effects of the blow to his head were starting to grow more prominent. Twice he slammed into either side of the alley, miscalculating the angle of a dodge. Grayson pressed on, hammering him with his swords. The Watcher had speed, but Grayson had strength to back up his own skill, and with every blow he saw his opponent growing weaker.
The Watcher knew it, too, and his sudden reversal nearly gutted Grayson where he stood. Spinning again to set his cloaks in motion, the Watcher lashed out once, twice, to keep him at bay, and then lunged. If he’d been a hair faster, his sabers would have connected, but Grayson twisted at the last moment. He felt pain across his side, but it was only a mild flesh wound, not the vital organs the tip had been aiming for. Letting the pain fuel his motions, Grayson weaved his swords in a complex series of attacks. The Watcher tried to parry, but Grayson kept shifting the angles, making it harder and harder. At last, when victory was apparent, the Watcher tried to flee. It was sudden, quick, but he’d been ready for it.
Out went his foot. The Watcher stumbled, struggling to regain his balance. Too late. Grayson’s shortsword pierced his cloak, his shirt, stabbed through ribs, lung, and then out his back. When he yanked it free, blood splattered across the street. The Watcher let out a gasp, kept stumbling. Grayson did not hurry, knowing such a wound was most certainly fatal.
“Your choice, remember,” Grayson said, slowly stalking after. “But you never knew when you were beaten, did you? That’s why you let your fight against the Trifect last until you were too weak to stop it. That’s why you let Marion die…”
He expected the name of Thren’s dead wife to elicit more emotion than it did, but then again, the man was clearly bleeding out before him. The Watcher continued limping, one hand along the wall, the other clutching his wound.
“Not…beaten…yet,” he said, his voice sounding wet, strangled.
Grayson saw the glass vial only a second before the Watcher flung it to the ground. Smoke exploded out in all directions, thick enough to fill the alley. Grayson covered his eyes with his arm and swore. He knew the concoction, a fairly simple mixture any wizard could make and sell. He’d guarded his face quick enough to avoid any of the burning sensations, but it would be a good thirty seconds before it dissipated. Pushing through, he emerged on the far side. The Watcher was nowhere to be found.
“Die in private if you must,” Grayson said, wiping a few stubborn tears from his eyes because of the smoke. “I wasn’t going to mutilate your body. We’re friends, remember?”
Back in the alley, Alan was gone as well. Grayson turned away, hardly caring. Whistling a tune, he traveled back to the Spider Guild’s headquarters. The lone guard there saw him and wisely let him through. Grayson thought it would be quiet, empty, but inside were over twenty men, drinking themselves into a stupor. Thren had cancelled most of their patrols, he realized.
“Where’s Thren?” he bellowed, interrupting their stories, their songs, and their games of chance. A few shot him looks, the rest unwilling to meet his gaze. “I said, where is Thren?”
“Here,” Thren said, emerging from his private room. “What is so important that you must shout like a buffoon?”
No blood on his clothes, no wounds, not even a limp. Grayson grunted, surprised that he’d been so wrong.
“I killed him,” Grayson said as Thren approached.
“Him?”
“The Watcher. He’s dead.”
For a moment, total silence filled the tavern. Every man looked his way. Grayson saw the turmoil in Thren’s eyes, saw the way he tightened the muscles in his body to carefully control his reaction.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
Grayson held up his shortsword, still covered with blood.
“Gutted front to back,” Grayson said. “Yeah. He’s dead.”
And with that, the cheers began, calls for drinks and cries of celebration that were beautiful to Grayson’s ears. And all the while, Thren glared, unwilling to show a shred of joy or gratitude.
“You’re free of him,” Grayson said. “Your slavery to the Trifect ends tonight if you wish it to. Or has the legendary thief grown afraid?”
“You’ve done what you wished,” Thren said, just loud enough to be heard over the din. “When will you be returning to Mordeina?”
Grayson accepted an offered drink, downed half of it.
“I don’t know, Thren,” he said, grinning. “I’m the man who killed the Watcher. I feel like a bit of a hero. Maybe I should stick around, enjoy the rewards.”
The two stared each other down. Grayson knew Thren was no fool, and could see the plans arrayed against him.
“You can’t stop us,” Grayson said softly.
“We’ll see about that.”
When he turned to leave, Thren grabbed his arm and held him. Grayson tensed, and he shot the thief a cold glare.
“The Watcher’s body,” he asked. “Where is it?”
Grayson just gave him a smile.
“Just thought to be sure,” Thren said. “It’d be terrible if he somehow survived. You’d truly look the fool.”
Grayson pulled himself free, marched for the door. Just by the exit, he noticed Alan drinking himself stupid at one of the tables. Alan’s eyes met his, and the man jerked to his feet. Grayson stepped in his way, preventing him from escaping.
“In my guild, you’d have your tongue cut out inch by inch, each piece shoved back down your throat until you drowned in blood,” Grayson said, and he took a rapid step closer, startling the man. “But then again…this isn’t my guild, is it?”
He laughed, shoved open the door to the outside. Lifting his arms to the moon, he let out a whoop, feeling so damn
“The Watcher’s dead!” he shouted. His deep voice echoed throughout the night. “Praise be, the Watcher’s dead! We are free!”
He heard no cry in return, but he felt it flowing through the city’s veins. Day was near, and when it arrived, they’d all listen, all wait to hear proof against the claim. But if none appeared, then come nightfall…
Four years of pent up rage and vengeance would be unleashed across the city. This was everything he’d hoped for. Letting out another primal cry, he punched the air, his heart still pounding from the fight. The Watcher had been good, no question, but he’d been better. And if he was better, then nothing in Veldaren could stop them.
Not when the Suns came in from Mordeina, slipping through every crack and window. The city was ripe for the taking. Within days, they would pluck it from the soft hands of the current guilds, and in an iron fist, show all of Dezrel who should truly be feared when the sun went down. It wasn’t Thren. It wasn’t the Watcher.
It was him.
13
When word reached Antonil, he pushed aside his morning meal and hurried to his room. A knot in his stomach, he put on his tunic with trembling hands. Over it went his armor, needing the hard metal against his body to feel safe. If it were true…if the Watcher were dead…
He didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t want to acknowledge the cold truth. Victor had already stirred them into a frenzy. With the Watcher gone, his ability to keep the peace, whether it was symbolic or real, was over.
“Antonil,” Sergan said, spotting him as he exited the castle.
“I have matters to attend to,” Antonil said, not slowing.
“The King’s looking for you,” Sergan said. “He’s talking about calling in soldiers from all corners of Dezrel, even leaving his throne to…sir, please, listen to me!”
