Blood of the Underworld (28 page)

“You’re starting to sound like that hit on your head really got to you worse than we thought. Listen to yourself. Are you saying Thren
likes
having you lord over the underworld? Why? Next you’ll be saying that it was him pretending to be you last night.”

Haern gave him a look, and Brug closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his thick, callused fingers.

“Really? You actually think he did? If that’s the case, then I don’t know what’s going on in Veldaren anymore. Everyone’s losing their damn minds, you included.”

Haern laughed.

“Be useful, and get me something to eat.”

As Brug left the room, muttering to himself, Haern closed his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the beginnings of another headache coming along, and if it was anything like the last, it’d be crippling. Shifting side to side, he tested his wounds. The skin was tightening up, though when he lifted the bandages he found his stab wound a deep purple, and horribly scarred. Rocking back and forth didn’t seem to strain it too badly, though it did make his muscles ache. Worse was how his balance still felt off. Even that slight motion sent his stomach looping.

Not too frightening a foe that keeps vomiting mid-fight,
thought Haern.

Brug returned carrying a small tray of food, and it was more cruelty than kindness. The smell was divine, and Haern’s mouth watered, but his stomach heaved, and he turned to the side of his bed so he could vomit. He saw a small amount of blood amid the bile, but tried not to worry. That he was sitting up and talking was enough of a sign for him that he’d make it out all right.

“Thought it looked pretty good myself,” Brug said, glancing down at the plate of carrots and beef. “Perhaps just some ale for now?”

Haern looked at the offered mug.

“Why not,” he said. At least it would get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. He took a few swallows, just enough to clear his throat. Brug put the tray down beside his bed and settled back down in the chair.

“Tarlak said he’s hearing some bizarre rumors coming in from the city,” Brug said. “Looks like Victor moved against the Spider Guild. Those he caught are all claiming the same thing; Spider Guild’s been disbanded, and Thren’s vanished.”

Haern felt like he’d been slapped with a wet towel.

“You can’t be serious,” he said dumbly.

“I’m not much for joking, Haern. I’m starting to think you might be right about Thren pretending he was you, because let’s face it, he’s completely falling apart.”

Haern pressed his palms against his forehead.

“What now?” Brug asked.

“Headache,” Haern said, slowly breathing in and out. “Feels like someone stuck a knife in my brain, and every few minutes they can’t help but give it a twist.”

“Del did say that hit to your head was a nasty one. What smacked you, anyway? A brick?”

“A foot.”

Brug snorted.

“I’m not sure I want to meet that guy, then,” he said, stealing Haern’s mug and downing a third of it. “What’s his heel made of, stone?”

The confrontation with the mysterious man came back to Haern, much as he didn’t want it to. His attacker had shown no guild affiliations, at least, not in any way Haern recognized. He’d been a giant man, dark-skinned, incredibly fast for his size...

“Can’t stay like this,” Haern said. “Still in the dark about too much. The Spider Guild’s disbandment proves that. I need to find out what’s going on. I need to know who’s playing us all like puppets.”

Run, run little spider...

“You aren’t going anywhere as is,” Brug said. “At least give yourself another night to...”

Haern caught Brug’s eyes glancing out the window, and whatever he saw gave him pause.

“What is it?”

He shifted in bed so he could look out. From his window in the tower they could both see the pathway stretching toward them from Veldaren. Walking alone on that path was a man, his lanky form wrapped in a thick red leather coat. A wide-brimmed hat colored crimson hung low over his face. Across his back, easily visible despite the hundreds of yards between them, was an enormous two-handed sword. A red ribbon fluttered from the handle in a soft breeze.

“Friend of yours?” Brug asked. Haern shook his head.

“Perhaps he knows Tarlak?”

Something about the way he moved made both of them uneasy. The fashion of the hat and coat suggested him an outsider, far from Veldaren. Brug fetched his daggers, then moved to the door.

“Stay here,” he said. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”

Haern chuckled as the door closed.

Stay here?

He pushed himself out of bed, clutching the wall to keep his balance. Vertigo came over him a second time, but he fought through it. He’d been trained better than this, he thought, taught to overpower far greater. His father had supplied him with tutors, teachers, masters of both mind and body. So what if a man the size of an ox had nearly caved in his skull? He was still stronger.

All that determination still felt small compared to the pain in his temples, and it did nothing to reduce the obnoxious white glare that seemed to come off of everything. But he forced it away, thrust it into the corners of his mind, let it ache but not distract. He found his shirt lying beside the bed, a hole still in it from where he’d been stabbed. He put it on, then pulled his hood over his head. As the shadows covered his face, he felt his tension ease. No matter the injury, no matter all that had happened, he was still the Watcher. He was greater than this.

A glance outside the window showed the man was almost to the tower. So far he had not drawn his blade. At the closer distance, Haern could see strange markings tattooed across his neck and hands. Set into the hilt of his sword was an enormous crystal, clear as water. Haern could only guess its worth, but the estimate was staggering. Stopping just shy of the path to the door, the man looked up at the window, right at Haern. A wide smile spread across his face, which was half covered by lanky strands of blond hair. That smile was like an icicle to the eye.

“Eschaton!” the man shouted. His voice tore through the quiet afternoon, and it was strangely high-pitched. “I am Nicholas Bloodcraft, and I have come to kill all of you. If you surrender now, your death will be merciful, a swift, painless beheading. If not...”

Before the man could even finish, the door to the tower opened, and Tarlak stepped out, fire burning on his hands.

“Consider this my counterproposal,” Tarlak said. A ball of fire shot from his palm, directly for Nicholas. Haern tensed, convinced it would not be so easy. The strange man pulled his sword off his back and held it blade downward, the hilt raised before his chest. Mere feet away, the fireball suddenly winked out of existence, without even a hint of smoke. Tarlak hurled a second ball of fire, and it vanished all the same.

Haern grabbed his sabers from beside the window as Tarlak lifted his hat and scratched his head.

“Huh.”

Tarlak slammed the door shut after rushing back inside. Nicholas calmly approached the tower, sword still drawn, grin still ear to ear. Haern pushed away from the window and staggered toward the stairs. The man was a professional, there was no doubt about that. Worse, he looked to be the perfect counter to their mercenaries. If Delysia and Tarlak could not use their magic, that left only Brug...

Haern shoved his door open, pausing a moment to tighten the bandages about his chest. No, Brug would not be able to handle someone of that skill. His talents lay in smithing, not combat. He had to get down there. He had to hurry. Step after step, each one jolting him with pain. The sabers in his hands shook, and he felt the leather of the hilts starting to cover with sweat. Had to hurry. Had to be stronger.

The door smashed open as Haern reached the bottom step. Nicholas’s massive sword cleaved it in two, a feat that should have been impossible. Besides the enchantments Tarlak had placed upon it, the wood itself was thick. But his mind’s feeble protests changed nothing as the man stepped inside, red coat billowing as dusty air poured into the tower. Brug stood guard opposite him, Tarlak and Delysia behind.

“You’re not welcome here,” Brug said, clanging his two punch daggers together. He wore his platemail, though Haern wondered how useful it’d be against a blade that could chop an oak door in half.

“Least he was polite enough to knock,” Tarlak said, ice swirling in his palm.

Nicholas lifted his sword with a single hand and pointed it at the three.

“Last chance,” he said. “Not that I mind the gore, or a good fight, but this won’t be any competition. Won’t be any
fun
. Kneel down, offer me your necks, and you’ll die easy.”

Haern saw more tattoos on his hand, swirling lines almost like arcane runes. They shone a soft blue, pulsing along with the man’s heartbeat. Everything about Nicholas screamed danger, but those runes told Haern to expect more than the humanly possible from his opponent. Well, that, and the split door.

“The only one dying today is you,” Brug said, stomping his feet. “Just try it, come on, come on!”

Haern slipped further into the room, hugging the wall. Brug was trying to be a distraction, he knew, doing everything he could to not look toward the stairs to the side. Just a few feet closer, and Haern could lunge.

Nicholas whirled, and his sword stretched out, the tip aimed for Haern’s throat.

“And you,” he said. “Shouldn’t you be dead?”

Brug leapt forward, bellowing. Nicholas spun, his blade cutting through the air with unnatural speed. Both Brug’s daggers smacked aside, and he had to pull back to avoid having his head lopped off. Haern rushed to his friend’s aid before Nicholas could finish him. His sabers stabbed in, and when Nicholas pulled his sword close to his chest to parry, Haern pressed the attack, weaving a continuous assault so the man would have no chance to counter. A mindless roar exited his mouth, a primal cry to overwhelm the pain in his side as blood dripped down his leg from reopened wounds.

But his foe was too good. When Brug went to stab him in the back, he pretended to turn to block, then flung himself at Haern, who had to twist to shift his aim. The twist hurt too much, and he let out a gasp as his vision turned white. Only instincts kept him falling back, kept his sabers up to push aside the killing chop.

“Get back!” Tarlak yelled, and both Haern and Brug obliged, flinging themselves away. Lances of ice crossed the room, points deadly sharp. Nicholas turned to face him, his sword spinning in his grasp so the hilt neared his face. The lances vanished amid a subtle flash of the crystal within the hilt. But that was not all of the attack. Delysia cried out the name of her god, and from her outward palms shone a brilliant flash of white. Nicholas swore, and he turned away, rubbing his eyes.

Brug came barreling in, all clattering platemail. He slammed headfirst into Nicholas, but instead of bowling the man over, he let out a cry and bounced to the side. His helmet was dented as if he’d struck stone. Up went Nicholas’s sword, ready for the kill. Another flash of light from Delysia, but he squinted his eyes and shifted his head so it did not blind. That half-second delay was enough, though. Haern stretched to his limits, his sabers cutting through the coat. The leather was thick and heavy, rendering it a shallow flesh wound. Worn out as he was, Haern did not have the strength to force the cut deeper. Blood dripped to the floor as Nicholas clenched his teeth and brought his full fury to bear on Haern.

“I’m glad you are alive,” he said, swinging his sword in wide arcs so Haern had to remain on the defensive. A bolt of fire shot in from Tarlak, but it winked out of existence, not even giving Nicholas pause. “At least you make this interesting. You even made me bleed.”

Haern ducked underneath a swing, then tried to roll to one side. Nicholas predicted the maneuver, and Haern screamed as a heavy boot slammed into his stomach. His old wound tore. It was like being stabbed all over again. He tried to move, to keep going, but his body convulsed against his wishes, doubling over amid his cries of pain. Nicholas’s sword lifted, but a heavy brick slammed into his shoulder before he could swing. Startled, Nicholas fell back as two more flew in, one striking his sword, the other his chest.

“Don’t like magic, eh?” Tarlak said, still hiding on the far side of the room. “How about something more real?”

More stones dislodged from the walls, held in the wizard’s mental grip. They flew at Nicholas, and though the magic propelling them died when nearing the man, it did not remove the natural momentum of the stone. Nicholas dove side to side, flinging his sword about to help block. Upon reaching a wall he leapt into it and kicked off into a dive straight at the wizard.

And that’s when Tarlak lifted the couch into the air and swatted Nicholas with it as if he were a bug.

“Need some help here,” Tarlak shouted as he flung more chairs and stones at Nicholas. Haern saw that the wizard was losing strength, the velocity of each one considerably slower than the last. Struggling to his feet, he staggered into a run. Nicholas caught one of the slower stones, flung it straight back at Tarlak. It struck his forehead, and with a soft gasp the wizard slumped against the wall, blood trickling down his face and neck. Haern ignored it, couldn’t afford to worry about the fate of his friend. Pushing through the wall of agony, he thrust for Nicholas’s stomach.

Too slow. Nicholas parried the sabers, then stepped in so that his elbow collided with Haern’s throat. He fell gasping, and the hard stone below him jarred his bleeding side further.

“I see why your band was such trouble,” Nicholas said, standing over him. Blood dripped from his cut side, and his tattooed skin was a mess of bruises. “But not any longer.”

He jerked forward, then collapsed to his knees as Brug’s daggers pierced his back in a flurry of punches.

“Why—”

He shoved his daggers together into Nicholas’s lower back.

“—does everyone—”

Twisted them left, then right.

“—always—”

Yanking them free, he clubbed Nicholas across the head.

“—ignore me?”

Nicholas collapsed to the ground in a dead heap. Brug stood over him, whole body shuddering as he gasped in air. He kicked the corpse with his armored foot.