David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“I know you can’t move,” the whore said, kneeling down beside him, covering the front of her brown dress with dirt. “Maybe you think that means you won’t feel anything. You’re wrong. I just want you to know that. You’ll feel every…single…thing.”

A knife flashed before him, held aloft so he could see the sharp edge in the moonlight. Then it turned, and Peb felt tears run down the side of his face. The tip pressed beneath his right eye, slipped deeper. It cut through nerves, muscle, and then with a sickening plop, pulled free. With his remaining eye, he saw her holding aloft his severed eyeball, a thin, bloody strand of tissue still attached to the back. Satisfied, the whore put it into a pocket of her dress, then leaned forward, dagger leading, hungry for his remaining eye.

It was true.

He felt every bit of it.

The hours passed, the sun setting and the moon rising, all while Haern watched the tavern. After Tarlak’s departure, Lord Victor had remained inside. As night approached, more and more of his men filtered back, increasing the protection of their lord while he slept. Haern shifted his weight back and forth so his legs never fell asleep. The tedium wore on him, but he was used to such things. Most nights he patrolled the city, he saw nothing, and accomplished little.

But he knew tonight would not be one of those nights. The Hawks had drawn first blood, but someone else would come in for the kill. He had a sneaking suspicion that his father would elect himself the one to do it.

“Come on,” he whispered, glancing up and down the street from his spot. “I know you want him, now come and get him.”

Opposite Victor’s repurposed tavern were several businesses, including a smith. In the recesses of the smith’s doorway Haern waited, hunched over with a ratty blanket covering his body. He kept his hood off, for, amusingly enough, he was less likely to be noticed and recognized with his blond hair and blue eyes showing. Just a drunk, that’s all he was, with his sabers hidden beneath a blanket and his cloaks bunched into a pillow to ease his back as he leaned against the door. From where he sat, he could see the main entrance to Victor’s home, plus one of the sides. Based on what Tarlak had told him after placing the runes, the only possible way of entrance was through the front door. The windows were too heavily boarded, the roof and walls solid, and Tarlak’s runes ensured no magical means allowed someone to bypass them.

A frontal attack then, where many of Victor’s guards waited, armed and armored. No, there was only one person who would be mad enough to do it, and it was the one man who might succeed, as well.

Haern closed his eyes, took a deep breath. Patience, he had to have patience. Thren would leave nothing to chance. He had to keep ready, to plan ahead. Cracking his eyes just enough so that he’d still look asleep, he watched and waited. Minutes crawled by, turning into another hour. He shifted again, grimaced at the tingles that shot up his leg. Waited too long, leg asleep. He was getting nervous, and he knew why. Ever since faking his death during the Bloody Kensgold nine years ago, Haern had never crossed swords with his father. Yet if he was right about tonight, there was no avoiding that possibility. Growing up, Haern had known his father was one of the best in the world when it came to swordplay, certainly the best in Veldaren. That was a long time ago, and now the thieves whispered that it was the Watcher who deserved that claim. But what if they were wrong?

Movement in the shadows forced his mind away from such worried thoughts.

There, thought Haern. A scout from the Spider Guild, peering from around the corner of a building far to his right. By his guess, the scout could just barely see the guards at the doorway. Taking in positions, looking for patrols, confirming numbers. That was Thren’s way. Haern wondered if his father had prepared for him, as well, and shivered. A grown man, yet he still felt like a child when he compared himself to that stern, imposing figure. More than anything, he did not want to face him. Swallowing that fear down, he watched the scout, all while being careful to make no movement that might give away his presence.

After less than twenty seconds, the scout was gone. A hunch made him shift so he could watch the other way, and sure enough, another scout appeared along the rooftops. Checking the other direction, of course, as well as seeing if there was a patrol the first might have missed. No doubt they both saw the same thing: a well-boarded, protected tavern, with the lone entrance guarded by four soldiers in armor. Two wielded swords, two others long spears. The scout vanished, and Haern shifted so he might have easier reach for his sabers. As an afterthought, he touched the pendant of the Golden Mountain that hung beneath his shirt.

“Please help me, Ashhur,” he whispered. “I have a feeling I’m going to need it. Oh, and protect Victor, if you think he’s worth protecting.”

That done, he readjusted so he was on his knees instead of his buttocks. Tilting his head to one side, he let his mouth drop, let his breathing slow. With a single eye he watched. Waited. But the attack didn’t come. Haern felt his patience tested. Why not? Everything was ready. The scouts had checked. The guards at the front look tired and bored. Why did he not see their approach?

The soft creaking of wood gave him his answer. Above him. The massed Spider Guild had traveled across the rooftops, and now overlooked the tavern, same as him. Suddenly uncertain, Haern lay there as the silence of the night was interrupted with the sound of crossbow strings. A deadly barrage of bolts sailed towards the four guards. Their aim was true, piercing through throats and eyes. All four men dropped, unable to call out. The sound of their chainmail rattling was the only warning they gave to those inside.

Haern bit down a curse.

Ropes rolled down in front of him, and then the thieves descended. Haern kept perfectly still, hoping his presence might go unnoticed. Through a crack in his eyelids he counted their number. Twenty…thirty…forty…

Thren Felhorn landed before him, and Haern stopped counting. His father looked almost exactly like he remembered. His strong jaw, his coldly intelligent blue eyes, his reddish blond hair cut short so it would not interfere with his hearing or vision. The only differences were the wrinkles, and the way his skin looked stretched and thin. It was a strange thing, realizing how much his father had aged, but peering up at him, Haern still felt like a child. For a brief moment of terror, he thought Thren might see him, and without his hood hiding his face, recognize his long lost son. If he did turn and draw his shortswords, Haern didn’t know if he would be able to react in time to save himself.

The first of the thieves reached the door, and Thren followed after. Haern slowly exhaled. His hands were shaking, and as he sat up, he relied on his years of training to steady his breath and calm his heart. This is what he’d expected, what he’d known would happen. In times past, Haern had stormed through the mansions of the Trifect, slaughtering mercenaries and thieves alike to bring about peace. He’d fought the most skillful of opponents, from the Wraith to Dieredon. He would show no fear-not here, not now. The Spider Guild must fear him, not the other way around.

Should have kept Tarlak with me, Haern thought. One well-placed fireball, and the entire fight would already be over. With so many of the thieves’ backs to him, it was tempting to rush into their ranks, but he knew Thren would not be so foolish as that. Instead, Haern slunk to the side of the building, then ran to the back. Scrambling to the top, he drew his swords and pulled his hood over his head, letting its magical darkness hide his features. Four men with crossbows remained on the rooftop, guarding the flank. Haern crossed the shingles without a sound. Two were already dead before they knew he was there. Another fell to the hard stone below, blood gushing from his throat. The fourth managed a single scream before a saber took away his voice, and his life.