Blood of the Underworld twb-1

by David Dalglish

  It took Antonil a moment to realize the wizard had given him the Watcher’s true name. Did that signify their trust, or how much he was truly worried for his friend? Of course, Antonil had already seen his face…did his name really matter? He looked to the wounded man, repeated the name in his head. Haern…a simple, earthy name. For some reason, he’d always imagined the Watcher coming from a line of kings or assassins. But carrying the name of poor farmers?

  “How’d he survive?” Antonil asked. “Rumors are saying his killer watched him die.”

  “Who?” Tarlak asked, his voice rising. His fingers twitched, and they sparked with fire. “Who do they say it was?”

  “His name is Grayson. I know little more than that.”

  Tarlak nodded, repeating the name as he looked down at Haern.

  “If you pull down his covers, you’ll see burn marks around his middle finger. It was a ring I had Brug make for him. If he ever got in trouble, all he had to do was break the gem on top and I’d know where he was, sort of like a beacon. Found him hiding on a rooftop down in the southern district, bleeding like a stuck pig.”

  “How bad are his wounds?”

  “They would have been fatal,” Delysia said, slowly standing. She looked beyond exhausted. “Whoever this Grayson is, he was right to think him dead. He’d been stabbed through the side, pierced his lung so that it was filling up with blood. Something also hit the back of his head, and hard. If I hadn’t been there, if I’d shown up even a minute later…”

  She fell silent, looked back to where Haern lay asleep. Tarlak hugged her, kissed her forehead.

  “Sometimes it pays to have a priestess of Ashhur as a little sister,” he said, forcing a smile.

  Delysia smiled back, then took her seat once more at his bedside. Tarlak took Antonil by the arm and led him from the room.

  “How long until he’s better?” Antonil asked as the door shut behind them.

  “Del’s been praying at his side every few hours,” Tarlak said. “She’s a miracle worker, but this is taxing her far more than I’d like. By the time we found him, I honestly thought Haern was dead. It’ll take two days, maybe three, before he’s a shadow of his former self.”

  “That’s two to three days too long,” Antonil said as they returned to the bottom floor. “Everyone thinks this Grayson killed him. The truce between the guilds and the Trifect was already fraying. It is all but torn without him.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Tarlak asked, his temper flaring. “Prop him up with some rope and dance him about the rooftops? He’s not leaving that bed. Announce to the city you’ve seen him, he’s alive and well, and that you expect everything to go on as normal.”

  “They won’t believe me, and you know it.”

  “Then get every soldier out into the streets, because tonight’s going to be anarchy!”

  “Will you two shut your traps?” Brug called from over by the fire. “Making it hard for a man to enjoy his drink.”

  Tarlak looked away, as if ashamed. Antonil frowned and felt the same.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I only fear for the people I must protect.”

  “I understand,” Tarlak said. “Whatever peace of mind this gives you, just know we’ll be out there tonight, doing what we can. Just endure, and mitigate this. When Haern’s fine and well, he’ll come storming into the underworld like a demonspawn of the Abyss, making every one of them cowardly buggers regret celebrating the Watcher’s ‘death’.”

  Antonil nodded, giving the wizard a half-smile.

  “You’re a good man, Tarlak,” he said. “I’ll do what I can to make sure the King’s treasury pays you well.”

  “Thought never crossed my mind,” Tarlak said, giving him a wink. “Good luck, and pray to Ashhur we escape this madness unscathed.”

  Antonil bowed low, then stepped out. As the door shut behind him, he saw a strange woman sitting cross-legged just off the path. Her dress was plain, simple, but it looked poorly fitted, as if never worn by her before. She had olive skin and hair cut short. Two daggers twirled in her hands.

  “Does he live?” she asked him.

  Antonil’s hand drifted to the hilt of his sword.

  “Who?” he asked.

  The woman stared at him, her head tilted to one side.

  “Haern,” she said at last. “I’m a friend.”

  Knowing his name had to mean something, Antonil decided, though he still kept his hand on the hilt.

  “He’s alive but hurt,” he said. “I don’t know how long until he recovers.”

  The woman nodded, stood. Her daggers slipped into her sash.

  “I will try to quell the rumors,” she said. “But it will not matter. They want to believe he’s dead, even if for only a night. Blood will spill when the sun sets, Guard Captain. Do what you must to make it of the underworld, and not the innocent.”

  Lazily she stood and began walking toward the city. Antonil waited, not wanting to be near her as he traveled. Something about her wasn’t quite right…

  Shaking his head, he banished the thoughts and headed down the path, seeing no sign of her. Upon reaching the gates of Veldaren, he saluted the guards and denied their offer of an escort. Antonil was not yet ready to return to the castle. Instead, he hurried to Victor’s tavern, where he was allowed entrance with hardly a glance over. Inside, Victor sat at a table, a map of Veldaren unrolled before him. Sef sat beside him, pointing at various districts and muttering. Upon Antonil’s entrance, they both stood.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” Antonil said. “I’m sure you’ve heard the talk of the day.”

  “We have,” said Victor.

  “I hate to do this, but my guards will not be enough. I don’t know what coin I can guarantee, but…”

  “Save your words,” Victor said, sitting back down at the table. “My men will be out there, and I with them. We’ll do everything we can to save this city. You won’t be doing this alone.”

  “Thank you,” Antonil said, feeling a brief glimmer of hope. Between the Eschaton, the city guard, and now Victor’s men, they just might endure. “I am relieved to hear it.”

  “You shouldn’t have doubted in the first place,” Victor said. “Even if you never asked, I’d still be out there. You should know that by now, Antonil. I’m here for you. For all of the city. By my life or death, we will see brighter days.”

  Antonil bowed low, convinced of the man’s sincerity and honored by it.

  “The Watcher is alive,” he said before leaving. “We only need to buy him time.”

  “That’s good,” Victor said. “I feared his death would one day tear down everything, but I thought it many years in the distance. Shame on him for giving us such a scare. I’ll have harsh words for him the next time we meet. I daresay I might even yell and call him selfish for nearly dying on us so early.”

  The lord grinned, and Antonil grinned back.

  “Protect the peace,” he said.

  “You, as well.”

  Antonil left, and, finally ready, he went to the castle to endure his King’s frightened rants and calls to action.

  Tarlak adjusted his hat, smoothed out his robes, and made sure his bag of spell components was fully stocked in case he needed some of his trickier spells. Taking in a deep breath, he let it out, and then stepped into Haern’s room. Delysia still sat at the edge of his bed, her red hair a rumpled mess. She saw him, straightened up.

  “Are you leaving?” she asked.

  “Sun’s almost set. The party should start soon enough.”

  His sister nodded.

  “I’ll get ready,” she said.

  Tarlak took another deep breath. This was the conversation he’d been dreading.

  “You’re not going,” he said.

  Delysia’s eyes narrowed, and he saw her stubborn streak surfacing.

  “I am not afraid,” she said. “Nor am I helpless. You need all the help you can get tonight, and you know it. I will not sit idly by while you risk your lives.” />
  “That’s not it,” Tarlak said, sitting down at the edge of Haern’s bed. He gestured to Haern, who still slept. “You’re needed here. If you get hurt, or captured, then his recovery will only take longer. Not sure how this happened, but Haern’s the most important man in the city right now. We’ve got to get him up and stabbing people with the pointy end of those sabers.”

  He pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his hair.

  “Besides, sis, I’m already in over my head. Haern’s the one who knows these people, who their leaders are, what they’ll do. I just plan on roasting anyone who looks at me funny, and praying to Ashhur that I got a bad guy.”

  Delysia shifted so she sat beside him, and he wrapped his arm about her.

  “I’m tired of this room,” she said, letting out a tired laugh.

  “I know. You don’t look too good, either.”

  She elbowed him, and he mussed her hair in return. Their cheer was forced, and it died quickly. Tarlak looked to Haern, and he felt the weight of the night pressing on him.

  “I think he’ll wake soon,” he said. “Someone should be here when he does, and I think he’ll be happiest to see you. Let him know what’s happening. He’ll try to be stupid and leave the tower before he’s ready, so don’t let him sway you with his masculine charms.”

  Delysia kissed his cheek.

  “I’ll be praying for you,” she said.

  “Thanks. I’ll need the help. And don’t you worry. Me and Brug’ll be back by dawn.”

  He waved goodbye, then climbed down the stairs to where Brug waited. The man was trying to adjust his platemail, and grumbling all the while.

  “Be hard to sneak up on them with you making a ruckus,” Tarlak said, earning him a glare.

  “You see this armor? It’s perfect. Made it myself. No dagger’s slipping between these creases. Rather be last to the fight, and live, than first and dead.”

  “How much all that weighs, there won’t be a fight left by the time you arrive anywhere.”

  Brug shrugged.

  “I’ll still be alive.”

  Tarlak chuckled. Couldn’t argue with that.

  “You ready?”

  Brug gave his breastplate one more hard twist, then readied his punch daggers.

  “Lead the way, magey, or are we taking a portal?”

  “We’re walking,” Tarlak said. “Expect a long night ahead of us, and need to conserve every shred of energy I have.”

  Brug grunted.

  “Del not coming?”

  “She’s staying with Haern.”

  “So just you and me against the world, eh?” Brug asked, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

  Tarlak nodded.

  “Looks like I’ll have to rely on you to keep them off me. Must say, Brug, I think I miss Haern already.”

  14

  Haern felt the darkness peeling away into layers of dreams that came and went. Within were friends and foes, even those long dead. As the dreams faded, he realized he slumbered, and a pain in his head suddenly roared to life. Slowly he opened his eyes, almost regretting the return. His skull throbbed, and the pain in his side was frightening in its strength. He tried to remember where he was, what he was doing. He was on a rooftop, hiding from his unknown assailant. No, there weren’t any stars, so where…

  “Haern?”

  He knew that voice. Something soft and warm took his hand, and he looked down. Delysia’s hand. It was her face he saw next, tears in her eyes.

  “Del,” he said, and despite his pain, his exhaustion, he smiled. “You found me.”

  “My brother did, to be fair. How do you feel?”

  “Like I was run through by a bull. Do you have any water?”

  A moment later she handed him a glass. He tried to sit up, but the movement was unbearable. Carefully he lay back down and sipped the cold water. It felt divine on his parched throat.

  “How long?” he asked, setting it aside.

  “Almost a full day. You lost a lot of blood, as well as took a vicious hit to your head.”

  “Yeah,” Haern said, the attack replaying over and over in his mind. “I remember that. Felt like an ox kicked me. Could hardly see straight afterward. Where’s Tarlak?”

  He saw a shadow cross over her face.

  “Don’t worry about that right now. You need to rest.”

  Haern frowned.

  “Something wrong? Is he all right?”

  She nodded, but still refused to say anything. He tried to think through his headache. He’d been bleeding, inches from death, by the time he fled from his attacker. What was the point? What was the goal? And if Tarlak was out and about, what for?

  “He’s not searching for the Widow,” he said. “You’d tell me that. What’s going on, Del?”

  She dipped a washcloth in a basin at her feet, then wiped his forehead. The cold water felt glorious, and he tried to relax as she dipped it again, this time moving it across his neck.

  “The man who attacked you,” she said hesitantly. “His name is Grayson. He told all the guilds that he’d killed you, and they believed him.”

  Haern felt his blood chill.

  “How bad is it out there?” he asked. “Do you even know?”

  She shook her head, clenched her teeth. Into the basin went the washcloth.

  “I can see the fires from the window,” she said. “Beyond that…I don’t know.”

  Haern curled his hands into fists. As his heart pounded, a bright light flashed across his eyes, and his headache intensified tenfold. He clenched his eyes shut, let out a gasp. Immediately Delysia’s hands were upon his face, still cold from the water. He heard whispers of a prayer, and a distant ringing of an unearthly bell. Waiting out the pain, he focused on her touch, until at last her fingers pulled away, and the pain with it.

  “I know you were stabbed deep,” he heard her say. “But the blow to your head worries me more. I never saw this when at the temple, but I did hear of warriors who suffered symptoms such as yours. It can last for days, if not weeks or months. You need to rest. I’ll do what I can, I promise.”

  The thought of enduring such headaches, of feeling that pain throbbing from the top of his head down to his feet, was horrifying. He remembered how when fighting Grayson his balance had consistently eluded him, and at times his vision even went blank. How could he be the Watcher under such a handicap? How could he tame the chaos Tarlak was out there struggling against while he lay there stricken?

  “He was right,” Haern said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Damn it, he was right.”

  “Who?” she asked.

  “Victor. He said this would happen. He knew I’d fail like this one day. He knew it. I was a fool to think I could control them. To think I could do this forever.”

  A sudden cough hit him, and he turned to one side. Each sharp breath hurt, and he coughed louder, harder. Blood spat across his white sheets, the rest dribbling down his lip.

  “Shit,” Haern said, seeing it. He lay back down and closed his eyes as he felt the beginning of another headache forming. Tears swelled, and he was too sick to stop them. Delysia’s cloth went back to work, cleaning away the blood, even dabbing at his tears.

  “What am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “Was it ever right?”

  “It isn’t my place to tell you,” Delysia said. “But I don’t think you’re a fool. I don’t think you’re a failure. You’re allowed to err, Haern. No one would believe you human otherwise.”

  “And what if Tarlak dies out there tonight? Does that make me even more human?”

  It was a cheap blow, but it was the truth, and what weighed most heavily on his mind. It should be him out there bleeding and dying to protect his city. He’d given his life away as an orphaned child, swore it while watching the Connington mansion burn years ago during the Bloody Kensgold. He could have kept killing. He could have continued his attempts to wipe them all out. But instead he’d forced peace. A fool’s peace, the weight of it solely on his shoulders. And now
it was breaking, and it seemed all the world but him had seen it coming.

  “Stop this,” Delysia said. Her voice was soft, wavering from the anger and determination behind it. “This isn’t you. I didn’t sit at your bedside praying so you could wallow in misery and doubt. I didn’t do it because you are a fool, or I feared for my brother’s safety.”

  “Then why?”

  In answer, she knelt down over him, her hair cascading across his face, and then pressed her lips to his. His eyes still closed, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. He almost resisted, almost turned away, but could not. He kissed back, gently lifting a hand so he could touch her face. His mind whirled, too sick and tired to think of anything beyond the softness of her lips. When she pulled back, he finally dared open his eyes to look. She was tired, her eyes swollen and black from exhaustion, but through it all he saw a strength greater than him, and he clutched her hand tightly as if to never let it go.

  “The world will continue without you,” she told him. “People will kill, steal, bleed, and die, whether you live or not. Stop judging yourself by what you’ve done with your swords. If you would despair, remember those who love you. Let your life by judged by that instead.”

  “Do you love me, Delysia?” he whispered.

  She met his eye, and he saw the hardness in her soften. She nodded, and he reached for her. She curled against his chest, and he let his hands surround her, let his face press against her hair as he kept his breathing controlled so he would not cough blood upon her. Together they lay there, not moving, not talking. The comfort of their presence was enough.

  “I don’t know if I can,” Haern said after a time. “I’ve hurt everyone I loved. And I can’t hurt you, Delysia. I could never live if I did.”

  “I know,” she whispered. “But I’ll still be here. I always will be.”

  A memory came to him, from when they were just children, and he still in the care of his father. Together they’d met in secret on a rooftop, for Thren had denied him any knowledge of faith or love, all to make him the perfect killer. With Delysia, Haern had glimpsed a life with meaning, with purpose…only to have Thren shoot Delysia with an arrow, her bleeding body falling into his arms. That she’d survived at all was a miracle, a parting gift from another woman he’d loved before Thren killed her, as well. He thought of that moment, of how his cruel life had so vehemently rejected such a light as hers.