Darkblade avenger, p.66
Darkblade Avenger, page 66
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
He turned on his heel and strode away, then stopped.
"Where is the way out?"
Lord Apus pointed a shaking finger at a door opposite the one through which the Hunter had entered.
Without a backward glance, the Hunter strode from the room. He climbed the spiral staircase beyond, his lungs burning not with exertion, but sorrow.
The filthy pendant and the bloodstained parchment clutched in his hand were all he had left of his friend. He tried in vain to swallow the lump in his throat. His chest felt as if someone had reached inside and crushed his heart. He would never see Bardin again.
Chapter Nine
A stray evening breeze gusted through the filthy streets around the Hunter. He pulled up his hood to block out the cold, and retreated into its welcoming shadows. The Black Manor towered behind him, its onyx walls blended with the shadowed gloom of the Forgotten Ward.
He was not surprised. Of any place in this city to find a demon, human sacrifice, and a maze of horrors, it had to be the Black Manor. He shuddered and turned his back on the forbidding structure. He would never see it again. Once he retrieved his belongings, he would be gone from Malandria, never to return.
Fatigue clouded his thoughts and filled his mind with a thick fog. He struggled against the languor that threatened to steal his consciousness. His feet, moving of their own accord, felt leaden with every step.
The demon's voice filled his thoughts, its fury palpable. “You let them live! After what they did?”
I did. I made the choice, and there is nothing you can do about it.
“You are the Hunter! You bring death, but these fools still—“
I killed the demon. It is enough. The Hunter would not be cowed by anything or anyone, not even the creature within him.
“You killed the wrong one! It was the humans who deserved death.”
Death, perhaps. But this would deliver far worse…
He still gripped Toramin's accursed dagger, his knuckles white. Crusted blood glued his fingers to the blade. Unclenching his fist sent pain shooting down his forearm.
Nausea swept through him. He could still feel the tainted power from the accursed blade, and it sickened him to his core. He had to find Soulhunger, if only to taste the pure, clean energy coursing through him.
The demon would not be put off easily. “Remember what happened the last time you ignored me?”
How could he forget? He had ignored the creature's demands to kill the Cambionari. In return for his sparing them, they had left him for dead at the bottom of the Chasm of the Lost.
Yet here I stand. Their best efforts failed. And once I have reclaimed what is rightfully mine, it will be as if we had never met.
“And yet, once again, you find yourself alone in the world.”
Fury, pain, and sorrow twisted like a knife in his stomach. He clenched his fist, crumpling the paper in his left hand.
He uncurled his fingers and stared down at the bloodied piece of parchment he had taken from Bardin.
Alone, but not empty-handed. I wonder what he discovered.
He desperately wanted to find out what Bardin had written on the paper, but he had only darkness for companion. No street lamps illuminated the Forgotten Ward. Not even the stars cast their faint light on the empty streets around him.
Reaching the Impedimenta, the Hunter ran. Only the sound of his feet pounding the cobblestone streets broke the silence of the night. His muscles burned, his head pounded, and his ruined eye itched terribly. He pushed himself harder, anger and sorrow fueling his exertions.
He wanted nothing more than to leave Malandria behind forever. He had just one task to complete. Soulhunger's voice echoed in his mind, calling to him, tugging him to the south. In his search for the dagger, he would find answers. The House of Need held many secrets. If he could not find what he sought, he would convince Visibos to tell him everything. By any means necessary. Only then could he leave the city that had caused him such grief.
The voice in his head tried to goad him once more. “You must—”
I must do nothing. The Hunter's patience had run out. I have killed for you. Now leave me in peace.
Try as he might to silence it, the demon whispered in his mind.
“For a killer like you, there is no peace.”
* * *
The towering spires of the House of Need disappeared into the darkness, but flickering torches illuminated the entrance of the temple. The sheer enormity of the complex impressed the Hunter once again. Yet he paid little heed to the awe-inspiring architecture or the opulence of the temple façade. He had a mind only for the guards.
Swallowed by the shadows of a building opposite the temple, the Hunter watched the movements of the patrols.
Same as last time I was here. They have no idea I broke in. It should be easy to get in once again.
The demon's whispers for blood were faint but insistent. It filled his mind with a vision of him hacking his way through the guards. With the dagger in his hand…
He wouldn't. His fingers traced the raw, jagged mound of flesh left by Toramin's death. Besides, in his state, he wasn't prepared for a prolonged battle.
The last time I rushed in without thinking, I nearly ended up dead.
“You are the Hunter. You are stronger than all of them!”
The demon was right. He would have little trouble with the guards; they looked to be little more than a show of force. But within the House of Need he would encounter the Cambionari. He had underestimated them before, with disastrous consequences.
No, this time, I will be more circumspect. I will be in and out before they realize I am there.
He watched and waited, studying the guards. Something felt odd. The world seemed unusually…empty. Almost as if the bustling of the city by day had been transformed to the silence of night from one moment to the next.
Then he realized what it was. In his trek across Malandria, he had heard no voices, seen no ghostly faces.
The dead have been avenged. The lament of the fallen has ceased.
He remembered the peaceful expression on Bardin's face, the pity in the phantom's eyes. Thoughts of his friend reminded him of the parchment tucked into a pocket of his cloak. He had not yet found a light to read its blood-soaked contents.
There will be time and light enough in the House of Need. No one will know I am there, so there is no rush.
Toramin's accursed dagger pulsed in his mind, and Soulhunger echoed its call. Somehow, he sensed recognition between the blades. Almost…familiarity?
An ache in his foot forced him to shift his position. Exhausted and drained, he craved rest, of both mind and body. Yet even more strongly, the desire to leave the city burned in his mind. He had fled Voramis to avoid the pain of familiar surroundings, and now Malandria held its own haunting memories. No, he would retrieve Soulhunger and be on his way. He would heed the call in his mind, the tug that warred with the dagger's demands.
Her. He would travel north to find Her.
The guards at the entrance turned their backs on him, descending the massive marble steps that led into the main Temple Complex. Now was his chance. He glided through the darkness like a ghoul—silent and unseen. His cloak, now filthy and beginning to smell, blended with the shadows.
Just one last detour, and I will be gone forever.
* * *
Finding his way into the House of Need had been easy. Now he faced a new dilemma.
How in the Keeper's name am I supposed to find this vault? I am an assassin, not a thief.
Would the vault be locked? Were the Beggar Priests vigilant within the safety of their own temple? Would he encounter any Cambionari? He wanted to take no chances.
Creeping closer to the gilded balustrade, he peered down at the floor below and stifled a curse. A handful of guards stood in the illuminated foyer, hands resting on swords hilts, eyes roaming the corridors. He had no idea if they would leave their posts to patrol the upper floor; he only knew he couldn't reach the vault that way—not without a fight. Could there be another way down?
The sound of a door opening came from somewhere nearby, sending a flash of panic through the Hunter. Heart racing, he fled through the shadows of the corridor, slipped into the library, and ducked behind a massive shelf. Footsteps approached the door, then moved on.
The scent of old books and dried ink filled the silent, darkened library—an oddly comforting smell that soothed the Hunter's ragged nerves. Cautiously, he crept toward the single lamp, his eye scanning the darkness for any signs of life. Nothing. Hands trembling with nervous excitement, he drew out the parchment. Dried blood had stiffened the paper. He gingerly unfolded and smoothed out the parchment, trying to read the words in the weak circle of light.
Bardin's lettering was imprecise and distracted. Random annotations and half-completed words dotted the page. Yet in the center of the parchment, the writing became clear and easily legible, as if his fractured mind had found clarity in translating the words hidden in the works of Karannos Taivoro, the mad playwright and First Cleric to the Illusionist.
"Illusion," the Hunter read, "is the paintbrush with which truth is concealed. Mankind claims a desire to see truth, but the gods choose to obscure it. For truth is a ravenous beast that destroys all in its path."
"Thirteen gods there once were, and thirteen there must always be. The truth of the gods, however, is a secret which could never be revealed to the world."
"The War of Gods nearly tore the world asunder, and the gods…"
Blood and water had soaked into the parchment, causing the ink to run. He scanned the page, but could only make out a handful of words.
"…place of destruction…"
"…spawn of…"
"…pleading for the…"
The rest was illegible, save for a single word scrawled at the bottom of the page.
"Khar'nath."
A vision—or was it a memory—struck the Hunter like a physical blow, and he nearly dropped the parchment.
Hands bound behind his back, his mouth tied with a gag. He knelt on hard, jagged stones, storm clouds raging over his head. Earth-shattering voices spoke words his mind could not comprehend.
She knelt beside him, leaning on him for support. Her eyes stared deep into his, fear written plain on Her beautiful face. Blood stained Her blond hair. She—
The memory ended as abruptly as it had begun. Gasping, the Hunter staggered with the force of the recollection. He caught himself on the shelf, leaning hard. His mind raced, struggling to bring up the memory once more.
What in the frozen hell was that? Where was that? Why was I there? More importantly, who is She?
He scanned the parchment once more, straining to decipher the blurred writing. Bardin had discovered something, but what, the Hunter would never know.
Toramin, you bastard! May you rot in the foulest hell!
The demon had stolen his chance to find answers. The book lay in Bardin's meager shelter, a place he had no desire to see again. Without his friend, he had little hope of deciphering whatever secrets lay hidden in its pages.
He cursed. If I cannot find answers from this book, there has to be another way.
Perhaps he could find a Cambionari and extract the truth from them. They had dedicated their lives to hunting down his kind. Any good hunter would learn about his prey. They had to have answers for him.
But he was a realist. The thought of facing Cambionari in his current condition—exhausted, one eye missing, only Toramin's stolen dagger for a weapon—gave him pause. He could take on a few guards at a time, but without Soulhunger or his body's natural ability to heal, he would be in trouble. He didn't want to think of what would happen should his presence be discovered and the alarm raised.
A stealthy step sounded behind the Hunter, accompanied by a familiar scent: dried herbs, parchment, and ink, blended with the tang of iron.
"I've got you now, you bastard!"
Chapter Ten
Instinct and speed saved the Hunter. He whirled to face his attacker, leaping backward to avoid impalement. The skin along his ribs crawled from the near contact with the iron blade in the apprentice's hand.
"Visibos," snarled the Hunter. "We meet again." The voice in his head screamed for blood.
Visibos gaped, his eyes wide. "I…you…" He blinked and shook his head. "Impossible! I saw you die!"
"You mean after you poisoned me and Sir Danna put a blade in my chest?" The Hunter's hands shook with barely-restrained rage. With effort, he fought back the demon's demands for death.
Visibos opened his mouth, but the Hunter leapt forward and smashed his fist into the apprentice's face. Visibos cried out and stumbled back, slashing wildly with the iron blade. The Hunter seized the man's wrist and squeezed, and Visibos yelped as bone crunched. The iron blade clattered to the floor. The Hunter kicked the dagger away and clamped a hand over Visibos’ open mouth.
He pressed the tip of Toramin's dagger into the apprentice's cheek, just beneath his left eye. "Make a noise, and you'll wish for death."
Visibos’ eyes widened at sight of the blade. Blood trickled down his lip. The coppery tang filled the Hunter's nostrils, blending with the apprentice's scent of ink, parchment, and dried herbs.
The demon screamed in the Hunter's thoughts. “What are you waiting for? Kill the bastard before he kills you!”
The Hunter gritted his teeth to block out the voice. "I will remove my hand," he said in a low, harsh whisper, "but if you so much as speak, I will not hesitate to run you through. Do you understand?"
Visibos gave an imperceptible nod of his head. The Hunter removed his hand from the apprentice's mouth and grasped his collar.
"Now, Visibos," he snarled, "I think it's time you take me to that vault of yours."
Sweat stood out on the apprentice's forehead despite the cool night. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but the Hunter pressed the tip of the dagger into the soft tissue of his throat. The Cambionari shut his mouth with an audible snap and nodded again, swallowing hard.
"Good." The Hunter seized Visibos’ cloak and, spinning him around, propelled him through the dark library. He walked a step behind the apprentice, his dagger pressed into Visibos’ kidneys with just enough force to ensure compliance.
"How in the twisted hell did you get in here?" Visibos whispered, but the Hunter ignored him.
When they reached the door, he twisted the collar of Visibos' priestly robes, eliciting a strangled cry from the apprentice.
"You are going to lead me to the vault, staying out of sight of any guards. We run into anyone, you act as if all is well. You raise a cry or let anyone know there is anything amiss, I kill you, then I kill them. Got it?"
"Yes," Visibos choked out. "Got it!"
"You know what this can do?" The Hunter held the blade beneath Visibos’ nose.
"Yes!" The acrid stench of fear rose from the apprentice.
"Good. I won't hesitate to use it. Now move."
The Hunter thrust Visibos into the main hall, following close behind. He released the man's collar but kept the dagger poking into his back. If the apprentice so much as sneezed, the blade would sever nerves and spine.
Visibos led the Hunter to a door at the far end of the massive hall. The Hunter winced at the creaking hinges, but thankfully the halls beyond were empty. They hugged the wall to avoid being seen by the guards on the floor below.
The roof rose high above the Hunter's head, leaving him feeling exposed in the wide open space. Too many doors let onto the hall for his comfort. He half-expected to encounter more priests at any moment. His heart thundered in nervous anticipation, only slowing when they reached the far end and slipped into a side corridor leading away from the grand central staircase.
Visibos led them through a maze of twisting, turning passageways and corridors. The Hunter paid attention to the route, trying to memorize the way out.
The apprentice hesitated at the entrance to a small staircase.
"Whatever you're thinking," the Hunter said, his voice a quiet snarl, "don't. I can see your twisted mind trying to find a way to escape or raise an alarm. That will only get you hurt or dead." He emphasized his point by pressing the dagger's tip into the bundle of nerves in the base of the apprentice's spine.
Visibos’ sharp inhalation told the Hunter he had gotten the point.
Casting an ugly glare over his shoulder, Visibos descended. He clomped down the spiral staircase, his footfalls echoing just a little too loud.
The Hunter hissed in his ear. "Quiet! Stop trying to attract attention. Do you want a fellow priest's blood on your head?"
"Why are you doing this, Hardwell—if that's even your name? Why come here? We thought you were dead. I saw you die. Why come to the one place on Einan where your true identity will be discovered?"
"I must recover what was taken from me."
"That demon blade?" Surprise filled Visibos’ voice. "Clearly you have found a replacement, so why not disappear?"
The sound of distant footfalls reached the Hunter, accompanied by the scent of temple incense.
"Silence!" He dug the dagger into Visibos’ back.
The apprentice glared at the Hunter, a hint of confusion in his eyes. The Hunter ignored him, focusing his attention on the footfalls at the bottom of the stairs. They grew louder then slowly faded away. Whoever it was must have passed the staircase.
The Hunter shoved Visibos. "Move."
The apprentice stumbled down the stairs, the Hunter in his wake.
"How much farther?"
Visibos said nothing, his expression and the hunch of his shoulders screaming defiance.
"Don't try to lie to me." The Hunter prodded the apprentice in the back with the dagger. "Just take me where I want to go, and you may live through the night."
