Darkblade avenger, p.78
Darkblade Avenger, page 78
part #1 of Hero of Darkness Series
The sound of muttered conversations reached his ears. He turned to study the wagons and carts around him, taking in the faces of the people with whom he shared the road. Who would be the next to fall beneath his blade? What soul deserving of judgment and death would find their bloody end at his hands?
Soon, but not tonight, the Hunter told the voices. If I am to kill, I must be smart about it. I will find a victim no one will miss. Someone will die, but in a way that keeps suspicion directed away from me.
The demon refused to stay silent. “Why? Why not slaughter them all and take the power these puny mortals offer?”
The Hunter knew the demon's true reason for wanting death. For every life Soulhunger ripped from a living being, the chains holding Kharna, Destroyer of the World, loosened a little more. One day, when Soulhunger claimed that final soul, the Great Destroyer would be unleashed. The Hunter had no desire to see that happen, for on that day, everything he knew and cared for would come to an end. All because he could not fight off the driving urge to kill.
The burden rested heavy on his shoulders. It was what drew him ever northward, what had forced him to join the caravan. He had to cross the Advanat Desert, for somewhere beyond it he would find answers about his past. His past could hold the answers to his future. And there he would find the truth about Her.
The memory of Her face still haunted him. Golden hair framed Her soft nose, high cheekbones, and full lips. Her beautiful smile stared down at him from the darkened sky every night. And, as he closed his eyes to sleep, he saw Her face contort into a mask of rage. Every night, just as the deep embrace of slumber claimed him for its own, he saw that flashing blade plunge toward his chest.
A chill coursed through him despite the heat of the night. Everything he thought he knew about Her changed since he had unlocked that memory. Now, even as he traveled in the direction in which She lay, he dreaded the final encounter. Yet still he had to go. Something within compelled him, a force too strong to resist. He had to find Her, no matter what.
A whiff of lavender drifted on the evening breeze. "Beautiful night, isn't it?" Kellen's voice cut into his thoughts.
The Hunter looked up to see the young man riding beside him. "Indeed," he grunted.
They rode in silence for a minute, the Hunter pointedly ignoring Kellen's scrutiny.
Kellen tried again. "So, Hardwell, tell me about yourself."
"Not much to tell." The Hunter had no desire to engage any more than necessary. "Traveling north is all."
"And the boy?" Kellen thrust his chin toward the covered wagon. "He yours?"
"Something like that."
Kellen grinned. "Not too chatty, are you?"
The Hunter grunted in reply.
"You and Graden will make a beautiful pair."
The Hunter said nothing, content to ride in silence.
"He'll be safe, you know."
Kellen's words surprised the Hunter. He turned to stare at the young man.
"Your Hailen." Kellen indicated the wagon again. "If he's with Natania, the healer's wife. She's good with the little'uns."
The Hunter nodded.
"If it puts you at ease, I heard Sirkar Jeroen tell Graden to keep you close to the wagons for the next few days. You'll be close to the lad for most of the day, save for when we make camp."
"I'll be certain to give him my thanks when next we rest. When is that, by the way?"
"Already growing tired, Hardwell?" Kellen gave the Hunter a mocking grin. "The great warrior, saddle sore after an hour."
The Hunter shook his head. "Just curious, is all."
"We ride through the night and most of tomorrow," Kellen replied.
"Travel at night?" the Hunter asked. "Why not leave come morning? Why risk tiring the men and beasts?"
An odd expression crossed Kellen's face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, snapped it shut, and swallowed. "The master wants to put good distance between us and Azmaria." He shrugged, a gesture of forced nonchalance.
"Fair enough." The Hunter nodded, and the two lapsed into silence.
“He's hiding something.”
The Hunter looked askance at Kellen riding beside him. Of course he is. And doing a piss-poor job of it.
The young man mumbled something about needing to check on the wagons and kicked his horse into a trot.
The Hunter stifled a snort. At least I'll be riding with the wagons for a while. He'd be close enough to keep an eye on Hailen, keep him out of trouble. But proximity to Hailen would mean a whole different sort of mess.
The Hunter couldn't let anyone see what happened to the boy's hands upon contact with him. He'd had to remove the bloodstained bandages, and a pair of gloves couldn't be the solution, not in this desert heat. They would only draw more attention. No, his only recourse was to avoid touching Hailen. How could he explain that he wasn't hurting the boy, that it was just Hailen's body reacting to his presence? No one would understand.
His problems with the boy didn't end there. He had no idea how to comfort Hailen when he cried or control him when he acted out. And, given the horrors witnessed in the House of Need, the Hunter had no doubt the boy would act out sooner or later.
No child can walk away from that unscathed. Not even one as innocent and naïve as Hailen.
That was another problem. Hailen would treat total strangers like old friends. The boy had walked up to him in Malandria, ignored the weapons in his hand, and smiled at him. At him, the Hunter, the man who had just killed Lord Knight Moradiss!
He is definitely touched by the Illusionist. No normal child would step over the lifeless body of his protector like that. It was as if he couldn't grasp the concept of the knight and Father Pietus' deaths.
The Hunter feared for Hailen's life every moment of every day. He never knew who the boy would talk to next or what sort of trouble he would find himself in. What he did know was the horrible things that happened to young boys—and young girls—in the wrong places. He'd seen it for himself in The Arms of Heaven and Voramis’ less reputable brothels. He couldn't imagine Hailen—trusting, happy, friendly Hailen—dragged away because he spoke to the wrong person or walked down the wrong street. Though he'd tried to explain it to the boy, Hailen didn't seem to understand. It seemed the idea such dangers existed didn't fit in his world.
But the Hunter couldn't constantly be there to protect the boy. He had duties to the caravan, and his quest for answers into his past had and would lead him to places too dangerous for the boy. He couldn't remain near Hailen for long, but he couldn't stay away. He was in an impossible situation, one that wouldn't grow easier any time soon.
A knot formed in the Hunter's shoulders, and he hunched over the horn of the saddle. He'd never felt like this before, torn between two instincts. One screamed at him to kill everything and everyone around him, the other insisted that he protect the innocent lad that had fallen into his care, if only to retain a grip on his sanity.
The burden on his soul, the one that had begun the night he found Farida dying by the side of the Midden, grew heavier with each passing day.
Chapter Seven
"Still awake, eh? Not the first night spent in the saddle, I'd wager."
The Hunter studied Kellen through bleary eyes, yawned, and stretched. Hours of riding and only now the first rays of the sun peered over the eastern horizon.
Kellen handed the Hunter a wineskin. "Nysl's best travel vintage."
The Hunter took a gulp and grimaced at the acrid wine. "Keeper's taint! Tastes like rat piss."
"That it does." Kellen nodded, grinning. "But better than drinking water that spent a day sloshing around in the desert heat."
The Hunter snorted. "Not by much." He passed the skin back to the young man.
Kellen thrust his chin toward the head of the column. "The Sirkar sent me. He wants to talk to you."
The Hunter glanced at the covered wagon. Hailen would sleep for at least an hour longer.
"He'll be fine, Hardwell," Kellen said, interpreting the gesture. "I told you last night, Natania can handle it."
The Hunter wasn't certain of that, but what choice did he have?
"Where is the Sirkar?"
Kellen gestured lazily. "Riding his wagon, a few back from the lead mounts."
The Hunter nodded and spurred Elivast forward. The beast, hardly tired after the slow pace of the night, trotted past the wagons, only too glad to stretch its legs
The Hunter closed his eyes as a cool breeze wafted over his face, whipped at his cloak, and pulled back his hood. The first rays of the morning sun caressed him, warming him and driving away the melancholy of night.
I could get used to this.
After weeks of traveling with Hailen, riding felt like second nature. He remembered the discomfort he'd felt when first leaving Voramis. It all seemed so long ago. Here he was, traveling north in search of his past—and his future.
He pinched his nose as the demon's wordless shrieking set his head aching. He almost wished for the mocking derision of the previous day; anything was better than the incessant screams.
Today's going to be another long one.
The Hunter reined in Elivast as he approached the wagon that could only belong to the master of the caravan. The four horses yoked to the wagon looked worth their weight in silver—a strong, dependable, placid breed, capable of pulling immense loads and trotting at a rapid gait if necessary. A polished and lacquered wooden housing sat atop a metal frame, and the heavy, iron-rimmed wooden wheels rolled over the rutted road with ease. The caravan master sat in the driver's place on a cushion of thick padding.
"She's a beauty, isn't she?" Sirkar Jeroen's face filled with pride.
The Hunter nodded. "Indeed. Worth quite the fortune, I don't doubt." Something about the steel bands that reinforced the wooden frame told the Hunter that this was where the truly valuable items were stored.
"Worth every copper bit!" Sirkar Jeroen smiled. Wrinkles appeared at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and bright teeth showed through the dark beard.
"You wanted to speak with me, sir?"
"Yes, so I did." The Sirkar nodded and stroked his beard with one hand. In the other, he held the wagon's reins in a loose grip. He studied the Hunter from the corner of his eyes. "Kellen tells me you were wondering about our late night departure."
"Aye, sir." The Hunter nodded. "From my experience, travel is mostly done during the day, unless…" He trailed off pointedly.
"Unless?" Sirkar Jeroen raised an eyebrow.
The Hunter met his gaze without hesitation. "Unless one has something to hide, sir."
Sirkar Jeroen's face hardened. "And if there was something to hide, Hardwell, what business of yours is that?"
"None at all, sir." The Hunter shrugged. "It was just an observation. And, if I am to do my job of protecting this caravan, I like to have all the necessary information. Know what I'm to be protecting and who to protect it from."
Sirkar Jeroen stared at the Hunter with an indecipherable expression. "Smart man, Hardwell. Be careful you are not too smart, eh?"
The Hunter said nothing.
The caravan master's face hardened again and he dropped his voice. "What did I tell you about doing your duty and keeping your mouth shut, Hardwell? Can you do that?"
The Hunter nodded.
"Good." Sirkar Jeroen's face relaxed. "If there's something you need to know—if, mind you—I'll tell you once I’m certain I can trust you. Fair?"
"Yes, sir."
Sirkar Jeroen's smile returned. "Well, then, Hardwell, I won't keep you from your duties."
"I'm off duty, Sirkar. Kellen took the lead."
The caravan master nodded. "Fair enough. That will be all, Hardwell."
Irked at the dismissal, the Hunter turned Elivast toward the rear of the caravan train. He allowed the horse to choose his own speed, content to bask in the cool of the morning. The sound of songbirds reached his ears, though the rumbling of oxen, the creaking of wagons, and rattling of wheels threatened to drown it out. He covered his face with his cloak against the dust kicked up by the passage of so many feet and carts.
As he approached the covered wagon, Hailen's piping voice rang out, bringing a smile to his lips at the sound. The screeching in his head retreated, his headache along with it.
Hailen peered out the front of the wagon and waved a chubby hand. "Hardwell!"
"Did you sleep well, Hailen?"
The boy's face, still red and wrinkled from sleep, broke into a smile. "Oh, yes, Hardwell. It was wonderful!" He looked around him, his eyes brimming with wonder. "Me and Eileen were awake all night long, watching the stars in the sky. Did you know there are more stars than people in Azmaria? Miss Natania said that…"
The Hunter stopped listening after a few minutes. Hailen hardly stopped to take a breath, but rambled on and on. The Hunter encouraged him with noncommittal grunts and the occasional "Oh, yes?" It was enough to be in the boy's presence, if only to find peace from the voices.
"Well, goodbye, Hardwell! Miss Natania is calling me for breakfast."
The words registered in the Hunter's mind and he looked up at the boy. "Very well, Hailen. Have fun, and let me know if you need anything."
"I will!" Hailen's smile grew even larger. "Miss Natania said that Eileen and I would…"
A hand reached out from within the covered wagon and tugged at Hailen's sleeve. Without a backward glance for the Hunter, the boy disappeared from sight.
Keeper's teats! How the lad loves to talk.
Hailen was touched by the Illusionist, no doubt about it. He had traipsed through a pool of Cambionari blood, watched the priest who'd tutored and cared for him die at the Hunter's hands, and witnessed the death of a demon. Yet, in the weeks since leaving Malandria, it was as if his mind sloughed off the memories of the traumatic events. In fact, he was happier and more carefree than the other children they'd encountered on their travels.
Just one more sign he's not quite right. Even he, whose interaction with children had been limited to the time he spent with Farida, knew Hailen was abnormal.
The boy's interest in others bordered on the unnatural, and naïve innocence counted among the symptoms of whatever malady or madness plagued him. It was as if he was incapable of comprehending that someone would want to harm him. The Illusionist's touch on the boy's mind placed him in perpetual danger from threats he would never understand or expect.
The Hunter fell into place beside the wagon, and his hand instinctively dropped to the sword at his belt. A plain, utilitarian blade, it lacked the craftsmanship of the sword he had lost to the Beggar Priests in Malandria, but the simplicity of the steel befitted a traveling sword-for-hire. He'd spent long hours in practice on the road north, adjusting to the change in weight and reach. It served him well enough.
No weapon could ever replace Soulhunger. A hidden sheath at his belt hid the dagger beneath his cloak, yet still within easy reach should he need it. The blade's voice echoed in his mind, leering, cajoling, begging to feed.
He touched the rolled-up blanket tied behind his saddle, and his skin prickled at the presence of the Swordsman's iron blades. The pain felt oddly comforting. It reminded him that demons—those hidden throughout Einan and the one in his mind—could be killed.
The shrieking fell silent, and the demon's voice grew coherent. “Why? What impels you on your quest to eliminate your kind from Einan?”
Why did he hunt down the Abiarazi, the demons hiding among humanity? They were among the few that hadn't shunned him once they learned the truth about who he was—what he was.
“They are the only ones who will accept you.”
No, that couldn't be true. Hailen had shown no sign of fear, and Bardin had invited him into the pitiful shelter he called home back in Malandria. Father Reverentus, head Beggar Priest in Voramis, and Celicia, Fourth of the Bloody Hand, had seen beyond the assassin and half-demon. Even Sir Danna, the Cambionari knight he had met on the road to Malandria, had glimpsed good in him.
“Before she put a dagger in your chest, of course.”
The Hunter ground his teeth. The demon never failed to remind him of what had happened when Sir Danna and Visibos, her apprentice, discovered the truth. He'd ignored the demon's demands to kill the Beggar Priests and nearly died because of it.
Einan would be better off without the Abiarazi. And the Bucelarii, perhaps. I do what I must to protect Hailen and those like him.
Movement at the front of the covered wagon drew the Hunter's attention. A woman poked her head out from beneath the canopy and turned to him. Long red hair flowed free, framing her pale, freckled face in a bright vermillion that enhanced her beauty. Natania, the healer Ayden's wife.
"Here," she said, extending a small bundle toward him. "Your boy worried you might be hungry."
He swallowed to stifle his body's reaction to her presence, her scent of wildflowers and fresh rain, the way her full figure lent elegance to her modest gown. He'd gone too long without companionship. Too many kills with no release; he would have to remedy that soon.
"Thanks." With a nod, he took the bundle. Her smile widened for a moment, then she disappeared into the caravan in a flurry of colorful cloth and blazing hair.
The bundle contained a small portion of day-old bread, cured meat, and pungent cheese that filled the air with its delightful aroma. A handful of nuts and grapes lay scattered within.
The Hunter dug into the food with relish. He had nibbled at a few cakes last night, but worry had stolen his appetite. Now, after a night in the saddle, he was glad for something to eat.
"I see you've met my wife."
A strong, clear voice rang out beside the Hunter. Looking up, he found himself staring into eyes as green as the Maiden's Fields in Voramis. The man's pale skin matched his wife's, but his hair was a shade of brown dark enough to be nearly black. He had strong features, with angular cheekbones, a broad nose, and a solid chin.
"You'd be Ayden, then? The healer."
