Darkblade avenger, p.17
Darkblade Avenger, page 17
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
His body warred with fatigue and pain. He desperately wanted to sit, to lie down, to sleep, but the shackles were too short. He could only stand, forcing his exhausted legs to hold him upright. His head lolled on his shoulders. His mouth begged for water. Pain flashed through him at even the slightest movement, but he felt his body slowly knitting together. He managed to find a somewhat comfortable position with his back against the cold stone wall. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes from sheer exhaustion.
This is almost a worse form of torture. Alone in the dark, hungry, and parched. Nothing but the beating of my heart for company.
The darkness taunted him, holding out sleep before him yet ever pulling it away when he was on the verge of dozing. The pain in his arms, legs, chest, and head kept him from rest. He drifted in and out of a numb, unseeing haze, his world filled with nothing.
* * *
"Wake up, Hunter!"
Water splashed across his face and chest, shocking him with its chill. A hard slap snapped him into full consciousness. He opened his eyes and immediately regretted it. Torches flickered around him, casting dim light around the room.
He guessed he must have fallen asleep, though he felt as if he had been awake for weeks. His head throbbed, his eyes felt heavy, and every muscle in his body ached. The air in the cell was dusty, pressing in on him.
What in the frozen hell?
Jerking his arms, he found himself once again restrained by thick chains. His eyes traced their length to the ring set into the stone wall.
I’m no longer in the Hole. But this place feels all too familiar, he thought.
"We meet at last, Hunter."
Blinking away tears, the Hunter forced his eyes to focus on the source of the voice. The man before him stood below average height, with a slim physique and hands that had never seen a hard day's work. His nasal voice grated on the Hunter's ears. His slicked-back hair shone with enough wax to fill a candle mold. A hooked nose protruded above thin lips, and his eyes stared at the Hunter with a fierce, burning intelligence.
The man's scent filled the Hunter's nostrils.
Parchment, ink, and mold, with a hint of something else. He couldn't quite identify the scent, though it was familiar.
"I have heard much about you," the man said, his voice calm and polite, "but I scarcely dared hope we would meet—at least not without you coming after my head."
"I…am…at a disadvantage," said the Hunter, his tongue thick with thirst. "I…don't…know you." After what seemed like an eternity in his silent world, his voice sounded odd, and his dried-up mouth made speaking difficult.
"My, you must be parched," the man said, seeing the Hunter attempting to lick his dry lips. "If you will allow me." He strode over to a small table on the side of the room, upon which lay a covered tray, a loaf of bread, and a pitcher and cup. Filling the cup, he brought it to the Hunter.
"Here you are," the slim man said, tipping it forward.
The Hunter gasped at the sensation of the fresh, clean liquid trickling down his throat.
"Much better," the man smiled up at him. "Would you like some food?"
At the Hunter's eager nod, the man ripped a chunk from the loaf.
"Good," said the man, smiling as he watched the Hunter devour the morsel. "Now, where are my manners? My name is Lord Jahel, though most in the city know me as Chief Justiciar." He bowed with a flourish.
The Right Hand of the Watcher. A sinking feeling rose in the pit of the Hunter's stomach.
The Voramis underworld whispered the name of Lord Jahel with fearful voices. As Chief Justiciar, he maintained law and order in the city—by whatever means necessary. He was commander of the Heresiarchs, and his word was law in the courts of the Justiciars. Criminals endeavored to escape the notice of the peacekeepers; those who attracted the attention of Lord Jahel and his minions simply disappeared.
This is one of the most feared men in the city? The Hunter stared at the slight figure. Not much to look at. Hard to believe he is the one responsible for the Dark Heresy.
It was said the Dark Heresy—the secretive shadow arm of the Heresiarchs—served as spies, intelligence gatherers, and torturers, and they answered to one man only.
"The Demon of Voramis," the Hunter said.
Lord Jahel's face creased into a pleased smile. "Yes, that is one of the names I have been given, and to tell you the truth, I quite like it. It has a certain gravity to it, don't you think?" When the Hunter said nothing, the man shrugged. "Fair enough. You may call me by whatever name you wish, but Lord Jahel will suffice for our conversation tonight."
"Conversation?" The Hunter raised an eyebrow.
"Oh yes, Hunter," the man replied. "While you are in my keeping, I would learn more about you. You have always interested me."
His eyes roamed the Hunter's muscled body, his long, dark hair, his now-healed and unblemished face, and pitch black eyes. A slender finger traced the scars marking the Hunter's back and chest, sending a shudder of revulsion through the Hunter.
"I must say," Lord Jahel continued after a moment of silence, "you are a fascinating creature. The man who inspires almost as much terror as the Bloody Hand itself—or, to be immodest for a moment, the Demon of Voramis—is one to study. And study you I shall."
"So," the Hunter said, skepticism filling his voice, "you only wish to speak to me?"
"Of course not," the Chief Justiciar said, giving the Hunter a wry smile. "There will be much more involved. After all, I will need some answers from you before I throw you back into the Hole."
"You may not extract the information you seek as easily as you expect."
"Ah," Lord Jahel said with a knowing smile, "you must have experienced the tender ministrations of the Second firsthand. Pardon the pun." He giggled at his own joke.
The Hunter stared at Lord Jahel, unsure of what to make of the man. What an odd creature, he thought.
Lord Jahel's face grew somber. "I assure you, Hunter, the worst is yet to come. The Second may be something of an expert in the art of pain, but I have at my disposal men who would make him look like a child with a hammer." He spoke in a conspiratorial voice. "I myself studied under the Masters of Agony, and one of the Grand Masters has taken up residence here in the city upon my request. He can perform on the human body with the skill of a virtuoso. The things he can do…"
The man's voice trailed off, and he seemed lost in his imagination for a minute.
"So," the Hunter said, "I can expect only torture and pain before a swift death?"
His words seemed to snap Lord Jahel from his private thoughts. "A swift death, you say?" The man looked surprised. "Oh, no, good Hunter. The Grand Master will take you beyond death, but I assure you he will bring you back—over and over and over again. When we are done with you, you will rot in the Hole or take your own life. I dare say, after suffering at the hands of Sha-Yun'Ti, you will be leaping into the darkness the minute your broken body has recovered enough to move."
"I see we are going to have a lot of fun," the Hunter muttered.
"That's the spirit!" Lord Jahel smiled. He moved to a small table—the single piece of furniture in the bare room—and pulled back one corner of a cloth to reveal Soulhunger.
His dagger lay unsheathed, and hope surged within the Hunter at the sight of the blade. The weapon's insistence throbbed far in the back of his mind, yet its voice seemed to change as Lord Jahel's hand hovered above it. Soulhunger sounded almost…eager.
"A marvelous weapon, this," Lord Jahel said, his voice filled with an odd longing. "I have heard much of what it can do."
"Perhaps you'd like a demonstration firsthand," the Hunter rasped.
Lord Jahel appeared mesmerized by the dagger, his fascination with its secrets written on his face. He stared at it for the space of a few heartbeats, then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he returned his attention to the Hunter.
"Well," he said, his gaze bright, a smile spreading on his face, "back to the business at hand. However, before I turn you over to Grand Master Sha-Yun'Ti, I have a few questions to ask you."
"Answer me a question first, Demon, and I will tell you anything you wish to know."
"Very well," sighed the Chief Justiciar, "what would you have of me?"
"You say you are the Chief Justiciar," the Hunter said, his words coming slowly, "and yet you do not carry out the King's Justice." Lord Jahel frowned at the Hunter's words, seeming puzzled. "The Bloody Hand turned me over to you, and yet you let their thugs walk away. How can you call yourself a man of law and order if you do not simply do away with the Hand once and for all?"
"Ah," Lord Jahel replied, comprehension dawning on his face, "I can understand the logic behind your question. After all, if I truly was the ruthless creature whispered about, why do I not simply wipe out every scum-sucking criminal in the Bloody Hand?"
The Hunter nodded.
"My good Hunter, you must understand that there is a certain necessity that demands the Hand's continued existence."
The slim noble clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room.
"In essence, without one, the other would no longer be necessary." Lord Jahel held out his hands, palms up, as if balancing a scale. "The Hand is the darkness in the city, and the Heresiarchs serve as the light of order, of justice. We of the Dark Heresy operate in the shadows between, and we only exist because of the Hand."
The Hunter remained silent, pondering Lord Jahel's words.
"The Bloody Hand is a sort of necessary evil," he explained in a patient tone. "Without the Hand, the citizens of Voramis would feel secure. They would cease depending upon the Heresiarchs and Justiciars for their continued safety, as there would be nothing threatening their peaceful way of life. They might begin to question our methods, the purpose for our very existence. The Heresiarchs—and the Dark Heresy by extension—would become the villains, the thing they promised to exterminate."
As he spoke, Lord Jahel strode over to the table. He pulled away the cloth to reveal the silver tray and its contents.
Next to Soulhunger lay a small device: a glass tube, fitted with a plunger at one end, and a long, sharp needle extending from the opposite end. The Hunter had seen the device before, used by physickers to draw blood.
His eyes roamed over the rest of the implements laid out on the tray. Some of the tools he recognized from his encounter with the Second, but many of them were new. All were sharp and wicked-looking, and judging by their appearance, they would inflict a gruesome torture indeed.
One tool in particular drew the Hunter's attention. It looked simpler, more primitive than the other items laid out on the tray. While the other implements had been polished to a bright sheen, this one was dull, showing hints of rust.
Iron. He tried to pull his eyes away from the tool, but it mesmerized him. Chills ran down his spine. His skin crawled, and icy tendrils of fear gripped his heart. How did they know?
"Have you ever wondered why Voramis has not been to war in centuries?" asked Lord Jahel, his voice snapping the Hunter from his thoughts. "Or why the city flourishes and prospers? The power of the Bloody Hand reaches no farther than the walls of the city, but the Dark Heresy's influence extends to every city on the face of Einan."
The Hunter studied the Chief Justiciar, searching for words but finding none. The urge to look at the tray of torture implements burned within him, but he fought to keep his eyes firmly fixed on Lord Jahel's face.
Lord Jahel picked up the slim metal tube, and his long, delicate fingers caressed it with care. "Now, I must beg your forgiveness," he said with a shrug and a wan smile, "but it is our custom."
The Hunter winced as the needle plunged through his skin, deep into his muscle. He felt an odd suction, and watched horrified as the glass tube filled with bright red blood—his blood. When Lord Jahel finally removed the needle, his arm throbbed from the puncture.
"Here in the Hole, we take a small sample of blood from each of the visitors passing through our humble halls. A ritual to the Watcher, you understand." He placed the device on the tray, covering it with a cloth before turning to face the Hunter once more. "I would ask you—"
Lord Jahel's words were interrupted midsentence by a dark figure slipping into the room. The man's clothing was cut in the style of the Heresiarch robes, but they were black rather than the bright crimson of the regular guard. The only sign of red—the color of the Heresiarchs—was a thin band hemming the robes.
A Dark Heresiarch, the Hunter thought.
The Chief Justiciar turned his attention to the man, who had sidled up to him and spoken in his ears. A whispered conversation ensued, their words too quiet for the Hunter to hear.
"You have your orders," Lord Jahel finally said, giving the man a commanding nod. The Dark Heresiarch saluted and slipped from the room as silently as he had entered.
"Your forgiveness, dear Hunter," said Lord Jahel, turning to face his captive once more, "but I must attend to an urgent matter. I trust you will be comfortable here for the time being. But, oh dear!" he exclaimed, raising an eyebrow, "you're bleeding. Allow me."
The Chief Justiciar removed a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dark robes. He gently dabbed at the spot where the needle had pricked the Hunter's arm, wiping away the trickle of blood.
"No sense wasting any of that blood of yours," he said, giving the Hunter a thin smile. "You'll need it all when you are visited by the Grand Master. Oh, what a treat it will be!" He accompanied his words with a delighted clap of his hands.
With careful movements, Lord Jahel draped the bloody cloth over Soulhunger.
"Now, if you will excuse me," he said, giving the Hunter a short bow, "I will return shortly." Turning, Lord Jahel strode from the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of a deadbolt shooting home echoed through the heavy wooden panels.
The Hunter was once more alone. His eyes flicked to the iron tool. I can't let them use that on me.
Panic welled up in his chest, threatening to overwhelm his rational mind. He had to break free before his captors returned. Would he have enough time?
In desperation, his eyes raced around the room, taking in its scant detail. The torches on the wall barely illuminated the large chamber, but his eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting. He took deep, calming breaths, trying to force his mind to examine his predicament with cool logic.
The padlocks on the chains looked far too strong to break, and he had neither the skill to pick locks nor the tools to attempt it. Even if his captors had carelessly left a key on the table, it lay well out of his reach.
He had only one option.
Let's see how strong these chains are.
He wasn't certain he could break the shackles, but had to try. His eyes roved over every crack and crevice in the masonry, looking for a weakness.
Something caught his eye—could it be dust? He stooped to examine the stone wall, and a smile crossed his face. Gripping the ring securing the chain to the wall, he tugged. It gave slightly.
Excellent.
He moved to the full length of his chains and pulled them taut. The thick muscles of his arms and shoulders corded, the veins in the Hunter's neck standing out as he hauled on the manacles with all his prodigious strength. His legs ached and his back arched with the effort.
Something within the wall shifted. His ears detected the sound of metal grating on stone. A determined grin split his face, and he heaved once more, throwing his willpower and every ounce of force into his arms and legs. The place where the needle had pricked his arm throbbed, but he ignored the pain.
With the eternal slowness of stone, the ring pulled free of the wall and clattered to the floor. The Hunter stumbled and fell forward, barely managing to catch himself. Without hesitation, he leapt to his feet and raced to examine the ring. Lifting it from the floor, he pushed the spike back into the masonry. It tugged loose once more with a gentle tug.
Perfect, he thought.
Moving to the door, he strained to open it, but it refused to budge. He abandoned the futile effort.
So how do I get out of here?
He had no way to break down the door, so his only choice was to wait until a guard returned.
Time to play the compliant prisoner once more.
The Hunter embedded the spike into the wall and resumed his original position—arms hanging by his side, shoulders slouched, his head drooping, and a mask of fatigue painting his face. With the patience of a hunter, he waited, adopting the demeanor of a compliant prisoner.
It seemed an eternity passed before he heard the clang of the heavy deadbolt being shot. He didn't look up as the door opened, but kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Heavy boots tramped into the room, and he knew immediately it was not the Chief Justiciar.
He raised his eyes, plastering a look of weary compliance on his face. The guard stared at him impassively, as if the Hunter was just another one of Lord Jahel's playthings. He stood nearly as tall as the Hunter, though with considerably thicker arms and neck. His hand toyed with the hilt of his sword, and his stance showed the casual ease of a man who knew which end went where. He wore the same red-trimmed black cloak as the Dark Heresiarch who had called Lord Jahel away.
"What is your name?" asked the Hunter, his voice low.
The guard said nothing, choosing to ignore him. He turned his back on the Hunter and strode to the table. The Dark Heresiarch held Soulhunger high, studying the multi-faceted gem set in its hilt in the light of the torch.
"What is your name, Heresiarch?" the Hunter repeated.
Still the guard ignored him.
"Tell me," the Hunter said, menace filling his voice, "what name shall I give the Long Keeper when he comes for you?" He coiled his body in anticipation.
The Dark Heresiarch turned to growl at the Hunter, just in time to meet the end of a chain whipping at his face--and the thick metal spike that had been set into the wall. The guard's skull collapsed beneath the force of the impact. Brain matter splattered across the table and the wall behind him. His body wobbled for a moment before slumping to the ground, blood pouring from where his nose had been.
