Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  The Hunter had no reply for his captor. He still struggled to stand upright, though he no longer fought for breath.

  "There will be three weeping widows tonight," said the Second, turning to glare at him, "thanks to you and your tools." The man strode to a table in one corner of the small room and whipped back the cloth covering it, revealing Soulhunger, the swordbreaker, and the daggers the Hunter had secreted beneath his clothing.

  Soulhunger! The dagger's voice remained silent, but the Hunter felt its presence in the back of his mind. If I can get my hands on one of those blades…

  A hungry look must have filled the Hunter's eyes, for the Second gave his prisoner a cruel, mocking smile and shook his head. "Not going to happen, Hunter. Those chains will hold even you. We can't have you getting free and hunting us down, though, I dare say, that's unlikely to happen, given your current state."

  The Hunter turned his head to examine the chains holding him bound, ignoring the twinge of pain in his neck. His manacles were nearly as thick as Brutus' arms.

  The Hand is certainly not taking any chances here.

  Footsteps echoed in the passageway outside the cell, drawing the Hunter's attention toward the door.

  "Ahh," said the Second, obviously hearing the sound as well, "the master has arrived."

  A motley assortment of men of the muscle-bound variety filled the room, but it was the last man to enter that immediately arrested the Hunter's attention. He had an aristocratic face, with an aquiline nose, thin lips, sharp cheekbones, an angled chin, and eyes that stared at the Hunter with haughty disdain. He wore the latest fashion in garments, a gold-handled sword hanging at his hip. His scent held traces of steel, an overwhelming amount of perfume, but a hint of something rancid beneath it all.

  I've seen him somewhere, thought the Hunter. A memory of an evening of dancing and festivity flashed in his mind. At Lord Dannaros' party. A minor noble, a Lord of something or another.

  The way everyone in the room looked to the man for command spoke volumes. He carried himself with utter confidence, and his mere presence electrified the air about him.

  There is something terrifying about him, though what, I cannot say.

  "Thank you," the man said in clipped tones, taking his gold ring from the Second's hand. He slipped it onto his finger, and the Hunter knew for a certainty that he stared at none other than the First of the Bloody Hand, chief of the Five Fingers. This was the man in near-absolute control of Voramis' criminal underground, and through it, the entire city.

  "So the Hunter has become the prey," said the First. The smile that spread on his lips failed to reach his eyes. "It is a distinct pleasure to make your acquaintance, though I have an uncanny feeling we may have met elsewhere."

  The First stepped forward, stopping within easy reach of the Hunter's chained arms.

  "The great Hunter of Voramis," he mused. "The man in the shadows. The legendary killer. The creature who single-handedly has every noble, merchant, and criminal in Voramis soiling their breeches at the mention of his name." He gave the Hunter a wry smile. "That, my new friend, is a form of power for which I envy you."

  "Your name is spoken with much less reverence, I assume?"

  "He speaks!" The First clapped his hands in an exaggerated gesture of delight. "Not only do I have the Hunter at my disposal, but he is even inclined to have a chat. This is proving to be a singularly wonderful evening."

  His face grew serious. "However, a bit of respect could go a long way in your current situation." Without turning to look at the hulking man, the First gestured. "Brutus."

  The Hunter didn't see the blow coming, didn't have time to register the force of the impact. His head snapped to one side, his vision blurred, and his jaw popped out of its socket with a rush of pain. He fought to remain standing on sagging knees, the world around him spinning.

  "That bruise will be there for quite a while, Hunter," the First said, stepping close and poking his injured face with an indelicate finger. "It will serve as a reminder that the odds are not in your favor, at the moment."

  He stared at the Hunter as if expecting him to speak, but the Hunter's jaw refused to move.

  "Now, do you realize just how deep in it you have sunk?" the First crowed, his voice mocking. He wagged an admonishing finger at his captive. “You've been a naughty, naughty killer. Operating in Voramis without the sanction of the Bloody Hand. That's not something we can allow without… repercussions."

  The First paced around the room, arms clasped behind his back. "After all, if you were allowed to continue your work unchecked, we might find all sorts of freelancers cropping up around the city. Before you know it, Voramis would slip from the control we have worked so hard to achieve." He stepped close to the Hunter again, giving him a wicked smile. "I, for one, quite enjoy having the city's balls in my vise grip." The First clenched his fist in front of the Hunter's face.

  "And so, my new friend," the First's mocking tirade continued, "you will serve as an object lesson to any in the city who would think about operating outside the purview of the Bloody Hand. It will not be a pretty lesson, I must say." He stared at the Hunter, measuring him for some unknown horrors. "By the time we're done with you, no one will think to soil his own bed without first paying us handsomely for the privilege."

  The Hunter struggled to speak, but his dislocated jaw prevented it. The First seemed to notice for the first time.

  "Where are my manners?" he asked, gesturing for the giant by his side. "Brutus, please restore the Hunter's ability to speak."

  Brutus' fist plowed into the other side of the Hunter's face, leaving a matching purple bruise. The blow set the Hunter's head ringing and the stars spinning, but he found he could move his jaw again—albeit with significant discomfort.

  "And what," he asked the First, slurring his words through bloody teeth, "do you have in mind?"

  A wicked smile spread across the First's face. "Just a bit of fun testing out the Hunter's legendary immortality. I have heard you are damned difficult to kill. Oh, you hurt easily enough,"—as if to prove his point, he waved Brutus forward—"but killing you is proving nigh impossible."

  Brutus plowed a massive fist into the Hunter's side. Through the pain, the Hunter heard one of his ribs crack.

  "So," he coughed, a defiant glare on his face, "you're going to test out that theory, then?"

  "Aye, that I will. But before I do, I believe Brutus would like a bit of exercise, isn't that right, you big, dumb brute?"

  The eagerness with which Brutus pounded the Hunter served as proof of the total control the First had over his men. Blood covered the bald giant's knuckles by the time his blows ceased, and he panted for breath. The big man looked at the First like an oversized puppy hoping for his master's eager nod of approval.

  "Well done," the First said, giving Brutus a gracious smile. "Your reward awaits you at The Arms of Heaven. Tell the Mistress that Bichon is to be your treat for tonight, as gratitude for all of your work in apprehending the Hunter."

  A dumb grin split the big man's face, and he bowed in gratefulness before hurrying from the room. His features showed his eagerness to receive the prize awaiting him at the brothel.

  The Second sidled up to the First and whispered into his ear. At a nod from his leader, the Second followed the big man from the room. The assorted muscle trooped out as well, emptying the room of all save the First and a figure standing by the door.

  He had not seen the woman enter, but his breath caught in his chest as he saw her for the first time.

  Celicia?

  Dark hair, dark eyes, full lips with a hint of mischief. Her clothing was far richer than the garments she had worn in The Iron Arms.

  The First saw the Hunter's eyes fall on the woman, and he smiled grandly. "And of course you must remember my Fourth. Celicia, I believe she said her name was?"

  A silver ring bearing the mark of The Bloody Hand sat on the fourth finger of the woman's right hand.

  In the Five Fingers? T
he Hunter stared at the woman in disbelief.

  A stab of pain ran through him, but it had nothing to do with the torment inflicted by the giant Brutus. Even though he had only met the woman once, for some inexplicable reason, he felt betrayed.

  The First must have read his thoughts, for he broke out in a gleeful cackle. "Oh yes, she certainly can be a charmer, our Fourth." He moved to stand by the woman, caressing her face with long, graceful fingers. His voice dropped to little more than a whisper. "They say she can bring men to pleasure with nothing but a touch."

  He turned his attention to the woman beneath his hands, giving her a lewd smile. "It is why she is the capable hand behind Voramis' houses of rapture. Perhaps you would like a sampling of what she can do, eh, Hunter?" He raised a mocking eyebrow at his captive.

  The woman said nothing. Unmoving, her arms crossed and head held high, she met the Hunter's gaze, her eyes steely and unflinching.

  "Another time, perhaps," the First said, releasing the woman and returning his attention to his captive. "Well, only if you live beyond this night—which I very much doubt."

  At that moment, the door opened and the Second entered, pushing a wheeled cart before him. Upon the cart lay all manner of instruments of torture; knives, whips, garrotes, flaying tools, screws, pincers, and dozens more the Hunter had never seen. Torchlight glinted from the polished edges of the wicked steel implements.

  "I believe my Second has a few…treats for you." The First's eyes—devoid of pity—filled with lust, and he licked his lips in anticipation.

  The Second's hand hovered over the cart, as if weighing his options. He selected a small knife, and, testing its edge, smiled as it opened a shallow cut in his finger.

  The Hunter's heart thundered as if trying to beat its way free of his chest, and a flash of fear raced through him. He stared in open horror at the tools on the tray.

  "Let us begin the test of the Hunter's vaunted immortality." A wanton smiled touched the First's lips.

  The Second's blades sliced into the Hunter's skin with agonizing efficiency. The Hunter tried to remain silent, but pain caused a cry to escape his lips.

  "Yes," the First laughed, a wicked sound that seemed to harmonize with the Hunter's suffering, "what fun we shall have tonight!"

  The Hunter's screams grew louder as the Second grew more creative. The sounds of torment echoed in the quiet cell and filled the corridor beyond. As the agony intensified, one thing stood out in the Hunter's benumbed mind: Celicia—or whatever her name was—flinched with each fresh horror inflicted.

  * * *

  Silence filled the small underground cell, broken only by the insistent sound of water and the blood dripping from the Hunter's body.

  He hung limp in his chains. The wicked manacle spikes dug into flesh long since numb from torment. Agony had filled his world for what felt like an eternity, though he guessed that only a few hours had passed.

  The Second had taken a knife to his face, disfiguring his harsh features with artistic strokes. His shoulders, dislocated from repeated blows, throbbed painfully. The flesh of his chest and stomach burned, scorched by acid the Second had dabbed onto the exposed skin with careful precision. The smell of charred meat, hot steel, and blood—both fresh and dried—filled the room.

  Pain stabbed into him with each breath. The Second had broken at least four of his ribs. The muscles of his arms and legs hung limp, the tendons carved by a razor stiletto. His knees had been shattered hours ago, but they had healed enough to allow him to stand.

  "It seems," said the First, eyes glittering with delight, "you are as immortal as your legends proclaim, Hunter."

  He cast an angry glare at the Second, displeased at the man's inability to break the stubborn captive. The Second seemed surprised that his ministrations had failed to have the desired effect. Blood covered his hands and clothing, and bright red streaked his face. Gore stained every instrument on his tray of horrors, a testament to the agony the Hunter had endured.

  "I must say," mused the First, "most men would have died hours ago under the Second's special…attentions. In fact, most men have died at his hands, but you seem to be the exception. How curious."

  "The legends must be true, then," the Hunter rasped in a voice hoarse from hours of screaming.

  "Indeed," said the First, pensively.

  He moved to the table upon which lay the Hunter's weapons, and his fingers closed around the swordbreaker's grip. He caressed its edge as he strode toward the Hunter once more.

  "But I wonder," he said, "how immortal are you really? Could you withstand, say, a knife to the heart?"

  Fear flashed through the Hunter as the First lifted the notched blade high. The swordbreaker drove deep into his chest. He flopped weakly, numbness spreading through his limbs, blood spilling down his torso. His vision blurred, his consciousness slipped away.

  Celicia's wide eyes were the last thing he saw before the world faded to a cold, empty black.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Hunter floated in a silent void. Here, in the peaceful, empty darkness, he felt no pain, no fear. All was still.

  With a jolt, life filled his lungs. Ice-cold water splashed across his face, and he spluttered and coughed.

  We cannot die, the voice in his head whispered. We must live to kill another day. There are so many more who deserve to taste the suffering of Soulhunger's blade.

  Agony coursed through every part of his body, and his muscles struggled to support him. His stubbornness warred with weakness. Opening his eyes took every shred of willpower he possessed, but he forced himself to stand.

  "He awakens," the Second said, dropping an empty bucket.

  Water dripped from the Hunter's naked chest. Looking down, he found that the cold water had washed away most of the blood. Only deep wounds and purpling bruises remained, but he could feel his body slowly knitting itself back together.

  "So," the First spoke, a hint of wonder in his voice, "the mighty Hunter can survive a blade to the heart. You truly are as great as your legend describes. I suspected the rumors of your prowess were vastly exaggerated."

  The Hunter, struggling to breathe, held his tongue.

  "You may be harder to kill than I expected," the First continued, "but I dare say there is one weapon that could kill you." His eyes fell on Soulhunger, and desire filled his eyes. As his fingers fondled the blade's handle, he inhaled sharply—the sound was almost orgasmic. For a moment, the man's features seemed to shift, but the Hunter dismissed it as a trick of the flickering torchlight.

  The First stared at the blade for a long moment, his attention rapt. Then, as if awaking from a dream, his face cleared and he regained his composure.

  "Such a beautiful weapon," he breathed, his eyes never leaving the dagger. "Do you know of its origins, Hunter?"

  Still the Hunter held his tongue.

  The First's expression turned wistful. "I wish I knew from whence this blade came, for it must have many fascinating stories to tell." He pulled his gaze away from the weapon with effort. "Tell me, Hunter, is it true that only your hand can wield it?"

  "Try it and find out," the Hunter replied, grinning through his pain.

  "Perhaps I will," the First said. His hand reached toward the blade, but hesitated for a moment, fingers hovering over the hilt. "Or perhaps not." His hand withdrew.

  He turned to the Second. "Do you wish to try your hand at wielding the fabled blade of the Hunter?" he asked, gesturing at the dagger. When the Second remained silent, he turned to the thugs. "Any of you?" None moved. "I thought not."

  At a gesture from his master, the Second hurried to cover Soulhunger and the swordbreaker—still stained with the Hunter's blood.

  "What to do, what to do?" said the First, his gaze falling on the Hunter once more. He tapped his lips as if deep in thought. "I warn you, Hunter, I cannot allow you to continue operating freely in Voramis. The city is mine, and mine it shall stay."

  His eyes glazed for a moment, as if lost in thought.
"I shall give you this one chance to walk away."

  "Oh?" the Hunter asked.

  "Yes," the First said with a calculating look, "I will allow you to walk away, and your past…indiscretions will be forgotten. All you need to do is swear your service to me, and you will leave here a free man."

  "A free man, yet in service to the Bloody Hand?" The Hunter arched a bloodstained eyebrow.

  "Yes." The First inclined his head. "I do see how the wording can be a tad confusing. Let me explain it thusly: you will be permitted to operate as usual, and I will even ensure the most lucrative contracts are sent your way. All you need do is make yourself available if and when I should require your services."

  "That's it?"

  "That is all." The First rewarded him with a gracious smile.

  The Hunter pretended to weigh the offer for a moment, stalling to give his broken body time to heal.

  "I must say," he said slowly, "your offer sounds good."

  A smile broke out on the First's face. "So you accept?"

  "No," retorted the Hunter. "Your offer sounds good. Which, of course, means it must be too good to be true."

  The First's smile disappeared, and anger flashed in his eyes. "Look around you, Hunter," he said, his voice tight and controlled. "Look where you are." He accentuated his words by gesturing to the men filling the room. "There is no one to save you here. You will never walk out of here a free man unless you accept my offer. Consider your answer carefully."

  The Hunter shook his head. "Then I must remain a prisoner, for I would rather die than submit to you." Anger filled his voice for the first time. "I am the Hunter, you coward. I am no man's slave, no man's errand boy." Rage flashed in his dark eyes, and those in the room flinched at the intensity filling his voice. "I will have no masters, especially not an arrogant pissant with a ridiculous name like The First of the Bloody Hand."