David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“I just want to feel safe,” she said. “Is that so terrible of me?”

“Of course not,” John said. “I’ll send for my footmen. They’ll stay until all of this business in Veldaren settles down.”

In response, Melody kissed him across the mouth.

“Thank you,” she said, then kissed him again. “Thank you.”

Her hands were at his belt, tugging. John reached down and grabbed one of her breasts.

Nathaniel ran, scared and confused and wanting to see no more.

Thren watched as the men and women gathered about the entrance to the alley, all thin and meager looking. They surrounded the hooded figure, who kept looking for guards as he took in silver and gave out his crimleaf. As if guards would come to the southern district. They were too busy in the north and west, protecting the trade and homes of the wealthy. No guards, Thren knew. No control. The Suns had come into the lawless anarchy of the slums, and it was time they paid for it.

He kept his walk lumbering, as if he was just another overworked member of the city, barely staving off his hunger each day. He’d discarded his guild colors, instead wrapping a thin coat about him. It was dark brown, stained, and had many holes, but it hid the swords strapped at his waist, which was all that mattered.

There were three men still buying when Thren joined them, lurking at their backs.

“Shit man, wasn’t it just one silver?” argued the closest. His eyes were bloodshot, and lice crawled in his hair.

“It’s two now,” said the Sun thief. “Don’t act all pissed off, either. You know you still can’t get it cheaper elsewhere, not by a mile.”

“I wouldn’t buy from him,” Thren said, stepping closer.

“Piss off, and mind your own,” the thief said, glaring. “My leaf’s good, and my prices fair.”

“That’s not why,” Thren said, taking another step. “It’s just not wise to buy from a dead man.”

He leapt forward, shortsword drawn. It rammed into the man’s stomach. A twist and a yank sent his innards spilling out across the ground. Two of the three men fled, while the third made a desperate lunge for the falling bag of crimleaf. A single well-placed kick knocked the man out, sprawling him beside the corpse. Cleaning his blade, Thren then sheathed it and knelt down to grab the bag.

“Save your coin for food,” he said to the unconscious man, spitting on his chest.

Leaf pocketed, he ran back into the alley, hooked a right, and then emerged into heavier traffic, where he allowed himself to slow. One by one he’d been taking out the Sun pushers, always on the lookout for the ones who strayed too far from the rest, or were too foolish to have others with them for protection. It was slow work, but he’d killed five so far. In a few more days, he’d have another five.

And by then, another fifty Suns might have moved in from the west. He shook his head. It was a losing battle, perhaps, but he’d still fight it until he knew of a way to really hurt Grayson. Out of instinct, he traveled toward his old territory, now claimed by three separate guilds. Not that he was surprised. With the city turning wilder by the hour, such a vacancy would never last long. A thought hit him, an image of other guilds using his former base as their own, and it stirred an anger in his chest. Heading that way, he found the old tavern, now shuttered and closed down after Victor’s raid. The upper levels were ruined by the fire, but what of the underground portion?

It was a risk doing so in daylight, but he went ahead anyway. What did caution matter, now that his guild was disbanded? He opened the door to the stairs downward and found everything dark. Sighing with relief, he stepped further in, grabbing a lantern hanging from the side. He checked it for oil, found a little, and then nodded. In a gap in the wall he pulled out some flint, and after a few sparks had the lantern lit. Holding it aloft, he stepped down into his former headquarters.

Everything was in disarray. Tables were overturned, chairs broken. Guards had torn it apart in their search. The small slanted windows near the ceiling were covered with cloth, and one by one Thren yanked them off, letting in more light. At first he was confused as to why the guards would have done so, and then he saw the lone upright table in the center.

“No,” he whispered, feeling his fury rise. “Damn it, how dare you do this now?”

One of his former members lay on the table, arms and legs spread wide. An arrow protruded from his chest. Carrying the lantern over, he felt stones turn in his gut as the light glinted off silver coins in the man’s eyes. Alan, Thren realized. His name was Alan. After the raid, all of the captured Spider guildmembers had been questioned and brought before judges. Those who turned on others had been spared and sent away. Alan had been one of them.

Pulling open his mouth, he found the two gold coins, there as always. Lifting the lantern, he looked at the opposite wall for the message.

silver silver

gold and gold

here in the thief den

where are you spider

where are you thren

It was written not once, not twice, but a dozen times all along the walls. Checking the body, Thren found a slit across Alan’s neck, no doubt where this madman had gotten the necessary amount of blood. And Thren knew for certain it was a madman. Unlike in the streets, he, or she, had had time in the basement, and they’d indulged themselves with the display. Everywhere he cast his lantern light he saw the message, and it left no question as to whom it’d been intended for.

The killings had nothing to do with his guild, nothing to do with power or territory. Someone wanted him to suffer. Whatever vendetta they had, it was personal.

“I’m here!” Thren shouted, kicking the table so it slid a foot, and rocking the body atop it. “You want me, here I am! Think you’ll take my eyes? Think you’ll shove gold coins down my throat? Here! Right here!”

Childish outburst out of the way, Thren forced himself to calm down, to think. If the Widow had taken his time, then so could he. First, he needed more light than the little coming in through the windows. Much of their things had been ransacked, but he found a discarded skin with a bit more oil in it, and he refilled the lantern, set it to burning brighter. That done, he dug through the scattered mess in the supply room, scavenging a few candles that he lit and placed about. That done, he began his investigation.

He started with the body, looking it over for any sort of clue. He found no sign of clothing, no dropped personal items. Moving on to the floor, he looked, but again found little. Too much tramping about by guards, too much activity prior to their arrival. Next he scanned the messages, each one. He read them all, to see if they said the same. He looked for any hint to the mindset of the Widow, even something as basic as whether or not the man or woman wrote with their right hand or left.

On the sixth message he checked, he at last found his clue. Pressed against the wall and held there by dried blood was a long strand of brown hair, clearly that of a woman. Thren pulled it free and then wrapped it around his finger. At least he had a color to go on. A flash of thought, and he grinned. No, he had far more than that. Returning to Alan’s body, he took the silver and gold before rushing out.

The Council of Mages’ presence was weak in Veldaren, but they did have a few members. They were unanimously unimpressive, failures to master the craft. Thren viewed them as little more than charlatans, taking the coin of others and offering petty fortunes and trinkets in return. One such charlatan, however, had been somewhat useful. In what felt like an age past, a wizard had once been a member of the Spider Guild. It was his shop Thren went to, the hair still tightly wrapped around his finger.