Perhaps this was one reason he'd adopted the disguises in the first place. Though they gave him anonymity, they also provided a glimpse into other worlds. Worlds where men and women had loved ones, friends, and family—things he'd never had. Since the day he arrived in Voramis, penniless and with nothing but Soulhunger for company, he'd been alone. Farida provided a bright spot in his life, but visits with her had been few and far between. Though Karrl, Jak, Old Nan, and the others lived in his proximity, he couldn't truly consider them more than acquaintances.
The sight of the imposing wall around Lord Damuria's mansion shoved the thoughts from his mind. He had a role to play, and brooding simply wasn't in young Gladrin's nature. Plastering on his best crooked grin, he strode toward the steel-clad mercenaries standing at the front gate.
"It's true!" he called in a voice filled with wonder. "I heard rumors that you are here in Voramis, but I could only dare to hope."
The two mercenaries guarding the gate looked up at his approach. Their expressions changed from casual disinterest to wary suspicion as he drew closer.
"After all this time," the Hunter breathed in Gladrin's overeager voice, "I've found the Steel Company at last!"
One of the two men thrust a hand out to stop him. "State your business with Lord Damuria, or be on your way."
The Hunter drew up, as if taken aback. "Why, I'm not here for any Lord. I'm here to join the Steel Company!"
For a moment, the two men shared an incredulous look, then they burst out laughing. "Gor!" guffawed one, a heavy-set man with a patchy beard a shade darker than his blond hair. "That's a good one, lad!"
The second man, a rail-thin fellow with a sharp chin and a long hooked nose, slapped his thigh. "I ain't heard nothing so amusing in a long while, boy." He turned to his companion. "He thinks he's just gonna waltz up and join us. And him so green he's still got snot on his face."
The Hunter grinned, as if enjoying the joke along with them. "That's right." He pushed past the two men. "And when I heard the Steel Company was here in Voramis, I knew I had to find them."
The two guards' laughter faded as they realized the young man had somehow gotten through them. Despite his far superior strength, the Hunter hadn't been particularly rough; he simply hadn't allowed them to bar his way. He'd angled his body to slide between the two chuckling men.
He strode through the gates and into Lord Damuria's mansion, all the while keeping up a stream of enthusiastic conversation. "My father always told me about the Steel Company. Oh, the tales he'd tell! The battle of Forge Hill, how the Steel Company held their ground when the Legion of Heroes was a breath away from collapsing. The last stand of Razor Gorge. All the battles where they earned their reputation." He grinned at the pounding footsteps of the two guards chasing him.
"Stop!" the thin man shouted. "Stop right there!"
He pretended not to hear. "My father, before he died, Keeper rest his soul, he told me, 'Gladrin, the day you're of age, you go and get yourself hired.' I'd heard the rumors that the Steel Company was somewhere in the south of Einan, but I couldn't find where. So I practiced and trained and worked until—"
He stopped as the guards caught up to him and leveled swords at his throat. Three more men appeared from the building, hands on their hilts. They reacted quickly to threats, that much was clear.
"Until here I am!" he finished with a bright grin, as if unconcerned at the sharp blades against his neck.
"Keeper-damned lackwit!" snarled the heavy-set of the two guards, trying hard not to show how winded he was. "We ordered you to halt, but no, you—"
A gruff voice rang out in the open expanse of the Damuria courtyard. "What's going on here, Gren?"
Immediately, the two guards snapped to attention, somehow managing to keep their blades trained on the Hunter. "Nothing, Sergeant Rakhan, sir," the thin guard replied. "Just a young fool intent on getting himself killed."
The man striding toward them had the tanned skin of a native of Drash, a city far to the north of Voramis. Though his height was unremarkable, his lean muscles rippled with every step. His hair was coiled in tight braids on the side of his head, with another long strip braided along his crown and down his back, hanging to his waist. Tattoos swirled around his eyes and cheeks, tracing his jawline toward his ears and running down his neck to disappear beneath his steel breastplate.
"Who is he?" Sergeant Rakhan demanded.
"Don't know," replied Gren. "He didn't—"
"Gladrin of Lakeshore," the Hunter said, stepping forward so the two sword blades slipped away from his throat. He held out a hand. "My grandfather served in the Steel Company."
"Grandfather, eh?" The Sergeant stroked his close-cropped beard with a scarred hand. "What was his name?"
"Reynan. Reynan of Lakeshore." The Hunter held up his cloth-wrapped bundle. "He kept this, said he earned it for his valor in battle." He unbound the coverings to reveal a ragged leather scabbard.
The two mercenaries beside him stiffened as he drew the blade. Their expressions grew scornful at the sight of the rust-pitted, notched sword. The Hunter had purchased it from the seediest metalsmith in the dirtiest part of the Merchant's Quarter—the perfect accoutrement to complete the façade of the town boy.
Disdain twisted Sergeant's Rakhan's face. "Quite the heirloom you have there," he sneered. "A truly deadly weapon, if you don't mind waiting a few weeks for your opponent to die from rust infection."
The Hunter allowed the pitted sword to droop, his shoulders to wilt, and ran a hand nervously through his hair. Gladrin wouldn't know a long sword from a backsword or spatha; to him, the weapon in his hands was a prized possession. To hear it mocked would sap the vim from even the most optimistic youth.
"You say your grandfather served the company?" Sergeant Rakhan asked.
The Hunter brightened and gave an eager nod. "Yes, sir. Reynan of Lakeshore. Said his fellows called him 'Cowpoke', on account of his way with horses."
"Way with horses, eh?" Gren muttered. "Known more than a few men a bit too close to their mounts. With a name like 'Poke'…" He snickered.
The Hunter had enjoyed crafting this particular backstory, expecting the foul-minded mercenaries would come to this interpretation. He had no idea if anyone named Reynan had ever served in the Steel Company, nor did he care.
As he spoke, his eyes roved the interior of Lord Damuria's property, scoping out the positions of the mercenaries, the number of men visible in the courtyard, the layout of the mansion. His previous visits had always occurred at night, his path leading up to Lady Damuria's tower. He had never had reason to break into Lord Damuria's chambers or offices in the main house. Judging by the security, it would be no easy task.
Aside from the two men standing guard at the gate, close to twenty more were ranged around the front of the property. Some stood at attention beside the mansion's main entrances, while three squads were constantly on the move around the walkways that cut through the expansive garden. As he'd seen last night, the courtyard had been flooded with the light of torches, lanterns, and braziers. Even with his skill, he'd be hard-pressed to cross from the wall to the mansion itself unseen.
A rough hand seized his collar, and the tattooed face of Sergeant Rakhan hovered a finger's breadth from his own. "Never heard of no Reynan," the sergeant snarled. His unique scent—chewing tabacc, aniseed, and the metallic tang of his armor—filled the Hunter's nostrils. "No farm boy from Lakeshore's ever joined our ranks. We tend to keep the Company free of rubbish." He spat the last word, spraying spittle.
The Hunter stammered. "I-I…"
"I-I…" the sergeant mocked. He cuffed the Hunter hard. "Lying sack of shite. You think you can come in here and—"
"That's quite enough, Sergeant." A new voice rang out, this one with the calm, precise tone of a commanding officer.
Sergeant Rakhan released the Hunter's collar, but the scowl never left his face.
The Hunter studied the man who strode toward them. He had hair even darker tha
n Sergeant Rakhan, so dark it appeared purple in the bright sunlight. He was slightly taller than the sergeant, with a build and facial features average enough to belong anywhere in Lower or Upper Voramis, given the right clothing. But his eyes—there was something about those cold, grey eyes that sent a shiver down the Hunter's spine.
He came to stand beside Sergeant Rakhan and crossed his arms. "What's this, now?"
"Young buck here thinks he's got the moxie to be a Company man, Captain Dradel," the sergeant snarled. "Brought his own weapon and everything."
Captain Dradel held out a hand. "May I?"
After a moment of hesitation, the Hunter handed the man his blade. He caught a whiff of rosewood, oak, and the olive oil that glistened in the man's dark hair.
The captain studied it, his expression pensive. "Once a fine blade, perhaps. Now?" He hurled it behind him, where it clattered to the cobblestone courtyard.
"Hey!" the Hunter shouted and stepped forward.
Sergeant Rakhan's fist plowed into his gut. The Hunter doubled over, making a show of being in pain.
"That is no weapon worth a Company man," said Captain Dradel in a cold, calm voice. Steel whispered on leather as he drew his own sword. "This, however, is a weapon worth its weight in gold." He whipped it through the air, setting it singing. "Would you like to own a sword like this?"
"Yes," the Hunter said, groaning for effect.
"Then I will make you a wager." Captain Dradel sheathed the sword and folded his arms once more. "You say your grandfather served the Company. Surely he taught you to use that thing." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Hunter's fallen weapon. "The Steel Company is always looking for more good men to join. If that is your wish, you will have it."
The Hunter's expression brightened. "Really?"
"On one condition." The captain's face twisted into a sardonic grin. "You'll have to defeat Sergeant Rakhan."
Behind him, Gren and his companion chortled. A broad smile split the sergeant's face. "It'd be my pleasure, Captain." He drew his weapon—a long, hand-and-a-half sword with runes etched into the blade—and swung it dangerously close to the Hunter's head. "Careful, boy. Nysny here's like a dying man in the desert. But water's not what she's after."
The Hunter struggled to hide a smile. I ought to introduce him to Soulhunger one day. The dagger, hanging in its sheath nestled against his back, pulsed in eager anticipation.
Captain Dradel snapped his fingers. "Gren. Give him your blade."
The slim mercenary complied, drawing his sword and handing it to the Hunter hilt first. "You remember which end is the dangerous one, boy?"
The Hunter took the sword and gave a few experimental swings. Though it lacked the mastery of his preferred weapon, the blade was well-crafted, with a near-perfect balance just above the tang. It would move easily in his hand, a sword ideal for cutting, thrusting, and slashing. He could hack his way through Sergeant Rakhan, Captain Dradel, and the other two mercenaries in a matter of seconds.
But Gladrin could not. The farm boy wouldn't have even a fraction of his experience. He would, however, be foolish and daring enough to attack first.
With a shout, he swung at Sergeant Rakhan, a blow that even a middling swordsman could have turned aside. The sergeant didn't bother to deflect or block; he simply leaned back, letting the wild swing pass in front of his chest. He stepped forward quickly, his sword snapping up to strike the Hunter's ribs.
The Hunter groaned and staggered back, much to the amusement of the Steel Company mercenaries. Growling, he recovered and lunged forward, sword extended in a reasonable imitation of a thrust. Sergeant Rakhan slapped the strike aside and whacked the Hunter's foreleg with the flat of his bastard sword. The Hunter pretended to stumble with the blow, actually falling to one knee for dramatic effect.
"Come on, boy!" Sergeant Rakhan mocked. "Surely your feckless lout of a grandfather taught you better than that."
The Hunter gave a desperate cry and attacked with great, wild swings. His blows had all the power of a young farm boy's muscles and the berserk imprecision of an untrained warrior. Sergeant Rakhan retreated, allowing him to tire out. The Hunter pretended to grow weary, his movements slowing, his attacks becoming erratic. The sergeant knocked aside the last weak strike and drove his fist into the Hunter's face.
Sergeant Rakhan loomed over him, a sneer on his tattooed face. "Get up, boy."
The Hunter rose, shaking his head as if dazed. The punch had caught him by surprise. Blood trickled from his nose, and a dull ache pounded in his head. But his real concern was his alchemical mask. Too many blows to the face could tear the false flesh or rip the paste holding it in place.
No more lucky shots for him.
The sergeant raised his sword. "Try and last a bit longer this time, eh?"
The Hunter blocked the first attack, stumbling backward, plastering a panicked expression on his face. Sergeant Rakhan gave chase. The Hunter gripped the sword in two hands, crying out every time the sergeant's heavy sword slammed into his.
The pretense of inexperience required a surprising degree of skill—he couldn't leave himself open to another blow to his face, but he had to find ways to turn aside or dodge the sergeant's attack without appearing too competent. It took all his skill not to riposte when the sergeant left a gaping hole in his defense or over-committed to a blow. He fought like a soldier rather than a fencer, with the efficient brutality of a battle line instead of the grace of a solitary warrior.
Finally, the Hunter had had enough of the charade. As he gave ground, he pretended to stumble over his feet and fell to the paved courtyard. He forced his fingers to release their grip on the sword, sending it clattering away. When he scrambled after his fallen blade, Sergeant Rakhan slapped his hand with the flat of his sword.
The sergeant loomed over him. "Go back to your mother, farm boy." He pressed the sword into the Hunter's chest, piercing cloth and drawing a trickle of blood.
The Hunter shot a pleading glance at Captain Dradel. The dark-haired man shook his head. "You're no more use to us than tits on a Secret Keeper." He gave a dismissive wave. "Get rid of him."
Gren and the other mercenary seized the Hunter's arms and dragged him across the courtyard. The Hunter feigned a struggle, but his eyes roved the property, mapping out the positions of the guards. They were disciplined, he had to give them that much. Of the twenty within eyeshot of the courtyard, only two had left their posts to watch the sergeant whaling on him. The rest hadn't moved, only occasionally glancing back, chuckling and shaking their heads at the foolish youth.
As he was manhandled through the gate, the Hunter committed everything to memory—from the guards' positions to the routes of their march to the number at each location. The more he knew, the easier it would be to avoid them when the time came to eliminate Lord Damuria. His client, Lord Beritane, hadn't given him a deadline. He could take his time setting up the final execution in order to reduce the body count.
He gave a theatrical grunt as the two mercenaries hurled him to the ground outside the front gate. Gren seized his collar and shook him roughly. "You know what's good for you, we'll never clap eyes on you again, got it?"
The Hunter plastered a fearful expression on Gladrin's face and gave a frantic nod.
"Good, now off with you!"
Gren dragged him to his feet and shoved him away. The Hunter pretended to stumble, cast a fearful glance over his shoulder, and rushed down the street. The guards' mocking laughter followed him until he rounded the corner.
Immediately, he ducked beneath a thick hedge and into the shadows of a vacant estate. The previous owner had fled the city after being accused of withholding the King's taxes. The Hunter had no doubt the King would reclaim the property and sell it, but for now it gave him the perfect vantage point to watch Lord Damuria's mansion.
A window to the rear of the mansion gave him access to the interior. He withdrew his satchel from its hiding place beneath a pile of splintered furniture and drew out the si
mple tunic and dark grey cloak he preferred when traversing the rooftops of Voramis. A few gentle tugs in the right places loosened the alchemical face of Gladrin, and he wrapped the mask in its oilcloth before stuffing it into the bag. After changing his clothing, he buckled his sword belt in place and drew on the cloak.
He cast a glance up at the sun. He had at least an hour before sunset, perhaps two. He wanted to rest, could feel the fatigue dragging at his muscles, but Soulhunger wouldn't let him. Too much time had elapsed since his last kill. The longer he waited, the louder the dagger's insistence would grow. Its voice would keep sleep at bay, filling his head with the pounding cries for blood.
I'll have to satiate it soon if I want peace. The dagger left him alone only after he had killed. But the Damuria job is proving tougher than I expected.
The Gladrin façade had given him a clearer understanding of how the Steel Company protected Lord Damuria's property. Between the rotating guards, moving patrols, and well-covered entry points, he'd be hard-pressed to find a way past them undetected. Worse, the moon had just entered its fullest phase, meaning brighter nights.
Decades as an assassin had taught him to approach his jobs from every conceivable angle. He didn't have to cut Lord Damuria down in the comfort of his own home. All he needed was something to lure the nobleman out from behind the safety of his walls.
But what? Therein lay his problem. Lady Damuria was renowned for her social graces, attending every soiree and jubilee held in Upper Voramis. Lord Damuria, however, preferred to avoid public appearances unless absolutely necessary. Unlike most noblemen of Voramis, he spent the majority of his time within his mansion, using his specially picked courier service to communicate with the outside world. Scribes, Reckoners from the Coin Counter's Temple, and clerks completed his work force—each carefully scrutinized by the Steel Company before entering.
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