Blood of the Underworld Read online

  “Down on Songbird,” Percy said. “He’s...at...shop...”

  More coughing. His eyes had turned glassy. Too much blood lost, Haern knew.

  “Damn it,” he whispered. “Tell me where, quickly!”

  Percy shook his head.

  “Pull out the sword,” he said. “And go look for yourself.”

  Haern yanked it free. Blood gushed out, and as it did, Percy’s body began convulsing in his last death throes. Haern watched, feeling strangely guilty for the act. At last, when all life was gone, he sheathed his sabers and then ran. Songbird ran for about a mile. There were only so many shops on it, but it’d take a lot of time to search them all. Still, time he had, at least to try.

  Starting at the southern edge of the road, he followed it north, his mind racing. Why would a priest hire the Bloodcrafts to kill the Eschaton? That a priest of Karak would want them dead wasn’t much of a stretch, and Tarlak tended to be meddlesome when it came to their darker affairs, but there had to have been some specific reason.

  As Haern ran, he checked each shop, those of bakers, jewelers, smiths, makers of cloth and wool. Most were dark, and their doors locked. Feeling his desperation grow, he continued on, until he heard a man scream from an alley behind him. Spinning about, Haern rushed into it, only to come to a halt.

  Thren Felhorn was there, swords drawn. Laying at his feet was a priest wearing the black robes of Karak. So far, he was alive, but his face was covered with blood. Haern realized why when Thren tossed the man’s severed ear onto his chest.

  “I said talk,” Thren told him.

  “Laerek,” Hearn said, grabbing his father’s attention. “This man is Laerek, isn’t it?”

  Thren looked up, and his expression was one Haern could not read. Was it anger, or amusement?

  “It is,” Thren said. “Do ghosts have business with him as well?”

  So far he’d made no overtly threatening actions, but he still held his swords, which was enough to make him incredibly dangerous. Haern slowly stepped into the alley with his weapons drawn.

  “I’m no ghost, and no dead man, despite what rumors you might have heard,” Haern said, making sure his hood was pulled low to hide his face in its magical shadows. “This man hired mercenaries to kill me and my friends. I want to know why.”

  Laerek refused to look his way. He was a thin man with a long nose, and now missing an ear. Thren kicked him once, blasting the air from his lungs.

  “It seems you’ve been messing with very dangerous people,” Thren told the priest before turning back to Haern. “This man sent the Suns after my guild. I’d appreciate knowing why as well.”

  Laerek rolled onto his back and pressed against the nearby wall.

  “Karak be my strength,” he prayed. “Not pain, nor death, nor threats of this world...”

  Thren kicked him in the teeth to stop the prayer.

  “Karak will not help you,” Thren said, kneeling before him. “And you will feel pain, so much pain, before your death. If you want to do something useful with your words, then talk. The more you talk, the less you suffer.”

  Haern watched as Thren grabbed Laerek’s hand, took his shortsword, and slowly sliced into the tendons of his wrist. Laerek let out a cry, yet as Haern watched, he felt no pity, no remorse. Instead he felt himself back as a child, watching his father cutting off the hand of a man that had cheated them. Despite the passing of time, Thren was still in charge, still holding the lives of others in his hands. Haern knew he should object. He’d spent his whole childhood rebelling against everything Thren had taught him. Yet this priest had played with all their lives. Everyone Haern knew and loved would be dead if he’d had his way. And so he watched the blood drip to the ground and hardened his heart against it. Had he not just thrust his own blade into the belly of another, all for a name?

  “Start talking,” Thren said as he continued to saw. He kept his fist clenching down against the veins so he’d not bleed out. His sword reached bone, and its sharp edge began to pry into the joint. “Why the Suns? Why did you have to send Grayson after me after all these years?”

  “I didn’t!” Laerek cried. “The Suns were willing, that’s all I know!”

  “Then why the Widow?”

  Haern crossed his arms and frowned. The Widow? Laerek was behind that, as well?

  “He’s just a spoiled, wealthy brat,” Laerek said. “By Karak, please, it hurts...”

  “Who is it?” pressed Thren.

  “Stephen Connington,” said Zusa from the rooftops, drawing their attention her way. Death was in her eyes, and her gaze frightened Haern more than Thren’s. “He was the Widow, your little puppet. Let me guess, priest...you told him Thren killed his father, not the Watcher?”

  Laerek’s skin was already pale, but it somehow turned paler. Thren pulled away his sword, put the bloody tip against his throat.

  “You claimed I killed Leon?” he asked. “I’d have gladly done so, but I wasn’t given the privilege. The Watcher here took that from me. So why? What has my guild done to you?”

  “Alyssa, as well,” Zusa said, leaping to the ground with daggers drawn. “You tried to have her killed. I can’t forgive you, not for that.”

  Laerek’s eyes bounced between all three of them, and he saw no comfort in any, no signs he might live. Closing them, he began praying again, until Thren shoved his shortsword between his lips. The priest’s clattering teeth rattled against the steel. Thren leaned close, and Haern saw how easily his gaze broke the man, so much easier than it had been against Percy.

  “Why?” Thren asked. “We’re all here, now tell us why.”

  “I only follow orders,” Laerek said when Thren withdrew the blade. Tears ran down his face. “I’m a messenger, just a messenger.”

  “Messenger for whom?” asked Haern.

  Laerek looked at them all. For a brief moment he paused, as if afraid to say, but his will was weak.

  “He’s a powerful priest,” Laerek said. “His name is Luther. He sends me his orders by letter from the Stronghold, and I carry them out. That’s all I know.”

  “Luther?” Thren asked, and he looked to the other two. Both shook their heads, not recognizing the name.

  “I swear it’s true!” Laerek insisted, seeing their doubt.

  “One more question,” Zusa said, moving closer. Thren stepped away, and bowed as if he were a gentlemen making way for a lady. Zusa knelt before Laerek, and glanced down at her daggers.

  “You blinded my beloved,” she said, looking up at him. “I hope you burn for an eternity.”

  Her dagger thrust into his throat, twisted, and then tore out, taking flesh and blood with it. Laerek flailed at her with shaking hands, but she held him as she watched him die. When at last he went still, Zusa stood and spat on his corpse.

  “I thought you had a question,” Haern said.

  Zusa looked to him and shrugged.

  “I lied.”

  Haern didn’t know what to say, but meanwhile Thren laughed and laughed.

  Epilogue

  No one had slept the rest of the night in the Connington mansion. Guards rushed about, suddenly without anyone in charge, and each one nervous about what the death of Stephen meant to them. Lord Gandrem assumed control with ease, settling into a role he’d known his entire life. Zusa respected him, yet feared him, as well, for every time she looked she saw Melody there at his side, his hand in hers.

  Zusa walked down the hallway, glaring at any guard who looked twice at her. Morning had come, yet the tension remained. It’d been a long couple years establishing Leon’s heir. With no remaining sons, illegitimate or otherwise, it’d be a terrible squabble among the scattered remnants of the Connington family. She felt anger in the guards directed at her, guards who had been treated and paid well, all potentially ending by her single thrust of a dagger through their master’s eye.

  Alyssa lay on her bed, Nathaniel at her side, when Zusa stepped into the bedroom.

  “Is all well?” she asked. Nat
haniel glanced up at her, and she saw the exhaustion in his eyes, which were bloodshot and wet with tears. Zusa smiled at him, wishing she could lend him strength...not that she had much left to lend.

  “I’ve known better days,” Alyssa said. A cloth was over her face, hiding the empty sockets. “The priests say they can do nothing. I’ve sent Terrance to find the finest glass smith in the land. I may not be able to see, but I’ll have eyes, damn it, beautiful green eyes...”

  She was crying, and no squeezing of her hands by her son seemed able to stop it. Zusa felt a burden growing in her chest. She wished she could say something, do something, to make it all better. But she could perform no miracles with her daggers and cloak.

  “Nathan, I need a moment with your mother,” she said. Nathaniel instinctively held his mother tighter, and Zusa smiled to show nothing was wrong. “It is no worrisome matter,” she insisted. “I just wish a few words in private.”

  “You can wait outside the door,” Alyssa told him.

  Nathaniel nodded, then blushed upon realizing she couldn’t see it.

  “Yes, mother,” he said.

  Zusa shut the door behind him, then turned back to Alyssa.

  “He’s so frightened,” Alyssa said, putting a hand on her forehead. “I can’t blame him. Even with Stephen dead, he thinks the guards will turn on us at any second.”

  “A wise boy to fear it,” Zusa said, sliding up beside the bed. “We should return to our own mansion whenever you are well. I would entrust your life to them no longer.”

  Alyssa nodded.

  “I’ll tell Terrance to make the preparations.”

  Zusa sat down, and she struggled to find the proper words.

  “I killed him,” she said. “Not just Stephen, but the man who ordered him. I tried to make it painful, but I didn’t have time. I had to get back to you.”

  Alyssa reached out her hand, and Zusa took it, pressed it against her cheek.

  “I’m sorry,” Zusa whispered. “I should have been here. I should have been faster, shouldn’t have gotten caught...”

  “It’s not your fault,” Alyssa said. “I shouldn’t have been so...blind.”

  She laughed, laughed even though she could hardly breathe, even though she still sniffled from her tears, which soaked into the cloth. Zusa squeezed her hand tighter, then kissed her fingertips.

  “Not again,” she said. “I won’t let you ever be in danger again. I failed you before, but I swear to fix this. I swear I’ll find a way.”

  “Forget me,” Alyssa said. “Nathaniel is all that matters. His role in our dealings needs increased tremendously. Every vulture will be circling. If Nathaniel is to be my heir, he needs to take it now, and show Dezrel his strength.”

  “But he’s so young...”

  “And he’s endured more than most have in their lifetimes. Gods help me, I’m blind, and he’s lost an arm. The vultures won’t just be circling, they’ll be pecking at our corpses.”

  Another bitter laugh. Zusa hated to see her so, but she also couldn’t deny her argument. Everyone would be searching for weakness now. Potential replacements for Nathaniel would come out of the woodwork.

  “I’ll kill them all,” Zusa whispered. “Any challenger, any threat. I won’t lose you, Alyssa. I don’t think I could endure it.”

  Alyssa reached out, and Zusa leaned close so she could wrap her arms about her. As they embraced, Alyssa kissed her neck, then pressed her forehead against her breast.

  “You can’t kill the world,” Alyssa told her. “And they must come to fear Nathaniel, not you. Just promise that if something should happen to me, you’ll raise him as your own.”

  “Alyssa...”

  “Promise me!”

  Zusa swallowed, and it felt like nails caught in her throat.

  “I promise,” she said.

  Alyssa leaned back in the bed, and it looked like she relaxed for the first time since her encounter with Stephen.

  “I need some rest,” she said. “Send Nathaniel in if he’s still upset.”

  “Yes, milady.”

  Zusa left, and she felt a pall settle over her. The walls of the mansion confined her, and she headed for the exit, wanting fresh air, wanting to be alone. At the doors to the mansion, Zusa stopped, for a great commotion had started. Soldiers, at least a hundred, were streaming into the mansion, shouting and joking with one another as if they’d arrived for a feast. Every single one bore the Gandrem family crest. Servants ushered them down various hallways, trying to find spare rooms.

  In the center of it all stood John Gandrem, greeting his men. And with her arms wrapped around his waist was Melody.

  “Our family will be kept safe,” Melody said, noticing Zusa standing there amid the sea of confusion. “Do not worry for my daughter, nor her son. You’ve done much to protect us, but it’s time we do this the right way.”

  Zusa said nothing, just continued to count the men. When the number reached two hundred, she returned to Alyssa’s room and hid above the door, her body awash in shadows, her daggers at the ready.

  Never again, she thought.

  Tarlak could hardly believe what he was hearing, and even if he believed it, he certainly didn’t like it.

  “Are you sure he wasn’t lying?” he asked, plopping down in his chair. Haern stood at the door to his room, hands on the hilts of his swords. “You know priests of Karak aren’t exactly known for their truthfulness.”

  “Trust me on this,” Haern said, shaking his head. “He didn’t lie. Whoever this Luther is, he set his sights on nearly every major player in Veldaren. The Gemcrofts, the Conningtons, myself, the thief guilds...”

  “Why Thren in particular, you think?”

  Haern shrugged.

  “Thought Thren would be the least likely to fold? Seemed there might be some sort of familiarity between Thren and the Suns, too. Not sure.”

  Tarlak frowned while rocking back and forth.

  “Every major player,” he said. “Every single one but the King...”

  Haern chuckled.

  “Perhaps he thought the King too inept to pose a problem?”

  Tarlak shot him a look.

  “This is no laughing matter. What you’re talking about is beyond dangerous.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Tarlak insisted. “You want to travel all the way to Ker so you can infiltrate the Stronghold, to interrogate a priest whose name you can’t be sure is real, and who might not even be there. And this isn’t some ordinary building, either. This is the dark paladins’ home, their training ground, their own little private fortress. Damn it, Haern, I’ve heard horror stories about their dungeons that make Thren seem like a pretty butterfly.”

  He stood, waved a finger.

  “And most importantly of all about this nonsensical plan...there’s no money in it!”

  The wizard plopped back down in his chair and rubbed his forehead with his fingers.

  “I won’t help you,” he said. “None of us will.”

  “I thought not.”

  Tarlak sighed.

  “You’re still going, aren’t you?”

  Haern nodded.

  “They wanted us dead, Tar. You know I can’t leave us in danger like that. What happens if he tries again? We still don’t know what Luther wanted to accomplish, other than plunging Veldaren into chaos.”

  “So you’ll go alone? They’ll kill you, you have to know that.”

  Haern seemed far too assured, far too confident. Nothing of his rant was rattling him. Something was up, and it stank.

  “I know it’s suicide to go alone,” his friend said. “That’s why I’m not going alone.”

  Haern stepped away from the door, revealing Thren Felhorn leaning against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed, an amused expression on his face.

  “I must say,” he said, glancing about Tarlak’s room. “I think I expected something more. And forgive me if I may be so bold, wizard, but I don’t think anyone has ever re
ferred to me as a pretty butterfly in my entire life.”

  He smirked as Tarlak’s jaw dropped open.

  “So please...don’t do it again.”

  Note from the Author:

  While growing up, I read a ton of comic books. I doubt this surprises anyone. When I look at my characters, I see so many of them as comic book heroes (and I’ve even had reviewers mention this as well…though not always in a positive light). But Zusa, Harruq, Thren, Deathmask, they’re all larger than life characters to me, complete with costumes and weapon of choice. Heck, even Haern’s got a secret identity and troubled past. He’s like my Batman (and don’t ask me if that makes Tarlak his Alfred).

  So one of my favorite things with comics was the massive amount of cross-overs. Spider-Man and Wolverine teaming up, or even trying to smash each other’s heads in. I loved it. It made these universes feel larger, more real. And every now and then they’d do a major event. This would be something so big nearly every hero would make an appearance, usually to prevent the world from being blasted into tiny pieces or conquered by intergalactic space bugs. For me, The Watcher’s Blade Trilogy is my attempt at my own event comic. Characters, villains, places, and events from the Half-Orcs, the Paladins, and Shadowdance will all be making cameos and playing important roles. My goal is not to leave readers who haven’t read my other works behind (I tried very hard to reintroduce everyone anew in this book). No, it’s to hopefully reward the faithful, the ones who’ll devour everything I have in a two week span and then wonder when’s the next. If having Haern meet Darius makes you smile, I’ve done my job.

  Astute readers might have noticed that the cover of this book is a lie. It’s true. That’s Grayson and Zusa fighting on the cover, and such a fight never really occurs. When deciding the layout for the trilogy, my first intention was to do something similar to Shadowdance, with characters over a plain, perhaps even white, background. However, instead of just showing Zusa, I wanted to show as many major players as possible, and created a list of six: Antonil, Deathmask, Haern, Thren, Zusa, and Grayson. Given how the second book is called Blood of the Father, you can probably figure out which two will be on that cover. Since this is a sequel series to Shadowdance, I felt it best to have Zusa on the first cover, and with Grayson dying, well, that meant putting him on book three would be kind of stupid. Unless I implemented Zombie Grayson. Which, given my history, I wouldn’t put it past me. So that’s why Zusa vs Grayson is the cover. I hope none of you spent the whole book wondering when that fight was going to happen.