David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“You’ve never faced a man like me before.”

Deathmask shook his head and wagged a finger at him.

“You see, that’s the thing…we have. I daresay you remind me most of Thren Felhorn. Oh, don’t give me that look; it’s true. Same cockiness, same certainty that you’ll live forever without meeting someone better. You know, it might even be true. But the problem is you keep acting like you’re special. You keep thinking that there’s something unique about you.”

He slid even closer and raised a palm to the ceiling. Purple fire burst into existence in its center, and it swirled in an unfelt wind, burned on fuel that was not there.

“If I shoved this fire into your lungs,” said Deathmask, “you’d scream like anyone else, you’d die like anyone else, and then your corpse would shit itself, just like every other man and woman who has lived and died on this joke of a world. When the worms are eating our bodies, there’ll be no difference between you and I, not a one.”

Victor took a deep breath, and was glad that the tight ropes holding him to the chair kept him from shaking.

“I’m not afraid of you,” he said. “Tell me what it is you want, or let me go.”

Deathmask chuckled, and he clenched his fist, banishing the fire.

“What do I want? I want you safe and alive, that’s what I want. And for you to do that, you need to start listening. If we work together, we’ll both meet our goals, and you might even live long enough to see the end.”

Victor tried to hide his revulsion and failed. He thought of his words to the Watcher and shook his head.

“I will not have you drag me down,” he said. “No deals, no bribes, no sacrificing a shred of my intent. You can’t defeat me, so you hope to make me like you.”

“Can’t defeat you?” Veliana asked. She grabbed his face in her hands and gave him an earful of her mocking laughter. “Can’t defeat you? Look around, Victor. Instead of removing that mask over your head, we could have buried a dagger in your throat and been done with all this. How about instead of spouting blind nonsense, you start listening to the words you’re saying?”

She let go, pushing his head back hard enough to hurt the muscles in his neck. He felt his face flush, and he caught the twins snickering in the background. Pride wounded, he looked to the floor, forced himself to think. They were right, of course. His life was fully in their hands. But that didn’t mean he had to surrender. It didn’t mean he had to break.

“I will not die a hypocrite,” he said softly. “I’ve come to Veldaren to cleanse it of your kind. I will not work with you to do it. It is a poor executioner who relies on the condemned to swing their own axe.”

“Are you so sure?” Deathmask asked. “We now have a common enemy. Thren will never forgive me for what I’ve done, and you, well, you’re dead no matter what. The only reason you lived through his first attack was with my help. Should you remain stubborn, we may not be so generous the next time.”

Victor knew he was sealing his fate with his next answer, but he forced away the guilt, the frustration from failing so thoroughly in his goal. Deathmask wanted something, most likely to use him as his own private army against the other thief guilds, but he would not allow it. He would not be so cowardly as to sacrifice everything he believed just to spare his own life. Meeting Deathmask’s eye, he opened his mouth to answer, and that’s when the wall to his left exploded. Rock and dust filled the cellar. The four members of the Ash Guild fell back to the far wall, drawing daggers and readying magic.

“I must say, Death, I’m rather disappointed in you,” said Tarlak as he walked through the rubble and into the cellar. “Not a single protection spell against scrying?”

“I cast one on Victor the moment I took him,” Deathmask said as purple fire danced about his fingers.

“Not on Victor,” Tarlak said, grinning. “On you. But the night’s late, and such a mistake can be forgiven for how tired I’m sure you are. I’ll take your guest off your hands so you can rest. He’s such a troublemaker, isn’t he?”

More arrived through the hole in the wall, some Victor recognized, some he didn’t. The Watcher was the first, his sabers drawn, his face hidden in shadow. With him was a priestess of Ashhur, the wizard’s sister, Delysia. He’d met her briefly, when he first came to ask Tarlak to cast wards about his home. Last was a short, stocky man with a beard, clunking down behind the others in a full suit of platemail. The four faced off with the Ash Guild, who almost looked eager for a fight-all but Deathmask, who just looked amused.

“Such a dramatic display,” he said. “But truly unnecessary. Did I not tell your pet assassin he would be safe with me?”

The Watcher slipped closer, and with a few quick swings of his sabers, cut Victor free from the chair. His back stung when he stood, but Victor was thrilled to be able to move. Glancing to the Ash Guild, he dipped his head low.

“Thank you for the hospitality,” he said.

“Any time,” Deathmask said, still looking more amused than upset that the Eschaton had come to save him.

“Come see us again,” said the twins in unison.

Victor stepped through the hole in the wall and an opened chunk of dirt to the surface. The priestess took his arm, asked him if he was injured. Shaking his head, Victor glanced back, saw the Watcher remaining behind. The assassin said something to Deathmask, then left to follow.

“Take me to my men,” Victor said to Tarlak as he led them beyond the plain looking home and out to the street. “I must let them know I am safe and well.”

“We’ll do that for you,” Tarlak said. “But for now, you’re coming with us. Your home isn’t safe.”

“I know. Your spell left a gaping hole in the wall.”

Tarlak glanced back at the cellar.

“Indeed. Seems to be my specialty tonight.”

“Damn fools,” said the shorter fellow in armor. “What were they trying to do?”

“They were saving my life,” Victor said, remembering his flight down the street, thieves in chase.

“Doubt that,” the man snorted.

“Quiet, Brug,” Tarlak said. He stopped them all there in the middle of the street. Victor didn’t know why, but the wizard was twirling his hands about in odd motions.

“Deathmask doesn’t have an altruistic bone in his body,” the Watcher said, joining them. “If he’s interested in you, enough to keep you alive, it’s probably far worse than if he’d never noticed you at all.”

“Thanks for the comforting words,” Victor muttered. “My home was attacked, at least fifteen of my men are dead, and a madman has plans for me he’s unwilling to share.”

“Don’t forget Thren Felhorn wants you dead,” Brug said. “That should be up there, too.”

Victor glared at Brug, who seemed not to care.

“Done,” Tarlak said, and with the word, the street split before him like a torn painting. Victor stepped back, stunned. The tear grew, swirling with an unnatural light, until it was the size of a man. Without hesitation Tarlak stepped through, vanishing instead of appearing on the other side. His sister followed, then Brug. Before Victor could step through, the Watcher grabbed his wrist and held him still.

“We put our lives at risk helping you,” he said. “Do you understand that?”

Victor nodded.

“I do.”

“Good. Never forget it.”

He shoved Victor into the portal. His vision flooded with stars, gravity twirled and reversed, and then he was landing on cold, hard earth. His stomach heaved, and he vomited uncontrollably. As he gasped for air, he looked up to see a large tower built where rolling green hills met an expansive forest. Tarlak stood before him, hand outstretched, grin on his face.