Darkblade Savior

by Andy Peloquin

  A pity Ryken is already dead, the Hunter thought. This little charade would have earned him a lot of enemies.

  He pushed through the wicket gate and paused as the wave of stench assaulted his nostrils. He drew in a few deep breaths to desensitize his sense of smell—better not to risk emptying his stomach in front of the Elivasti. After a few moments of acclimation, the Hunter sucked in a last breath of semi-fresh air and tromped down the stairs toward the muddy ground of the Pit far below. He made sure his Blood Sentinel armor clanked loud enough to draw the attention of the ten Elivasti stationed at the bottom of the stairs. They turned, went rigid at the sight of the crossed red fists painted onto his breastplate, and quickly hastened to form neat ranks and snap a salute.

  “What brings you to the Pit, Detrarch?” asked one of the men. His breastplate bore a single clenched fist painted in white—doubtless the equivalent of a sergeant or corporal.

  “Our master’s orders,” the Hunter growled. “He’s taken special interest in one of the prisoners. The woman brought in two days ago.”

  “She’s spirited, that filly,” one of the men put in, and he exchanged a broad grin with another of the guards. “Though it seems she’s learned the little lesson we taught her. She’s been keeping quiet since yesterday.”

  “The Sage will have her screaming soon enough.” The Hunter twisted his lip into a sneer. Ryken just had one of those faces made for growling, glaring, and sneering. The miasma of stench emanating from the Pit around him lent an authenticity to his expression of disgust and disdain. “Point me to her,” he demanded.

  “I’ll be happy to send a couple of my men to accompany you, Detrarch,” the officer put in. “You never know when the brutes will get restive.”

  “Especially that one.” The same Elivasti spoke again. “Nearly clawed out Polyn’s eyes, she did.”

  The Hunter hefted his Scorchslayer. “This’ll keep her docile enough. The Sage’d prefer her alive, but he didn’t say anything about minding her dead either.”

  “Er, sorry, Detrarch.” The officer cleared his throat. “I’ll have to keep that here. Your spikestaff, too.”

  The Hunter loomed over the man, Ryken’s face a mask of fury. “Is that so?” he snarled.

  The sergeant cowed slightly, but managed to nod his head. “Yes, sir. Warmaster’s orders. Can’t risk any of the natives getting their hands on it and doing something foolish.”

  The Hunter cocked an eyebrow. “And how would they do that? Or did you not know these can only be used by someone of Elivasti blood?” He sneered. “No, of course you wouldn’t know that. Our master doesn’t trust you enough to give you one of these. Instead, you get stuck down here.”

  The sergeant’s expression froze, and something dangerous flashed in his violet eyes. The Hunter knew he was pushing the man too far. Time to reel it back in a bit.

  “But I will let you take this.” The Hunter drew his spikestaff and tossed it to the officer. “Don’t want to risk any of these miserable wretches poking you lot. Now, which of you is going to show me where to find this woman?”

  “Engen, Iyadar,” the sergeant snapped. “With him.”

  The man that had spoken and the one he’d exchanged glances with stepped forward with nervous expression. “Yes, Heptarch.”

  The Hunter turned and stepped into the muck of the Pit without waiting for the two guards to follow. It was the sort of confident thing an elite warrior would do, forcing the men under his command to hurry to catch up. It quickly established which of them was dominant in the situation.

  A moment later, the sound of boots squelching through muck grew louder as the two Elivasti guardsmen pursued him. They splashed past him, then slowed to match his pace.

  The Hunter noted the comfortable way they gripped their wooden truncheons, and how the hollow-eyed men and women they passed flinched back from the two men. Clearly they, like Setin and Ardem, had heaped all manner of abuse on the people in the Pit.

  A harsh smile spread the Hunter’s lips. Their time will come soon enough.

  He knew how to reach the shelter where he’d left Kiara, but he couldn’t let the two Elivasti know. Though he chafed at their slow pace, he had to force himself to pretend that he followed them.

  He cast a glance skyward. The moon hung low over the peaks of the Empty Mountains, its entire right half turned red by the boiling cloud. Time grew short—the Withering would be upon them far too soon.

  “Our master doesn’t have all night,” the Hunter barked. “He wants this one brought to him before we all die of old age.”

  “Yes, sir, sorry, sir!” The taller of the two—who the Hunter arbitrarily decided looked more like an Iyadar—gulped out. He shot a glance at his companion—the red-rimmed eyes and pockmarked eyes fit the name Engen—and picked up the pace.

  The Hunter followed them through the decrepit shelters, and it took effort to maintain his haughty expression in the face of such misery. The crossing took at least fifteen minutes, even at the hurried pace. The squelching mud clung to his boots, making it difficult to move quickly. The layer of muck grew thicker as they passed a particularly malodorous stretch of heaped mud, offal, and human refuse. The shit pit, where Setin and Ardem’s corpses lay rotting.

  His heart leapt as he caught sight of the shelter where he’d left Kiara the previous day. The woman sat slumped against a rickety wall, her eyes closed, a ragged blanket covering her body. The bruises on her face had faded from a deep purple to a mixture of yellows, browns, and blues.

  “There you a—” Iyadar started to say.

  He never finished his words.

  The Hunter drove his gauntleted fist into the base of the man’s skull, and the force of the blow caved in the entire back half of his head. His neck gave a loud crack and gore trickled down his armor as he slumped.

  The Hunter spun before Engen could react. His fist caught Engen’s gaping jaw, and the man’s head snapped around. He hit the muddy earth with a splash, face-down. The Hunter took two steps, lifted his foot, and drove his heavy boot into the man’s head. Crimson and grey matter joined the reeking muck.

  A quiet gasp sounded behind the Hunter. He turned to see Kiara staring wide-eyed at the two corpses on the floor, then up at him.

  He shifted his features back to his own and smiled at Kiara. “I told you I’d be back.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Well, that’s one way to announce your presence,” Kiara said. A hint of relief flashed through her eyes, and her shoulders relaxed.

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. “Should I send flowers next time? A nice fruit basket, perhaps?”

  Kiara twitched aside the blanket to reveal a dagger gripped in her left hand. “This feels appropriate, given our surroundings.”

  He extended a hand to her, and she pulled herself to her feet. She was shorter than him, but she radiated surprising strength, even covered in mud and wearing tattered clothing.

  “Remember when I said I’ll find a way to get you out?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Remember when I said you’ve got more important things to deal with, and that I’ll handle this?”

  The Hunter grinned. “I’ve got a way to do both at once.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “What’ve you got in mind?”

  “First, we get rid of the bodies.” The Hunter glanced down at the two Elivasti he’d just killed.

  “Ryat!” Kiara called.

  A moment later, the tall man he’d met the previous day shuffled from the tent. To the Hunter’s surprise, he found a hint of life in the man’s dull gaze. He still had the same vacant look as he’d had the previous day, but now a spark of something—purpose, hope, life—shone in his dark eyes.

  “Got two more for the shit pile.” Kiara motioned to the bodies.

  “Aye,” Ryat said in a slow, heavy voice. “I’ll see it taken care of.”

  “Good.” Kiara nodded. “Strip their armor, clothing, and weapons first, then dump them. We’ll add their gear to our pile.” />
  “Pile?” the Hunter asked.

  Kiara grinned and jerked her head toward the shelter. “This way.”

  She’d somehow managed to improve the shelter, rigging up a series of blankets to offer cover from the elements and a modicum of privacy. She had even expanded it by adding four extra poles she’d scrounged up from Keeper-knew-where.

  A small pile of wood shavings lay heaped on the muddy floor on one side of the room. Beside it, a filthy, tattered blanket covered something that hadn’t been here the previous day. Kiara pulled the blanket aside to reveal a pile of long, straight poles with sharpened tips.

  The Hunter shot a glance at her. “You’ve been busy, I see.”

  Kiara shrugged. “You told me not to do anything stupid with those daggers. I didn’t listen.” She grinned. “Ryat’s been helping me, him and a few others. We’ve got close to fifty.”

  The Hunter studied the makeshift spears. They looked to have been made from the wooden poles holding up the shelter. “Keeper’s beard, Kiara! That’s brilliant.”

  “I know.” She gave him a self-satisfied grin. “We got busy the minute you left. I wasn’t going to wait until you decided to grace us with your presence again”—her words had a teasing edge—“so I figured I’d break myself out of this place. Me, and as many others as I could convince to come along. The first problem to solve was the lack of weapons. As you can see, we’ve got that covered.”

  “I’ve got a way to get you out.” He glanced around. “But it’s going to take all of them. We need everyone if we’re going to defeat the Sage and his Elivasti.”

  Kiara’s expression grew grim. “I don’t know, Hunter. I’ve spent the last day talking Ryat and a handful of others into just helping me sharpen these sticks. I’ve got maybe twenty keeping watch on the purple-eyes, keeping us covered so we can work without being caught. But even if we had twice that number, we couldn’t fight our way free. Not with wooden sticks and three sets of armor against fifty Elivasti.”

  “Seventy.” The Hunter shook his head. “There are thirty on watch outside the gate.”

  Kiara swore, a stream of curses that made even the Hunter’s ears burn. “I’ve seen what you can do, Hunter, but I don’t think even you can carve your way out of this.”

  “The vote of confidence is appreciated.” The Hunter shot her a droll look, then his face grew serious. “But you’re right. There are too many for me to take on alone, and even with your twenty, that’s not enough. The Sage has Hailen, and he’s surrounded by his Blood Sentinels and more than a hundred Elivasti. I can’t stop him alone. Our only hope is to get everyone in Khar’nath to fight with us.”

  Kiara’s jaw dropped. For a long moment, she stared at him in stunned silence. “The First always said you had an impressive pair on you. But this dances right along the line of impossible. You’ve seen for yourself how downtrodden these people are. Most have spent their lives locked up, beaten and ground into the dust by their captors. We’re talking years, Hunter. Decades. An entire life of suffering and death. They’ve watched the Elivasti kill their parents, siblings, friends. That’s the sort of thing that breaks the spirit and wears away at the will until nothing remains.”

  The Hunter clenched a fist. “I can’t believe that. Glass may shatter and steel may bend, but no man is broken beyond repair.” He met her eyes. “When you told me the story of how Sir Danna found you, you said you were ready to give up and die, yes?”

  Shame flashed in her eyes. “Yes,” she said in a quiet voice.

  “But what stopped you? What brought you back from that edge?”

  “She offered me a chance to atone.”

  “She gave you a purpose,” the Hunter said, nodding. “Something to keep you focused on, to push you forward.”

  Kiara’s expression grew thoughtful.

  “I almost gave up, you know.” The Hunter had never said it aloud—he’d never had anyone to say it to. “I almost accepted death as inevitable. I came within a heartbeat of welcoming it. Anything to put an end to my pain.”

  Kiara seemed surprised. “Really? You?”

  The Hunter nodded. “That night, before we fought the First in the tunnels, I had battled the Third—a battle that very nearly killed me—then got caught in a cave-in. I lay buried beneath the rubble, my body shattered, too weak to move.”

  Kiara’s brow furrowed. “It’s hard to imagine that.”

  “The thing that stopped me was the knowledge that if I didn’t get up, if I didn’t keep fighting, the First would be free hurt more people.” A lump rose to his throat with the return of the painful memory. “As I lay there, I saw Farida’s face as clear as I’m seeing you now. Not covered in blood as she lay dying, but the happy, bright-eyed girl I had loved. She didn’t blame me for her death, didn’t use guilt to drive me on. Instead, she…thanked me.”

  His voice cracked, and tears slid down his cheeks. He had tried to push back this memory for so long, tried to avoid the pain for fear it would overwhelm him. Yet, suddenly, he knew that he had to face it. He had to feel that pain so he could understand the suffering of the people around him. Not their physical suffering—not even the Warmaster’s cruelest torments could compare with a lifetime locked in a hellhole like this—but the emotional and mental anguish they endured every day of their lives.

  He swallowed hard and wiped the tears away. “She said that my life had meaning to at least one person.” He smiled, and a wave of happiness surged in his chest. “I saved her life, and that was excuse enough for me to keep living. So I could save more lives, lives like the people trapped in this place.”

  Kiara seemed at a loss for words.

  “For decades, I felt so alone,” the Hunter continued. “No one knew the truth of who I was. Even those I called my friends, even Farida, they never knew the truth.” His eyes met hers. “But you know. Hailen knows. I am not alone. You are not alone.” He gestured around him. “They are not alone.”

  The words pouring from his mouth surprised the Hunter. He’d never been one for grand speeches, yet a change had come over him, beginning back in Voramis the night he accepted the Beggar Priests’ quest to kill the demon.

  For decades, he’d told himself he didn’t care. He killed without hesitation, confident that all men and women deserved death for some reason. Yet since leaving Voramis, he’d discovered that life wasn’t truly as black and white as he’d wanted to believe. Some people truly were worth saving.

  In saving Farida’s life that night so long ago, he’d proven—both unconsciously to himself and to the Cambionari watching him—that he had more humanity than he realized. Bardin had saved him in Malandria and in doing so had led him to discover a truth about himself: he was a protector of those who could not protect themselves. With Hailen, he’d found a purpose beyond simple existence. The boy had given him something worth fighting for, something worth dying for. Kiara, Taiana, Sir Danna, Evren, Visibos, Rassek and Darillon, Master Eldor, and all the others in his life—they had shown him the goodness that existed in the hearts of mankind. Goodness that he could not ignore, could not turn away from. Goodness he could not allow the Sage to destroy by returning Kharna to the world.

  He had come a long way from the assassin of Voramis, indeed. Everything he’d endured had brought him to Enarium, in time for the Withering, putting him in the place where he was needed most. Made him the man, the Bucelarii, he needed to be.

  “You and I will fight for them,” he told Kiara in a firm, confident voice, “and in doing so, help them to fight for themselves. We will show them to stand strong, together.”

  “Together.” She nodded.

  “Together.” A quiet voice echoed from behind them.

  The Hunter whirled to see Ryat standing in the opening. He’d been so consumed by his conversation with Kiara he hadn’t heard the man’s approach. How much did he hear?

  “You are right,” the tall man said. His voice had lost its dull edge and new life sparkled in his dark eyes. “We are neither glass nor ir
on. We are not broken beyond repair.”

  He stepped into the shelter, and two more men entered behind him.

  “For years,” Ryat said, “we have sat by and done nothing as the Elivasti did their worst. We could do nothing. Their cruelties are created to shatter our will and our minds, until only empty husks remain.” He raised a clenched fist. “Yet we are more than husks. We are men.”

  “And women.” A fourth figure, this one a stocky, matronly woman with a child on her hip, stepped into the shelter.

  “You have strength in numbers,” the Hunter said, as he turned to the people that had entered. Through the open blanket, he saw more figures standing out. He strode from the tent and raised his voice so all nearby could hear him. “Do you know how many enemies stand between you and freedom?”

  Few of the people in the shelters around Kiara’s even bothered to look up, but one or two cast dull-eyed glances his way.

  “Not thousands, not hundreds.” He shook his head. “Seventy. Seventy Elivasti in solid armor, with wooden clubs. They may look fearsome, but how many of you are there?”

  A few more faces turned his way as Ryat, Kiara, and the others emerged from the shelter behind him.

  “Six hundred and eighty-four thousand.” He remained silent for a moment to let the words sink in. “Nearly seven hundred thousand against seventy. If even one in a hundred of you fight, you still outnumber them one hundred to one!”

  “They may have weapons and armor,” Kiara added her voice to his, “but they cannot stop us all. We are more powerful than they are. We have the might to roll over them like a thunderstorm over the mountains.”

  Ryat stepped up beside him. “Think of your families.” His voice rang out with surprising strength. “Your children.”

  All around, men and women looked down at their emaciated, muck-covered infants, toddlers, infants, and youths.