Blood of the Underworld (6 page)

T
he parade of men in chains seemed endless as Victor stood at the entrance to the King’s dungeon, a large, ungainly block attached to the side of the castle. They’d even started tying people with rope, having run out of manacles.
An excellent day
, Victor thought. He doubted it could have started any better.

“Milord,” said Sef, Victor’s leader of his guard. He was a heavyset, bearded, and battle worn servant of the Kane household for almost two decades. “Sir Antonil Copernus wishes to speak with you.”

“Send him over,” Victor said.

Sef bowed, hurried away. Moments later Antonil arrived, wearing the regal armor of his position as captain of the guard and protector of his majesty’s city. His long blond hair peaked out from the lower limits of his helmet. Scars of battle marked his face. A shield hung from his back, and his longsword swung at his hip. The Guard Captain bowed low, and addressed him with sincere respect.

“Milord Victor, I come at behest of my King,” he said, standing straight. “He thought it best I help oversee your endeavor, as well as ensure my own guards assist you in any way they can.”

Victor grinned at the knight.

“Are you sure about that? I thought our gracious King might fear giving too much assistance, lest he earn the ire of both the guilds and the Trifect.”

Antonil’s smile hardened, and his voice lowered.

“Perhaps. In all things, I protect the people of this city. You’d best remember that. Your men may carry weapons, and the King’s blessing, but upon my word they lose both, and join the men they’ve arrested in a cell.”

“All I do, I do for the people of this city, Antonil.”

Antonil nodded, but did not respond. Victor felt his respect growing. The man looked tired, frustrated, but hid it well. An air of authority hovered over him, and whenever he cast his eyes about, even Victor’s own men stood at attention.

“There are so many,” Antonil said, turning to the lines before the dungeon entrance. “We cannot fit them all.”

“We don’t need to,” Victor said. “Follow me, and I will explain.”

Victor led the way. There were five lines, all steadily shuffling forward as Victor’s soldiers brought in their latest catch. Though some wore the cloaks of the guilds, most did not. They were merchants, peasants, prostitutes, even the homeless and the beggars. Antonil took in the sight, and his frown deepened.

“They are not under arrest,” Victor explained. “At least, not most. We are here for answers, Antonil, and to do that we must ask questions. Information is our greatest weapon against the shadows these scum cloak themselves in. It should please you greatly to know we fully abide by the law.”

They stopped at the head of one of the five lines. An older man sat at a desk, a lengthy parchment before him, along with a large inkwell and quill. On his knees, two soldiers holding him still, was a fat merchant. His clothes were smeared with mud, and across his right cheek was an angry cut that oozed blood. At their arrival, the merchant glanced their way, and paused.

“Continue,” said the old scribe before him. “Their names, if you know them.”

“I...I don’t.”

“Then their descriptions. And remember, we will talk to them, as well.”

The merchant glanced their way. Victor put a hand on the merchant’s shoulder.

“The law will protect you,” he said. “Speak the truth, and hold faith. It will only be a matter of time. They cannot hide forever.”

Their eyes met, just for a moment, and then the merchant turned to the scribe.

“The bastards’ names are Jok and Kevis, both in the Wolf Guild.”

His voice trailed off as Victor led Antonil away.

“I don’t understand,” Antonil said beside him. “We cannot just arrest anyone in the guilds. Our arrangement forbids it, for it is they who police the streets...”

“It should be you who polices the streets, not them,” Victor said. “And you are no fool, so think. It doesn’t matter if the guilds hold to the agreement, and do not steal. They still extort. They still kill. They demand bribes of merchants, smuggle goods to avoid tariffs, and flood your streets with powders and leaves that addle the minds of your people.”

He gestured to the lines.

“Right now, we gather evidence against them. We get names. We list crimes. When we capture them, we steadily move upward. We take everyone we can, then repeat the process. All of it, written and stored forever, unable to be killed or silenced. Time will not save them from their crimes. I will find them. All of them.”

“But why here? Why in the open streets?”

Victor grinned, and gestured to the dungeon behind them.

“If they refuse, or lie, that is where they go. When their eyes wander, they see the fate awaiting them for such transgressions. Besides, let the whole city watch what we do. Let them know I am here, and will not stop. I will never stop, not until this city is a place of lambs instead of leeches.”

Antonil swallowed hard, looked back to the line.

“You release them when you’re done, correct?” he asked.

“The innocent ones, yes.”

“And then they go home, having been seen by all, known by all to have talked. You know what will happen to them, Victor. You’re sentencing them to death!”

Victor whirled on Antonil, leaned in close.

“If they die, it isn’t by my hand, but the hands of murderers and thieves who should have never been allowed to live as long as they have. I do what must be done to save Veldaren from itself. I am no fool. This is a new kind of war, but blood will still be shed. If your guards do their jobs, those men and women will live. Stop cowering in fear of the dark corners.”

Antonil met his gaze a while longer, refusing to back down. Victor’s respect of him continued to grow. As the silence stretched, a man in a green cloak was led toward the dungeon door, then around to the side. Antonil noticed this, and gestured that direction.

“Where does he go?” he asked.

“I shall show you.”

Victor led Antonil around the back, to where two elderly men stood before a tall table. To the side was a hastily constructed platform made of wood, and in its center was an anvil. Seeing it, Antonil’s jaw clenched, and his eyes widened.

“Calm yourself,” Victor said. “They are your judges, those appointed by Edwin, not myself. They hear our evidence, read what we have collected, and then offer sentencing.”

While the man with the green cloak was dragged before one of the judges, another climbed the two steps of the platform. His face was ashen, and his eyes remained locked on the floor. By Victor’s guess, he was fifteen, sixteen at most. Two of Victor’s soldiers led him to the anvil, where a heavyset man waited, axe in hand.

“How many?” Antonil asked quietly as the thief was flung atop the anvil, his arms tied by ropes looped through holes in the platform.

“Seventeen today,” Victor said. “By tomorrow, it should be twice that. The list of crimes grows by the hour.”

“Seventeen,” Antonil whispered. “How many executed, and how many sent to the dungeon?”

Victor shook his head.

“You still don’t understand, do you? Your judges do. Mercy has extended long enough here. All seventeen have met your executioner’s blade. The dungeon is only for those who refuse to cooperate, who would rather bite their tongue than reveal the guilty. This is war, Antonil. War against the very culture that has twisted and perverted everything great about Veldaren and turned it into something wicked. We have no time for prisoners.”

The executioner lifted his axe. Neither Victor nor Antonil looked away as it descended. There were no onlookers, no gathered crowds, so they easily heard the plop of the head hitting the wood, the sound of the blood dripping across the platform, and the untying of the ropes as they cleared away the body.

“I want every name,” Antonil said. “Every crime, every shred of proof leveraged against the men who died here today.”

“Of course,” Victor said. “I understand your fear that we will execute an innocent. It won’t happen, Antonil. I won’t let it. The only sins I’ll bear shall come from waiting as long as I did. Come with me. I’ll tell Sef to prepare everything you need.”

As they walked back toward the initial five lines, Antonil stepped in his way, grabbed him by the front of his collar, and pulled him close. Victor tensed, but he sensed no anger, no threat. Antonil’s eyes met his, and they were full of fear...and hope.

“They’ll kill you,” Antonil whispered. “Something like this, so grand, so terrifying...they won’t let it stand. I don’t care how many guards you have, how careful you are, they’ll still slit your throat, cut your body into pieces, and then scatter the remains about the city. You are a dead man, Victor.”

Victor took a step closer, put a hand on Antonil’s shoulder.

“Let them try.”

He pulled away from the Guard Captain, then motioned Sef over.

“Everything he requests, fulfill to the best of your abilities,” he said. “I must return to my room, and ensure no specters lurk in its corners. Oh, and Antonil...”

Victor sighed, tried to see things from the other’s perspective. His grin faded, and he let some of his honest worry shine through.

“I know I might die doing this,” he said. “But when? How long? Because each day we do this, the sun shines that much brighter upon Veldaren. Succeed or fail...I’ll have done something.”

“What drives you, Victor?” Antonil asked as Victor put his back to him and walked down the street. “What madness would have you risk so much for so little?”

Victor waved goodbye, and did not answer. Unguarded, he walked down the street, but he never felt alone. His men were everywhere, always watching, always searching. They saluted as they passed him by, and each time, he smiled back. Just a small smile and a meeting of the eyes. He wanted each to think he’d put special interest in them, watching closely for signs of greatness. For the most part, it was true. And when he received that night’s report, listing the dead under his command, he’d recognize every name, remember every face. Steeling himself against the pain did little to help.

King Edwin had not offered them a place to stay, just as Victor had expected. The man was a coward, and Victor was lucky enough to have the King go along with his plan, however distantly. But the castle was not a safe place anyway. It was too big, too grandiose, with all the windows, high ceilings, and lengthy halls filled with a million shadows. For most of his men, they’d be staying in inns scattered about the town. Victor had carefully chosen his home, though, and secured it before ever going to Edwin. Eyes watched him from rooftops, but it didn’t matter if they saw where he slept. The constant surveillance only showed how frightened they were of him.

“Evening,” Victor said to the two men stationed before the entrance of what would be his home for the foreseeable future. It had once been a tavern, shuttered for months until Victor bought it. Every single window was boarded up. All doors were nailed shut, and then bricked. There was but one entrance, and it was to be guarded at all times. Upon his arrival, he’d filled its stores with food and drink, carefully packed away. He would search no food for glass, require no taster for poison. Everything watched, everything controlled, just as he liked.

The outside soldiers banged on the door a few times, then called out Victor’s name. Moments later, it was unbarred and opened by the interior guards. Victor nodded, pleased with their attention to detail, and then stepped inside. The interior was dimly lit, and while it had a vacant feel, it was still being meticulously cleaned. Servants moved about, and upon seeing him, they quickly bowed and asked if he had any needs.

“Wine, if possible,” he said, unbuckling his sword. “And something light to eat. Bring it to my room when ready.”

The servants bowed again. Victor climbed the stairs as they hurried into the kitchen. Another of his precautions: the servants were all male, and had been in his service before coming to Veldaren. They stayed within the tavern, leaving only when they must. He’d even implemented rules with the guards that all servants were to strip naked, hand over their clothes, and then redress once on the other side of the door. A severe measure, but he could not be too careful. The fate of the entire city rested on his survival. He couldn’t risk a servant accepting a hefty bribe.

His room was sparse, his only luxury a bookshelf full of carefully bound writings. The mixture was eclectic, from philosophers to kings to children’s fables. He drifted his fingers over the spines, pondering what to read that night, when he heard the door close behind him.

“Well, aren’t you a careful bastard?”

Victor’s heart caught in his throat. He’d tossed his sword onto the bed upon entering, and he thought to leap for it. Instead, he turned, and stood proud and tall while confronting his no-doubt murderer.

“Not careful enough,” he said, meeting his intruder’s eyes. He was a dark-skinned man, with darker hair that grew down to his shoulders. His gray clothes were clearly that of the guilds, but more noticeable were his eyes. One was a deep brown, the other a bloody red.

“Have you come to kill me, thief?” he asked.

The intruder chuckled.

“I could, but that wouldn’t be interesting, would it? Allow me to introduce myself. I am Deathmask, leader of the Ash Guild, and I’ve come with a proposal.”

Victor felt his muscles relax, but only a little. The intruder didn’t seem particularly dangerous, and he carried no visible weapons. He leaned with his back against the door, his arms crossed over his chest.

“A proposal?” he asked, thinking to stall. He took a single step toward the man, shifting himself closer to his weapon.

“Two proposals, actually,” Deathmask said. “First proposal is that you don’t do anything stupid like calling for guards, or grabbing that sword of yours. Once I hear an answer to that one, we can move on to proposal number two.”

Victor felt his heart skip a beat, and he stepped away from the bed, toward his bookcase.

“So be it,” he said, clenching his fists at his sides. “I am listening.”

“Excellent. Now, to make sure we both understand each other...you do know who I am, right?”