Darkblade avenger, p.13
Darkblade Avenger, page 13
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
Ribbons and garlands of blue and purple filled the Beggar Priest's arms, the gift of the Mistress. The Hunter's quarry handed his load to another Beggar Priest before continuing his rounds.
With that armload of ribbons, thought the Hunter, the priests could earn more than enough to keep Farida and the other Beggared off the street for a few weeks at least.
Wealthier citizens of Voramis would purchase these ribbons from the Beggared children. The garlands were hung on Snowblossom trees during the Inamorata, the debauchery-filled festival of lovers.
The Beggar Priest hesitated a moment before entering The Hall of the Cruori, home to the Bloody Minstrel, god of sickness, plague, and horrible music. Dark red bloodstone covered the temple façade, and to the Hunter it seemed the wall dripped blood. He knew it was just the appearance of the stone, but it made his skin crawl nonetheless. His last encounter with one of their priests had ended with a crossbow bolt in the Trouvere’s eye.
The man exited the temple carrying dozens of bloodstone amulets for his fellow priests to distribute among the poor of Lower Voramis. Priests of the Bloody Minstrel insisted that the amulets prevented the spread of plague. Voramis had not seen plagues in the Hunter's memory, which lent credence to the priests' belief in the power of the stone.
The Watcher in the Dark held sway over the night, but he also served as the god of justice. The Palace of Justice provided his worshippers—the law-keeping Judiciars and their enforcers, the crimson-robed Heresiarchs—with a place to pay homage to their god. A monument to the Watcher stood in the Temple District, but time and the elements had faded the stone to a smooth, faceless lump.
Justice has no face, thought the Hunter, but it is timeless and undying.
The Fountain of Piety dominated the heart of Divinity Square. Superstitious worshippers dropped coins into its watery depths, hoping to attract the favor of their particular god.
The Beggar Priest turned away from the fountain and Divinity Square, his steps leading toward a small street. The Hunter followed at a distance, guessing his quarry moved toward the two small temples built away from the main thoroughfares of the Temple District.
Farther away, there will be fewer people. He smiled. He's making this too easy.
Flagstones paved the streets of Divinity Square, but all who approached the House of Tears walked through mud. Home to The Lonely Goddess, goddess of orphans and broken hearts, the temple was small, simple. The dark stone of the building gave off the appearance of perpetual gloom, and the temple walls wept water.
They say the water is poisonous. The Hunter took care to avoid stepping in the murky puddles.
It was said the Lonely Goddess wept for her lover, lost in the War of Gods. Those with sorrows frequented the House of Tears, where they could join the Weeping Sisters in perpetual mourning. The keening chant rising from the temple set the Hunter's nerves on edge, reminding him of a Praamian funeral procession.
The building adjacent to the House of Tears appeared to be one strong gust of wind away from collapsing. The House of Need, home to the priests of the Beggar God, rarely received visitors. In fact, few Voramians even knew that a thirteenth god existed. Most considered the Beggar God unworthy of being a deity.
Only by the limited generosity of the other temples did the House of Need still stand, as well as the fact that they produced the best singers and musicians in Voramis. The other temples gave aid in an attempt to secure a child prodigy for their choirs, and any of the Beggared children who showed an aptitude for music had a chance for a better life in one of the other orders.
Together, the Beggar Priests and Weeping Sisters cared for the abandoned and orphaned children of Voramis, as well as those turned away by the healers at The Sanctuary.
Theirs is a miserable existence, the Hunter thought, watching the Beggar Priest enter the House of Need, but the fools actually seem happy to help others.
Soulhunger protested at the disappearance of its target, but the Hunter silenced the voice in his mind.
I can't go into that temple looking like this. My tailor's outfit is more suited for prayer at the Temple of the Apprentice, but I will stand out among the wretched creatures in there.
A procession of beggars, lepers, and assorted vagabonds streamed in and out of the temple, a neverending flow of human refuse. Their scents mixed with the detritus piled high around the empty houses surrounding the temple.
The Hunter took up position in a doorway. A pile of refuse hid him from casual glances, yet he could see all passersby entering the House of Need. His muscles protested as he sat, but he ignored them. He hugged his knees to his chest, settling in for a long wait.
He allowed his mind to roam, mulling over his assignment. The thought of killing a Beggar Priest felt strange.
It is a bit odd to find a violator among the priests, he thought. Though considering the practices of some of the orders, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. Besides, I have been paid, so the contract must be carried out.
He shrugged off the thought and focused his attention on watching the streets.
Strains of beautiful music wafted from the decaying temple, filling his head with tranquility and blocking out Soulhunger's voice. The singing soothed him, relaxing his tired muscles, and he found himself struggling to stay awake.
No, he told himself, you cannot sleep now.
But his attempts to fight the lulling effect of the music failed. He drifted along with the gorgeous melody, the heat of the day and a night without rest taking its toll on his body.
His eyelids grew heavy and slowly closed of their own accord as the music carried him into the realm of peaceful sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
Wake up!
The voice shouting in the Hunter's thoughts sent a spike of pain through his head. He jerked upright, his eyes snapping open. His mind, still heavy with sleep, struggled to recognize his unfamiliar surroundings.
Where in the twisted hell am I?
He took in the details around him: the stinking pile of refuse, a painfully uncomfortable doorway, beggars, lepers, and vagabonds wandering around. When he saw the House of Need in the distance, everything clicked into place.
Of course! The Beggar Priest. I followed him here.
He scrubbed at his tired eyes, stifling an errant yawn.
I can't believe I fell asleep.
Beautiful strains of singing and instruments still wafted from the nearby temple of the Beggar God, hanging in the afternoon air and soothing him.
No wonder. It's the fault of that bloody music.
He climbed to his feet with effort, his back stiff from sitting on hard stone for…could it have been hours? He squinted up at the afternoon sun. Three, four hours past midday. Good. I didn't waste too much time sleeping.
A dull ache in his head brought his thoughts into focus. Soulhunger's insistence grew louder and more painful, and the weapon quivered in its sheath. It only acted this way when its quarry was near.
The Hunter flattened himself into the darkness of a nearby doorway as the Beggar Priest emerged from the House of Need. His target still carried the covered basket under his arms, but the Hunter smelled the scent of refuse wafting from beneath the cloth.
Good, he thought, a smile touching his lips. That smell will make it very easy to follow him.
The priest chose only back streets and alleys, taking care to keep the malodorous basket away from the masses thronging to the Temple District. The Hunter slipped along behind him, staying out of sight. The priest had seen him back in Divinity Square, and the Hunter couldn't risk the man recognizing him. There was no telling what the priest would do if he realized he was being followed.
Thankfully, I don't need to see him to follow him.
Soulhunger pounded in the Hunter's mind, begging to feed. He was in no hurry to run the man down; patience would be his ally in this hunt. The blade would lead him to his quarry.
As he followed the Beggar Priest, the Hunter realized the man's path led towards the Midden. A gaping void in the heart of the city, the Midden provided Voramians with a place to throw their offal and refuse. Carters hauled scraps and garbage from around Voramis, dumping it into the eternally hungry depths.
None knew how far down the Midden went, and the histories failed to record a purpose for the hole's existence. It had simply always been.
The cavernous maw stretched for hundreds of paces in every direction. Even from where he stood, the Hunter felt the gloom radiating from the dark, bottomless pit, sending a shudder running through him. He was glad he had no need to approach the gaping void, content to watch the priest from a distance.
The priest emptied his basket into the Midden, taking care not to let the refuse touch his robes. He stooped over a nearby trough to wash his hands and splash water on his face and neck. When he straightened, he stretched his arms in the air as if to work the kinks from a strained back.
Something about the movement caused the Hunter to duck out of sight. It was the way the man's eyes darted through the empty streets, as if searching for unseen dangers. The shadows of a fallen awning provided the Hunter with cover, and he waited for the man to move.
Soulhunger whispered in the back of his mind. Glancing around the corner, the Hunter saw a flash of dirty grey disappear down the street. The weapon's insistence grew louder and more persistent as it sensed its quarry escaping.
The Hunter rushed to the intersection where the Beggar Priest had disappeared. He risked a glance at the street beyond, and relief flooded him as he saw his target. The man moved at an easy pace, seemingly unhurried and unaware that the Hunter followed him. His steps led him away from the Temple District.
Pious bastard, probably off on some new mission of mercy.
An ache in his shoulders caused the Hunter to look down at his bulging belly. It was time to lose the disguise, getting rid of the dead weight of the false paunch.
There's no need for this disguise, anyway. The priest is headed into Lower Voramis. It will be easy to stay out of sight once we leave the Temple District.
A nearby hovel caught the Hunter's attention, and he pushed through the rotting front doors. Empty.
The Hunter was greatly relieved to remove the disguise of Danther the tailor. He discarded the heavy beard, dark wig, and simple clothing. He sighed gratefully as he emptied the wool from the dark cloak that served as his bulging paunch. The cloak slipped on over the simple brown tunic he wore, hiding the weapons on his belt. The mottled garment would enable him to hide in the filth of Lower Voramis.
He had grown tired of traipsing through the streets. Not only was he forced to walk through the mud, but there was also a greater risk of being seen by his target. Instead, the Hunter decided to take to the roofs.
Sunlight filtered through large holes in the hovel's thatched roof, and the Hunter saw beautiful blue sky above. He grasped one of the roof beams and swung his body through an opening.
He loved the Voramis rooftops. The open sky above, the stench of the city far below, and none but the birds to share the space with. The scents of sunbaked tiles and withered hay filled his nostrils. The beam beneath his feet felt as if it would crack at any moment, so he leapt to the tiled roof of the next house over. Clay crunched under his weight, but the structure itself felt solid enough.
Much better. Now, Soulhunger, tell me where to go.
The weapon's voice pounded in his head, its pull guiding him in the direction of his quarry.
I can't lose him.
The Hunter leapt from rooftop to rooftop, reveling in the cooling breeze and the warming sunlight. It might have almost been peaceful had Soulhunger's voice not continuously chattered in his head.
His eyes scanned the streets below, searching for the man he hunted. There he is. Strolling as if he hasn't a care in the world.
He crouched atop a slanted roof and studied the man.
Beggar Priests wore simple grey clothing, with blue stripes around the collar to denote their rank. This cleric's robe had a single faded stripe, marking him a minor cleric in service to the Beggar God.
He appears as ordinary as any priest can be.
The priest appeared at ease, roaming around the city without an apparent destination. He stooped to help a child from the mud, giving the urchin a smile and a pat on the head as he moved on. When he encountered an old woman struggling to fill a cracked clay pot in a nearby well, the priest offered his assistance. After filling the pot, he insisted on carrying her heavy burden home.
Not for the first time today, the Hunter found himself questioning Lord Cyrannius' story.
Where would this simple priest have the opportunity to interact with anyone from the houses of the nobility, much less assault and violate one? He looks harmless; I find it hard to believe he could have done such a thing.
It wasn't the way the man looked, nor the fact that he was a priest. Piety did not preclude men from temptation. The lust of the flesh could overcome even the strongest willpower. In his years living in Voramis, he had seen the worst side of humanity. He knew what men and women were capable of when motivated by greed, anger, or fear. In his mind, every one of them deserved the death he was paid to bring.
No one is free of sin, not even that priest below.
But the priest's actions struck him as odd. The rapists and violators he had hunted tended to be violent, angry, and hateful creatures. This man showed none of those traits.
He seems to actually care about those around him.
Another thought struck him.
Don't Beggar Priests have their manhood removed? If that's true, how could he have raped that young woman?
Things just didn't fit.
Enough.
He shook the thoughts from his head. He had accepted the job. The contract would be carried out.
Deep within, he told himself, hidden well out of sight, there is something deserving of death. I am simply the hand that delivers the punishment for his sins.
Something nagged at the back of the Hunter's mind. The priest looked like an ordinary man, giving off the appearance of taking a casual stroll. Yet he moved with confidence, an inherent gracefulness. His eyes seemed to track the movement of every person he passed.
The Hunter had no time to ponder this, for the priest chose that moment to cross a busy thoroughfare. The wide street below forced the Hunter to search for a way to cross to the rooftops beyond, pulling his attention away from his quarry.
When his eyes returned to the streets below, the Beggar Priest had disappeared.
Stifling a curse, he scanned up and down the bustling avenue, but saw no sign of the man.
He can't have just vanished.
The Hunter closed his eyes, breathing deeply and letting the tension drain from his muscles. He attuned his mind with Soulhunger's insistent voice, letting instinct take over. His senses hunted the man's unique scent and the beating of his heart.
Find him, he told the blade.
For long moments, Soulhunger remained silent, as if the blade was occupied in the search for its prey. The Hunter waited, taking in the world around him. He heard the sounds of the traffic below, smelled fragrant odors of spiced meat and fresh bread. These sensations cleared his mind of thoughts that would distract Soulhunger from finding its prey.
Soulhunger jerked in its sheath, and the Hunter leapt in the direction he sensed it wanted him to go. He trusted the blade—and his own instincts—and he let them guide him across the rooftops of Lower Voramis.
Feed me, Soulhunger whispered in his mind, its resonance growing stronger with each step he took, and revel in the power I will give you.
Finally, the Hunter caught a flash of ragged grey.
I see you now, Priest!
Just then, the Beggar Priest turned a corner into a small alley and disappeared from the Hunter's sight.
A flash of worry ran through the Hunter, but he shrugged it off. He had Soulhunger. With the blade to guide him, his quarry had no hope of escaping.
The Hunter scanned the streets below. They were empty, as was common at this late afternoon hour. He dropped from the roof, landing hard on the cobbled stones below. A stab of pain flashed through his knees as he climbed to his feet, but slowly it faded.
Now let's see how a Beggar Priest meets his god.
He moved toward the mouth of the alley, his eyes alert for any sign of danger. Soulhunger and his swordbreaker hung in sheaths at his hips; within easy reach should he need them. With a deep breath, the Hunter followed his prey into the narrow lane.
Pain blossomed in his chest as he turned the corner. His mind scrambled, shouting at him to escape, but his legs refused to move. Looking down, he saw the hilt of a dagger protruding from between his ribs.
The Hunter slumped to his knees, fighting to breathe. Dark red blood spilled down the front of his tunic.
The Beggar Priest stood a few paces away, a second dagger poised for throwing. The man watched the Hunter intently, as if waiting for him to die.
Unfortunately for you, the Hunter thought, struggling to remain conscious, I'm not that easy to kill.
It took every ounce of strength he possessed, but the Hunter slowly climbed to his feet. With a jerk and a grunt of pain, the Hunter ripped the knife from his chest. He dimly heard Soulhunger's lust pounding in his mind as the blade sensed fresh blood.
"That hurt," he growled. He held the dagger up to examine it. "An excellent throw, I must admit."
The Beggar Priest gaped. The dagger in his hand remained motionless, his body frozen in disbelief.
"But you…I…" he stammered.
Confusion painted his face for a moment, then realization slowly dawned.
"Ah, of course. The Hunter." Not a question, but a statement of fact. The man showed no sign of surprise or fear upon seeing him.
"At your service," the Hunter replied, sweeping an expansive, mocking bow.
"I'm actually surprised it took the demon this long to send you after me," the priest said.
"Demon?" the Hunter asked, puzzled.
"You didn't think to ask your employer his identity?"
