Blood of the Underworld Page 27

  “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...”

  A gray shape descended upon her, and she let out a cry as a heel slammed against her chest. Her momentum carried her until she hit a wall, just beside the door to a lightless home. Victor felt hope stir in his chest.

  The Watcher loomed over him, sabers drawn.

  “I’ve found you,” he said to the Widow. “About damn time.”

  Instead of showing fear, the woman started laughing, the sound of it chilling.

  “No, Watcher,” she said. “I’ve found you.”

  The door blasted open, and out rushed a man in a long red coat. He had short dark hair, and he wielded an ornate blade in one hand. He crashed into the Watcher, his sword a blur. Their combat continued behind Victor’s head, and he could not watch, only hear the shockingly loud clash of steel. From where he lay, he saw two more on the rooftop of the home, both wearing similar red coats. One leapt to the ground, just a wiry thing that barely filled out his coat. The air pulled the coat open in the fall, and Victor saw dozens of small throwing knives. The man threw several as he fell, a vicious barrage. Victor heard them clink and ping against the wall and ground. He could only hope none hit flesh.

  Still, outnumbered and surprised, could the Watcher fight off so many?

  It appeared he could, at least for the moment, as their fight returned to his line of sight. The Watcher was a twisting confusion of cloak and blade, his sabers fending off the advance of the man with the sword. He kept flinging side to side, his motions nearly impossible to predict, as was evident by the daggers thrown by the other man in chase. Each one missed by inches.

  Amid the chaos, Victor watched the Widow flee deeper into the alley, wanting no part of the chaos. Victor wanted to scream out his fury at seeing her escape, but he could do nothing, not even lift his fingers.

  As if the two on the ground were not enough, the third up top suddenly clapped her hands, and just like that, the alley filled with fire. It burst along the walls, feeding on nothing. Victor’s eyes watered, for he could not squint against the sudden barrage of light and heat. The Watcher went on the offensive, crashing into close quarters with the swordsman. The man with the daggers closed as well, wielding them instead of throwing them. The skill on display took Victor’s breath away. He’d thought himself capable. He’d thought he could handle any foe. But what he saw wasn’t human. More fire burst around the alley, roping the Watcher in. So far none had scored a solid hit, but Victor could sense the Watcher’s desperation.

  Ice lashed across the fire, and white light bathed the woman upon the rooftops, eliciting a shriek of pain. Victor’s hope increased tenfold.

  The Eschaton had arrived.

  Victor tried to follow, but so much was going on, and he couldn’t shift, couldn’t look. The dagger thrower turned on Brug, who came barreling in decked out in his thick plate. Daggers flew, and they bounced off, unable to penetrate. The Watcher upped his intensity, his sabers twirling as they battled outside his line of vision. Meanwhile spells flew through the air, ice and lightning crashing together as Delysia and Tarlak exchanged attacks with the woman on the rooftop. The sound was deafening, magic shook the walls of the homes, and amidst it all, Victor felt so helpless, so insignificant.

  The battle split, traveling both deeper into the alley as well as back out into the main street. Victor had no idea who was on the offensive, and who was in flight. He could only lie there, waiting, and hoping, as he found himself suddenly alone.

  When he felt the touch of a woman’s hand against his face, he feared it the Widow, but then he looked up into Delysia’s beautiful green eyes. Blood matted her red hair to her face, but the wound looked superficial.

  “Can you not move?” she asked.

  He looked left to right with his eyes as a way of answer.

  “I will see what I can do.”

  She reached down and pulled free the bolt from his side. The pain was intense, but did not last long. Her hand touched the wound, and he heard a soft ringing in his ears, slowly growing stronger, as she whispered words to a prayer he could not understand. When it faded, he felt a fire flood through his veins, followed by the tingling sensation of a waking limb. With it all across his body, he grimaced, nearly overwhelmed.

  A soft flutter of cloaks signaled the arrival of the Watcher.

  “Two fled, but it might be a feint to try to isolate Tarlak,” he said. “How is he?”

  “I’m fine,” Victor said, his tongue feeling thick.

  “Get him to safety,” Delysia said, standing. “I can’t lift him.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The priestess nodded.

  “I’ll find Brug and my brother. They’ll need me in case you’re right. For now, take him somewhere safe until he can recover.”

  “City...guard,” Victor said, sounding slurred, as if he were drunk.

  “You saw what those people can do,” Haern said, putting his arms around him. “You think a few guards will protect you from that?”

  A good point, however frightening. The Watcher pulled him to his feet and began carrying him deeper into the alley.

  “Where...are we going?” Victor said, grimacing against the overwhelming sensations. It was as if a thousand wasps stung his exposed skin. The Watcher’s touch was like fire.

  “To be honest,” said the Watcher. “I don’t have a clue. But anywhere’s better than here.”

  Victor felt his legs regaining strength, and he worked them as best he could so they might move faster. The Watcher’s eyes constantly scanned the environment about them, both rooftop and street. If one of the attackers returned, they’d be in a sore spot for sure. After a moment, he shook his head, then pulled them back around.

  “Never mind,” he said. “I have a better idea.”

  The Watcher carried him to the building that the attackers had been hiding in, pulling him in through the busted door. Inside was a meager home. Bodies lay about, brutally slaughtered. Victor let out a gasp at the sight. Even children, cut down and left to die, all so they might wait in ambush. The Watcher said nothing about it, but the rage rolled off of him like a physical presence.

  “Who are they?” Victor asked as the Watcher pulled him into the next room, where only a single body, that of a woman, lay facedown on the floor.

  “A family in the wrong place at the wrong time,” was his bitter response.

  “I mean their murderers.”

  The Watcher helped him sit in a corner, then turned to the woman’s body.

  “They’re a group of mercenaries known as the Bloodcrafts,” the Watcher said. “Now give me a moment.”

  The Watcher dragged the body out to be with the others, then came back in and leaned against the opposite wall. Victor studied him, finally noticing the blood pooling at his side.

  “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  “It’s an old wound,” the Watcher said. He shifted so that the blood was hidden by a cloak. “It’s nothing. I can endure worse. What of you?”

  “Starting to feel like myself. A child could probably beat me at fisticuffs, though.”

  The Watcher looked back at the door, and Victor could tell he wanted to be with the rest of his friends. Victor’s guilt grew. A trap laid for him, an innocent family dead, the Eschaton fighting, perhaps even dying, and all for what reason?

  When the Watcher turned on him suddenly, his guilt magnified tenfold.

  “Why are you here?” he asked. “You’ve driven this city insane, infected it with your own madness. What’s going on, Victor? Attempts on my life, yours, the Trifect...is it all worth it? For your pride? Your attempts at power? I had this city under control.”

  “Control?” Victor laughed. “Control? If you say so, but that’s not what I saw.”

  “What do you know of Veldaren? You’re an out
sider, some foreign born...”

  “No!” Victor shook his head, and he forced himself to sit up. “No, this is my home, Watcher. I was born here, raised here. It was the thief war that drove us out. It destroyed everything I had, Watcher, everything. You know nothing, and I won’t dare let you disgrace me so.”

  The Watcher fell silent, and he resumed scanning outside the building, as if unwilling to speak. The silence wore on Victor, and when the Watcher returned to the room, he did his best to push away his anger.

  “I don’t know how old you were,” Victor said, gesturing toward his hidden face. “For all I know you were a child, or an elderly man even then. Do you remember when the thief war started? That first night was the worst. The Trifect had bargained and bartered for months, trying to establish certain boundaries—rules of engagement, you might say. They were fools to have done so, and because of that, all of Veldaren paid the cost. My mother and father heard of Leon’s failed attempt to kill Thren and knew everything was about to go to pieces. We tried to flee, the three of us, our belongings crammed into a coach.”

  Victor sighed, and a shudder ran through him.

  “The streets were chaos,” he said. “Every single guild rose up, determined to shock and cower the city into submission. Mercenaries ran about, with hardly any orders beyond killing anyone they caught looting or vandalizing. I watched from the window of our coach. Buildings aflame, people screaming. And they hated us for it, the lowborn folk of this city. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. We had failed them. With all our wealth, all our power, we had failed to prevent the carnage. My family is not part of the Trifect, but we had dealings with them, we visited their homes and we basked in the light of their coin. To Veldaren, we were just like them. They blocked our horses, flung stones, and screamed a thousand curses as we tried to flee.”

  The Watcher shifted, pulling his cloak tighter about him.

  “I was just a child, but I do remember,” he said. “It was on that night my older brother died.”

  Victor grunted, rubbed his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

  “Nearly everyone lost someone that day, and the commoners released that anger upon us. I still remember my father pulling me back from the window, telling me to ignore them. ‘That isn’t them,’ he told me. ‘That is their fear talking, their sorrow, their anguish. Don’t hate them for it. We are as much to blame as they’.”

  “A noble man,” said the Watcher.

  “A kind man,” Victor said. “Gentle. Compassionate. Scared the shit out of me sitting across from him in that coach and seeing the fear in his eyes. They...the mob surrounded us. I saw the thieves among them, those damn cloaks. Even now, they wear them without fear. Arrows hit the sides of the coach, along with rocks. I still thought we could push through. Our driver, he just urged the horses on. I remember the first person we hit, the sound I heard as the wheel crushed bone...”

  Victor felt his memories threatening to overwhelm him, and for once, he was too tired to fight them away. His tears swelled, and he let them fall. What did it matter if the Watcher saw weakness, after all that had happened?

  “I still thought we’d make it out safely,” he said. “But then they killed the horses. That was when I knew. My mother was crying, but my father, he never hesitated. He grabbed my shirt and tore it, then yanked the boots off my feet. I didn’t understand, but he knew what was to happen. He knew. And then he struck me, again and again, until I bled across my clothes. I was too stunned to respond. He did it all so I could hide. I could be just one of the mob. Right before they tore off the doors, he had me crawl through a small window in the back and then roll to the ground. I thought they’d notice, but there were too many people, all focused on the doors. Without a single copper to my name, I ran. I didn’t look back. Those thieves...those bastards...do you realize what they did to me? It isn’t the coin. It isn’t even the murder.”

  He smashed his fists against the floor, pressed his head against the wall.

  “My last memory of my father is of him striking me!”

  The Watcher had remained silent throughout, and he let Victor calm himself, let him sit there with his fists shaking.

  “How did you survive?” he at last asked.

  “I left Veldaren,” Victor said. “Walked on bare feet north. Begged for food whenever I met strangers, and hitched rides with a few that seemed kindly. When I reached our family’s castle, I walked into the court, muddy faced and bleeding feet, and announced my presence.”

  Victor shook his head, and he wiped his tears away.

  “You ask why I do this? You ask what madness drives me? That is it. I want revenge against everything the guilds took from me. I had to flee my childhood home, while the beaten corpses of my parents were stripped naked, robbed of every possession, and then left to rot beside our dead horses.”

  He wiped away his tears, and as he did, he chuckled.

  “Do you know the worst part?” he asked. “The greatest insult? I found out Thren used our mansion as his home when he discovered it was vacant. For years he tunneled out holes and boarded up windows, and that scum lived and slept in the bed of my father. And when he left, he burned it all down, to the last brick and board. That’s when I knew. That’s when I swore to come back, to make every man bearing the colors of a guild tremble in fear of my name. Day after day I trained. My family is not the wealthiest, but I saved money like a tightfisted miser. This is my purpose. This is how I will honor the memory of my parents. Before I die, I will rid my beloved city of the rats and vultures that have done nothing but destroy.”

  The Watcher stood over him, staring, thinking. Something burdened him greatly, but Victor could only guess at what.

  “I understand more than you can possibly believe,” he said. “I am sorry for the loss of your parents, and your home.”

  Victor closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “It doesn’t matter, not anymore. What I saw out there...I am nothing to you, to your kind. I thought Veldaren full of thieves, cowards, men with daggers and poison and little else. But I was wrong. Now I see the monsters. How can I stop men who summon fire with a wave of their hand? How can I hunt down those who move faster than my eyes can follow, whose skill borders on that of gods? I’ve done nothing but throw stones into a cave, and at last I’ve woken the beasts within it. I’m a fool, Watcher, a damn fool.”

  “No,” the Watcher said, kneeling down before him and grabbing his shoulders. His blue eyes pierced out from the magical darkness of his hood. “You are what we need. You can be where I cannot, you can fill the streets with a hundred men while I am but one. One man can be stopped, but a hundred? A thousand? You told me I would inspire fear from the shadows, yet you would be the light to banish all shadows. You still can. Be stronger than them. Be stronger than any of us. Prove to Veldaren that you can stand against the darkness, without mask or cloak, and live. Can you do that for me, Victor?”

  Victor took a deep breath, and he thought of his mother and father, sitting opposite him in the coach as the mob surrounded them. No one should be that afraid, he decided. Not ever again.

  “I will,” he said. “Forgive my moment of doubt.”

  The Watcher grinned.

  “Good. Continue on as you have. As for me, well...”

  A change came over the Watcher, hardening those blue eyes. A chill swept through Victor as he realized he saw what others must see when the cloaked man descended from the rooftops, sabers drawn, fury in his every movement.

  “I’ll handle the monsters.”

  26

  Zusa had no measure of time, nothing to go on but when they fed her. Twice a small boy adorned in gray robes arrived and gently spooned gruel into her mouth. As for drink, a young girl came bearing water every few hours or so. Every time it was a different girl, and Zusa looked upon them with pity. How many might soon hide their beautiful faces beneath rags and wrappings? She felt herself weakening, felt her muscles tightening and her back ache constantly. So far Vra
shka had not returned, Daverik’s promise appearing true. But her time was almost up.

  The door creaked open, and she stirred from her daydreams of life and freedom at the Gemcroft mansion. As if to confirm her fears, Daverik stepped inside, and he looked vaguely worried.

  “Are you well?” he asked her, crossing the room.

  “A cruel question to ask a woman in chains,” Zusa said.

  “Perhaps. I have stretched my influence to its limits, Zusa. I can protect you no longer. What is your answer? Will you return to Karak’s bosom? Will you embrace the faith once more?”

  Zusa shook her head.

  “You know I won’t. What is there for me, Daverik?”

  In answer, he knelt before her and brushed her face with his hand.

  “There’s me,” he said. “There’s a life free of imprisonment and torture. Can that not mean something?”

  “The temple’s laws will keep you from me.”

  “Temple laws can be changed.”

  Zusa laughed.

  “Is that what you tell yourself?”

  He shifted closer, leaning so close that she felt his breath on her neck. His hands brushed her arms, her sides, her breasts. His cheek pressed against hers as he whispered.

  “It doesn’t matter. Come back to me, Katherine...”

  She knew what he was trying to do. His lips pressed against her neck as he cupped her face. He was trying to reignite a distant flame, a flame that, perhaps for him, had never died. And while she felt it, too, it was nothing compared to the sudden flare of shame and disgust that overwhelmed her. It was one thing for him to touch her in a distant alley, a secret meeting between long lost lovers...but here? While manacles held her wrists to a wall? While her whole body ached from the imprisonment, and she sat in her own piss and shit?

  “Katherine’s dead,” she said, pulling away from him best she could. “You killed her when you betrayed her to the priests, remember?”