Darkblade Guardian

by Andy Peloquin

Chapter Thirty

  The Hunter welcomed the cool embrace of darkness. The faint glow of the stars provided enough light for him to pick his way back along the trail. Moonlight shone on the dark grey cliffs bordering the left side of the trail, while a cool wind wailed through the abyss on his right.

  Nervous tension thrummed within his chest. It would be too much to hope the Stone Guardians had killed all thirty of the warriors accompanying Sir Danna. Had the knight survived? And what of the five Cambionari with her? How many Warrior Priests remained? This trip served as more than just a chance to silence the voice in his mind; he needed to scout his enemy's position and find out what, if any, threat he faced.

  The demon’s insistence set his head ringing with its incoherent wails. He filled his thoughts with images of carving his way through Sir Danna's camp, hoping to satiate its demands enough that it would fall quiet in eager anticipation of what lay ahead. The demon had been with him long enough to know that he needed peace in order to do what it wanted him to.

  The demon radiated displeasure at his leaving Soulhunger behind. It wanted death, but most of all, it wanted him to use Soulhunger to feed Kharna. Power flooded the Hunter with every life the dagger stole, but only a fraction of what went to the Great Destroyer.

  The discovery of Soulhunger's true purpose had filled the Hunter with a sense of dread. He killed to keep the voices at bay, yet his sanity came at a high cost. One day, Soulhunger would consume enough power that Kharna could break free of his prison.

  Not if I can help it.

  Surely the wisdom of the Serenii contained in Enarium could help him find a way to seal the Destroyer away forever. Just as it could provide the Sage with the power to free Kharna, perhaps it could give the Hunter what he needed to eliminate Kharna for good. With Hailen, a Melechha, beside him, Einan had hope, however faint it might look at that moment.

  But tonight, he'd left Soulhunger behind for another reason entirely. Sir Danna and the Cambionari had tracked him through the Empty Mountains by following the gemstone's presence. He didn't understand how their powers worked, but it was enough to know they did. If even one of the Cambionari had survived the Stone Guardians' attack on the bridge, they would sense Soulhunger's presence as he approached their position. Any chance at stealth would be negated.

  With the power Soulhunger stole from his kill earlier that day, all traces of his fatigue, hunger, and thirst had faded. He was wide awake and filled with energy as he slipped down the trail. He had six or seven hours of darkness left—more than enough time to find his enemy.

  Though he carried a sword and daggers, he had little intention of using them. He'd prefer to slip into the enemy's camp unseen, kill in silence, and leave without anyone knowing he was there. If he could eliminate a few of the Cambionari and Warrior Priests—hell, even Sir Danna—the odds of further pursuit would drastically diminish. He, Hailen, and the others could safely reach Enarium.

  He hadn't figured out the problem of the Stone Guardians, but they had given him an idea. Before he left Sir Danna's camp, he would make sure to spill blood—just enough to attract the Stone Guardians. If, as he suspected, the scent of blood attracted the massive stone beasts, he could eliminate Sir Danna and her men once and for all.

  Rounding a bend in the trail, he caught a glimmer of light off in the distance. A predatory smile spread his face. It seems someone survived the attack at the bridge. Time to find out who.

  It took him the better part of half an hour to reach the source of the light. His pursuers had made camp at a section of the trail that widened to a shelf roughly twenty paces wide and forty long. Tall cliffs bordered one side of the camp, with a precipice dropping into a deep chasm on the other.

  The Hunter crouched in the shadow of a huge boulder and spied four men standing guard. Three wore the splinted mail and white cloaks of the Warrior Priests, while the fourth wore the leather armor and rounded helm of a Cambionari. They faced his direction in silence, their backs to the fire and eyes fixed on the darkness.

  Beyond the guards, he counted six tents large enough to sleep two men, surrounding a larger tent—doubtless Sir Danna's—in the middle of the camp. Two more Warrior Priests sat beside the fire. One had his arm in a sling, and the other wore a heavy bandage around his head. That meant as many as eighteen of his enemies had survived. Four had died at his hands, so another eight had fallen to the Stone Guardians.

  He winced. Not the best odds.

  The stink of iron drifted toward him. The Cambionari and Warrior Priests each carried iron daggers—the metal was too brittle to be useful for a sword. Even the Swordsman’s iron daggers, twin blades that lay cloth-wrapped in the Hunter's pack, would shatter beneath repeated blows. The steel swords served as the Cambionari and Warrior Priests' offensive weapons, but they wielded the shorter iron blades specifically to deal with him.

  His skill and speed had kept him alive in his earlier confrontation. He'd attacked so quickly and with such ferocity his opponents hadn't had time to react, and the narrow bridge had given him the advantage of only facing two at a time. Now, in the camp, they could surround him and use their superior numbers to turn any battle in their favor.

  But he had no desire for battle. He just needed to get around the sentries. The rear of the camp shouldn’t be guarded. Even if they anticipated his attempt to double back, the single trail provided no way for him to get around behind them. Their position should prove totally secure.

  Yet Sir Danna had no idea who she truly faced. She saw him as the offspring of demons, a man who wouldn't hesitate to kill. She didn't know of his past as an assassin. For as long as he could remember, he'd found ways to get around, under, and behind guards just like these. Only one man had escaped his wrath—the Sage—and he'd only done so by leaving ten Elivasti warriors to fight the Hunter, then fled before the mountain collapsed.

  The Hunter slipped back up the trail, well beyond the limited reach of the firelight, then lowered himself over the edge of the cliff. It proved harder going than he'd like, as he could not see to easily find foot and handholds. But he'd made harder climbs with less light. Bloody hell, he'd climbed down the smooth exterior of the Serenii temples in Kara-ket. This rocky mountainside proved far less challenging.

  He descended two man-heights below the level of the trail, then crept at a horizontal traverse along the cliff face. This made for slower going, and his muscles soon ached from the exertion. Sweat streamed down his face and soaked his tunic. More than once, the evening breeze whistling through the canyon nearly threatened to tug him free of the cliff face.

  But he refused to stop moving. He counted each pace as he moved, until he estimated he was roughly five paces away from the watching guards. He found a comfortable position in a crevice in the rock wall and listened for any sounds. When the rush of his pulse had faded to a dull thudding in his ears, he caught the sound of a cough off to his right. A moment later, someone cleared their throat, and armor clanked as one of the Cambionari or Warrior Priests shifted their stance.

  Grinning, the Hunter continued his traverse. No way would Sir Danna or the others think to look for him here, clinging to a cliff face just a few paces from their camp.

  He climbed along the rocky wall for another twenty paces, then slowly clambered upward. He peered over the cliff's edge and found himself staring at the rear of one of the two-man tents. The sound of snoring came from within.

  The Hunter was about to climb up and slip into the tent, when the snort of a horse drew his attention. He glanced to his right, and grinned as he spotted the source of the sound. Sir Danna's warhorse, Pathfinder, stood beside fifteen others. A pile of bags, bundles, and horse tack lay a short distance away.

  A mischievous grin twisted the Hunter’s face into a smile. Oh, that will do quite nicely!

  He climbed along the wall until he passed the last tent, then slipped over the cliff's edge onto the trail. A few of the horses snorted and pricked up their ears as he approached. He made a soft chuffing sound w
ith his mouth to calm them.

  "Easy," he whispered, and clucked his tongue quietly. He moved slowly, careful not to startle the mounts. Pathfinder seemed to recognize him from the days they’d spent on the road, and the horse greeted him with a little snort. The rest of the mounts followed the black destrier’s example and relaxed.

  Concealing a dagger within the folds of his cloak, he slashed the ropes holding the horses together. Next, he went for the supplies. He slashed the straps of the reins, bits, stirrups, martingales, and bridles with quick strokes of his dagger, careful not to let the blade catch even a hint of firelight. He kept an eye on the men at the front of the camp as he moved, but none of the Cambionari or Warrior Priests seemed to notice. Doubtless the day's battle and hard travel had left them exhausted.

  He slung one bag of food over his back—he and his little group would have a fine breakfast, while Sir Danna's men went without—and threw two more off the edge of the cliff. He tensed at the faint thump of the heavy sacks hitting the stone walls, ducking into the shadow of a tent.

  "What's that noise?" one of the men near the fire called.

  "Don't know," replied another. "Hey, Frestall, did you hear that?"

  "I didn't hear nothing," came a third voice, this one from the group of men at the trail. "What did it sound like?"

  "Kind of like…" The first man trailed off. "I don't know, a sound, all right? You heard it too, right, Drenthus?"

  "Not sure," the second man, Drenthus replied. "Could have just been the tents flapping in the wind."

  "Or it could have been another of those Keeper-damned rock monsters coming back to finish what they started," said the first man.

  "Well, go take a look and see if it is," Drenthus called.

  "Not a bloody chance!" said the first man. "Broken arm's in enough pain as it is just sitting here. You go."

  "You're the one who heard it."

  Silence for a moment, then the first man spoke. "Maybe you're right. Maybe it was just the wind."

  "More like Pathfinder breaking wind, right?"

  Drenthus’ comment elicited a few chuckles from his fellows, but none of them moved from their positions on guard or beside the fire.

  The Hunter let out a long, slow breath. That was bloody close. Had they come to investigate, they would have found supplies missing and their gear damaged. That would certainly have raised an alarm.

  The demon's angry shrieking filled his head, reminding him why he'd come to Sir Danna's camp. He clenched his jaw as the pain intensified to a stabbing ache behind his right eye.

  Fine, I get the point!

  He squeezed his eyes shut until the piercing pain passed and the screeching quietened. When it had faded to a tolerable ache, he slipped the bag of supplies off his shoulder and set it on the ground. He turned toward the nearest tent, just three paces away. The sound of soft breathing came from within. He listened carefully for any sign of a second occupant, but heard nothing else.

  I guess this man's as good as any.

  He peered around the tent toward the fire. The two men that had been sitting there were striding toward him, and he ducked back into the shadows, heart thundering. He tightened his grip on his dagger and waited as the sound of their boots crunching on the rocky trail grew closer.

  The footsteps grew fainter, then faded. He poked his head out just enough to see the two men crawling into a tent on the opposite side of the trail. Relief surged within him as he glanced at the sentries and found their backs turned to him. With quick, silent steps, he slipped around to the front of the tent and ducked between the flaps.

  His heart thudded as he stared down at the figure sleeping at his feet. The man's chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of sleep, and he showed no sign of waking.

  Good. I'll make this quick, then. The Hunter sheathed his dagger and reached for the man's neck. A powerful wrench of the sleeping man's head would spare him pain and prevent any chance of outcry.

  As his fingers closed around the man's neck, the figure whirled in bed, a dagger flashing up toward his throat. His reflexes kicked in and his right hand flashed up to catch the hand holding the blade, stopping it a hair's breadth from slicing flesh.

  "H-Hunter?" Confusion and surprise edged the figure's voice. A familiar female voice from a lifetime ago.

  The Hunter's nostrils detected the scent of leather, steel, and lilies a moment before his brain recognized the woman before him.

  "It really is you," said Celicia, Fourth of the Bloody Hand.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The Hunter stared, frozen by surprise, at a face he thought he'd never see again. He blinked in case it was a trick of his eyes, but her dark eyes, full lips, raven hair, and well-proportioned figure were the same as the day he fled Voramis. And her unique scent, a curious combination of strength and femininity that had drawn him from the moment they met in The Iron Arms, he’d know it anywhere.

  "What in the Keeper's name are you doing here?" he finally managed to ask.

  "I could ask you the same thing!" Celicia—no, she'd said her name was Kiara—demanded in a harsh whisper. "And, in case you haven't noticed, I'm the one holding the dagger."

  The Hunter let out a quiet snort. "If you were going to use the dagger, you would have already." It was a gamble; the last time they'd seen each other, she had been lying on the ground bleeding out, wounded at the hands of the First, demon of Voramis. He'd spared her life that night, given her a chance at a better life free of the Bloody Hand. And this is how she used it? "Tell me why the hell—"

  "No." Kiara cut him off by pressing the dagger harder against his throat. "For once, you'll be doing the talking here."

  She rose from her bedroll, and the Hunter's eyes flicked downward. Her thin undertunic did little to conceal her full figure. The faint light of the fire leaking through the canvas outlined her well-endowed chest, slim waist, and rounded hips.

  "Eyes up here, Hunter," Kiara growled.

  The Hunter gave her a little grin. She barely reached his chin, but she had enough spirit for a woman three times her size.

  "What do you want to know?" Again, he gambled on the fact that she would have already raised the alarm if she intended to. For some reason, she seemed more interested in answers than alerting the others to his presence.

  "Is it true?" Kiara's whisper had a hard edge. "Did you really do what Sir Danna said?"

  The Hunter's gut clenched, and a lump rose to his throat. "Yes," he said after a long moment. "I did kill the other Beggar Priests."

  Kiara's expression hardened and her muscles tensed, as if to attack.

  "But not for the reason you think," he said quickly before she could draw the knife across his throat.

  "And what exactly do I think?" Kiara demanded in the same quiet tone.

  "I'm guessing Sir Danna told you what I was." The Hunter held her gaze.

  "That you're one of them?" She spat the word. She’d seen the truth of what lay beneath the First's disguise of flesh and bone. She had stared into the demon’s depthless eyes, watched his face contort and writhe as he died at the Hunter's hands. "I knew that much already. You told me the truth that night in the tunnels beneath Voramis."

  The Hunter nodded. "Then she told you what I did in the House of Need in Malandria? To Father Pietus, Lord Knight Moradiss, and…Visibos." The name left a bitter taste on his lips. He truly hadn't intended for the apprentice to die.

  "She did." Kiara spoke in a hard, cold voice. "But I didn't know it was you she was talking about all these weeks. I thought it was just another demon."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You wanted to hunt demons?"

  "After what the First did to me, to everyone else I know?" Kiara snarled. "I'd hunt down every damned one of the Abiarazi around Einan if I could."

  "How did that happen?" The Hunter's brow furrowed in confusion. "How did you end up here?"

  "You first," Kiara snapped. "Tell me how you go from butchering the Bloody Hand to killing twenty Beggar Priests
to murdering an Illusionist Cleric and his guards."

  The Hunter hesitated, and Kiara pressed the dagger harder against his throat. "The truth, Hunter, or I'll raise the alarm right now."

  "You'd really risk it?" The Hunter let out a little laugh. "You know that blade won't kill me."

  "No, but this one will." The stink of iron grew thick in the room as Kiara drew a second dagger and held it before his eyes. After a moment, she shrugged and sheathed it. "You're not going to hurt me, Hunter."

  "Are you certain of that?" He could hardly believe her brazenness. He had no reason to leave her alive. Frozen hell, the fact that she traveled with Sir Danna meant she had come all this way to kill him.

  "Yes," Kiara said simply. "Like you said, if you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. Back in Voramis, or just now when I held the dagger to your throat."

  "The dagger's still there."

  "True, but if I really wanted you dead, I'd have used the other one." She actually gave him a wry grin. "Call this a conversation starter. So get conversating, Hunter."

  The Hunter had known many women in the fifty years he could remember. None of them, not even Sir Danna with all her armor and skill at arms, could match the dauntlessness of the woman before him. She had risen to become the fourth most powerful member of the Bloody Hand, and it hadn't been because of her looks alone. She'd proven herself clever when she deceived him in Voramis, then shown her iron will when she helped him defeat the demon.

  The words came pouring from his mouth with a force beyond his control. He spoke of what happened to him after leaving Voramis—from the meeting with Sir Danna and Visibos to the moment they poisoned and dumped him in the Chasm of the Lost to his attempts to reclaim the dagger in Malandria. A part of him wanted to share everything he'd endured over the last few months. He'd carried the burdens alone for so long—the weight of his guilt, the pain of losing those closest to him, the gravity of knowing that he fought to save Einan from the demons.

  “Keeper’s teeth!” Kiara breathed. Her eyes had grown steadily wider as the Hunter told him her story, her expression more pensive. "And the boy? Did you really murder him and leave his body in a ditch somewhere?"