Silence answered him.
"But," Balgos burst out in desperation, "my master will pay your normal fee just to hear what he has to say, and double if you agree to take the contract."
The room remained silent.
Has he gone? Am I talking to an empty room?
"He-hello?"
"I am considering your master's offer," the Hunter intoned, his voice thoughtful.
Balgos' heart pounded in his chest, and sweat trickled down his back as he waited for the assassin's answer.
"Very well," came the voice from the darkness. "The payment?"
Balgos removed a heavy purse from within his robes, extending it towards the Hunter. The Hunter roughly plucked it from his hands, and the courier heard coins clinking in the darkness.
"Tell your master I will call upon him tonight."
"Thank you!" Balgos gasped in relief. "My master will be pleased to hear it."
"Where would your master like me to meet him?"
"At the Villa Camoralia, in the—"
"I know the place," the harsh voice interrupted.
"Excellent! I will pass your message along to him, then. He will be pleased to hear it."
"Now go."
Without a backward glance, Balgos fled.
He rushed through the dim taproom and pushed through the front doors without even a nod to the bartender. In his haste, he failed to notice the fact that the inebriated raconteur in his outrageous bright clothing no longer sat at his table.
The foul streets of Beggar's Row rushed by, yet still he ran, heedless of the voices crying out for coin, food, or drink. Only when he reached the Merchant's Quarter did he slow.
With a muttered curse, he turned his steps toward Upper Voramis and the Villa Camoralia.
* * *
The Hunter slid the wooden wall panel shut without a sound as he emerged from the secret passage connecting the taproom of The Rusty Dangle with Room Four. He made no noise as he moved from the shadowed booth at the back of the taproom, and the occupants of the bar were far too drunk to notice him.
I love this inn, he thought. The food and ale may be terrible and the smells worse, but this passage is sheer brilliance. I can slip in and out of Room Four unseen and unheard. It's also bloody entertaining to see people's reactions to the Hunter "appearing" in front of them, as if from thin air.
The Hunter enjoyed putting the fear of the gods—or fear of him—into those who sought his services. People who believed the Hunter could appear out of thin air tried harder to avoid angering him.
Perhaps the rumors of my superhuman powers are a bit exaggerated, but they're worth every coin. He spent a small fortune to spread whispers through the city, a strategic investment.
The Hunter nodded to Eliryo—the owner of the run-down establishment—and tossed him a silver drake. He had paid the fat innkeeper more than enough to own the room, but an extra coin would keep the man amenable to their arrangement—not to mention discreet.
He strode through the taproom and pushed through the front doors. His face—the face of the drunken raconteur—twisted in disgust as he inhaled the foul odors wafting through the streets of Beggar’s Row.
I have time for a few preparations before tonight's meeting.
His curiosity had been piqued by the mysterious client—a man willing to pay double his high fees.
It seems I will soon find the truth behind one of the best-kept secrets in the city.
Chapter Eleven
A cool breeze wafted through Upper Voramis, bringing with it the sweet scent of Snowblossom trees from the distant Maiden's Fields. Stars twinkled overhead, and the moon shone down bright on the dark figure crouching atop the high walls of Villa Camoralia.
The Hunter's vantage point allowed him a clear view of the mansion grounds. He saw no guards on patrol. Not a soul moved in the darkness, and he could detect no human scents on the air.
They must all be inside, he thought.
A wall twenty paces high surrounded the villa, and scaling it proved no easy task, even with the Hunter's superhuman strength to aid him.
The legendary Hunter, winded like a fat butcher chasing a stray pig.
The thought brought a smile to his face as he rested, regaining his strength.
Tonight I meet the mysterious occupant of the Villa Camoralia.
None knew who lived within the massive, fortified mansion, but rumors spread among the citizens of Voramis like a plague.
Whispers had spread the name of a long-dead sorcerer around the city, while others claimed that King Gavril the Conqueror had wakened from his six thousand-year slumber to reclaim the throne of Voramis.
Some speculated that the Demon of Voramis—the reclusive commander of the Dark Heresy—resided here. Others insisted—always with hushed tones and terrified glances—that the Bloody Hand held court behind its towering walls and iron gates.
He dismissed this last rumor as unlikely.
I doubt the Bloody Hand would extend a polite invitation to me after what I did to Lord Dannaros.
Either way, he placed little faith in the stories. They were the way of the ignorant, and he dealt only in facts.
Tonight, I will put the rumors to rest once and for all.
He strode along the top of the wall, moving in total silence. His dark grey cloak blended with the shadows as he descended into the gardens of the Villa Camoralia.
He wore no armor—even oiled leather made noise as he moved—but the padded jerkin beneath his tunic would suffice. His long sword, a thick, heavy blade with a vicious edge, hung from his back. Soulhunger sat on his belt, its sheath wrapped in dark cloth to prevent the weapon from clanking.
Tonight he wore the disguise he preferred when meeting new clients. A heavy jaw with a strong chin, a thick scar running across his flattened nose, dark eyes, and hair of an unremarkable length and style allowed him to blend in with the hired muscle of Lower Voramis.
His rough features would stand out in Upper Voramis, but he had no need to walk the streets. The rooftops of Voramis served as his private highway, allowing him to traverse the city unseen. Only the man inside the Villa Camoralia would see his face this night.
The mansion rose hundreds of paces into the night sky, and he relished the challenge of climbing its vaulted heights. Sculptures of mythical creatures—long ago eradicated from the face of Einan—adorned the walls. The horrifying figures provided perfect handholds for climbing, and he leapt from statue to statue with the ease of a jungle primate.
He climbed at a steady pace, moving toward a balcony half a dozen stories above the ground. Slipping over the rail, he paused to catch his breath and look out over his city. He breathed deep, basking in the fresh breeze blowing across his face, reveling in the breathtaking view of Voramis.
Huge windowed doors stood locked behind him, held shut by a simple lock. A dagger inserted between the doorframes allowed him to unhook the latch. The room within was dark, but a door on the far end of the room stood ajar—revealing a hall filled with flickering torchlight.
The Hunter slipped through the open window and into the empty room. He peered into the illuminated hallway, taking in the details of the mansion’s interior. He searched for any indication of where to find his mysterious client, and his eyes settled on two men standing at the far end of the corridor. They had the look of thugs, with thick necks, flattened noses, cauliflowered ears, protruding brows, and fists the size of hams.
It looks as if they were cut from the same unthinking, dim-witted mold. The guards smelled of leather, sweat, and lard.
The men stood before a pair of huge double doors, which looked to be made of heavy bloodwood—all but impossible to break, with a natural imperviousness to fire. The doors would have cost less had they been made of solid gold. The Hunter knew they would only be used to guard something—or someone—valuable.
He crept from shadow to shadow, taking care to move in absolute silence. Thick columns lined the hallway, and he kept the pillars between himself and the guar
ds. When he finally stepped into view, he stood no more than a handful of paces from the men.
"Your master is expecting me," the Hunter rasped.
His words startled both guards. They fumbled for the thick cudgels at their belts, and one nearly dropped his in the rush to draw it. Their violent reaction to his presence made it hard for him to maintain a straight face. With impressive self-control, the Hunter managed to keep his stare impassive and disdainful.
"Who the fuck are you?" one guard demanded, waving his club menacingly at the Hunter. "And where in the twisted hell did you come from?"
I've wounded their pride, the Hunter thought. Good. The corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile, but the shadows of his hooded cloak obscured it from the view of the thugs. He eyed the thick wooden cudgel in the man's hand.
"I wouldn't do anything foolish, if I were you," he said aloud.
The guard opened his mouth to speak, but a feeble voice called out from the room beyond before he could form coherent words.
"Let him enter, Targ."
Targ gripped the handle of his club even tighter, clenching his jaw in anger. He looked ready to protest, but the voice came again, this time with an edge of steel in it.
"Unmolested, mind you. He is my guest."
Targ and his companion loosened their grips on their weapons and reluctantly moved aside. The Hunter pulled back his hood, and the two guards jerked back as if struck. With a mocking smile for the thugs, the Hunter strode through the huge double doors.
The room beyond was dimly lit, though a fire blazed in the hearth. Eerie shadows danced in the darkness, and the Hunter's nostrils filled with the scent of wood smoke. He took in the sparse comfort of what could only be a sitting room.
A frail-looking man sat in a wheeled chair—his mysterious client, he assumed. Scars contorted his mouth into a horrible grimace, and thick ridges of scar tissue covered the place where his nose should have been. The old man's hair hung in long white wisps down to his shoulder, and a thin beard covered his weak chin and scarred cheeks with uneven stubble.
The Hunter studied the four parallel scars crisscrossing the man's face. Those could only have come from the claws of a northern bloodbear. Definitely a story there.
A blanket covered the man’s slender legs, and a heavy cloak lay draped across his shoulders. The man emanated a powerful stench of decay.
Soulhunger pounded in his head, a note of joy filling the dagger's bloodthirsty voice. The Hunter pushed it to the back of his mind.
"Take a good look, Hunter," the old man spoke. His words slurred from between ruined, twisted lips. He turned his face to the side, exposing the scars running down his neck and disappearing beneath his thin shirt.
The man gave him a weak smile. "I wager it has been years since you've seen something this twisted and mangled. Though I hear our good Lord Damuria's body was found in a similar state."
The Hunter said nothing. His attention shifted from the marred features of the old man to the hulking figure standing behind the wheeled chair. The scars on his arms were a testament to the knife fights he had survived. His massive hands rested on the handles of the wheeled chair, his forearms heavily banded with muscle.
How many men have those hands broken or killed?
The huge man gazed calmly back at the Hunter from beneath heavy brows, but intelligence burned in his dark eyes. The Hunter knew those eyes were taking his measure.
Judging by his expression, I must not be what he was expecting.
The man's scent held a hint of acrid bile, mixed with the overpowering smells of steel and the copper of dried blood.
One thing is for sure, he is no mere attendant. A bodyguard, perhaps.
The old man spoke, breaking the tense silence in the room.
"I know the Hunter only meets at the time and place of his own choosing. Visits to old men in their homes usually end with a dagger in an aging heart, but I thank you for restraining yourself." A thrust of his chin indicated the two slabs of muscle standing guard at the door.
The Hunter held his tongue. Years of experience had taught him that remaining silent encouraged people to speak more freely. Loose tongues often spilled more information than their owners realized.
The old man waved a bony, wrinkled arm toward his legs. "My condition being what it is, I cannot get out much. I therefore greatly appreciate your coming here. Truth be told, I would trust this matter to no other, for it is of a delicate nature."
"I understand," the Hunter said, his voice deep and harsh. "What would you have of me, lord…"
The old man gave him a mysterious smile. "You can call me Lord Cyrannius." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yes, you and I both know that no 'Lord Cyrannius' exists among the noble houses of Voramis. We both have our secrets to maintain, good Hunter."
"Fair enough. Now, I will hear you out. Be warned, however, I reserve the right to refuse your contract should I choose to."
"And, should you choose to, you will leave the mansion unharmed," the old man said.
The Hunter raised an eyebrow, and the aging Lord Cyrannius gave a gentle laugh. "Yes, I do see the irony in the statement."
Cyrannius steepled his long, slim fingers, studying the cloaked figure of the Hunter.
"You have a reputation as a peerless fighter and I have no doubt you would cut through my men"—he nodded towards his guards again—"with little difficulty."
The Hunter gave a small nod of assent.
"However," Cyrannius continued, "I do have an awful lot of men, and they may present an inconvenience that you might wish to avoid. Suffice it to say, if you choose to decline my request, none of my men will throw themselves on your blade in an attempt to keep my secrets."
"A wise choice, my lord," the Hunter said. A mirthless smile touched his lips, but Cyrannius—and the giant standing behind him—seemed not to notice.
"I know that you care little for details, provided your services are paid for in full. However, I would like to lay out my reasons for contracting you, nonetheless."
"It is your right, Lord Cyrannius," the Hunter said, "though I dare say they will do little to influence my decision regarding whether or not to accept the contract." He only chose targets that deserved death.
"Fair enough, fair enough."
The man fell silent for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his words emerged halting and tinged with sorrow.
"I have a matter that requires your unique abilities. First off, let me assure you that I have vast resources at my disposal, as you can see by my humble home."
Lord Cyrannius gave the Hunter a deprecating smile, but the Hunter's face could have been carved from stone, for all the reaction he gave.
"To say my fortune rivals that of the Crown would not be a boast, and I have access to wealth beyond anything you could imagine. However," the old man's eyes filled with sorrow and he swallowed hard, "the one thing I am in short supply of is family."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow, prompting Cyrannius to continue.
"Before my…misfortunes," he waved at his covered legs and scar-twisted face, "the gods saw fit to grace me with a daughter, my only child. She was the light of my life, and when she married, she gave birth to a daughter of her own. This young girl—my granddaughter—was the one good thing a broken old man had in this world."
Had? Were?
"You speak of her as if she belongs to the past," the Hunter said.
"It pains me still to talk about this, though it happened what feels like a lifetime ago. The young girl came of age last year, and demanded her freedom to celebrate the Season of Plenty with her friends. During the Maiden's Harvest celebration, she met a young man. This young man took certain liberties with her. To speak plainly, he violated her." Rage flared across Cyrannius' face.
The Hunter’s gut twisted. He had witnessed many crimes and committed many more himself, but sexual assault was abhorrent to him. He could not understand why any man or woman would be
stimulated by forcing themselves upon another. When contracted to hunt down a rapist, he had a tendency to be particularly vicious in the kill.
”When we approached the man, he vehemently denied his actions and swore upon the gods that he had not laid a finger on my Eliesse. We could find no proof beyond her words, and the laws of Voramis were on the side of this, this monster. Worse, the priesthood which he serves protected him."
“A priest?” the Hunter asked, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Lord Cyrannius’ eyes darkened and he shook his head. “Those who claim to serve the gods are mortal men, a fact we all too often forget until something like this happens. But when I pressed the temple, they refused to turn him over to justice…or retribution. His superiors sheltered him, and he walked free, Hunter. The man who defiled my beautiful grandchild escaped punishment because I could not prove he had done anything."
Fire blazed in the old man's eyes, and his voice grew thick and deep in his rage. For a moment, the Hunter thought he could see a hint of the man Lord Cyrannius must have been.
"My granddaughter never fully recovered,"—the old lord's words tumbled out now—"and she spent every moment locked in her room. She refused to eat or drink, and soon began to waste away."
His voice cracked, and a tear threatened at the corner of one eye.
"We found her in her room one day, a gash in each wrist. Before we could summon the physickers to her aid, the last of my beautiful Eliesse’s lifeblood emptied onto the cold stone floor of her bedroom."
Tears rolled down his weathered cheeks, and he covered his face with his hands as silent sobs racked his feeble body. The huge attendant simply stood there, impassive, his eyes never leaving the Hunter.
Finally, with a supreme effort of will, Lord Cyrannius managed to recover sufficiently to speak once more.
"To make matters worse," he continued, swallowing hard, "my daughter, her mother, followed her a few days later into the Long Keeper's embrace. I believe she couldn't live with what had happened to her beloved child, and so she took her own life as well."
"And that, good Hunter, is why I have requested your presence here tonight. I want you to be the vengeful hand of the Watcher for me. I want you to seek justice and retribution for the death of my beloved child and grandchild."
Darkblade Assassin: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 1) Page 10