Read Blood of the Underworld for Free Online

side, unafraid of it piercing his armor, but the motion kept him from falling into a retreat. That was all Thren needed. A trio of slashes batted the sword out of position, and then his own blades sliced in, jamming through the soldier’s throat. The man gurgled, his eyes widened, and then he dropped. Thren pulled his sword free, shook blood off of it.
    “Fuck!” Thren yelled, kicking the corpse. His arm stung, and when his battle lust faded, he knew it would hurt even more. Worse, they’d failed in their goal.
    “Hard to interrogate a man who has no throat,” Martin said, jamming his dagger into his belt.
    Thren sheathed his swords, then checked the wound on his arm. Not too deep. It would leave a scar, just one more among hundreds. Glancing out the alley, he saw people passing, and several spotted the carnage. They wisely kept their mouths shut, but it would only be moments before someone wasn’t so smart.
    “Back home,” Thren said. “We know too little. It isn’t safe.”
    They took to the roofs once more and ran, Thren gritting his teeth against the pain. The chaos of the main streets vanished behind them until they reached the Thirsty Mule. Martin went first to ensure none of the mysterious soldiers were about. The way clear, he beckoned Thren in, and together they entered the cellar of their headquarters, disguised as a simple inn.
    The place was abuzz with rumors and questions. Amid the pain, Thren estimated at least twenty of his guild milling about, swapping stories and making guesses. They’d fled home when the soldiers flooded the streets, but how many had not made it? At Thren’s entrance, the conversation quieted, and several tilted their heads with respect. No doubt they wished to ask him questions, but seeing his wound, they wisely let him be.
    “Where’s Murphy?” Thren asked as he took a seat at the bar, banging his fist on the wood in demand of a drink. One of the smaller thieves, Peb, rushed over, grabbing glasses.
    “I’ll get him,” Martin said.
    “What’ll it be?” asked Peb. He was quick, and had big ears. They’d called him Mouse for a while, then switched to Pebble after Thren put a stop to it. No thief of his was a mouse. They were Spiders, lurkers, killers—even the smallest carrying dangerous venom.
    “Hardest we have,” Thren said. By the time Peb gave him his glass, Murphy had arrived, a small box in hand.
    “How bad is it?” Murphy asked.
    “Bad enough.”
    He downed the glass, then carefully removed his shirt so the stocky man could see. Of them all, Murphy was the only one with a modicum of training in the skills of the apothecary. A gap-toothed man with graying hair, Murphy loved to say he first learned to sew up cows, not people, but the two were often the same. Deep down, Thren thought Murphy had learned how to stitch and amputate because he loved causing pain while still getting praised for it. Had he been born of higher blood, he’d have been one of Connington’s gentle touchers for sure.
    “What’s going on?” Thren asked as he motioned for Peb to fill the glass.
    “Well, you’re bleeding, but it didn’t quite make it to bone.”
    “I meant with the city.”
    Murphy took out a long needle and some thread from the box. Thren grabbed his glass before Peb was even done pouring.
    “I’ve been here all the while,” Murphy said, threading the needle. He nodded to the rest. “Ask them.”
    “I have,” Martin said, taking a seat on the other side of Thren. “All we’ve got is a name. Lord Victor Kane. He’s been here hardly twenty-four hours, yet he’s already stirring up trouble.”
    “What does he want?” Thren asked as the needle pierced his flesh. He didn’t let the pain show. Not in front of so many. Pain was only a tool, and right now he had no desire for it. As Peb poured his third glass, an ache swelled in Thren’s chest. There was a time when someone might have chopped off his right hand and he’d not have made a sound. Was he growing