“I know you can’t move,” the whore said, kneeling down beside him, covering the front of her brown dress with dirt. No longer did her voice sound like tinkling glass. Now it echoed of razors sliding against one another. “Maybe you think that means you won’t feel anything. You’re wrong. I just want you to know that. You’ll feel every… single… thing.”
A knife flashed before him, held aloft so he could see the sharp edge in the moonlight. Then it turned, and Peb felt tears run down the side of his face. The tip pressed beneath his right eye, slipped deeper. It cut through nerves, muscle, and then with a sickening plop, pulled free. With his remaining eye, he saw her holding aloft his severed eyeball, a thin, bloody strand of tissue still attached to the back. Satisfied, the whore put it into a pocket of her dress, then leaned forward, dagger leading, hungry for his remaining eye.
It was true.
He felt every bit of it.
CHAPTER
9
The hours passed, the sun setting and the moon rising, all while Haern watched the tavern. After Tarlak’s departure, Lord Victor had remained inside. As night approached, more and more of his men returned, increasing their lord’s protection while he slept. Haern shifted his weight back and forth so his legs never fell asleep. The tedium wore on him, but he was used to such things. Most nights he patrolled the city he saw nothing, and accomplished little.
But he knew tonight would not be one of those nights. The Hawks had drawn first blood, but someone else would come in for the kill. He had a sneaking suspicion that his father would elect himself the one to do it. Thren viewed himself as the king of the underworld, and in his mind only he should take down someone so arrogant as Victor.
“Come on,” he whispered, glancing up and down the street from his spot. “I know you want him, now come and get him.”
Opposite Victor’s repurposed tavern were several businesses, including a smithy. In the recesses of the smith’s doorway Haern waited, hunched over with a ratty blanket covering his body. He kept his hood off, for, amusingly enough, he was less likely to be noticed and recognized with his blond hair and blue eyes showing. Just a drunk, that’s all he was, with his sabers hidden beneath a blanket and his cloaks bunched into a pillow to ease his back as he leaned against the door. From where he sat, he could see the main entrance to Victor’s home, plus one of the sides. Based on what Tarlak had told him after placing the runes, the only possible way of entering was through the front door. The windows were too heavily boarded, the roof and walls solid, and Tarlak’s runes ensured no magical means allowed anyone to bypass them.
A frontal attack then, where many of Victor’s guards waited, armed and armored. No, there was only one person who would be mad enough to do it, and it was the one man who might succeed.
Haern closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Patience, he had to have patience. Thren would leave nothing to chance. He had to keep ready, to plan ahead. Cracking his eyes just enough that he’d still look asleep, he watched and waited. Minutes crawled by, turning into another hour. He shifted again, grimaced at the tingles that shot up his leg. Waited too long, leg asleep. He was getting nervous, and he knew why. Ever since faking his death during the Bloody Kensgold nine years ago, Haern had never crossed swords with his father. Yet if he was right about tonight, there was no avoiding that possibility. Growing up, Haern had known his father was one of the best in the world when it came to swordplay, certainly the best in Veldaren. That had been a long time ago, and now the thieves whispered that it was the Watcher who deserved that claim. But what if they were wrong?
Movement in the shadows forced his mind away from such worries.
There, thought Haern. A scout from the Spider Guild, peering from around the corner of a building far to his right. By his guess the scout could just barely see the guards at the doorway. Taking in positions, looking for patrols, confirming numbers. That was Thren’s way. Haern wondered if his father had prepared for him as well, and shivered. A grown man, yet he still felt like a child when he compared himself to that stern, imposing figure. More than anything, he did not want to face him. Swallowing that fear down, he watched the scout, all while being careful to make no movement that might give away his presence.
After less than twenty seconds, the scout was gone. A hunch made Haern shift so he could watch the other way, and sure enough, another scout appeared along the rooftops. Checking the other direction, of course, as well as seeing if there was a patrol the first might have missed. No doubt they both saw the same thing: a well-boarded, protected tavern, the lone entrance guarded by four soldiers in armor. Two wielded swords, two others long spears. The scout vanished, and Haern shifted so he might more easily reach for his sabers. As an afterthought he touched the pendant of the Golden Mountain that hung beneath his shirt.
“Please help me, Ashhur,” he whispered. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Oh, and protect Victor, if you think he’s worth protecting.”
That done, he readjusted so he was on his knees instead of his buttocks. Tilting his head to one side, he let his mouth drop, let his breathing slow. With a single eye he watched. Waited. But the attack didn’t come. Haern felt his patience tested. Why not? Everything was ready. The scouts had checked. The guards at the front looked tired and bored. Why did he not see their approach?
The soft creaking of wood gave him his answer. Above him. The massed Spider Guild had traveled across the rooftops, and now overlooked the tavern, inspecting it just as he did. Suddenly uncertain, Haern lay there as the silence of the night was interrupted by the sound of crossbow strings. A deadly barrage of bolts sailed toward the four guards. The archers’ aim was true, the bolts piercing throats and eyes. All four men dropped, unable to call out. The sound of their chain mail rattling was the only warning they gave to those inside.
Haern bit down a curse.
Ropes rolled down in front of him, and then the thieves descended. Haern kept perfectly still, hoping his presence might go unnoticed. Through a crack in his eyelids he counted their number. Twenty… thirty… forty…
Thren Felhorn landed before him, and Haern stopped counting. His father looked almost exactly as he remembered. His strong jaw, his coldly intelligent blue eyes, his reddish-blond hair cut short so it would not interfere with his hearing or vision. The only differences were the wrinkles, and the way his skin looked stretched and thin. It was a strange thing, realizing how much his father had aged, but peering up at him, Haern still felt like a child. For a brief moment of terror, he thought Thren might see his unhidden face and recognize his long-lost son. If Thren did turn and draw his short swords, Haern didn’t know if he would be able to react in time to save himself.
The first of the thieves reached the door, and Thren followed after. Haern slowly exhaled. His hands were shaking, and as he sat up, his years of training steadied his breath and calmed his heart. This is what he’d expected, what he’d known would happen. In times past, Haern had stormed through the mansions of the Trifect, slaughtering mercenaries and thieves alike to bring about peace. He’d fought the most skillful of opponents, from the Wraith to the elven scoutmaster Dieredon. He would show no fear—not here, not now. The Spider Guild must fear him, not the other way around.
Should have kept Tarlak with me instead of searching for that Widow, Haern thought. One well-placed fireball and the entire fight would be over. With so many of the thieves’ backs to him, it was tempting to rush into their ranks, but he knew Thren would not be so foolish as to leave such a blatant opening to attack. Instead Haern slunk to the side of the smithy, then ran to the back. Scrambling to the roof, he drew his swords and pulled his hood over his head, letting its magical darkness hide his features. Four men with crossbows remained on the rooftop, protecting the Spider Guild’s rear flank. Haern crossed the worn shingles without a sound. Two were already dead before they knew he was there. Another fell to the hard stone below, blood gushing from his throat. The fourth managed a single scream before a saber took away his voic
e, and his life.
In the tense silence, that scream was enough. Standing to his full height, Haern held his swords out wide, let the Spider Guild see him there, looming, a promise of death in the dark night. The guards inside had started to shout, for several thieves had jammed thick iron crowbars against the hinges and begun jarring them loose. Those in the back turned, though, and they readied their weapons. There was no hiding their fear at his presence.
At least fifty on one, thought Haern.
Could be worse.
The door shook, men rammed against it, and then it broke. The Spider Guild rushed the opening, and from within the tavern Haern heard the sound of combat. He knew soldiers protected Victor, but how many? And would they hold? Below, a line of thieves remained, about ten left to protect their rear from the lurking Watcher. Haern smiled despite himself. Now that was better.
He leaped into the air, his cloaks trailing silently behind him. Sabers eager, he twirled so they could not guess what his direction would be upon landing. They’d cut in, try to bury him in sheer numbers. And he’d be ready. His feet touched the ground, and he dropped, rolling to help soak up his momentum. He felt his shoulder connect against a man’s legs, and when the thief went down Haern pulled up, leaping again, avoiding frantic cuts. This time he was fully in control, parrying hits with vicious speed. Pirouetting on one foot, he lashed out, cutting down two nearby thieves.
More rushed in, but they made simple attacks, thrusts and chops that showed their lack of formal training. Most could only dream of training with the masters Thren had brought in from around the world every month. He’d wanted Haern to be his heir, his lord of the underworld. As the Spiders died around him, Haern knew himself the fulfillment of that destiny, in a way his father never could have anticipated. Parry, shift, counter, and another two fell. Spinning, he let his cloaks flare out, let them disguise his movements. One thief slashed only to miss, stabbing into gray cloth instead of flesh. Haern lunged at him, knowing him to be vulnerable. His sabers pierced the man’s belly, and a twist sent the contents spilling.
The remaining men wanted no part of him, instead turning to flee. Haern let them, knowing he had bigger problems to face. Looking to the door, he saw the rest of the guild had managed to force themselves inside. He still heard combat, which was a good sign. As long as men were fighting, Victor had a chance.
When he reached the broken door, an eruption shook the ground, along with a bright flash that lit up the night. Haern struggled to keep his balance, then swore. A thunderclap followed, rumbling like an angry beast as high above the rooftop smoke billowed into the night sky.
“Damn it, Tarlak,” said Haern. “Do you not know the meaning of the word subtle?”
The last bit of defense Tarlak had told Haern about was in Victor’s room, which when activated would explode the wall outward, giving the lord a chance to escape. Obviously it had been triggered. No time left, Haern dashed through the door, and his recklessness nearly killed him. A sword thrust pierced the space before the entrance, shockingly fast. Yet Haern was also fast, collapsing to one knee as he twisted away. The tip of the blade cut across his chest, just a nick that would scar at worst. A faint spray of blood flecked across the ground as Haern continued his turn, bringing up his sabers in the process.
Thren stood before him, bent into a ready stance. He twirled a sword, not yet attacking, only staring. Behind him his guildmembers battled a slew of guards making their stand atop the stairs. All around lay corpses of both Spiders and soldiers.
“This is no concern of yours,” Thren said. “The man is a fool, and he threatens the balance you’ve killed so many to achieve.”
“Fool or not, I’d rather keep him alive. I’ll have no war in Veldaren, not again.”
Thren shook his head, took a careful step forward.
“Victor brought the war, not us. If you want it to end, then Victor must die tonight. Stand down, Watcher.”
Haern felt his pulse quicken, felt his breath catch in his throat.
“No,” he said.
Thren leaped, closing the distance between them with the speed of a demon. Short swords stabbed in, their angles deceptive. Only instinct kept Haern alive, his hands moving of their own accord. His sabers parried both aside, and a shifting of his feet made it so his shoulder met Thren’s when they collided. His father was strong, but Haern kept his feet planted firmly, just long enough to halt Thren’s momentum. Hoping for surprise, he rolled aside, toward Thren’s back, and swung for his neck. Thren ducked the swing with ease.
This time they both rushed each other, their blades clashing together with a steady ringing of steel. Haern felt his nerves settle as he blocked and parried. Skilled as his father was, he was slower than Haern, and not as strong. Not by much, of course, but in a contest so close, even a little advantage was crucial.
“You can still flee,” Haern said, his riposte cutting a thin line across Thren’s shoulder. When Haern tried to follow it up, Thren fell back, his short swords batting aside every thrust.
“You’re a puppet of the Trifect,” Thren said, pulling his swords together and settling into another stance. “You won’t defeat me. I’m what you’d become if they cut your strings.”
Haern narrowed his gaze, the tips of his sabers pressed against the wood floor as he took in heavy gasps of air. Before their combat could resume, a thief rushed down the steps. The last of the guards downstairs were dead, and whatever fighting there was had continued higher up.
“Victor’s made it to the street!” the thief cried out, as if oblivious that his guildmaster faced off against the Watcher.
Haern met his father’s gaze, and a half-smile tugged at his lips.
They both sprinted for the door, Haern sliding to one leg just as he reached it. As he predicted, a dagger sailed over his head, thrown by Thren when he realized he could not keep pace. Leaping back to his feet, Haern ran on, desperate not to fail. A quick glance behind showed Thren at his heels, his own gray cloak billowing behind him. Together they rounded the corner, and saw the mess Tarlak’s spell had created.
The entire side wall of the tavern was gone. The wood was blackened and burned along the edges, as if pushed out by a great fire. Rubble lay scattered across the street. Thieves had given chase, and Haern saw at least twenty. Ahead of them all was Lord Victor, a distant silver shape. No escort remained with him. Despite his lead, Haern knew the thieves would catch him, most of them younger and unburdened by armor.
“Just keep going,” Haern breathed as he ran, knowing Thren followed dangerously close. He was faster than them all, knew how to maximize the push of every swing of his legs, but the moment he stopped to fight, Thren would come crashing in. Haern saw little hope, but it didn’t matter. He ran on. Catching up to the tail end of the thieves, he slid close and swung. His saber hamstrung a man, toppling him head over heels while he screamed. Another stopped to strike, but Haern veered aside and continued past.
Too many ahead. The homes on either side flashed by in blurs. Haern’s heels pounded against the hard stone of the street. His pulse thundered in his ears. When they caught Victor, they’d tear him apart, overwhelm him with…
The street exploded before him. Rocks, each the size of a man’s fist, thudded into the homes. In its center swirled a pillar of fire that flared bright before dwindling. Smoke billowed from the crater that now separated Haern from Lord Victor. Over half of the thieves had been caught in the fire, their corpses now lying scattered about, their clothing aflame. The rest staggered aimlessly, bleeding from the ears. And then from the smoke emerged Deathmask. A pale gray mask covered his face, and hovering about his head, hiding his features like a dark cloud, was a swirl of ash. Fire danced from his fingertips.
“Now’s not the time to be a hero,” Deathmask said to them, pointing at the nearest Spider. Fire shot from his finger and bathed the man in flame. His screams did not last long, but were still terrible to hear. At the same time, a woman leaped from the rooftops, two daggers glo
wing a soft violet in her hands. She landed amid the stunned thieves, making short work of those who tried to defend themselves. Haern recognized her as Veliana, Deathmask’s second-in-command. Not that he had many to command. Only two others were in his guild, twins…
He found them beside Victor in the distance. Haern feared they would hurt him, but from what he could see through the smoke, they only stood at his side, as if protecting him. Shaking his head, Haern turned around, realizing he had forgotten the threat of his father. If Thren had wanted, he could have borne down upon him, but instead he stood far back, the look of anger on his face chilling even to Haern.
“You have no one to blame,” Thren said, meeting Haern’s eye. “Whatever games we’ve played, consider them over.”
He fled into the night, and Haern had no desire to chase after hearing those cryptic words. Sheathing his sabers, he neared the crater, its heat and smoke slowly fading. Deathmask crossed his arms over his chest. From the way his eyes twinkled, Haern had little doubt the dark-haired man was enjoying himself.
“Since when do thieves protect the lords who hunt them?” Haern called out as he approached.
“We have no fear of the hunt,” Deathmask said, removing his mask. With a snap of his fingers, the ash fell to the street, revealing his features. He was a handsome man, his dark hair grown down to his neck, his tanned skin smooth and clean. Most noticeable were his eyes, the left a deep brown, the right colored red. “Besides, you know I enjoy a bit of chaos every now and then.”
Veliana came to his side, her daggers still twirling in her dexterous fingers. Her dark hair was pulled into a ponytail. She might have been beautiful but for the wicked scar that ran from forehead to chin, cutting across her right eye and leaving it a bloody orb.
A Dance of Shadows Page 11
