Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  The man's voice trailed off, and he seemed lost in his imagination for a minute.

  "So," the Hunter said, "I can expect only torture and pain before a swift death?"

  His words seemed to snap Lord Jahel from his private thoughts. "A swift death, you say?" The man looked surprised. "Oh, no, good Hunter. The Grand Master will take you beyond death, but I assure you he will bring you back—over and over and over again. When we are done with you, you will rot in the Hole or take your own life. I dare say, after suffering at the hands of Sha-Yun'Ti, you will be leaping into the darkness the minute your broken body has recovered enough to move."

  "I see we are going to have a lot of fun," the Hunter muttered.

  "That's the spirit!" Lord Jahel smiled. He moved to a small table—the single piece of furniture in the bare room—and pulled back one corner of a cloth to reveal Soulhunger.

  His dagger lay unsheathed, and hope surged within the Hunter at the sight of the blade. The weapon's insistence throbbed far in the back of his mind, yet its voice seemed to change as Lord Jahel's hand hovered above it. Soulhunger sounded almost…eager.

  "A marvelous weapon, this," Lord Jahel said, his voice filled with an odd longing. "I have heard much of what it can do."

  "Perhaps you'd like a demonstration firsthand," the Hunter rasped.

  Lord Jahel appeared mesmerized by the dagger, his fascination with its secrets written on his face. He stared at it for the space of a few heartbeats, then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he returned his attention to the Hunter.

  "Well," he said, his gaze bright, a smile spreading on his face, "back to the business at hand. However, before I turn you over to Grand Master Sha-Yun'Ti, I have a few questions to ask you."

  "Answer me a question first, Demon, and I will tell you anything you wish to know."

  "Very well," sighed the Chief Justiciar, "what would you have of me?"

  "You say you are the Chief Justiciar," the Hunter said, his words coming slowly, "and yet you do not carry out the King's Justice." Lord Jahel frowned at the Hunter's words, seeming puzzled. "The Bloody Hand turned me over to you, and yet you let their thugs walk away. How can you call yourself a man of law and order if you do not simply do away with the Hand once and for all?"

  "Ah," Lord Jahel replied, comprehension dawning on his face, "I can understand the logic behind your question. After all, if I truly was the ruthless creature whispered about, why do I not simply wipe out every scum-sucking criminal in the Bloody Hand?"

  The Hunter nodded.

  "My good Hunter, you must understand that there is a certain… necessity that demands the Hand's continued existence."

  The slim noble clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room.

  "In essence, without one, the other would no longer be necessary." Lord Jahel held out his hands, palms up, as if balancing a scale. "The Hand is the darkness in the city, and the Heresiarchs serve as the light of order, of justice. We of the Dark Heresy operate in the shadows between, and we only exist because of the Hand."

  The Hunter remained silent, pondering Lord Jahel's words.

  "The Bloody Hand is a sort of necessary evil," he explained in a patient tone. "Without the Hand, the citizens of Voramis would feel secure. They would cease depending upon the Heresiarchs and Justiciars for their continued safety, as there would be nothing threatening their peaceful way of life. They might begin to question our methods, the purpose for our very existence. The Heresiarchs—and the Dark Heresy by extension—would become the villains, the thing they promised to exterminate."

  As he spoke, Lord Jahel strode over to the table. He pulled away the cloth to reveal the silver tray and its contents.

  Next to Soulhunger lay a small device: a glass tube, fitted with a plunger at one end, and a long, sharp needle extending from the opposite end. The Hunter had seen the device before, used by physickers to draw blood.

  His eyes roamed over the rest of the implements laid out on the tray. Some of the tools he recognized from his encounter with the Second, but many of them were new. All were sharp and wicked-looking, and judging by their appearance, they would inflict a gruesome torture indeed.

  One tool in particular drew the Hunter's attention. It looked simpler, more primitive than the other items laid out on the tray. While the other implements had been polished to a bright sheen, this one was dull, showing hints of rust.

  Iron. He tried to pull his eyes away from the tool, but it mesmerized him. Chills ran down his spine. His skin crawled, and icy tendrils of fear gripped his heart. How did they know?

  "Have you ever wondered why Voramis has not been to war in centuries?" asked Lord Jahel, his voice snapping the Hunter from his thoughts. "Or why the city flourishes and prospers? The power of the Bloody Hand reaches no farther than the walls of the city, but the Dark Heresy's influence extends to every city on the face of Einan."

  The Hunter studied the Chief Justiciar, searching for words but finding none. The urge to look at the tray of torture implements burned within him, but he fought to keep his eyes firmly fixed on Lord Jahel's face.

  Lord Jahel picked up the slim metal tube, and his long, delicate fingers caressed it with care. "Now, I must beg your forgiveness," he said with a shrug and a wan smile, "but it is our custom."

  The Hunter winced as the needle plunged through his skin, deep into his muscle. He felt an odd suction, and watched horrified as the glass tube filled with bright red blood—his blood. When Lord Jahel finally removed the needle, his arm throbbed from the puncture.

  "Here in the Hole, we take a small sample of blood from each of the visitors passing through our humble halls. A ritual to the Watcher, you understand." He placed the device on the tray, covering it with a cloth before turning to face the Hunter once more. "I would ask you—"

  Lord Jahel's words were interrupted midsentence by a dark figure slipping into the room. The man's clothing was cut in the style of the Heresiarch robes, but they were black rather than the bright crimson of the regular guard. The only sign of red—the color of the Heresiarchs—was a thin band hemming the robes.

  A Dark Heresiarch, the Hunter thought.

  The Chief Justiciar turned his attention to the man, who had sidled up to him and spoken in his ears. A whispered conversation ensued, their words too quiet for the Hunter to hear.

  "You have your orders," Lord Jahel finally said, giving the man a commanding nod. The Dark Heresiarch saluted and slipped from the room as silently as he had entered.

  "Your forgiveness, dear Hunter," said Lord Jahel, turning to face his captive once more, "but I must attend to an urgent matter. I trust you will be comfortable here for the time being. But, oh dear!" he exclaimed, raising an eyebrow, "you're bleeding. Allow me."

  The Chief Justiciar removed a white handkerchief from the breast pocket of his dark robes. He gently dabbed at the spot where the needle had pricked the Hunter's arm, wiping away the trickle of blood.

  "No sense wasting any of that blood of yours," he said, giving the Hunter a thin smile. "You'll need it all when you are visited by the Grand Master. Oh, what a treat it will be!" He accompanied his words with a delighted clap of his hands.

  With careful movements, Lord Jahel draped the bloody cloth over Soulhunger.

  "Now, if you will excuse me," he said, giving the Hunter a short bow, "I will return shortly." Turning, Lord Jahel strode from the room. The door clicked shut behind him, and the sound of a deadbolt shooting home echoed through the heavy wooden panels.

  The Hunter was once more alone. His eyes flicked to the iron tool. I can't let them use that on me.

  Panic welled up in his chest, threatening to overwhelm his rational mind. He had to break free before his captors returned. Would he have enough time?

  In desperation, his eyes raced around the room, taking in its scant detail. The torches on the wall barely illuminated the large chamber, but his eyes had adjusted to the dim lighting. He took deep, calming breaths, trying to force his mind to examin
e his predicament with cool logic.

  The padlocks on the chains looked far too strong to break, and he had neither the skill to pick locks nor the tools to attempt it. Even if his captors had carelessly left a key on the, it lay well out of his reach.

  He had only one option.

  Let's see how strong these chains are.

  He wasn't certain he could break the shackles, but had to try. His eyes roved over every crack and crevice in the masonry, looking for a weakness.

  Something caught his eye—could it be dust? He stooped to examine the stone wall, and a smile crossed his face. Gripping the ring securing the chain to the wall, he tugged. It gave slightly.

  Excellent.

  He moved to the full length of his chains and pulled them taut. The thick muscles of his arms and shoulders corded, the veins in the Hunter's neck standing out as he hauled on the manacles with all his prodigious strength. His legs ached, his back arched, and the blood rushed through his body.

  Something within the wall shifted. His ears detected the sound of metal grating on stone. A determined grin split his face, and he heaved once more, throwing his willpower and every ounce of force into his arms and legs. The place where the needle had pricked his arm throbbed, but he ignored the pain.

  With the eternal slowness of stone, the ring pulled free of the wall and clattered to the floor. The Hunter stumbled and fell forward, barely managing to catch himself. Without hesitation, he leapt to his feet and raced to examine the ring. Lifting it from the floor, he pushed the spike back into the masonry. It tugged loose once more with a gentle tug.

  Perfect, he thought.

  Moving to the door, he strained to open it, but it refused to budge. He abandoned the futile effort.

  So how do I get out of here?

  He had no way to break down the door, so his only choice was to wait until a guard returned.

  Time to play the compliant prisoner once more.

  The Hunter embedded the spike into the wall and resumed his original position—arms hanging by his side, shoulders slouched, his head drooping, and a mask of fatigue painting his face. With the patience of a hunter, he waited, adopting the demeanor of a compliant prisoner.

  It seemed an eternity passed before he heard the clang of the heavy deadbolt being shot. He didn't look up as the door opened, but kept his eyes fixed on the floor. Heavy boots tramped into the room, and he knew immediately it was not the Chief Justiciar.

  He raised his eyes, plastering a look of weary compliance on his face. The guard stared at him impassively, as if the Hunter was just another one of Lord Jahel's playthings. He stood nearly as tall as the Hunter, though with considerably thicker arms and neck. His hand toyed with the hilt of his sword, and his stance showed the casual ease of a man who knew which end went where. He wore the same red-trimmed black cloak as the Dark Heresiarch who had called Lord Jahel away.

  "What is your name?" asked the Hunter, his voice low.

  The guard said nothing, choosing to ignore him. He turned his back on the Hunter and strode to the table. The Dark Heresiarch held Soulhunger high, studying the multi-faceted gem set in its hilt in the light of the torch.

  "What is your name, Heresiarch?" the Hunter repeated.

  Still the guard ignored him.

  "Tell me," the Hunter said, menace filling his voice, "what name shall I give the Long Keeper when he comes for you?" He coiled his body in anticipation.

  The Dark Heresiarch turned to growl at the Hunter, just in time to meet the end of a chain whipping at his face--and the thick metal spike that had been set into the wall. The guard's skull collapsed beneath the force of the impact. Brain matter splattered across the table and the wall behind him. His body wobbled for a moment before slumping to the ground, blood pouring from where his nose had been.

  He ripped the other chain from the wall and raced to the dead guard's side. Fumbling at the man's belt, he searched for the keys. His fingers closed around the hard metal of the key ring, and a triumphant laugh bubbled up from his chest. Within seconds, the chains fell from his arms and legs.

  "Damn, but that feels good," he growled to the empty room, rubbing at his chafed wrists.

  Soulhunger lay clutched in the guard's lifeless fingers, and the Hunter stooped to retrieve the blade.

  "Oh, how I have missed you," he said, relishing the feel of the worn leather clenched in his fist.

  One more item caught his eye: the scrap of cloth Lord Jahel had used to wipe away his blood. He stuffed the bit of fabric into the pocket of his worn breeches and turned his attention to the door. It took a few moments of shuffling through the keys before he found the right one, and he quickly inserted it into the lock. The key turned with a satisfying click.

  The Hunter threw open the door and it swung on silent hinges, revealing the darkened corridor beyond. He peered around the corner, wary of any guards, but only empty halls greeted him.

  He moved like a wraith, bare feet padding silently along the stone floor of the passageway. Soulhunger pulsed in his hand, throbbing in time with his quickened pulse. He could only guess in which direction lay freedom, but he was just glad to be out of that cell. Armed with Soulhunger, he could fight his way free of the Hole.

  Voices sounded from beyond an open door, and the Hunter shrank back into the darkness of the hall to listen.

  "…have your orders," spoke a voice. "Go to these residences and collect anyone you find. They may give Lord Jahel the answers he wants. If not, they will be useful if our prisoner proves reticent."

  "Of course, captain," replied a second voice. "I'll send a detachment to this house on Fishmonger's Street, and a second squad will join the men already outside the building behind Singwood Croft."

  Fishmonger's Street, Singwood Croft. The Hunter's mind raced at the familiar street names.

  "Good," the captain's voice rang out, "and make sure that you send two more squads to the Beggar's Quarter. He's got a huge place on Kadderly Row, and there are a lot of bodies to round up."

  Kadderly Row, he thought. The Dark Heresiarchs were talking about his safe houses.

  A sinking feeling rose in his gut, and the faces of Old Nan, Arlo, Ellinor, and the others flashed through his mind. Bloody twisted hell. They wouldn't…

  "And don't hesitate to put down any of the filthy creatures that try to resist," the captain ordered.

  "Aye, sir," spoke the second man.

  The bastards! He gripped Soulhunger tighter, feeling the rage build within him.

  Kill!

  Yes. We will kill them, and anyone else who lays a hand on my friends.

  Rage flooded him, and he charged into the room, eyes blazing, teeth bared in a snarl. The guards stared at him in horror, but neither had time to cry out before the Hunter reached them.

  The Hunter wrapped an arm around the captain's neck even as Soulhunger opened the other guard's throat. The man's eyes bulged as fear seized his body. The Hunter twisted, and the Dark Heresiarch's spine snapped with an audible crack. The captain slumped to the floor, splashing in the puddle of blood leaking from his comrade's corpse.

  Power coursed through the Hunter as Soulhunger drank its fill. He stalked from the room without a backward glance. His feet left bloody footprints on the cold stone floor, but he didn't care.

  I can't let these bastards hurt anyone! He thought of the beggars living in his building, the outcasts he had come to call his friends. I have to protect them.

  He sprinted down the hall, relishing the feeling of stretching his muscles again. An inferno of rage burned in his chest as he raced through the empty corridors of the Hole. He had no idea where to go, but simply ran, desperate to escape and save his friends.

  The Mistress' own luck was with him. The twisting corridors led him to an exit, where a single Heresiarch barred his escape. A snarl of rage burst from the Hunter's throat, and he raced toward the guard with every bit of speed he could summon. Soulhunger plunged into the man's gaping mouth, drinking deep.

  The man died w
ith a wordless scream, his lifeless eyes staring vacantly as the Hunter raced into the Voramian night.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Hunter slipped across the rooftops of Lower Voramis, power coursing in his veins. The chill night air sent a shiver down his spine; the breeches he wore offered little protection from the wind whipping across the rooftops.

  The stench of refuse that permeated the Beggar's Quarter drifted toward him. He scanned the building ahead for signs of life. No sound came from within, and he saw no movement. He closed his eyes and cast out his senses, letting his consciousness drift. Soulhunger pulsed in his hand, whispering its desire for blood.

  The weapon had changed. It seemed more…alive since the death of the Beggar Priest. The blade had fed less than a half hour before, and yet it throbbed every time it came within a few feet of a living human being. The insistent demand for death had grown louder, and it was harder for the Hunter to ignore the voice in his mind.

  No matter, he thought. Tonight that will serve me well.

  He slid the door to his safe house open, taking pains to move in absolute silence. Darkness filled the rooms beyond, but Soulhunger's voice burned in the back of the Hunter's mind. The blade had found its prey.

  There's someone here.

  Soulhunger pulled him toward the nearby wall, sensing blood. We must feed.

  Wait, the Hunter told the blade. I need to be sure—

  He nearly slipped on something warm and sticky. The Hunter's sensitive nostrils filled with the reek of blood, and the skin of his bare feet crawled. He crouched, slowing his breathing and closing his eyes. Scents washed over him.

  The foul, alcoholic stench of the rum Jak drank every time he got his hands on a few coins. The smell of rotting fish that wafted in with Harrn at the end of a day hanging around the docks. The scent of the flowers Filiana sold. After years of living with the beggars, the smells were as familiar to him as his hands.

  The scents had already begun to fade, replaced by the foul reek of death from the unmoving bodies. The ones he had called his friends lay still and silent around him in the darkness. Sorrow washed over him, but the fires within him transformed the grief into a burning rage.