Traitors' Fate

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter waited until they passed his position, then hefted his large, canvas-wrapped bundle—little more than a roll of blankets to conceal his weapons—onto his shoulder. He fell in step a few paces behind them. He contemplated using the burden to conceal his features, but decided against it. With his head lowered, they'd never get a good look at him. Even if they did, his face—a rough workman's face with a thick, bulbous nose pitted by heavy drink—was unfamiliar to them. He just needed to get close enough to cut a piece of one of their robes, and Soulhunger could track them anywhere in the city.

  He drew close enough to the cluster of mercenaries to catch fragments of their conversation. The men's low voices were drowned out by the sounds of passing carts, horses, and people.

  "…vagrants hanging around…"

  "…beggar children carrying disease and filth…"

  "…the lepers beside the Apprentice's temple…"

  Drawing a small dagger, he slipped closer to the men, within an arm's length. He reached out to grasp the hem of the nearest mercenary's cloak. A quick cut and he'd have everything he needed to hunt them down.

  With his attention riveted on the mercenaries, he completely missed the cart approaching from behind. He was hurled to the side, and the driver shouted an insult at him.

  By the time he climbed to his feet and retrieved his burden, Captain Dradel and his men had gained a full twenty paces on him. He limped after them, his right shoulder aching, a sharp pain shooting from his right knee. His body would heal, but the injury slowed him down enough to make him grind his teeth in frustration.

  The distance between him and the mercenaries widened with every step. They descended the hill into Lower Voramis at least thirty paces ahead of him. Now that he had left Upper Voramis, he no longer needed a disguise. No one in the city below would pay him any heed, not with his rough clothing and even rougher features.

  He ripped off the canvas and tucked the rolled blankets concealing his weapons under his arm. With his limp fully healed and his shoulder no longer throbbing, he could pick up the pace.

  His eyes scanned the crowd, searching for the Steel Company mercenaries. Though he was taller than most Voramians, their average build and nondescript clothing blended in with the throng. Worry gripped his chest as he lost sight of them for a few moments. He caught a glimpse of their cloaks as they turned away from the Blackfall District and entered the Temple District.

  The Hunter hurried after them. The Fountain of Piety would be filled with the injured, lame, diseased, and destitute. If they were on the prowl for more victims, they'd find an abundance in the streets surrounding the towering temples.

  He spotted them entering a back street that led around behind the temples that occupied the western side of Divinity Square. Glancing around to be certain no one saw him, he raced toward the street and peered around the corner.

  The five mercenaries stood at an intersection of alleys, huddled together in conversation. The Hunter guessed they were discussing how best to go about finding their next victim. Or victims. Shadows hung thick in the narrow street, the sky barely illuminated by the light of the setting sun. They had chosen the perfect time and place.

  A metallic squeak echoed in the alleyway. The sort of sound made by a wheel in need of oiling.

  The Hunter peered around the corner. The five men had heard the sound as well, and their heads had turned toward the small figure pulling her cart through the alley.

  Farida!

  Chapter Sixteen

  The sight of the familiar grey robes, too large on Farida's slim body, sent his heart into his throat. She was heading straight toward the mercenaries, so focused on pulling her cart that she hadn't noticed the five men.

  Time slowed to a stop. Would the Brotherhood risk taking her? They'd spoken of children carrying disease and filth. He wouldn't wait to find out.

  But he couldn't just cut the Steel Company down where they stood. Though he had his sword, Soulhunger, and both handheld crossbows, and could reach his weapons before they did, he had to spare Farida the horrors of death. He'd make them suffer later, of that there was no doubt. For now…

  "Oi, you!" he shouted, filling his voice with all the anger he felt at the murderers. "Girl!"

  Farida's head snapped up, and the mercenaries whirled toward him.

  "Yes, you, girl!" He thrust a finger toward her. "I've been huntin' for you for the last hour. You was s'posed to be on Trader's Row, but lemme guess, you decided you needed a day off work!"

  Farida's eyes went wide, and her mouth hung open.

  The Hunter shouldered between the mercenaries, knocking one against the alley wall, but ignoring them otherwise. "You Beggared are a sorry lot, livin’ off the generosity of us workin’ stiffs, never puttin’ in a hard day's labor. You can't even be in the places you're s'posed to be." He sneered. "Too busy learnin' your letters or kissin' some priest's bony behind."

  He cast a glance over his shoulder. The five mercenaries watched him, the one he'd knocked aside glowering in his direction.

  Farida's jaw dropped.

  "Here!" He snatched her last bundle of flowers and thrust a coin at her. "Be thankful the missus likes you little brats, else I'd never spend another copper bit buyin’ this rubbish!"

  She stared up at him, and her lower lip quivered.

  He risked another glance. To his relief, Captain Dradel and the others were disappearing down a side alley.

  Tears streamed down Farida's cheeks. "I-I'm sorry, sir," she mumbled.

  The sight of her felt like a dagger in his gut. He hated the fact that he'd had to treat her so roughly, but he'd come up with no other way to get past the mercenaries without raising their suspicion. He wouldn't let her see him hack the five men to pieces. He'd spare her that ordeal at any cost.

  "N-Now, see here," he stammered, "don't cry, little girl." His tone lost its bluster, growing soft. "Forgive me for takin' out my troubles on you."

  Farida's tears continued to flow. Guilt clutched at his chest, and he wanted to vomit. He'd never intended to terrify her so; he just wanted to keep her safe.

  "Look, here, take this." He pressed a golden imperial into her hands. "Get back to the House of Need quickly, and get yourself a warm meal."

  Farida stared down at the coin, sniffling and wiping her eyes. "B-But…"

  "No buts, little'un." He wrung his big hands. "Consider it an apology. Ought to keep your masters happy, eh?" With the first coin—a silver half-drake—and this full imperial, she'd have more than earned her keep for the Beggar Priests.

  She gave him a teary-eyed smile. "T-Thank you, sir. Beggar smile on you for your generosity."

  He grinned. "Might be I'll see you around again. Next time, I'll try to be less grumpy."

  "I hope so." Her face brightened, though the fear hadn't fully faded from her expression.

  "Until then, little flower girl." With a wave, he turned and strode away.

  He ducked around the corner, hurrying after the Steel Company mercenaries. Nausea writhed in his gut; he cursed himself for being so rough with Farida.

  He shoved aside the recriminating thoughts and focused his attention on finding his targets. Though the mercenaries had left a minute before him, they could be anywhere in the twisted warren of back alleys. The stench of human and animal remains, rubbish, and other unnameable odors drowned out their scents. Within a few minutes, he knew he'd lost them.

  Keeper's teeth! He pounded a fist against a nearby wall. He'd saved Farida, at least he could console himself with that much. But what if he hadn't been there? His mind recoiled from the image of her hanging from the Brotherhood's meat hooks, blood dripping into a black-stained bucket.

  The time had come to put them down for good. They were on the prowl for victims, but they'd have to bring their captives to that derelict building in the Beggar's Quarter.

  When they did, he'd be waiting for them.

  Something angry coiled tight in the Hunter's belly at the sight of the five Steel Comp
any mercenaries. The moon hung high in the sky, and the Lady's Bell had tolled out the ninth hour after noon at least half an hour ago.

  Two of the mercenaries hauled a struggling figure between them. A gag muffled the victim's shouts and screams, and the woman—the high pitch of her voice and her slim form—fought against her captor's grip in vain.

  "Silence her!" Captain Dradel snapped.

  Sergeant Rakhan stepped forward, dropping his burden to the ground, and drove a fist into the woman's face. The blow rocked her head back, and she lolled in the mercenaries' grip.

  Rakhan stooped to retrieve his burden—moonlight shone off a balding head, wispy white hair, and bony limbs. The remaining mercenary carried another limp figure over his shoulder.

  Three more victims. A cold fury rose within the Hunter. That makes six for the slaughter.

  Unfortunately for the poor souls below, he couldn't make his move…not yet. He was waiting for the last rat to enter the nest.

  Time moved at a slow crawl, and the Hunter's frustration mounted. He could hear no screams but had little doubt what was happening to the men and women within that building.

  A little shiver of anticipation raced down his spine as he caught sight of the cloaked, beak-masked figure coming up the alley. Trouvere Silech tapped thrice on the heavy door, which was opened to usher him in.

  The Hunter's face spread in a predatory grin. The King rat has arrived. The time had come to make his move.

  He leapt across the gap to land lightly on the stone wall of the derelict building, dropped onto the wooden floor, and padded toward the hole. Below, six figures stood in a circle. The sounds of a struggle came from somewhere else inside the room.

  A moment later, the Trouvere entered and took his place in the circle. "Brothers," he said in his rasping voice, "fellow servants of the Minstrel, behold the fruits of our labor."

  From within his cloak he produced a handful of the amulets distributed by priests of the Bloody Minstrel. But these differed from the usual pendants; the red stone was darker, rust-colored instead of the crimson of bloodstone.

  "The blood of the ill has been cleansed by the heat and light of the Master's bright sun, transformed by holy power into the very instruments to keep the Minstrel's touch at bay. Death will bring life!"

  "Death will bring life," the masked men echoed.

  The Hunter had seen enough dried, crusted blood to recognize the color. He'd wondered what the Trouvere had done with the full glass bottle drained from the previous day's victim—now he knew, and the knowledge set disgust twisting in his gut.

  The Trouvere's rasping voice rose in fervency. "I have received information from certain sources in the Voramis underworld detailing the whereabouts of many more that must be cleansed. With their blood, we will make more amulets—thousands more—to distribute among the worthy of Voramis. These shall be the instruments of our protection against plague and pestilence!"

  The Hunter had seen enough. If one jar of blood produced this many pendants, how many deaths would it take to produce thousands? Drawing his sword with a whisper of steel on leather, he leapt through the hole in the floor to land with a thud in the center of the circle.

  "This ends today! No more will die for your insanity."

  The Brotherhood of Pestilence seemed too startled by his presence to move—exactly the reaction he'd intended.

  The Trouvere reacted first. "Intruder! We are discov—"

  He died first, a bolt from the Hunter's handheld crossbow embedded in his right eye socket.

  "I am the Hunter of Voramis," he growled. "I fear no man or god, especially not one who would condemn an innocent child."

  He whirled with the grace of a pirouetting dancer, his sword slashing in a wide horizontal arc. Three men staggered backward, blood gushing from their throats. The Hunter was moving before they collapsed. He hacked down another hooded figure with a vicious chop that split the beaked mask, dark eyes, and skull beneath.

  When he turned, five of the remaining men had thrown off their masks and cloaks, revealing the plain clothes, wary eyes, and hard faces of the Steel Company mercenaries.

  The Hunter bared his teeth in a snarl. "You chose the wrong victim for your bloody rituals. You won't live long enough to regret it." He chopped down another of the stunned Brotherhood, a man who had tried to seize the momentary distraction to duck toward the door. The slim figure fell with a cry and lay still.

  Only the five steely-eyed, unwavering Steel Company mercenaries remained.

  Captain Dradel's eyes narrowed. "The Hunter, eh? I've heard tales of you as far north as Odaron." He looked the Hunter up and down, and his face twisted into a sneer. "I'm a bit disappointed, truth be told."

  The Hunter laughed, a harsh, cold sound filled with gravel and fury. "Allow me to amend that." He raised the crossbow and pulled the trigger. The second spring-loaded bolt flew toward the Captain's head.

  Captain Dradel ducked with surprising speed. The bolt whipped past his head, barely missing his cheek, and buried itself in the wooden wall behind him with an audible thunk.

  Though the Steel Company couldn't carry swords, they produced another type of weapon: sticks the length of their forearms and hands, with a perpendicular handle attached. The Hunter had heard of these—tong fas, they were called, a weapon popular in Odaron—but never encountered one.

  Two of the mercenaries carried three-bladed daggers. The Hunter recognized the weapons—he had one mounted on his wall of exotic weapons. Only the blacksmiths of Odaron knew the secret forging techniques to craft the blade's three sharp edges, which twisted to a razor sharp point. Named surgeonsbanes by the men who faced them, the daggers carved devastation into their victims. Field doctors could do little to stop the hemorrhaging, and men died of wounds too large to suture. Whoever had designed these blades not only excelled at killing, they relished it. Just as with Soulhunger.

  He shoved the handheld crossbow into its sheath at his hip, the movement collapsing the spring-loaded arms into the stock, and drew Soulhunger.

  He stalked toward the mercenaries, eyeing their tight formation. Sergeant Rakhan stood at the front, flanked by two more. At his approach, Captain Dradel and the remaining mercenary slid along the walls.

  The Hunter stepped back, unwilling to let them flank him or reach the door. Growling, Sergeant Rakhan darted forward and attacked.

  In the spacious room, the Hunter could swing his sword freely. The blade whistled through the air with enough force to shear through the sergeant's neck. Sergeant Rakhan ducked, his right arm coming up at an angle to deflect the Hunter's sword up and over his head. His left fist drove forward, jabbing the short end of the tong fa toward the Hunter's gut.

  The Hunter whipped Soulhunger across his midsection, blocking the strike. Before he could bring his sword around, the sergeant whirled the tong fa in his left hand. The solid length of wood smacked against the Hunter's side. And rebounded from his leather armor.

  Grinning, the Hunter drove his knee up and into the sergeant’s chin. Rakhan stumbled back, dazed. The two flanking mercenaries rushed forward, their weapons whirling in vicious circles. Even as the Hunter blocked the blows, he sensed Captain Dradel and the last mercenary edging around him.

  Feinting right, he darted left, spun into a crouch, and lashed out with his long sword. The blade bit deep into the thigh of the third mercenary. The man cried out and fell against the wall, dropping his three-bladed dagger. The stink of blood filled the Hunter's nostrils; the mercenary would bleed out from the severed artery in his thigh in a matter of seconds.

  Something thumped against the side of his head. He blinked back the pain and struck out, blinded by the spots dancing in his vision. His sword shivered as wood clacked against the steel. Another whirling length of wood crunched into his right leg. Only his instinctive retreat prevented the blow from shattering his knee.

  His sight cleared in time to see a dagger whipping toward his head. He ducked and punched out with his right hand. The crossgua
rd of his long sword sported a short blade running parallel to the sword's edge. Instead of disemboweling the man, it clanked against the mail shirt hidden beneath his clothing.

  Cursing, the Hunter took another step back, out of reach of the vicious blade. The two mercenaries pursued. One darted to his left, no doubt trying to herd him toward Captain Dradel. The Hunter lunged toward the man instead of away. The whirling baton thumped into his ribs with jarring force, but he was inside the mercenary's guard. Before the man had time to bring his three-bladed dagger back into the fight, Soulhunger had opened his throat.

  The Hunter didn't pause to let Soulhunger feed. He pushed back against the blade's protests—he had no time for that.

  The creak of the opening door snapped his head toward the end of the room. Captain Dradel stood framed in the doorway, the shadows of night beyond. With a growl, Hunter dropped Soulhunger and scooped out his handheld crossbow. The arms snapped out with spring-loaded precision, the string pulling tight, the bolt prepared to shoot. He pulled the trigger.

  Pain flared in his left leg, and he stumbled. The bolt thunked into the wooden lintel above Captain Dradel's head, and the man disappeared from view.

  With a roar of rage, the Hunter whirled on his attacker. A recovered Sergeant Rakhan stood beside the remaining mercenary. Sheathing his crossbow, the Hunter gripped his long sword in both hands. He had the advantage of reach. He wielded steel, not wood. His superior strength and the blade's edge could chop through the tong fas with ease. He read the truth in the mercenaries' grim expressions: they knew they looked into the eyes of death, but by the Keeper, they'd face it like warriors, not cowards.

  He shuffled forward, his feet moving with the precision of a dancer, and brought his sword slashing up toward Sergeant Rakhan's chin. The sergeant twisted aside, and the Hunter had to step back to evade the other mercenary's strike. His follow-up thrust was deflected by one of the sergeant’s tong fa, but he brought the sword back and around with a powerful chop. The blade sheared through the whirling tip of the other mercenary's weapon--and his left arm.