At last he reached a nice secluded spot tucked against the outer wall of the city. There’d be no patrols, and anyone who heard screams would be wise enough to keep the matter to themselves. Haern propped the man against the wall, then opened up his red coat to see the rows of leather loops for holding knives, half of them empty. Removing the rest of them, Haern cut strips of the coat into lengths, then bound the man’s hands and feet. The throwing knives he left in a pile nearby, having every intention of using them if the need presented itself. Ready, he started slapping the man’s face and pinching his nose to disrupt his breathing. It took a bit, but at last he awoke, gasping for air.
“Where the fuck am I?” the man asked.
Haern drew a saber and smacked him across the face with the flat side.
“I’m asking the questions,” he said. “Let’s start with your name.”
“Percy,” the man said. “And that’s the only question you get an answer to.”
Haern grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the wall. “For your sake, I’d hope not,” he said.
Percy grinned at him despite the blood that dripped down his neck. “You think you can frighten me?” he asked. “You got Veldaren fooled, but you won’t be fooling us. You’re nothing.”
“Us?” Haern asked. “There’s no ‘us,’ not anymore. The rest of your group is dead. You’re the last.”
This seemed to shake him a little, but not much. Percy bit his lip, then turned and spit. “Such a shame. We had a nice thing going.”
Haern narrowed his eyes. “Who hired you to kill us? I want a name, and where to find him.”
Percy shook his head. “Can’t do it. If I’m to have any work as a mercenary after this, it can’t be with the reputation of a snitch. Bad enough a bunch of pussies like you beat us.”
“Work as a mercenary?” Haern asked, leaning in closer. “You think I’ll let you live?”
“If you don’t, what reason have I to talk?”
In answer, Haern grabbed one of the throwing knives and jammed it into Percy’s leg. Percy winced, but held down his scream.
“You think you can break me?” he asked after gathering his strength. “I don’t think it’s in you. Too soft.”
A second knife, an inch higher up the leg. This time Percy did scream, but not for long.
“You,” he said, laughing despite being out of breath. “You think this will work? I’ll bleed out too quick. Don’t have much”—he winced as Haern jammed in a third—“practice at this, do you?”
“Tell me his name,” Haern said, grabbing Percy by the shirt and pulling him close. He’d frightened others before, often with just the intensity in his eyes, but this man seemed to be close bedfellows with pain and fear.
“You try to act the monster,” Percy said, spitting in Haern’s face. “But I grew up with monsters. I know who they are, how to smell ’em. You’re not a monster. Thren is. Carson was. But you?” Another laugh. “You’ve killed so many, Watcher, yet you’ve somehow prevented it from changing you. Why? You think it makes you a better pers—”
Haern jammed his saber into Percy’s stomach, then twisted it. The moment he removed the blade, blood would gush out, along with intestines.
“Now…” Percy said, slumping against the wall. “Now that’s the monster. Were you hiding it, Watcher? How… adorable…”
“Tell me where,” Haern said.
“His name’s Laerek,” Percy said. “One of Karak’s priests. He’ll be…”
He launched into a coughing fit, each cough weaker than the last. His skin was turning pale. Haern felt sick in his stomach realizing how far he’d gone. The man might die before giving him more than a name, all because he’d lost control. All because he’d wanted, for whatever reason, to prove that he could be the monster Percy doubted he could be.
“Down on Songbird,” Percy said. “He’s… at… shop…”
More coughing. His eyes had turned glassy. Too much blood lost, Haern knew.
“Damn it,” he whispered. “Tell me where, quickly!”
Percy shook his head. “Pull out the sword,” he said. “And go look for yourself.”
Haern yanked it free. Blood gushed out, and as it did, Percy’s body began convulsing in his death throes. Haern watched, feeling strangely guilty for the act. At last, when all life was gone, he sheathed his sabers and then ran. Songbird was about a mile long. There were only so many shops on it, but it’d take a lot of time to search them all. Still, time he had, at least to try.
Starting at the southern edge of the road, he followed it north, his mind racing. Why would a priest hire the Bloodcrafts to kill the Eschaton? That a priest of Karak would want them dead wasn’t much of a stretch, and Tarlak tended to be meddlesome when it came to their darker affairs, but there had to have been some specific reason.
As Haern ran, he checked each shop, those of bakers, jewelers, smiths, makers of cloth and wool. Most were dark, and their doors locked. Feeling his desperation grow, he continued, until he heard a man scream from an alley behind him. Spinning about, Haern rushed into it, only to come to a halt.
Thren Felhorn was there, swords drawn. Lying at his feet was a priest wearing the black robes of Karak. So far he was alive, but his face was covered with blood. Haern realized why when Thren tossed the man’s severed ear onto his chest.
“I said talk,” Thren told him.
“Laerek,” Hearn said, grabbing his father’s attention. “This man’s name is Laerek, isn’t it?”
Thren looked up, and his expression was one Haern could not read. Was it one of anger, or amusement?
“It is,” Thren said. “Do ghosts have business with him as well?”
So far he’d made no overtly threatening motions, but he still held his swords, which was enough to make him incredibly dangerous. Haern slowly stepped farther into the alley with his weapons drawn.
“I’m no ghost, and no dead man, despite what rumors you might have heard,” Haern said, making sure his hood was pulled low to hide his face in its magical shadows. “This man hired mercenaries to kill me and my friends. I want to know why.”
Laerek refused to look his way. He was a thin man with a long nose, and now missing an ear. Thren kicked him once, blasting the air from his lungs.
“It seems you’ve been messing with very dangerous people,” Thren told the priest before turning back to Haern. “This man sent the Suns into Veldaren, and specifically after my guild. I’d appreciate knowing why as well.”
Laerek rolled off his back and pressed against the nearby wall.
“Karak be my strength,” he prayed. “Not pain, nor death, nor threats of this world…”
Thren kicked him in the teeth to stop the prayer.
“Karak will not help you,” Thren said, kneeling before him. “And you will feel pain, so much pain, before your death. If you want to do something useful with your words, then talk. The more you talk, the less you suffer.”
Haern watched as Thren grabbed Laerek’s hand, took his short sword, and slowly sliced into the tendons of his wrist. Laerek let out a cry, yet as Haern watched, he felt no pity, no remorse. Instead he felt himself back as a child, watching his father cut off the hand of a man who had cheated them. Despite the passing of time, Thren was still in charge, still holding the lives of others in his hands. Haern knew he should object. He’d spent his whole childhood rebelling against everything Thren had taught him. Yet this priest had played with all their lives. Everyone Haern knew and loved would be dead if he’d had his way. And so he watched the blood drip to the ground and hardened his heart against it. Had he not just thrust his own blade into the belly of another, all for a name?
“Start talking,” Thren said as he continued to saw. He kept his fist clenching down against the veins so Laerek would not bleed out. His sword reached bone, and its sharp edge began to pry into the joint. “Why the Suns? Why did you have to send Grayson after me after all these years?”
“I didn’t!” Laerek crie
d. “The Suns were willing, that’s all I know!”
“Then why the Widow?”
Haern crossed his arms and frowned. The Widow? Laerek was behind that as well?
“Never part of our plan,” Laerek said. “By Karak, please, it hurts…”
“Who is he?” pressed Thren.
“Stephen Connington,” said Zusa from the rooftops, drawing their attention her way. She looked furious, and her gaze frightened Haern more than Thren’s. “He was the Widow, your little puppet. Let me guess, priest… you told him Thren killed his father, not the Watcher?”
Laerek’s skin was already pale, but it somehow turned paler. Thren pulled away his sword, put the bloody tip against his throat.
“You claimed I killed Leon?” he asked. “I’d have gladly done so, but I wasn’t given the privilege. The Watcher here took that from me. So why? What has my guild done to you?”
“Alyssa, as well,” Zusa said, leaping to the ground with daggers drawn. “You tried to have her killed. I can’t forgive you, not for that.”
Laerek’s eyes bounced among all three of them, and he saw no comfort in any, no signs he might live. Closing them, he began praying again, until Thren shoved his short sword between his lips. The priest’s clattering teeth rattled against the steel. Thren leaned close, and Haern saw how easily his father’s gaze broke the man, so much easier than it had been for Haern with Percy.
“Why?” Thren asked. “We’re all here, now tell us why.”
“I only followed orders,” Laerek said when Thren withdrew the blade. Tears ran down his face. “I’m a messenger, just a messenger.”
“Messenger for whom?” asked Haern.
Laerek looked at them all. For a brief moment he paused, as if afraid to say, but his will was weak.
“He’s my teacher,” Laerek said. “A powerful priest named Luther. He sends me his orders by letter from the Stronghold, and I carry them out. That’s all I know.”
“Luther?” Thren asked, and he looked to the other two. Both shook their heads, not recognizing the name.
“I swear it’s true!” Laerek insisted, seeing their doubt.
“One more question,” Zusa said, moving closer. Thren stepped away, and bowed as if he were a gentleman making way for a lady. Zusa knelt before Laerek, and glanced down at her daggers.
“You blinded my beloved,” she said, looking up at him. “I hope you burn for an eternity.”
Her dagger thrust into his throat, twisted, and then tore out, taking flesh and blood with it. Laerek flailed at her with shaking hands, but she held him as she watched him die. When at last he went still, Zusa stood and spit on his corpse.
“I thought you had a question?” Haern asked.
Zusa glared at him, then walked away. At a loss for words, he turned to Thren, whose face was locked in a grim smile. Haern tensed, wondering if he might try something, if their shadowed feud might come to a head now they were alone.
“Clearly she lied,” said Thren. And then he laughed.
For some reason Haern couldn’t believe it. This was the specter of his nightmares, the lone man he’d feared, above all others, might recognize the face beneath his hood. He’d avoided fighting him so many times over the years, dreaded any sort of confrontation, yet here he was… laughing.
Thren sheathed his swords, and he nodded to the blades in Haern’s hands. “Put those away,” he said. “Or do you plan on using them still?”
“You’re still alive,” Haern said. “I’d say that leaves a good chance I’ll have need of them.”
His father shook his head, and he gestured to Laerek’s corpse. “The one controlling that fool is who needs your sabers,” he said. “Who am I to you, Watcher?”
“I’ve been your enemy for years.”
“Don’t flatter yourself. Was it you who dissolved my guild? Was it you who marched into my territory, who turned my men against me with bribes, who butchered my men and left coins in their throats and eyes? No, that was Victor, that was Grayson, that was that sick man, the Widow. You?” Thren laughed again. “The only thing you have done is keep my men on their toes whenever they prowl the streets. You’re stories of the Abyss to impressionable children, a way to terrify them into more proper behavior.”
Haern paused a moment, and he felt tempted to sheathe his blades as a gesture of trust. It felt so strange, hearing his father talk like that. To talk as if he’d been defeated.
Thren walked over to the corpse, knelt down so he could stare more closely into the young priest’s face.
“Someone manipulated us,” he said, and his deep voice softened. “Both of us, you and I. Deep down, I know we are similar. I know the pride you feel in your skills, the ruthlessness with which you rule the empire you’ve created. Perhaps you won’t believe it, but I’ve been… impressed by what you’ve accomplished.” He stood, turned his way. “My guild is in pieces, and your city flails out of control before your eyes. Both of our accomplishments are turning to ash in our hands, and our futures are bleak and empty. We are not enemies, not anymore. Not when a common enemy would consume us both. So either sheathe your swords and listen to what I have to say… or get out of my damn sight. Your choice.”
More than anything, more than the dozens of memories that flashed through his mind, more than the fear of his father and an undeniable desire for his approval, Haern thought he saw something inside his father that desired better. Something that might be worth saving.
He sheathed his sabers, crossed his arms.
“So be it,” he said. “Now talk.”
“There isn’t much to it,” Thren said. “We now have a name. The puppet master of this farce. The priest, Luther…”
CHAPTER
35
Would you like me to come with you, my lord?” asked Sef as Victor stepped out the door of his tavern and into the street. Victor fought down his initial denial. His pride had put friends and allies at risk already, and despite the crushing of the Sun Guild, the rest of the city was still filled with men who wished him harm.
“If you wouldn’t mind the walk,” Victor said instead, forcing a smile. Sef nodded, motioned two other men over. They took up positions, following Victor as he led them along.
“Where is it we go?” Sef asked.
“We go where I lead,” Victor said, having no desire for conversation. Thankfully Sef took the hint, and together the four marched toward the center of town.
Bitterness dwelt in Victor’s heart as tired and cautious eyes watched him walk the worn dirt roads. It burned him deep inside to require Deathmask’s help, and the help of his Ash Guild. No matter how hard he tried to justify it, the fire remained. Was it his own weakness that allowed it? His own inadequacies? But of course, Victor wasn’t like them. He didn’t hold the power of death in his skilled hands. He was a man. They were the monsters.
But he’d deal with the monsters, if it saved his city. Memories had haunted him over the week, of his past, his family, of times both good and bad. He wanted to relive them, to view them again. He had to remind himself that every sacrifice he made, every ounce of effort he gave, went toward something good. Something pure. The safety of the people of Veldaren. What could be purer than that?
Without need to think, with hardly more than glances at the markings for the street names, he found his way. As they approached he heard Sef shuffle nervously alongside him, clearing his throat to signify his desire to speak.
“Is this…” he asked, then fell silent when Victor glared his way.
“Yes,” Victor said, swallowing heavily. “It is.”
They stopped before the ruins of the mansion. The upper floor had collapsed completely, but chunks remained of the lower floor, the fire that had gutted the old Kane mansion having not fully consumed the place. The ash was long gone, blown away on the winds of many years. Victor’s eyes scanned the wreckage of his old home. Here he saw a window, one of many he’d breathed against in winter, using the frost to draw shapes with his fingers. There was t
he stump of what had once been a tree on which his father had hung for him a swing. His room on the upper floor he saw no remnant of, knew it foolish to search for. Every toy, every possession of his, had been in either the mansion or the carriage they’d taken in their doomed escape. Everything that had been his, taken.
“The land is still yours,” Sef said as the day marched along, and Victor stood lost in memories. “You could rebuild.”
“I could,” Victor said. “But I won’t. Not until the city I would build it in is worthy enough to be called home.”
A tired laugh escaped his lips.
“Besides, they would just burn it all down the moment I placed the last brick.”
“They?”
Victor waved about him, to the many homes beyond. “The people, the rioters, the thieves, the Trifect… pick one.”
He put his back to his old home, hurried on. His next destination was the market, always a place of excitement in his youth. Whenever allowed, he went with his mother and her servants, eager for the smells, the sights, the promise of things he’d not yet seen or heard. On the busiest of days there might even be jugglers, singers, men with fiddles and horns who would play for whatever charity might be thrown into a pot or hat placed at their feet. Victor had always insisted he be allowed to throw the coins in with the others.
There were no singers, no jugglers, just tired men and women. Victor walked among them, and at first the feel was the same. He closed his eyes, let it sink into him. Fresh bread, meat pies, and treats made of crushed apples and cherries. He felt the fire burning in the pit of his stomach start to fade, just a little. Walking among them Victor smiled, tried to let the people see that despite the chaos of the night before, he was still in charge, still to be trusted. They knew who he was now, recognized the symbol on his chest. He’d hoped for smiles. Instead he got sideways glances, if he was not ignored completely.
A Dance of Shadows Page 37
