Blood of the Underworld (21 page)

“That’s not it,” Tarlak said, sitting down at the edge of Haern’s bed. He gestured to Haern, who still slept. “You’re needed here. If you get hurt, or captured, then his recovery will only take longer. Not sure how this happened, but Haern’s the most important man in the city right now. We’ve got to get him up and stabbing people with the pointy end of those sabers.”

He pulled off his hat, ran a hand through his hair.

“Besides, sis, I’m already in over my head. Haern’s the one who knows these people, who their leaders are, what they’ll do. I just plan on roasting anyone who looks at me funny, and praying to Ashhur that I got a bad guy.”

Delysia shifted so she sat beside him, and he wrapped his arm about her.

“I’m tired of this room,” she said, letting out a tired laugh.

“I know. You don’t look too good, either.”

She elbowed him, and he mussed her hair in return. Their cheer was forced, and it died quickly. Tarlak looked to Haern, and he felt the weight of the night pressing on him.

“I think he’ll wake soon,” he said. “Someone should be here when he does, and I think he’ll be happiest to see you. Let him know what’s happening. He’ll try to be stupid and leave the tower before he’s ready, so don’t let him sway you with his masculine charms.”

Delysia kissed his cheek.

“I’ll be praying for you,” she said.

“Thanks. I’ll need the help. And don’t you worry. Me and Brug’ll be back by dawn.”

He waved goodbye, then climbed down the stairs to where Brug waited. The man was trying to adjust his platemail, and grumbling all the while.

“Be hard to sneak up on them with you making a ruckus,” Tarlak said, earning him a glare.

“You see this armor? It’s perfect. Made it myself. No dagger’s slipping between these creases. Rather be last to the fight, and live, than first and dead.”

“How much all that weighs, there won’t be a fight left by the time you arrive anywhere.”

Brug shrugged.

“I’ll still be alive.”

Tarlak chuckled. Couldn’t argue with that.

“You ready?”

Brug gave his breastplate one more hard twist, then readied his punch daggers.

“Lead the way, magey, or are we taking a portal?”

“We’re walking,” Tarlak said. “Expect a long night ahead of us, and need to conserve every shred of energy I have.”

Brug grunted.

“Del not coming?”

“She’s staying with Haern.”

“So just you and me against the world, eh?” Brug asked, a cocky grin spreading across his face.

Tarlak nodded.

“Looks like I’ll have to rely on you to keep them off me. Must say, Brug, I think I miss Haern already.”

14

H
aern felt the darkness peeling away into layers of dreams that came and went. Within were friends and foes, even those long dead. As the dreams faded, he realized he slumbered, and a pain in his head suddenly roared to life. Slowly he opened his eyes, almost regretting the return. His skull throbbed, and the pain in his side was frightening in its strength. He tried to remember where he was, what he was doing. He was on a rooftop, hiding from his unknown assailant. No, there weren’t any stars, so where…

“Haern?”

He knew that voice. Something soft and warm took his hand, and he looked down. Delysia’s hand. It was her face he saw next, tears in her eyes.

“Del,” he said, and despite his pain, his exhaustion, he smiled. “You found me.”

“My brother did, to be fair. How do you feel?”

“Like I was run through by a bull. Do you have any water?”

A moment later she handed him a glass. He tried to sit up, but the movement was unbearable. Carefully he lay back down and sipped the cold water. It felt divine on his parched throat.

“How long?” he asked, setting it aside.

“Almost a full day. You lost a lot of blood, as well as took a vicious hit to your head.”

“Yeah,” Haern said, the attack replaying over and over in his mind. “I remember that. Felt like an ox kicked me. Could hardly see straight afterward. Where’s Tarlak?”

He saw a shadow cross over her face.

“Don’t worry about that right now. You need to rest.”

Haern frowned.

“Something wrong? Is he all right?”

She nodded, but still refused to say anything. He tried to think through his headache. He’d been bleeding, inches from death, by the time he fled from his attacker. What was the point? What was the goal? And if Tarlak was out and about, what for?

“He’s not searching for the Widow,” he said. “You’d tell me that. What’s going on, Del?”

She dipped a washcloth in a basin at her feet, then wiped his forehead. The cold water felt glorious, and he tried to relax as she dipped it again, this time moving it across his neck.

“The man who attacked you,” she said hesitantly. “His name is Grayson. He told all the guilds that he’d killed you, and they believed him.”

Haern felt his blood chill.

“How bad is it out there?” he asked. “Do you even know?”

She shook her head, clenched her teeth. Into the basin went the washcloth.

“I can see the fires from the window,” she said. “Beyond that...I don’t know.”

Haern curled his hands into fists. As his heart pounded, a bright light flashed across his eyes, and his headache intensified tenfold. He clenched his eyes shut, let out a gasp. Immediately Delysia’s hands were upon his face, still cold from the water. He heard whispers of a prayer, and a distant ringing of an unearthly bell. Waiting out the pain, he focused on her touch, until at last her fingers pulled away, and the pain with it.

“I know you were stabbed deep,” he heard her say. “But the blow to your head worries me more. I never saw this when at the temple, but I did hear of warriors who suffered symptoms such as yours. It can last for days, if not weeks or months. You need to rest. I’ll do what I can, I promise.”

The thought of enduring such headaches, of feeling that pain throbbing from the top of his head down to his feet, was horrifying. He remembered how when fighting Grayson his balance had consistently eluded him, and at times his vision even went blank. How could he be the Watcher under such a handicap? How could he tame the chaos Tarlak was out there struggling against while he lay there stricken?

“He was right,” Haern said, his voice a harsh whisper. “Damn it, he was right.”

“Who?” she asked.

“Victor. He said this would happen. He knew I’d fail like this one day. He knew it. I was a fool to think I could control them. To think I could do this forever.”

A sudden cough hit him, and he turned to one side. Each sharp breath hurt, and he coughed louder, harder. Blood spat across his white sheets, the rest dribbling down his lip.

“Shit,” Haern said, seeing it. He lay back down and closed his eyes as he felt the beginning of another headache forming. Tears swelled, and he was too sick to stop them. Delysia’s cloth went back to work, cleaning away the blood, even dabbing at his tears.

“What am I doing?” he wondered aloud. “Was it ever right?”

“It isn’t my place to tell you,” Delysia said. “But I don’t think you’re a fool. I don’t think you’re a failure. You’re allowed to err, Haern. No one would believe you human otherwise.”

“And what if Tarlak dies out there tonight? Does that make me even more human?”

It was a cheap blow, but it was the truth, and what weighed most heavily on his mind. It should be him out there bleeding and dying to protect his city. He’d given his life away as an orphaned child, swore it while watching the Connington mansion burn years ago during the Bloody Kensgold. He could have kept killing. He could have continued his attempts to wipe them all out. But instead he’d forced peace. A fool’s peace, the weight of it solely on his shoulders. And now it was breaking, and it seemed all the world but him had seen it coming.

“Stop this,” Delysia said. Her voice was soft, wavering from the anger and determination behind it. “This isn’t you. I didn’t sit at your bedside praying so you could wallow in misery and doubt. I didn’t do it because you are a fool, or I feared for my brother’s safety.”

“Then why?”

In answer, she knelt down over him, her hair cascading across his face, and then pressed her lips to his. His eyes still closed, it took him a moment to realize what was happening. He almost resisted, almost turned away, but could not. He kissed back, gently lifting a hand so he could touch her face. His mind whirled, too sick and tired to think of anything beyond the softness of her lips. When she pulled back, he finally dared open his eyes to look. She was tired, her eyes swollen and black from exhaustion, but through it all he saw a strength greater than him, and he clutched her hand tightly as if to never let it go.

“The world will continue without you,” she told him. “People will kill, steal, bleed, and die, whether you live or not. Stop judging yourself by what you’ve done with your swords. If you would despair, remember those who love you. Let your life by judged by that instead.”

“Do you love me, Delysia?” he whispered.

She met his eye, and he saw the hardness in her soften. She nodded, and he reached for her. She curled against his chest, and he let his hands surround her, let his face press against her hair as he kept his breathing controlled so he would not cough blood upon her. Together they lay there, not moving, not talking. The comfort of their presence was enough.

“I don’t know if I can,” Haern said after a time. “I’ve hurt everyone I loved. And I can’t hurt you, Delysia. I could never live if I did.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But I’ll still be here. I always will be.”

A memory came to him, from when they were just children, and he still in the care of his father. Together they’d met in secret on a rooftop, for Thren had denied him any knowledge of faith or love, all to make him the perfect killer. With Delysia, Haern had glimpsed a life with meaning, with purpose...only to have Thren shoot Delysia with an arrow, her bleeding body falling into his arms. That she’d survived at all was a miracle, a parting gift from another woman he’d loved before Thren killed her, as well. He thought of that moment, of how his cruel life had so vehemently rejected such a light as hers.

He couldn’t bear the thought of it again. He couldn’t hold her in his arms and watch her die. Whatever good in him existed would break. Did she know that? Did she understand?

“Let me sleep,” he said.

Her fingers went to stroke his cheek, but hesitated just before. Before she could pull away, he leaned forward, forcing the touch, turning his face so she could cup him with her hand. She said nothing, only held him for a moment, before leaving him alone in his room to sleep.

But instead of sleeping, he turned to one side and watched the distant flicker of flame that spread throughout his city, burning away like a hundred candles lit in memorial.

“T
hese damn idiots have a funny way of celebrating,” Brug muttered as he kicked a corpse that lay at his feet. Tarlak had to agree.

“Whatever they don’t want, they’re burning,” Tarlak said, rubbing his throbbing temples. “Good thing they want nearly everything.”

The two stood near the center of town, before a home with wrecked windows and a smashed in door. Tarlak could only begin to guess why they’d chosen that particular place. The owner lay at the entrance, dragged out and throat cut. They’d arrived too late to do much of anything other than give the dead man vengeance. Three dead Wolves—just a fraction of the guilds roaming the night.

“It’s all meager pickings,” Brug said, wiping blood off his punch daggers. “Been out here for hours, and only small-time stuff. One of them’s got to have something bigger planned. Maybe the Connington’s place, or Alyssa’s.”

“Might not have any place big to hit,” Tarlak said, walking aimlessly north. “Both have got their places crawling with guards. It’s the rest of the city that’s vulnerable, but Victor and Antonil have got their men running round like mad.”

“Still a big city,” Brug grumbled.

Tarlak shot his friend a look.

“You sound disappointed.”

Brug shrugged.