Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  "'We' being the Hidden Circle, of course."

  "Oh, Keeper take you," Graeme cursed. "Is nothing in this city kept hidden?" He studied the Hunter, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. "Why do you ask about the catacombs?"

  The Hunter debated how much to tell the man. "I must travel around Voramis unseen," he said. "These passages beneath the city will allow me to do so."

  He chose to leave out the fact that he was hunting demons, and that he planned to take down the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresy. He trusted Graeme as much as he trusted anyone, but couldn't be certain the alchemist wasn't working for either organization. Informants could be found everywhere in Voramis, from the highest circles of society to the lowest dregs of humanity.

  "No," said Graeme, his voice firm. "None but the Hidden Circle know of the tunnels."

  "And now I know of them," the Hunter replied with a shrug. "My contract is no ordinary assignment, and the only way I will be able to carry it out is if I can move about without my enemies finding me."

  Graeme stared at the Hunter with questions written on his face. "I heard about the murders in the Beggar Quarter," the alchemist said. "Did you have anything to do with that?"

  "No," lied the Hunter. When he failed to volunteer more information, the alchemist's expression changed to one of stubborn refusal.

  "Graeme," said the Hunter in a solemn voice, cutting off the alchemist's protest, "I would not ask if it were not important. I need your help. At least tell me about the catacombs." The Hunter gave Graeme an encouraging smile—the sort of smile a cat gives a trapped mouse.

  Moments passed in silence. Graeme's expressions flitted between stubborn refusal and fear of the Hunter, and he seemed to be waging an internal war.

  "I guess I can tell you a little of what you want to know," the alchemist finally said, resignation filling his voice. "What can they do to me? They have no way of finding out what I'm telling you."

  Now that he had begun, the words poured from Graeme's mouth in a torrent.

  "The Serenii tunnels are a mystery even we of the Hidden Circle have failed to uncover fully. We have spent years—nay, centuries—exploring the tunnels beneath the city, and yet have only mapped a small portion of the endless passages. We have gone farther into the earth than you could imagine, and yet we fail to even come close to discovering the breadth and depth of the catacombs."

  "There are things down there…" The fat alchemist's eyes took on a faraway look, and he shuddered as some horrible memory played across his mind. "Hunter, we have kept the tunnels a secret for a reason, for there are things down there even more terrible than you."

  "Why, thank you, Graeme," the Hunter said, smiling at the shuddering man.

  "I make no jest, Hunter." Graeme's face remained fearful. "Stories have been passed down through the centuries, telling of things terrible and monstrous. Thankfully," he said, his expression filled with relief, "the lower passages of the catacombs have been sealed. Only the tunnels immediately beneath Voramis remain open, and none but the Hidden Circle know of their presence. And yet…" he trailed off again, his face scrunching up in pensive contemplation.

  "And yet what, Graeme?" the Hunter pressed.

  The alchemist snapped back to reality with a jerk of his head. He stared up at the looming figure of the Hunter.

  "I might have been hearing things," he said, musing aloud, "but I would almost swear I heard faraway voices in the tunnels when last I passed through them."

  This surprised the Hunter. It would explain how he wanders in and out of the store without being seen.

  "You use them often, Graeme?" he asked aloud.

  "That's neither here nor there, Hunter," the alchemist snapped. "What matters is that the tunnels should be completely empty, and yet they are not."

  The Hunter opened his mouth to press further, but Graeme continued, seemingly oblivious.

  "Of course, when I tried to follow the voices," the alchemist said, as if talking to himself, "all I found were miles of empty tunnels. The dust was undisturbed, and there were no signs of life."

  "Perhaps your wits are deserting you in your old age," the Hunter mocked. "Plus, there's all that agor you drink." The alchemist brewed his own agor, a foul drink made from a collection of the most potent herbs and spices Graeme could find to ferment.

  The fat man nodded agreement. "I have often thought that myself, but I cannot be certain that the voices I heard were not real. Could someone else have learned of the presence of the tunnels?" He asked the question aloud, not really expecting an answer.

  "Who else knows of the catacombs' existence?" the Hunter pressed.

  "Aside from the Hidden Circle, no one," Graeme said, his expression earnest. "Or so I thought." The alchemist held up a hand as the Hunter opened his mouth to speak. "Stop right there! I will not tell you the names of the other members, no matter what you do to me."

  The Hunter shrugged, holding his hands up in a gesture of assent. "Fair enough. You must have your secrets, Graeme…"

  "As you have yours, Hunter," the fat alchemist replied. "However, something comes to mind. One of our members recently died under somewhat…mysterious circumstances."

  "Mysterious circumstances?" the Hunter questioned, raising an eyebrow.

  "Found in his home, floating in a bathtub filled with his own blood. Not a bad way to go, from what I hear," Graeme mused, "but certainly not what I'd expect from a man like him. Far more likely to hang himself than cut his wrists. All the blood was just too…messy for the prim, proper fellow."

  "I heard nothing of any death."

  "No, you wouldn't have," Graeme replied with a shake of his head. "The man was nothing if not ordinary, and his death would rate little attention from the world at large. However," he said, growing pensive, "I've heard whispers among my fellow Circle members that it was the work of the Bloody Hand. They didn't leave their mark on the victim, but we believe it to be their work nonetheless. And with what was taken…"

  Graeme trailed off, his expression guarded, as if he had just said too much.

  "So, you think the Hand might have learned the secrets of the Serenii catacombs?" The Hunter leaned forward to loom over the sitting alchemist.

  Graeme hesitated, weighing his reply. "I'm not saying I believe the rumors that it was the Hand, mind you. It's very possible that his death was a suicide—an inordinately messy one, given the man in question. However, it is almost too much of a coincidence for my tastes. But," he held up a finger, "if it was the Hand, why else would they kill someone so apparently unimportant?" The fat man stroked his double chin as he thought. "I'm almost convinced they killed him for those maps."

  Maps? The Hunter wondered if Graeme had meant to let that slip just as the alchemist winced in realization of what he had said.

  The Hunter nodded. "You have convinced me, Graeme," he said with a smile hovering somewhere between friendly and menacing. "And now we come to the part of the evening where you tell me where I can find those maps."

  "But," the fat alchemist protested, "if the Hidden Circle—"

  "The Hidden Circle is far away, Graeme," the Hunter said, a hint of threat in his voice. "I'm right here. Weigh your options well, alchemist."

  Graeme refused to cringe beneath the Hunter's withering glare. "I will never tell you the locations of the tunnels, Hunter." The fat man matched the Hunter's gaze in intensity. "We of the Hidden Circle have sworn to keep it a secret from the rest of the world. No matter how painful the torture or how cruel the punishment you inflict, the words you want to hear will never pass my lips."

  The Hunter's hand dropped to Soulhunger's worn leather hilt. "Graeme," he shook his head in sorrow, "you know I hate to have to do th—"

  "However," Graeme interrupted him, a sly smile playing across his features, "if I was to be bound, gagged, and knocked unconscious, I would certainly be unable to stop my assailant from searching through my personal items. Perhaps said assailant might chance to look in that file cabinet over there."


  The alchemist nodded toward the heavy wooden cabinet at the far end of the room, and the Hunter stepped closer to examine it. It looked as decrepit as the rest of the furniture, but upon closer inspection, he found a complex locking mechanism sealing it shut.

  Not an easy lock to break, even for a master thief, he thought.

  "Of course," the fat man continued, "my assailant might search through that shelf"—his eyes flicked toward the shelf blocking the entrance to the hidden room—"and accidentally find a book labeled 'The Drunken Goddess and Her Monkey King'. If he were to open it, he may very well find the key for the cabinet. In my unconscious state, I could do nothing to prevent him from searching through the contents and finding a map labeled ‘Catacombs'."

  "Perhaps a few serious-looking flesh wounds would help to convince certain acquaintances that the assault was genuine," the Hunter said. His hand closed around the hilt of a dagger, and a wicked grin split his face.

  "Absolutely not!" the alchemist snapped, his eyes growing wide. "Knocked unconscious should be more than enough to—"

  "Graeme," the Hunter wheedled, "I'm only thinking of your safety."

  The fat man scowled at the Hunter, and opened his mouth to retort.

  "Perhaps," the Hunter interjected before the alchemist could protest, "if said assailant happened to leave a very hefty purse in its place, it could aid in your convalescence?"

  Graeme considered this, and his eyes narrowed. "Nothing serious, Hunter." He held up a warning finger. "Flesh wounds, no more."

  "My friend," the Hunter said, feigning insult, "you wound me with your mistrust, after all these years."

  "Trust?" snorted the alchemist. "Our relationship is built entirely on mutual profit, Hunter. It has little to do with trust."

  "How jaded you are, Graeme," the Hunter said with an exaggerated sigh of mock sorrow.

  The alchemist rolled his eyes. "Let's get this over with, Hunter," he said, impatience in his voice. "You will have what you came for."

  "Of course," the Hunter said, nodding and pulling the swordbreaker from its sheath.

  The alchemist's eyes widened at the rasp of steel on leather, but his fear turned to understanding as the Hunter flipped the dagger in his hand to hold it pommel-down.

  As the Hunter approached, Graeme's expression suddenly grew serious. "I don't know why," he said, "but somehow I get the feeling that what you're doing this night is of the utmost importance. Gods speed, my friend."

  "My thanks, Graeme," the Hunter replied, surprised at the genuine warmth in his voice. He had few people to call his friends, fewer still who would call him 'friend' in return. He swallowed hard, plastering a wicked grin on his face. "Now, if you don't mind…"

  "Of course," Graeme said, turning his back on the Hunter.

  The Hunter struck quickly, the blade's rounded pommel slamming into the fat man's temple. Graeme sagged like a sack of grain. The Hunter winced as the alchemist's body hit the ground hard.

  Good, he thought, checking Graeme's pulse and finding it steady, his head will certainly be protesting for the next few days, but he'll live. Plus—he studied the myriad bottles on the shelves—he has all these alchemical potions to deal with the pain. Time to make this look like a real assault.

  The swordbreaker's tip left deep gouges in the fat alchemist's body, but the Hunter took care to avoid serious wounds. A gash to the man's head, a stab in his shoulder, a vicious-looking but harmless leg wound, and a few smaller cuts to his stomach, chest, and arms would convince any that Graeme truly had been the victim of an assault.

  He'll have to see a physicker, but he'll be no worse for the wear. He rolled Graeme onto his face. The pressure of his weight would stanch the flow of blood from the more serious wounds. A thought made him smile. Perhaps a few scars will toughen up his appearance, give him a better chance with the women he meets.

  The Hunter turned his attention to the bookshelf, scanning the titles to find the book Graeme had mentioned. Locating it, he flipped through the pages. The hollow center of the book held a small key, which the Hunter inserted into the complex locking mechanism. He slid open the top drawer and pawed through the myriad papers within.

  Most of the papers filling the drawer appeared to be written in a crabbed, illegible script—no doubt the secret language of the Hidden Circle. They would be useless to any but Graeme, so he simply put them aside to continue his search.

  After a few minutes of searching, the Hunter found it: a large map detailing the layout of what were clearly underground passages. The word "Catacombs" was inscribed neatly across the top of the page.

  The Hunter spread them out over Graeme's worktable, studying them in the torchlight. He marveled at the extensive network of passages honeycombing the earth.

  According to these markings, they stretch for miles outside the city. By the Watcher, it's going to take forever to find the bastards.

  He rolled up the map and slid it into an empty tube he found discarded in the corner. He would take the maps to his home in the Beggar's Quarter, where he could take his time to examine them and learn the layout of the tunnels.

  With a nod of satisfaction, the Hunter secured the map beneath his cloak, drawing a purse from within his robes. The bag jingled as he placed it in the drawer, and its weight told the Hunter it would more than cover the cost of the map—not to mention the blue bottles the Hunter had purchased.

  The fat bastard should have little to complain about next time I come to visit him, save a pounding head, perhaps.

  The Hunter knelt over Graeme once again. The fat man still breathed, and the flow of blood from his wounds had stopped.

  Rest well, friend Graeme, the Hunter thought, nodding at the sleeping alchemist.

  The secret bookshelf swung silently shut behind the Hunter as he entered the darkened front room of The Angry Goblin Bookstore. Ignoring the front door, he slipped out the window through which he had entered.

  A breeze whipped at his cloak—nights in Voramis grew cool at this time of year. The chill sent a shiver down his spine, but he forced himself to ignore the cold. He flexed his arms, rolled his shoulders, and stretched his back. It felt wonderful to move without pain once more.

  Thank the gods the bastard Second only used tools of steel, or else things could have been a lot worse.

  With a shudder, he remembered the iron blade Lord Jahel had planned to use on him. He reached around to touch the spot on his back where Lady Damuria's iron pin had pierced him. While still tender, the skin had healed enough to allow him freedom of movement.

  That blood of the priests’ seems to have done some good.

  Boxes and debris filled the alley behind The Angry Goblin, but what appeared to be a confused tangle of garbage was actually a neatly-stacked pathway to the neighboring rooftop. With a quick glance to ensure no one was watching, the Hunter quickly leapt up the precarious walkway.

  Chilly gusts of late night air whipped across the rooftops of Voramis, but the Hunter ignored the cold. The urge to run, to fly free, flooded him. He began a slow jog across the shingles of the crumbling building, placing each foot with care. He felt no pain as he ran, so he pushed his body to move faster, leaping from roof to roof with glee. He laughed aloud, a rumbling sound that carried through the stillness of the night. It felt good to run once more.

  The rooftops of the Beggar's Quarter flashed beneath him, and he left the foul scents of refuse and offal behind as he outpaced the wind. He leapt across a narrow alleyway, his body suspended in the air for the span of a heartbeat.

  For one long moment, peace filled his world.

  Then the scent hit him. A simple smell—roses, dirt, and temple incense.

  Farida's scent. His feet skidded on loose tiles as the Hunter ground to a stop.

  A primal, earthy scent filled the Hunter's nostrils: the smell of fear. It drowned out the clean, innocent scent of the child.

  She is somewhere nearby.

  His stomach twisted, worry flashing through his mind. He forced hi
mself to close his eyes and draw in a deep breath, willing his sensitive nostrils to find her scent. He could almost taste it on his tongue, could almost feel it around him, though the smells of passing horses, vendors, and pedestrians threatened to drown it out. His eyes snapped open.

  I have to find her.

  His feet dug into the tiles beneath him as he hurtled through the air. He ignored the protests of his knees and feet as he landed hard, scrabbling for a purchase on the slanted roof. With all the speed he could muster, he raced through the night toward the scent he knew so well.

  The Hunter's heart pounded in time with his feet, adrenaline surging through his body. His powerful legs propelled him across the shingles, tiles, and thatched roofs of the Beggar's Quarter. One misstep could send him plummeting through a weakened section of roof, but Farida's safety was more important. He had to trust his instincts to guide him.

  I have to keep her safe.

  He saw the pale faces of Old Nan, Jak, Karrl, Filiana, and the others. They stared at him with empty, accusing eyes. Their deaths were on his head.

  I can't let that happen to her.

  Coming to a busy intersection, the Hunter crouched low in the darkness, breathing hard. Soulhunger pounded in his mind, filling his head with a dull ache. He tried to calm himself, to cast out his senses again, searching for any hint of the child.

  There! Coming from the other side of the Temple Market.

  Something about Farida's scent changed—the smell of roses and dirt drowned out by an acrid harshness. The animal within the Hunter roared to life as he recognized the scent of vomit mixed with the metallic tang of blood.

  Feed, Soulhunger begged.

  Fear flooded through him, drowning out the insistent voice in his head. His terror spurred him to move faster, and he sprinted through the night, heedless of his own safety. He raced across rooftops, leaping gaps he would never have dared attempt. Pigeons scattered in his wake, and clay tiles shattered beneath his feet. A pair of lovers screamed and hurled curses at his fleeing back.