Blood of the Underworld

Martin sighed, for he knew the same. Thren and Martin were easily the most skilled of all the Spider Guild, yet even they had suffered wounds in taking a squad down. The rest of the guild-clumsy men accustomed to threatening fat merchants for bribes-would stand no chance.

“We can’t let this go unpunished,” Martin said, dropping his voice lower. “The gold the Trifect pays us is no longer enough. I doubt we are alone in this, either. If every guild breaks, it’ll be anarchy…”

“We will not break!” Thren said. All around him, men quieted, hearing the ice in his voice, the strength of his conviction. He stood from his chair, slammed a fist against the bar. “This is our city-ours. No outsider shall come in, bare swords against us, and expect to live. All of you, cowering here…get out. Now. I want your ears at every wall. I want your eyes on every street. Whatever information you can find, I want to hear it. Where this Victor lives, where he eats, where he sleeps, where he shits-I want to know it all. And if you fear being caught, or arrested, then don’t come back. You aren’t Spiders. You’re worms.”

They filed out, grabbing swords and cloaks on their way. Even Murphy left, though Thren knew he would only go upstairs to wait. Should anyone returned wounded, the surgeon must be ready. When Thren sat down, he noticed a single man remained in the far corner, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his beefy chest and his strange hat in his hands. Thren turned on him, thinking a savage killing might do wonders for his mood. Then he saw the man’s face, and grinned.

“Grayson, you ox,” Thren said. “I’ll never understand how you can hide in a crowd.”

Grayson grinned back. He was an enormous man, dark skinned, and stood at nearly seven feet tall. The thin clothing he wore did little to conceal the muscles beneath. A four-pointed star made of gold thread was sewn into his shirt. His head was shaved, and he wore nine rings in his left ear, running up and down the cartilage. From where he came from, each ring traditionally represented a kill, yet Thren knew Grayson had been forced to adopt a new standard, with each ring counting for ten, lest his ear fall off.

Grayson joined him at the bar, slapping him once on the back.

“You banished our barkeep,” said the man, his voice deep and rumbling.

“Would you make an injured man pour drinks?”

Grayson laughed.

“I’ve never seen you injured, Thren,” he said. “Just sometimes you’re bleeding more than usual.”

Grayson leaned forward, his long arms grabbing bottles and glasses from the wall. Mixing two together, Grayson tasted his drink and then let out a sigh of contentment.

“For all I’ve heard, I thought you’d have little better than donkey piss and water,” he said. “Looks like Veldaren might not be as bad as rumored. Either that, or you’re the richest thief left.”

Thren bit down a retort. Grayson was from the distant city of Mordeina, and was a legendary thief in his own right. In what felt like ages past, they’d worked together, helped build the Spider Guild into something fearsome. But then, one terrible night, it had all come crashing down…

“The gold still flows here,” Thren said, careful to control his tone. “The protection money from the Trifect alone keeps the liquor flowing.”

“That the lie you tell yourselves so you can sleep at night?”

Grayson took a shot, poured himself another. Thren’s eyes narrowed.

“Things are not the same,” he said. “Between the Bloody Kensgold, Alyssa’s mercenaries, and now the Watcher, I dare say no thief has faced such hardships as we have here in Veldaren.”

“Ah yes, the Watcher. I’ve been thinking of hunting him down and seeing how good he really is. You know that word of him has reached all the way to Mordeina?”

“Is that so?” Thren asked, doing his best to sound bored.

“Yes. And you know what’s worse, Thren? That’s not the only thing reaching our ears. The nobles are hearing of your little setup, this game you play. It’s giving them ideas, ideas I don’t fucking like. Already they whisper of similar arrangements, of turning our guilds against each other in the name of protection money. Mordeina won’t turn into Veldaren. The priests alone give us enough trouble. I’m a thief, and a killer. I won’t let myself become some noble’s bootlicking bodyguard.”

Thren felt his blood turn to ice.

“Is that what you think I am?” he asked. “Some low rent bodyguard for the Trifect?”

Grayson grunted.

“That’s what I’m here to find out. A lot has changed over the past ten years, and I want to know just how much.” He stood, put a wide-brimmed hat made of leather on his bald head. “I have my own place to stay, so don’t worry about offering me a bed. Not sure how long I’ll be here, but I thought I’d drop in and give you my greetings.”

“What are you really here for?” Thren asked, as the big man was about to exit. “If all you wanted was information, you’d have sent an underling, not traveled across Dezrel yourself. You’re here for more than that. What is it?”

Grayson stopped, looked back at him with a dangerous grin on his face.

“What if I don’t feel like answering? Will you make me, Thren?”

Thren swallowed, and his hand drifted down to the hilt of a shortsword. Grayson saw this, smirked.

“Careful,” he said. “I have no desire to cross swords with you. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair. After all…you’re injured.”

When he was gone, Thren took his glass and smashed it across the counter. The glass cut his hand, and he stared at the mixing blood and alcohol. His fury grew. Grayson had sensed weakness, and Thren could not refute it. Despite all his best efforts, his guild was weaker than it had ever been. All the guilds were. And if the Suns, or the Stars, or any other guild from Mordeina decided to move in…

Thren shook his head. No, there was no if, only when. Grayson would not have traveled such distance without good cause. The only question was how the foreign guilds planned to make their attack, and how great their cooperation would be. Their first move, though, Grayson had stated clear as day. The truce between the Trifect and the guilds would have to be broken, and the easiest step to that was obvious: ending the life of the Watcher.

“Good luck, Watcher,” Thren said softly, doing everything to subdue his anger, to think clearly and carefully like he knew he must. Despite his frustration, he felt pride. All the way to Mordeina, Grayson had said. The Watcher’s reputation had spread throughout the four nations, coast to coast.

“Good luck,” he wiped his hand with a cloth, “…my son.”

4

The parade of men in chains seemed endless as Victor stood at the entrance to the King’s dungeon, a large, ungainly block attached to the side of the castle. They’d even started tying people with rope, having run out of manacles. An excellent day, Victor thought. He doubted it could have started any better.

“Milord,” said Sef, Victor’s leader of his guard. He was a heavyset, bearded, and battle worn servant of the Kane household for almost two decades. “Sir Antonil Copernus wishes to speak with you.”

“Send him over,” Victor said.

Sef bowed, hurried away. Moments later Antonil arrived, wearing the regal armor of his position as captain of the guard and protector of his majesty’s city. His long blond hair peaked out from the lower limits of his helmet. Scars of battle marked his face. A shield hung from his back, and his longsword swung at his hip. The Guard Captain bowed low, and addressed him with sincere respect.

“Milord Victor, I come at behest of my King,” he said, standing straight. “He thought it best I help oversee your endeavor, as well as ensure my own guards assist you in any way they can.”

Victor grinned at the knight.

“Are you sure about that? I thought our gracious King might fear giving too much assistance, lest he earn the ire of both the guilds and the Trifect.”

Antonil’s smile hardened, and his voice lowered.

“Perhaps. In all things, I protect the people of this city. You’d best remember that. Your men may carry