David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

In went the knife. Her vision swirled with a brief rainbow of colors that slowly drained away, becoming nothing but black streaked with orange and red that throbbed with the beating of her heart and the horrible spikes of pain. Drool spread down her lips as she struggled to speak, to say anything, as she heard Nathaniel’s sobs.

Hot breath blew against her ear.

“I should leave you like this,” Stephen whispered. “Put you in my dungeon to rot. I still have my gentle touchers. They could spend years on you, years, without running out of new ways to…”

Alyssa heard a gasp, followed by a heavy thud.

“You bastard!”

It was too horrible, not knowing what was happening. Had Nathaniel attacked Stephen? She heard a sharp intake of air, and then something hit a wall.

“How dare you strike me?” Stephen asked. Her son had defended her, it had to be.

“Don’t,” she pleaded. The words came out a slurred moan, but it seemed to steal Stephen’s attention back to her.

“Don’t?” he asked. “Don’t what? Your son struck me, woman. Blessed as he is, I think he needs to learn his place.”

“I’ll scream,” she heard Nathaniel say.

“Scream, and I cut your throat to silence it. Your choice.”

If Lord Gandrem heard, or Melody, what would happen? Would he kill them, or would they talk him down? Alyssa didn’t know, didn’t want to know, but it seemed her son was braver than that. He let out a single bloodcurdling scream, at such a high pitch and volume that it pierced the night like a siren.

“Damn it, stop!” Stephen said. She waited for the killing blow, but before it came, something heavy blasted open the door, and then Stephen let out a cry. An object, perhaps a body, slammed against a wall. She heard the sound of metal, then a cracking of a bone.

“How dare you?” she heard Zusa ask. “Where is Laerek? Where is your master hiding?”

Stephen let out a moan, and it ended abruptly with a wet smack.

“Where!”

“He…he’s waiting for me by Eddleton’s.”

“What street?”

“Songbird!” Stephen cried.

Alyssa heard crying, and then she felt a soft hand take hers. It trembled. Despite the poison, she gently curled her fingers about it, the weakest support she could offer. Nathaniel’s face pressed against her chest, then lifted back, no doubt realizing how close he was to the arrow still embedded there.

With an abruptness that startled her, Stephen’s cries came to a halt.

“Alyssa,” she heard Zusa say, and then wrapped hands touched her face. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I never should have left you.”

“Zusa,” Alyssa managed to say, but that was it.

Lips kissed hers, and then out came the arrow. Her scream was a pathetic whisper of air exiting her lungs.

More movement at the door, plus a surprised gasp.

“What insanity is this?” asked John’s booming voice. “Oh gods…Alyssa! Stephen!”

“You’re safe now,” Zusa whispered hurriedly into her ear. “He’s dead, but one monster still runs loose. I have to find him. Please, understand, I have to.”

Zusa left her. More voices, more people, cries for a priest or a healer. Nathaniel stayed pressed against her through it all. At some point Melody arrived, her sharp feminine cry easily discernible.

“Stephen!” she heard Melody say. “Alyssa! Oh you dear, you poor dear…”

Nathaniel clutched her tighter. Despite the soothing words, and her mother’s hand brushing against her forehead while she whispered comfort, all Alyssa could think of was Zusa’s absence, and how it had been Stephen’s name Melody cried first upon seeing the bloody carnage, not hers.

Haern dragged the unconscious Bloodcraft through the alleys, knowing it would only be a matter of time before the city guard arrived to investigate the noise and chaos that had been their battle. And despite his trust for Antonil, Haern didn’t want the city guard to be the ones to discover the name he sought. No, he wanted that for himself. Whoever it was had made it personal in attacking the Eschaton, and he’d deal with it personally in return.

At last he reached a nice, secluded spot tucked against the outer wall of the city. There’d be no patrols, and anyone who heard screams would be wise enough to keep the matter to themselves. Haern propped the man against the wall, then opened up his red coat to see the rows of leather loops for holding knives, half of them empty. Removing the rest, Haern cut strips of the coat into lengths, then bound the man’s hands and feet. The throwing daggers he left in a pile nearby, having every intention of using them if the need presented itself. Ready, he started slapping the man’s face and pinching his nose to disrupt his breathing. It took a bit, but at last he awoke, gasping for air.

“Where the fuck am I?” the man asked.

Haern drew a saber and smacked him across the face with the flat side.

“I’m asking the questions,” he said. “Let’s start with your name.”

“Percy,” the man said. “And that’s the only question you get an answer to.”

Haern grabbed him by the throat and slammed his head against the wall.

“For your sake, I’d hope not,” he said.

Percy grinned at him despite the blood that dripped down his neck.

“You think you can frighten me?” he asked. “You got Veldaren fooled, but you won’t be fooling us. You’re nothing.”

“Us?” Haern asked. “There’s no ‘us,’ not anymore. The rest of your group is dead. You’re the last.”

This seemed to shake him a little, but not much. Percy bit his tongue, then turned and spat.

“Fine,” he said. “Not much point protecting anyone if what you say is true. What is it you want?”

“Who hired you to kill us? I want a name, and where to find him?”

Percy shook his head.

“Can’t do it. If I’m to have any chance as a mercenary after this, it can’t be with the reputation of a snitch. Bad enough a bunch of pussies like you beat us.”

“A mercenary?” Haern asked, leaning in closer. “You think I’ll let you live?”

“If you don’t, what reason I have to talk?”

In answer, Haern grabbed one of the throwing knives and jammed it into Percy’s leg. Percy winced, but held down his scream.

“You think you can break me?” he asked after gathering his strength. “I don’t think it’s in you. Too soft.”

A second knife, an inch higher up the leg. This time Percy did scream, but not for long.

“You,” he said, laughing despite being out of breath. “You think this will work? I’ll bleed out too quick. Don’t have much…” he winced as Haern jammed in a third, “…practice at this, do you?”

“Tell me his name,” Haern said, grabbing Percy by the shirt and pulling him close. He’d frightened others before, often with just the intensity in his eyes, but this man seemed to be close bedfellows with pain and fear.

“You try to act the monster,” Percy said, spitting in Haern’s face. “But I grew up with monsters. I know who they are, how to smell ‘em. You’re not a monster. Thren is. Carson was. But you?” Another laugh. “You’ve killed so many, Watcher, yet you’ve somehow prevented it from changing you. Why? You think it makes you a better pers…”

Haern jammed his saber into Percy’s stomach, then twisted it. The moment he removed the blade, blood would gush out, along with intestines.

“Now…” Percy said, slumping against the wall. “Now that’s the monster. Were you hiding it, Watcher? How…quaint…”

“Tell me where,” Haern said.

“His name’s Laerek,” Percy said. “A priest. He’ll be…”

He launched into a coughing fit, each cough weaker than the last. His skin was turning pale. Haern felt sick in his stomach realizing how far he’d gone. The man might die before giving him more than a name, all because he’d lost control. All because he’d wanted, for whatever reason, to prove that he could be the monster Percy doubted he could be.