Blood of the Underworld Read online

  “Be careful,” she told him.

  He leaned in close to gently kiss her cheek.

  “I will,” he said. “I promise.”

  “You sure it’s safe to be out here?” Peb asked as they neared the castle. His wide eyes darted every which way, as if guards were trying to sneak up behind him from all directions. With his big ears, the act only reminded Alan why Peb had once been called Mouse.

  “I’m not sure it’s safe to be anywhere in Veldaren right now,” Alan said, twirling a copper coin between his thumb and forefinger, something he did when nervous. “So why should the castle be any worse?”

  Peb nodded toward the rows of men and women waiting to be interrogated by Lord Victor’s men.

  “Maybe because any one of them people might be blubbering our names any second?”

  Alan ran a hand through his long dark hair.

  “Thren wants answers, wants something new, so either we get him something new, or we get a tongue-lashing...if we’re lucky. Given the mood he was in, I’m not willing to gamble on that. I’d rather tempt the city guards than the boss.”

  Peb didn’t look convinced, but Alan didn’t care. The guy was a coward, and more importantly, he hated to be alone. He’d follow Alan, so long as things still looked safe. Alan patted his leg, glad for the dagger hidden there. Taking a deep breath, he summoned his courage and then walked out from the alley and into the main street, where the interrogations continued. Peb quickly followed. The two were in ratty clothing, their faces dirty, their hands calloused. Anyone who bothered to notice them would think them nothing but poor, hungry peasants. At least, that was the hope.

  Alan led the way, faking a limp toward the lines. At the front he saw scribes jotting down the guts that their current pigeons spilled. Not that Alan blamed them. When your life was on the line, or the coin was right, honor was nothing but a hindrance. Making as little noise as possible, he listened as they got closer, hoping to catch an errant phrase, but a soldier noticed them before he could.

  “Stay back, you two,” said the armored man, his hand already on his sword. He stood between them and the tables of scribes. On his chest was a tabard bearing a crest Alan did not recognize, some strange circle with wings drawn in gold. “Any closer, and I’ll think you a threat.”

  “Forgive me,” Alan said, bowing low and turning away. Peb followed, saying nothing.

  “That was pointless,” Peb mumbled.

  “Did you see Lord Victor?”

  Peb shook his head.

  “No. You?”

  Alan glanced back, scouring the guards, the lines, the scribes.

  “Not here,” he said. “But only twelve or so are set to talk. Yesterday had far more.”

  “He’s slowing down?” Peb asked.

  Alan shrugged.

  “Either that, or he’s being more careful. Never know if...”

  He had about two seconds to react before it hit. Alan grabbed Peb by the arm and pulled him hard into the side of a building. His shoulder throbbed upon slamming the wood, and Peb let out a cry when his forehead struck, having been unable to twist in time. Still, it was better than being impaled by the barrage of arrows that sailed toward Victor’s proceedings. Over twenty men stood far down the road, bows and crossbows in hand, their cloaks revealing their allegiance to the Hawks.

  “Starting already,” Alan said before swearing up a storm. “Get down!”

  The two dropped as another barrage flew. Screams filled the air. The first barrage had landed among the guards and scribes, the second aimed squarely for the men and women brought out for interrogation. People fled every direction, while the guards swarmed in a panic, some flinging the older men to the ground for protection, others rushing to meet the new threat.

  “We need to get out of here!” Peb said, scrambling out from beneath Alan.

  “Thren will want to know what happened here!”

  Peb spun about, shaking his head.

  “Then let him come count the bodies.”

  Alan looked back, saw the soldiers rushing with swords drawn. Arrows and bolts shot toward them, no longer in any organized barrage. Some men dropped, but most endured, even those who were hit. Their armor was thick, and the thieves used small bows and crossbows designed to take out fellow thieves, to pierce cloth, not metal. Alan thought to draw his dagger, then realized that might label himself on the side of the Hawks. So instead he hunkered down, pretending to cower as the battle unfolded.

  Seven soldiers, all bearing the same gold crest, crashed into the group of Hawks. At first Alan thought numbers would lead the thieves to victory, but the initial exchange showed otherwise. Victor’s men had long blades granting them better reach, their armor protecting them from the quick, weak thrusts of daggers and dirks. Hawks dropped in a bloody clash, the thieves’ attempt to swarm and surround failing miserably. Half were dead before they had the presence of mind to flee.

  “Damn,” Alan whispered, watching the display. Victor’s men were well trained; he’d give them that. Glancing the other way, he saw the remnants of the interrogations. Most interrogators had fled into the castle, carrying parchments with them. Nine bodies lay amid the overturned desks, their blood mixing with ink. Alan chuckled. Would anyone be surprised? Victor had come in and openly mocked the guilds. Surely he didn’t expect to go unscathed...

  When he turned back to the battle, he’d expected a route, to see Victor’s men chasing in vain after a scattered collection of Hawks. Instead, he watched the trap fully unfold. As the remaining men on the ground fled, twenty more emerged from the rooftops, all armed with crossbows. Bolts flew down like lethal rain. Despite their armor, the soldiers could do nothing, not against that many attackers. They ran toward the safety of the castle—the few who lived beyond the first volley—blood dripping from bolts embedded in their arms, legs, and chest. With even fewer targets to pick from, the second volley was even worse. Alan winced as the last died, some with over five bolts thudding into their backs.

  A trumpet sounded, bringing Alan’s attention to the castle. He caught a glimpse of castle guards rushing out with swords drawn, but then something grabbed his cloak and pulled, hard. He was thrown into the same alley Peb had fled into, though Peb appeared long gone. Rolling to his knees, Alan looked up to see the Watcher standing at the entrance to the alley, a black shadow in the daylight.

  “Stay here,” he said, drawing his sabers.

  That was it, that one command, and then he rushed off, moving fast enough to be a blur. Alan rubbed his neck, muttered, and rose to his feet. Despite the Watcher’s fearsome reputation, he had no intention of missing this. Returning to the alley entrance, he peered out to watch the carnage.

  Fifteen castle guards ran out to engage the Hawks. Unlike Victor’s men, they wielded shields, and kept them raised high to protect them from the arrows. For a brief moment, it looked like the Hawks were going to make a stand against them, as well. A few climbed down, forming a line of fifteen while the rest fired into the group of soldiers.

  And then the Watcher arrived, tearing through their ranks upon the rooftop. He struck from behind them, killing several before any knew they were under attack. The distance was too great for Alan to see clearly, but the gray of the Watcher’s cloak looked like a phantom, darting and weaving throughout their numbers, never still, never hesitating. One after another dropped dead. When the arrows from up top stopped, the soldiers below lowered their shields and charged. The Hawks, without armor or significant weaponry, did the intelligent thing and fled. They could easily outrun and outmaneuver the city guard. The Watcher, on the other hand...

  Alan sunk deeper into the alley, glancing about to see if any eyes watched. The last thing he wanted was to be spotted. He liked living, and wanted to keep doing it for many, many years. Minutes passed, and with ebbing interest Alan listened to the various trumpets and calls by the guards. At last he heard a soft rustle of cloak. Turning, he held down a startled cry upon finding the Watcher mere feet away.


  “Did you know this was to happen?” the Watcher asked.

  Alan reached out a hand. The Watcher glared, then tossed a small bag of coins at him. Alan caught it, and within seconds, the bag had vanished into one of his many pockets. He didn’t have to check it. The Watcher paid in silver, and always in significant amounts. Buying information from the Spider Guild was not cheap, nor safe, given how vicious Thren could be. But Alan wasn’t one to let fear or honor get in the way of making a healthy sum of coin.

  “We hadn’t heard a word,” Alan said, crossing his arms and leaning against a wall. “Kadish Pel must be getting ballsy if he thinks his guild can take Lord Victor all on his own.”

  “What do you know about Lord Victor?”

  Alan shrugged.

  “Just what everyone knows. Can’t help you there.”

  The Watcher frowned, clearly displeased.

  “I’m starting to doubt giving you your coin.”

  Alan chuckled.

  “I never promise what I tell will be useful, or new to you. But I dare you to find anyone else insane enough to sell out Thren Felhorn.”

  “Enough. Tell me this, then...what do you know about the murders, the ones being claimed by the Widow?”

  Alan grunted, caught off guard by the question. Reaching into his tattered vest, he pulled out one of the silver coins the Watcher had paid him with and began twirling it in his fingers.

  “Honestly, we don’t know shit. I might have believed it was you, if I thought you had the ability to rhyme. The two dead were Bert and Troy, neither of them special, or even important. No one’s seen nothing, no one’s heard nothing.”

  “What were the two doing when they were killed?”

  “Keep asking questions, I might think I don’t have enough silver in my pocket.”

  The Watcher’s glare made him chuckle, but his nerves were starting to rise. All it would take was one person telling Thren he’d been seen speaking with the Watcher, just a whisper of betrayal, and he’d be gutted from the Spider Guild’s rooftop...if he were lucky.

  “Fine. I don’t know what Troy was doing, but Bert was out looking for whores. That help you any?”

  “Perhaps.” The Watcher pulled his hood lower across his face, then leapt from one side of the alley to the other, vaulting himself up to the rooftops. “I’ll find you three days from now, on your patrol by the south wall. If you can tell me anything about this Widow, I’ll pay you in gold.”

  “Should be paying me in gold anyway,” Alan said, but the Watcher was already gone. Turning to leave, he found a man leaning against one of the walls, his large frame blocking half the alley. His muscular arms were crossed over his chest, and he almost looked like he was sleeping, with his wide-brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. Alan felt a chill, but the stranger bore no cloak, nor any other sign of allegiance to the various guilds. Hoping the man just hid there from the carnage, Alan walked past him toward the main street.

  As he did, the man let out a soft whistle, that of a songbird.

  Alan didn’t dare look back, nor acknowledge the blatant accusation. His hand dropped to his dagger. He slowed his walk, started to shift. But it was too late. Somehow the man was already halfway down the alley, his movement having gone completely unnoticed by Alan. The man turned, smiled at Alan, and then let out another bird whistle.

  “The songbirds are singing,” the stranger said, then laughed as he touched one of the nine rings in his left ear.

  Alan fled. He knew he should return to his guild, to tell Thren everything he’d seen. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Halfway across Veldaren, he stepped into his favorite tavern, a silver coin in hand. He’d still tell Thren, but he needed a lot more alcohol in him to keep from shaking, and to keep his perceptive guildmaster from seeing the terror in his eyes. With every sip he took, he heard the whistle, the accusation.

  It didn’t matter which guild you were in, or even which city. Songbirds died.

  “Keep it coming,” he told the tavern wench, pushing away the change she’d brought for the silver. “Go until there ain’t a damn thing left of it.”

  8

  “That’ll do it,” Tarlak said as he straightened up, wincing as his upper back popped twice.

  “Are you sure it will hold, no matter how powerful the spell?” asked Victor, surveying the runes carved into the outside of his temporary home. Ten in all covered the large building, burned in as if by fire.

  Tarlak raised an eyebrow. He’d spent the past six hours placing markings with chalk, rearranging runes, and casting a variety of spells that protected the building from magical attacks, from the subtle, like teleportation, to the less subtle, such as giant exploding fireballs. Last, but not least, was the requested surprise escape in case of an attack. His back hurt like crazy, his fingers were sore from all the measuring and writing, and he doubted he could summon anything stronger than a magical fart with how bad his head ached. And yet Victor wanted to question his abilities?

  “If you didn’t think I could do the job,” Tarlak asked, “why would you request me in the first place?”

  Victor sighed.

  “You’re right. Forgive me. Today has not gone well.”

  “So I heard.”

  Word of the attack had spread throughout Veldaren like wildfire. Tarlak had gotten a firsthand account from Haern, at least on how the attack had ended. As for casualties, that was a little sketchier. Tarlak had hoped to glean more information out of the lord, but so far had struggled to get the man to talk. Now that they were surveying his handiwork, at last he had a chance.

  “Most of these runes I’ve burned in,” Tarlak said, trying to keep Victor engaged, his mind on their conversation instead of elsewhere. “It’d take a lot to smudge or break them, but it is possible. Make sure your guards are always aware.”

  “What should they watch for?”

  “Well, I’d say a man with a big mallet smashing the wood in. That’d probably break them. Think your guards would notice that?”

  Victor paused a moment, and then miracle of miracles, laughed. Tarlak snapped his fingers. Finally he was getting somewhere.

  “No one will lay a finger on the building,” Victor said. “And I think even my least-trained men would still find it strange for a man to be hacking at a wall.”

  “Praise the gods for intelligent help.”

  “Amen.”

  The two walked toward the entrance of the building. Guards trailed behind them. They’d watched Tarlak carefully the entire time, supposedly on the excuse that they didn’t want him harmed while casting the protection spells. Tarlak found the lie insulting.

  As if he needed protection.

  His balance teetered a bit as he walked with Victor, and he decided that maybe that wasn’t so insulting after all. Victor caught him, inquired if he was all right.

  “Just a little woozy,” he said, rolling his head side to side. “Ever had a headache so bad that it split your insides in half, making every light look ten times too bright?”

  “I can’t say I have.”

  “Then you’re damn lucky. Consider me adding the cost of a drink to your expenses, because I need one right now, otherwise I won’t make it home.”

  “Then consider it paid.”

  Victor led Tarlak to the door. The wizard made sure not to crack a smile. His head hurt, but not that terribly. Still, Victor looked like he wanted those he hired to trust him, even respect him. A good sign. Anyone willing to buy beer for his underlings was a man with great potential. The guards let Victor pass, then stepped in front of Tarlak.

  “All off,” said one.

  “All...off?”

  Tarlak realized the guards meant his clothes, but Victor interrupted before he could protest.

  “Let him through,” said the lord. “I’m trusting my life to his wards, not much sense to fear him slipping a knife on me.”

  “Smart man,” Tarlak said as he stepped inside and took a seat at a table. A servant hurried over, pitcher in hand. Accepting it
graciously, he sniffed the contents. Strong scent of honey. Excellent.

  “Only common sense,” Victor said, dismissing the offered cup as he sat opposite the wizard. “If you wanted me dead, those wards would set my home on fire in the middle of the night instead of keeping out the more determined scum of the underworld.”

  “Speaking of scum, did you catch those responsible for the attack on your scribes?”

  Victor crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. His clear blue eyes bore into him, and Tarlak could sense the inner debate. When Victor spoke, it appeared Tarlak had passed.

  “Not as many as I would like,” he said, sighing. “The Hawk Guild was responsible, that I know for sure. Guesses run from about thirty to forty that set up the ambush. We killed at least twenty...well, twenty died, I should say. My men can only account for seven. The Watcher took out the rest.”

  “He does tend to do that,” Tarlak said, chuckling.

  “If I’m not mistaken, he is a member of your mercenaries, is he not?”

  Tarlak lifted an eyebrow.

  “Aye, he is. Considering hiring him? Doesn’t come cheap, but of course, we’re relying on future payments already. What’s a little more debt between friends?”

  “I just hope to know if I can consider him friend,” Victor insisted.

  “Money tends to make such matters irrelevant.”

  At Victor’s glare, Tarlak raised his hands and quickly apologized.

  “Forgive me, I tend to joke when I should grovel. If you’re wondering what the Watcher thinks of you, I’d say right now he doesn’t know. Just between you and me, I think you’re a respectable enough guy, but the Watcher tends to be a bit more distrusting.”

  Victor nodded, waved at the servants. Accepting a drink, he downed half. Tarlak shifted in his seat, wondered what troubled the lord so that he would suddenly decide he needed alcohol after all.

  “One of my scribes died in the attack,” Victor said, his voice softer. He wiped a few drops from his chin with his fingers. “Good man, a friend. Several other innocent men and women died, having committed the crime of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I’ve relocated all our interrogations to inside the castle, with King Edwin’s permission. But things are souring already. My men must travel in larger and larger packs, lest they fall into similar ambushes. Only ten men went to the judges today, and they even freed one of the ten. Whatever tight mouths I thought people had, they’ve grown only tighter.”