David Dalglish - Blood of the Underworld

“Down on Songbird,” Percy said. “He’s…at…shop…”

More coughing. His eyes had turned glassy. Too much blood lost, Haern knew.

“Damn it,” he whispered. “Tell me where, quickly!”

Percy shook his head.

“Pull out the sword,” he said. “And go look for yourself.”

Haern yanked it free. Blood gushed out, and as it did, Percy’s body began convulsing in his last death throes. Haern watched, feeling strangely guilty for the act. At last, when all life was gone, he sheathed his sabers and then ran. Songbird ran for about a mile. There were only so many shops on it, but it’d take a lot of time to search them all. Still, time he had, at least to try.

Starting at the southern edge of the road, he followed it north, his mind racing. Why would a priest hire the Bloodcrafts to kill the Eschaton? That a priest of Karak would want them dead wasn’t much of a stretch, and Tarlak tended to be meddlesome when it came to their darker affairs, but there had to have been some specific reason.

As Haern ran, he checked each shop, those of bakers, jewelers, smiths, makers of cloth and wool. Most were dark, and their doors locked. Feeling his desperation grow, he continued on, until he heard a man scream from an alley behind him. Spinning about, Haern rushed into it, only to come to a halt.

Thren Felhorn was there, swords drawn. Laying at his feet was a priest wearing the black robes of Karak. So far, he was alive, but his face was covered with blood. Haern realized why when Thren tossed the man’s severed ear onto his chest.

“I said talk,” Thren told him.

“Laerek,” Hearn said, grabbing his father’s attention. “This man is Laerek, isn’t it?”

Thren looked up, and his expression was one Haern could not read. Was it anger, or amusement?

“It is,” Thren said. “Do ghosts have business with him as well?”

So far he’d made no overtly threatening actions, but he still held his swords, which was enough to make him incredibly dangerous. Haern slowly stepped into the alley with his weapons drawn.

“I’m no ghost, and no dead man, despite what rumors you might have heard,” Haern said, making sure his hood was pulled low to hide his face in its magical shadows. “This man hired mercenaries to kill me and my friends. I want to know why.”

Laerek refused to look his way. He was a thin man with a long nose, and now missing an ear. Thren kicked him once, blasting the air from his lungs.

“It seems you’ve been messing with very dangerous people,” Thren told the priest before turning back to Haern. “This man sent the Suns after my guild. I’d appreciate knowing why as well.”

Laerek rolled onto his back and pressed against the nearby wall.

“Karak be my strength,” he prayed. “Not pain, nor death, nor threats of this world…”

Thren kicked him in the teeth to stop the prayer.

“Karak will not help you,” Thren said, kneeling before him. “And you will feel pain, so much pain, before your death. If you want to do something useful with your words, then talk. The more you talk, the less you suffer.”

Haern watched as Thren grabbed Laerek’s hand, took his shortsword, and slowly sliced into the tendons of his wrist. Laerek let out a cry, yet as Haern watched, he felt no pity, no remorse. Instead he felt himself back as a child, watching his father cutting off the hand of a man that had cheated them. Despite the passing of time, Thren was still in charge, still holding the lives of others in his hands. Haern knew he should object. He’d spent his whole childhood rebelling against everything Thren had taught him. Yet this priest had played with all their lives. Everyone Haern knew and loved would be dead if he’d had his way. And so he watched the blood drip to the ground and hardened his heart against it. Had he not just thrust his own blade into the belly of another, all for a name?

“Start talking,” Thren said as he continued to saw. He kept his fist clenching down against the veins so he’d not bleed out. His sword reached bone, and its sharp edge began to pry into the joint. “Why the Suns? Why did you have to send Grayson after me after all these years?”

“I didn’t!” Laerek cried. “The Suns were willing, that’s all I know!”

“Then why the Widow?”

Haern crossed his arms and frowned. The Widow? Laerek was behind that, as well?

“He’s just a spoiled, wealthy brat,” Laerek said. “By Karak, please, it hurts…”

“Who is it?” pressed Thren.

“Stephen Connington,” said Zusa from the rooftops, drawing their attention her way. Death was in her eyes, and her gaze frightened Haern more than Thren’s. “He was the Widow, your little puppet. Let me guess, priest…you told him Thren killed his father, not the Watcher?”

Laerek’s skin was already pale, but it somehow turned paler. Thren pulled away his sword, put the bloody tip against his throat.

“You claimed I killed Leon?” he asked. “I’d have gladly done so, but I wasn’t given the privilege. The Watcher here took that from me. So why? What has my guild done to you?”

“Alyssa, as well,” Zusa said, leaping to the ground with daggers drawn. “You tried to have her killed. I can’t forgive you, not for that.”

Laerek’s eyes bounced between all three of them, and he saw no comfort in any, no signs he might live. Closing them, he began praying again, until Thren shoved his shortsword between his lips. The priest’s clattering teeth rattled against the steel. Thren leaned close, and Haern saw how easily his gaze broke the man, so much easier than it had been against Percy.

“Why?” Thren asked. “We’re all here, now tell us why.”

“I only follow orders,” Laerek said when Thren withdrew the blade. Tears ran down his face. “I’m a messenger, just a messenger.”

“Messenger for whom?” asked Haern.

Laerek looked at them all. For a brief moment he paused, as if afraid to say, but his will was weak.

“He’s a powerful priest,” Laerek said. “His name is Luther. He sends me his orders by letter from the Stronghold, and I carry them out. That’s all I know.”

“Luther?” Thren asked, and he looked to the other two. Both shook their heads, not recognizing the name.

“I swear it’s true!” Laerek insisted, seeing their doubt.

“One more question,” Zusa said, moving closer. Thren stepped away, and bowed as if he were a gentlemen making way for a lady. Zusa knelt before Laerek, and glanced down at her daggers.

“You blinded my beloved,” she said, looking up at him. “I hope you burn for an eternity.”

Her dagger thrust into his throat, twisted, and then tore out, taking flesh and blood with it. Laerek flailed at her with shaking hands, but she held him as she watched him die. When at last he went still, Zusa stood and spat on his corpse.

“I thought you had a question,” Haern said.

Zusa looked to him and shrugged.

“I lied.”

Haern didn’t know what to say, but meanwhile Thren laughed and laughed.

No one had slept the rest of the night in the Connington mansion. Guards rushed about, suddenly without anyone in charge, and each one nervous about what the death of Stephen meant to them. Lord Gandrem assumed control with ease, settling into a role he’d known his entire life. Zusa respected him, yet feared him, as well, for every time she looked she saw Melody there at his side, his hand in hers.

Zusa walked down the hallway, glaring at any guard who looked twice at her. Morning had come, yet the tension remained. It’d been a long couple years establishing Leon’s heir. With no remaining sons, illegitimate or otherwise, it’d be a terrible squabble among the scattered remnants of the Connington family. She felt anger in the guards directed at her, guards who had been treated and paid well, all potentially ending by her single thrust of a dagger through their master’s eye.