Blood of the Underworld (42 page)

But Haern had fought so much better. He’d met his limits, and surpassed them.

Eyes closed, he lashed out, and the sound of metal on metal brought a smile to his face. He pressed forward, his sabers whirling so that he could control the placement of Carson’s sword, forcing his defenses and countering his attempts to pull it close. His speed had returned in full. His strength was back. He thought of the rest of his friends, battling for their lives, and he would not fail them.

“Have you lost your nerve?” Haern asked, so close to Carson that he could smell the sweat and blood on him.

“You haven’t beaten me yet, you...”

His words confirmed his location, and more importantly, how Carson was falling backward to gain distance. It was all Haern needed.

He lunged, one saber thrusting, the other swinging wide to parry the desperate counter-thrust he knew Carson would try. Metal hit metal, and then his thrusting blade met resistance, just for a moment. Blood poured across Haern’s hand, and he felt the closeness of Carson’s body to his. Only then did Haern open his eyes to see Carson gasping for air, a saber pierced through his chest and out his back.

“Look me in the eye,” Haern whispered. “The fear you see is your own.”

Carson opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough blood. He slipped back, and Haern yanked free his saber. Carson collapsed, mouth still moving, eyes still locked on Haern’s. The ornate blade fell from his hand and clattered upon the hard stone.

The ground shook, and Haern brought his attention to the other battles still raging.

“Hold on, Tar,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”

T
arlak sat on his rear, legs folded underneath him, as he leaned his chin against his palm and watched the inn. So far an hour had passed, yet no sign of life or movement through the windows.

Some ambush,
he thought.
I think I’ll be killing myself from boredom before the night is over. The Bloodcrafts will win by default.

He sat on the very edge of the bakery’s rooftop, and he kept bouncing his attention between the windows and the alley beneath him. There was always the possibility they were out in the day, and would return sometime soon. He knew he had to be ready, but still...

“Boooored,” Tarlak muttered.

He leaned back to stretch, and as he did, he caught sight of a woman on the roof of the inn, her slender frame dwarfed by the red leather coat she wore. Tarlak froze mid-stretch, wondering where in the world she’d come from.

“Hello?”

She lifted her palm toward him, and fire leapt from it as if it were the gullet of a dragon. Tarlak flung himself onto his back, crossed his arms, and enacted a protection spell. The fire swarmed around him, bathing the rooftop, but it did not touch his skin. The strength to keep the protection going weighed on Tarlak, and the spell of invisibility around him vanished, not that it was doing much good. When the fire subsided, Tarlak rolled to his knees, then pushed to his feet.

“Not bad,” he said, wiping some ash off his yellow robe. “My turn.”

Shards of ice flew from his hands, their points deadly sharp. A dozen shattered across the rooftop of the inn, each one missing their mark as the woman dove side to side, faster than Tarlak could adjust. Without slowing she ran for the edge, and when Tarlak hurled a bolt of lightning, she vaulted into the air, over the blast and across the thin gap between the two buildings. Before landing she crossed her arms, and another wave of fire lashed out, like she was the center of a great explosion. Tarlak braced himself, once more summoning a protection spell. The fire hit, and this time he felt the heat of it on his skin. He gritted his teeth, poured more of his strength into it.

When the woman landed, she pressed her palms together, and the burst of fire was tremendous. But Tarlak had had enough.

“Remember this?” he said, pulling out the sword hilt from his pocket. The crystal on it flared to life, and all about him the fire died as if it had never existed.

“You have Nicholas’s sword,” she said.

At the woman’s shocked expression, Tarlak grinned.

“Just the hilt,” he said, twirling it in his fingers. He’d had Brug remove the blade, and then over the course of a few hours, he’d replenished the magic in the crystal, turning it back to clear. “I must say, I thought it cheating. Shame Nicholas died before I could tell him so.”

The woman rushed him, abandoning the fire. Tarlak took a step back, but she was faster, and her kick connected with his midsection. He let out a gasp as the air was blasted from his lungs. She swiped at the sword hilt, but he clung to it as if his life depended upon it. She unleashed a flurry of punches, half of which he failed to dodge. Her fists struck his face, his chest, and when he collapsed onto his back she fell atop him. Tarlak tensed every muscle in his body as she put his head into a lock, her slender arms choking tighter and tighter.

“What good is that sword if you can’t cast either, you damn fool?” she asked, driving her knees into his stomach so she might apply more pressure on his neck. The hand holding the hilt was caught by her legs, but his other was free, and he pressed it against her chest in a futile attempt to push her off. As the arm of his robe fell back, he saw her eyes go wide, catching sight of the blue tattoo glowing across his wrist.

“I can cheat, too,” Tarlak gasped as her panicked grip loosened.

The magic within the tattoo enacted, flowing through his hand and into her chest. It was a solid force, like an invisible battering ram blasting her entire body, and it hit with a tremendous boom. Her head arched back, her arms flailed, and Tarlak winced at the sound of a dozen breaking bones. Her body flew several feet back, landing in a sprawl atop the roof. Tarlak stood, tossed the sword hilt aside, and rubbed his bruised neck.

“Think I might have overdone it,” he muttered. He glanced at the tattoo, which was already fading from his skin. His entire arm ached, and it itched where the ink had been.

Never again,
he swore.

Haern leapt up to the rooftop, landing silently mere feet away from the body. He was bleeding at the shoulder, but seemed otherwise fine.

“Dead, too,” he said, letting out a curse. “Need someone alive.”

He turned and leapt back off, toward the alley where Brug and Delysia had been waiting. Tarlak rushed after, and he peered off the rooftop to see where the fight continued below.

Brug stood protectively before Delysia, hunched over with several daggers sticking out from the creases of his armor. He still held his punch daggers, and he kept them up at the ready. Behind him, Delysia cast a barrage of spells, blinding and disorientating their opponent, the rail thin and final member of the Bloodcrafts.

“Come on,” Brug was saying. “You can do better than this!”

The Bloodcraft seemed to agree. He flung several more, but Brug kept in his way. Most bounced off his thick platemail, except for the one that sailed wide, missing because of a blinding white light that flared from his sister’s hand. Tarlak shook his head, relieved the two could fight in such a odd but effective pair.

The man pulled out several more daggers, and through rapidly blinking eyelids tried to find a way around, to get close without enduring the priestess’s barrage or Brug’s daggers. He apparently saw none, and then his chance was gone. Haern emerged from the shadows behind him, striking him hard on the back of the head with the hilt of a saber. The man dropped, his body going limp.

Tarlak cast a spell to slow his fall, then stepped off the roof and gently floated down. When his feet touched ground, he crossed his arms and glared at Haern.

“Some ambush,” he said.

Haern shrugged.

“At least we won, right?”

Despite Delysia’s insistence, Brug marched over to Haern and smacked him in the chest with a mailed glove.

“I had him,” he said, clearly unhappy.

Haern lifted an eyebrow.

“Sorry?”

“Get over here,” Delysia said, grabbing Brug’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”

Tarlak gestured toward the unconscious man as his sister pulled Brug away so she could remove the knives and work her healing magic.

“What do we do with him?”

Haern sheathed a saber, then tapped the man with the other.

“We get some answers,” he said. “I want to know who hired them.”

Tarlak frowned.

“Think he’ll talk?”

A dark edge entered Haern’s eyes, and Tarlak didn’t like it one bit.

“Get Delysia out of here—Brug, too,” his friend said. “I don’t want them to see this. And yes. He’ll talk.”

Tarlak put a hand on Haern’s shoulder.

“Be careful,” he said.

“He’s no threat to me.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Haern looked away, sighed.

“I know. But someone wants us dead, and I intend to find out who. If it comes between this man’s life, and all of yours...”

“Just be careful,” Tarlak said, turning to the others.

“Let’s go home,” he said. “And Ashhur help us, you really are bleeding everywhere, Brug...”

29

T
hren lurked at the edge of the newly acquired Sun territory, watching the people come and go. Night had just fallen, but deep in the southern district it seemed a new life blossomed, ignorant of the light. Men and women were flocking to the new guild, Thren knew. He’d even spotted several adopting the four-pointed star and casting aside their cloak. Very little ceremony or fanfare. He’d done his best to cull their numbers, but it was beyond controlling now. With the promise of coin, trade, power, and overthrowing of the Trifect...what did the rest of the guilds have to offer against that?

“Tread lightly,” Thren whispered to himself as he watched yet another man throw off his cloak. How many of his own Spiders might now be with the Suns? And when he put out his call, would they come to him, or dare hope they might go unpunished?

Thren chuckled. Of course they’d ignore him. Loyalty was bought with power. There was a changing of the guard in the underworld, and until something happened to shake everyone’s confidence in the Suns, none would dare return to his side. Which is why Thren lurked, hidden beside a building where there was no light, so he could watch and wait. Only one thing could slow down the Suns, at least in his mind. Just one.

Killing Grayson.

To do that, he needed to know where the man was hiding, where he’d chosen to set up his base. So far he’d been patient, not wanting Grayson to even know he was being hunted, at least by him. The other guilds would no doubt be doing the same, but they’d be hesitant about out and out warfare. Thren knew their leaders, knew how cowardly they were deep down in their black hearts. They’d want to know if they could make alliances, if they could grab hold of the Suns’ rise and use it to reestablish their own dominance in the city. They didn’t realize the fire they played with. Didn’t realize Grayson had no intention of letting a single guild other than his own operate within the walls of Veldaren.

Thren tensed, the sight before him jarring him from his thoughts. One of the original members of the Suns that had come over from Mordeina was meeting with two others at the street corner. He passed them a bag, no doubt of some cheaper leaf, and then whispered a few words. Thren watched to see if he’d return the direction he’d come from, or move elsewhere, and then prepared to follow. When the man continued on, Thren slipped in behind him, just a shadow in the street.

The Sun walked as if in no hurry, then suddenly burst into a run, hooking a sharp left into an alley. Thren chuckled, and he calmly drew his swords. He’d been spotted, which meant the man was skilled. That he’d given away this knowledge by bursting out in a run meant he was overconfident, and hasty, for one so skilled would not panic easily, nor be spooked by a simple tail. The man had no intention of running, only giving the appearance of it.

Which meant an ambush, one Thren willingly entered.

Six steps into the alley, Thren spun, sword slashing. As he’d thought, the Sun member had crouched behind a barrel at the entrance, and leapt out with dagger ready. Thren batted it aside, stepped closer, and then thrust. To his surprise, the man managed to pull back in time to parry. Skilled indeed, but not enough. Thren flung at him with the ferocity of a wild animal. He had the man trapped against the wall, and with the greater reach of his blades, had every advantage.