Blood of the Underworld Read online

  Laerek looked to Daverik for confirmation, who nodded.

  “She killed two of my Faceless,” he said. “Her name is Zusa. She was once a member of the Faceless herself, years ago.”

  “Then she needs to be eliminated,” Laerek said. “If your Faceless cannot handle her, then perhaps I will send our third after her.”

  Grayson grunted.

  “They’re calling him the Widow now,” he said. “Some sick joke he is. Not sure what you think he’ll accomplish against...”

  “Leave that to me,” Laerek snapped.

  Grayson shrugged. Laerek had made it clear that there were three key players working together in Veldaren. Two were Grayson and Daverik, but as for the third, he’d never met him, nor even seen his face. He only knew what everyone else knew: he killed members of the Spider Guild, took their eyes, and mocked them in rhymes written in their blood.

  “We have more problems to deal with than just Victor and the Trifect,” Daverik said, glancing up and down the alley. “The Ash Guild, for whatever reason, is actively working to protect Victor. The other is the Eschaton Mercenaries. That wizard of theirs kept Victor alive, and their arrival turned the fight against us at the mansion. The Watcher is also in their pay, assuming,” he glanced at Grayson, “that he’s still alive, of course.”

  Laerek nodded, palm pressed against his mouth as he thought.

  “We have more enemies than allies,” he said at last, looking up. “The guilds and the Trifect will break each other in time. It’s these interlopers that must be dealt with.”

  “And how do you plan on doing that?” Grayson asked. “Going up to them and asking nicely to stay out of our way?”

  “By hiring the Bloodcrafts. They are already here in Neldar, simply awaiting my orders.”

  That earned a surprised look from Grayson.

  “You brought them all the way from Mordeina?”

  “I did,” Laerek said. “Given the scope of our ambitions, I thought it likely we would need their help in some aspect, especially with how much our plan relies on the abilities of a mudborn thief. The Bloodcrafts come highly regarded, and their success is all but guaranteed.”

  Grayson chuckled, pulled his hat tighter on his head so his hands had something to do instead of throttling Laerek for the ‘mudborn’ comment.

  “If by success you mean killing their target and everyone remotely related to them, then sure,” he said. “But the Bloodcrafts aren’t exactly subtle.”

  “Neither are the Eschaton or the Ash,” Daverik said.

  Grayson shrugged. He had a point there. He’d seen the fire unleashed by that yellow bastard’s spells, and pretty much everyone knew of the crater left by Deathmask in the middle of the damn street.

  “Continue on as we have,” Laerek said. “Grayson, ready your men. We must prepare this city as Karak has demanded. In this, we cannot fail. Go, and be blessed by the Lion’s protection.”

  Grayson didn’t give a shit about the Lion’s protection, but his gold was real enough. He tipped his hat, then trudged off into the night. Laerek said he wanted the city prepared, and somehow that involved plunging it into total chaos. So be it. With the guilds destroyed, and the Trifect weakened, no one would have the strength to stop him. Didn’t matter if Laerek’s secret master wanted Veldaren taken over to worship of Karak, or was planning some sort of war with one of the other three nations. In Mordeina, Grayson had overcome both wars and gods. In Veldaren, he could do the same.

  Besides, once the Suns claimed the city, Laerek had an ugly surprise awaiting him if he thought he could still call Grayson ‘mudborn’ and live.

  17

  Victor looked up at his tavern and sighed with relief. He’d left only a token guard, and come morning, he fully expected it to be a burned heap instead of safe and sound. His head ached, and his armor felt like it weighed a thousand pounds, but the night was done, the sun rose above the walls, and at last he might have some rest.

  “Get men sleeping in shifts, all that you can,” he told Sef. “We’ll need to be rested for tonight. There’s no guarantee this one will be any better than the last.”

  “Course it won’t,” Sef said. Victor thought to reprimand him for the lack of respect, then let it go. They were all exhausted, their nerves shot. Pulling off pieces of his armor, Victor strode into his tavern. Within were around thirty men and women, people given shelter for fear of the guilds. Overnight, it’d been closer to a hundred crammed in there, but most had work to do, and mouths to feed. Cowering all day was just not an option.

  A few looked his way, and he nodded to them in return. One in particular, a man with long dark hair, rose from his chair. Several of the guards reached for their weapons, but the man lifted his hands to show he was unarmed.

  “A word with Victor,” the man said. “I know things, things you’ll pay much to know, but I speak only to him.”

  Two of the guards were on him then, each grabbing an arm. They looked to Victor, seeking confirmation one way or the other. Victor rubbed his eyes and stepped off the stairs to the higher floor. His boots thudded in the crowded tavern.

  “Come over here, and tell me your name.”

  The guards brought him near. The man bowed low.

  “I won’t give you my name, not with so many near,” he said. “But for the past six years, I have served Thren Felhorn and the Spider Guild.”

  Victor glanced at the people under his protection, all watching with rapt attention. He frowned.

  “Check him thoroughly for weapons,” he told his guards. “Then send him up.”

  They saluted, and without another word, Victor climbed the stairs to his room. He’d planned to change completely, but instead only removed his outer armor, leaving on the inner padding despite it stinking of sweat and blood. The washbasin had been filled recently, steam still rising from the top. He washed his hands and face, the warm water feeling divine on his skin. When the door opened, he turned about and leaned against a wall of his room.

  “Well, we’re alone,” Victor said, still holding a washcloth. In its folds was a slender dagger, which he kept carefully hidden. “I assume this is when you try to kill me?”

  “Not at all,” said the man as the guards shut the door behind him. “Killing isn’t something I’m good at. Talking, really, and listening. That’s what I do. My name’s Alan. Pleasure to meet you at last, Victor. You’ve caused quite a stir.”

  Victor chuckled.

  “I think others have caused greater. Wasn’t my men who stormed Lady Gemcroft’s mansion last night. No, I do believe that was you.”

  Alan shrugged.

  “I wasn’t there myself. Told you, killing ain’t my thing.”

  Victor didn’t care if he had or not, and given how badly his bed was crying out for him, he had no desire to argue.

  “Why are you here, Alan?” he asked. “My time is short, and my temper shorter. Speak your mind, and then be gone.”

  Victor noticed Alan held a copper coin, kept it turning between his thumb and forefinger. A nervous tic, perhaps?

  “I don’t know what you’ve been hoping to accomplish,” Alan said, “but I doubt last night was it. If Thren rallies the guilds, we’re looking at another war. That’s something I don’t want, and, truth be told, most people don’t want. But so long as everyone’s scared of Thren, well, he’ll bend people his way eventually. A few rants, a few murders, and everyone will be foaming at the mouth. He’s good at that.”

  “Make your point, thief,” Victor said, still holding the dagger tight.

  “My point? Fill my pockets with enough silver, and I’ll tell you where he is. Not just him, either. The entire guild. Everyone knows the Spider Guild is responsible for the attack on Alyssa’s, and you’re daft if you think the arrangement the Watcher created will last one second beyond his death. You want to stop this now, before it gets out of hand? Then pay up, and make your move.”

  Victor frowned, tried to think through his exhaustion. The man was right...the
Spider Guild was widely being blamed for the attack, and there didn’t exist a parchment long enough to list all of Thren’s crimes. He’d not made any significant move on Thren yet because he wanted to weaken his guild, and all the others, as well. Letting them think he’d only take the small timers, and that his crusade was doomed to fail, bought him precious time to slowly whittle away at their strength. But now things had come to a head, and blood soaked the streets. When he first marched into the city, he’d sworn to never work with any thief, but with such possible gain for so little...

  “Can you promise he’ll be there?” Victor asked.

  “You know I can’t,” Alan said. “But there’s a good chance. You got the guts to take it?”

  Victor felt his pride being challenged. The copper coin spun faster between Alan’s fingers.

  “I’ll pay you thirty silver now, thirty after we verify...”

  “No,” Alan said, shaking his head. “All now, or nothing. To be honest, Victor, I don’t trust you to let me be after you have what you need. You pay me, I talk, and then we never see each other again.”

  “And what prevents me from imprisoning you now, and torturing the information out of you?”

  Alan smirked.

  “Because that ain’t you, is it? Heard a lot about what you’re capable of, but torture’s not part of it. And if you think you can make me sell you Thren by tossing me in a cell, well, you’re a damn fool. Pay me, or watch Veldaren burn.”

  Victor rubbed the stubble growing on his face, then pushed a knuckle against his lips. At last he moved to the door, walking past Alan. If there was to be any attack, it was then, but Alan just let him by. After a knock, the door opened, and the guard peered in.

  “Bring me a bag of silver,” Victor told him. “Sixty pieces, now hurry.”

  The guard snapped to attention. When the door shut again, Victor turned to the thief.

  “Now what?” he asked.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Alan said. “We wait.”

  And they did, Victor returning to his bed and setting down the cloth and dagger. Alan paced before him, trying not to look nervous but seeming so anyway. Victor watched him at all times, still not trusting him. It burned his gut to pay for information that should have been given over freely, but times were growing desperate.

  Another knock, and then a guard entered holding a brown leather bag. Victor retrieved it, then tossed it over to Alan.

  “There,” he said. “Now talk.”

  “Corner of Iron and Wheat,” Alan said. “It’s made to look like an inn—the Thirsty Mule. Everyone should be there, recovering from last night’s debacle. Now be a man of your word, and let me pass.”

  Victor sat down on his bed, stretched his arms out at his sides.

  “Go,” he said. “But before you do...how do I know you don’t lie?”

  A faint smile tugged at the side of Alan’s mouth.

  “There’s easier ways to make money than this, Victor. Safer, too. Go to the Thirsty Mule. You won’t be disappointed.”

  Victor chuckled. His hand slipped inside the washcloth, grabbing the hilt of the dagger. With a burst of speed he caught Alan flatfooted, slamming into him with his shoulder. Together they rammed against the door, the tip of Victor’s dagger pressing against the thief’s throat. Guards cried out from the other side, but Victor called them off with a word.

  “Where is Thren?” Victor screamed into his face. His dagger pressed harder against flesh, threatening to pierce through at any moment. “Where is he really?”

  “I told you where he is,” Alan insisted.

  Victor stared into his eyes, daring him to lie, to give the slightest twitch revealing his guilt.

  “One last time,” Victor said, his voice dropping. “Where...is...Thren?”

  Alan met his gaze, and he leaned closer so that the dagger drew a drop of blood.

  “Threaten all you want,” he said. “My words aren’t changing. He’s there.”

  Victor let him go, then shouted another order to his guards.

  “Get out of here,” he said.

  Alan was all too eager to oblige. With him gone, Victor tossed the dagger atop his dresser and then rubbed his eyes. Truth or lie...truth or lie?

  “Form an escort,” he said at last, exiting his room and kissing goodbye his morning of rest. “I need to speak with Antonil.”

  Antonil met him in the castle courtyard, looking as tired as Victor felt.

  “Good to see you escaped last night unscathed,” Antonil said. His clothes were clean but unkempt. Victor figured he’d dressed quickly at his request, most likely wanting the same sleep Victor was denying himself.

  “A shame the rest of the city cannot say the same,” Victor said, clasping Antonil’s hand in greeting. “Please, forgive me for interrupting your morning, but I must act soon, and I need the help of your guard.”

  A note of caution entered Antonil’s words.

  “Act on what?”

  “I know where Thren is,” Victor said. “Him, and most likely the rest of his guild.”

  Antonil turned aside and swore.

  “You realize what this will do,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “This isn’t some minor thief or merchant. Thren has killed kings before.”

  “And yet still he lives,” Victor said, crossing his arms.

  Antonil frowned, but could not argue that point. Pacing a few steps in either direction, he mulled over the thought.

  “What is it you want?” he asked at last.

  “This is something we cannot fail. Between your city guard and my soldiers, we can seal off a dozen streets, and surround his hideout with a wall of swords and spears. Last night was the end of whatever peace Veldaren has known. Thren will not let this pass.”

  “How do you know that? I heard nothing of Thren last night, nor did anyone report his actions to my guard.”

  Victor shook his head, hardly believing what he was hearing.

  “The man is a thief, a criminal, and a madman who has terrorized this city for years. Every shred of history says he will take this opportunity to make things worse, and you want to argue about how in a single night no one happened to see him? What are you afraid of?”

  “What am I afraid of?” Antonil stopped his pacing and stepped close. “You weren’t here. At times I could barely patrol the streets because we were too busy pulling corpses out of homes and gutters. I had to put men at every single window of the castle, for Edwin was convinced he’d have his throat slit in the night. No matter how bad the killings, I could not get men to talk to me, nor my guard to investigate thoroughly, for doing so would just result in more dead. Every night, it took a little piece of me to convince this city that just maybe they could sleep well, despite it all. And now I see the same chaos erupting before me, and you call me a coward for fearing you’ll fan the flames instead of smothering them?”

  Victor endured his rant, and as memories flashed before his eyes, he breathed in deeply to stop his fists from shaking.

  “I saw more than you think,” he told the Guard Captain. “I know all too well what Veldaren was like. But you misunderstand me. I am doing this regardless of what you say. All I ask for is your help. If I must, I will bear the burden on my shoulders alone.”

  “Damn it, man,” Antonil said. “My men are exhausted. Was there not enough death last night?”

  This time it was Victor who could not control his anger.

  “Not enough?” he asked. “No, there wasn’t enough. Murderers and thieves still live. They still hold the heart of this city in their hands, and even brave men quiver at the thought of what they might do. No, the dying must go on, the blood must continue to flow, until the guilty are the ones filling the graveyards, not the innocent. Now will you help me or not?”

  Antonil swore again, clearly unhappy. Victor waited him out, let him fume and think. At last the Guard Captain met his gaze.

  “All on you,” he said at last. “If this burns us, I’ll ha
ve Edwin banish you faster than you can blink. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Clear as day,” Victor said. “Though you make it sound as if my men were not out there last night, and did nothing to help keep the peace.”

  “Since your arrival, this city has gone to the Abyss,” Antonil said, shaking his head. “Forgive me for not being so sure you’re more help than burden.”

  Victor swallowed down his frustration and pride. Time would be his judge, not a mere soldier, regardless of his rank.

  “Keep your faith in me,” he said, once more offering his hand to Antonil. “Our freedom is coming. Trust me.”

  Letting out a sigh, Antonil clasped his wrist, then stepped back.

  “So,” he said. “Where is that bastard hiding, anyway?”

  18

  Thren leaned back in his seat, feet up on the table. He drank alone. Martin had tried coming over to talk, but he’d waved him away. The rest had gone to various rooms of the inn to lick their wounds, rest their eyes, and sleep with their whores. He didn’t blame them. Not that he’d ever find himself a whore. To have his desires overcome him so fully that he’d pay to have them satisfied? No, he had better discipline than that. Besides, Marion was fresh in his mind, and it would be an insult to her memory to bed another woman now.

  “Do you miss me, Marion?” he asked his glass. “Or do you watch me even now? How many tears have you shed?”

  She’d been a stunning woman, her beauty almost exotic. While Grayson’s parents had both borne the dark skin common to those in Ker, Marion’s father had been a soldier from Neldar, instead. She’d inherited his brown hair, and her skin had softened so that no matter where she went, she stood out, his beautiful angel with sapphire eyes. She’d been no stranger to the life of a thief, and behind her well-crafted act of tenderness and humility, there’d been a will of iron. Of all the women he’d met, she’d been the only one he fully respected. The one time he’d struck her, she’d slapped him right back in return.