The Hunter's Gambit

by Nicholas McIntire

  "We’re near enough." Bael barked into the silence of his tent. The physician slipped with his needle and immediately began to apologize. Bael listened to man go on for several minutes before he understood that this simpleton was begging for his life.

  “Finish your job.”

  As the man returned to his work, Bael was surprised to find that he felt some small level of compassion for the man. He was doing his duty, terrified that even the simplest slip could be his last.

  Bael had spent his life in the shadow of fear, yet now he was beyond its grasp. He had no desire to punish those beneath him for the crime of their existence. He was not a cruel man, not given to anger without just cause.

  This man is nothing to you. When he has finished his task, feed him to Us. We want to taste his desperation.

  Bael felt the gentle prick of the needle as it slipped through his skin, felt the taut gut pull his desiccated flesh back together where Aleksei Drago’s blade had sundered it.

  No. he responded.

  Pain seared through his core, but Bael ignored it, just as his father had trained him. He felt the throb of the Presence batter his bones, but Bael remained firm, even as the physician finished his last shaking stitches. The man knotted the gut and severed the line.

  “Thank you.” Bael said simply, offering the man a smile.

  The man bowed deeply, “I am at your command, Lord Bael.” He turned to make a hasty retreat, but paused at the tent flap. “Lord Bael,” he said nervously, keeping his be-speckled eyes trained on the tent’s carpeted floor, “while I have leant my services to our one true King, his Majesty Emelian Krasik, long may he reign, I am a mortician by trade.”

  “And?” Bael asked, allowing the silence to fester.

  “And, Lord Bael, I am most skilled at joining dead flesh without leaving obvious scars. If you believe you’ll require such…services in the future, I am at your disposal.”

  Bael was startled by the man’s words. Looking back, he supposed that such a man would have seen his share of flesh, living and dead. But more than that, he was impressed by the man’s gumption.

  “I like you.” he said finally. “What’s you name?”

  “Master Chappa, Your Grace.”

  Bael smiled, “Master Chappa, I have no doubt that the Zra-Uul has more medics and physicians than can be good for any proper monarch, but you know that I am something quite different. I would gladly ask for your continued assistance with my physical upkeep. If you believe yourself worthy of the position.”

  Master Chappa bowed deeply, “It would be my greatest honor, Lord Bael. Your circumstance presents the greatest challenge, and requires the greatest discretion. I will do my utmost to please you.”

  Bael snorted, but he noticed that the man was trembling like a dead leaf in a winter gale. He stood and rested a hand on the man’s shoulder. “I have no doubt of that, Master Chappa. And if you can keep me intact, I’ll ensure you a place at the highest table when the world is broken, and forged anew.”

  When Master Chappa looked up, Bael pressed his palm against the man’s forehead.

  He felt the hand of Presence overtake him, felt the veil of the Archanium slip away as an eddy of burning yellow flared through the muscles of his arm, crawling across his fingers and searing a rune into Master Chappa’s forehead.

  While he had never seen the symbol before, he found its meaning impossible to miss. Property. Mine.

  The tent was filled with the acrid odor of burning flesh, and though Bael felt Master Chappa’s body stiffen, the man didn’t make a sound.

  “You are marked. You are mine. Serve me well, and you will have everything you desire. Fail me, and you will spend an eternity screaming for a release that will never come. Do you understand?”

  Master Chappa shuddered as Bael removed his hand. The rune flashed a vibrant yellow before seeping into the man’s forehead. “As you command, Lord Bael. Direct me, that I may do your bidding.”

  Bael offered the man a smile, “See, that was simple enough, wasn’t it? When you leave this tent, ask for a Magus called Ethan. He will know what to do with you.”

  Master Chappa left, still bowing and praising Bael until he was out of sight. Bael let out a weary sigh.

  You were kind. You could have fed.

  Bael clucked his tongue. “It’s not all about feeding. This body has to survive while you take your precious time. Our union has hardly gone unnoticed, and you demand caution, but also compel me with a thirst for the Apsis, in the heart of the serpent’s lair.

  “I’m a capable vessel, but I can’t grant you access if I’ve been hacked to bits. When I need your fire, I will make my needs known. But you were cast from this world for a thousand years. Let me be your guide, but understand that emotion is not defeat.

  “Cassian didn’t choose you, you corrupted him. It’s time you remembered that Cassian is dead and gone. I am your future, if you have one, and while you are weak you will bow when I tell you to. To defy me now is to invite oblivion. You have already killed my physical form, but this vessel must be maintained. This hunger you speak of, this endless need to feed, has brought ruin upon you once before.

  “And believe me when I tell you that I did not release you back into this world on a whim. I have gambled everything, and you will respect that, or our union is at an end.”

  For the first time in weeks, there was no harsh vibration, not violent thrum in agitated response.

  When it came, it was the rumble of a distant storm, still far from sight. The air stinks of Hunter. Of Wood. No angel stink, no Seraphima. We are closer. We can taste it. Take Us to it, and We will give you what you want.

  “Lord Captain!”

  Aleksei sat up in his chair and looked around in bewilderment. “What? Who’s there?”

  “Lord Captain!” the voice called, now much closer, “it’s the enemy, Sir. They’re preparing some sort of offensive.”

  Aleksei blinked and realized that a young Legionnaire was standing right before his desk. He muttered a curse to himself as he realized he’d fallen asleep.

  He jumped out of his chair and snatched his coat off a hook by the door. The aide who’d woken him was already waiting out in the hall. He took a moment to wipe the sleep from his eyes before joining the other man.

  As they walked towards the double doors that led from the east wing out onto the wall, Aleksei quizzed the man about their situation.

  “What are their formations?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.”

  “Does it look like a full offensive? How many men are we talking?”

  “I don’t know, Sir.” the boy repeated.

  Aleksei felt suddenly cross, “Damn it, man, what do you know?”

  “Sir, it’s the Magi. The Magi of the enemy, Sir.”

  Aleksei broke into a mad dash, out the heavy doors leading onto the wall, racing the distance before finally skidding to a halt just paces from the southern Palace gate.

  Below in the street, Aleksei could see thirteen men standing in a circle. A violent red nimbus enveloped each form, all save one. Save the man in the middle…Aleksei felt his heart constrict in his chest.

  It was Bael.

  Aleksei stared in disbelief.

  Bael was dead. Aleksei’s blade had punctured the Magus' heart.

  An image suddenly flashed through his mind. He remembered the pain of the Mantle as it recoiled. At the time he hadn’t spared a second thought for the oddity, too embroiled in the consequences.

  But now it seemed to make a strange sort of sense. The knife had punctured the other man’s heart. Aleksei’s Hunter instincts allowed him that much intelligence. And then he listened. He listened, and he understood.

  Then, just as now, there was no heartbeat.

  The man was dead. Yet as Aleksei stood there, staring at the Magus, Bael seemed very much alive.

  Alive, and wrapped in black fire.

  “Sergeant,” Aleksei barked, turning to the commander of the arch
ers standing not ten paces away, “bring me a bow.”

  The man hurried to Aleksei, handing him his own bow and quiver. Aleksei notched an arrow.

  He took aim, commanding his every instinct. His blood surged as the thrill of the hunt pounded in time with his pulse. He released the shaft into the fading daylight.

  It evaporated a pace from its target.

  Aleksei cursed.

  From the street, Bael looked up at him and smiled.

  Aleksei’s blood ran cold.

  And then he knew where he was. This was the moment Darielle had foretold. This was the decision he had to make.

  The air exploded in a storm of Demonic flame. Aleksei heard men cry out as the fire washed over the walls and crashed across them, broiling them within their armor, melting flesh to steel.

  Time slowed, and Aleksei ran.

  CHAPTER 43

  A Broken Crown

  ALEKSEI SPRINTED ACROSS the wall, dark fire soaring up behind him. As he ran, a thousand different horrors seared their way through his mind. The sight of his men burning in liquid fire, the storm of their screams. The pleading looks in their eyes as he abandoned them to the roiling dark, the breathless heat that inhaled their fragile lives like dry grass swept up in a conflagration.

  Hatred boiled in his blood. Hatred for Perron, for Krasik, for Bael for summoning such atrocities. And hatred for himself for being powerless to stop it.

  Tears stung his eyes as he ran. It was all he could do to keep moving, not to turn and pull their helpless bodies from the black flames, even as anguished faces vanished in whorls of char and spark. But any delay would only ensnare him in Bael’s trap.

  So he kept running, loathing himself more with each footfall. His men had promised to follow him to their deaths, but what of his oaths? What of his promises to lead them to victory, to keep them safe from the terrors that even now blackened their living flesh from bone?

  His every step betrayed them, and he felt it as keenly as though it was branded into his flesh.

  As Aleksei reached the heavy ironbound doors that led into the Palace, he kicked out fiercely, tearing one of the doors off its hinges.

  Even as Bael’s Demon flames ravaged his men on the wall, he could feel the flood of heartbeats pouring into the Palace from below as Perron’s men overran his barricades. Any moment now the Palace was going to become a very dangerous place. But before that happened, he had duties to carry out.

  The Lord Captain charged through empty hallways, turning here and there as he adjusted his position through the east wing of the Palace. It suddenly seemed as though place was built like a maze.

  He stumbled into the eastern atrium, even as Krasik’s soldiers were swarming up the grand staircase. Aleksei drew his sword. He could feel the Mantle pulse across his shoulders, itching to consume the lives of the men rushing towards him, burning with hunger.

  A Fist of men saw him and charged to intercept him. Aleksei charged straight at them. There would be no more running this day. He wanted retribution for the horrors Bael had unleashed upon his men. He would trade Bael life for life if he had to.

  The moment passed with a startling brilliance, built from the glimmer of his blade, his enemies’ surprised screams, and a great deal of brilliant crimson.

  And then he was through, leaving a trail of agony and gore in his wake as he burst into the relative sanctuary of the west wing.

  Even as he turned the corner, Aleksei knew he was too late. The corridor leading to the royal apartments was swarming with soldiers and Magi. Aleksei leapt out of the way just as a bolt of thunder scorched the space he had occupied a breath before.

  He rolled across the floor, ending up in a small parlor. Coming to his feet, Aleksei quickly barricaded the door with a divan and searched the room for an exit. The door rocked violently in its frame, reminding him that not only had he been spotted, but that the enemy was in hot pursuit.

  He caught sight of the window. It was the only other way out of the chamber, his one chance to survive. And he was going to have to improvise.

  Aleksei kicked out the casement and ducked his head outside. The door behind him would give way any moment. He had a handful of heartbeats before the enemy came pouring through the doorway.

  In a moment of desperation, Aleksei ripped the curtain ties away from the wall and tied the lengths of silk cord together. He drew his belt knife and knotted one end of the cord to the hilt.

  Aleksei leaned out the splintered window frame and looked up towards the roof of the Palace. Four paces from the windowsill he saw a gargoyle scowling at the chaos below.

  He took a deep breath, spinning the cord into a fury before letting it fly.

  By some extraordinary grace of the gods, the knife blade latched in the gargoyle’s mouth, catching amidst the ferocious panoply of stone teeth.

  Aleksei breathed in and leapt out the window.

  Time slowed.

  His boots struck hard stone and he ran, ignoring the ridiculous angle of the world as he darted across the wall of the Palace. A moment later his boot made contact with the surface of a window and he crashed into the room, tumbling haphazardly across the floor and landing on his back.

  A scream greeted his arrival, and for a moment he found himself disoriented, gasping for breath. Then the world righted itself and he realized where he was.

  “Aleksei?”

  He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the way the room lurched and heaved. “Highness?”

  Tamara was at his side a moment later, trying to hold him steady with her delicate hands. “Gods, are you alright?”

  It took him a moment to register the question, and even longer to produce an answer.

  “Fine.” he managed, running a hand across his face and staring at the door that led out into the hall.

  “They’re at Mother’s door!” Tamara hissed. “I can hear them from here.”

  He looked at her sharply, “Do they know you’re in here?”

  She shook her head, “Mother had one of the Magi trick them into thinking we’re both in her room. There’s a party of Magi with her now, keeping Krasik’s men at bay.”

  “Not for long,” Aleksei grumbled. “Come on, I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  She looked haggard, “I believe you’ll find the doorway a little crowded at present.”

  Aleksei ignored her flippancy and looked back to the shattered window, “The door isn’t our only option. Do you have any clothes better for climbing than that?”

  The princess looked down at her satin gown, then back to Aleksei. He could see the distress in her face, and took it as a resounding negative.

  “You’re going to have to do some running, so you’ll have to leave your shoes behind.”

  Tamara still seemed uncertain, but Aleksei caught a glint of determination in her eyes. She was terrified, but she had trusted him before, and he’d yet to lead her astray.

  He leaned out the window and caught the edge of the silk cord he had used to engineer his entry. He leaned back into the safety of the bedchamber and ripped away two more curtain ties, securing them to his silk rope.

  “Tamara,” he said calmly, “I need you to do exactly as I say.”

  She nodded stoically, though he could see tears welling up in her eyes.

  “I’m going to extinguish the lamps. We won’t be able to climb to the roof if they can spot us against the window frame. I’m going to start up first. I need you to hold on to me as I climb up. Are you ready?”

  Tamara nodded, apparently reassured by his confidence. Aleksei snuffed the lamps, plunging the chamber into darkness.

  From outside the chamber they heard the door to the anteroom splinter.

  “Hold onto my waist with all the strength you’ve got.” Aleksei commanded, gripping the silk cord and stepping onto the edge of the window frame.

  She threw her arms around him as he slowly pulled himself up the cord. Her added weight made the ascen
t difficult, but Aleksei kept his mind focused on the horrors that awaited them if he failed.

  He kept climbing.

  Hand over hand, he pulled both of them up until he reached the gargoyle. Taking a deep breath, he let go of the rope with one hand and grasped the edge of the Palace roof. Another breath, and he caught the roof in his other hand.

  “Tamara, I need you to hold onto the cord.” Aleksei said tightly.

  “What if I fall?” she whimpered.

  “You won’t fall. You just have to hold it for a few seconds. I can’t pull both of us onto the roof at the same time. I need you to let go of me. I need you to trust me. Just like in the Southern Plain, Tamara. Just like that.”

  The princess looked down at the fifty-pace gap between her and green earth below.

  “Tamara!” Aleksei barked, reminding her of the immediacy of the situation.

  She clenched her jaw and let go of his waist, grabbing desperately for the rope. Her weight pulled her down the length of silk, the friction burning her hands even as she held fast. Her soft feet hit the wall and she pressed against the stone to stabilize herself.

  Aleksei pulled himself onto the roof and reached down to the gargoyle’s mouth. He gripped the cord in his hand, then leaned as much of his weight back against the roof as he could.

  With all his strength, Aleksei heaved the rope hand over hand. After several pulls, the rope became slick with his blood, but he only gripped harder.

  A few moments later the princess clambered onto the roof in an undignified stumble.

  “Are you alright?” he whispered, pressing his bleeding hands against his trousers.

  She nodded, her eyes shifting to the trails of crimson slowly spreading from his hidden palms.

  “I’m fine.” she insisted. “What do we do now? Aren’t we trapped?”

  Aleksei smiled, leaning perilously over the edge of the roof to disengage his knife from the gargoyle’s mouth. It seemed amazing that the blade hadn’t broken, but she kept her amazement to herself.