Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

  Harsh laughter rang out, but the smile never reached the Warmaster's midnight eyes. "You may be one of us, but blood is nothing in the face of treachery!"

  The Hunter's mind raced. The demon had to know about the First and the Third, but no one could know he'd killed the demons in Malandria and Al Hani.

  "What are you talking about?" He swallowed a mouthful of bloody saliva. "What treachery?"

  "The other night, I gave you a chance to join me. I believed you when you said you were remaining with the Sage to find a way to eliminate him. So logical." His face twisted into a snarl. "When I encountered the stink of Bucelarii in my chambers, I told myself it was a mistake. 'Surely he wouldn’t accept my offer then stab me in the back on the same night!' I insisted. The moment I saw you with the Sage at the Expurgation, I knew I was right. You took me for a fool. Then I hear you are sneaking around my bridge, and I get to thinking. Why would he be doing that? Surely he could find a way to slip free of the Sage's watchers and enter my domain through the front door."

  The Warmaster leaned closer, his voice dropping low. "You played me, just like he would. You're just like him: conniving, deceitful, treacherous. Not a warrior, like I thought. Nothing but an assassin, a murderer for hire, the sort of lowlife he would use. The moment you chose the Sage, you sealed your fate!"

  "But I—"

  The Warmaster's fist slammed into the Hunter's jaw. "But nothing! You are the Sage's creature, and every word out of your mouth is a lie. Killing you would deprive him of a valuable tool." His face hovered close to the Hunter's, and he spoke in a low, guttural whisper. "But once you are broken, I will make you mine. You will be my tool, to use as I see fit."

  Cold dread seeped into the Hunter's veins. He'd survived torture before, but this promised to be far worse. The Masters of Agony were renowned for their ability to inflict such terrible torments that even the strongest of men sought the relief of insanity and suicide. And now, he was to suffer at the hands of the Abiarazi who commanded them, who no doubt had taught them everything they knew. Even his inhuman constitution would eventually fail beneath the torments.

  An image of Hailen played in his mind, replaced a moment later by his memory of Her. The swell of life in Her belly, the warmth in Her smile as She reached for him. Her presence pulsed in the back of his mind. He clung to it, used those images to drive back the beginnings of fear.

  He would survive the Warmaster's worst. For Hailen. For Her. He had a reason to live: to free Hailen from the enclosure and the curse of the Irrsinnon. To find that woman who brought a swell of emotion to his chest every time he saw Her face. If what he'd seen in his memories was true…

  "Look at that, not a drop of blood!" The Warmaster poked at the Hunter's arms. The pain had faded as his body repaired the injured flesh. "It's been thousands of years since I was fortunate enough to practice on one of my kind. The way we heal…" He closed his eyes, and an almost orgasmic shiver ran down his spine. "It makes the art all the more enjoyable!"

  Men wearing the scarlet robes of the Masters of Agony entered the room. One pushed a wheeled cart, where row upon row of steel implements—hammers, saws, drills, knives, needles, and dozens more the Hunter didn't recognize—glinted in the lamplight. The torturers watched him with eager, hungry eyes, like predators studying their prey.

  The Hunter opened his mouth to speak, but the Warmaster shook his head. "Don't waste your breath on words. You'll need it for screaming." With a horrible, gleeful grin, he reached for the first tool.

  Chapter Forty

  "Well, wasn't that a pleasant warm-up?"

  The Hunter drew in a gasping, shuddering breath. His throat was raw from screaming for what seemed an eternity. He'd held out as long as he could, but the Warmaster's sharp instruments had done their terrible work. He bled from half a hundred tiny wounds and punctures. Pain drowned out everything—every thought, feeling, and sensation. Even the voices in his head faded before the fire racing through his arms, legs, and torso as his body struggled to heal itself. Yet that only added to his torment. The Warmaster had left his tools embedded in the Hunter's flesh. The agony of the tools being ripped free was far worse.

  The Warmaster licked the Hunter's blood from his fingers. "Ohh, that's good." He closed his eyes. "Haven't tasted anything that delicious in thousands of years."

  The Hunter shivered, the movement sending another surge of heat through him. "What…do you…want from me?"

  The Warmaster gave a dismissive wave. "For now, nothing. You need to rest and recover. We have a long day ahead of us."

  Fear turned the Hunter's blood to ice. The First had had him tortured to incite him to violence, but even that torment had come to an end. The Warmaster, however, did it for the sheer thrill.

  It didn't matter if the demon never used iron. The Hunter would break. It could take days, weeks, or even months, but he would break in the end.

  His attempt to reason with the Warmaster had as much effect as trying to bring down Shana Laal with a wooden spoon. The Abiarazi had ignored the Hunter's entreaties, insisting they were nothing more than the Sage's lies. Indeed, he'd grown more annoyed with every attempt. The more the Hunter tried to reach him with logic, the worse the torture had grown.

  The Hunter had one last ploy. "You're making a mistake," he gasped. "I'm the only thing feeding your god." He bit back a cry. "Every time I kill, Soulhunger sends him power. Surely you know this!"

  The Warmaster eyed him, face hard and impassive as the walls.

  "So, if you stop me from killing, you're cutting off what he needs to survive. How could you do that to your god?"

  The Warmaster snorted. "He's not my god." The demon's cold eyes met his. "The Great Destroyer? The one who summoned us to this world in the first place?" He sneered. "I did not ask to be brought here. The Destroyer ripped me from my home of fire, a place where I was regarded by all—friends and enemies alike—as the mightiest of warriors. I was trapped on this pitiful world, just one more soldier in a war I had no desire to fight."

  The Hunter stared at the demon, speechless.

  The Warmaster's eyes blazed. "You think I want to bring back the Destroyer so I can be his faithful servant once more? Never!" He slammed a massive fist into table, crunching wood. "For far too long, I have served the Sage. I have bided my time, held my tongue as that vile slug pretends to be my equal. There was a time I would have crushed his skull for so much as looking at me. And he thinks himself superior!"

  He leaned over the Hunter, his face dangerously close. "I have grown weary of his pomposity and arrogance. The day is not far off when I will do what I should have long ago." He mimicked crushing something in his hand. "The bastard may have numbers on his side, but I have faced a thousand thousand humans before. Their blood watered the ground of the Valley of Tears. The cries of their widows and orphans reached the ears of the gods themselves!"

  "But what did the gods do? Nothing!" He shook his head. "So enmeshed were they in their own war that they turned their back on their creations. Even the mighty Kharna himself ignored us when we called on him for aid. He turned a deaf ear when we faced the wrath of the gods. When my brothers were slaughtered and I was forced to hide like a coward, he did nothing."

  The Warmaster straightened, fury in every line of his face. "So, you ask me if I care about the mighty Destroyer." He spat. "I care nothing for him or any of the other gods. He can rot in his eternal prison, for he has abandoned me to the same."

  The Hunter's mind raced. To the Warmaster, power came from strength. He believed himself the true power on Einan, the demon who deserved to rule. "Then why let the Sage live this long? Why haven't you killed him yet?"

  The Warmaster scowled. "No doubt for the same reason he hasn't made his move against me."

  "The Elivasti." They'd sworn their service to the Abiarazi. Brother would face brother should the Sage and the Warmaster ever go to war. "Your army would be annihilated. Your plans to conquer would fail."

  The Warmaster gave a grudging
nod. "But that is a problem you will soon solve for me."

  This, then, was the true reason the Warmaster held him captive. He sought to break the Hunter, physically and mentally, and use him as a weapon against the Sage. Just as the Sage had intended to use the Hunter against him.

  "Then let me go, and I will gladly put a dagger in the Sage's back. It's why I came to Kara-ket in the first place."

  Hesitation flashed across the Warmaster's face.

  "Look into my eyes, and you will see that I'm speaking the truth. You must believe me!"

  The Warmaster met his eyes, and the hesitation fled. A grim smile touched his lips. "Bravo! I applaud the effort. For a moment, you almost had me believing you." His smile turned mocking. "But I am no fool. Every time you move your lips, the Sage's words tumble out. You truly are his creature, as vile and treacherous as he. It will give me great pleasure to make you suffer."

  He turned to one of the Masters of Agony. "Gag him."

  Hands gripped the Hunter's head. He fought his restraints, but the metal manacles held firm. One of the scarlet-robed figures advanced, a knotted length of cloth in his hands. The Hunter squeezed his jaw tight. The Masters of Agony tried to wrestle the gag into his mouth, to no avail. With a sneer, the Warmaster wrapped one massive hand around the Hunter's neck and squeezed.

  Fury coursed through the Hunter, and he glared at the Warmaster with every ounce of hatred he could summon. The demon's impassive eyes locked on to his. For long moments, a war of wills raged between them. The Hunter refused to open his mouth even as the Warmaster squeezed the life from him.

  Darkness pressed in on the Hunter. His lungs cried out for air. Stubborn determination fought the instinct to survive. Survival won. His jaw dropped open, and the gag was shoved into his mouth. He drew in a deep, shuddering breath as the Warmaster released his throat.

  The Warmaster leered down at him. "See? Works every time. Even with the most stubborn of subjects."

  The Hunter wanted to spit a curse at the demon, were it not for the gag.

  "Now that we've warmed up our subject, it's time for the main event!" The Warmaster addressed the Masters of Agony. "Turn him around. Let him see what is to come."

  The table turned, and the Hunter's eyes fell on a gruesome assortment of tables, chairs, shelves, and racks. The metal spikes, leather restraints, and dried bloodstains bespoke the twisted purpose of the devices.

  The Warmaster strode to the first, an innocuous looking chair. "This is a device created by our very own Master Sha-Yun'Ti. We call it the Hrandari chair. Simply strap a victim in and—" He pushed, and the chair back folded backward. "Severe damage to the limbs, spine, and neck. It can cripple a man for life." He gave the Hunter a cruel smile. "Though, that's the point, isn't it? He'd be getting off easy in this one, not like with the Seat of Penance."

  He strode to another chair, this one a heavy wooden one studded with thousands of tiny spikes. The leather restraints would press a victim's arms and legs against the spikes. "A beauty, isn't she? It's even better when you place it over one of the steam vents. The spikes get hot enough to cauterize the wounds even as they sink into flesh."

  The next instrument was all too familiar. "The iron horse. A favorite in Al Hani, I hear." The donkey-like apparatus had an iron blade upon which the victim was seated, with weights strapped to their legs. Gravity and the weights would pull on the sufferer until the blade carved through his body.

  A breaking wheel occupied an entire section of the chamber. The Hunter had watched public executions in the islands far to the south, beyond the Frozen Sea. Victims of the wheel were stretched to the breaking point, beaten with clubs to shatter their bones, and stretched again. Death came slowly, painfully.

  The Warmaster described the wicked-looking implements on a nearby shelf—giving them names like Head Crusher, Knee Splitter, Heretic's Fork, Pear of Anguish, Caiman Clamp, and Torturer's Boot. The Hunter recognized a few, but the sheer number of tools was truly terrifying. For a moment, disgust overwhelmed his fear; only an Abiarazi could have conceived so many different ways to bring pain to another being.

  The Abiarazi turned to him with a wicked gleam in his eyes. "No doubt you're wondering why I'm showing you all of this. Simple: anticipation makes the heart grow fonder." He licked his lips. "You will wonder what comes next, which of these I will choose to use on you. Will it be the wheel, or perhaps the boot? Can you survive the agony of the iron horse, only to succumb to the Seat of Penance? That question will play in your mind day after day, week after week. It will consume every part of you until it has stolen your strength. It will reduce you to a weakling, too terrified to close his eyes for fear of what will come next."

  He laughed, a vicious, cruel sound. "And even that will not be the end! The torment will continue until you are so broken you will remember nothing. Your mind will be shattered, your body crushed and mangled, and you will have nothing left." His huge bearded face loomed close. "On that day, you will become my tool. You will belong to me, body, heart, and soul. Not out of loyalty, but for fear that you will be returned here."

  The reek of suffering washed over the Hunter. He smelled the acrid stench of his own panic mixing with the miasma of scents in the Warmaster's torture chamber. The demon's howls of despair slammed into his mind with agonizing intensity. His limbs trembled as the terrible realization gripped him: there was no escape.

  "Good." The Warmaster's icy eyes locked on to his. "I can see the defeat in your eyes. You have accepted the inevitable. A wonderful first step along your journey."

  With a vicious grin, he reached for a knife and held it up to catch the torchlight. "We have a long way to go, you and I." Delight filled the Warmaster's eyes. "Let us begin."

  The heavy cloth gag failed to completely muffle the Hunter's screams.

  Chapter Forty-One

  The Warmaster took his time, his razor slicing the Hunter's flesh with the delicate precision of a master carver. The knife sliced a wide circle around the Hunter's torso, and his shrieks reached a new intensity as the demon ripped back the skin to reveal organs.

  The Hunter's body struggled to repair itself, but the Warmaster's blade opened too many wounds to heal. Blood soaked the wooden table as the Warmaster did his terrible work. The Hunter's throat grew ragged. Delirious, he swam in and out of consciousness. Yet every time darkness promised him deliverance, the Warmaster would wait for his flesh to mend before continuing the agonizing carving of his organs. The cruel demon refused to let him succumb to blood loss, even going so far as to give him a bite of food or sip of water to speed up his replenishment.

  Then the Abiarazi started on his chest. The knife bit deep, and the Warmaster's thick fingers peeled back skin to reveal glistening bone. A hint of madness tinged the delight in his eyes as he ripped the Hunter apart. He moved with the precision of a master artist; the Hunter's flesh and bone his grisly canvas.

  The Hunter's screaming quietened as the Warmaster placed the blade on the table, but the demon only traded sharp steel for hammer and chisel. The Warmaster moved without hesitation, yet seemed to linger, to savor each fresh torment. Every tap of the mallet sent shuddering waves of fire radiating along first the Hunter's right side, then his left. Each crack felt like a blow to his soul. His mind threatened to collapse beneath the unremittent suffering.

  Covered head to toe in blood, the Warmaster described every new torture with the clinical detachment of a physicker dissecting a corpse. The Hunter clung to the sound of the Warmaster's voice, using it to pull him away from the agony washing over him in mind-shattering torrents. The sensations wracking every fiber of his being would have rendered him unconscious long ago had the Warmaster permitted it.

  The Hunter drifted in a haze of suffering. A numbing chill spread through his arms and legs. His vocal cords had given out long ago, but that hadn't stopped his shrieks of anguish. A dim part of his mind realized the torture had stopped. He couldn't feel his chest or torso, couldn't feel anything except the burning in his th
roat.

  A face hovered above him. The Hunter stared up with unseeing, confused eyes. A thick, oppressive fog dulled his mind. This was the person responsible for his suffering.

  "I must admit that I'm impressed, Hunter."

  His sluggish mind struggled to form cohesive thoughts. He's talking to me. The pain drowned out all thought, all feeling beyond the crackling of his healing nerves.

  "You've proven yourself capable of enduring a surprising amount of suffering. Some of the greatest Abiarazi warriors from my world have died from less. You truly are a credit to your kind."

  The Hunter's mouth, parched from hours of screaming, worked soundlessly.

  The demon waved a dismissive hand. "Don't bother protesting your innocence. You've been screaming it for the last few hours, but I'm just not convinced you're telling the truth. Not yet, at least."

  A pitiful wheezing escaped the Hunter's lips. Please, let it be over!

  "Don't worry. You'll have plenty of time to think in the Coffin." The Warmaster patted the Hunter's shoulder.

  The Hunter gave a weak cry. His body had healed to the point that every twitch, every movement sent fire searing through him.

  "Give him a bit of food and water first." The Warmaster spoke to an unseen figure behind the Hunter. "Help him recover for tomorrow."

  The Hunter's shrieks rose anew as the table beneath him moved. A thousand red hot needles stabbed into his chest, stomach, shoulders, and arms. A chill gripped his legs; all sensation ended at his knees and elbows.

  Cool water trickled over his bloodstained face. He gulped at the liquid with the desperation of a man finding an oasis amidst the Advanat. A few mouthfuls trickled down his ragged, parched throat. He wept at the sensation—the only relief from what seemed an eternity of suffering. A wooden spoon was placed against his lips, and a few drops of something warm and salty dripped into his mouth. It took him a moment to realize he tasted not his blood, but broth.