Blood of the Underworld(99)

“It’s no longer safe here,” Victor said, grabbing his armor. “I told Antonil bringing in civilians would put me at risk. I told him! They will not stay here, not any longer. And much as I owe you, Gart, I still resent that your presence was kept hidden from me.”

“Just following my orders, milord.”

“I know. It’s those orders I plan on questioning.”

Armor on, sword buckled to his waist, he stepped into the hall. His guards lay slumped against the wall, throats opened and tunics stained with blood. Victor closed their eyes with his fingers, offered a silent word of thanks to the men who had given their lives to protect him. And then he was moving on, Gart in tow.

“Summon your guard, and have them clean up this mess,” Victor told him. “After that, start gathering the people here and bring them to the castle. If Antonil wants them kept safe, and wants to position men in secret to guard them, then let him take their responsibility in full. I need no more assassins in my bedchambers.”

“Milord, I’m not sure if I should do that until...”

Victor spun on him while still halfway down the stairs.

“I will speak with Antonil myself, and I assure you, I will not have my request denied. Take them to the castle. Do you understand me?”

The older man nodded.

“As you wish, milord.”

They continued down the stairs, to where the commoners slept all across the floor. Victor navigated around, and then he and Gart stepped out into the night. Four men stood guard at the door, and they saluted when they realized it was him.

“City guard will soon arrive,” Victor told them. “Help them in any way you can.”

He started toward the castle unescorted. One of his men called out after him.

“Milord...”

Victor glared back, silencing his comment. Gart followed him a little ways, then stopped.

“Nearest guard station is this way,” he said, gesturing east.

“I will be at the castle,” Victor said, not slowing. “Safe travels.”

Gart didn’t look happy, but he left anyway. Victor knew he was being proud, but he didn’t care. He was a skilled fighter, and he wore his shining armor. Piss on anyone that thought him vulnerable. The scum of the city needed to catch him sleeping in his bedclothes to even have a chance. Marching down the quiet night streets, he made his way toward the center of the city, then hooked north toward the castle. Only a few times did he see signs of life, those of taverns burning their midnight oil to fill the poor and destitute with enough alcohol to forget their dreary lives. Victor both pitied them and despised them. They’d be either fodder for thieves, or new recruits. Once their lives continued to fall apart. Once they lost enough to believe they could never replace it without taking by force.

Several times he thought he saw someone following him out of the corner of his eye, a gray blur along the rooftops. Every time he turned back he saw nothing. Just nerves, he told himself, but his instincts said otherwise. So be it. He would show no fear. It was the thieves that must fear him.

As he passed by a row of homes, not much more than a quarter mile from the castle, he heard a soft voice call out to him.

“Sir?”

Victor slowed, and he glanced to his left. A disheveled woman leaned against the side of home at the entrance to an alley. Bruises covered her face, and there was blood in her long brown hair.

“Miss?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

“They’re taking everything,” she said, starting to cry as she limped closer. “Please, they...they...please help. They’re in my home...”

Victor saw her torn clothes and felt his anger grow.

“How many?” he asked, drawing his sword. “And have they gone far?”

“They’re still back there,” the woman said. “Please, sir, don’t. There’s two of them. I need the guard, help me find the guard.”

“Just stay here,” Victor said, hurrying past her. “I’ll bring you justice.”

“I’m not sure you can, Victor.”

Victor stopped cold in his tracks at her words. He didn’t want to believe it, but there was no other way. Slowly he looked back and saw a crossbow in the woman’s hands. Her delicate lips were pulled into a smile.

“Justice,” she sneered, pulling the trigger.

Stupid, thought Victor as the bolt hit his side, just below the curve of his breastplate. Proud and stupid.

He took a single faltering step, then collapsed to his knees. He felt his muscles going limp, his armor heavier than he could carry. His sword fell from his hand as he rolled onto his side, only his eyes able to move. With mounting dread and disappointment, he watched the woman approach, her smile growing. There was no doubt as to whom she was. He tried to whisper the word, to call her the Widow as was proper, but his lips would not cooperate. Victor thought of the other bodies, of their missing eyes, and the messages written along the walls. Dimly he wondered if she wrote the message first, or last, and whether he’d still be alive to watch her writing with his own blood.