Blood of the Underworld Read online

  “I’m sorry if I startled you,” the young man said. He looked him over, his eyes lingering on the stump of his arm. “You must be Alyssa’s boy, right? Nathaniel?”

  Nathaniel nodded, self-consciously clutching the stump with his other hand.

  “I am,” he said.

  “I’m Stephen. So glad to meet you.”

  Stephen? Nathaniel realized who stood before him and nearly panicked. Here was their host, kind as could be, and Nathan had plowed headfirst into his stomach because he’d been spooked by a few old children’s toys. Nathaniel fell to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Milord, I am honored to meet you. Please, forgive my poor greeting.”

  He wanted to say it, and nearly did.

  Oh, and please, please don’t tell my mother.

  “Nothing to forgive, now stand up. It seems you wandered off, and others were starting to worry.”

  Nathaniel felt his neck flush. Hardly ten minutes into their new home and he was already in trouble. Not a good start to the day.

  “I didn’t mean to scare anyone,” he mumbled.

  Stephen put a hand on Nathaniel’s shoulder, guiding him back down the hall.

  “I’m sure you didn’t. Your mother is just nervous, what with the attack on her mansion. Most understandable, really.”

  Right before turning a corner, Melody stepped around, and she sighed with relief at seeing the two.

  “You shouldn’t run off like a little street urchin,” she said, but her words felt perfunctory. Nathaniel caught her eyes stealing to Stephen. Was she trying to gauge his reaction, see if he was upset?

  “He was only studying the layout of the house, like any smart child would do,” Stephen said, smiling down at Nathaniel. “Isn’t that right?”

  Nathaniel couldn’t nod his head in agreement fast enough. Stephen let go of his shoulder, and at Melody’s approach he opened his arms so the two might embrace.

  “It is good to see you again,” Melody said. “And I have no doubt as to the boy’s intelligence, though he could use a bit more sense. But I should be kind. Anyone graced with visions should be expected to have their head more often in the clouds than on where one foot goes after the other.”

  Stephen cocked his head at that.

  “Visions? Do you mean…?”

  “With my chrysarium,” Melody said, and there was a hint of pride in her voice. “Truly, I have never seen one so blessed. His mother has taught him little of faith, and never taken him to temple. I think the chrysarium awakened his soul with a hunger.”

  Something about this seemed off, and Nathaniel didn’t like it at all. He kept hoping to see Zusa coming around the corner to join them, daggers in hand. They spoke of the chrysarium, and the visions, and it made his mouth dry and his testicles shrivel thinking of what he’d seen.

  Stephen knelt down before him. A subtle change had overcome him, that youthful innocence replaced with something more, something Nathaniel didn’t understand.

  “What did you see?” he asked. “Did you see Veldaren?”

  He swallowed. Melody and Stephen were on either side of him, blocking the hallway. He felt trapped, and worse: the vision was returning, dominating his sight against his will.

  “I did,” he said. “At least, I think it was.”

  “What of it? Did it bloom, or burn?”

  “Burn.”

  Like a thousand suns, he thought, but did not say it. Melody and Stephen shared a worried look, and he saw his grandmother take Stephen’s hand.

  “He was so frightened,” Melody said. “I think...”

  Stephen seemed to get it immediately, and he turned once more to Nathaniel.

  “You saw him, didn’t you?” he asked. “His eyes like fire?”

  Terror gripped his heart. He didn’t want to think of it, didn’t want to remember it. Tears ran down the sides of his face.

  “I did,” he whispered.

  Stephen wrapped his arms about him, pulled him close against his breast.

  “Shush now,” he said, gently stroking his hair. “It’s all right. You poor child, you haven’t slept well since, have you? I’ll pray for you so that you can.”

  Stephen stood, and again he and his grandmother shared a lingering moment.

  “We’re almost out of time,” he said. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to save the city...”

  He stopped as Alyssa came around the corner.

  “Nathan?” she said, and Stephen parted so he could run to her. He wrapped his arm around her leg, felt her gently stroke his forehead. “Nathan, are you crying?”

  “He felt guilty for running off,” Stephen said. “I think he feared he embarrassed you because of it, or that I might be upset, which I can assure you I am not. My home is his now, as it is yours, until everything can be made right.”

  The eyes, thought Nathaniel, unable to stop the memory. The tears had been of silver and gold, his face a shadow, but the eyes...the eyes...

  The eyes of fire burned, focused on Veldaren, their essence consumed with fury and craving destruction. More and more gathered under the shadow’s banner, and the silver tears fell like rain across the city. He heard a child crying, crying...

  By the time the vision ended and he came to, he was laying on his back, his mother kneeling over him. All he could say was the same thing, over and over.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  20

  Haern woke to the sound of scraping steel. He bolted upward in his bed and immediately regretted it. A moment of vertigo doubled him over, and he coughed and heaved as his insides twisted. Beside him, Brug sat up in his chair, dagger and whetstone in hand.

  “Easy there,” Brug said, reaching over and pushing Haern back down onto the bed. Haern lacked the strength to resist, and he slowed his breathing so his heartbeat might return to normal.

  “Where’s Delysia?” Haern asked.

  Brug lifted an eyebrow at him and let out a grunt.

  “Forced her to take a rest,” he said. “Been at your side nearly all night. It’s midday now, in case you can’t tell. You were out all morning.”

  Haern remembered the fires he’d seen, the chaos unfurling at his supposed death.

  “How’d everything go?” he asked.

  Brug scraped the stone across his blade.

  “Well...”

  He began talking, and Haern listened intently. He heard of the smaller fires, the delay, and then of the larger attack on the dungeon. Haern shook his head at this, thinking of so many he’d put away managing to escape. It seemed the guilds were not just eager to celebrate, but wanted to wipe away every shred of his accomplishments in a single night.

  “It was all just a feint, though,” Brug said, putting down one dagger and grabbing the other. “The real fight was at Alyssa’s. I’d say you should have been there, but from what my eyes were seeing, you already were.”

  Haern frowned, confused.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean someone dressed up as you, grabbed similar swords, and went to town killing thieves to protect the Gemcroft mansion. Saw him, or you, or whatever, fighting alongside that Zusa girl who’s always protecting Alyssa. Damn good, too. Might have fooled me if I hadn’t seen the gaping hole in your chest earlier that morning. Not even Delysia can get someone up and running just a day after that.”

  Haern lay down and closed his eyes to think. Someone impersonated him, but why? The obvious reason was to convince the town he was not, in fact, dead. But who benefitted most? Who had the skill, and the physical ability, to so closely imitate him? It was a small list indeed, and none made any sense.

  “What of the fight?” he asked, trying to pull his mind back to other matters.

  Brug shrugged.

  “Was just a huge mob for the most part. Plenty died, but at least a good chunk were thieves as well.”

  “Which guild?”

  Brug scratched at his beard.

  “Now that I think of it...all of ‘em. A
lyssa must have pissed someone off good. Grudge from letting all those mercenaries loose, perhaps?”

  It was possible, but didn’t feel right.

  “Thren’s the only one who’s been able to unite the guilds before,” Haern said. “I wouldn’t doubt he’d hold a grudge, but this feels too similar to the failed attack during the Bloody Kensgold. He would have learned from that. And this may sound crazy, but I think he likes things as they are. That’s why he attacked Victor.”

  “He attacked Victor because Victor was taking down his men and cutting off their heads.”

  “Small timers, minor thieves. He didn’t like Victor threatening the delicate balance I’ve created.”

  Brug grunted, rocked his chair back and forth.

  “You’re starting to sound like that hit on your head really got to you worse than we thought. Listen to yourself. Are you saying Thren likes having you lord over the underworld? Why? Next you’ll be saying that it was him pretending to be you last night.”

  Haern gave him a look, and Brug closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his thick, callused fingers.

  “Really? You actually think he did? If that’s the case, then I don’t know what’s going on in Veldaren anymore. Everyone’s losing their damn minds, you included.”

  Haern laughed.

  “Be useful, and get me something to eat.”

  As Brug left the room, muttering to himself, Haern closed his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the beginnings of another headache coming along, and if it was anything like the last, it’d be crippling. Shifting side to side, he tested his wounds. The skin was tightening up, though when he lifted the bandages he found his stab wound a deep purple, and horribly scarred. Rocking back and forth didn’t seem to strain it too badly, though it did make his muscles ache. Worse was how his balance still felt off. Even that slight motion sent his stomach looping.

  Not too frightening a foe that keeps vomiting mid-fight, thought Haern.

  Brug returned carrying a small tray of food, and it was more cruelty than kindness. The smell was divine, and Haern’s mouth watered, but his stomach heaved, and he turned to the side of his bed so he could vomit. He saw a small amount of blood amid the bile, but tried not to worry. That he was sitting up and talking was enough of a sign for him that he’d make it out all right.

  “Thought it looked pretty good myself,” Brug said, glancing down at the plate of carrots and beef. “Perhaps just some ale for now?”

  Haern looked at the offered mug.

  “Why not,” he said. At least it would get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. He took a few swallows, just enough to clear his throat. Brug put the tray down beside his bed and settled back down in the chair.

  “Tarlak said he’s hearing some bizarre rumors coming in from the city,” Brug said. “Looks like Victor moved against the Spider Guild. Those he caught are all claiming the same thing; Spider Guild’s been disbanded, and Thren’s vanished.”

  Haern felt like he’d been slapped with a wet towel.

  “You can’t be serious,” he said dumbly.

  “I’m not much for joking, Haern. I’m starting to think you might be right about Thren pretending he was you, because let’s face it, he’s completely falling apart.”

  Haern pressed his palms against his forehead.

  “What now?” Brug asked.

  “Headache,” Haern said, slowly breathing in and out. “Feels like someone stuck a knife in my brain, and every few minutes they can’t help but give it a twist.”

  “Del did say that hit to your head was a nasty one. What smacked you, anyway? A brick?”

  “A foot.”

  Brug snorted.

  “I’m not sure I want to meet that guy, then,” he said, stealing Haern’s mug and downing a third of it. “What’s his heel made of, stone?”

  The confrontation with the mysterious man came back to Haern, much as he didn’t want it to. His attacker had shown no guild affiliations, at least, not in any way Haern recognized. He’d been a giant man, dark-skinned, incredibly fast for his size...

  “Can’t stay like this,” Haern said. “Still in the dark about too much. The Spider Guild’s disbandment proves that. I need to find out what’s going on. I need to know who’s playing us all like puppets.”

  Run, run little spider...

  “You aren’t going anywhere as is,” Brug said. “At least give yourself another night to...”

  Haern caught Brug’s eyes glancing out the window, and whatever he saw gave him pause.

  “What is it?”

  He shifted in bed so he could look out. From his window in the tower they could both see the pathway stretching toward them from Veldaren. Walking alone on that path was a man, his lanky form wrapped in a thick red leather coat. A wide-brimmed hat colored crimson hung low over his face. Across his back, easily visible despite the hundreds of yards between them, was an enormous two-handed sword. A red ribbon fluttered from the handle in a soft breeze.

  “Friend of yours?” Brug asked. Haern shook his head.

  “Perhaps he knows Tarlak?”

  Something about the way he moved made both of them uneasy. The fashion of the hat and coat suggested him an outsider, far from Veldaren. Brug fetched his daggers, then moved to the door.

  “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

  Haern chuckled as the door closed.

  Stay here?

  He pushed himself out of bed, clutching the wall to keep his balance. Vertigo came over him a second time, but he fought through it. He’d been trained better than this, he thought, taught to overpower far greater. His father had supplied him with tutors, teachers, masters of both mind and body. So what if a man the size of an ox had nearly caved in his skull? He was still stronger.

  All that determination still felt small compared to the pain in his temples, and it did nothing to reduce the obnoxious white glare that seemed to come off of everything. But he forced it away, thrust it into the corners of his mind, let it ache but not distract. He found his shirt lying beside the bed, a hole still in it from where he’d been stabbed. He put it on, then pulled his hood over his head. As the shadows covered his face, he felt his tension ease. No matter the injury, no matter all that had happened, he was still the Watcher. He was greater than this.

  A glance outside the window showed the man was almost to the tower. So far he had not drawn his blade. At the closer distance, Haern could see strange markings tattooed across his neck and hands. Set into the hilt of his sword was an enormous crystal, clear as water. Haern could only guess its worth, but the estimate was staggering. Stopping just shy of the path to the door, the man looked up at the window, right at Haern. A wide smile spread across his face, which was half covered by lanky strands of blond hair. That smile was like an icicle to the eye.

  “Eschaton!” the man shouted. His voice tore through the quiet afternoon, and it was strangely high-pitched. “I am Nicholas Bloodcraft, and I have come to kill all of you. If you surrender now, your death will be merciful, a swift, painless beheading. If not...”

  Before the man could even finish, the door to the tower opened, and Tarlak stepped out, fire burning on his hands.

  “Consider this my counterproposal,” Tarlak said. A ball of fire shot from his palm, directly for Nicholas. Haern tensed, convinced it would not be so easy. The strange man pulled his sword off his back and held it blade downward, the hilt raised before his chest. Mere feet away, the fireball suddenly winked out of existence, without even a hint of smoke. Tarlak hurled a second ball of fire, and it vanished all the same.

  Haern grabbed his sabers from beside the window as Tarlak lifted his hat and scratched his head.

  “Huh.”

  Tarlak slammed the door shut after rushing back inside. Nicholas calmly approached the tower, sword still drawn, grin still ear to ear. Haern pushed away from the window and staggered toward the stairs. The man was a professional, there was no doubt about that. Worse, he looked to be the perfect
counter to their mercenaries. If Delysia and Tarlak could not use their magic, that left only Brug...

  Haern shoved his door open, pausing a moment to tighten the bandages about his chest. No, Brug would not be able to handle someone of that skill. His talents lay in smithing, not combat. He had to get down there. He had to hurry. Step after step, each one jolting him with pain. The sabers in his hands shook, and he felt the leather of the hilts starting to cover with sweat. Had to hurry. Had to be stronger.

  The door smashed open as Haern reached the bottom step. Nicholas’s massive sword cleaved it in two, a feat that should have been impossible. Besides the enchantments Tarlak had placed upon it, the wood itself was thick. But his mind’s feeble protests changed nothing as the man stepped inside, red coat billowing as dusty air poured into the tower. Brug stood guard opposite him, Tarlak and Delysia behind.

  “You’re not welcome here,” Brug said, clanging his two punch daggers together. He wore his platemail, though Haern wondered how useful it’d be against a blade that could chop an oak door in half.

  “Least he was polite enough to knock,” Tarlak said, ice swirling in his palm.

  Nicholas lifted his sword with a single hand and pointed it at the three.

  “Last chance,” he said. “Not that I mind the gore, or a good fight, but this won’t be any competition. Won’t be any fun. Kneel down, offer me your necks, and you’ll die easy.”

  Haern saw more tattoos on his hand, swirling lines almost like arcane runes. They shone a soft blue, pulsing along with the man’s heartbeat. Everything about Nicholas screamed danger, but those runes told Haern to expect more than the humanly possible from his opponent. Well, that, and the split door.