David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

In the tense silence, that scream was enough. Standing to his full height, Haern held his swords out wide, let the Spider Guild see him there, looming, a promise of death in the dark night. The guards inside had started to shout, for several thieves had jammed thick iron crowbars against the hinges and begun to jar them loose. Those in the back turned, though, and they readied their weapons. At least fifty on one , thought Haern.

Could be worse.

The door shook, men rammed against it, and then it broke. The Spider Guild rushed the opening, and from within the tavern Haern heard the sound of combat. He knew soldiers protected Victor, but how many? And would they hold? Below, a line of thieves remained, about ten left to protect their flank from the lurking Watcher. Haern smiled despite himself. Now that was better.

He leapt into the air, his cloaks trailing silently behind him. Sabers eager, he twirled so that they could not guess his direction upon landing. They’d cut in, try to bury him in sheer numbers. And he’d be ready. His feet touched the ground, and he dropped, rolling to help soak up his momentum. He felt his shoulder connect against a man’s legs, and when the thief went down Haern pulled up, leaping again, avoiding frantic cuts. This time he was fully in control, parrying away hits with vicious speed. Pirouetting on one foot, he lashed out, cutting down two nearby thieves.

More rushed in, but they were simple attacks, thrusts and chops that showed their lack of formal training. Most could only dream of training with the masters Thren had brought in from around the world on a monthly basis. He’d wanted Haern to be his heir, his lord of the underworld. As the Spiders died around him, Haern felt in himself the fulfillment of that destiny, in a way his father never could have anticipated. Parry, shift, counter, and another two fell. Spinning, he let his cloaks flare out, let them disguise his movements. One thief slashed only to miss, stabbing into gray cloth instead of flesh. Haern lunged at him, knowing him vulnerable. His sabers pierced the man’s belly, and a twist sent the contents spilling.

The remaining men wanted no part of him, and turned to flee. Haern let them, knowing he had bigger problems to face. Looking to the door, he saw the entirety of the guild had managed to force themselves inside. He still heard combat, which was a good sign. Long as men were fighting, Victor had a chance.

When he reached the broken door, an eruption shook the ground, along with a bright flash that lit up the night. Haern shifted his feet to keep his balance, then swore. From above the rooftop, he saw smoke billowing into the night sky.

“Damn it, Tarlak, do you not know the meaning of subtle?”

The last bit of defense Tarlak had told Haern about was in Victor’s room, which when activated would explode the wall outward, giving the Lord a chance to escape. Obviously it had been triggered. No time left, Haern dashed through the door, and his recklessness nearly killed him. A sword thrust pierced the space before the entrance, shockingly fast. Yet Haern was also fast, collapsing to one knee as he twisted away. The tip of the blade cut across his chest, just a nick that would scar at worst. A faint spray of blood flecked across the ground as Haern continued his turn, bringing up his sabers in the process.

Thren stood before him, bent into a ready stance. He twirled a sword, not yet attacking, only staring. Behind him, his guild members battled a slew of guards making their stand atop the stairs. All around lay corpses of both thieves and soldiers.

“This is no concern of yours,” Thren said. “The man is a fool, and he threatens the balance you’ve killed so many to achieve.”

“Fool or not, I’d rather keep him alive. I’ll have no war in Veldaren, not again.”

Thren shook his head, took a careful step forward.

“If you don’t want a war, then Victor must die tonight. Stand down, Watcher.”

Haern felt his pulse quicken, felt his breath catch in his throat.

“No,” he said.

Thren leapt, closing the distance between them with the speed of a demon. Shortswords stabbed in, their angles deceptive. Only instinct kept Haern alive, his hands feeling like they moved of their own accord. His sabers parried both aside, and a shifting of his feet made it so his shoulder met Thren’s when they collided. His father was strong, but Haern kept his feet planted firm, just long enough to halt Thren’s momentum. Hoping for surprise, he then rolled aside, toward Thren’s back, and swung for his neck. Thren ducked it with ease.

This time they both rushed one another, their blades clashing together with a steady ringing of steel. Haern felt his nerves settle as he blocked and parried. Skilled as his father was, he was slower than Haern, and not as strong. Not by much, of course, but in a contest so close, even a little advantage was crucial.

“You can still flee,” Haern said, his riposte cutting a thin line across Thren’s shoulder. When Haern tried to follow it up, Thren fell back, his shortswords batting aside every thrust.

“You’re a puppet of the Trifect,” Thren said, pulling his swords together and settling into another stance. “You won’t defeat me. I am what you’d become if they cut your strings.”

Haern narrowed his gaze, the tips of his sabers pressed against the wood floor as he took in heavy gasps of air. Before their combat could resume, a thief rushed down the steps. The last of the guards were dead, and whatever fighting there was continued higher up.

“Victor’s made it to the street!” the thief cried out, as if oblivious that his guildmaster faced off against the Watcher.

Haern met his father’s gaze, and a half-smile tugged at his lips.

They both sprinted for the door, Haern sliding to one leg just as he reached it. As he thought, a dagger sailed over his head, thrown by Thren when he realized he could not keep pace. Leaping back to his feet, Haern ran on, desperate not to fail. A quick glance behind showed Thren at his heels, his own gray cloak billowing behind him. Together they rounded the corner, and saw the mess Tarlak’s spell had created.

The entire side wall of the tavern was gone. The wood was blackened and burned along the edges, as if pushed out by a great fire. Rubble lay scattered across the street. Thieves had given chase, and Haern saw at least twenty of them running. Ahead of them all was Lord Victor, a distant silver shape. No escort remained with him. Despite his lead, Haern knew the thieves would catch him, most of them younger and unburdened by armor.

“Just keep going,” Haern breathed as he ran, knowing Thren followed dangerously close. He was faster than them all, knew how to maximize the push of every swing of his legs, but the moment he stopped to fight, Thren would come crashing in. Haern saw little hope, but it didn’t matter. He ran on. Catching up to the tail end of thieves, he slid close and swung. His saber hamstrung a man, toppling him head over heels while screaming. Another stopped to strike, but Haern veered aside and continued past.

Too many ahead. The homes on either side flashed by in blurs. Haern’s pulse thundered in his ears. When they caught Victor, they’d tear him apart, overwhelm him with…

The street exploded before him. Rocks, each the size of a man’s fist, thudded into the homes. Smoke billowed from the crater that now separated Haern from Lord Victor. Over half of the thieves had been caught in the fire, their corpses now lying scattered about, their clothing aflame. The rest staggered aimlessly, bleeding from the ears. And then from the smoke emerged Deathmask. A pale gray mask covered his face, and hovering about his head, hiding his features like a dark cloud, was a swirl of ash. Fire danced from his fingertips.