Blood of the Underworld(11)

“They’re arresting thieves, but not at random,” Thren said. “Who ordered this? Whose soldiers are these?”

Martin paced the roof until he was beside an alley jutting off from the main route. Waving Thren over, he pointed to a trio of soldiers marching below them.

“Think they’ll know?” he asked, grinning.

Thren drew his shortswords.

“Answers,” he said. “One way or another.”

When the soldiers were directly beneath, the two leapt to the ground, like hawks descending upon their prey. Their chainmail was finely woven, but Thren managed to jam a blade between his victim’s coif and collar, piercing flesh. It wasn’t deep as planned, for the man immediately spun to one side and fell to a knee. Thren twisted it free, then went to cut across the throat with his other sword, but was not fast enough. The second soldier blocked the attack, standing protectively before his fallen comrade.

Thren gave him no reprieve, weaving a quick series of strikes to test his foe’s skill. Much to his surprise, and annoyance, the soldier blocked them all. Curses filled Thren’s mind. From the corner of his eye, he saw Martin battling the third soldier. Unlike Thren, he’d not managed a solid blow during his fall, his dagger failing to penetrate the chainmail. The two fought close, Martin trying to negate the soldier’s advantage of longer reach.

“Who pays you?” Thren asked, feinting one hand then thrusting with the other. He expected no answer, only hoped to distract his foe. It didn’t work. The thrust parried harmlessly away, and then the soldier stepped in, expertly weaving his weapon in a beautiful counter. Thren flung himself to the side, bit his tongue as he felt steel slash across his arm. Blood stained his gray shirt and cloak. His fury growing, the rush of battle flooding through him, he lunged at his opponent with both blades. When the soldier blocked, Thren pressed on, hacking and slashing with such ferocity his opponent fell back in retreat. The wounded soldier no longer protected, Thren stopped for just a moment to stab him in the back of the neck, then kick his corpse aside.

“What fool brought you to your deaths?” Thren asked as he swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. He was losing blood fast, he knew. Had to get it attended. The soldier started to respond, but Thren spun, his attention no longer on him. Martin had fought the other soldier to a standstill, the two so focused that neither sensed his sudden appearance. Thren’s shortsword pierced through the small of the soldier’s back. A twist, a yank, and the man dropped. Martin nodded in thanks, and then the two turned on the last. Thren thought he’d run, but he did not, only stood his ground.

“Left,” Thren said softly. When they both attacked, Martin did as told, veering to the left and cutting in with his dagger. The soldier shifted to the side, unafraid of it piercing his armor, but the motion kept him from falling into a retreat. That was all Thren needed. A trio of slashes batted the sword out of position, and then his own blades sliced in, jamming through the soldier’s throat. The man gurgled, his eyes widened, and then he dropped. Thren pulled his sword free, shook blood off of it.

“Fuck!” Thren yelled, kicking the corpse. His arm stung, and when his battle lust faded, he knew it would hurt even more. Worse, they’d failed in their goal.

“Hard to interrogate a man who has no throat,” Martin said, jamming his dagger into his belt.

Thren sheathed his swords, then checked the wound on his arm. Not too deep. It would leave a scar, just one more among hundreds. Glancing out the alley, he saw people passing, and several spotted the carnage. They wisely kept their mouths shut, but it would only be moments before someone wasn’t so smart.

“Back home,” Thren said. “We know too little. It isn’t safe.”

They took to the roofs once more and ran, Thren gritting his teeth against the pain. The chaos of the main streets vanished behind them until they reached the Thirsty Mule. Martin went first to ensure none of the mysterious soldiers were about. The way clear, he beckoned Thren in, and together they entered the cellar of their headquarters, disguised as a simple inn.

The place was abuzz with rumors and questions. Amid the pain, Thren estimated at least twenty of his guild milling about, swapping stories and making guesses. They’d fled home when the soldiers flooded the streets, but how many had not made it? At Thren’s entrance, the conversation quieted, and several tilted their heads with respect. No doubt they wished to ask him questions, but seeing his wound, they wisely let him be.

“Where’s Murphy?” Thren asked as he took a seat at the bar, banging his fist on the wood in demand of a drink. One of the smaller thieves, Peb, rushed over, grabbing glasses.