The Whispering Waste had a harsh, desolate beauty like nowhere else on Einan. The salt flats stretched a hundred leagues from east to west and fifty from north to south. The strange-shaped hexagonal, cubical crystals reflected the light like snow, filling the air with a terrible heat that not even the thundering storm had fully beaten back. A maze of tiny cracks and fissures made the salt-covered ground seem like a maddening puzzle of pieces that had been forced together.
Hailen stirred in his arms and poked his head out of the cloak. "It's gone, right?"
"Yes." The Hunter set the boy down and climbed to his feet. "The storm is over. Which means we need to get back to riding. I'm going to check on the horses. You keep away from the black stones, you hear?"
"Yes, Hardwell." Hailen nodded, an eager expression on his face. He laughed and threw himself into a pile of sand driven into a pile by the wind. He waved his arms and legs. "Look, Hardwell, salt angels!"
The Hunter smiled. The boy saw the world around him with a bright-eyed eagerness the Hunter envied. Where the Hunter saw an arid desert of salt where nothing grew, not even the fiercest desert cactus. Hailen saw a marvelous landscape out of the legends and myths.
Elivast and Ash stood in the lee of one of the Dolmenrath obelisks. Both horses showed signs of fatigue. Elivast's head hung down, his ears drooping and his eyes dull. Ash snorted at his approach, but didn't lift his head. The storm had sapped what little remained of their strength.
The Hunter dug into the packs and produced one of their last waterskins. He hadn't considered just how much water the horses would need to get across the Whispering Waste. Though the crossing would only take four days—according to the tavernkeeper at Whiteridge, the village where he'd bought supplies for their journey—the horses each needed to drink at least five gallons per day. Between water, feed for the horses, and food for him and Hailen, they carried a heavy load.
The Hunter removed their saddles and blankets and gave them a good brushing down. Salt crystals fell from their manes, tails, and coats. He took care to do a thorough job—even the smallest crystals could rub until the skin blistered and cracked. At Saltfall, the village just east of the Whispering Waste, he'd give the horses a day to rest. It was all they could afford.
The storm had cost valuable time. In the back of his mind, he could feel the thump, thump of his target's heartbeat growing fainter with every passing second.
He gritted his teeth. I'm coming for you, you bastard!
He hunted the Sage, the mastermind behind the Abiarazi's plan to free Kharna, the Great Destroyer.
Thoughts of the demon brought a surge of fury to the Hunter's chest. The Sage had used him to eliminate the Warmaster, a rival Abiarazi that controlled the Masters of Agony, professional torturers twisted by the demon's cruel torments. The Hunter had intended to kill the demon, but he hadn't counted on being forced to kill Master Eldor, the Elivasti that found him, welcomed him into his home, and trained him decades earlier. The Sage had forced Master Eldor to face the Hunter; the old Elivasti had sacrificed himself so his people could survive.
For that—and his many other crimes—the Sage would die a painful death.
As long as Soulhunger still had the demon's heartbeat, it could track him anywhere on Einan. He knew the Sage hurried to reach Enarium in time for something called “the Withering”. His only hope of stopping the demon was catching him before he unleashed whatever evil plan he had.
Fury set his hands shaking. The Hunter stowed the horse brush and re-saddled the two horses. It was time to move.
He turned to call Hailen, and his heart stopped when he saw no sign of the boy. "Hailen!" A hint of panic tinged his voice. "Hailen, where are you?"
"Aha!" With a little laugh, the boy jumped out from behind the farthest of the four Dolmenrath stones. "Did I scare you?"
"Absolutely," the Hunter growled, biting back on his anger. "We've got to move." His gut tightened as Hailen trotted past the black obelisks toward him.
The four monoliths contained an immense amount of power, a remnant of the Serenii that had created them. Though the power was locked away in those stones, it could be summoned by a single drop of Hailen's blood. He'd seen what they could do in the Advanat Desert and again in the mountains beneath Kara-ket, the twin temples of the Sage and the Warmaster. Both times, the use of that power had changed Hailen. First, his eyes had turned purple. Slowly, the Irrsinnon, the madness that Hailen and all other descendants of the Serenii, had begun to claim him. It had gotten worse over the last week.
The Hunter's gaze went to the blade hanging from the makeshift baldric he'd fashioned for Hailen.
Feed me! Soulhunger insisted, its voice faint in the back of his mind.
He hated being separated from the dagger—it had been with him since his first memory, as much a part of him as his midnight black eyes or his body's unique ability to heal itself. But he hated being near Soulhunger just as much. The blade's voice had grown louder, more insistent since his last kill nearly four days earlier. It lusted for blood and would not give him peace until he satiated its demands.
In Kara-ket, he had learned a secret: something about Soulhunger's gemstone, the source of that voice, kept Hailen's madness at bay. Whenever possible, he let the boy carry the dagger. Its presence protected Hailen from the Irrsinnon. Only when he went hunting, both to appease the voice in his mind and Soulhunger's demands, did he take the dagger. He knew it angered Soulhunger—the blade craved the life force of his victims—but he did it for the boy's sake.
"Come on, Hailen." He held out a hand. "We've got a few hours before the sun sets."
"Will it be all gold and red and purple like yesterday?" Hailen's eyes sparkled.
The Hunter shrugged. "We'll find out soon enough."
He lifted Hailen into Ash's saddle, careful not to touch the boy's skin. Contact with demons—Abiarazi and Bucelarii alike—triggered something within Hailen, making his fingernails bleed. The sight of it had startled and even terrified the Sage. The demon had called the boy "Melechha". One more question for the Hunter to answer.
Mounting Elivast, the Hunter closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. There, in the back of his mind, he felt the Sage's heartbeat echoing.
A grim smile touched his lips as he kicked Elivast into motion. You won't escape me, Sage.
Chapter Two
The Whispering Waste might have been a harsh wasteland of salt and wind, but the Hunter had to admit he'd never seen such spectacular sunsets anywhere. Not even on the ocean the one time he'd journeyed across the Frozen Sea.
Lines of crimson mixed with threads of gold, sweeping in broad swaths across the dark blue sky. The last traces of sunlight tinged everything in a rosy glow that seemed unnaturally peaceful in contrast with the storm that had raged hours before. The salt flats mirrored the play of colors in the sky, turning the world around them into a glorious, swirling mass of mingled hues and shades of brilliance.
The Hunter and Hailen sat in silence for long moments, mesmerized by the beauty, content to watch the last rays of sun disappear in the darkness. The air beneath the shade of the towering palm trees was cool and fresh, a welcome relief from the blistering heat of the Whispering Waste.
The Hunter pressed another chunk of bread into the boy's hand. "Eat. You had a long day riding Ash."
Hailen looked up at him, curiosity filling his odd purple eyes. "Are you going to eat, Hardwell?"
"I already did," the Hunter said, rubbing his belly for emphasis. "I'm so full it feels like I ate an entire camel!"
Hailen's nose wrinkled. "Ew! Camels are stinky and noisy." He frowned. "They probably taste bad, too."
The Hunter chuckled. "I don't doubt it. All tough and stringy."
The camel a few paces away seemed to take offense, for it grunted and let out a long rumbling hiss. The sound covered the growling of the Hunter's stomach. Right now, he'd choke down a camel haunch or even a bit of boiled hoof. He hadn't eaten more than a few bites in the last two days. The
ir meager supplies would run out before they reached Saltfall. Hailen needed to eat more than he.
He'd tried to trade with the small group of merchants they'd encountered at the Glowing Spring, the only oasis in the middle of the Whispering Waste, but the traders refused. They'd need every scrap of food to get across the salt flats.
Thankfully, water was plentiful at the Glowing Spring. A deep stone basin surrounded the small pool, preventing the salt from leeching through the earth and into the water. A crude shelter of stone with a decaying thatched roof provided meager shelter from the wind and sun. Though the wind kicked up white crystals, the natural rock formations and a wall of sun-baked clay bricks laid by careful hands protected the pool. The water had only a hint of salinity—fresh enough for horses and men alike to drink. There'd even been enough to wet the horses to cool them down at the end of the long, hot day.
He’d obtained a map to the oasis from Whiteridge, but his desperate flight from the storm had blown him off course. He and Hailen had only stumbled onto the Glowing Spring by the Mistress’ own luck. He'd spotted the camel train across the flat wastelands, and it had taken the better part of the afternoon to reach their campsite.
The four men of the caravan eyed them with the passing interest of fellow travelers. They'd accepted his well-rehearsed tale of a pilgrimage to Vothmot without question. They seemed more concerned with getting their camels ready for the overnight trek—preferring the evening chill over the blinding white sands during the day—than getting to know their new companions.
Their lack of interest did little to diminish his wariness. After what had happened with Marin during the crossing of the Advanat Desert, the Hunter maintained a reserved distance from the travelers. Even though they looked ordinary enough, even the mildest demeanor could hide any number of depravities.
"How far to Saltfall?" he asked as the caravan leader mounted his camel.
The man stroked his long, neatly-trimmed beard with a frown. "As long as you keep due east by northeast, you ought to reach it by noon on the day after tomorrow." He reeked of the perfumed oils in his beard, along with the stink of camels and the sandalwood he transported.
"And from there to Vothmot?" The Hunter had a general sense of the direction he needed to go, but it would be easier to ask these traders, who apparently had just come from the city.
"Another five, six days, depending on your pace." The man eyed Hailen. "A bit of free advice for you: keep a close eye on that boy of yours in Vothmot. It's always the young'uns that tend to go missing."
The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Missing?"
The merchant's brow furrowed. "Haven't you heard any of the stories?"
The Hunter shook his head.
"Well, since as far back as anyone could remember, there've been tales of children vanishing from the streets." The man stroked his chin. "Nephew of mine swore his wife's sister's son disappeared, never to be seen again. Now, I'm not for believing the tales of purple-eyed spirits, but you wouldn't be the first pilgrim to find Vothmot's grandeur hides a darker side."
The Hunter's spine stiffened. Purple eyes?
"That close to the Empty Mountains," the man said, frowning, "there's always one monster tale or another floating around. I don't give 'em much credence, but all the same, keep a sharp eye on the lad."
"Thank you," the Hunter said, nodding. "Any more advice?"
The man pondered for a moment, then his face split into a grin. "Steer clear of The Painted House if you want to keep free of disease." He winked at the Hunter. "The pickings at Divinity House are always better, anyway. Pleasures that will make you see paradise, and I'm not just talking about the kaffe. Not that a pilgrim like yourself would be interested in such things, of course."
The Hunter nodded. "Devotion to the Master can only be obtained by understanding the temptations of the flesh then seeking to eradicate them." He'd heard the doctrine of the Lecterns, priests of Kiro the Master, spouted many times in Divinity Square in Voramis.
"Right you are." The man grinned. "Apprentice guard you on your path." With a nod, he flicked his cane against the camel's neck. The beast groaned and set off on its plodding path away from the oasis.
The Hunter watched the four men and their beasts go. The noise of their passage reached him for a full hour after they left. In the barren silence of the Whispering Waste, the winds carried the sound across the flat plain.
He found the man's warning curious. Children disappearing? Purple-eyed spirits? It had the makings of a legend, but he'd discovered that many of the things he had once considered myth had a root in truth. Chief among them the existence of demons and their offspring, the Bucelarii. Him.
He'd long ago come to terms with his heritage. He had always known he was different: his inhuman abilities, his body's rapid healing, and his vulnerability to iron. In many ways, the revelation that he was descended from demons had answered questions about himself.
But there were many more truths to uncover.
He glanced at Hailen. The boy had fallen asleep leaning on their packs. The mystery of Hailen's past was of far less concern than his future. The purple-eyed Elivasti in Kara-ket had used opia, the "fruit of the gods", in a ritual to drive out their inherited madness. But the Hunter had been forced to flee before he could obtain the fruit for Hailen. If he didn't reach Enarium soon, the Irrsinnon would claim the boy.
Already, the signs of madness had become more evident. Even with Soulhunger by his side, Hailen had a tendency to get lost in his own mind. He would stare off into space for hours, his eyes blank and ears deaf to the world around. It wasn't as bad as the madness the Hunter had encountered in his past—with Master Eldor's son, no less—but he couldn't let the boy suffer the same terrible fate.
The Hunter settled into a comfortable position against his own pack. The last glimmers of daylight had just begun to fade, with the first evening stars appearing in the sky.
With nightfall came the winds. Quiet at first, barely more than a breeze that ruffled his cloak and caressed his face with chill fingers. It grew stronger, louder, shrieking in his ears and setting his head aching. Carried on the winds were the whispers that gave the flatlands their name.
He could not understand the words, but they seeped into his senses and pierced his mind with sharp claws. The wailing grew louder, screaming across the empty expanse of salt flats, carrying with it the stinging crystals of white.
The ache in the Hunter's head grew until he could stand it no longer. He threw himself to his feet and, tucking his cloak around Hailen's sleeping form, retrieved Soulhunger and his long sword. The feel of solid steel and the weight of his weapons felt oddly comforting. In brazen defiance of the wailing winds, the Hunter strode out of the bowl and onto the salt flats.
The shrieking intensified ten-fold as the voice in the Hunter's head returned. Hailen's presence kept the voice at bay, but he could never truly be free of it. It drove him to kill with a relentlessness that not even Soulhunger's bloodlust could match. The voice of his inner demon would never be content until the world drowned in a sea of blood and death.
At the moment, the voice had little coherence, instead filling his mind with a screeching that added to the cacophony of the winds around him. The Hunter gritted his teeth and swallowed the acid burning in his throat. He had to face the demon, if only to prove that he was in control.
He settled into a guard position, sword and dagger held low. Closing his eyes, he imagined himself building a wall in his mind—not a physical one, but a manifestation of his will. Brick by brick it grew, trapping the presence in his mind and pushing it out of his consciousness. The demon within fought back, and the Hunter struggled to maintain his grip on the voice. The presence hurled itself against the rising wall. The Hunter gritted his teeth and made the mental barrier thicker, stronger, taller. The shrieking, screeching voice grew fainter until the last brick fell in place and the Hunter stood alone with the wailing winds.
The Sage had taught him the trick—one mo
re tool used to manipulate the Hunter into carrying out his bidding. The Hunter used it to keep the voice at bay, something that had proven far more challenging since leaving Kara-ket. He had to reach Enarium; not just for Hailen's sake, but for his own. He had to find a way to get the voices out of his head.
For now, he settled on the thing that had always worked: physical exertion. He moved through the basic sword forms, his movements lithe and graceful, his muscles pouring power into each strike. Faster and faster he went, losing himself in the rhythm of block, parry, counter-strike, and thrust. For a few minutes, he had only the whipping, stinging wind and the pounding of his pulse for company.
Sweat soaked his tunic by the time he finished. Salt crystals formed on his body, drying out his skin and lips. Returning to the little stone basin, he washed his face in the water.
An older, harder face stared up at him from the little pool. The eyes, a shade darker than black, and the hard, handsome features were his, but new lines appeared. The burden of loss weighed heavy on him. No matter how hard he tried, he could not outrun it.
The most recent death stung most of all. Master Eldor, the Elivasti that trained him in the martial arts, had been like a father to him in a life long ago. He’d cared for the Hunter in a way no one else in his memory had. He'd brought him into his home and treated him like a son, along with his own son. And, when the time had come, the old blademaster had sacrificed himself so the Hunter could save Hailen.
The Sage had forced the Hunter's hand. He'd used the oath sworn by the Elivasti to manipulate Master Eldor into a position where he had to kill the Hunter. Master Eldor had kept his word, and in doing so, given the Hunter a chance to live. The Hunter would make the Sage suffer for Master Eldor's sake. The demon would die slowly, painfully.
His hand went to the scars on his chest. Once, they had numbered in the hundreds, a reminder of each life ended by Soulhunger's blade. Now, only five remained. One for each of the demons he'd killed in Voramis, Malandria, Al Hani, and Kara-ket. The rest had disappeared. How, he had no idea.
Darkblade Guardian Page 47