Blood of the Underworld(18)

The darkness swelled, began to swirl. With a mocking bow, Deathmask vanished through it. Just like that, the portal was gone, and Victor was alone in his room. He took a step toward the wall and ran his fingers across it. It was cool to the touch, as if a frost had settled over it. He struck it twice, unable to help himself.

“Magic,” he whispered. All his planning, all his care, meant nothing to a man who could walk through walls. And if Deathmask could do so, then others could, as well. How long until the Spiders or Serpents obtained a scroll to appear directly below his bed while he slept? He needed defenses, those of the arcane kind. Sleep could wait until it was safe. Grabbing his sword off his bed, he reached for the door, only to have someone knock from the other side. He jumped, then felt his neck blush. Deathmask’s visit had unnerved him more greatly than he thought.

“Yes?” he asked, flinging it open. The waiting soldier took a step back, surprised by how quickly Victor had come.

“Milord,” said the soldier. “There’s something we feel you should see.”

Victor thought to ask, then just shook his head. It didn’t matter what it was; he’d need to handle it in person, anyway. These first few days were the most fragile. Nothing could be left to chance.

“Lead on,” he said.





5



Haern rushed across the rooftops, and he was not alone. In the moonlight he saw many others in the distance, scrambling to and fro to avoid the roads. Most fled before his arrival, for they recognized his presence above all others. He was their watcher, their punisher, their executioner. Victor might be a new enemy, but they still understood who was the deadlier threat.

Reaching the temple to Ashhur, Haern stopped, and atop a two-story building he sat on his knees. The building was rented to large families forced to share such meager rooms. From within, he heard a child crying. He prayed it might soon have food. As the moonlight dimmed from thick clouds slowly spreading across the sky, he heard a distant rumble. Rain. Pulling his hood tighter over his head, Haern chuckled. Of course it was raining. The perfect capstone to a long, terrible day. Pausing for a rest, he watched the streets. His brow furrowed when he saw a group of Victor’s men rushing north. They appeared frightened.

His knees cracked as he stood, and he let out a groan. Night after night of stalking the rooftops was taking its toll. He feared one day he wouldn’t be able to walk without a heavy stoop. Haern thought to follow the men, then changed his mind. The alley they’d appeared from led into Spider territory, and by the flickering light, he saw more torches within. The patrols had found something, but what? And more importantly, how willing would they be to share the discovery with him?

He dropped to the ground, drew his sabers, and then ran. He felt better with the hilts in his hands, cold and hard. In a fair fight, he knew of few that might challenge him, and even if overwhelmed, it was Haern who tended to come out unscathed. At the alley entrance he peered inside, saw three more soldiers standing around, torches in hand. Haern decided not to risk a scene just yet. Retreating back a space, he climbed the wall of the nearby home.

From the rooftops he heard them talking.

“What in blazes you think it means?”

“Means nothing, that’s what I’ve been saying. Just nonsense.”

“Can’t be nonsense. You don’t go to this much trouble for nonsense. It’s a message.”

Haern’s stomach hardened. He desperately hoped he was wrong, but when he peered over the edge of the building, he saw he was not. A man lay dead on his back between the three. By his cloak and dress, he was a member of the Spider Guild. When Haern looked to the wall, he saw the message written in blood, this time smaller, more hurried.



tongue of gold, eyes of silver

run, run little spider

from the widow’s quiver



The three soldiers were still discussing the rhyme when Haern crouched closer to the edge.

“Widow, eh?” the tallest of the three said. “Who’s that?”

“Black widow, that’s what I say,” said another, a red-haired man with a heavily scarred face. When the other two scoffed, he pressed on. “This guy’s a Spider, right? Think about it. They go out to some whore, only it ain’t a regular whore. It’s a black widow. And after she’s done buggering him, well...”

He curled two of his fingers and pretended to stab them into his neck. The three all laughed. It was nervous, forced. They were trying to make light of the corpse before them, to dismiss the mystery.

“And this?” asked the tall man, jamming a thumb toward the wall.

The redhead shrugged.

“Whore fancies herself a poet?”