David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“That so?” the Watcher asked. His voice was like a whisper, but Grayson heard it clear as day. Instincts told him it was magic, and the way shadows hid the Watcher’s face, regardless of the direction of the light, hinted at the hood as the source.

“Consider it friendly advice from an equal. Assuming you live up to your reputation, that is.”

He stepped in and slashed, careful to keep one blade back to block in case of a counter. The Watcher spun into action, and with dizzying speed, slashed at his attacks. Grayson found himself retreating, his eyes widening to take in the sight. He could tell the man was off balance, but that didn’t stop him from pressing hard, pushing Grayson to his limits to keep up the blocks. The sound of steel hitting steel rang in his ears. Grayson kept circling, countering only when the moment presented itself. A realization grew in the back of his mind, becoming stronger and stronger with every cut and parry. The fight melded into something familiar, something Grayson knew all too well from years ago.

The Watcher fought like Thren Felhorn.

Not exactly, of course, but the fluidity of movement, the constant motion, the ability to turn from the defensive to the attack within the blink of an eye…it was Thren. It had to be. His build was the same, his height, even the reach of his arms. But that didn’t make one lick of sense.

“Why?” he asked as he forced himself closer. Reach should have been his advantage, given his longer arms, but he knew from a thousand spars with Thren that shrinking the man’s room to maneuver easily outweighed any advantage as simple as reach. The Watcher batted his sabers left and right, then spun about so his cloak blocked his movements. No fool, Grayson fell back, ready for the attack, but it did not come. Instead the Watcher retreated, falling to one knee as he vomited a second time.

“What madness leads you to this?” Grayson asked, welcoming the reprieve himself. His chest ached, and his heart pounded in his chest. “Was it a ploy to save face? Did you need someone else to blame for ending your little war? Or do you like the idea of being paid twice to keep the peace?”

“What are you talking about?” the Watcher asked.

“Don’t lie to me. Take off that hood and show me your damn face, Thren. I know it’s you.”

At first, he thought the Watcher had fallen into a seizure the way his whole body shook, his shoulders bobbing up and down. And then the sound of laughter reached his ears.

“Thren?” asked the Watcher as he stood, his sabers hanging low at his sides. “You think I’m Thren? I don’t know who you are, or what stupidity sends you after to me, but if you think I am him, then you are a greater fool than I can possibly imagine.”

Grayson tensed for another lunge.

“Last chance,” he said. “Take off the hood, show me your face, and I’ll let you live. Otherwise…”

More laughter, wild, almost mad.

“So perceptive,” he said. “Yet so stupid. You want to remove my hood? Come cut it off yourself.”

Grayson charged, his long arms swinging. This time the Watcher was not so fast, his footing not so sure. The effects of the blow to his head were starting to grow more prominent. Twice he slammed into either side of the alley, miscalculating the angle of a dodge. Grayson pressed on, hammering him with his swords. The Watcher had speed, but Grayson had strength to back up his own skill, and with every blow he saw his opponent growing weaker.

The Watcher knew it, too, and his sudden reversal nearly gutted Grayson where he stood. Spinning again to set his cloaks in motion, the Watcher lashed out once, twice, to keep him at bay, and then lunged. If he’d been a hair faster, his sabers would have connected, but Grayson twisted at the last moment. He felt pain across his side, but it was only a mild flesh wound, not the vital organs the tip had been aiming for. Letting the pain fuel his motions, Grayson weaved his swords in a complex series of attacks. The Watcher tried to parry, but Grayson kept shifting the angles, making it harder and harder. At last, when victory was apparent, the Watcher tried to flee. It was sudden, quick, but he’d been ready for it.

Out went his foot. The Watcher stumbled, struggling to regain his balance. Too late. Grayson’s shortsword pierced his cloak, his shirt, stabbed through ribs, lung, and then out his back. When he yanked it free, blood splattered across the street. The Watcher let out a gasp, kept stumbling. Grayson did not hurry, knowing such a wound was most certainly fatal.

“Your choice, remember,” Grayson said, slowly stalking after. “But you never knew when you were beaten, did you? That’s why you let your fight against the Trifect last until you were too weak to stop it. That’s why you let Marion die…”

He expected the name of Thren’s dead wife to elicit more emotion than it did, but then again, the man was clearly bleeding out before him. The Watcher continued limping, one hand along the wall, the other clutching his wound.

“Not…beaten…yet,” he said, his voice sounding wet, strangled.

Grayson saw the glass vial only a second before the Watcher flung it to the ground. Smoke exploded out in all directions, thick enough to fill the alley. Grayson covered his eyes with his arm and swore. He knew the concoction, a fairly simple mixture any wizard could make and sell. He’d guarded his face quick enough to avoid any of the burning sensations, but it would be a good thirty seconds before it dissipated. Pushing through, he emerged on the far side. The Watcher was nowhere to be found.

“Die in private if you must,” Grayson said, wiping a few stubborn tears from his eyes because of the smoke. “I wasn’t going to mutilate your body. We’re friends, remember?”

Back in the alley, Alan was gone as well. Grayson turned away, hardly caring. Whistling a tune, he traveled back to the Spider Guild’s headquarters. The lone guard there saw him and wisely let him through. Grayson thought it would be quiet, empty, but inside were over twenty men, drinking themselves into a stupor. Thren had cancelled most of their patrols, he realized.

“Where’s Thren?” he bellowed, interrupting their stories, their songs, and their games of chance. A few shot him looks, the rest unwilling to meet his gaze. “I said, where is Thren?”

“Here,” Thren said, emerging from his private room. “What is so important that you must shout like a buffoon?”

No blood on his clothes, no wounds, not even a limp. Grayson grunted, surprised that he’d been so wrong.

“I killed him,” Grayson said as Thren approached.

“Him?”

“The Watcher. He’s dead.”

For a moment, total silence filled the tavern. Every man looked his way. Grayson saw the turmoil in Thren’s eyes, saw the way he tightened the muscles in his body to carefully control his reaction.

“Are you certain?” he asked.

Grayson held up his shortsword, still covered with blood.

“Gutted front to back,” Grayson said. “Yeah. He’s dead.”

And with that, the cheers began, calls for drinks and cries of celebration that were beautiful to Grayson’s ears. And all the while, Thren glared, unwilling to show a shred of joy or gratitude.

“You’re free of him,” Grayson said. “Your slavery to the Trifect ends tonight if you wish it to. Or has the legendary thief grown afraid?”

“You’ve done what you wished,” Thren said, just loud enough to be heard over the din. “When will you be returning to Mordeina?”

Grayson accepted an offered drink, downed half of it.

“I don’t know, Thren,” he said, grinning. “I’m the man who killed the Watcher. I feel like a bit of a hero. Maybe I should stick around, enjoy the rewards.”