CHAPTER

22

Are you sure this isn’t a trap?” Haern asked as he and his father lurked outside the fenced Roseborn Cemetery. They’d spent the previous night in disguise, sneaking into the various taverns and slums of the city to spread their message: they wished to meet with the highest-ranking survivors of the former guilds. Now the sun had finished its descent, and their time for meeting had almost come, the two lying on the rooftop of the grave keeper’s home just opposite the cemetery’s entrance.

“It might be,” Thren whispered, and he glanced over at Haern and gave him a smug grin. “But would it matter?”

Haern shook his head.

“Most likely not.”

“Then stop worrying about it.”

It seemed wiser to worry about an ambush than to ignore the possibility, but Haern let the matter drop. If there was an ambush, it’d been set up carefully. As the people arrived one by one, Haern had looped the cemetery thrice while his father remained watching the gate. No groups of the Sun Guild remained lurking that he could find. That word of their meeting had failed to reach Muzien’s ears was a strong signal that his power in Veldaren was waning. Just a week before, such an attempt would have certainly ended in disaster.

“We’ve waited long enough,” Haern said, and he rose to a stand. “Anyone else who wanted to come would have already.”

Thren stood as well, and reaching down, he held the rooftop with his left hand and then used it to swing to the ground. Straightening his clothes after landing, he glanced over to Haern, who followed.

“Keep your hood up, and keep it dark,” his father said. “I need you mysterious and intimidating. Even if you don’t say a word, your presence, and what it means, will speak volumes.”

“You just have to be in charge, don’t you?” Haern said.

Thren shrugged.

“I just don’t want you messing things up. This crew will be antsy, and most likely thinking about how turning on Muzien will get themselves killed. If they’re here, it’s out of hope I can convince them otherwise. They want me to make them believe, and I can do that… but only if you keep your mouth shut.”

“No promises,” Haern muttered, grabbing his hood and willing its shadows to deepen. That done, he followed his father through the rickety gate, hands on his swords at all times.

There were nine of them gathered in a loose circle at the center of the cemetery, a few Haern recognized, and more he didn’t. All of them wore the four-pointed star somewhere on their shirt or coat, and they looked miserable being there. They’d been muttering among themselves, but when Haern and Thren stepped into their midst, they all fell silent. Haern kept his body hidden by his cloaks, and he turned his gaze to each one so there would be no doubt as to who he was.

“I’m surprised to see you here, Martin,” Thren said to a man with a heavily scarred face who was leaning against a slender tree, one of very few that grew throughout the cemetery. “Given how you betrayed me to Muzien when I first returned to Veldaren.”

“I did no such thing,” Martin replied, and he looked rather bored with the accusation. “I waited for a note or whisper of a plan, and none came until now. About time, I’d say.”

Thren chuckled, and he turned to the rest. As far as Haern knew, Martin was the only former member of the Spider Guild. Of the others he recognized only Quentin, a lanky man who’d been third-in-command of the Serpent Guild. The others, if they’d been members of the Shadow Guild, or the Wolves, or the Hawks, had been so low in importance he did not remember them, assuming he’d learned their names in the first place. A clear sign of the damage Muzien had inflicted on the underworld. Under different circumstances Haern would have been pleased.

“Do the rest of you speak for the remnants of your guilds?” Thren asked them.

“Those still interested in making things how they were,” said a skinny blond man, his frame dwarfed by the heavy coat he wore. “Can’t say for certain how many that is, given how dangerous it is to talk of the old times.”

“Right now, I’d say we’re few,” a woman beside Quentin added, a tattoo on her neck revealing her former allegiance to the Serpent Guild. “Too many pockets are filled compared to before Muzien’s arrival. Are you here to offer us a return to the glory days, Thren?”

“I am,” Thren said.

“And what might those glory days be?” Quentin asked. “Back to when we warred against the Trifect, losing men and women as fast as we recruited them? Or back to when we were glorified bodyguards squabbling over the scraps the Trifect paid us? Muzien might be sick in the head, but he’s brought us power we haven’t had in decades, and we don’t need to remain slaves to the fucking Watcher to keep it.”

Haern frowned, and he had to bite his tongue to remain silent. Such talk could derail whatever progress they hoped to make. His father knew that as well.

“You’re right,” Thren said. “You’re slaves to Muzien instead, but I’m sure your ego can handle worshiping an elf over the Watcher. As for your petty gripes, keep them to yourself, Quentin. If you thought it hopeless, or did not yearn for better times, you wouldn’t be here in this cemetery, so unless you have something worthwhile to say, cease your ego stroking and shut the fuck up.”

Quentin reached for his sword. The woman beside him grabbed his arm to hold him still.

“We’re not here to fight,” she said, glaring at them both. “We’re here because too many will die otherwise.”

Haern lifted an eyebrow. This was interesting…

“What do you mean?” he asked, ignoring Thren’s glare.

The woman glanced at Quentin, but neither seemed willing to speak, and so Martin did.

“We’re all hearing rumblings of Muzien pulling out from Veldaren,” he said, and the others nodded in agreement. “Nothing official, but most everyone seems certain it will happen at some point.”

“You act as if this would be a terrible thing,” Thren said.

“It wouldn’t be,” Martin said. “Except Muzien’s discussing taking tithes before we do.”

Haern felt his heart skip a beat. He looked to the others, and they all kept their eyes to the dirt, as if afraid to meet his.

“Tithes?” he said. “Like the tithes he took in the marketplace? The tithes you no doubt were a part of?”

“Enough,” Thren said, glaring.

“He’s right, though,” Quentin said. “He wants more tithes, and on a scale that’s frightening.”

“I’m not sure he plans on leaving afterwards,” said the blond man by the tree. “But the tithes, those I’m certain of. You’ve got to understand, Thren, we all have families here, friends, relatives. Most of our lowest ranks are children, or hold other occupations. They don’t want this, none of us do. A bit of extra coin, or a chance at power, that’s one thing, but this?”

Tithes, thought Haern. He wants his tithes…

Glancing about, and seeing no tiles, Haern realized that they might be in the only place in Veldaren safe from the wrath Muzien could unleash upon them. He wasn’t sure if that made him want to laugh or cry.

“A rebellion’s stirring in his ranks,” Thren said after they all fell silent. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

“Only with those here from Veldaren,” Martin said. “Those who came with him from Mordeina couldn’t care less.”

Thren nodded, and there was no denying the excitement growing in his voice.

“Then the time is now,” he said. “You swore your loyalty to a mad king to spare your lives, but that won’t protect you anymore. He must be brought crumbling to the ground, and we have the power to do it. Rise up, throw on your cloaks, and defy the Darkhand with every breath in your lungs. Let this outsider learn the folly of his pride and arrogance.”

“Brazen words,” Quentin said. “But how do we know it will work? And how do we coordinate such an uprising?”

“It will work because I am with you, and not against you,” Haern said. “Muzien built his power in my absence. I am here now, and I will not let it stand. Tell the underworld your Watcher will aid you in returning things to as they were. Even if you doubt Thren, do you doubt me?”

Haern felt the immediate change in the air. Muzien might carry a towering reputation, but Thren and Haern had spent their lives cultivating auras of fear in Veldaren. For their power to be united? Suddenly the Darkhand’s newly forged empire didn’t seem quite so invincible.

“This is not some last-ditch desperate attempt,” Thren told them. “This is the true might of our city rising up in defiance, and we will crush everything Muzien has built in one single blow. Spread word throughout the underworld. Tell those who once belonged to your guilds that very soon I will give my signal to the entirety of the city. When you see it, toss aside the Sun, throw on your cloaks, and in the name of the Spider, slaughter all who will not do the same.”

“And what might that signal be?” Martin asked.

Thren grinned at him.

“You will know it when you see it. Until then, be ready. This will be bloody, but we will emerge stronger than ever before.”

“Hold up,” Quentin said. “I don’t remember any of us saying we agreed to go along with your plan, not that there’s much of a plan to begin with, and I as sure as the Abyss didn’t agree to join your Spider Guild.”

Haern felt the air immediately turn electric. Quentin’s hand had never left his sword, and the stubborn look on his face made Haern nervous. Thren turned to him, but if he was worried, his bemused smirk hid it well.

“You don’t have a choice,” he said. “If you don’t agree, and swear it with your lives, then consider it appropriate we are in a cemetery.”

“You’d force us to your side with a blade at our throats?”

Thren laughed in Quentin’s face.

“As if Muzien recruited any differently,” he said. “Swear loyalty to the plan, starting with you, Quentin. Let the gods themselves curse you if you betray us to that damn elf.”

The others exchanged glances, and far too many hands were drifting down to the hilts of weapons for Haern’s liking. Despite who was before him, Quentin didn’t seem intimidated in the slightest.

“You always thought you ruled over us,” the man said, drawing his two swords. “Like your guild was hot shit while we were just rats. We bled and died fighting the Trifect because of your pride, leaving us vulnerable to the Watcher’s rise. Muzien may leave or stay, but no matter what happens, I’ll take my own chances instead of following you into yet another war because your bruised ego can’t stand the thought of someone else ruling Veldaren instead of you.”

The two faced one another in the moonlight, Thren with his arms crossed, Quentin with his blades ready. The rest watched, tense, curious as to the outcome of the battle. Haern remained back, trusting his father to handle an upstart like Quentin, and instead watching to ensure no one else attempted a cheap shot at Thren while he was locked in a fight.

“You think you can take me down?” Thren asked. “I can’t decide if I should be insulted, or if you’re just insane.”

“You’ll have plenty of time to decide after you’re dead.”

Quentin rushed forward, trying to catch Thren off guard. A painfully futile attempt, and Haern knew it the second the man leaped off his feet. Thren took a single step back with his left foot to brace himself, and in a smooth motion, he pulled his short swords free of their sheaths and swept them in an arc before him, batting aside Quentin’s dual thrusts. Pulling them back around, he forced Quentin to retreat from his sudden flurry of slashes. None were meant to be fatal, Thren clearly playing with him. Within moments thin cuts lined Quentin’s face, which was flushed a deep red, whether from exertion of frustration, Haern did not know.

“Weren’t you to kill me?” Thren asked, parrying a frantic thrust with his left hand and smacking Quentin across the cheek with the flat of his other blade. “Then why am I not dead yet? Come, Quentin, surely you weren’t boasting out of your ass?”

Instead of attacking, the man retreated further, throwing a plea to the woman who’d come with him.

“Help me, Michelle,” he said. “He can’t take the both of us!”

The woman shook her head.

“This is your fight,” she said. “You finish it.”

Quentin’s eyes widened in fear as Thren stalked forward, swords twirling in his hands. Apparently deciding it better to die in a mad rush than flee, Quentin barreled forward with the grace and skill of a charging bull. Thren sidestepped the mad swings, then spun on one foot, the other kicking Quentin hard in the stomach. The former Serpent rolled to the ground, one of his swords falling from his limp grip. When he came to a stop, he retched in a weak attempt to suck in air. Thren remained still, ignoring the man completely and instead addressing the others.

“Have you forgotten who I am?” he asked. “Have you forgotten all I’ve done? I’ve come to save you from Muzien, and you’d treat me like a child?”

Quentin pushed himself onto his knees, fingers digging into the soft earth of the cemetery. He glared as Thren pointed a bloody sword his way.

“Last chance,” Thren said.

Quentin opened his mouth to speak, but no words came forth. Instead his upper body constricted, as if he were choking. His eyes bulged, and he convulsed again, a dry heave that was horrible to hear. Haern stepped back and readied his swords, horrified by the sight. Wisps of shadow swirled about Quentin, rising up from the grass to seep into his skin. As they all helplessly watched, Quentin clutched at his throat, let out a single agonizing shriek, and then vomited up a stream of blood that seemed to stretch on and on unending. At last he stopped, plopped facefirst into the red puddle before him, and lay still. In the ensuing silence, Deathmask’s laughter was like a cry of thunder.

“Surely you all did not think I would miss such an important meeting?” the man asked, sitting on the highest branch of the slender tree. Haern felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. He’d checked that tree multiple times, never once seeing anyone within it. That Deathmask could avoid him so easily was unnerving to say the least… not to mention the awful display that had been Quentin’s death.

“Was that necessary?” Thren asked, gesturing to the bloody corpse.

“Hardly anything I do is ‘necessary,’ ” Deathmask said, grabbing hold of one branch to swing down to another before hopping to the ground. He wore no mask over his face, nor the cloud of ash levitating about his head to intimidate his foes. Even without them the man was still an imposing figure, his eyes sparkling with sick pleasure. “But enjoyable? Fitting? I’d like to think so. Quentin was an oaf, and you were a fool for giving him another chance. We are all on our last chances so long as Muzien lives.”

If Thren had thought that only the Watcher’s presence could galvanize the rest, Haern realized he’d sorely underestimated Deathmask’s influence. The Ash Guild, despite its size, was the sole survivor of Muzien’s takeover of Veldaren. For him to also throw in his allegiance with Thren and the Watcher gave their plan legitimacy even the most doubting of men could not deny.

“You will aid us then?” Thren asked as he sheathed his swords.

“I’ll aid in crushing the Sun Guild,” Deathmask said. “But I won’t be your puppet, and I won’t ever serve you with the slightest bit of loyalty. In fact, I’m going to say none of us here will. When the Sun Guild collapses, the Spider Guild won’t be inheriting the city alone. The Wolves will rise again, as will the Serpents, the Shadows, and perhaps even a few new-colored cloaks will grace our streets. But we won’t be yours to rule. Either you accept that, or discover if I’ll be as easy to defeat as that idiot Quentin.”

For the second time in mere moments Thren stared down another man in that cemetery, but they all sensed the difference. Haern kept his hands on the hilts of his sabers, not expecting to need them. A man like Deathmask was too random and dangerous a foe to take on, especially with so little to gain.

“The underworld will only rise up if they may return to the guilds where they once belonged,” Haern said, hoping to defuse the situation before it might become worse. “If you want to conquer Veldaren, Thren, you’ll need to do it the old-fashioned way: one street at a time, and only after Muzien is rotting in the ground.”

Thren kept his gaze locked with Deathmask’s for a moment more, then looked away.

“So be it,” he said. “Do you all accept?”

One by one the others nodded.

“Good.” Thren turned back to Deathmask. “Then when I give my signal, bring the Sun Guild crashing down, and make it glorious.”

Deathmask bowed low in mockery.

“Muzien isn’t the only one who knows how to put on a good show,” he said. Waving to the others, he strode toward the exit of the cemetery. After an awkward hesitation, the others followed. Haern joined Thren’s side, watching them go.

“That went well,” Haern said when they were out of earshot.

“I thought I asked you to keep your mouth shut.”

“Did you ever hear me agree?”

Thren shook his head, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a rolled-up scrap of paper.

“What is this?” Haern asked as Thren handed it over to him.

“For your wizard friend. It’s a simple request, one he should be able to handle. Get it back to me as soon as you can.”

Haern tapped the paper against his palm.

“This is your signal, I take it?” he asked.

“It is.”

Haern put it into his own pocket, then joined his father in step as he headed for the cemetery’s rickety gate.

“Where are you going?” Haern asked.

“Somewhere to alleviate my foul mood.”

“A whorehouse?”

Thren let out a chuckle.

“Anywhere owned by the Sun Guild,” he said. “My swords are still hungry.”

More killing, so casual, so easy. Troubling still was how little that realization bothered Haern. Falling back a step, he turned left when his father turned right.

“Have fun,” he called over his shoulder. “I’ll give Tarlak your request. I’m sure he’ll be mightily pleased.”

Thren waved without looking. Giving one more look about the various rooftops and alleys to ensure no one watched or waited in ambush, Haern rushed west to the Eschaton Tower, and it seemed his every step was lighter than the last.

This was it, the final strike against Muzien. Either they’d bring him down, or die trying. Though it should have brought him fear, he felt only relief. Despite all the risks of failure, he’d have the fate of the city resting on the blades of him and his father. As he climbed the city’s wall and then descended the other side, he knew, deep down in his gut, there was no other way he’d rather it be.

Haern had expected everyone to be asleep when he entered the tower, and was surprised to see Tarlak waiting for him in his chair before the fire. He held no drink, which immediately made Haern nervous.

“I hope you weren’t waiting up on my account,” Haern said as he shut the door behind him.

“Sadly, I was,” the wizard said. “We’ve got a problem.”

He gestured for Haern to have a seat, and so he did on the nearby couch. Settling into the cushion, he removed his hood and popped his neck.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Are Delysia and Brug all right?”

“They’re fine,” Tarlak said. “They’re both worried about you, of course, but that’s not what this is about. Antonil came to visit earlier today, and he wasn’t carrying good news. Apparently an army of orcs somehow crossed the Bone Ditch and is marching its way here while happily pillaging all the nearby towns.”

“That’s not…” Haern rubbed his eyes, picturing the landscape and trying to make sense of it. “Forget it, so assuming that’s true, how much time do we have?”

Tarlak let out a bitter laugh.

“There’s no assuming involved. It’s not hard to find an army of orcs with a bit of scrying magic, given how their race isn’t what I’d call subtle or elusive. And by my guess? If we’re lucky, they’ll be here two nights from now.”

Haern slumped into the couch, hands falling to his sides.

“That’s not enough time,” he said.

“Thanks for stating the obvious. Antonil was practically begging me to help defend the walls. Your name came up a few times, too. Seems he thinks you’d be a good frontline soldier. I offered Brug instead, but no luck there.”

Haern shook his head, and he closed his eyes, mind still racing.

“You misunderstand me,” he said. “I mean when it comes to Muzien. We need more time for word to spread. Everything is almost in place for an all-out rebellion. This has to succeed, for there won’t be a second attempt if we fail.”

“An army of muscle-bound brutes marches toward our doors, and you’re worrying about rogues and guilds? Surely this can wait until after.”

Haern snapped open his eyes and rose from his seat, unable to resist a need to pace the floor.

“Think about it, Tar,” he said. “Muzien views himself as ruler of the city. Tell me, what do you think he might do if an army of orcs smashes through the gates?”

“Truth be told, I have no clue,” Tarlak said. “And neither do you.”

“That’s a lie and you know it. There’s already rumors he’s planning to pull his guild out of the city, and he won’t do so without leaving a giant funeral pyre to soothe his wounded pride. And even if he isn’t planning on leaving, what do you think Muzien will do if he thinks the city will fall? Do you think he’s the type to let someone else have it?”

“Might be better for everyone involved that they die in a fiery explosion than let those orcs have their way with them,” Tarlak mused. “And what prevents him from doing the same damn thing because of your little insurrection?”

Haern turned, met Tarlak’s stare, and refused to back down.

“Nothing,” he said. “But I’m tired of cowering in fear of him. When we rise up, I’m hoping his pride prevents him from activating the tiles, and that he tries to crush us personally instead. If he does, then we’ll have our chance to kill him and end this permanently.”

“And by ‘we’ do you mean you and Thren?”

Haern let out a sigh.

“Yes, I do. Is that a problem?”

Tarlak shrugged.

“I don’t know. How could allying with Veldaren’s most infamous lunatic possibly be a problem? It boggles the mind.”

“Be serious, Tar.”

“I am!” The wizard shot up from his seat. “You’re not just playing with fire; you’re rolling around in it while bathed in lantern oil. Night after night you’re out there with him, prowling the streets, killing, plotting. Is it really so wrong of me to fear a bit of the father might be rubbing off on the son?”

Haern swallowed, and despite his friend’s seriousness, he couldn’t help but chuckle.

“So you’re not going to be happy about this request, then?” he asked, handing over the rolled-up scroll Thren had given him. Tarlak snapped it from his hands, opened it, and quickly skimmed the contents.

“Dramatic little bugger, isn’t he?” the wizard mumbled, then rolled it back up. “I take it Thren wants this made posthaste? You know there’s stone tiles capable of destroying the entire city out there I should probably be studying instead, right?”

“And I know you’re no closer to rendering them harmless than when you first started,” Haern said. “We won’t save the city that way, not with what little time we have. We save it by overthrowing Muzien, who holds the key to their destruction. You know I’m right, too, or you wouldn’t be as upset as you are.”

“I’m upset because I’m worried I’m going to lose my friends and family,” Tarlak said. “You could at least acknowledge that. The city’s not equipped to handle an enemy force with so little preparation, and you are facing off against a foe that, barring our recent fun at the fountain, has never once been defeated. Bad doesn’t begin to describe this, Haern. Bad doesn’t scratch the surface.”

Haern reached out and put a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

“We’ll endure,” he said. “We always have, and we always will. This invading army, there’s only so much I can do against it with my swords, especially compared to the magic you and your sister wield. But Muzien and the Sun Guild… we cannot let them continue to hold a blade over our heads using those damn tiles. My plan is in motion, and during the confusion, I think we can save the city from their hands. Can you trust me to handle them, while you handle the threat from outside the walls?”

Tarlak let out a sigh, and he brushed away Haern’s touch.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can. Won’t like it, but I can. I’ll get Thren’s toy made tomorrow. First I need to get some sleep, and I suggest you do the same. I have a feeling there’s long days and nights ahead of you.”

A snap of his fingers, and the fire dwindled down to just embers.

“Good night, Tar,” Haern said as the wizard climbed the stairs.

“Good night, Watcher.”

In the growing darkness Haern stayed, still struggling to process the new threat. There was just no space in his mind, no way for him to worry over it with the threat of Muzien looming over everything.

“One enemy at a time,” he muttered, removing his sword belt and plopping onto the couch. “Is that so much to ask, Ashhur?”

Of course it is, he chuckled to himself. Closing his eyes, he felt his exhaustion weighing on every one of his limbs, and despite how young the night was, he fell asleep with ease.