Blood of the Underworld(114)

I’d call it cheating...

Something about Carson’s gaze, be it spell or hypnotism, was digging into him, pooling into his mind. Haern looked down, forced himself to watch Carson’s hands and hands only. Normally he might read a man’s face to gauge their tension, to watch for tells and signs of impatience. But not now. Gaze low, Haern breathed in deep. He didn’t know how it worked, or how long it might last, but he had to endure until the effects waned. The first time they’d fought, he’d had his attention split between two opponents, no doubt weakening the effect. If he could survive then, he could survive now. He had to.

Carson stepped close, and he repeatedly thrust for Haern’s chest, pulling back every time Haern tried to parry. Haern watched, more and more aware of the sluggishness of his reactions. He felt robbed of speed, robbed of strength.

“What’s the matter, Watcher?” Carson asked. Haern noticed the strange, hurried aspect to his voice was not quite so prominent.

Haern gave no answer, only grinned.

It seemed Carson suddenly realized the shift. He pushed his attack, this time without mockery, no longer playing with him. Haern kept his eyes down, watching only Carson’s hands and the movements of his feet. Carson was a viper, trying to mesmerize his prey with his gaze. But Haern was no mouse.

No, he’d been raised a Spider.

Side to side he shifted, avoiding thrusts, smashing aside cuts. Carson tried to step in and strike him with a fist, but Haern ducked underneath, whirling so his cloaks hid his movements. This time when he stood, he counterattacked, the tip of his saber slashing open a bleeding wound across Carson’s cheek.

Much as he wanted to enjoy the shock and fear in Carson’s eyes, Haern pulled his hood lower across his face and stared at the ground.

“What’s the matter, Bloodcraft?” Haern asked. “Aren’t you going to kill me?”

In his childhood, during the years of training by Thren’s hired tutors, Haern had spent several months learning how to fight in pure darkness. He knew how to predict the most common sword placements, how to listen for the movement of feet, the intake of air that marked an attack. In his mind’s eye he could visualize where Carson stood, and from their fights, he now had a feel for his favored routines. The man was good, but he was used to having speed on his side. He’d never been pushed to his limits.

But Haern had fought so much better. He’d met his limits, and surpassed them.

Eyes closed, he lashed out, and the sound of metal on metal brought a smile to his face. He pressed forward, his sabers whirling so that he could control the placement of Carson’s sword, forcing his defenses and countering his attempts to pull it close. His speed had returned in full. His strength was back. He thought of the rest of his friends, battling for their lives, and he would not fail them.

“Have you lost your nerve?” Haern asked, so close to Carson that he could smell the sweat and blood on him.

“You haven’t beaten me yet, you...”

His words confirmed his location, and more importantly, how Carson was falling backward to gain distance. It was all Haern needed.

He lunged, one saber thrusting, the other swinging wide to parry the desperate counter-thrust he knew Carson would try. Metal hit metal, and then his thrusting blade met resistance, just for a moment. Blood poured across Haern’s hand, and he felt the closeness of Carson’s body to his. Only then did Haern open his eyes to see Carson gasping for air, a saber pierced through his chest and out his back.

“Look me in the eye,” Haern whispered. “The fear you see is your own.”

Carson opened his mouth to speak, but he could only cough blood. He slipped back, and Haern yanked free his saber. Carson collapsed, mouth still moving, eyes still locked on Haern’s. The ornate blade fell from his hand and clattered upon the hard stone.

The ground shook, and Haern brought his attention to the other battles still raging.

“Hold on, Tar,” he whispered. “I’m coming.”



Tarlak sat on his rear, legs folded underneath him, as he leaned his chin against his palm and watched the inn. So far an hour had passed, yet no sign of life or movement through the windows.

Some ambush, he thought. I think I’ll be killing myself from boredom before the night is over. The Bloodcrafts will win by default.

He sat on the very edge of the bakery’s rooftop, and he kept bouncing his attention between the windows and the alley beneath him. There was always the possibility they were out in the day, and would return sometime soon. He knew he had to be ready, but still...

“Boooored,” Tarlak muttered.

He leaned back to stretch, and as he did, he caught sight of a woman on the roof of the inn, her slender frame dwarfed by the red leather coat she wore. Tarlak froze mid-stretch, wondering where in the world she’d come from.