Bardin nodded. "Aye. The bastards grab anyone they can find on the streets. Every night, someone goes missing, never to be seen again."

  The Hunter rolled his eye. "Where do they go?"

  "The rituals…" Bardin shuddered, his eyes darting around, and he caressed the object at his neck. "They are…horrible. They drive men mad, but it's the torture that's the worst part. The screams…"

  "And you've seen these wizards?"

  Bardin looked confused. "Seen them? Oh no. No one has. Or at least no one living." He shivered and clutched his ragged cloak tighter. "But one can only imagine…"

  The Hunter stifled a snort. Sweet Mistress! All that terror, just the product of his imagination.

  Bardin must have sensed his incredulity, for the man rounded on the Hunter, eyes flashing, his face turning red. "I've already lost three friends to the Order of Midas! I'm not about to let myself become the next victim in their horrible rituals."

  Even if you have no idea that these rituals are real.

  "But in here it's safe?" The Hunter gestured to the flimsy shelter around him, stifling a derisive snort. "This will keep out the Order of Midas?"

  A few boxes, blankets, and sticks. Some protection this will be.

  Bardin smiled, with the look of a patient adult lecturing an infant. "Right you are, young Rell. The wizards only grab those out and about."

  The Hunter gave an exaggerated nod. "Very well. Then I shan't parade around the streets. I believe I'll stay in tonight."

  "Just keep your volume down," Bardin snapped. "I've got to focus on my work here."

  The man's sudden shift in mood surprised the Hunter, but he said nothing. He was growing accustomed to the man's unpredictable temperament.

  Bardin had already turned away and now fumbled beneath his blanket. He drew forth the crumpled papers, and, squinting in the fading light, began to shuffle through them. "Now, where was I?"

  The Hunter's keen ears picked up occasional snatches of Bardin's muttered nonsense.

  "…secret tunnels through the walls of the bakery…"

  "…the dogs did it, I could swear…"

  "…how did he know? It must have…"

  Bardin's mumbling faded into the background.

  The Hunter lay back, pillowing his head in his hands. He eyed the pitiful shelter, and the reality of his situation finally sank in.

  I'm staying with a Minstrel-cursed beggar, sharing a filthy blanket in some horrible hovel. How has it come to this?

  Any one of the hells would be a welcome change from his current predicament. Fire, frost, blasted winds, mind-numbing emptiness—anything was better than this misery.

  Why am I even here?

  The question played over in his mind. Shelter from the wind? He had slept in the biting cold before. Protection from the “wizards”? He snorted and rolled his eye.

  What possessed me to accept Bardin's offer to share this…cesspool?

  Bardin intrigued him. The man had nothing, yet he offered it to the Hunter willingly. How was that possible?

  The Hunter understood the desire to offer protection to others. He'd spent good coin on food, blankets, and remedies for the beggars that had shared his home in Voramis. Yet he'd had plenty to spare. Bardin had nothing but the ragged clothing on his back and the filthy shelter.

  The Hunter stared at the tattered blanket beneath him. He should hoard every small comfort, but he shares what little he has without hesitation, without question. What would possess a man to do something like that?

  What hidden agenda led Bardin to offer the Hunter shelter? The Hunter had nothing of value to steal.

  Why, why, why?

  Bardin was a puzzle, one the Hunter was determined to decipher.

  * * *

  The Hunter awoke with a jerk.

  "Where…?"

  Disoriented, he took in his unfamiliar surroundings. He lay in filth, a rotting canvas over his head, boxes and crates surrounding him. A candle flickered a few paces away, revealing a bald head and a thick beard.

  He remembered. Malandria. Bardin. He touched the patch over his left eye. He hadn't dreamed this.

  "Ah, you're up," Bardin said, without looking up. "Had me thinking you were dead, you did."

  The Hunter rubbed his eye and yawned. "What time is it?"

  "Just after sundown."

  "What?" The Hunter bolted upright.

  Bardin nodded. "A night and a day you slept, young Rell."

  The Hunter's eye widened. Was it possible? He cursed his body for its weakness. He had never slept more than a few hours at a time. He didn't need rest as normal men did. Now, however, he was reduced to the state of pathetic humanity. With mortality, came fatigue.

  And hunger. His stomach protested loudly.

  Bardin shook his head. "I thought to bring you some food and water, but the House of Need is tight-fisted in its generosity. You'll have to wait until tomorrow."

  The Hunter reached for his purse. He would buy all he needed. Then he remembered.

  Thrice-accursed Cambionari!

  Sir Danna and Visibos had taken his fortune and left him for dead. They were to blame for his condition. He had a vision of smashing Visibos’ face in with his sword, of plunging Soulhunger into Sir Danna's treacherous face. His fingers traced the marks on his chest.

  The demon pushed the blame back on the Hunter. Had he heeded its warnings…

  The Hunter clenched his fists. We cannot alter the past! All we can do is find a way to change the future.

  A gentle throbbing echoed in the back of his head.

  Soulhunger.

  He remembered why he had come to Malandria. He had followed the blade here, and nothing would stop him from retrieving it. He could not live like this. His frailty frustrated him no end. He had to recover Soulhunger.

  Or did he? Did he really need the blade, or did it simply need him?

  He pushed the thought aside. He would not dwell on it, not with the blade so close at hand. Perhaps he would have time to consider the question once he had recovered what the Beggar Priests had stolen from him.

  The Hunter maneuvered toward the entrance of the shelter, trying not to dislodge anything or bring down the frail construction.

  "Can't go out! You have to stay inside after dark!"

  Bardin's cry startled him. The bald man's eyes were wide, and he clutched the object at his neck.

  "Easy, Bardin. I just have to relieve myself. I'll be back in a minute."

  Pushing aside the threadbare canvas entrance, the Hunter stepped into the darkness beyond.

  "Beware!" Bardin's voice followed him. "Beware the wizards!"

  Wizards! What a hare-brained notion.

  The Hunter shook his head. Hadn't he read somewhere that the last true wizard had died out millennia ago?

  But they had said the same about demons. Could there be truth in the rumors?

  His inner demon had nothing to add.

  That's what I thought. So, there are no wizards, but we have a much more real problem to deal with.

  Cambionari. His inner demon filled his mind with its shrieks.

  Somehow he had to find Soulhunger without the demon-hunting priests of the Beggar God finding him first. How he would do that, he had no clue.

  The demon had its own ideas. It begged for death, whispering of power. Once he found Soulhunger, he could simply carve his way through the ranks of—

  No! The Hunter fought the demanding voice. We tried that in Voramis, and look how that turned out. Precision and planning, rather than brute force, will help us recover Soulhunger and the Swordsman's blades.

  Rage filled his mind. The demon cursed the iron blades. He would be better off without them.

  The Hunter shook his head. Yet retrieve them we shall. In our search for Soulhunger and our gold, we can find the blades and be gone before we are discovered.

  A nagging thought plagued him. How many Cambionari resided within the House of Need? He doubted he could stand against a well-trained, well-armed opponent in his current condition.

  The smarter choice is stealth. Slip in, take back what is mine, and slip out undetected. Once I have recovered Soulhunger, we will be on our way.

  The priests would hunt him down, would seek to kill him. His only hope lay in killing them first.

  Then let them try! Their deaths will be on their heads, but I will not seek out battle.

  “Coward!”

  The Hunter clenched his fists. Call me what you will, Demon. It makes no difference. I kill when I decide.

  “And what of the Bloody Hand? You didn't hesitate to butcher every last one of them, yet you hold back for the priests that have hunted your kind to extinction?”

  He had no rational justification, no answer to satisfy the demon. Irritated, he stomped toward the mouth of the alley. Mocking laughter echoed in his mind.

  Something squelched underfoot, and water—please be water!—flooded his boots. With a shudder, the Hunter wended his way through the mess of hovels cluttering the alley.

  From the House of Need, he had followed Bardin north, following the main avenue before ducking into a narrow back lane. Hundreds of makeshift shacks stood in the shadows of dilapidated buildings. The moon had not yet risen, and in the darkness of the alley, the shelters seemed even more pathetic.

  The Hunter wended his way through the shanty town as quickly as he could, stepping with caution to avoid more puddles.

  He took a deep breath. The smells of animal refuse, spices, and unwashed humans hung thick in the night air. The mixture felt oddly…comforting. After weeks spent alone on the road, the odors of the city reminded him of Voramis—of home.

  Few people passed him on the streets. They spared him a quick glance and a look of disgust before hurrying past, terror painting their faces. It felt odd to walk through empty streets. Much of Voramis had only come to life after nightfall. In Malandria, avenues that saw heavy traffic during the day stood silent and empty in the darkness.

  It seems the fear of these wizards is strong. How can people be foolish enough to believe they exist?

  He pulled the hood of his tattered robe over his head, the dark cloak rendering him all but invisible in the lengthening shadows of evening. Instinct alone as a guide, he retraced his steps to the House of Need.

  As he walked, he mulled over the problem of how to retrieve Soulhunger. The guard at the Beggar Temple had stopped him before he had reached the bottom of the steps, and he guessed the watch would be doubled at night.

  He found it odd to encounter armed men at the House of Need. The thought of the man in shining white armor standing in the mud outside of the decrepit temple in Voramis brought a smile to his lips.

  Guards or no guards, I have to find a way in.

  But he had no reason to hurry. A night and day of rest had done him good. He felt stronger than he had in a long, long time.

  He grimaced as he caught a whiff of his own scent: the reek of dried sweat, dust, clothing worn for far too long, and the stench of the shanty town.

  Before I can find a way into the temple, I have to get out of these foul clothes! Even if the guards don't see me, they'd smell me from a league away.

  But where to find clothes at such a late hour, and not a coin to his name?

  The towering mansions bordering the main avenue drew his eye, and he smiled.

  Perfect.

  Chapter Five

  The Hunter tugged on the hem of the stolen tunic. Sweet Mistress! Could this be any more uncomfortable?

  The seat of his britches sagged, the belt wrapping around his waist twice. The voluminous midsection of the shirt hung nearly to his knees, but his shoulders strained against the seams.

  The previous owner must have been one pear-shaped bastard.

  The only saving grace was the boots. Soft-soled, made with supple leather, they fit as if made for his feet. He hardly felt his blisters.

  Shrouded in a dark cloak—purloined along with the other items—the Hunter slipped through the streets of Malandria without a sound. Water dripped from his hair, soaking the cloak, but he ignored it.

  By the Bright Lady, it is wonderful to be clean! He flicked a bit of hay from his arm. Now, if I can only forget that I just bathed in a blasted horse trough.

  The arid land between the Chasm of the Lost and Malandria had been devoid of rivers and streams. He couldn't remember the last time he had washed. One of the first days out of Voramis, no doubt.

  He hadn't felt this good in weeks. While not gone entirely, the aches and pains of the road had faded.

  Nothing moved on the street in front of the temple. He took up a vantage point in the shadows of a building facing the temple and studied the massive complex.

  The white walls of the House of Need all but shone in the weak starlight. The massive structure—so imposing and magnificent in the light of day—looked dull and muted in the darkness. It radiated a grim, sinister aura that sent an involuntary shudder down the Hunter's spine.

  Now, how in the Keeper's name am I going to get in there?

  He dashed across the empty plaza and flattened himself against the nearest pillar. A glance down the stairs revealed hundreds of torches and lanterns shining in the garden, lining the staircase, and illuminating the entrance to the House of Need. Guards stood in neat rows along the main paths, their stances rigid and alert.

  The Hunter mouthed a silent curse. This isn't going to be as easy as I'd like.

  The demon filled his head with visions of him carving his way through the guards. Warriors fell before him like wheat beneath a scythe. Oh, the glorious carnage he wreaked, power flooding him with each imagined death.

  He shuddered. No! Not like this. Not without Soulhunger.

  With one eye and no weapon, he would be outmatched and outnumbered. His body hadn't healed from injuries incurred weeks ago. What chance did he have against armed guards?

  Hidden in the shadow of the column, the Hunter studied the layout of the gardens below. The torch and lantern light was concentrated at the heart of the gardens, and most of the guards stood watch along the center avenue leading up to the House of Need's main entrance. Only a few men strode along the outer walls of the complex. Bushes, trees, and shrubs lined the wall, scattering the already faint illumination.

  Heart racing, the Hunter glided from pillar to pillar. He kept a wary eye on the guards in the garden below, but none turned toward him. Between the darkness of the moonless night and the deep grey of his cloak, he was all but invisible.

  A patrol tromped past, and the Hunter flattened himself against a column. A drop of sweat trickled down his forehead, stinging his injured eye.

  Master's stones, it seems forever since I've done something like this!

  How long had it been since he left Voramis? Two months? Three?

  He waited until the clattering of armor faded before slithering down the steps, hugging the outer wall. His soft leather boots made not a sound, and the gentle breeze obscured the rustling of his cloak. A quick dash and he slipped into the shadow of the wall.

  A smile touched his lips. I had forgotten how much fun it can be.

  He crouched in the shadow of a bush. A sweet, clean scent wafted from the blooming flowers, bringing with it the memory of a face.

  Farida.

  He blinked, shaking his head to dispel the apparition. Farida's face faded, but another replaced it—this one a young boy. The lad, no older than Farida had been, stared up at him with wide eyes, mouth agape.

  Not now!

  The Hunter wanted to cry out, to scream, anything to drive the vision away, but he could not. He dropped to his knees and pressed his hands to his head.

  Leave me alone! Please, leave me in peace.

  The fallen lament. In the silence of the garden, the voice in his mind echoed with the force of a thunderclap. You are the only testament to their existence.

  His stomach lurched and heaved. A lump formed in his throat, and his breath came in ragged gasps. His head felt as if it would explode.

  Take them away! He bit his lip to keep from crying out.

  You will bear witness, the voice whispered. One way or another.

  Then it was gone. The pain in his head slowly faded.

  A bead of sweat rolled down his spine, and he shivered. Had the air grown so cold so quickly? He climbed to his feet, his knees unsteady.

  Keeper, take these accursed apparitions!

  He had thought them the product of his imagination, brought on by the fatigue of travel. But they remained even after a night of rest.

  Why in the blasted hell do they keep coming to me? He had asked himself that question hundreds of times in the last weeks.

  Anger and frustration mounting, he slipped through the shadows along the outer wall of the temple complex. His progress seemed agonizingly slow, but he could move no faster for fear of being noticed.

  Curses!

  Four armored guards stood before the main entrance to the House of Need. A dozen more patrolled around the temple perimeter.

  Not that way.

  He ran his hands along the surface of the wall behind him. His finger slipped easily into a crack in the wall, and an uneven stone provided a foothold.

  Perfect.

  * * *

  The Hunter closed and latched the second-floor window without a sound.

  The foolish priests fail to guard their upper levels. All too easy to slip in.

  Lanterns cast dim light around the room. A sweet scent rose from a floral centerpiece on one of the tables. Desks, chairs, and sofas dotted the chamber, hinting at a sitting space of some sort.

  These priests lead quite cushy lives.

  The door at the far end of the room opened into a short hallway, equally silent and empty. Tapestries, paintings, and portraits hung from the walls, and thick carpet covered the floors—a luxury the Hunter had only seen in the mansions of the truly wealthy Voramians.

  Nothing like the sparse interior of the House of Need in Voramis. So much empty, wasted space!

  Dim lantern light cast eerie shadows through the corridor. The silence of the temple pressed in on him, making him uneasy.

  A royal palace for a gaggle of priests—priests of the Beggar God no less! Beggars, my arse.

 

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