knew it, too, and his sudden reversal nearly gutted Grayson where he stood. Spinning again to set his cloaks in motion, the Watcher lashed out once, twice, to keep him at bay, and then lunged. If he’d been a hair faster, his sabers would have connected, but Grayson twisted at the last moment. He felt pain across his side, but it was only a mild flesh wound, not the vital organs the tip had been aiming for. Letting the pain fuel his motions, Grayson weaved his swords in a complex series of attacks. The Watcher tried to parry, but Grayson kept shifting the angles, making it harder and harder. At last, when victory was apparent, the Watcher tried to flee. It was sudden, quick, but he’d been ready for it.
Out went his foot. The Watcher stumbled, struggling to regain his balance. Too late. Grayson’s shortsword pierced his cloak, his shirt, stabbed through ribs, lung, and then out his back. When he yanked it free, blood splattered across the street. The Watcher let out a gasp, kept stumbling. Grayson did not hurry, knowing such a wound was most certainly fatal.
“Your choice, remember,” Grayson said, slowly stalking after. “But you never knew when you were beaten, did you? That’s why you let your fight against the Trifect last until you were too weak to stop it. That’s why you let Marion die…”
He expected the name of Thren’s dead wife to elicit more emotion than it did, but then again, the man was clearly bleeding out before him. The Watcher continued limping, one hand along the wall, the other clutching his wound.
“Not…beaten…yet,” he said, his voice sounding wet, strangled.
Grayson saw the glass vial only a second before the Watcher flung it to the ground. Smoke exploded out in all directions, thick enough to fill the alley. Grayson covered his eyes with his arm and swore. He knew the concoction, a fairly simple mixture any wizard could make and sell. He’d guarded his face quick enough to avoid any of the burning sensations, but it would be a good thirty seconds before it dissipated. Pushing through, he emerged on the far side. The Watcher was nowhere to be found.
“Die in private if you must,” Grayson said, wiping a few stubborn tears from his eyes because of the smoke. “I wasn’t going to mutilate your body. We’re friends, remember?”
Back in the alley, Alan was gone as well. Grayson turned away, hardly caring. Whistling a tune, he traveled back to the Spider Guild’s headquarters. The lone guard there saw him and wisely let him through. Grayson thought it would be quiet, empty, but inside were over twenty men, drinking themselves into a stupor. Thren had cancelled most of their patrols, he realized.
“Where’s Thren?” he bellowed, interrupting their stories, their songs, and their games of chance. A few shot him looks, the rest unwilling to meet his gaze. “I said, where is Thren?”
“Here,” Thren said, emerging from his private room. “What is so important that you must shout like a buffoon?”
No blood on his clothes, no wounds, not even a limp. Grayson grunted, surprised that he’d been so wrong.
“I killed him,” Grayson said as Thren approached.
“Him?”
“The Watcher. He’s dead.”
For a moment, total silence filled the tavern. Every man looked his way. Grayson saw the turmoil in Thren’s eyes, saw the way he tightened the muscles in his body to carefully control his reaction.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
Grayson held up his shortsword, still covered with blood.
“Gutted front to back,” Grayson said. “Yeah. He’s dead.”
And with that, the cheers began, calls for drinks and cries of celebration that were beautiful to Grayson’s ears. And all the while, Thren glared, unwilling to show a shred of joy or gratitude.
“You’re free of him,” Grayson said. “Your slavery to the Trifect ends tonight if you wish it to. Or has the legendary thief grown afraid?”
“You’ve done what you wished,” Thren said, just loud enough to be heard over the din. “When will you be returning to Mordeina?”
Grayson accepted an offered drink, downed half of it.
“I don’t know, Thren,” he said, grinning. “I’m the man who killed the Watcher. I feel like a bit of a hero. Maybe I should stick around, enjoy the rewards.”
The two stared each other down. Grayson knew Thren was no fool, and could see the plans arrayed against him.
“You can’t stop us,” Grayson said softly.
“We’ll see about that.”
When he turned to leave, Thren grabbed his arm and held him. Grayson tensed, and he shot the thief a cold glare.
“The Watcher’s body,” he asked. “Where is it?”
Grayson just gave him a smile.
“Just thought to be sure,” Thren said. “It’d be terrible if he somehow survived. You’d truly look the fool.”
Grayson pulled himself free, marched for the door. Just by the exit, he noticed Alan drinking himself stupid at one of the tables. Alan’s eyes met his, and the man jerked to his feet. Grayson stepped in his way, preventing him from escaping.
“In my guild, you’d have your tongue cut out inch by inch, each piece shoved back down your throat until you drowned in blood,” Grayson said, and he took a rapid step closer, startling the man. “But then again…this isn’t my guild, is it?”
He laughed, shoved open the door to the outside. Lifting his arms to the moon, he let out a whoop, feeling so damn alive.
“The Watcher’s dead!” he shouted. His deep voice echoed throughout the night. “Praise be, the Watcher’s dead! We are free!”
He heard no cry in return, but he felt it flowing through the city’s veins. Day was near, and when it arrived, they’d all listen, all wait to hear proof against the claim. But if none appeared, then come nightfall…
Four years of pent up rage and vengeance would be unleashed across the city. This was everything he’d hoped for. Letting out another primal cry, he punched the air, his heart still pounding from the fight. The Watcher had been good, no question, but he’d been better. And if he was better, then nothing in Veldaren could stop them.
Not when the Suns came in from Mordeina, slipping through every crack and window. The city was ripe for the taking. Within days, they would pluck it from the soft hands of the current guilds, and in an iron fist, show all of Dezrel who should truly be feared when the sun went down. It wasn’t Thren. It wasn’t the Watcher.
It was him.
13
When word reached Antonil, he pushed aside his morning meal and hurried to his room. A knot in his stomach, he put on his tunic with trembling hands. Over it went his armor, needing the hard metal against his body to feel safe. If it were true…if the Watcher were dead…
He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the cold truth. Victor had already stirred them into a frenzy. With the Watcher gone, his ability to keep the peace, whether it was symbolic or real, was over.
“Antonil,” Sergan said, spotting him as he exited the castle.
“I have matters to attend to,” Antonil said, not slowing.
“The King’s looking for you,” Sergan said. “He’s talking about calling in soldiers from all corners of Dezrel, even leaving his throne to…sir, please, listen to me!”
“It sounds like Edwin needs comforting,” Antonil said, spinning about and grabbing his friend by the shoulders. “Shame you weren’t able to catch me before I left the castle.”
Sergan swallowed, and his jaw clenched.
“Understood, sir,” he said.
In peace, and without escort, Antonil passed through the streets. He looked like any other guard, and earned himself hardly a second glance. Ears open, he listened to the conversations, the hushed whispers of the marketplace. All wondered the same thing. The Watcher was dead. What did that mean? A few were glad, and some blamed all the bloodshed on him, but most understood. Most remembered the chaos of Thren’s decade-long personal war.
Antonil passed through
the western gates of the city, then hooked off the beaten path. It wasn’t often he went to the Eschaton mercenaries, only when he needed a matter dealt with quickly and quietly. But this was something he had to know. Rumors and questions would not suffice, nor would he entrust this knowledge to a messenger, either. Eyes downcast, he approached their tower along the edge of the King’s Forest. Pausing a moment before the door, he took a breath, then knocked.
“I am Sir Antonil, and I come to…” he hesitated a moment, “I come to speak with the Watcher.”
The door opened halfway, and Tarlak peered out from within.
“You alone?” the wizard asked.
“I am.”
“Good. Then come in.”
Antonil stepped into the well-furnished bottom floor of the tower. A fire burned low in their fireplace. Their blacksmith, Brug, sat beside it, a full mug of ale sitting ignored beside him as he stared into the fire. Both the priestess and the Watcher were gone.
“You must know why I am here,” Antonil said as the door shut behind him.
“I know,” Tarlak said as he headed toward the stairs. “Follow me.”
On the fifth floor, Tarlak opened the door, and they stepped into the sparse room of the Watcher. He lay on his bed, pale, eyes closed, a blanket pulled all the way up to his neck. His hood was off, and Antonil looked upon his face. He was a handsome man, and that made his sickly look all the more noticeable. Beside his bed sat Delysia, dark circles under her eyes. Blood covered her white robes.
“Try not to disturb him,” the priestess said. “He needs his sleep.”
“So he’s alive?” Antonil asked, trying to keep his relief in check.
“Barely,” Tarlak said, his voice low, per Delysia’s request. “We’ve been out the past few nights trying to find this Widow killer, at Alyssa Gemcroft’s expense. Last night, Haern got himself in a fight. With whom, I have no idea. Throw a dart into a crowd and odds are high you’ll hit someone who wants him dead.”
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