Chapter Twenty-One
The Hunter cursed as the sound of shattering crockery pulled Lady Damuria from sleep. She stared into the darkness, searching for the source of the noise.
"H-Hello?" she asked, a quaver in her voice. "Who's there?"
"It is I, my lady."
"L-Lord Anglion?" She pulled her covers close, as if to protect herself. Heavy curtains blocked all light from entering the tower chamber, hiding the Hunter from her sight. Only a sliver of moonlight penetrated the room, casting an ominous glow on the noblewoman's face.
"Yes, my lady," replied the Hunter.
"What brings you here at this hour, my lord?" Fear filled her voice, and she clutched at the thin blankets.
"I'm sorry, my lady, but I had nowhere else to run." The Hunter couldn't keep the deep fatigue from his voice, and it seemed Lady Damuria sensed his exhaustion.
"My dear Harrenth," she said, flinging aside the covers and leaping from her bed. "What has happened?"
She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body into his. The Hunter felt himself stir in response, but exhaustion won out over desire.
"My-my father," whispered the Hunter, adopting a tone of stunned disbelief, "he's dead, killed by my brother."
"What?" exclaimed the woman in his arms. "Why?"
"My brother wants to take over the family business, and with it, the family fortune. He sent men to kill me as well. I barely escaped with my life."
"Oh, you poor thing. But—by the gods!" she swore. He stepped forward into a patch of moonlight, and her eyes widened as she saw his face. "You are not Lord Anglion! You have his voice, but the face is different." She opened her mouth to cry out, but the Hunter clamped a hand over it.
"Hush, Giselle," he said, his voice quiet and soothing, "it is I, wearing a disguise."
Doubt filled her eyes as she stared up at him.
"My brother wants to kill me, so I had to adopt a disguise to hide from his assassins." The Hunter had rehearsed his lies as he crept through the shadows of Upper Voramis. "My face is different, but feel my hands and you will know that it is me."
He removed the hand covering her mouth. Hesitation flashed across her face as the Hunter intertwined his fingers with hers.
"Tell me you don't remember these hands caressing you, my lady."
At his gentle touch, she stilled.
"Oh my dear Harrenth, it really is you!" She wrapped her arms around his neck once more, holding him close. "It brings me such sorrow to hear of your dear father. You have my condolences, my lord."
"Thank you, my lady," the Hunter said, "but I must not weep now. I am so sorry to come to you like this, but I knew not where else I could find safety."
"Of course, my lord. You are always welcome here, at least until my husband returns. Can I offer you some wine and food?"
Relief flooded the Hunter and his anxiety drained away. Lady Damuria believed his story.
"Some wine would be wonderful, my lady."
Releasing him, Lady Damuria moved to the thick iron-bound door of her chambers. "Barchai," she called, her voice echoing in the stone corridors beyond. From where the Hunter stood in the deep shadows of the room, he couldn't hear the instructions the lady gave her manservant.
When the well-dressed servant entered the room minutes later, he carried a large tray laden with bread, cheese, fruit, and a brass pitcher. The manservant's sharp eyes darted around the room as if searching for something, but the Hunter remained hidden in the gloom.
"That will be all, Barchai," Lady Damuria commanded.
"My lady," the servant bowed and retreated. Only once the door had closed behind the man did the Hunter step from the shadows.
"Come, Harrenth, darling," Lady Damuria said, holding out an inviting hand to him. "Join me on the bed." She arranged her hair in a loose coiffure, using an elegant pin to hold it in place. A thin robe hung from the bedpost, and she reached for it. The Hunter watched her wrap it around her shapely form, marveling at how the silken fabric did little to hide her beauty.
"You look exhausted," she said, a smile crossing her face. She had caught him staring.
"To tell the truth, my lady," the Hunter answered, "I have not slept in what seems like weeks. I have been fleeing for my life, and this is the first time I have felt truly relaxed since my father's death."
He loosened his cloak and dropped it to the floor, taking care to wrap his sword belt and Soulhunger within its dark folds. Within moments, he had stripped down to his dark tunic and breeches, and sat beside Lady Damuria.
"Here, have some wine." She held a cup out to him, and he took it with a smile of thanks.
The wine cooled his dry throat, and he emptied the goblet in one long draught. She smiled as she served him more, and he drained it as quickly as he had the first.
"Forgive me my poor manners, my lady," he said with an apologetic smile.
She waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "No matter, my lord. Given your circumstances, it is fully pardonable." She lay back on the bed with an inviting smile. "Come, lie with me and let me ease your worries."
The wine had a pleasant warming effect, and heat spread through his body as Lady Damuria's robe fell open to reveal the soft skin beneath. He drained his third cup of wine before climbing into bed beside her.
His pain slipped away as she stroked his hair, placed gentle kisses on his neck, and whispered into his ear. The heat of her soft body drained away the tension of the night, and he allowed the fatigue to wash over him. Lady Damuria's warm, gentle hands massaged his shoulders, kneading the tired flesh.
Gods, that feels good, he thought.
She pushed him over onto his stomach, and climbed atop him. Her weight on his back felt wonderful. He relished the softness of her breasts pressing into him. His muscles relaxed, the pressure of her body stretching his spine. She pushed herself into a sitting position atop his back. He imagined he could feel the heat between her thighs, and blood rushed toward his groin.
The thrill of the kill overwhelmed him with desire, reminding him why he had come here. It was the distraction he needed, and he pushed all thoughts of death—and of Ellinor's horror-stricken face—from his mind.
Sudden agony flooded him, piercing the muscle and bone of his back. It rushed through him in overwhelming waves—a pain not even the First's dagger thrust to his heart could match.
"What in the fiery hell?"
The Hunter rolled onto his back, throwing Lady Damuria to the bed beside him. He struggled to stand, but his legs refused to obey his commands. The wine had dulled his senses, and the pain drowned out his thoughts.
He reached around, feeling for the weapon lodged in his upper back. It scraped across bone, and a cry burst from his lips. He held the item up to his eyes, and realized with horror that it was the pin that had once held Lady Damuria's hair in place. Blood stained the pin's length—his blood.
Numbness radiated through his upper body. His shoulder screamed in pain, but slowly the sensation faded. He couldn't move his arm, and his whole back began to stiffen. His skin crawled, his hands burning from holding the pin.
By the Keeper, he thought, struggling for clarity, the thing is made of iron. How did she…
The pin clattered to the floor. He followed it a moment later, his legs collapsing beneath him. The blood pumping in his veins slowed to a sluggish pace. With every beat of his heart, more iron coursed through him.
"How?" he croaked. His throat tightened, every breath burning in his lungs.
"How did I know who you are, Hunter?" Lady Damuria spat the last word at him. "How did I know Lord Anglion never existed?"
She wrapped the robe tighter around her body, covering her nakedness. Stooping, she retrieved the bloody pin from the floor and wiped it on the Hunter's tunic. She straddled him, glaring triumphantly, holding the pin like a weapon.
"My good friend Lord Jahel thought it was something I might like to know." She smiled at his look of stunned disbelief.
Her fa
ce swam before his eyes, and he struggled to focus. The iron coursing through his body felt like the pricks of a thousand red-hot needles. He fought for every ragged, agonizing breath.
"How dare you come here, after what you did?" Lady Damuria shouted. "You not only used the face of Lord Anglion to enter high society, but you came here and shared my bed after you killed my lord husband." Rage and hate burned on her face.
The Hunter tried to push her off, to stand, to move, but the iron flooding through his body left him helpless. Lady Damuria lashed out with the pin. The ornament sliced into his arms, his neck, and his torso. He struggled to cover his face with his arms, which grew weaker by the moment.
Pain lanced into his chest, penetrating the mind-numbing fog. Looking down, the Hunter saw Lady Damuria's pin embedded in his breast.
"They say you are immortal," she panted, her breath hot on his ear, "and yet here you lie, helpless, after being stabbed with a simple pin. It seems the great Hunter is not as mighty as the legends claim."
She pushed herself to her feet, and strode to the door. "Barchai," she called, "help me here."
The woman's voice seemed to come from far in the distance. Molten lead rushed through his limbs, setting his body on fire and immobilizing him. Numbness spread through his body, stealing his wits. He couldn't move.
Rough hands grabbed him by the shoulders, but he could do no more than grunt. The floor moved beneath him, and through his stupor, the Hunter felt his unresisting body being dragged. His ears registered the sound of the balcony doors opening. A cool breeze rushed across his face, the sensation set his skin aflame.
The Hunter heard a grunt of effort, felt his body lifted from the floor. Metal pulsed through his veins. Every beat of his heart sent fresh agony racing through him. Lady Damuria hovered over him, a vicious smile on her face.
"It is a delicious irony that a woman will be the one to kill the legendary Hunter." She grasped his tunic and pulled him close for a final kiss. "Farewell, and may the embrace of the Long Keeper take you away to the eternal torment you so richly deserve."
With a strength born of her anger, Lady Damuria pushed his unresisting body over the railing. He seemed to hang suspended in the air for a long moment, long enough to hear Lady Damuria's final curse.
"Rot in hell, Hunter."
Gravity took hold, and he began the long plunge to the unyielding cobblestones far below.
* * *
Broken and bleeding, the Hunter lay unmoving on the empty street.
Am…I…dead?
His chest rose and fell with effort, his breath bubbling. His arms and legs refused to move.
The iron…poison.
A familiar scent wafted toward him, penetrating the muddle in his dying brain.
Leather, steel, and lilies.
Delicate hands lifted him from the street. It seemed as if he drifted on a cloud. The world moved around him, but he felt nothing. His eyes simply stared unseeing into the starry night.
What…what's happening?
Soft light embraced him as the sun rose, clouds turning the morning sky a gloomy grey. He heard the distant rumble of thunder, tasted a storm on the air. The scent of rain filled his nostrils, but the gentle breeze flowing over his face carried with it that familiar smell once again.
Why do I know that scent?
A face flashed through his mind, a face locked away in his memories. Her face.
He remembered Her. He remembered her scent.
She smelled of rain.
Delicate drops fell on his face, their cool moisture soothing his mangled body and numb mind. The memory of his mystery woman's face faded as pain filled his world, and he slipped into unconsciousness.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The heavy, sickly-sweet smell of incense—the sort lit in the temples on Penance Day—filled the Hunter's nostrils. Darkness pressed in around him like a weight, but the Hunter's mind clawed its way through the pain, as if crawling through thick mud.
His head pounded with such force that it seemed an army waged war inside his skull. Every bone in his body clamored as he struggled to sit upright. Drained, devoid of strength, even the slightest motion required effort.
"Hush," said a quiet voice. A gentle hand pushed him back down. "Best not to try sitting up just yet."
He pried open eyelids heavy with fatigue. Vision swimming, he struggled to focus on the figure in front of him.
A lined, weathered face stared down at him. The scent of vellum, dust, and a smell the Hunter recognized as a soothing balm for aching joints emanated from the man, who looked to be almost as old as the temple itself. Liver spots dotted his skin and bald scalp, and the simple grey robe hung loose on his frame. Arthritic knuckles twisted his hands into grotesque shapes. Decades of hard work and constant stooping had left his back eternally hunched. A long white beard hung to the man's emaciated waist, and a sharp nose sat between thick eyebrows. His eyes, however, burned with a fierce intelligence that age had not dimmed.
The Hunter tried to speak, but the man held up a hand. "You had a nasty fall and barely escaped the Long Keeper's embrace. Might want to give yourself a bit of time to heal before you move."
The old man pulled back the Hunter's eyelids to stare into his eyes, measured his pulse at his neck, and probed the Hunter's ribs with an indelicate finger. His ministrations made the Hunter wince, but he had no strength to resist.
"It's a good thing you were brought here when you were," the man said, staring down at his unmoving patient. "You were a hair's breadth away from death, what with the iron in your blood and every bone in your body shattered. You heal quickly, but it was a close thing even so."
The Hunter struggled to speak, and this time managed to rasp out a few words. "Who…where…?" Even this small effort left him drained.
"Hmm," mused the man, "perhaps you need more time to heal." He disappeared from the Hunter's view for a moment, and when he returned, he held a delicate porcelain cup in his gnarled hands. Steam rose from the bitter, foul-smelling brew, which he poured down the Hunter's throat.
Gasping at the heat, the Hunter fought vainly to push the man away. The old man had surprising strength in his arms, and the Hunter found himself unable to put up much of a fight.
"Enough," the old man said, his voice sharp. "Rest, and we will speak when you awake once more."
An unnatural lethargy stole over the Hunter's limbs. The…tea, he thought, tasting the bitter brew. What was…in…it? Fear flashed through him.
He tried to stay awake, tried to hold off the effects of the tea, but slowly his mind calmed. His tension melted away, and with it his fear. He felt no need to escape, to run away. Though he had no idea where he was, it had the feel of a sanctuary, a place of peace.
A soothing warmth crept through his body, and he drifted in and out of fitful sleep, floating in a painless void.
* * *
His eyes snapped open. The pounding in his head had subsided, the pain in his limbs fading. His side no longer ached when he breathed.
A candle burned low on the table, casting dancing shadows on the room's bare walls. Turning his head, the Hunter found his caretaker beside his bed, reclining in a comfortable chair. His twisted fingers gripped a tome that looked as ancient as the man himself.
The Hunter tried to sit up, but his body was still too weak. He slumped back, exhausted.
At the sound, the white-haired man turned. "Ah," he said, with a small smile, "you are awake. Wonderful."
With delicate care, he placed the ribbon in the book to mark his place and set the volume on the table. He groaned as he climbed to his feet, rubbing his back as he bent to examine the Hunter.
"Where am I?" rasped the Hunter. "Who are you?" He coughed, his throat dry.
"Forgive me, Hunter," said the man, "you must be parched."
Upon the table sat an ornamental blue teapot, which stood out as the single spot of color in the stark simplicity of the room. From it, the man poured steaming liquid into a small
cup, which he brought to the Hunter.
The Hunter hesitated, unsure of what the tea contained. He sniffed, trying to detect the ingredients.
Seeing the Hunter's hesitant expression, the old man gave him a hard look. "Drink," he said. "It won't put you to sleep again. It's a healing tea that should have you back on your feet quickly."
The Hunter grimaced at the bitter brew, but emptied the cup. His eyes took in the room around him. There was little but the stone walls and a plain wooden door, the room bare of furnishings save for his bed, the table, and the man's simple chair.
His eyes fell on Soulhunger, which lay on the table, still in its sheath. The dagger's voice whispered quietly in the back of his mind. Anger emanated from the blade. His hand jerked of its own accord, as if to reach for his weapon.
"I wouldn't," said the old man, giving him a hard look. "You have a long way to go before you're up and about."
"Where am I?" the Hunter croaked, his voice weak.
"The House of Need."
The temple of the Beggar Priests. The Hunter's heart sank. His eyes flashed to the man standing over him, uneasiness filling him as he saw the simple grey robes—and the blue rings around his collar.
A priest. The three rings marked him as a high-ranking member of the Beggar God's clergy.
"By the look on your face," said the priest, lines of anger around his mouth, "you've realized the gravity of your situation." His eyes turned hard, and he clenched his jaw. "After what you did to Brother Securus…" He trailed off, letting the words hang in the air.
The Hunter's unease blossomed into panic, and his eyes flicked to Soulhunger on the table. He tensed, ready to leap out of bed at the first sign of danger.
"Fear not," the priest said, holding up a hand to forestall action. "If I was going to kill you, I'd simply have left you outside our door when she abandoned you for dead."
The Hunter studied the old priest, trying to read his expression. The priest appeared to speak the truth, but the Hunter refused to let his guard down. Not here.
Darkblade Assassin: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 1) Page 19