Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  I have time for a few preparations before tonight's meeting.

  His curiosity had been piqued by the mysterious client—a man willing to pay double his high fees.

  It seems I will soon find the truth behind one of the best-kept secrets in the city.

  Chapter Eleven

  A cool breeze wafted through Upper Voramis, bringing with it the sweet scent of Snowblossom trees from the distant Maiden's Fields. Stars twinkled overhead, and the moon shone down bright on the dark figure crouching atop the high walls of Villa Camoralia.

  The Hunter's vantage point allowed him a clear view of the mansion grounds. He saw no guards on patrol. Not a soul moved in the darkness, and he could detect no human scents on the air.

  They must all be inside, he thought.

  A wall twenty paces high surrounded the villa, and scaling it proved no easy task, even with the Hunter's superhuman strength to aid him.

  The legendary Hunter, winded like a fat butcher chasing a stray pig.

  The thought brought a smile to his face as he rested, regaining his strength.

  Tonight I meet the mysterious occupant of the Villa Camoralia.

  None knew who lived within the massive, fortified mansion, but rumors spread among the citizens of Voramis like a plague.

  Whispers had spread the name of a long-dead sorcerer around the city, while others claimed that King Gavril the Conqueror had wakened from his six thousand-year slumber to reclaim the throne of Voramis.

  Some speculated that the Demon of Voramis—the reclusive commander of the Dark Heresy—resided here. Others insisted—always with hushed tones and terrified glances—that the Bloody Hand held court behind its towering walls and iron gates.

  He dismissed this last rumor as unlikely.

  I doubt the Bloody Hand would extend a polite invitation to me after what I did to Lord Dannaros.

  Either way, he placed little faith in the stories. They were the way of the ignorant, and he dealt only in facts.

  Tonight, I will put the rumors to rest once and for all.

  He strode along the top of the wall, moving in total silence. His dark grey cloak blended with the shadows as he descended into the gardens of the Villa Camoralia.

  He wore no armor—even oiled leather made noise as he moved—but the padded jerkin beneath his tunic would suffice. His long sword, a thick, heavy blade with a vicious edge, hung from his back. Soulhunger sat on his belt, its sheath wrapped in dark cloth to prevent the weapon from clanking.

  Tonight he wore the disguise he preferred when meeting new clients. A heavy jaw with a strong chin, a thick scar running across his flattened nose, dark eyes, and hair of an unremarkable length and style allowed him to blend in with the hired muscle of Lower Voramis.

  His rough features would stand out in Upper Voramis, but he had no need to walk the streets. The rooftops of Voramis served as his private highway, allowing him to traverse the city unseen. Only the man inside the Villa Camoralia would see his face this night.

  The mansion rose hundreds of paces into the night sky, and he relished the challenge of climbing its vaulted heights. Sculptures of mythical creatures—long ago eradicated from the face of Einan—adorned the walls. The horrifying figures provided perfect handholds for climbing, and he leapt from statue to statue with the ease of a jungle primate.

  He climbed at a steady pace, moving toward a balcony half a dozen stories above the ground. Slipping over the rail, he paused to catch his breath and look out over his city. He breathed deep, basking in the fresh breeze blowing across his face, reveling in the breathtaking view of Voramis.

  Huge windowed doors stood locked behind him, held shut by a simple lock. A dagger inserted between the doorframes allowed him to unhook the latch. The room within was dark, but a door on the far end of the room stood ajar—revealing a hall filled with flickering torchlight.

  The Hunter slipped through the open window and into the empty room. He peered into the illuminated hallway, taking in the details of the mansion’s interior. He searched for any indication of where to find his mysterious client, and his eyes settled on two men standing at the far end of the corridor. They had the look of thugs, with thick necks, flattened noses, cauliflowered ears, protruding brows, and fists the size of hams.

  It looks as if they were cut from the same unthinking, dim-witted mold. The guards smelled of leather, sweat, and lard.

  The men stood before a pair of huge double doors, which looked to be made of heavy bloodwood—all but impossible to break, with a natural imperviousness to fire. The doors would have cost less had they been made of solid gold. The Hunter knew they would only be used to guard something—or someone—valuable.

  He crept from shadow to shadow, taking care to move in absolute silence. Thick columns lined the hallway, and he kept the pillars between himself and the guards. When he finally stepped into view, he stood no more than a handful of paces from the men.

  "Your master is expecting me," the Hunter rasped.

  His words startled both guards. They fumbled for the thick cudgels at their belts, and one nearly dropped his in the rush to draw it. Their violent reaction to his presence made it hard for him to maintain a straight face. With impressive self-control, the Hunter managed to keep his stare impassive and disdainful.

  "Who the fuck are you?" one guard demanded, waving his club menacingly at the Hunter. "And where in the twisted hell did you come from?"

  I've wounded their pride, the Hunter thought. Good. The corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile, but the shadows of his hooded cloak obscured it from the view of the thugs. He eyed the thick wooden cudgel in the man's hand.

  "I wouldn't do anything foolish, if I were you," he said aloud.

  The guard opened his mouth to speak, but a feeble voice called out from the room beyond before he could form coherent words.

  "Let him enter, Targ."

  Targ gripped the handle of his club even tighter, clenching his jaw in anger. He looked ready to protest, but the voice came again, this time with an edge of steel in it.

  "Unmolested, mind you. He is my guest."

  Targ and his companion loosened their grip on their weapons and reluctantly moved aside. The Hunter pulled back his hood, and the two guards jerked back as if struck. With a mocking smile for the thugs, the Hunter strode through the huge double doors.

  The room beyond was dimly lit, though a fire blazed in the hearth. Eerie shadows danced in the darkness, and the Hunter's nostrils filled with the scent of wood smoke. He took in the sparse comfort of what could only be a sitting room.

  A frail-looking man sat in a wheeled chair—his mysterious client, he assumed. Scars contorted his mouth into a horrible grimace, and thick ridges of scar tissue covered the place where his nose should have been. The old man's hair hung in long white wisps down to his shoulder, and a thin beard covered his weak chin and scarred cheeks with uneven stubble.

  The Hunter studied the four parallel scars crisscrossing the man's face. Those could only have come from the claws of a northern bloodbear. Definitely a story there.

  A blanket covered the man’s slender legs, and a heavy cloak lay draped across his shoulders. The man emanated a powerful stench of decay.

  Soulhunger pounded in his head, a note of joy filling the dagger's bloodthirsty voice. The Hunter pushed it to the back of his mind.

  "Take a good look, Hunter," the old man spoke. His words slurred from between ruined, twisted lips. He turned his face to the side, exposing the scars running down his neck and disappearing beneath his thin shirt.

  The man gave him a weak smile. "I wager it has been years since you've seen something this twisted and mangled. Though I hear our good Lord Damuria's body was found in a…similar state."

  The Hunter said nothing. His attention shifted from the marred features of the old man to the hulking figure standing behind the wheeled chair. The scars on his arms were a testament to the knife fights he had survived. His massive hands rested on the handles of the wh
eeled chair, his forearms heavily banded with muscle.

  How many men have those hands broken or killed?

  The huge man gazed calmly back at the Hunter from beneath heavy brows, but intelligence burned in his dark eyes. The Hunter knew those eyes were taking his measure.

  Judging by his expression, I must not be what he was expecting.

  The man's scent held a hint of acrid bile, mixed with the overpowering smells of steel and the copper of dried blood.

  One thing is for sure, he is no mere attendant. A bodyguard, perhaps.

  The old man spoke, breaking the tense silence in the room.

  "I know the Hunter only meets at the time and place of his own choosing. Visits to old men in their homes usually end with a dagger in an aging heart, but I thank you for…restraining yourself." A thrust of his chin indicated the two slabs of muscle standing guard at the door.

  The Hunter held his tongue. Years of experience had taught him that remaining silent encouraged people to speak more freely. Loose tongues often spilled more information than their owners realized.

  The old man waved a bony, wrinkled arm toward his legs. "My…condition being what it is, I cannot get out much. I therefore greatly appreciate your coming here. Truth be told, I would trust this matter to no other, for it is of a delicate nature."

  "I understand," the Hunter said, his voice deep and harsh. "What would you have of me, lord…?"

  The old man gave him a mysterious smile. "You can call me Lord Cyrannius." He waved his hand in a dismissive gesture. "Yes, you and I both know that no 'Lord Cyrannius' exists among the noble houses of Voramis. We both have our secrets to maintain, good Hunter."

  "Fair enough. Now, I will hear you out. Be warned, however, I reserve the right to refuse your contract should I choose to."

  "And, should you choose to, you will leave the mansion unharmed," the old man said.

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow, and the aging Lord Cyrannius gave a gentle laugh. "Yes, I do see the irony in the statement."

  Cyrannius steepled his long, slim fingers, studying the cloaked figure of the Hunter.

  "You have a reputation as a peerless fighter and I have no doubt you would cut through my men"—he nodded towards his guards again—"with little difficulty."

  The Hunter gave a small nod of assent.

  "However," Cyrannius continued, "I do have an awful lot of men, and they may present an…inconvenience that you might wish to avoid. Suffice it to say, if you choose to decline my request, none of my men will throw themselves on your blade in an attempt to keep my secrets."

  "A wise choice, my lord," the Hunter said. A predatory smile touched his lips, but Cyrannius—and the giant standing behind him—seemed not to notice.

  "I know that you care little for details, provided your services are paid for in full. However, I would like to lay out my reasons for contracting you, nonetheless."

  "It is your right, Lord Cyrannius," the Hunter said, "though I dare say they will do little to influence my decision regarding whether or not to accept the contract."

  "Fair enough, fair enough."

  The man fell silent for a moment, as if collecting his thoughts. When he finally spoke, his words emerged halting and tinged with sorrow.

  "I have a matter that requires your unique…abilities. First off, let me assure you that I have vast resources at my disposal, as you can see by my humble home."

  Lord Cyrannius gave the Hunter a deprecating smile, but the Hunter's face could have been carved from stone, for all the reaction he gave.

  "To say my fortune rivals that of the Crown would not be a boast, and I have access to wealth beyond anything you could imagine. However," the old man's eyes filled with sorrow and he swallowed hard, "the one thing I am in short supply of… is family."

  The Hunter raised an eyebrow, prompting Cyrannius to continue.

  "Before my…misfortunes," he waved at his covered legs and scar-twisted face, "the gods saw fit to grace me with a daughter, my only child. She was the light of my life, and when she married, she gave birth to a daughter of her own. This young girl—my granddaughter—was the one good thing a broken old man had in this world."

  Had? Were?

  "You speak of her as if she belongs to the past," the Hunter said.

  "It pains me still to talk about this, though it happened what feels like a lifetime ago. The young girl came of age last year, and demanded her freedom to celebrate the Season of Plenty with her friends. During the Maiden's Harvest celebration, she met a young man. This young man took certain…liberties with her. To speak plainly, he violated her." Rage flared across Cyrannius' face.

  The Hunter said nothing, and the old man appeared not to notice. "When we approached the man, he vehemently denied his actions and swore upon the gods that he had not laid a finger on my Eliesse. We could find no proof beyond her words, and the laws of Voramis were on the side of this, this monster."

  "He walked free, Hunter. The man who defiled my beautiful grandchild escaped punishment because I could not prove he had done anything."

  Fire blazed in the old man's eyes, and his voice grew thick and deep in his rage. For a moment, the Hunter thought he could see a hint of the man Lord Cyrannius must have been.

  "My granddaughter never fully recovered,"—the old lord's words tumbled out now—"and she spent every moment locked in her room. She refused to eat or drink, and soon began to waste away."

  His voice cracked, and a tear threatened at the corner of one eye.

  "We found her in her room one day, a gash in each wrist. Before we could summon the physickers to her aid, the last of my beautiful Eliesse’s lifeblood emptied onto the cold stone floor of her bedroom."

  Tears rolled down his weathered cheeks, and he covered his face with his hands as silent sobs racked his feeble body. The huge attendant simply stood there, impassive, his eyes never leaving the Hunter.

  Finally, with a supreme effort of will, Lord Cyrannius managed to recover sufficiently to speak once more.

  "To make matters worse," he continued, swallowing hard, "my daughter, her mother, followed her a few days later into the Long Keeper's embrace. I believe she couldn't live with what had happened to her beloved child, and so she took her own life as well."

  "And that, good Hunter, is why I have requested your presence here tonight. I want you to be the vengeful hand of the Watcher for me. I want you to seek justice and retribution for the death of my beloved child and grandchild."

  Lord Cyrannius' voice dropped to a harsh whisper, one filled with hatred and loathing.

  "Neither of them deserved the fate they suffered at the hands of this monster. I want you to mete out a punishment far worse than death to the man who took them away from me."

  The man's vehemence surprised the Hunter. "Do you know what you are asking, Lord Cyrannius?"

  "Of course I do, Hunter," the old lord scoffed. "I make it my business to gather information, and I know as much about you as anyone else in Voramis—or on the face of Einan itself, for that matter."

  Lord Cyrannius stared at the dagger hanging on the Hunter's belt, and the Hunter saw a curious expression cross the man's face

  Is that desire I see in the old man's eyes?

  Soulhunger throbbed in his mind, and the Hunter fought to keep the weapon's urges from overwhelming his thoughts.

  "Oh, yes, Hunter," Lord Cyrannius said, giving him a knowing smile. "I know all about that blade and what it can do. They say it brings a fate worse than death, that it steals the soul of its victims from the Long Keeper's grasp and sends them straight to the darkest depths of the forgotten hell."

  "I see you have indeed done your research, my lord."

  The old man's knowledge of the weapon's ability surprised the Hunter.

  It's no secret what Soulhunger can do, he thought, but neither is the truth commonly known. Who is this Lord Cyrannius?

  "Of course I have." The old man's voice turned patronizing. "Which is why I know full well what I am paying y
ou to do. I also know that your services are worth every gold imperial." Cyrannius' eyes blazed with an inner fire. "It is the fate that man deserves, and you are the only one who can fulfill an old man's request."

  The Hunter remained silent for a moment, pondering.

  Is it worth it to take the contract, even though I know nothing about this mysterious man?

  Something within compelled him to nod his assent. "I will accept your contract, Lord Cyrannius."

  The old nobleman beamed, clapping his frail hands together in delight. "Good, good!"

  For a moment, the Hunter thought the firelight played tricks with the old lord's twisted features. The face staring at him contorted, looking like a horrible creature preparing to feast on its victim. He dismissed it as nothing more than the room's dim lighting.

  "You know what I require?"

  "Of course, Hunter. I have had it readied in the hope that you would accept my offer. Tane," he spoke to the huge man holding his wheeled chair, "would you bring the case from the next room?"

  With a grunt and a nod, Tane released the handles of the old lord's chair and stalked through the open door behind him.

  The Hunter couldn't help admiring the huge man's grace and fluidity. Tane walked on the balls of his feet, stepping with the unconscious grace of a predator.

  He walks like a Yathi Dancer, but those arms look as if they belong in a Hradari beast pit. He'd put the fear of the gods into me, if such a thing were possible.

  The huge bodyguard disappeared into the room beyond. A moment later, he returned carrying a small black box.

  Bloodwood, the Hunter thought, noticing the unique whorls of the wood fiber. That box alone could cover the cost of the contract.

  Tane opened the lid with a huge hand. Within, a simple white cloth lay folded beside a bulging purse.

  "As you can see, Hunter," the old man said, "the case contains the item you require, along with the payment for your services." Lord Cyrannius' voice grew feeble now that his fit of rage had passed, but fire still blazed behind his dark eyes.