Blood of the Underworld twb-1

by David Dalglish

  Thren stood, and his hand fell to the hilt of a shortsword.

  “Can you find the way?” he asked. Cregon’s eyes widened, and he nodded. “Good. Then close up shop. You’re leading me there.”

  Cregon locked the door to the shop, pocketed the key, and then hurried off. Thren followed, lurking a few feet behind him.

  “Pick up the pace,” Thren told him, rolling his eyes. The man looked like a pregnant sow trying to waddle on two legs. “I don’t want this Widow to move before we get there.”

  “The Widow?” Cregon asked, glancing behind him. “That’s who we’re looking for?”

  “It is. Now move.”

  Cregon hurried faster, huffing and puffing as they made for the west gate. A few passing by recognized him and said hello, and the wizard tipped his hat in return. At the gate, the guards waved him on by without a word. Thren followed, looking much like the poor commoner and hardly earning a second glance.

  “How far?” Thren asked as they traveled the road.

  “Not far,” Cregon said, very much out of breath. “Not…” He swallowed. “Not far.”

  Quarter mile from the city Cregon turned sharply off the path. Realizing where they traveled, Thren quietly drew his shortswords, thinking the wizard leading him into a trap. Cregon stopped just short, and he gestured before him.

  “In there,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

  He’d taken them to a pauper’s graveyard, where the city guards buried the nameless dead without a single copper in their possession to earn them a gravestone or marker.

  “This Widow is still alive,” Thren said. “You’ve made a mistake. You must have.”

  “No mistake,” Cregon said. “I assure you, she must be here.”

  Thren pointed a shortsword toward the graveyard.

  “Then find her.”

  Cregon held the fist with the hair to his lips, and he closed his eyes. After a few whispers, he opened them.

  “Follow me.”

  Near the far corner he stopped, and with his heel he made a small x.

  “Right here,” he said.

  Thren wanted to believe the wizard was lying to him, but he’d always been a coward, and the fear in his eyes was genuine. Surely he’d made a mistake, but Cregon appeared convinced otherwise.

  “Go on back to your shop,” he said. “Leave me be.”

  Cregon was more than happy to obey. When he trundled off, Thren remained, staring at the mark in the dirt. At last he returned to the city and swiped a trowel small enough to hide underneath his thin coat. Once more he walked to the graveyard, and without a care for time, began to dig. The day passed by, hour by hour, as he unearthed the grave. At last he hit bone, and then started digging around it. By the time the woman’s skull was revealed, the sun had begun to set. Exhausted, he sat back and viewed the results of his work.

  The body was far from fresh, at least several years buried to his untrained eye. The dead woman still had her teeth, and her fingernails. As for her hair, though…

  He broke the skull free and lifted it up to the waning light. All across the bare skull he saw tiny marks, scratches as if from a small blade.

  “A wig,” Thren said, tossing the skull back into the shallow grave. “What is it you hide, Widow? Who are you really?”

  Still, he had a few clues now, however meager. Standing, he kicked dirt into the grave until the body was covered, then looked back to Veldaren. Her lanterns were starting to twinkle into existence one by one. There was a time when Thren had considered Veldaren his city, all his. How far had he fallen to be outside it, digging up a poor woman’s corpse, while the rest of the guilds and Trifect plotted and maneuvered? Hands clenched into fists, he stabbed the trowel into the earth to serve as a burial marker. Alone he walked toward the road.

  Veldaren would be his city again. He swore it. Once he had his vengeance, once he knew who was out there pulling the strings of puppets, he would retake his city brick by brick.

  My city.

  The thought put a grim smile on his face. For a while he’d accepted that the city was no longer his, but his son’s. That was over. The rumors of the Watcher’s survival meant nothing to him. He’d started them, playing the sham in a failed attempt to shame Grayson in the eyes of the underworld. But Victor’s arrival had shifted things beyond his control, had made it so Grayson needed to only watch as Thren’s guild was broken.

  Darkness settled across the land as he walked his path. He’d take it all back. He’d rebuild, fight for it with every last measure of his skill. He would find victory. And if he couldn’t, then he’d burn it all to the ground.

  My city, thought Thren.

  My city…

  Or ashes and rubble.

  25

  Victor stepped inside his makeshift home and let out a sigh of relief. Another day over, another twelve gone to the executioner’s blade. The light was fading as the sun dipped below the walls of the city, but inside was well lit, and crowded with families still seeking refuge from the vengeance of the thief guilds.

  “Where’s your guard?” Sef asked, sitting at the bar where Victor joined him. “You did have a guard, right?”

  “What business of yours is that?” Victor asked, accepting the drink Sef slid over to him.

  “My business is to keep you alive, and to kill the rats of Veldaren. So far, I think I’m doing better at one than the other.”

  Victor shrugged.

  “The streets have grown calmer. You know that.”

  Sef rolled his eyes.

  “So no escort, then?” At Victor’s chuckle, Sef shook his head. “Going to get your damn self killed, Victor. I thought you’d learned better.”

  “Can’t help it. I am no helpless child.”

  Sef stroked at his beard, a habit Victor recognized well. It meant Sef was growing frustrated with him.

  “Our foes aren’t so helpless, either. But if you want to go about trusting only your sword arm, then go right ahead.”

  Victor stood, patted Sef on the shoulder.

  “You know the gods have a better fate for me than dying to some soulless vagabond. Stay safe on your patrols tonight.”

  Sef grunted.

  “Thought you said the city had grown calmer.”

  Victor grinned at him as he headed for the stairs.

  “Did I? But my advisors insist the world is still a dangerous place, and I feel it best to listen.”

  “Bastard.”

  Victor waved without looking. At the top of the stairs were the two guards watching his room, to ensure no one entered during his absence. Victor nodded at them, then waited for his door to be unlocked.

  “Sleep well, milord,” said one as he pushed the door wide.

  “That’s the hope.”

  As Victor removed his armor, he glanced at the far wall, which was now plain and bare wood, without painting or decoration. The carpenters he’d hired had rebuilt it at an impressive pace, repairing the gaping hole Tarlak’s spell had left. Victor chuckled. Next time, he’d make sure he learned all the details of any spells that that wizard placed for his protection. He’d expected a few planks to fall loose, or some magical porthole of sorts to open up. When the wall had exploded out as if a dragon let loose its rage against it, he’d nearly soiled his armor. Of course, it was his own fault for expecting subtlety from a wizard who dressed in bright yellow.

  After checking underneath his bed, Victor climbed in, lay down, and tried to sleep. Try as he might, sleep would not come. Tossing and turning, he felt time crawling along. The sounds from the tavern below quieted as those under his protection settled in, as well. That helped, but only a little. Sleep had grown steadily rarer during his time in Veldaren. The faces of the men who died that day flashed before his eyes, and he remembered them all, joining the ghostly choir that wailed in his nightmares. They all had something different to say, some plea or explanation when they knelt before the chopping block. It was as if they could never admit they’d done their wrongs for thems
elves, to satisfy their own greed and lust. They cried of children, mothers, families, debts, mistakes made, and long forgotten histories they always insisted they regretted.

  Victor tossed and turned, tossed and turned. Perhaps he needed to have the executioners use a gag on them. The only other option was to not be present, but he refused. He might not swing the blade, but he was the reason for their deaths, and his pride demanded he be in their presence. Cowardly hiding might make it easier, but that was the last thing he wanted. He wanted it to be hard. He wanted every death to weigh on him, despite what he showed others. The final moment, when there was no one left to give to the executioner’s axe, would be that much sweeter for it.

  The night dragged on. Victor’s thoughts turned to his parents, of brighter memories in his childhood. Lost in them, he almost didn’t hear the soft clink of armor hitting the floor. Almost. Victor tensed, not once doubting his instincts and the danger they cried. It might have just been his guard shifting positions, but it didn’t sound right. It almost sounded like a guard had chosen to sit down, something he’d never, ever do.

  His sword was beside him on the floor, just within reach. Trying to make little noise, he reached down and lifted it still in its scabbard. As the door crept open a crack, he managed to slide it underneath his blankets. Victor half-closed his eyes so that his intruder might believe him asleep. With the smallest movements possible, he held the hilt with one hand and pulled the scabbard down with the other. Didn’t want to let them know, didn’t want to scare them off, especially if there was more than one.

  The door opened wider. Victor clenched his jaw to prevent any giveaway. Stay calm, he told himself. Just wait. Still, he quickened his pace with the scabbard. The blade of his sword was halfway exposed, but it’d be cumbersome to use in the cramped quarters. Stupid, stupid, why didn’t he just keep his dagger with him instead?

  Two men stepped inside, each one carrying a small blade. Victor choked down his fury at his guards for letting such things pass by their scrutiny. They’d slacked on their precautions because of how many came and went, he had no doubt. Victor waited until they stepped all the way in, and were just starting to move to opposite sides of his bed, before he struck. In a single motion he freed his sword from his scabbard and flung aside the blankets, giving him freedom of movement.

  If the men were surprised, they showed no sign of it. Victor lashed out with his sword, a long arc that had far more reach than they did with their daggers. The one on the right tried to block, but he lacked both the strength and weapon to do it. Victor’s sword bounced off, angling it higher so the sword hit his neck instead of his chest. It hit his neck bones with a wet chop. Victor tried to swing back to the other side, to where the second thief was lunging, but his blade had caught between two vertebrae. Panicking, Victor let go and fell back, narrowly avoiding a slash. He rolled away and off the bed, trying to gain some distance.

  “There’s no hope for you,” the assassin said, his voice a whisper.

  The crossbow bolt thudding into his neck seemed to say otherwise. The assassin slumped to the bed and bled out on the sheets as Victor scrambled to his feet. A third man stood at the door, miniature crossbow in hand. He was an older man, and wore the plain browns of a commoner.

  “Friend,” the man said when Victor reached for his sword.

  “That so?” Victor asked, putting a foot on the dead man’s head so he could yank his blade free. “Then who are you, friend?”

  “No lie, milord. I’m here to help. My name’s Gart. Antonil put me here to protect you.”

  The light was dim, but Victor saw Gart pull down his shirt, revealing a city guard’s tunic underneath as proof.

  “Antonil’s keeping his eye on me, is that it?” Victor asked.

  “You expressed concern with the families staying here. He thought it best to help keep an eye on them.” Gart nodded at the two bodies. “Caught them sneaking toward the stairs when they thought everyone asleep. Killed the guards at the stairs by your door. Real pros.”

  Victor rolled over the one at his feet using his heel, then looked him over.

  “Any idea the guild?” Victor asked.

  “Not really. Not like they’d have been foolish enough to send people with colors or tattoos identifying them.”

  It made sense, but was still frustrating. Standing, he looked to Gart and frowned at the crossbow.

  “How’d you sneak that past my guards?”

  Gart stood up straight.

  “I told them it was with the authority of the King, and that they were to tell no one, not even you. If it makes you feel better, your men were most displeased, and I feared they might inform you despite my warnings.”

  Victor felt his anger growing. Not only had two men come into his place of safety and nearly killed him, but Antonil was spying on him as well, and hiding things from him?

  “It’s no longer safe here,” Victor said, grabbing his armor. “I told Antonil bringing in civilians would put me at risk. I told him! They will not stay here, not any longer. And much as I owe you, Gart, I still resent that your presence was kept hidden from me.”

  “Just following my orders, milord.”

  “I know. It’s those orders I plan on questioning.”

  Armor on, sword buckled to his waist, he stepped into the hall. His guards lay slumped against the wall, throats opened and tunics stained with blood. Victor closed their eyes with his fingers, offered a silent word of thanks to the men who had given their lives to protect him. And then he was moving on, Gart in tow.

  “Summon your guard, and have them clean up this mess,” Victor told him. “After that, start gathering the people here and bring them to the castle. If Antonil wants them kept safe, and wants to position men in secret to guard them, then let him take their responsibility in full. I need no more assassins in my bedchambers.”

  “Milord, I’m not sure if I should do that until…”

  Victor spun on him while still halfway down the stairs.

  “I will speak with Antonil myself, and I assure you, I will not have my request denied. Take them to the castle. Do you understand me?”

  The older man nodded.

  “As you wish, milord.”

  They continued down the stairs, to where the commoners slept all across the floor. Victor navigated around, and then he and Gart stepped out into the night. Four men stood guard at the door, and they saluted when they realized it was him.

  “City guard will soon arrive,” Victor told them. “Help them in any way you can.”

  He started toward the castle unescorted. One of his men called out after him.

  “Milord…”

  Victor glared back, silencing his comment. Gart followed him a little ways, then stopped.

  “Nearest guard station is this way,” he said, gesturing east.

  “I will be at the castle,” Victor said, not slowing. “Safe travels.”

  Gart didn’t look happy, but he left anyway. Victor knew he was being proud, but he didn’t care. He was a skilled fighter, and he wore his shining armor. Piss on anyone that thought him vulnerable. The scum of the city needed to catch him sleeping in his bedclothes to even have a chance. Marching down the quiet night streets, he made his way toward the center of the city, then hooked north toward the castle. Only a few times did he see signs of life, those of taverns burning their midnight oil to fill the poor and destitute with enough alcohol to forget their dreary lives. Victor both pitied them and despised them. They’d be either fodder for thieves, or new recruits. Once their lives continued to fall apart. Once they lost enough to believe they could never replace it without taking by force.

  Several times he thought he saw someone following him out of the corner of his eye, a gray blur along the rooftops. Every time he turned back he saw nothing. Just nerves, he told himself, but his instincts said otherwise. So be it. He would show no fear. It was the thieves that must fear him.

  As he passed by a row of homes, not much more than a quarter mil
e from the castle, he heard a soft voice call out to him.

  “Sir?”

  Victor slowed, and he glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.

  “Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

  “They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they…they…please help. They’re in my home…”

  Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.

  “How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”

  “They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”

  “Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”

  “I’m not sure you can, Victor.”

  Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.

  “Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger.

  Stupid, thought Victor as the bolt hit his side, just below the curve of his breastplate. Proud and stupid.

  He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to whom she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first, or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.

  “I know you can’t move,” she said, kneeling down beside him. From within the folds of her dress she pulled out a knife, its sharp edge reflecting the starlight. “You might think you won’t feel it, but I assure you, you will. You’ll…”