Blood of the Underworld(2)

The thief swallowed, the movement rubbing the tip up and down against his throat.

“I didn’t do nothing,” he said. “I’ve been here all night.”

“Do you think I care?”

Haern knelt closer, his free hand grabbing the back of the man’s head and holding it still. He stared into his eyes, then flinched as if he were to thrust. The thief let out a cry. The smell of urine reached Haern’s nose. He leaned closer, his lips hovering before the man’s ear.

“I see tears in your eyes,” he whispered.

The hilt of his saber cracked down hard atop the thief’s head, knocking him out cold. Slowly rising, he drew his other saber and turned to his initial prey, the murderer. The man sat on his rear, both hands clutching his throat. He was gasping for air, the sound akin to wind blowing over the top of a chimney. Blood dripped down his wrist, to his elbow, and then to the ground.

“You slit a Serpent’s throat,” Haern said, towering over him. “Care to tell me why?”

The man coughed, crimson blobs flecking across his pants. He gasped a few times, as if to hold his breath underwater, then forced out a word.

“Trespassing.”

Haern shook his head.

“Not good enough,” he said. “Not even close.”

He shoved his sabers into the man’s chest, through his heart. Pulling them free, he kicked the body to the ground, then slashed open his neck. The death was quick, the message given. His throat dry, Haern turned back to the thief he’d left unconscious. He almost killed him. Almost. But enough blood had spilled that night, and it wouldn’t be the last. Once Thren found out, he’d retaliate against the Serpent Guild. Back and forth, always back and forth without end...

He sheathed his blades and turned to go, and that was when he heard the scream. It came from a distant alley, that of a thick-voiced male. Haern followed it, guessing which alley to turn down. The night was quiet, no one foolish enough to be out and about so deep in Spider territory. At first he thought he’d guessed wrong, but then he found the victim. He lay on his back at the farthest stretch of a dead end alley, arms splayed outward. His gray cloak signified him a member of the Spider Guild. No wounds were upon him but for the tiny arrow embedded in his throat. Haern walked over to it, his stomach turning. Another? But by who, and why?

Standing over it, Haern felt something tickling the back of his mind. Something odd. The thief had been a smaller man, wiry, probably picked for his deft hands instead of brute strength. Hardly a whisker grew on his face. His face...

His eyes were closed, as was his mouth. That was it. A lethal hit with an arrow should have left him gasping in pain, his face reflecting that upon death, but it did not. The killer had shut his eyes and mouth to create the appearance of sleep, but why? Knowing he had little choice, Haern reached down, pushed two fingers between the dead man’s teeth, and pried his jaw open. The starlight reflected off the metal immediately, and something about the sight sent a chill down Haern’s spine. Lying on his tongue were two gold coins stacked atop one another. Haern took them, trying to decide the significance. A personal vendetta? A paid hit by another guild?

Laughter startled him, and he reached for his blade. He let it go when he realized it was just a drunken man curled against the wall, nearly invisible in the darkness.

“Sorry ‘bout the scream,” he said, drinking from the half-empty bottle he held. “Didn’t mean to scare anybody.”

“Did you see who did this?”

The drunk shook his head.

“Like this when I got here. Nearly tripped over the damn thing.”

Haern frowned. So the scream had been from the drunk, not the man dying. It didn’t surprise him, given how dry the blood was across the man’s throat. He yanked out the arrow, held it up to the moonlight. He caught sight of tiny flecks of poison on the metal. A professional hit, but again, by who, and why? He glanced about, looking for a message, and quickly found it. That he hadn’t spotted it immediately upon entering the alley unnerved him. It was large, and written in blood.



tongue of gold, eyes of silver

run, run little spider

from the widow’s quiver



“The Widow?” Haern wondered aloud. The drunk’s laughter stole away his concentration.

“You got competition,” he said, then laughed again. Haern looked to the gold coins in his hand and didn’t see the humor. Reading over the simple rhyme, a thought hit him, tightening his stomach into a knot. Bending down beside the body, he carefully lifted open the dead man’s eyelids.

“Damn it,” he whispered. “Damn it all to the Abyss.”