Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  No wonder. It's the fault of that bloody music.

  He climbed to his feet with effort, his back stiff from sitting on hard stone for…could it have been hours? He squinted up at the afternoon sun. Three, four hours past midday. Good. I didn't waste too much time sleeping.

  A dull ache in his head brought his thoughts into focus. Soulhunger's insistence grew louder and more painful, and the weapon quivered in its sheath. It only acted this way when its quarry was near.

  The Hunter flattened himself into the darkness of a nearby doorway as the Beggar Priest emerged from the House of Need. His target still carried the covered basket under his arms, but the Hunter smelled the scent of refuse wafting from beneath the cloth.

  Good, he thought, a smile touching his lips. That smell will make it very easy to follow him.

  The priest chose only back streets and alleys, taking care to keep the malodorous basket away from the masses thronging to the Temple District. The Hunter slipped along behind him, staying out of sight. The priest had seen him back in Divinity Square, and the Hunter couldn't risk the man recognizing him. There was no telling what the priest would do if he realized he was being followed.

  Thankfully, I don't need to see him to follow him.

  Soulhunger pounded in the Hunter's mind, begging to feed. He was in no hurry to run the man down; patience would be his ally in this hunt. The blade would lead him to his quarry.

  As he followed the Beggar Priest, the Hunter realized the man's path led towards the Midden. A gaping void in the heart of the city, the Midden provided Voramians with a place to throw their offal and refuse. Carters hauled scraps and garbage from around Voramis, dumping it into the eternally hungry depths.

  None knew how far down the Midden went, and the histories failed to record a purpose for the hole's existence. It had simply always been.

  The cavernous maw stretched for hundreds of paces in every direction. Even from where he stood, the Hunter felt the gloom radiating from the dark, bottomless pit, sending a shudder running through him. He was glad he had no need to approach the gaping void, content to watch the priest from a distance.

  The priest emptied his basket into the Midden, taking care not to let the refuse touch his robes. He stooped over a nearby trough to wash his hands and splash water on his face and neck. When he straightened, he stretched his arms in the air as if to work the kinks from a strained back.

  Something about the movement caused the Hunter to duck out of sight. It was the way the man's eyes darted through the empty streets, as if searching for unseen dangers. The shadows of a fallen awning provided the Hunter with cover, and he waited for the man to move.

  Soulhunger whispered in the back of his mind. Glancing around the corner, the Hunter saw a flash of dirty grey disappear down the street. The weapon's insistence grew louder and more persistent as it sensed its quarry escaping.

  The Hunter rushed to the intersection where the Beggar Priest had disappeared. He risked a glance at the street beyond, and relief flooded him as he saw his target. The man moved at an easy pace, seemingly unhurried and unaware that the Hunter followed him. His steps led him away from the Temple District.

  Pious bastard, probably off on some new mission of mercy.

  An ache in his shoulders caused the Hunter to look down at his bulging belly. It was time to lose the disguise, getting rid of the dead weight of the false paunch.

  There's no need for this disguise, anyway. The priest is headed into Lower Voramis. It will be easy to stay out of sight once we leave the Temple District.

  A nearby hovel caught the Hunter's attention, and he pushed through the rotting front doors. Empty.

  The Hunter was greatly relieved to remove the disguise of Danther the tailor. He discarded the heavy beard, dark wig, and simple clothing. He sighed gratefully as he emptied the wool from the dark cloak that served as his bulging paunch. The cloak slipped on over the simple brown tunic he wore, hiding the weapons on his belt. The mottled garment would enable him to hide in the filth of Lower Voramis.

  He had grown tired of traipsing through the streets. Not only was he forced to walk through the mud, but there was also a greater risk of being seen by his target. Instead, the Hunter decided to take to the roofs.

  Sunlight filtered through large holes in the hovel's thatched roof, and the Hunter saw beautiful blue sky above. He grasped one of the roof beams and swung his body through an opening.

  He loved the Voramis rooftops. The open sky above, the stench of the city far below, and none but the birds to share the space with. The scents of sunbaked tiles and withered hay filled his nostrils. The beam beneath his feet felt as if it would crack at any moment, so he leapt to the tiled roof of the next house over. Clay crunched under his weight, but the structure itself felt solid enough.

  Much better. Now, Soulhunger, tell me where to go.

  The weapon's voice pounded in his head, its pull guiding him in the direction of his quarry.

  I can't lose him.

  The Hunter leapt from rooftop to rooftop, reveling in the cooling breeze and the warming sunlight. It might have almost been peaceful had Soulhunger's voice not continuously chattered in his head.

  His eyes scanned the streets below, searching for the man he hunted. There he is. Strolling as if he hasn't a care in the world.

  He crouched atop a slanted roof and studied the man.

  Beggar Priests wore simple grey clothing, with blue stripes around the collar to denote their rank. This cleric's robe had a single faded stripe, marking him a minor cleric in service to the Beggar God.

  He appears as ordinary as any priest can be.

  The priest appeared at ease, roaming around the city without an apparent destination. He stooped to help a child from the mud, giving the urchin a smile and a pat on the head as he moved on. When he encountered an old woman struggling to fill a cracked clay pot in a nearby well, the priest offered his assistance. After filling the pot, he insisted on carrying her heavy burden home.

  Not for the first time today, the Hunter found himself questioning Lord Cyrannius' story.

  Where would this simple priest have the opportunity to interact with anyone from the houses of the nobility, much less assault and violate one? He looks harmless; I find it hard to believe he could have done such a thing.

  It wasn't the way the man looked, nor the fact that he was a priest. Piety did not preclude men from temptation. The lust of the flesh could overcome even the strongest willpower. In his years living in Voramis, he had seen the worst side of humanity. He knew what men and women were capable of when motivated by greed, anger, or fear. In his mind, every one of them deserved the death he was paid to bring.

  No one is free of sin, not even that priest below.

  But the priest's actions struck him as odd. The rapists and violators he had hunted tended to be violent, angry, and hateful creatures. This man showed none of those traits.

  He seems to actually care about those around him.

  Another thought struck him.

  Don't Beggar Priests have their manhood removed? If that's true, how could he have raped that young woman?

  Things just didn't fit.

  Enough.

  He shook the thoughts from his head. He had made a living out of not asking questions. The contract had to be carried out, no matter who his target was.

  Deep within, he told himself, hidden well out of sight, there is something deserving of death. I am simply the hand that delivers the punishment for his sins.

  Something nagged at the back of the Hunter's mind. The priest looked like an ordinary man, giving off the appearance of taking a casual stroll. Yet he moved with confidence, an inherent gracefulness. His eyes seemed to track the movement of every person he passed.

  The Hunter had no time to ponder this, for the priest chose that moment to cross a busy thoroughfare. The wide street below forced the Hunter to search for a way to cross to the rooftops beyond, pulling his attention away from his quarry.

&nbs
p; When his eyes returned to the streets below, the Beggar Priest had disappeared.

  Stifling a curse, he scanned up and down the bustling avenue, but saw no sign of the man.

  He can't have just vanished.

  The Hunter closed his eyes, breathing deeply and letting the tension drain from his muscles. He attuned his mind with Soulhunger's insistent voice, letting instinct take over. His senses hunted the man's unique scent and the beating of his heart.

  Find him, he told the blade.

  For long moments, Soulhunger remained silent, as if the blade was occupied in the search for its prey. The Hunter waited, taking in the world around him. He heard the sounds of the traffic below, smelled fragrant odors of spiced meat and fresh bread. These sensations cleared his mind of thoughts that would distract Soulhunger from finding its prey.

  Soulhunger jerked in its sheath, and the Hunter leapt in the direction he sensed it wanted him to go. He trusted the blade—and his own instincts—and he let them guide him across the rooftops of Lower Voramis.

  Feed me, Soulhunger whispered in his mind, its resonance growing stronger with each step he took, and revel in the power I will give you.

  Finally, the Hunter caught a flash of ragged grey.

  I see you now, priest!

  Just then, the Beggar Priest turned a corner into a small alley and disappeared from the Hunter's sight.

  A flash of worry ran through the Hunter, but he shrugged it off. He had Soulhunger. With the blade to guide him, his quarry had no hope of escaping.

  The Hunter scanned the streets below. They were empty, as was common at this late afternoon hour. He dropped from the roof, landing hard on the cobbled stones below. A stab of pain flashed through his knees as he climbed to his feet, but slowly it faded.

  Now let's see how a Beggar Priest meets his god.

  He moved toward the mouth of the alley, his eyes alert for any sign of danger. Soulhunger and his swordbreaker hung in sheaths at his hips; within easy reach should he need them. With a deep breath, the Hunter followed his prey into the narrow lane.

  Pain blossomed in his chest as he turned the corner. His mind scrambled, shouting at him to escape, but his legs refused to move. Looking down, he saw the hilt of a dagger protruding from between his ribs.

  The Hunter slumped to his knees, fighting to breathe. Dark red blood spilled down the front of his tunic.

  The Beggar Priest stood a few paces away, a second dagger poised for throwing. The man watched the Hunter intently, as if waiting for him to die.

  Unfortunately for you, the Hunter thought, struggling to remain conscious, I'm not that easy to kill.

  It took every ounce of strength he possessed, but the Hunter slowly climbed to his feet. With a jerk and a grunt of pain, the Hunter ripped the knife from his chest. He dimly heard Soulhunger's lust pounding in his mind as the blade sensed fresh blood spilling from the wound.

  "That hurt," he growled. He held the dagger up to examine it. "An excellent throw, I must admit."

  The Beggar Priest gaped. The dagger in his hand remained motionless, his body frozen in disbelief.

  "But you…I…" he stammered.

  Confusion painted his face for a moment, then realization slowly dawned.

  "Ah, of course. The Hunter." Not a question, but a statement of fact. The man showed no sign of surprise or fear upon seeing him.

  "At your service," the Hunter replied, sweeping an expansive, mocking bow.

  "I'm actually surprised it took the demon this long to send you after me," the priest said.

  "Demon?" the Hunter asked, puzzled.

  "You didn't think to ask your employer his identity?"

  "Part of the job." The Hunter shrugged. "Secrets are always easier to keep when you don't know them."

  "Spoken like a true tool," spat the priest, "unthinking, with no mind of its own, only fit to be used by the highest bidder." He studied the Hunter, taking in the dark brown cloak, the bloodied tunic, the scarred features. "To tell you the truth, Hunter, I've been expecting you to come after me for a long while now."

  "Have you?" the Hunter asked, a hint of mockery in his tone.

  "Yes," the priest replied simply. "Considering what you are, it seems only fit that he'd eventually recruit you to his ranks."

  "Considering what I am? What in the hells does that mean?"

  "You mean you don't know?" Genuine disbelief registered on the priest's face. "How could he not know?" he asked, as if speaking to himself.

  The Hunter had no idea what the man was talking about, but he cared little. Soulhunger screamed in delight as the Hunter drew it, quivering in his hand.

  "I have a contract to carry out, priest," he said, his voice harsh.

  The priest's eyes narrowed. "You come armed with the relic," he said, his eyes locked on the dagger. "Did he give it to you?"

  What nonsense is he babbling on about?

  "Did who give me what? No one has given me anything, save gold as payment to deal with you."

  "The blade," the priest gestured toward Soulhunger. "Where did you get the blade?"

  Why does it matter?

  Aloud, he said, "I have always had Soulhunger. It has never left my side."

  "Soulhunger," the priest mused. "An apt name." His eyes scanned the Hunter's face, looking for…what? "Your reputation marks you as a man who knows how to use the weapon. Tell me, Hunter, have you bonded with the blade, yet?"

  What in the burning hell is the fool talking about? The priest's words made no sense to the Hunter.

  Ignore him, the voice in his head whispered. We must feed.

  When the Hunter failed to respond, the Beggar Priest shrugged.

  "No matter. Let us see if your reputation is earned, or if it is just the power of the blade that has made you what you are." He drew two short swords from a sheath hidden beneath his robes.

  Watered steel glinted, and light shimmered along edges honed to razor sharpness. The man held his weapons, worn from frequent use, in a loose grip, his stance relaxed, weight on the balls of his feet.

  Clearly, he knows how to use them.

  "A priest with swords?" the Hunter mocked. "Will wonders never cease?"

  "May the Fallen One have mercy on you, Bucelarii," the priest said, a sad smile spreading on his face. "You are more deserving of death than those who fall to your blade."

  Bucelarii? This was the second time the Hunter had heard the name, but still he had no idea what it meant.

  "You haven't killed me yet, priest. Now, do you plan to use those things, or are we going to stand here talking all day?"

  The Hunter’s eyes narrowed as he sized up his opponent. The Beggar Priest stalked toward the Hunter, approaching with wary caution. He stepped with the grace of a master dancer, testing the ground with his toes before he placed his weight on the foot. The litter and refuse strewn around the muddy ground could cause a fatal misstep, yet the priest moved with confidence.

  The Hunter realized he faced a man who knew how to use his weapons, and a flash of concern raced through him. Soulhunger alone stood no chance against the two longer blades. He slipped the heavy swordbreaker from its sheath, and the familiar weight of the knife comforted him.

  He waited, blades held at the ready, and the priest obliged him by launching the first attack, thrusting his longer sword toward the Hunter's throat. The Hunter blocked it easily and returned with a blow of his own, which the man turned aside.

  Each tested the other's guard with quick thrusts and cuts, parrying their opponent's blows with ease. The sounds of clashing steel and sloshing mud filling the air as they fought up and down the alley. Neither gained a clear advantage in their first exchange, and the priest retreated after a minute of trading blows.

  "I see your reputation is well-earned, Hunter," he said, his voice full of confidence. His breath came easy and his stance was relaxed.

  The Hunter gave him a mocking smile. "For a priest, you certainly know which end of a sword goes where."

  "You m
ean here!" The priest's lightning thrust took the Hunter by surprise.

  Pain raced along the Hunter's arm as the priest's blade pierced the muscle of his shoulder. Before he could retaliate, his opponent leapt back, out of reach of the Hunter's shorter blades.

  "You'll need to move faster than that, if you want to carry out your contract, Hunter," the man taunted.

  "Oh, aye," the Hunter said, his smile never wavering, "I believe you're right."

  The wound stung, and blood trickled down the Hunter's chest. However, the injury, which would have rendered any other man's arm useless, simply hampered his movement for a few heartbeats. As he stared at the priest, he could feel his flesh knitting together. After a moment, he tested the shoulder and found it moved without pain.

  "Ahh, much better."

  The Beggar Priest's confident expression slipped. "So, it is as the rumors say."

  "There are a lot of rumors, priest, but not all are true."

  "They say your body can heal, that you can't be killed." The man pointed a finger at his chest. "I put a dagger in your heart and a sword in your shoulder, and yet here you stand."

  The Hunter shrugged. "Many have tried to put an end to the Hunter, but the Long Keeper passes me by every time."

  "We'll see about that," the priest said.

  With a shout, he leapt forward, renewing his furious onslaught. His blows fell hard and fast, striking the Hunter from every angle.

  The Hunter marveled at the priest's strength. Each blow jarred his arms, and he found himself pressed hard. He had to move fast to block or dodge the blows of the longer weapons, yet at the same time find a way to slip through the priest's guard or use the swordbreaker to disarm the man.

  He ducked beneath a vicious slash, twisted out of the way of a thrust, and riposted with Soulhunger in his right hand. The sharp blade glanced along the priest's ribs before the man could fully dodge the blow. Soulhunger, tasting blood, screamed its pleasure.

  The distraction nearly cost him an eye. The priest's sword sliced through the air toward his head, forcing the Hunter to backpedal. Stinging pain flared along his cheek. He touched his face, and his hand came away wet.

  With a feral grin, the priest pressed the attack. He loosed a rapid succession of cuts at the Hunter's head and shoulders, adding occasional strikes at the Hunter's legs and midsection.