Blood of the Underworld (12 page)

“Y
ou 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

“T
hat’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.”