David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

The eyes , thought Nathaniel, unable to stop the memory. The tears had been of silver and gold, his face a shadow, but the eyes…the eyes…

The eyes of fire burned, focused on Veldaren, their essence consumed with fury and craving destruction. More and more gathered under the shadow’s banner, and the silver tears fell like rain across the city. He heard a child crying, crying…

By the time the vision ended and he came to, he was laying on his back, his mother kneeling over him. All he could say was the same thing, over and over.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Haern woke to the sound of scraping steel. He bolted upward in his bed and immediately regretted it. A moment of vertigo doubled him over, and he coughed and heaved as his insides twisted. Beside him, Brug sat up in his chair, dagger and whetstone in hand.

“Easy there,” Brug said, reaching over and pushing Haern back down onto the bed. Haern lacked the strength to resist, and he slowed his breathing so his heartbeat might return to normal.

“Where’s Delysia?” Haern asked.

Brug lifted an eyebrow at him and let out a grunt.

“Forced her to take a rest,” he said. “Been at your side nearly all night. It’s midday now, in case you can’t tell. You were out all morning.”

Haern remembered the fires he’d seen, the chaos unfurling at his supposed death.

“How’d everything go?” he asked.

Brug scraped the stone across his blade.

“Well…”

He began talking, and Haern listened intently. He heard of the smaller fires, the delay, and then of the larger attack on the dungeon. Haern shook his head at this, thinking of so many he’d put away managing to escape. It seemed the guilds were not just eager to celebrate, but wanted to wipe away every shred of his accomplishments in a single night.

“It was all just a feint, though,” Brug said, putting down one dagger and grabbing the other. “The real fight was at Alyssa’s. I’d say you should have been there, but from what my eyes were seeing, you already were.”

Haern frowned, confused.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean someone dressed up as you, grabbed similar swords, and went to town killing thieves to protect the Gemcroft mansion. Saw him, or you, or whatever, fighting alongside that Zusa girl who’s always protecting Alyssa. Damn good, too. Might have fooled me if I hadn’t seen the gaping hole in your chest earlier that morning. Not even Delysia can get someone up and running just a day after that.”

Haern lay down and closed his eyes to think. Someone impersonated him, but why? The obvious reason was to convince the town he was not, in fact, dead. But who benefitted most? Who had the skill, and the physical ability, to so closely imitate him? It was a small list indeed, and none made any sense.

“What of the fight?” he asked, trying to pull his mind back to other matters.

Brug shrugged.

“Was just a huge mob for the most part. Plenty died, but at least a good chunk were thieves as well.”

“Which guild?”

Brug scratched at his beard.

“Now that I think of it…all of ‘em. Alyssa must have pissed someone off good. Grudge from letting all those mercenaries loose, perhaps?”

It was possible, but didn’t feel right.

“Thren’s the only one who’s been able to unite the guilds before,” Haern said. “I wouldn’t doubt he’d hold a grudge, but this feels too similar to the failed attack during the Bloody Kensgold. He would have learned from that. And this may sound crazy, but I think he likes things as they are. That’s why he attacked Victor.”

“He attacked Victor because Victor was taking down his men and cutting off their heads.”

“Small timers, minor thieves. He didn’t like Victor threatening the delicate balance I’ve created.”

Brug grunted, rocked his chair back and forth.

“You’re starting to sound like that hit on your head really got to you worse than we thought. Listen to yourself. Are you saying Thren likes having you lord over the underworld? Why? Next you’ll be saying that it was him pretending to be you last night.”

Haern gave him a look, and Brug closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids with his thick, callused fingers.

“Really? You actually think he did? If that’s the case, then I don’t know what’s going on in Veldaren anymore. Everyone’s losing their damn minds, you included.”

Haern laughed.

“Be useful, and get me something to eat.”

As Brug left the room, muttering to himself, Haern closed his eyes and tried to relax. He felt the beginnings of another headache coming along, and if it was anything like the last, it’d be crippling. Shifting side to side, he tested his wounds. The skin was tightening up, though when he lifted the bandages he found his stab wound a deep purple, and horribly scarred. Rocking back and forth didn’t seem to strain it too badly, though it did make his muscles ache. Worse was how his balance still felt off. Even that slight motion sent his stomach looping.

Not too frightening a foe that keeps vomiting mid-fight, thought Haern.

Brug returned carrying a small tray of food, and it was more cruelty than kindness. The smell was divine, and Haern’s mouth watered, but his stomach heaved, and he turned to the side of his bed so he could vomit. He saw a small amount of blood amid the bile, but tried not to worry. That he was sitting up and talking was enough of a sign for him that he’d make it out all right.

“Thought it looked pretty good myself,” Brug said, glancing down at the plate of carrots and beef. “Perhaps just some ale for now?”

Haern looked at the offered mug.

“Why not,” he said. At least it would get rid of the foul taste in his mouth. He took a few swallows, just enough to clear his throat. Brug put the tray down beside his bed and settled back down in the chair.

“Tarlak said he’s hearing some bizarre rumors coming in from the city,” Brug said. “Looks like Victor moved against the Spider Guild. Those he caught are all claiming the same thing; Spider Guild’s been disbanded, and Thren’s vanished.”

Haern felt like he’d been slapped with a wet towel.

“You can’t be serious,” he said dumbly.

“I’m not much for joking, Haern. I’m starting to think you might be right about Thren pretending he was you, because let’s face it, he’s completely falling apart.”

Haern pressed his palms against his forehead.

“What now?” Brug asked.

“Headache,” Haern said, slowly breathing in and out. “Feels like someone stuck a knife in my brain, and every few minutes they can’t help but give it a twist.”

“Del did say that hit to your head was a nasty one. What smacked you, anyway? A brick?”

“A foot.”

Brug snorted.

“I’m not sure I want to meet that guy, then,” he said, stealing Haern’s mug and downing a third of it. “What’s his heel made of, stone?”

The confrontation with the mysterious man came back to Haern, much as he didn’t want it to. His attacker had shown no guild affiliations, at least, not in any way Haern recognized. He’d been a giant man, dark-skinned, incredibly fast for his size…

“Can’t stay like this,” Haern said. “Still in the dark about too much. The Spider Guild’s disbandment proves that. I need to find out what’s going on. I need to know who’s playing us all like puppets.”

Run, run little spider…

“You aren’t going anywhere as is,” Brug said. “At least give yourself another night to…”

Haern caught Brug’s eyes glancing out the window, and whatever he saw gave him pause.

“What is it?”