Blood of the Underworld(118)

Thren turned and ran, still shaking off surprise that Victor would ally with someone as despicable and unpredictable as Deathmask and his Ash Guild. On the only safe path out he raced across the rooftops toward the edge of the sweeping net Victor created. And sure enough, when he glanced back, Grayson was in chase. They understood each other well, knew neither would settle for capture by the meddlesome lord. They had a score to settle. Behind them, smoke billowed into the air as Billick’s shop went up in flames, burning away the last of the Sun’s leaf.

Thren ran, ran, leaping over the gaps between buildings without slowing in the slightest. His shortswords grew heavy in his hands as he held them. Grayson had often defeated him when they sparred, and he’d near fatally wounded his son, as well. Could he win now?

Digging in his heels, Thren came to a halt, spinning on Grayson like a deer turning on a chasing wolf. He’d made a promise, sworn his vows. He was Thren Felhorn. How could he lay claim to a city yet fear to fight one making similar claims? He would not let Grayson be right. No running, not from this. Standing firm, he held his swords together in an X, eyes locked on the giant man barreling toward him.

They crashed together, Grayson’s weight and momentum pushing him back. In the light of the stars, upon the rooftops, the two battled. Thren constantly circled, refusing to give Grayson a chance to bring his full strength to bear. The ringing of their swords was a song, and the battle felt so comfortable, so familiar, that only the pounding of his heart in his ears assured him that it was not some old training match, not some unimportant spar, but a meeting to the death.

“This stops nothing,” Grayson said, hammering at Thren’s defenses. His shortswords, dwarfed by his enormous arms, moved with both speed and unmatched power. “Veldaren is ours, Thren.”

Thren dove underneath a swipe, circled to his left, then slashed upward at Grayson’s side. One sword he parried, but the other cut into flesh. It was a minor wound, like a bee stinging a bull, but it angered him nonetheless.

“It’s mine, Grayson!” Thren shouted as he retreated once more, leaping back and forth in the constrained limits of their chosen place of battle. “Veldaren, its people, its fear...mine, and I do not share!”

“Liar! Wretch!” Grayson continued on, showing no impatience despite Thren’s stalling tactic. He knew better than to give Thren any sort of edge. When Thren fell too far back, Grayson took the moment to catch his breath, and rebalance his stance before slowly approaching. “You’ve lost that title, that respect. The Watcher took it from you. I fought him, Thren. Whatever miracle kept him alive doesn’t change that he should have died, and by my hand. You could have killed him at any time, yet you haven’t. You coward...”

Thren stood there, hunched low, ready to spring into an attack at any time. Grayson shifted his feet, ready to meet it.

“Coward?” Thren asked. “Is that so?”

“You let him live. Why?”

Thren’s grin spread ear to ear, and despite his exhaustion, despite his inability to score more than a single scratch on his opponent, he laughed.

“Because he’s my son,” he said.

“Your son?”

Grayson froze, just for a moment, as he realized all that meant.

“Marion’s son,” Thren said. “Your blood as well as mine, you damn fool. The Watcher and I are two sides of a single coin. Every man, woman, and child of this city fears one of us. Together we own the night. You are nothing to him, nothing to me. He lives, as do I. Come, Grayson. Let’s see if the same can be said of you come the dawn.”

Thren leapt at him, every ounce of his speed sending him flying toward the giant man. Once more their swords clashed, but Grayson’s mind was overcome for just a moment, unable to maintain the balance needed against such an opponent. But Thren had cried his tears for Marion, and he’d long since buried her in his heart. Grayson’s wounds, though, they’d stayed fresh, and because of it new ones slashed across his chest as Thren pressed harder and harder. He felt rage boiling in his veins, and it gave him strength. Looping closer, he slashed through Grayson’s left wrist, severing tendons. The blade dropped to the ground. Thren hammered the other, staying close, denying him the chance to flee. The other fell, its handle soaked with blood as Thren hacked into his arm.

Grayson tried to sweep out his feet with a kick, but Thren leapt into the air, his knee catching Grayson’s forehead. The man fell back, and Thren stabbed through his side, the blade puncturing the roof so it held him there like a stake. Grayson screamed, and he pulled against the blade. Another stab, this one through the shoulder, kept him down.