The Hunter steeled his expression. "Lead on."
The Elivasti strode down the dirt path, and the Hunter followed. He drank in the panoramic view: the craggy mountaintops, the field of white clouds that obscured the Hrandari Plains, the perfect blue sky. And, above all, the city of the Elivasti.
The order and symmetry put the architects of Voramis to shame. Instead of a chaotic mess of buildings in all shapes and sizes, row after row of square houses spread out from the base of the temples. Some had a second floor, but there was a determined uniformity in the tightly-packed construction. The structures, while by no means approaching the wealth of Upper Voramis, appeared sturdy and well-built.
Narrow streets divided the houses into neat cubes with a precision any mathematician would envy. Here and there, swaths of green mingled among the flat roofs and white limestone walls. The water that flowed through the gutters looked clean enough to drink. The city lacked the "lived in" quality that had made Voramis seem almost alive. And there was something missing, but he couldn't put his finger on what.
Then it hit him. The smell! He drew in a deep breath. An Elivasti walked not two paces away, but to the Hunter's nose he was invisible. The odors of wet earth and fire smoke hung over the city, but it was devoid of the myriad scents that marked every human as unique.
One feature stood out among the perfection: a wall, carved from the dark stone of Shana Laal, encircled a large portion of the city. It cut through the ordered streets with a brutality that spoke of afterthought rather than careful planning.
The Hunter pushed his curiosity to the back of his mind. He doubted his laconic companion would offer more than a grunt. Instead, he focused on making a mental map of their path through the city. A steady stream of Elivasti ebbed and flowed around them. Few paused for more than a moment of polite gawking. They wore simple, practical clothing, but they looked well-fed and with no sign of the disease or hunger that plagued Lower Voramis. Men and women moved about their business at an unhurried pace. Compared to the towns and cities the Hunter had visited, the Elivasti led calm lives.
What a curious dichotomy. They serve demons, yet they live better than most of Einan.
Guilt nagged at the Hunter as he thought of Hailen in Kharan-cui. Alone, among strangers, and in an unfamiliar place. He'd had no choice—Hailen would never survive the climb, and the Hunter couldn't risk the Sage or Warmaster using him as leverage—but he didn't have to like it.
I have to end this soon. I can't leave him alone much longer.
A part of him wondered if returning to the boy would be any better. He'd come so close to leaving Hailen at the nearest House of Need. The Beggar Priests would care for him, protect him from the threats he couldn't understand existed. But what happened in the desert had changed his mind. Hailen's blood activating the standing stones. Healing him from the iron. His eyes turning the same shade of purple as the Elivasti walking beside him. He couldn't leave the boy now, not until he understood whatever change had come over him.
He had come to Kara-ket in the hopes of finding the purple-eyed man from his memories, and the Mistress' luck had smiled on him. Master Eldor's presence at the training grounds raised his hopes; the man had to be able to provide answers about his past. Surely the Elivasti who had trained him would remember him. He would know what had happened to Hailen, even provide a cure.
But first he had to find the man.
He could ask his silent guide, but didn't risk the Sage discovering his association with the man. Right now, with Hailen safely in Kharan-cui, the demon had nothing to use as leverage against the Hunter, no weaknesses to exploit. A connection to Master Eldor could—and, knowing the Abiarazi, would—be exploited.
No, his encounter with the man had to appear random, at least to the Sage's minion. But perhaps he could narrow the search.
If his memories served, Master Eldor had schooled him in combat decades ago. The Elivasti's flowing fighting style couldn't have come from the Warmaster; the Abiarazi fought with the practical brutality of his kind. Perhaps the old Elivasti still had a hand in training the warriors. It was as good a place to start as any.
The Hunter turned to his guide. "Where do your warriors train?"
The Elivasti eyed him in stony silence.
"The Sage said you were to guide me wherever I wish to go." The Hunter crossed his arms. "Wherever."
The mask hid the man's expression, but the tension in his shoulders and his too-relaxed grip on his iron-tipped staff gave away his true feelings. After a long moment, he set off east. Their path led along the base of the mountain, where the temple hid the sun from view and the air had a crispy bite to it. Only the pillars of steam and heat emanating from the holes in the ground kept the chill at bay.
Within minutes, the Hunter's keen ears detected a familiar sound: the shouting of instructors and the clack of wooden weapons. Around the next corner, they came upon the Elivasti training field.
Ten rows of warriors—fewer than two hundred in all—occupied the expanse of green, arrayed with the same symmetry as the houses around them. As one, they moved to the shouted commands of four grey-haired men that strode up and down the lines. A solitary figure stood at the head of the field, a birch rod held in the hands clasped behind his ramrod-straight back.
Master Eldor. The Hunter's pace quickened. His hunch had proven correct. Apprehension warred with his excitement. There stood a man who could offer answers about his forgotten past. But what if he didn't like what he discovered?
Mockery radiated from the demon's presence in the back of his mind. He could almost hear its snide comments, its taunts at his weakness.
As he approached, he couldn't help marveling at the precision of the warriors' movements. Even the young Elivasti in the front rows kicked, punched, stepped, and struck with a coordination and fluidity any Warrior Priest or Legionnaire in Voramis would envy. Each action was controlled, graceful. They wore no masks, only simple white and black tunics and breeches. Though sweat trickled down their red faces, their expressions revealed none of the strain of exertion.
He turned to his guide. "I wish to stay and watch a while. I know my way back."
The Elivasti hesitated only a moment before bowing. The Hunter guessed the Sage had given his "guide" instructions to observe his movements and interactions. Unobtrusively, of course. Refusing the outright dismissal would reveal the truth.
He came to stand beside Master Eldor. He racked his brain; what could he say to the man he'd known a lifetime ago?
Master Eldor glanced at him. "Welcome, honored guest of the Sage."
The Hunter was taken aback by the formality in his words. The Elivasti's expression revealed no recognition; indeed, his eyes had grown as blank and hard as the stone cliffs. Disappointment tingled in the Hunter's stomach.
Now what? He couldn't come out and say, "Don't you recognize me? I think you trained me I-don't-know-how-many years ago." So how could he bring up the subject of his history with the old Elivasti?
"No one but me stands around."
It took the Hunter a moment to realize Master Eldor was speaking to him.
"You're welcome to leave, but if you stay, you train."
The Hunter's jaw dropped. That sharp, commanding tone was so familiar, he almost obeyed it out of habit. He had to stop himself from moving forward.
"I won't repeat myself again, boy." Master Eldor turned a glare on him. "Get in line," he growled in a voice that carried across the training field.
The Hunter's cheeks burned as all eyes turned to him. He had half a mind to call out the old man here and—
"Do it," Master Eldor hissed under his breath. "It's the only way."
Every shred of the Hunter's self-control went into keeping his expression impassive. Only way to what?
"Now!" Master Eldor snapped in a loud voice, and the birch rod thwacked against his leg. "I won't repeat myself."
The Hunter found himself shedding his cloak, tunic, and harness.
Master Eldor
strode around him, his face a mask of displeasure. "Faster!" When his back was turned to the ranks of training warriors, he whispered. "I know why you've come, but now's not the time. It's not safe to talk here. Train, and we'll talk later."
Curiosity burned through the Hunter's surprise. Master Eldor did recognize him! But why the façade?
"In line!" the old Elivasti shouted.
The Hunter darted out of reach of the snapping birch cane and took his place between two Elivasti youths in the front row.
"We have an honored guest today!" Master Eldor spoke for all to hear. "The Sage has welcomed him into Kara-ket. It's up to us to give him a traditional Shana Laal welcome, eh, lads?"
Something about the twinkle in the old Elivasti's eyes and the dark chuckles of the men around him gave the Hunter a sneaking suspicion he would not enjoy his reception here.
Chapter Sixteen
"Enough!"
The Hunter groaned in relief at Master Eldor's command. He sagged to one knee, gasping for breath. His body had begun adapting to the thin mountain air, but the old Elivasti had pushed him to the limits of his endurance. His "Shana Laal welcome" consisted of a ten-bout sparring match against well-trained men that had no doubt spent their lives at the high altitude. He would have been hard-pressed even in the lowlands.
At least Master Eldor had let him face his opponents with a wooden sword and dirk instead of the long staves the Elivasti wielded. He had never mastered the quarterstaff. His ribs, shoulders, legs, and head ached from the battering he'd taken at the hands of the purple-eyed warriors.
"Good enough," was all the approval he received from Master Eldor.
One of the grey-haired men—the Elivasti version of drill sergeants, it seemed—pulled him to his feet and handed him a gourd of water. "Rest on your feet. Don't want your muscles to seize up on you."
The Hunter drained the water in a long draught. The fifteen men he'd fought, sometimes facing two or three at a time, looked no worse for the wear. They had rejoined their ranks and stood at attention, eyes fixed on Master Eldor.
The old Elivasti strode before the assembled men, hands clasped behind his back. He stopped at one—a man the Hunter had seen fighting the Warmaster. "You're getting better, Erianus."
Erianus bowed. "Thank you, Master Eldor."
"You still leave your knees undefended, though." He tapped the man's thigh with his birch cane. "And there's a hole in your guard wide enough for Hanarra to ram his cock through."
Erianus reddened, much to the delight of the assembled crowd. One warrior—a pudgy, pale-faced redhead—laughed louder than the rest. Hanarra, no doubt.
Master Eldor flicked his cane toward the man's face. "And you, remember this: a third leg won't help you move any faster."
Hanarra flinched, the tip of Master Eldor's stick a finger's breadth from his nose.
Master Eldor lowered the cane. "Tomorrow, report to Angen for speed drills."
The warrior's face fell, but he bowed. "Yes, Master Eldor."
Down the line the old Elivasti went, giving an occasional word of instruction, encouragement, or criticism. Finally, he nodded to one of the drill sergeants.
"Dismissed!" the man shouted in a voice that echoed off the mountainside.
As one, the neat ranks collapsed into a group of nearly two hundred exhausted men trudging their way off the training field. A few actually nodded as they passed the Hunter, including the men he'd faced. The grudging respect of warriors.
Once again, he was surprised at their utter lack of scent. Not even the smell of sweat or the odor of men hard at work. How is it possible?
"And you." Master Eldor's voice held a sharp edge, his purple eyes fixed on the Hunter. "You show promise, but have far too many bad habits that require special training to deal with. Follow me."
Without a backward glance, the Elivasti strode away from the training field. The Hunter scrambled to gather his gear and hurried after the old man.
"Master El—"
"Not yet," Master Eldor said in a low voice. His pace never slowed. "There are eyes and ears everywhere."
The Hunter held his tongue as the Elivasti led him through the neat, clean streets of the city. They stood before the only two-story building on the street. The sign of an anvil and hammer hung over the entrance, and the thick, sticky smoke seeping through the open windows stung the Hunter's nostrils.
Master Eldor pushed open the door and strode into the smithy without hesitation. Entering the smithy felt like stepping through a portal into a fiery hell, one that reeked of scorched metal. Vents in the walls belched thick clouds of steam, and the humidity and unfamiliar pungent odor of the room made it feel oppressive and cramped. The Hunter's lungs burned from the iron shavings floating in the air.
A broad-shouldered man in a soot-stained apron glanced over his shoulder. "This had better be good." He stopped as his eyes fell on Master Eldor. "Oh, it's you."
"Belros," the old Elivasti nodded. "We have company."
The big smith wiped his blackened hands on a filthy rag and thrust one toward the Hunter. "Welcome." His teeth shone white against his ash-covered face.
The Hunter returned the smith's grip. "Thank you."
Master Eldor gestured toward a door in the rear of the smithy. "Don't let us interrupt your work, Belros. We'll be in the courtyard." The old Elivasti pushed past the smith. "Through here."
With a nod to Belros, the Hunter followed Master Eldor into a high-walled courtyard on the far side of the smithy. Sunlight glinted off the weapons—swords, daggers, spears, axes, flails, polearms, and scores more the Hunter had never seen before—sitting on shelves and racks around the space.
"What is this place?"
Master Eldor lifted a sword from a rack and tossed it to the Hunter. "Belros likes to call it his 'proving ground'. Here, the weapons are tested for flaws or weaknesses."
The Hunter studied the watered steel glinting in the sunlight. It weighed less than he expected for such a sturdy, well-crafted blade. Though it lacked the curved edge he favored, the sword balanced perfectly in his grip. It would be worth a small fortune in Voramis.
"Truly the work of a master smith."
"I'm certain Belros would be pleased to hear that. He allows me the privilege of being the first to handle his creations." He smiled. "I consider it my private training ground. The perfect place to keep these old bones from rusting—and providing extra schooling to particularly promising pupils." He gave the Hunter a meaningful look. "Which you always were."
The Hunter's heart leapt. “So you…you know who I am? You remember me?"
"Truth be, I almost didn't recognize you." Master Eldor eyed him from head to toe, studying him as a master sculptor examined a block of uncut marble. "You've changed your face again, though why you chose this particular look I'll never know."
The Hunter blinked. "M-my face?"
Master Eldor waved a finger at him. "Thicker eyebrows, longer nose, wider mouth—features common to southern Einan. Last time I saw you, you looked more like a northerner. Stronger, harder features. Though I'll admit age has been far kinder to you than to some of us."
The Hunter stared, mouth agape. His brain refused to form coherent sentences. This man—this Elivasti—spoke as if they were old friends, yet the Hunter had only one memory of the man. He hadn't changed much. The wagon-rut lines on his weathered face had deepened. His salt-and-pepper beard hung down to his chest, and his hair had more grey than black. But he was the same Master Eldor, with those same violet eyes.
"I know that look." Master Eldor's lips twitched. "You've come with questions, the same sort that plagued you when last we spoke."
The Hunter swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and nodded.
"Ask, and I will give what answers I can."
A hundred questions raced through the Hunter's mind, each fighting to escape his mouth. "Who am I?"
Master Eldor chuckled. "I fear you've come to the wrong man for answers to such existential questions. I am
only a warrior who—"
"That's not what I meant." The Hunter rolled his eyes. "You remember me from…long ago." He had no idea how many years had passed since he'd last seen the Elivasti. At least four or five decades, given how long he'd lived in Voramis. "Tell me what you remember of me. What was my name?"
The old Elivasti's brow furrowed. "I never knew."
The Hunter started. "What?" His mind raced. "Never?"
Master Eldor shook his head. "When you stumbled into my camp, you had nothing—no memory, no name, no belongings. Except for that dagger of yours. That blade was a true masterpiece." He narrowed his eyes. "Do you still have it?"
The Hunter stiffened. Don't tell me he wants it as well. No matter where he went, someone always craved the dagger—or, more accurately, the power it offered.
"Easy, lad." Master Eldor held up his hands. "A warrior's curiosity, nothing more."
The Hunter hesitated. From what little he could remember, he had trusted Master Eldor once, long ago. But the ragged gaps in his memory left him uncertain. He met the Elivasti's gaze. The violet eyes stared back at him with no hint of guile or deceit. Casting a wary glance around, he drew Soulhunger from its hidden sheath and held it out to Master Eldor.
"Breathtaking!" Master Eldor spoke in a reverent whisper. "What I wouldn't give to spend a day studying under its creator."
"You say I stumbled into your camp with nothing else?"
The Elivasti shook his head. "Wearing nothing but rags, really. You were half-mad, unable to remember anything—no name, no memory, nothing."
The Hunter's heart sank. He'd desperately hoped to find out about the past the Illusionist Clerics had taken from him. The words of Imperius, the mad priest, echoed in his mind. "Your mistakes, your choices, live for thousands of years. With your memories erased, you are reborn. We offer you a clean slate, a chance to make of yourself a new, better creature."
He had stood beside the Abiarazi in the War of Gods, knelt before the fiery portal into hell on the day the gods cleansed Einan. That had been thousands of years ago. How many lifetimes had he lost to the priests of the Illusionist? He'd hoped Master Eldor could offer him answers about himself. Disappointment sat like a boulder in his gut.
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