Blood of the Underworld (5 page)

“Who pays you?” Thren asked, feinting one hand then thrusting with the other. He expected no answer, only hoped to distract his foe. It didn’t work. The thrust parried harmlessly away, and then the soldier stepped in, expertly weaving his weapon in a beautiful counter. Thren flung himself to the side, bit his tongue as he felt steel slash across his arm. Blood stained his gray shirt and cloak. His fury growing, the rush of battle flooding through him, he lunged at his opponent with both blades. When the soldier blocked, Thren pressed on, hacking and slashing with such ferocity his opponent fell back in retreat. The wounded soldier no longer protected, Thren stopped for just a moment to stab him in the back of the neck, then kick his corpse aside.

“What fool brought you to your deaths?” Thren asked as he swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. He was losing blood fast, he knew. Had to get it attended. The soldier started to respond, but Thren spun, his attention no longer on him. Martin had fought the other soldier to a standstill, the two so focused that neither sensed his sudden appearance. Thren’s shortsword pierced through the small of the soldier’s back. A twist, a yank, and the man dropped. Martin nodded in thanks, and then the two turned on the last. Thren thought he’d run, but he did not, only stood his ground.

“Left,” Thren said softly. When they both attacked, Martin did as told, veering to the left and cutting in with his dagger. The soldier shifted to the side, unafraid of it piercing his armor, but the motion kept him from falling into a retreat. That was all Thren needed. A trio of slashes batted the sword out of position, and then his own blades sliced in, jamming through the soldier’s throat. The man gurgled, his eyes widened, and then he dropped. Thren pulled his sword free, shook blood off of it.

“Fuck!” Thren yelled, kicking the corpse. His arm stung, and when his battle lust faded, he knew it would hurt even more. Worse, they’d failed in their goal.

“Hard to interrogate a man who has no throat,” Martin said, jamming his dagger into his belt.

Thren sheathed his swords, then checked the wound on his arm. Not too deep. It would leave a scar, just one more among hundreds. Glancing out the alley, he saw people passing, and several spotted the carnage. They wisely kept their mouths shut, but it would only be moments before someone wasn’t so smart.

“Back home,” Thren said. “We know too little. It isn’t safe.”

They took to the roofs once more and ran, Thren gritting his teeth against the pain. The chaos of the main streets vanished behind them until they reached the Thirsty Mule. Martin went first to ensure none of the mysterious soldiers were about. The way clear, he beckoned Thren in, and together they entered the cellar of their headquarters, disguised as a simple inn.

The place was abuzz with rumors and questions. Amid the pain, Thren estimated at least twenty of his guild milling about, swapping stories and making guesses. They’d fled home when the soldiers flooded the streets, but how many had not made it? At Thren’s entrance, the conversation quieted, and several tilted their heads with respect. No doubt they wished to ask him questions, but seeing his wound, they wisely let him be.

“Where’s Murphy?” Thren asked as he took a seat at the bar, banging his fist on the wood in demand of a drink. One of the smaller thieves, Peb, rushed over, grabbing glasses.

“I’ll get him,” Martin said.

“What’ll it be?” asked Peb. He was quick, and had big ears. They’d called him Mouse for a while, then switched to Pebble after Thren put a stop to it. No thief of his was a mouse. They were Spiders, lurkers, killers—even the smallest carrying dangerous venom.

“Hardest we have,” Thren said. By the time Peb gave him his glass, Murphy had arrived, a small box in hand.

“How bad is it?” Murphy asked.

“Bad enough.”

He downed the glass, then carefully removed his shirt so the stocky man could see. Of them all, Murphy was the only one with a modicum of training in the skills of the apothecary. A gap-toothed man with graying hair, Murphy loved to say he first learned to sew up cows, not people, but the two were often the same. Deep down, Thren thought Murphy had learned how to stitch and amputate because he loved causing pain while still getting praised for it. Had he been born of higher blood, he’d have been one of Connington’s gentle touchers for sure.

“What’s going on?” Thren asked as he motioned for Peb to fill the glass.

“Well, you’re bleeding, but it didn’t quite make it to bone.”

“I meant with the city.”

Murphy took out a long needle and some thread from the box. Thren grabbed his glass before Peb was even done pouring.

“I’ve been here all the while,” Murphy said, threading the needle. He nodded to the rest. “Ask them.”

“I have,” Martin said, taking a seat on the other side of Thren. “All we’ve got is a name. Lord Victor Kane. He’s been here hardly twenty-four hours, yet he’s already stirring up trouble.”

“What does he want?” Thren asked as the needle pierced his flesh. He didn’t let the pain show. Not in front of so many. Pain was only a tool, and right now he had no desire for it. As Peb poured his third glass, an ache swelled in Thren’s chest. There was a time when someone might have chopped off his right hand and he’d not have made a sound. Was he growing so weak that he needed the aid of alcohol for just a little cut?

Angry with himself, he pushed the glass away. Martin snapped it up for himself, drank it down, then let out a burp.

“That’s the thing,” Martin said. “We don’t know what he wants. Early this morning, while we were stalking Serpents, Victor’s men were rounding up merchants, lords, landowners...and then out they came again for us. From what I can tell, it’s all been orderly, controlled. No one’s been killed except those who resist. The rest are getting sent to the castle—whether for execution or interrogation, your guess is as good as mine.”

Thren felt the skin of his arm tightening as the needle did its work. He used it to focus, to force things into perspective.

“Edwin’s too much of a coward for this,” he said. “That, and the status quo has served him fine for years. Someone else hatched this plan, and right now, the obvious one is Lord Victor.”

“What about one of the Trifect?” Murphy asked, thread between his teeth.

“Victor might be in their pay,” Martin agreed. “Be an expensive gambit, but by bringing in this outsider, they pull any attention away from them and onto him.”

Thren shook his head, then investigated the stitches on his arm. Clean work as always, but not quite done yet.

“Do it,” he told Murphy. The old man grinned, then grabbed the bottle away from Peb. The liquid poured down Thren’s arm. It burned like fire, but he gave no reaction beyond a tightening of his teeth. That done, he pulled his shirt back over his body. Despite his age, it was still pure muscle.

“We can do what we did before,” Martin suggested. “Declare war against them, and rally the rest of the guilds to counter this new threat.”

Thren met his eyes, saw the hopeful lie for what it was.

“We’re too few now,” he said. “Every night we’ve preyed on each other, and our numbers haven’t recovered from the chaos four years ago. Besides...these mercenaries aren’t normal scum with a sword. They’re too good, too well armed.”

Martin sighed, for he knew the same. Thren and Martin were easily the most skilled of all the Spider Guild, yet even they had suffered wounds in taking a squad down. The rest of the guild—clumsy men accustomed to threatening fat merchants for bribes—would stand no chance.

“We can’t let this go unpunished,” Martin said, dropping his voice lower. “The gold the Trifect pays us is no longer enough. I doubt we are alone in this, either. If every guild breaks, it’ll be anarchy...”

“We will not break!” Thren said. All around him, men quieted, hearing the ice in his voice, the strength of his conviction. He stood from his chair, slammed a fist against the bar. “This is our city—
ours.
No outsider shall come in, bare swords against us, and expect to live. All of you, cowering here...get out. Now. I want your ears at every wall. I want your eyes on every street. Whatever information you can find, I want to hear it. Where this Victor lives, where he eats, where he sleeps, where he shits—I want to know it all. And if you fear being caught, or arrested, then don’t come back. You aren’t Spiders. You’re worms.”

They filed out, grabbing swords and cloaks on their way. Even Murphy left, though Thren knew he would only go upstairs to wait. Should anyone returned wounded, the surgeon must be ready. When Thren sat down, he noticed a single man remained in the far corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his beefy chest and his strange hat in his hands. Thren turned on him, thinking a savage killing might do wonders for his mood. Then he saw the man’s face, and grinned.

“Grayson, you ox,” Thren said. “I’ll never understand how you can hide in a crowd.”

Grayson grinned back. He was an enormous man, dark skinned, and stood at nearly seven feet tall. The thin clothing he wore did little to conceal the muscles beneath. A four-pointed star made of gold thread was sewn into his shirt. His head was shaved, and he wore nine rings in his left ear, running up and down the cartilage. From where he came from, each ring traditionally represented a kill, yet Thren knew Grayson had been forced to adopt a new standard, with each ring counting for ten, lest his ear fall off.

Grayson joined him at the bar, slapping him once on the back.

“You banished our barkeep,” said the man, his voice deep and rumbling.

“Would you make an injured man pour drinks?”

Grayson laughed.

“I’ve never seen you injured, Thren,” he said. “Just sometimes you’re bleeding more than usual.”

Grayson leaned forward, his long arms grabbing bottles and glasses from the wall. Mixing two together, Grayson tasted his drink and then let out a sigh of contentment.

“For all I’ve heard, I thought you’d have little better than donkey piss and water,” he said. “Looks like Veldaren might not be as bad as rumored. Either that, or you’re the richest thief left.”

Thren bit down a retort. Grayson was from the distant city of Mordeina, and was a legendary thief in his own right. In what felt like ages past, they’d worked together, helped build the Spider Guild into something fearsome. But then, one terrible night, it had all come crashing down...

“The gold still flows here,” Thren said, careful to control his tone. “The protection money from the Trifect alone keeps the liquor flowing.”

“That the lie you tell yourselves so you can sleep at night?”

Grayson took a shot, poured himself another. Thren’s eyes narrowed.

“Things are not the same,” he said. “Between the Bloody Kensgold, Alyssa’s mercenaries, and now the Watcher, I dare say no thief has faced such hardships as we have here in Veldaren.”

“Ah yes, the Watcher. I’ve been thinking of hunting him down and seeing how good he really is. You know that word of him has reached all the way to Mordeina?”

“Is that so?” Thren asked, doing his best to sound bored.

“Yes. And you know what’s worse, Thren? That’s not the only thing reaching our ears. The nobles are hearing of your little setup, this game you play. It’s giving them ideas, ideas I don’t fucking like. Already they whisper of similar arrangements, of turning our guilds against each other in the name of protection money. Mordeina won’t turn into Veldaren. The priests alone give us enough trouble. I’m a thief, and a killer. I won’t let myself become some noble’s bootlicking bodyguard.”

Thren felt his blood turn to ice.

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked. “Some low rent bodyguard for the Trifect?”

Grayson grunted.

“That’s what I’m here to find out. A lot has changed over the past ten years, and I want to know just how much.” He stood, put a wide-brimmed hat made of leather on his bald head. “I have my own place to stay, so don’t worry about offering me a bed. Not sure how long I’ll be here, but I thought I’d drop in and give you my greetings.”

“What are you really here for?” Thren asked, as the big man was about to exit. “If all you wanted was information, you’d have sent an underling, not traveled across Dezrel yourself. You’re here for more than that. What is it?”

Grayson stopped, looked back at him with a dangerous grin on his face.

“What if I don’t feel like answering? Will you make me, Thren?”

Thren swallowed, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of a shortsword. Grayson saw this, smirked.

“Careful,” he said. “I have no desire to cross swords with you. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair. After all...you’re injured.”

When he was gone, Thren took his glass and smashed it across the counter. The glass cut his hand, and he stared at the mixing blood and alcohol. His fury grew. Grayson had sensed weakness, and Thren could not refute it. Despite all his best efforts, his guild was weaker than it had ever been. All the guilds were. And if the Suns, or the Stars, or any other guild from Mordeina decided to move in…

Thren shook his head. No, there was no
if
, only
when
. Grayson would not have traveled such distance without good cause. The only question was how the foreign guilds planned to make their attack, and how great their cooperation would be. Their first move, though, Grayson had stated clear as day. The truce between the Trifect and the guilds would have to be broken, and the easiest step to that was obvious: ending the life of the Watcher.

“Good luck, Watcher,” Thren said softly, doing everything to subdue his anger, to think clearly and carefully like he knew he must. Despite his frustration, he felt pride. All the way to Mordeina, Grayson had said. The Watcher’s reputation had spread throughout the four nations, coast to coast.

“Good luck,” he wiped his hand with a cloth, “...my son.”

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