Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  Smart man, thought the Hunter, parrying a cut to his knees. The blow would have hobbled him, or slowed him long enough for the priest to gain the upper hand.

  "You're wasting your time, priest. You already put a knife in my heart, and I healed from that."

  "Aye," rasped the man through gritted teeth, "but you may find it's not as easy to regrow your head."

  Their battle raged with a fierce intensity, each struggling to find the weakness in the other's guard. The Hunter had to marvel at the man's tenacity. The priest held his own, but the Hunter knew time was on his side. His opponent's breath came in ragged gasps, his movements slowing. Grim determination filled the Beggar Priest's face, but there was a hint of desperation in his attack.

  The priest's striked seemed random and chaotic, but careful study showed the Hunter the rhythm of the cleric's attacks.

  A smile of satisfaction spread across his face. Got you, you bastard.

  He sensed the low slash coming before the priest struck. When his opponent's sword dipped toward his knee, he was ready with the swordbreaker to block. He dodged an anticipated slash, and with a twist of the notched swordbreaker, he wrenched the priest's weapon from his hand.

  The Beggar Priest managed to leap back, barely dodging the Hunter's follow-up slash—which would have opened his throat. The man stumbled backwards, staring in surprise at the Hunter.

  "Of all the assassins they have sent after me," said the priest, wonder in his voice, "it is an irony that a creature like you would be the one to finish the job."

  Creature?

  "Careful, priest, or you might hurt my feelings," the Hunter said with a smirk.

  The Hunter saw the grim determination on the man's face, and he had no choice but to admire the man's grit.

  Courageous, even in the face of death. Certainly not the actions of a rapist.

  The Hunter renewed his attack, his knives carving into his opponent. The Beggar Priest's remaining sword moved with lightning speed to deflect the Hunter's onslaught, but the blades in the Hunter's hands flew faster than he could see.

  Within the space of a dozen heartbeats, blood dripped from wounds in the priest's arms, legs, face, and chest. A deep gash in the cleric's wrist had sliced into the artery, and he struggled to grip his sword in weakening fingers. His uninjured hand clutched at the coils of his intestines spilling from a gaping wound in his abdomen.

  "If only you knew what you've done, Hunter," the priest gasped. Pain flashed across his face, and he slumped to his knees. "Centuries of protecting Voramis and the people of Einan, and it ends like this."

  The Hunter stared down at the dying man, his eyes devoid of mercy. "For a priest, you have a vaunted opinion of yourself. You are receiving the reward you have earned. ‘An eye for an eye', your scriptures say, don't they? Your violation of an innocent young woman led to her death, and that is on your conscience."

  "Violation? Innocent young woman?" Confusion flashed across the priest's face, followed by a slow, sad smile. "Is that the story he told you? Oh, poor foolish instrument in the hands of a master craftsman." A grimace of pain prevented him from speaking, and he swallowed hard.

  Feed, whispered Soulhunger in the Hunter's mind. The weapon throbbed in his hand, eager for the man's blood.

  The priest spoke again, his voice quiet. "If you knew what was good for you, Hunter, you would leave me to die. You have killed me, but there is no need for you to use that accursed blade." He thrust his chin toward the dagger in the Hunter's hand.

  "My instructions were clear, priest." The Hunter moved to stand over the dying man.

  The priest looked up at him with sorrow. "May all the gods take pity on you for what you are about to do this day," the man whispered. A smile touched his lips, and he closed his eyes.

  The Hunter drove the blade deep into the man's chest. The sharp edge sliced through flesh and muscle, driving toward the beating heart.

  Soulhunger cried out in ecstasy as it pulled the man's essence into itself. A scream of agony burst from the priest's lips. Bright light flared from the gem and burned the Hunter's eyes. Pain flooded his mind, and he dropped his swordbreaker to clutch at his head.

  An inferno raged within him. His agony intensified with every passing second. Power raced in his veins, but it felt tainted, somehow unclean.

  Something isn't right, his mind shrieked. This can't be right.

  Soulhunger's howling voice overwhelmed his thoughts. More, it cried. Give me blood. Satisfy my thirst.

  He struggled to open his eyes through the pain, staring down at the weapon pulsing in the priest's chest. Dark blood bubbled around the blade, and the light of Soulhunger's gem illuminated the street around him with its brilliance. Blood rushed through his veins, nausea swept over him, and numbness crept through him. His head felt packed with wool, and endless waves of pain racked his body. Pressure built within him, shattering his ability to think clearly.

  The words came to his numb limps unbidden. "May the Long Keeper take your body—your soul is forfeit."

  The Hunter stumbled to his feet, moving without thought. He turned away from the priest's body and shuffled down the alleyway as quickly as his numb legs could carry him. Somehow, he had sufficient presence of mind to pull the hood over his face and hide his weapons from sight. His hands and legs moved as if detached from his mind, with a will all their own.

  What in the icy hell just happened?

  Lord Cyrannius' story raced through his mind, but it didn't fit with the man he had met. Somehow, he had been set up.

  The bastard lied to me. But why? What is so special about this priest? Of all the lives Soulhunger has claimed, how is this one any different?

  He struggled to corral his thoughts, but his mind refused to cooperate. He walked without purpose, directionless. He placed one foot in front of the other, not caring where he went. Power raced through him, both hot and cold at the same time, setting every muscle quivering. The contents of his stomach came up, and, staggering, he retched into a pile of refuse.

  What did I just do? Why does this feel somehow…wrong?

  The streets of Lower Voramis passed in a blur. People jostled him as they passed, yelled insults and curses at him. He paid them no heed, his body as insensible as his mind.

  Something happened back there, something I don't understand. But what?

  Chaos whirled in his mind. A single thought consumed him. I have to find that bastard Cyrannius. I'll get answers from him, then I'll finish what that bloodbear started.

  "Spare a coin, sir?"

  The voice of a beggar broke into his stupor, tearing him from his thoughts. He blinked, as if opening his tired eyes for the first time. The taverns and whorehouses of the Blackfall District surrounded him; somehow his insensate trudging had brought him here.

  "A coin, sir?" the beggar asked again, his voice insistent.

  "No, sorry."

  He paid little attention to the approaching mendicant. His thoughts were consumed by the pain racing through his body. A sinking uneasiness filled him. Somehow, he had done more than just kill an ordinary man. This was bigger than even he knew.

  What have I done?

  The Hunter failed to notice the beggar stepping in front of him, blocking his path. He bumped into the vagabond, and opened his mouth to yell an insult at the fool.

  His words died in his throat as the beggar plunged a knife into his stomach.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Drip, drip, drip…

  The insistent sound of dripping water grated on the Hunter's consciousness.

  His head pounded in time with the falling drops.

  Drip, drip, drip…

  He struggled to open his eyes, and found them already wide. Darkness filled his vision. He saw nothing, heard nothing save the persistent, irritating noise of water droplets hitting stone.

  His thoughts came slowly, his mind a fog. Where the fiery hell am I?

  Drip, drip, drip…

  He tried to move, but his legs refuse
d to function. Chains rattled in the darkness, the sound accompanied by the smell of stagnant water and thick dust. One of his eyes was crusted shut. A sharp pain in his ribs throbbed in time with the water droplets.

  His arms were locked in place as well. He tested the reach of his bonds, and found them unyielding.

  Drip, drip, drip…

  No sounds of life. The Hunter strained to hear anything beyond his own heartbeat and the frustrating, eternal dripping. I must be far below the street.

  His world remained in darkness for an eternity, the silence broken only by the sound of water.

  Drip, drip, drip…

  He remained motionless, his body drained and his muscles exhausted. Every part of him ached, but the pain of flesh slowly healing was almost worse. Only the maddening echoes of water falling on stone marked the passage of time.

  He struggled against the mind-numbing fatigue that clouded his thoughts. What happened? How did I get here?

  The memory returned in a flash.

  I killed the priest. I carried out the contract, but something went wrong.

  He remembered the pain as he plunged Soulhunger deep into the man's chest.

  Soulhunger!

  He reached for the weapon where it should hang on his belt, forgetting the manacles on his wrist. Spikes set in the shackles dug into his flesh, sending waves of pain shooting up his arms. He tried to move his feet, but the chains pricked his flesh. Warm blood trickled down his ankles.

  That's going to make it damned difficult to get out of here.

  A heavy fog filled his mind. He shook his head in a vain effort to clear it. He struggled to recall what happened after he had killed the priest.

  Soulhunger changed, he remembered, became something different, something…dark, hungry.

  He sought the blade's voice, but his mind echoed the emptiness of the darkness around him.

  He had a vague memory of walking the streets of Voramis in a haze, and the face of the beggar accosting him on the street.

  Keeper's teats! And to think I didn't even have the presence of mind to defend myself. He growled his fury into the darkness.

  A sound reached his ears, and he fell silent, straining to hear. Footsteps echoed somewhere in the distance.

  Two pairs of feet, he thought. Two distinct scents. Two men.

  One smelled of cheap whores, stale ale, and bloodied steel. The other's scent was heavy with leather, dried sweat, and rancid meat.

  The footsteps approached, growing louder with each passing second before suddenly stopping. Panic filled the Hunter as the sound of dripping water filled his world once more. He feared the dripping would drive him insane.

  He heaved an inward sigh of relief as a key rattled in the lock, and torchlight shone beneath a tiny crack in what the Hunter guessed to be a door. A heavy tumbler clicked into place, and the door swung open.

  Light flared in the Hunter's vision, blinding him painfully. He squeezed his eyelids shut, tears streaming down his cheeks.

  "Well, well," came a voice from beyond his closed eyes, "this is the legendary Hunter?"

  Silence fell in the room for the space of a few heartbeats.

  "I'd have to say," said the voice, sounding disappointed, "not a very impressive specimen when he's shackled and bound."

  Heavy footfalls approached the Hunter, and he struggled to open his eyes. His vision, accustomed to the darkness, had yet to clear. He saw only a bright blur through his tears.

  The voice came again. "Let's see if he's as tough as they say."

  What felt like a brick wall slammed into the Hunter’s stomach. The blow doubled him over. Blood trickled down his arms from the spikes piercing his wrists.

  On the bright side, he thought, gasping for air, at least my vision is returning.

  In the light of the smoking torch, the Hunter saw the most unremarkable man he had ever laid eyes on. He had a plain nose, mousy brown hair, scant beard, and eyes of a dull brown—features shared by thousands of commoners in Voramis. The man wore dun-colored clothing, the sort the Hunter wore when he wanted to remain unnoticed. He was the one who smelled of whores, ale, and bloody steel.

  "Do you know who I am, Hunter?" the man asked. His voice, neither deep nor high, held no trace of accent. He had no scars on his hands or face, and his skin remained free of all tattoos and markings. The only thing identifying him as anything but ordinary was the ring he wore on his index finger.

  "Ahh," said the man, catching the Hunter's glance at his ring, "you see this, don't you?" He removed it, held it up in front of the Hunter's eyes. "Now do you know who I am?"

  The Hunter studied the simple ring. Made of silver, it bore only the engraving of a hand tipped with long, sharp claws.

  The ring of The Bloody Hand, thought the Hunter. Bugger me.

  The man smiled. He palmed the ring and slipped it back onto his index finger.

  "Allow me to introduce myself, Hunter. I am the Second, servant to the First of the Bloody Hand, true ruler of this city."

  The Hunter said nothing, but his mind raced. He fought to recall everything he knew about the shadowy organization that held Voramis in its grip of terror, and the Five Fingers who served as the leaders.

  The First was the absolute ruler, the Second his eyes and ears in the city. Looking at the man standing in front of him, the Hunter could see why. His innocuous appearance would allow him to travel anywhere in the city without suspicion.

  The Third was said to be a hulking brute, able to break his enemies with nothing but his bare hands. He controlled the violent gangs of Voramis, extorting money from merchants with the threat of abuse and the promise of protection from his own thugs.

  No one knew much about the Fourth, save that the man kept the brothels of Voramis stocked with flesh. None of those he had questioned had ever seen the Fourth's face.

  Rumors held that the Fifth controlled the thieves' guilds of Voramis. Once a thief himself, or so the stories went, he was responsible for all of the drugs, spirits, and human trafficking that made the Blackfall District such a haven for vice.

  And now I have fallen into the hands of the Second, he thought. This could get ugly.

  The Hunter had made more than his fair share of enemies, and the Bloody Hand was not known for its forgiving nature.

  The Second drew a dagger and tapped the flat of the blade against his pursed lips. "You are one of the few men—outside of The Hand itself, of course—who have seen my face and lived." He gave his shackled prisoner a vicious smile. "Though I may decide to change that soon."

  He advanced on the Hunter, blade glinting in the torchlight, menace written on his face. He placed the tip of the dagger beneath the Hunter's right eyeball and applied gentle pressure. The Hunter's face twitched with the pain, but he remained silent. The point loomed dangerously close to his eye.

  "I believe," said a voice from the door, "we are to wait until the First has decided what to do with him."

  The Second, startled, whirled around, the edge of his blade scoring the Hunter's cheek. Blood trickled down the Hunter's face from the cut, but he ignored the pain.

  He studied the man who had entered the room unnoticed. The man had arms thinner than the Hunter's wrists, a slight hunch in his shoulders, eyes sunken from years of malnourishment, and he moved with a limp. He stood no taller than the Second's shoulder. Twin knife belts crisscrossed his chest, holding nearly two dozen small throwing blades. A silver ring bearing the mark of the Hand sat on his little finger.

  The Fifth shows his face, he thought, inhaling the man's scent. Hinge grease. Cheap wine. Brass.

  "It is not you who commands here, thief." Venom dripped from the Second’s words, and he stared down at the little man with a glare of mixed contempt and anger. "Have you forgotten your place?"

  "I forget nothing," replied the Fifth, unperturbed by the vitriol in the Second's voice. "I am simply relaying a message to you." He reached into one of the myriad pouches hanging from his belt. "The master has spoken."
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br />   The Second's eyes widened upon seeing the gold ring clutched in the Fifth's bony fingers "The master sends word, does he?" He studied the ring, taking in the etching of the Bloody Hand. "Very well. We shall while away the time with a bit of entertainment, then." Turning to face the Hunter, he raised an eyebrow. "Brutus?"

  Confusion flickered across the Hunter's face for a moment before a massive fist slammed into his kidney. The force of the blow bent him backward, and his legs sagged. Only the chains held him upright. A groan escaped his lips.

  The Second's face split into a wide grin. "Well done, Brutus!"

  "Thank you, master," came the reply.

  The Hunter caught movement out of the corner of his eye, but had no time to react as a blow rocked his head. A flash of pain ran up the side of his neck. The Hunter saw the man for the first time when the thug moved to stand in front of him.

  If ever there is a man worthy of the name Brutus, he thought, it is him.

  Brutus towered over him by a full head, and the diminutive Fifth barely came to the level of his chest. Impressive cords of muscle banded Brutus' arms, and his bald head shone bright in the torchlight. A thick nose sat beneath a sloping forehead, and dumb eyes stared at the Hunter.

  His musculature would be impressive even on a statue of Balrid the Giant, thought the Hunter.

  The scents of rancid meat and sweat-stained leather filled the Hunter's nostrils, accompanied by the smell of the wax giving Brutus' hairless pate its bright sheen.

  "Hunter, meet Brutus," the Second spoke. "Brutus, I believe the Hunter needs some…administering to. He seems to have survived his capture without sufficient damage."

  The behemoth's fist crashed into his stomach with enough force to shatter a brick wall. He tensed in expectation of the blow, but it did little to dull the pain. Every breath hurt. His lungs refused to fill with air. He saw stars as he doubled over, heaving the contents of his stomach onto the floor.

  "You are an impressive specimen, I must say, Hunter," the Second said. "Brutus has broken men's backs with that punch, and yet you still live." He paced in front of his captive, waving the dagger as he spoke. "Most men would have died from the wounds that knocked you unconscious. You know, it took nearly a dozen of my best men to take you down, even after the big brute here clubbed you over the head. They may have been a bit zealous, but you can understand why."