Blood of the Underworld

  Blood of the Underworld

  by David Dalglish

  BOOKS BY DAVID DALGLISH

  THE HALF-ORC SERIES

  The Weight of Blood

  The Cost of Betrayal

  The Death of Promises

  The Shadows of Grace

  A Sliver of Redemption

  THE SHADOWDANCE TRILOGY

  A Dance of Cloaks

  A Dance of Blades

  A Dance of Death

  WATCHER’S BLADE TRILOGY

  Blood of the Underworld

  Blood of the Father (coming late 2012)

  THE PALADINS

  Night of Wolves

  Clash of Faiths

  The Old Ways

  Prologue

  The city of Veldaren was his to protect, but more than ever, Haern felt himself losing control as he watched the body bleed at his feet. It had rained just before dark, muddying the streets and back alleys. Blood mixed with the wet ground. The dead man’s face was half-buried, mouth open in death, throat opened by blade, and both were filling with mud. In the moonlight, the green of the dead man’s cloak took on a sickly hue. Haern doubted any would shed tears for the loss, but that was beside the point. He was the King’s Watcher, enforcer of Veldaren, and such violence could not be tolerated.

  Yet, despite the work of his sabers, the violence was steadily rising.

  “I hope you find a better life beyond this,” Haern said, shutting the dead thief’s eye so it no longer stared up at him. “No one should die in the mud.”

  He stood, pulling the hood over his face. In its shadow, he peered about the alley. Come morning, he’d alert a guard to the location of the body, but before then, he needed to investigate. If the murder was what he thought it was, there’d be a sign somewhere, a message for the Serpent Guild where the guards would overlook. On either side of him were stone buildings, their sides slick from the rain. Haern slowly checked one, then the other, until he found it. Cut into the stone was a crude squiggle representing a snake. A jagged line crossed over its head. Below it was a fresh circle with eight tiny lines.

  “Spider Guild is spreading,” Haern whispered to himself as he rubbed his chin. “Or was this revenge?”

  He knew of no particular bad blood between the Serpents and Spiders, but that didn’t mean much. The thief guilds were all battling for territory, a direct result of the peace Haern had bought with blood. The three wealthiest families of Neldar, known as the Trifect, paid handsomely for protection of the entire city. Yet, over the past two years, that amount had carefully shrunk, as had the size of most thief guilds. Every bit of land meant a higher payout. With the increase of killings, the number of guildless criminals had risen. They knew the risk the Watcher posed. They knew what he was capable of. But it was starting to no longer matter.

  The thieves were getting desperate. They weren’t afraid of him anymore.

  Haern leapt to the rooftops, determined to rekindle that fear. Every night he scoured the city, often changing his route. He watched and listened, always wrapped in his gray cloaks. For years he’d foiled wars between the guilds, disrupting their plans. But there were no more plans. The thieves were wounded animals, biting at everything they saw. Every night he found a new body, a new symbol, or a new message. He wasn’t certain where the various guilds’ territories ended anymore, and he doubted the guilds themselves knew for sure.

  He ran east. Footsteps in the mud led that way from the corpse. Perhaps it was time he gave the guilds a message of his own. The steps grew fainter. Out in the wild, there were many who were better trackers, but within the confines of a city, Haern was the master. Leaping up to the rooftops, he ran along, still following the telltale signs. A knocked over barrel here. A bit of mud brushed against a wall there. After a time, he felt like he was inside the murderer’s mind, heading toward safe territory. Except that was wrong. Nowhere was safe, not from him.

  Haern found the Spider talking with a fellow guildmate, the two standing before a tavern that had long since closed. One held a knife, and he gestured wildly with it while telling a story. The blood on the blade was not yet dry. Haern worked his way closer, silently crawling across the roof until he was just above them, his ear leaning toward the edge of the tavern.

  “...a little bitch,” said the man with the knife.

  “Course they are. What you expect from a bunch of fags loyal to that Ket bastard?”

  “Still, you’d expect him to die like a man. Put a knife at my throat, you wouldn’t hear me blubbering like a child.”

  Haern drew one of his sabers, a dark grin spread across his face. Was that so? Perhaps he should test that theory. Like a ghost, he fell upon them, not a sound to give them warning. His knees crashed into shoulders of the man wielding the knife. He heard a crack of bone, and the man dropped. The other stood shocked still, his eyes wide. Haern kicked, his heel crushing windpipe. As he fell, Haern turned his attention on the boaster, who lay dazed in the mud from his head hitting the ground.

  “So is this how a man dies?” Haern asked as he put the tip of his saber against the thief’s throat. He shouldn’t be wasting time, he knew. He was deep in Spider territory, and they would fight him if enough gathered together. Not that he feared them. Only their guild leader gave him pause. Thren Felhorn. His father.

  The thief swallowed, the movement rubbing the tip up and down against his throat.

  “I didn’t do nothing,” he said. “I’ve been here all night.”

  “Do you think I care?”

  Haern knelt closer, his free hand grabbing the back of the man’s head and holding it still. He stared into his eyes, then flinched as if he were to thrust. The thief let out a cry. The smell of urine reached Haern’s nose. He leaned closer, his lips hovering before the man’s ear.

  “I see tears in your eyes,” he whispered.

  The hilt of his saber cracked down hard atop the thief’s head, knocking him out cold. Slowly rising, he drew his other saber and turned to his initial prey, the murderer. The man sat on his rear, both hands clutching his throat. He was gasping for air, the sound akin to wind blowing over the top of a chimney. Blood dripped down his wrist, to his elbow, and then to the ground.

  “You slit a Serpent’s throat,” Haern said, towering over him. “Care to tell me why?”

  The man coughed, crimson blobs flecking across his pants. He gasped a few times, as if to hold his breath underwater, then forced out a word.

  “Trespassing.”

  Haern shook his head.

  “Not good enough,” he said. “Not even close.”

  He shoved his sabers into the man’s chest, through his heart. Pulling them free, he kicked the body to the ground, then slashed open his neck. The death was quick, the message given. His throat dry, Haern turned back to the thief he’d left unconscious. He almost killed him. Almost. But enough blood had spilled that night, and it wouldn’t be the last. Once Thren found out, he’d retaliate against the Serpent Guild. Back and forth, always back and forth without end...

  He sheathed his blades and turned to go, and that was when he heard the scream. It came from a distant alley, that of a thick-voiced male. Haern followed it, guessing which alley to turn down. The night was quiet, no one foolish enough to be out and about so deep in Spider territory. At first he thought he’d guessed wrong, but then he found the victim. He lay on his back at the farthest stretch of a dead end alley, arms splayed outward. His gray cloak signified him a member of the Spider Guild. No wounds were upon him but for the tiny arrow embedded in his throat. Haern walked over to it, his stomach turning. Another? But by who, and why?

  Standing over it, Haern felt something tickling the back of his mind. Something odd. The thief had been a smaller man,
wiry, probably picked for his deft hands instead of brute strength. Hardly a whisker grew on his face. His face...

  His eyes were closed, as was his mouth. That was it. A lethal hit with an arrow should have left him gasping in pain, his face reflecting that upon death, but it did not. The killer had shut his eyes and mouth to create the appearance of sleep, but why? Knowing he had little choice, Haern reached down, pushed two fingers between the dead man’s teeth, and pried his jaw open. The starlight reflected off the metal immediately, and something about the sight sent a chill down Haern’s spine. Lying on his tongue were two gold coins stacked atop one another. Haern took them, trying to decide the significance. A personal vendetta? A paid hit by another guild?

  Laughter startled him, and he reached for his blade. He let it go when he realized it was just a drunken man curled against the wall, nearly invisible in the darkness.

  “Sorry ‘bout the scream,” he said, drinking from the half-empty bottle he held. “Didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

  “Did you see who did this?”

  The drunk shook his head.

  “Like this when I got here. Nearly tripped over the damn thing.”

  Haern frowned. So the scream had been from the drunk, not the man dying. It didn’t surprise him, given how dry the blood was across the man’s throat. He yanked out the arrow, held it up to the moonlight. He caught sight of tiny flecks of poison on the metal. A professional hit, but again, by who, and why? He glanced about, looking for a message, and quickly found it. That he hadn’t spotted it immediately upon entering the alley unnerved him. It was large, and written in blood.

  tongue of gold, eyes of silver

  run, run little spider

  from the widow’s quiver

  “The Widow?” Haern wondered aloud. The drunk’s laughter stole away his concentration.

  “You got competition,” he said, then laughed again. Haern looked to the gold coins in his hand and didn’t see the humor. Reading over the simple rhyme, a thought hit him, tightening his stomach into a knot. Bending down beside the body, he carefully lifted open the dead man’s eyelids.

  “Damn it,” he whispered. “Damn it all to the Abyss.”

  His eyes were gone, replaced by two silver coins staring up at the moonlight.

  Haern left them for the guards to take.

  1

  Haern returned home to the Eschaton Tower exhausted. He’d scoured the area surrounding the murder as best he could, and tracked down several runners of the Spider Guild. The few he found had heard nothing, seen nothing, and even when threatened they showed no sign of lying. Leaving Veldaren for the tower, he’d felt nothing but frustration and bafflement. He kept repeating the phrase in his head.

  Tongue of gold, eyes of silver...

  As he opened the door, the smell of cooked eggs welcomed him home. Delysia was the only one awake, and she sat beside the fireplace with a plate on her lap. The orange light shone across her red hair, making it seem all the more vibrant. Seeing him, she smiled. The smile faded from her youthful face when she noticed his sour mood.

  “Something wrong?” she asked.

  “I’ll talk about it later,” he promised, heading for the stairs.

  “Don’t you want something to eat?”

  He shook his head. He just wanted sleep. Hopefully when he woke up, he’d have new ideas as to why someone had killed a member of the Spider Guild in such a ritualistic—not to mention expensive—manner. The thought of eating twisted his stomach, anyway. He’d seen a lot of horrible things, but for some reason, he couldn’t get the image out of his head of the corpse’s vacant eye sockets replaced with coins.

  Eyes of silver...

  Haern climbed the stairs until he reached the fifth floor, and his room. Hurrying inside, he sat down on his bed, removed his sword belt, and drew out his sabers. Carefully, he cleaned them with a cloth, refusing to go to bed with dirty swords no matter how tired he was. That was lazy, and sloppy, and laziness and sloppiness had a way of sneaking out of one habit and into another. His many tutors had hammered that into his head while growing up, all so he could be a worthy heir to his father’s empire of thieves and murderers. He chuckled, put away his swords. Not quite according to plan, he thought, imagining Thren scowling. Not quite at all.

  Run, run, little spider...

  His bed felt like the most wonderful thing in the world, and with a heavy cloth draped over his window, he closed his eyes amid blessed darkness. Sleep came quickly, despite his troubled mind. It did not, however, last long.

  “Hey, Haern.”

  He opened an eye, saw his mercenary leader sitting beside him on the bed. His red beard and hair were unkempt from a night’s sleep. He wore his wizard’s robes, strangely dyed a yellow color for reasons he was sure he’d never hear. Trying not to smack the man, Haern rolled over.

  “Go away, Tarlak.”

  “Good morning to you, too, Haern.”

  Haern sighed. The wizard had something to say, and he wasn’t going to leave until he said it. Rolling back, Haern shot him a tired glare.

  “What?”

  “Some fancy new noble is returning to the city today,” Tarlak said, rubbing his fingernails against his robe and staring at them, as if he were only mildly interested. “Lord Victor Kane. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  The name was only vaguely familiar, which meant he’d been gone from Veldaren for a very long time. If he remembered correctly, he was just another one of those lords who lived outside the city, and liked to occasionally make a scene proclaiming how horrible Veldaren was, and how much better it’d be if their ideas were listened to. All hot air, no substance.

  “Why should I care?” Haern asked, leaning against his pillow and closing his eyes.

  “Because he’ll be meeting the King soon, perhaps within the hour. Normally this wouldn’t be a big deal, but it sounds like he’s bringing a veritable army with him.”

  “As if King Vaelor would let them pass through the gates.”

  “That’s the thing,” Tarlak said. “It sounds like he will. He sent a message to the King. I won’t bore you with all the details. Much of it was the standard pompous nonsense these lords are fond of. But one comment in particular was interesting enough my informant thought it worth waking me up early.”

  Haern put his forearm across his eyes.

  “And what was that?”

  “I believe it was something to the extent of: ‘Right now, thieves police thieves, yet when I am done, there will be no thieves at all.’” Tarlak stood from the bed, walked over to the door. “Sounds like someone plans on taking your job.”

  He left. The room once more returned to quiet darkness.

  Haern sat up, tossed the blankets aside.

  “Damn it all...”

  King Edwin Vaelor fidgeted on his throne, eager for the meeting to begin. Beside him stood his aging advisor, Gerand Crold, looking tired and bored. They’d emptied out the grand throne room of any petitioners and guests, per Gerand’s request. The advisor rubbed at the lengthy scar along his face, as if it bothered him. A sign of nervousness, belying the calm facade he showed. For some reason this made Edwin all the more impatient. Over the years he’d listened to what felt like a hundred lords all talk about how they could do a better job policing Veldaren. A few had even tried, such as when Alyssa Gemcroft unleashed an army of mercenaries upon the streets for a disastrous two nights. Half the city had damn near burned to the ground because of it, too.

  Yet, at least Alyssa he could understand, given her belief at the time of her son’s death. Women did strange things when facing loss. This Lord Victor, though...

  “You sure he has no family?” he asked Gerand.

  “Quite sure, unless he has kept them in secret.”

  The King scratched at his neck. He wore his finest robes, lined with velvet and furs that were dyed dark reds and purples. It’d been too long since he had worn it, and it itched. Still, he wanted to show this upstart noble his wealth, to remind
him of his regality and his divine right to rule all of Neldar.

  “What about a son? Or a daughter?”

  “Forgive me, milord, but I do consider that family, and as I said, he has none.”

  Edwin shot Gerand a glare, and he bowed low in apology.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I did not mean to speak with so harsh a tongue.”

  “Try not to do so again.”

  He might have made a stronger threat to someone else, but Gerand had served him loyally for years. Any threat would have been false, and both knew it. He was too important to lose. But again, it showed Gerand’s true nervousness. Why? What was it about Lord Victor that worried him so?

  “You’ve met him before, haven’t you?” he asked.

  Gerand nodded, adjusted the collar of his shirt.

  “My wife’s family lives on his lands,” he said. “I’ve spoken to him only once, but that was enough. He is not a man to forget, my liege, nor take lightly. If he says he will accomplish something, then he will accomplish it, regardless the cost.”

  “Then why worry? He’s pledged to clean out the streets. Let him try, and fail.”

  Gerand cleared his throat.

  “That is the thing. He won’t fail. What he promises is war, like which we have not had in four years.”

  The King grunted.

  “You mean when that Gemcroft bitch went mad?”

  “Yes, like that,” Gerand said dryly.

  Edwin leaned back in his chair and drank a tart wine from his goblet. Smacking his lips, he set it down and shook his head.

  “If that’s all he plans, then I’ll laugh in his face and send him back out to whatever runty castle he came from. The thieves are like rats, and they’ve grown exceptionally skilled lately at hiding in the walls.”

  On the opposite side of the room, at the end of the crimson carpet leading to the raised dais, there came a knock on the heavy doors. The guards stationed there waited for an order. Edwin sighed, rubbed his eyes. Too early. He hadn’t had much to eat, and coupled with the wine, it left him with a sharp headache. Stupid lords. Stupid, naive lords thinking they had every answer.