David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

After about thirty dead, their progress slowed. Shock turned to fury and desperation, and now it was their turn to retreat, weaving side to side to avoid the occasional crossbow bolt. Instead of putting their backs to the door, they fled inside and slammed it shut, needing the brief reprieve to catch their breaths. Zusa looked to the Watcher, still unable to believe it. He looked similar, had a similar build and height, but something was wrong. Much of his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood, and even his grin had that same amused yet tired edge to it. His hands, she realized. They were older, more calloused and scarred.

“Who are you?” she asked. “You can’t be him.”

“I am who I need to be,” said the imposter. He kept his voice low, but it was rougher than Haern’s whisper. “Or would you prefer to fight them alone?”

The barred door halted them only a moment. The remaining house guards had retreated further into the house, most likely to the upper floors where they could narrow down the conflict to a few chokepoints at the stairs. This left the windows unguarded, and the thieves leapt through them in a sudden wave. Zusa took one side, the Watcher the other. She parried a clumsy thrust, kicked her shin against the man’s groin, and then slashed out his throat as he doubled over. Two more neared, and she flung herself at them, her exhaustion increasing her recklessness. Both scored minor wounds, but she accepted them to cut them both down, each of her daggers burying into a throat.

An explosion roared from the outside, and suddenly there were no more coming through the windows.

“What’s going on?” Zusa asked, turning. The Watcher stood at a window, grinning.

“Not everyone is so willing to play along with Grayson’s farce,” he said.

Not understanding, she opened the door to look out.

Lord Victor fought at the entrance to the mansion grounds, a squad of his men surrounding him. Amid his group she saw the yellow robes of the wizard, Tarlak. Powerful magic flew from his fingertips, bolts of lightning and boulders of ice slamming across the corpse-covered yard. The various guilds turned on them, hoping to bury them quickly, but then the Ash Guild arrived as well. Somehow they’d gotten over the wall, and they methodically moved through the yard, wiping out those who neared. Dark fire leapt from Deathmask’s hands, and Veliana shredded terrified men with her daggers. Whirling about them were the twins, preventing anyone from flanking.

“Let’s rub salt in their wounds,” the Watcher said, rushing out. Zusa followed, and together they chased down thieves who knew not where to retreat, for they had enemies on all sides. Eventually they fled toward the entrance, enduring Tarlak’s assault so they might push back against Victor’s men and dash for the safety of the dark streets.

The Watcher leapt to the wall and climbed up, balancing himself so he stood in the gaps of the spikes without harm. As the chaos died down, and men fled in all directions, the Watcher lorded over it all, let every eye look upon him. Zusa sheathed her daggers, the battle over. As the Ash Guild met up with Victor’s men, the Watcher leapt to the street and vanished. Deathmask gave a mock salute, and then he, too, made his exit.

Zusa waited, feeling so tired that standing seemed a burden, as Victor made his approach.

“We are safe,” she told him. “My thanks to your arrival.”

“I don’t know how you lived,” Victor said, glancing about. “Gods, it reeks of shit and blood. You’d think we fought a war.”

Hundreds of corpses, all throughout the yard and mansion. It would take months to clean it all, she knew, and to completely banish the odor.

“We did fight a war,” Zusa said, looking up to the window to see Alyssa peering down. “But we won.”

“If you say so,” Tarlak said, his attention still drawn outward. She knew what he had to be thinking.

“It seems the Watcher is not dead after all,” she said, baiting out a response.

“Seems like it,” Tarlak said, but she heard the doubt in his voice, the confusion. It was no ploy of his. Whoever the imposter was, the Eschaton were not involved. What did that mean?

“I must go to my mistress,” Zusa said, bowing low.

“I should return to my patrols,” Victor said. “Though I think the bulk of the trouble has passed. Give Alyssa my regards.”

Tarlak tipped his hat, and then they trudged off with their soldiers, leaving Alyssa to deal with the mess. Zusa tried not to think about it. Entering through the door, she gave a quick scan of the mansion, looking upon the destruction. Paintings were slashed or stolen, furniture broken. Every shred of silver or gold, from the candles to the dinnerware, was taken. The bodies of servants and guards lay in every room, side by side with thieves and looters.

At the foot of the stairs she found Alyssa, come to survey the damage.

“We’ll rebuild, replace it all,” Zusa offered. “Your loved ones survived. That is what matters.”

Alyssa slowly wrapped her arms about her, leaned her head against her breast, and cried.

“Ten years,” she whispered. “Gods help us, ten years.”

“Not this time,” Zusa said, stroking her hair. “Not this time.”

It was shallow comfort, a weak promise, but right then, she had little else to offer.

Grayson knew he should be furious by the defeat, but he was far too amused for that. He’d gathered together men of all guilds, united with promises of the Watcher’s death and a luxurious future. At each guild he’d been treated like a prince, and cheered with raised glasses despite them knowing so little about him. Only a few had glanced his way with untrusting eyes, realizing what the others did not. He was a fearsome man, and a thief, but a thief from a distant nation, and of foreign guilds.

Foreign guilds eyeing Veldaren with hungry mouths open.

“To the Watcher’s killer,” said one of the members of the Spider Guild as Grayson stepped into the guild’s tavern, the man lifting his glass in a mocking toast. Grayson grinned at him, the look sapping away whatever cheer the man had.

“I stuck my sword through his gut and out his back,” Grayson said. “Perhaps this Watcher of yours is a devil after all. No man lives through that.”

The thief was smart enough to say nothing, only shrug and resume drinking. Still grinning, Grayson looked about the tavern, counting numbers. A pathetic remnant of what they’d been, especially compared to when he and Thren had been working together so many years ago. Hardly a merchant would quake at seeing the ragtag group of fifteen men drinking and bandaging wounds. Thren would recruit like mad to replace his numbers, but it would take time. With so much death and conflict, and so little coin in return, he’d gain only the desperate and delusional.

Now that he thought of it…

He found Thren drinking with a group of four in a far corner. Stealing a drink from the man who had mocked him, Grayson guzzled it down as he walked over to Thren’s table, slamming his empty cup atop the hard wood. Three of them jumped, but not Thren.

“So how goes your night?” Grayson asked, grin spreading.

“As poorly as your ill conceived plan,” Thren said, leaning back and looking as if he had not a care in the world. He couldn’t pull off the image completely, though. Thren was never much of a bluffer, Grayson knew, never had been and never would be. His eyes always gave him away. Too much intensity.

“That so?” Grayson glared down at the man opposite Thren, who glanced at his guild leader.

“Go check and see if any others have made it back, Martin,” Thren said.

Martin shrugged and gave up his seat so Grayson could take it.