Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  This brought the Hunter's mind back to the man whom he had taken such pleasure in terrifying this evening.

  Count Eilenn is the perfect middle man. Who would want the position of "Proctor of the Royal Post"? Such a useless title. No, that foolish little man is part of something much greater than just organizing the delivery of mail.

  The Hunter had heard whispers running through Voramis, rumors of a group of Heresiarchs plying a darker trade than their counterparts who patrolled the streets. A covert trade of blood, torture, and the gathering of secrets.

  The name of the Dark Heresy inspired the same fear as mention of the Bloody Hand—or the Hunter.

  If the Dark Heresy wanted Lord Dannaros' secret trade stopped, he must have been more than just a rich, spoiled lord. He must have been an instrumental member in The Bloody Hand. Could he be one of the Five Fingers?

  The Hunter muttered a curse. Now both the Heresiarchs and The Hand will be interested in my actions. Things are about to get interesting.

  A stiff breeze rustled his cloak, and the Hunter closed his eyes to enjoy the cool night air and its fresh scents.

  This high up, the air is clean, free of the stench of the city.

  Looking out over the city below, he marveled at the beauty of Voramis after nightfall. When darkness hid the squalor of the lower city, the myriad lights twinkling in the night enchanted his senses. The voice in his head had fallen silent, and he reveled in the peace.

  Power still coursed through his body, filling him with desire. He ached for release after the kill, and his body responded to the urge. He felt the need to be with a woman, but his desire for companionship had little to do with loneliness. For him, it was raw, primal lust.

  Thoughts of heights brought a beautiful face to mind.

  Ah, yes.

  He smiled at the picture he saw behind his closed eyelids, and reached for the alchemical mask he'd stuffed in a hidden pocket of his cloak.

  I have somewhere I need to be…

  * * *

  A sound in the darkness startled Lady Damuria from her dreams. Her eyes darted around her room, taking in every detail, searching for the source of the noise.

  "My lord?" she questioned. "Have you returned, husband?"

  The man who stepped from the shadows of the room's balcony and into the moonlight was taller and broader than the man she called husband.

  "No, my lady. It is I."

  Dark green eyes and the smiling face of Lord Anglion stared down at her.

  "My Lord Anglion," she said, sitting up. "I am surprised to see you." Her words held a tone of reproof. "When Lady Dannaros told me you had retired early for the night, I feared you had found another to warm your bed."

  Lord Anglion droped his heavy cloak to the floor as he moved toward her.

  "I could not wait to visit you this evening. I slipped away early from the party to finish some urgent business. This way I will not be disturbed in the morning."

  "I see." Lady Damuria gave him a smile, one laden with promise.

  She pulled back the covers and climbed to her feet to stand before him. Nothing but a thin nightgown hid her flesh from the night air. The gauzy fabric revealed her perfectly curved body, and Lord Anglion's eyes dropped to examine every bit of soft flesh.

  "The night is ours, then."

  "Yes," said Lord Anglion. He took her hand in his and kissed it gently. "My servant believes I am abed, wearied from the long journey."

  He encircled Lady Damuria in his arms, pulling her close.

  "We can do as we please," he whispered, his breath hot on her ears. "You're certain your husband will not return?"

  "My lord has sent no word of his arrival," she whispered back as her hands traced the firm contours of his hard-muscled body. "And should he arrive while you are here," her fingers traveled over his chest, "Barchai will be certain to alert me."

  "You trust Barchai?"

  "With my life," Lady Damuria said.

  "And your secrets?"

  She replied with a mysterious smile, then turned her attention to the familiar scars etched into his chest. "More scars, Anglion?"

  "It has been a good year, my lady," Lord Anglion said with a shrug. "The gods demand their due, and these marks are simply the price I pay for good fortune." He smiled at her. "It is a price I would gladly pay to be in your company once again. I can think of a few things we can do to pass the night in more pleasant ways."

  She turned her face up to meet his and she saw her desire for him reflected in his eyes.

  * * *

  She looks ravishing, the Hunter thought, staring at her full curves through the gown.

  Lady Damuria let out a little gasp of delight. "My lord!"

  He kissed her then, a kiss burning with the heat of his passion. The thrill of the kill burned in his veins, melding with his lust for the gorgeous woman in his arms.

  For long minutes, neither of them spoke—nor had any desire to speak. Instead, their bodies entwined in the timeless embrace of a man and woman seeking to fulfill a raw, primal need. Fire burned in the Hunter as he took her, making no attempt to be gentle.

  She seemed not to mind.

  * * *

  By the Long Keeper, she took a long time to fall asleep, thought the Hunter. Lady Damuria's dark curls spilled across his muscled chest, her rhythmic breath hot on his skin. I was certain I had exhausted her, but the Lady Damuria's…appetites truly are as boundless as the rumors say.

  Her skin was soft on his, and the gentle curve of her breasts against his side nearly aroused his desire once more. Her fragrance filled his senses, her scent as intoxicating as their lovemaking had been. However, the exertions of the day caught up to him, fatigue numbing his mind and pulling him inexorably towards slumber.

  He basked in the cool darkness of the night, the feeling of the soft blankets covering their bodies. The thrill of the hunt had died, and with it, the heat of his passion. The fearsome Hunter of Voramis fell victim to the same exhaustion that claimed every mortal man.

  The face of Lord Damuria—husband to the woman whose bed he shared—filled his vision. The Hunter saw Damuria's horror-filled expression as his lifeblood fed Soulhunger's thirst. The weapon throbbed in the back of his mind.

  Sleep overtook the Hunter, pulling him deep into its dream-filled depths.

  * * *

  He awoke at dawn, covered in sweat, breathing hard. He fought to remember, to retain his grasp on the sensations lingering from his dreams.

  Her scent.

  "Don't leave," he whispered, desperate to cling to the final traces of Her, whoever She was.

  Every morning, a raging inferno burned holes in the Hunter's mind. The delicate essence of his mystery woman left him gasping for breath, aching to fill the gaps in his memory. Why She mattered, he knew not. All he knew what that She was important to him, somehow.

  The one prey who eludes me still, like Snowblossom petals drifting on the breeze.

  She haunted his dreams, taunting him with a face he could never recall. Yet when morning dawned, the memory faded away like a phantasm.

  The soft warmth of Lady Damuria next to him reminded him of where he was. He ran his hands along the gentle curves of her body, and breathed deep of the woman's fragrance.

  Honey, jasmine, and passionflower. Beautiful, but not Her.

  He pulled back the heavy covers and slipped from the massive canopied bed without a sound. His gaze fell on the sleeping woman.

  How could she do this? She is a married woman, and yet she consorts with men freely. Why would she betray her husband thus?

  Contempt flooded him, but it was his own base nature that served as the true source of his anger.

  Are my desires so out of my own control that I can do things like this? That I must spend the night with whores like Lady Damuria? He fought to push down his self-loathing, stifling the emotion as he would a yawn.

  The Hunter ignored the colorful tapestries on the wall, taking little note of the room as he moved to th
e heavy wooden table. A metal basin of water sat upon the table, and he splashed the freezing water on his face to wash away the night's sleep.

  He studied his face in the mirror above the basin. The alchemical flesh of Lord Anglion's face had begun to slip, the clay adhesive holding the disguise in place dissolving.

  It is time for Lord Anglion to make his escape.

  He reached for the clothing he had discarded last night and dressed in a hurry.

  Lady Damuria stirred, pulled from pleasant dreams by the sound of her lover's movements. But by the time she opened her eyes, the tower room was empty.

  Chapter Ten

  Courier Balgos slunk through the slums of Beggars Row, gagging at the stench of the litter-strewn streets. He wore the simple robes of a messenger, but even his humble clothing contrasted sharply with the staggering poverty around him.

  The odors of refuse, ordure, and death rose from myriad piles of the-gods-knew-what, hanging in a miasma so thick he could almost taste it.

  By the gods, if only there was some way to block out this stench.

  He placed his feet with care, studying the ground as he walked.

  I hope I don't step in—

  "Shite!" he cursed aloud. Warm wetness filled his boot, causing him to gag.

  Thank the Illusionist I didn't have breakfast, or it might join the rest of the fragrances in this horrible place.

  Two days had passed since the Feast of Illusionist's Night, and Balgos still struggled with the after-effects of too much strong drink. His head had stopped pounding, but his stomach still recoiled at the thought of food.

  "Please, sir," a voice warbled from a nearby pile of rags, "a coin?"

  From the heap emerged a scarred, pox-ridden face. The man's mouth held few teeth, and a wart protruded from his broken nose. The eyes stared at him with a dull, listless expression. A grubby hand reached towards the courier, gnarled fingers covered in a thick crust of grime. Flaking flesh fell from the beggar's arms and hands.

  "Get away from me, filth!" Balgos yelled at the leper, his eyes growing wide in horror. The messenger made the warding sign of the Maiden and hurried away.

  I have to get the frozen hell out of here before I catch something!

  The messenger muttered oaths under his breath, cursing the Hunter and his need for secrecy. He desperately wanted to flee Beggar's Row, but he had a task to complete first.

  He scanned the street, searching for the sign of The Rusted Dangle. Relief flooded him as he rounded a corner in the street and spotted the inn.

  I just have to deliver my message and I can take a very long bath!

  The Rusted Dangle stood—barely, he thought—at the end of the lane. It appeared to be a nail away from collapsing. Its roof slanted at a dangerous angle, and far too many hastily constructed support beams held up the building.

  Rust had worn away the phallic sign that depicted the inn's name, suspended on a rope so frayed a light breeze could blow it down. The inn's front doors hung from hinges older than Voramis itself, and Balgos feared he would rip them out of the wall if he pushed too hard.

  The interior of the inn matched its dilapidated exterior. The furniture consisted of tables and chairs cobbled together from scraps of wood that had no right being used for construction.

  Behind the bar, stood a balding innkeeper that looked as old as the inn itself. "What can I get you, lad?" the man asked, his tone pleasant.

  I must be his first paying customer in years, thought Balgos.

  The messenger strode toward the bar, opening his mouth to answer. A raconteur in bright clothing bumped into him, almost knocking him over.

  "Watch where you're going, halfwit!" Balgos yelled at the man.

  The traveling entertainer muttered something in response, and the courier gagged at the man's putrid breath.

  That swill he drinks must be brewed in a latrine, he thought, pushing the man away.

  The drunk hardly noticed the insult and the shove, but stumbled toward an ancient-looking table in a dimly lit corner of the bar.

  Balgos wiped his hands on his tunic in disgust, trying in vain to scrub away the filth from the raconteur's clothing.

  "Room four," he demanded of the bartender.

  The balding innkeeper waved a pudgy hand towards the hall at the opposite end of the tavern. "Right that way, sir. But first, might I offer you something to eat or drink?"

  The courier summoned every shred of etiquette he possessed. "Another time, perhaps," he replied with a forced smile as he turned away from the bar.

  A quiet "ahem" sounded behind the courier. He turned back to see the pub landlord wearing an apologetic smile on his face, his hand held out expectantly.

  "Two coppers for use of the room, sir," the bald proprietor said with an oily smile.

  Rolling his eyes, Balgos fished a pair of copper bits from his purse and deposited them in the innkeeper's hand with a scowl. The man appeared not to notice. The coins disappeared into a purse beneath his clothing, and he returned to his futile task of wiping the filthy bar with an even filthier cloth.

  The floorboards of the dark hallway creaked beneath Balgos' feet, and the scent of year-old unwashed sheets filled his nose.

  No wonder the Hunter likes this place, he thought. No one in his right mind would ever stay the night here.

  The door stood unlocked, and he hesitantly pushed it open. The room beyond was dark, the window covered with thick oilcloth to block out the light.

  Balgos closed the door and waited in silence, trying not to inhale the foul scents of the darkened room.

  "I hear you're looking for me." The deep voice echoed in the stillness.

  "Keeper's icy balls!" Balgos cursed, startled. The courier jerked back, instinctively moving away from the threatening figure materializing before him.

  I didn't even see him enter the room!

  "What the f—?"

  "You came for a reason, I assume," the Hunter cut him off.

  Balgos snapped his mouth shut, fighting to calm his racing heart. The Hunter towered over him, his silhouette framed against the dim light filtering through the covered window. Balgos couldn't see the assassin's face, nor did he want to.

  "Sir Hunter," he said, struggling to keep his voice calm, "I come with an unusual request."

  The Hunter could have been made of stone for all the response he gave. The silence unnerved the courier and set his hands trembling.

  "Right," Balgos stammered, "er…um…well…right." He drew in a deep breath before continuing. "My…er…master requests that you visit him in his home. He—"

  "I don't make house calls," the harsh voice of the Hunter interrupted.

  "I know, sir, but I believe you will want to make an exception. My master is—"

  "I don't care who your master is. If he wants to meet me, he will do so on my terms. The door is behind you."

  "My master is unable to move around the city, or else he would meet with you in person."

  Silence answered him.

  "But," Balgos burst out in desperation, "my master will pay your normal fee just to hear what he has to say, and double if you agree to take the contract."

  The room remained silent.

  Has he gone? Am I talking to an empty room?

  "He-hello?"

  "I am considering your master's offer," the Hunter intoned, his voice thoughtful.

  Balgos' heart pounded in his chest, and sweat trickled down his back as he waited for the assassin's answer.

  "Very well," came the voice from the darkness. "The payment?"

  Balgos removed a heavy purse from within his robes, extending it towards the Hunter. The Hunter roughly plucked it from his hands, and the courier heard coins clinking in the darkness.

  "Tell your master I will call upon him tonight."

  "Thank you!" Balgos gasped in relief. "My master will be pleased to hear it."

  "Where would your master like me to meet him?"

  "At the Villa Camoralia, in the—"

&n
bsp; "I know the place," the harsh voice interrupted.

  "Excellent! I will pass your message along to him, then. He will be pleased to hear it."

  "Now go."

  Without a backward glance, Balgos fled.

  He rushed through the dim taproom and pushed through the front doors without even a nod to the bartender. In his haste, he failed to notice the fact that the inebriated raconteur in his outrageous bright clothing no longer sat at his table.

  The foul streets of Beggar's Row rushed by, yet still he ran, heedless of the voices crying out for coin, food, or drink. Only when he reached the Merchant's Quarter did he slow.

  With a muttered curse, turning his steps toward Upper Voramis and the Villa Camoralia.

  * * *

  The Hunter slid the wooden wall panel shut without a sound as he emerged from the secret passage connecting the taproom of The Rusty Dangle with Room Four. He made no noise as he moved from the shadowed booth at the back of the taproom, and the occupants of the bar were far too drunk to notice him.

  I love this inn, he thought. The food and ale may be terrible and the smells worse, but this passage is sheer brilliance. I can slip in and out of Room Four unseen and unheard. It's also bloody entertaining to see people's reactions to the Hunter "appearing" in front of them, as if from thin air.

  The Hunter enjoyed putting the fear of the gods—or fear of him—into those who sought his services. People who believed the Hunter could appear out of thin air tried harder to avoid angering him.

  Perhaps the rumors of my superhuman powers are a bit exaggerated, but they're worth every coin. He spent a small fortune to spread whispers through the city, a strategic investment.

  The Hunter nodded to Eliryo—the owner of the run-down establishment—and tossed him a silver drake. He had paid the fat innkeeper more than enough to own the room, but an extra coin would keep the man amenable to their arrangement—not to mention discreet.

  He strode through the taproom and pushed through the front doors. His face—the face of the drunken raconteur—twisted in disgust as he inhaled the foul odors wafting through the streets of Beggars' Row.