Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  "We are agreed," intoned Father Reverentus. "You have all followed my instructions to prepare for the ritual?"

  The old, white-haired heads nodded in confirmation.

  "Then let us commence," Father Reverentus said, "for we have no time to waste."

  As if on an unspoken command, the priests slowly shuffled into a loose circle surrounding the stone altar in the heart of the chamber.

  Father Reverentus' voice echoed from the stone walls. "We are gathered for the Ritual of Cleansing, as laid out in the Book of the Supplicant. There are twelve of us present, and, with the Hunter, we are thirteen. The number of the gods themselves."

  This shocked the Hunter. He had expected to be a spectator in the ritual, not a participant. He opened his mouth to voice his complaint, but Father Reverentus's words drowned him out.

  "The number thirteen holds much power. It is the power over life and death, and, if wrongly used, could break the world itself. However, with the sacred words written in the Book of the Supplicant, handed down to us by the first Beggar Priests, there is potential for great things. The Ritual of Cleansing will purify us; make us as clean as the gods themselves."

  From within their cloaks, the priest drew forth stilettos. The slim blades gleamed ominously in the torchlight, the bright metal at odds with the stark simplicity of the room.

  "Let blood be spilled in the names of the gods," said Father Reverentus. As one, razor sharp blades slashed into pale, parchment-thin skin. A trickle of crimson rolled down the priests' forearms from the shallow wound left by the knives.

  "Speak the names of the gods, and let your blood be the sacrifice that turns their face toward us this night." Father Reverentus' voice seemed distorted, somehow richer than would be expected coming from such a frail old man.

  "Garridos," said Brother Contritus.

  "Derelana," echoed another priest.

  "Kiro," a third intoned.

  The priests around the circle spilled a single drop of blood onto the stone altar, naming the gods in turn.

  "The Maiden."

  "The Illusionist."

  "The Watcher in the Dark."

  "Bright Lady."

  "The Long Keeper."

  "The Mistress."

  "Bloody Minstrel."

  "Fair Alzara."

  "The Beggar," said Father Reverentus, completing the circle. The twelve drops of blood atop the altar stood out in stark contrast to the white granite. The shrine had seemed so simple and plain moments ago, but now power throbbed in the back of the Hunter's mind.

  Turning slightly, Father Reverentus motioned for the Hunter to speak. The Hunter wanted to protest, but a force beyond his control pulled the words from within him.

  "The Swordsman."

  Something warm and wet flowed dripped from his arm. Looking down, he saw one of his wounds had reopened. A single droplet of blood trickled from his limp hand to the dusty stone floor.

  For a moment, nothing happened. The priests remained motionless, their eyes closed as they gathered around the stone altar. Without realizing it, the Hunter held his breath, expecting…What?

  His eyes remained fixed on the bright crimson drop. It seemed to shudder, as if the floor beneath it shook.

  What in the Keeper's name?

  With agonizing slowness, the blood oozed across the dusty floor. The Hunter's mouth hung open as the droplet flowed of its own accord toward the stones set in the heart of the room. It crawled up the side of the altar, finally coming to rest atop the shrine.

  Thirteen drops of blood. The ring was complete.

  "The thirteen names have been spoken," the voice of Father Reverentus echoed loud and commanding in the room, "blood has been spilled. The gods turn their faces toward us; let us beseech them for their cleansing."

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean," Brother Contritus intoned.

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean," the priest next to him echoed.

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean," a third priest took up the chant.

  One by one, the priests around the room spoke the words. Their voices joined in harmony, blending in a chorus that reverberated throughout the small room.

  The Hunter more than heard the words…he felt them. Something primal within his mind shouted profanities at the priest's chant. A shudder coursed through him—millions of tiny legs seemed to crawl across his skin. He felt hot and cold all at once, and his heart pounded faster and faster in time with the chanting.

  "Sanctify us, purify us, make us clean." Father Reverentus added his voice to the chant.

  As the cleric spoke, pain ripped through the Hunter's mind. The voice within him cried out in terror, begging, pleading for him to make it stop. A pressure built in his ears, pounding in his head. The Hunter felt as if he would explode from the force of the power in the room. He clung to the stone bench for his very life, and stone cracked beneath the strength of his grip. Through bleeding eyes, the Hunter saw Father Reverentus open his mouth and speak.

  Words of power ripped into his ears, searing his eardrums. Blood poured from his nose, steaming and bubbling as it flowed down his chest. He fought in vain to stanch the bleeding. It was as if countless needles buried into his eyes, and he heard a cry of agony through the pain. Some dark corner of his brain told him that the screams were his. He beat the back of his head against the wall in an attempt to relieve the mounting pressure.

  He abandoned his sanity to the merciful embrace of unconsciousness, welcoming the darkness washing over him.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A gentle hand shook his shoulder, pulling him from the insensate world where no agony existed. Warmth spread over his forehead and something wet trickled down his cheeks and into his mouth. He swallowed the tepid water, welcoming anything to wash the dust and dried blood from his parched throat.

  "He lives."

  The Hunter heard relief in the shaky voice of an old man, though the voice echoed, as if from far away. Piercing blue eyes stared down at him with genuine concern as he struggled to keep his eyelids open.

  "Who…?" he asked, disoriented and confused.

  "Give it a minute," said the man, pushing the Hunter back down on the cold stone floor with surprising strength. "The ritual seems to have affected you more profoundly than I had expected."

  Ritual? Fog still filled the Hunter's mind. He was so tired…he just wanted to sleep. What ritual? Where—?

  The old man's wrinkled face seemed familiar, and for a moment he couldn't place it. Then, with a rush, memories clicked into place.

  "F-Father? Wh-what happened?" The Hunter's tongue felt swollen, and his voice was thick and heavy.

  "You know where you are?" Father Reverentus asked.

  "In the House of Need."

  "Good," the old cleric said, nodding. He pushed off his knees with his hands and climbed to his feet with ponderous slowness.

  "What happened?" the Hunter asked again.

  "The ritual worked, it seems," Father Reverentus said. He offered a hand, but the Hunter brushed it aside to stand on his own. "Feeling better?"

  The Hunter flexed his arms and legs and found his weakness of earlier had gone. Only his head throbbed, but already the pain was receding. The voice in his mind, usually so insistent, had quieted to a whisper. He rolled his shoulders and tilted his head to the side, cracking his neck. "Much," he said with a smile.

  "Thank the gods," said the priest. "I can see now that letting you in the room while the ritual was taking place was folly. I believe the demon within you rejected the purifying of the gods, and it very nearly killed you. Had I known you would react so strongly, I would have insisted you remain outside."

  "Next time," the Hunter said, giving the priest a weary smile, "I'll be sure to steer well clear." Looking down, he saw the floor stained with bright red blood—his blood, far more than his body should hold.

  "It was a close thing," said the old cleric, "but we gave you our pure blood, all that we could spare."

  T
he Hunter followed the priest's gaze and saw the hollow, needle-tipped tube on the stone bench. Blood still leaked from the sharp points on both ends. For the first time the Hunter noticed how wan and pallid the cleric's aging skin looked. His eyes had sunken deeper, and his bony cheeks protruded at a sharp angle. Compared to the authoritative priest who had led the ritual earlier, the man in front of him seemed drained and hollow.

  "Will you be well?" Oddly enough, the old priest's wellbeing concerned him.

  "Aye," the cleric said with a tired nod, "the ritual took more out of us than we had imagined. The power of the gods is not something the human frame can handle easily, and it very nearly killed a few of us."

  He turned his gaze to one side of the room, where the rest of the Beggar Priests surrounded two of their brothers on the floor. One looked to be sleeping, but the second seemed more corpse than man. The priest's skin was a sickly ashen grey. He walked close to the Long Keeper's embrace.

  "He will be well," Father Reverentus said in a soft voice, "though he will not be moving around much for the next few weeks."

  Nodding, the Hunter turned to face the old cleric once again. "And my weapons?"

  "They are being brought here even now. Brother Mendicatus will deliver them to you, but first…" Father Reverentus drew the twin daggers from beneath his cloak and held them out to the Hunter. "We must put the ritual to the test."

  A knot formed in the Hunter's stomach, but he ignored it. Gritting his teeth, he gripped the worn leather hilts of the twin blades. Fire raced along his fingers and palms where skin touched metal.

  "It…is…tolerable," he said, his jaw clenched through the pain.

  The Hunter tested the blades, moving them through a few simple sword forms in order to evaluate their weight, balance, and heft. Designed for stabbing and slashing, the weight of the blades rested near the hilt. They could block a sword, and the length of the daggers made them ideal for fighting up close, but he knew the iron would shatter beneath the blow of a steel weapon.

  As he moved, the pain faded to a dull ache, present but not enough to interfere with his ability to wield them. His hands felt stiff and awkward, and his fingers grew white as he forced them to grip the blades despite the agony.

  "They will suffice," he told the priest, handing him the twin weapons. He grunted in pain as his burning hands released their death grip on the leather-wrapped hilts. The fire died, and his fingers tingled as fresh blood repaired the injury.

  "It will have to be enough, for it is all we can do." Father Reverentus said. "You will live up to your end of the agreement, Hunter?"

  Doubt and worry filled the priest's eyes. With the iron purged from the Hunter's blood and his wounds healed, the priest no longer held any power over him, and thus no way to ensure he would do as he had promised.

  "It will be done, Father," the Hunter replied in a solemn voice. "You have my word."

  Skepticism flashed across the old cleric's face for a moment, but he stifled it. "Good."

  He opened his mouth to speak, but a cough sounded from behind the Hunter. He turned to see Brother Contritus.

  "Yes, brother?" Father Reverentus asked.

  "We'll be off, father," Contritus said. The priest fixed his eyes on Reverentus, making a point to ignore the Hunter.

  "Very well," nodded Reverentus. "Do be quick about it, though, brother, and hurry back. The evening prayers will be held in a few hours."

  "Yes, father."

  With a bow to the old priest and a poorly concealed glare for the Hunter, Brother Contritus scurried away. As he left the room, the other clergymen followed him until only the two unconscious figures on the floor remained.

  The Hunter raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Where are they going?"

  "To sin," Father Reverentus said.

  Shock coursed through the Hunter. "I thought you priests were supposed to be holy."

  "That, dear Hunter, is a misconception," the old cleric gave the Hunter an enigmatic smile. "Priests are meant to pass on the word of the gods, minister to the poor, and provide the services offered by their temples. No one said anything about being holy. Not even the gods are truly holy."

  The Hunter found this new information hard to digest. In his mind, he had always believed priests held one goal: to emulate their gods. If that meant living a life of starvation, deprivation, and suffering, they would do it. And yet…

  Disbelief filled his voice. "So they're just going to go and sin because they can?"

  "Not because they can," replied Reverentus, his grin wide, "but because they must."

  "What? Explain, priest."

  "The ritual we have carried out this night purifies the priest's blood. That purified blood holds an immense amount of power, but should it fall into the wrong hands, it could be used to bring death and destruction."

  Realization dawned. "You mean," the Hunter asked, incredulous, "they sin to pollute the pure blood in their bodies?"

  "Yes," Father Reverentus replied, "the stain of sin taints them, and the power is banished. It is the one time the gods smile on committing unholy acts."

  An image flashed through the Hunter's mind: a fat priest, wearing the rust-colored robes of a Minstrel Cleric, lounged among the women at the Arms of Heaven. Wine rolled down florid, laughing cheeks as the cleric pawed at a bawdy woman wearing little in the way of clothing.

  The rest of the time, he thought, they sin just because it brings them pleasure.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment, another priest entered the room. This one looked to be on the far side of middle years, with a balding head, a thick nose, red cheeks, and a paunchy waist that stood in sharp contrast to the slim form of the ancient Reverentus. He smelled of oil, wax, and wood.

  "Ahh, Brother Mendicatus," Father Reverentus said, nodding at the cleric.

  "The weapons you requested, Father," the pudgy priest proclaimed. Fat fingers clutched the Hunter's sword belt, along with a small bulging satchel. Brother Mendicatus turned to the Hunter, making no effort to hide his disdain. "Here," he said, holding out the bag.

  "Thank you," the Hunter replied with a nod.

  Mendicatus handed him the weapons, and the Hunter reached for them eagerly. Father Reverentus had insisted Soulhunger remain in the room where the Hunter had convalesced, but having the familiar weight of steel in his hand comforted him. The blade throbbed at his side, its voice pounding in his mind—though without its former overwhelming intensity.

  "Here," said Brother Mendicatus, "these belong to the Swordsman's blades." In his hands, he held two simple wooden sheaths, bound with plain leather. The Hunter buckled the scabbards onto the back of his belt and slid the twin blades home. He tested their draw, satisfied to find the daggers slipped free of the sheaths with ease.

  "Good," he nodded. The iron made his skin crawl, but he ignored the sensation. "Is there anything I need to know about slaying these demons?"

  "Thrust one into the creature, and the iron blade will weaken it," the fat priest blurted out. "The second blade will slay it—a thrust straight to the heart should do the trick." Mendicatus failed to notice he had butted in before Father Reverentus could speak, and the older cleric's glare was lost on him as well.

  "And how will I tell these demons apart from any other humans?" the Hunter asked. "If, as you say, they can possess human hosts, won't they be indistinguishable from those around them?"

  "The eyes," said Father Reverentus, gesturing toward the Hunter's own. "They are empty orbs of blackness. A glimpse into the endless void of the hells."

  "So you're telling me I'll have to get close enough to look one in the eyes?" the Hunter asked. "Not a very easy task you're giving me, is it, Father?"

  "If it were easy," retorted Reverentus, "you would not be here. You are the last creature on Einan we would choose to hunt down demons. But here we are…"

  The Hunter knew Father Reverentus had purposely left out the "because of you", and for a moment, something akin to remorse flashed through him.r />
  "Father," he said in solemn tones, "for what it's worth, I truly am sorry for the death of your priest."

  Father Reverentus looked as if the Hunter had just slapped him. His mouth hung slightly agape, and he struggled to maintain his composure.

  "He was a brave man, and a true fighter," the Hunter continued. "He died a worthy death, befitting a man of valor."

  "Then do not let his death be in vain, Hunter," Father Reverentus said, his voice tight with suppressed anger. "Atone for your actions."

  The Hunter nodded. "It will be done, Father."

  "And quickly," the old priest spoke. "Something tells me you will not have long to stop whatever the demons are planning. With the full moon just two days off…"

  His ominous warning trailed off, and the Hunter nodded.

  "As you say, Father." Turning to Brother Mendicatus, he said, "If you could show me the way out."

  "A warning, Hunter." Father Reverentus placed a hand on the Hunter's arm, his eyes filled with a burning intensity. For a moment, it was as if the old cleric peered into his very soul.

  "Beware the demon blade, Soulhunger," Reverentus said, his eyes flicking to the sheath on the Hunter's belt. "It will whisper into your ear, demanding to be used to kill. The power it feeds you will give you strength, but that same strength will feed the demons as well. The blood we have given you should prevent the blade from overpowering your mind, but you will need a strong will to resist the temptations of the weapon."

  "I'll keep your words in mind, priest," the Hunter said, nodding. "However, I may have need of the blade, regardless of the consequences."

  With a sigh of resignation, Father Reverentus released the Hunter's arm. "So be it. You undertake a task few on this world are able to carry out, and I fear even you will be unable to defeat the foe you are about to face. However, you are the only hope for Voramis, so may the gods take pity on you. Farewell."

  Nodding to Father Reverentus, the Hunter followed Brother Mendicatus out of the room, the old priest's baleful words ringing in his ears.

  Chapter Twenty-Six