David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

Haern spent the day following the Bloodcrafts’ ambush in disguise, acting like any other hungry, tired commoner as he bounced from tavern to tavern. Someone as new and strange as the Bloodcrafts would have left a trail, he knew, and it did not take long to find it. Many were frightened to speak of them, but when Haern flashed a little silver, all of their tongues opened. At last he found what he’d dared not hope for: the tavern in which they stayed, and even the rooms in which they slept. The innkeeper had been terrified to say their names, but his son had been a different matter. Three silver coins, and the young man had joined Haern in an alley, pointed up to some windows, and then ran back inside before his father noticed.

“I’ve found you,” Haern whispered, hurrying back to the Eschaton Tower.

He revealed what he’d learned to the rest as they gathered in the lower floor of the tower.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Tarlak said, shaking his head. “That Nicholas guy alone nearly killed all of us, and it took everything we had to chase them off during their last ambush. Now you want to go charging into a fight with them head on?”

Haern shrugged.

“If we’re going to fight, I’d rather us be the ones doing the ambushing. Or would you rather wait for them to come to our tower while we sleep, or assault me when I’m alone upon the rooftops?”

“They’ve made their intentions clear,” Delysia said, taking her brother’s hand. “They’ll kill us no matter what it takes. You saw the bodies. How many innocents they killed.”

“I say we do it,” Brug said, hopping up from his chair. “I’ll get my armor.”

“You’re with this insane scheme, too?” Tarlak asked.

Brug shrugged.

“What? I killed one of them already. Nothing says I can’t do it again.”

Haern grinned at his friend.

“That’s more like it,” he said. “So what will it be, Tarlak? Ready for us to go on the offensive for once?”

Tarlak lifted his hat and scratched the back of his head.

“That means I’ll have to face that one lady throwing all the fire, won’t I?”

“Probably.”

“Fine.” A devilish grin spread over his face, removing his pout. “But this time, I’m coming prepared. Come on, Brug, I’ll need your help with this.”

Over the day they prepared, and then before nightfall, they hurried back. Haern felt confident the Bloodcrafts were like most thieves, sleeping in the day and going out at night. And if not, well, then they’d catch them sleeping. Hardly the most honorable kill, thought Haern, but he’d dealt worse punishments than that.

The tavern was at the corner of Iron, a major trade route heading north to south through Veldaren, and Raven, a far smaller dirt road that jutted off into the remnants of homes, most shuttered down as the wealth had traveled steadily north over the past decade. Haern watched the entrance from an alley, on the opposite side of Iron. This gave him a wide view of the tavern, as well as the positions of the rest of the Eschaton.

Tarlak waited atop the baker’s shop beside the tavern. Haern could not see him, for he’d cast a lengthy spell of invisibility across himself before climbing up. The wizard directly faced the windows of the room, and precautions were necessary for such close proximity. Brug and Delysia were up Raven Street, so that if anyone fled away from Tarlak and Haern they’d be there to intercept. No exits went unwatched, no pathways unprotected. None of them liked the potential collateral damage, but the ambush was set, and at least no innocent families would be butchered like last time when the Bloodcrafts prepared their own ambush.

Time passed, and Haern felt his nerves start to fray. Slowly the sun fell behind the wall.

“Come on,” Haern whispered. “Come on, come on.”

They sky turned red, then purple, and then at last the stars winked into existence one by one. Still no sign. With every passing moment, Haern knew something was wrong. Had the innkeeper’s boy lied, or perhaps just been misinformed? No doubt the rest of his friends were as anxious as he. Maybe he should call the ambush off, or try to sneak into their room to confirm…

It was only instinct that saved him. He saw a flash of something high above, a shadow that didn’t feel quite right, and without thinking he dove to the side. Down fell a man in a red leather coat, longsword slamming the ground where he’d been. Haern pulled out of his roll, sabers drawn, but his attacker remained back. Surprise gone, he seemed in no hurry.

“Hello Watcher,” said the man. He was middle-aged, handsome, with dark hair cut short. Haern tensed. He’d crossed swords with him once already, and been stunned by his near inhuman speed.

“I’d greet you in return,” Haern said, “but I don’t know your name.”

The man grinned.

“Carson Bloodcraft. Consider me honored to meet you a second time. Few have the skill to match blades against me and live.”

“I could say the same.”

Carson chuckled.

“Indeed. Let me make this quick, Watcher. We knew you’d come for us after our last ambush, and we have prepared one of our own. We know where your friends are, all of them. Yes, even the wizard foolish enough to think we couldn’t see through a simple invisibility spell. With but a signal, they’ll attack.”

The man was too confident, the tone of his voice and pull of his smile too consistent. No lie. Tarlak, Delysia, Brug…they were all in danger.

“What do you want?” Haern asked, subtly tightening the muscles in his legs for a leap. “Do you wish to mock me before you try to kill me?”

Carson shook his head.

“Our mission is to eliminate you as a threat, Watcher. This can be done a lot of ways. But you see, your mercenaries killed one of our members, which leaves us with an opening. Your skill is incredible. With your reputation, and your abilities, you’d make a fine addition to the Bloodcrafts.”

Carson stood, held his sword out to the side. Something sparkled in his brown eyes, and it made Haern’s head ache.

“What do you say to that? Leave this pathetic group you serve. Whatever coin they pay you, I promise we can increase it tenfold. They only hold you back.”

Haern took a single step, just enough to shift his weight so he might leap with greater speed. Carson saw it, and he held his sword before his chest.

“If you agree, we’ll leave the rest of your group alive. Decline, well…you’re still a threat needing to be dealt with. Make a choice, Watcher, but do us both a favor…make the intelligent one. You’re too good to be weighed down with petty morality and friendships.”

Despite the danger, Haern let out a laugh.

“You think I do this for the coin?” he asked. “You damn fool. Give your signal. We’ll see who dies tonight.”

It was a bold bluster, a way to keep the fear for his friends hidden. He had to trust them, trust his own abilities to finish off Carson in time to help the others. Carson shook his head, looking disappointed. Their eyes met, and there was death in them.

“And you call me the fool,” he said. Something about his voice had changed, as if he were suddenly hurrying his words. His free hand lifted, and when he went to snap his fingers Haern lunged at him, sabers leading. Sword a blur, Carson parried both to the side, then shifted so his elbow slammed into Haern’s chest as he came crashing in. Breath lost, Haern swung twice in a futile attempt to keep the man on the defensive while he fell back, gasping in air. Carson parried them with ease, holding his sword with a single hand. His movements showed no slowing, no panic. He didn’t even look like he was breathing hard.