Blade of the Destroyer: The Last Bucelarii: Book 1

by Andy Peloquin

  "Watcher curse you, Hunter," he snarled, his struggles ceasing. "What do you want from me?"

  A smile split the Hunter's face, but there was no mirth in the grin. "Tell me everything you know about the Fifth…"

  * * *

  Darkness shrouded the Port of Voramis in a misty blanket, sending chills through the girls lined up outside the stuffy container that had been their home for the last month. A few whimpered, but most remained silent—too tired to do more than remain upright.

  A group of rough-looking men surrounded them, their eyes eager as they watched the barely-clad young women. Smoky torches illuminated the dark night, but the flickering flames offered little warmth. The sound of chattering teeth echoed in the silence.

  "Girls," said a man, striding into the circle of torchlight, "welcome to Voramis, your new home."

  The shadows of the dock accentuated his emaciated body and his death's head of a face. A silver ring glinted on his pinky finger.

  "Who I am is not important, but what is important is that you are all going to find work in the city." He gave the girls a nasty smile. "I will not lie and tell you that it's going to be a pleasant life you'll lead, but I will say—"

  A cry echoed from the darkness, interrupting his words. The scream held raw terror. A shiver ran down the man's spine, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

  "What the twisted hell was that?" he asked, whirling around and peering into the darkness beyond the circle of torches.

  "Sounded like Binnty, sir," said one of the torch-bearing thugs.

  "Go check it out," the thin man yelled. He pointed to another of the guards. "And take Plarno with you."

  The two men rushed off into the night, heavy clubs clutched tightly in hands clammy with sweat. One carried a torch, but the flickering flame did little to illuminate the misty night. Silence fell as they disappeared from view—a silence that seemed to stretch on forever. The remaining thugs gripped their weapons with whitening knuckles. Sweat broke out on their faces as they stared nervously into the night.

  Two more screams rang out, as horrible as the first. Death had come for the Bloody Hand tonight.

  * * *

  The midnight bell rang as the Heresiarchal night patrol strolled through the docks. They were in no hurry to march past the container they had received a generous bribe to ignore. The Bloody Hand supplied the guards with wine, whores, and warm clothing to keep out the chill, so the Heresiarchs were more than happy to turn a blind eye, on occasion.

  As they approached the container, nothing but silence and the sound of the waves greeted their ears.

  "They must be done already," said Sergeant Alum, a heavy-set man with a bristling moustache and graying whiskers.

  "Bloody Hand scum," muttered one of the guards, peering into the darkness for any signs of life.

  "Enough," barked the sergeant. "At least now we can finish our rounds and get back to the guard house. I've still got a few good cards left to play, so don't go thinking you'll clean me out tonight."

  "Admit it, sarge," another guard spoke up, "you're going to—" He never finished his sentence.

  The Heresiarchs gaped at the gruesome sight before them. Seven bodies, twisting slowly in the breeze, hung suspended from a hitching post. Blood dripped from their crotches, and the flesh beneath was a grisly, horribly mangled sight. A puddle of gore crept outward, reaching crimson fingers toward the guards' feet.

  One of the guards retched loudly. Sergeant Alum found himself fighting to keep his own meal down. "Gods above," he whispered.

  An emaciated man hung from a nearby pole, his empty eyes staring unseeing into the night. While the other thugs had been strung up by hempen rope, this man's noose was a far more grotesque one: his own intestines. A silver ring bearing the symbol of the Bloody Hand sat on his pinky finger.

  "Sarge, look," his corporal spoke.

  With effort, he turned his face away from the horrifying sight. He followed the corporal's pointing finger, and his stomach lurched as he saw the bloody writing on the floor.

  The Hunter cometh.

  "Let's get the hell out of here, lads," the sergeant whispered, a shiver flashing down his spine. "Let someone else find this horror."

  To a man, the Heresiarchs turned and fled. They only stopped running when they had barred the heavy door of the guardhouse behind them.

  * * *

  Dariel watched from the shadows as his whores plied their trade. The three young women—girls, really—stood beside the main thoroughfare running through the Blackfall District, a street known as the Lusty Stroll. Flimsy garments barely covered their thin, adolescent bodies, showing off their wares to those passing.

  "How about the night of your life?" Fanira—his top earner—called out to a figure wearing the robes of a merchant. "One drake gets you anything and everything."

  The merchant, stepping close, pulled back his hood to reveal the tonsured pate of a priest of the Master. He stared at the women with lust in his eyes, but, seeing the girl's youth, hustled away. Farther up the street, the cleric stopped to whisper into the ear of a doxy old enough to be his mother.

  "You're going to have to do better than that if you want to meet the Fourth's quota for the night," Dariel growled. He strode toward the young girl, barely into womanhood. She flinched as he raised his hand, but he only stroked her cheek.

  No sense ruining the merchandise, he thought.

  "Be a good girl and turn your tricks, or else you're out on your ear."

  "Yes, daddy," she replied, cowed.

  He returned to his shadowy perch, out of sight of the desperate men walking down the streets, examining the dozens of harlots unfortunate enough to be out tonight. The competition was stiff, but—

  All thoughts flew from his mind as a noose dropped around his shoulders. Before he could react, the rope yanked tight, pulling him from his feet and into the air. He clutched at the rope around his neck, legs kicking in desperation. His lungs refused to draw in air, and his spine protested at the strain.

  A face loomed before him, hidden within the shadows of a deep hood. He could see little more than the eyes—their color a depthless black. There was no pity in those eyes, only naked hatred for the man dangling from his rope.

  As he fought to draw even a single desperate breath, a harsh voice whispered in his ear.

  "Give me the Fourth."

  Chapter Thirty

  The Hunter strolled from the deep shadows of the Lusty Stroll, pulling the hood forward to hide his face.

  "Ladies." He nodded a greeting to the young girls shivering in the cold.

  He ignored the curious glances of the too-young whores behind him. His cloak hid the pimp's blood, which stained the front of his tunic. No one would find the body until it started to smell, which would be at least a day or two, given the chill. The Hunter had covered the corpse with refuse; a miserable burial for a miserable creature.

  He ducked into an alley a few houses down the street. A rope hung in the darkness, allowing him to climb to the roof of the single-story building. A chill breeze gusted across Voramis, but the Hunter ignored its bite. It helped to cool the fire burning within him.

  The Blackfall District is a pox on the face of my city. It's time to rid Voramis of this disease once and for all.

  His shadow blended with the darkness of false dawn as he moved across the rooftops with the grace of a stalking predator. Power rushed through him, fueling his rage. He thought killing would help to dim the anger burning in his chest, but it only served to stoke the furnace.

  Soulhunger whispered in his ear. The dagger had fed well, but it wanted more. It always wanted more.

  Tonight, he wanted more as well. He needed more.

  He would cleanse the city of the Bloody Hand and the Dark Heresy. He would kill to avenge the deaths of his friends. It didn't matter how many had to die—all that mattered was that Farida's murder would not go unanswered.

  Only after justice had been served would he turn his attenti
on toward hunting down the demons.

  * * *

  Men and women crowded the common room of The Arms of Heaven, lounging on couches in various stages of inebriation. The women wore little clothing, their lithe bodies tantalizing the men who had paid good coin for the pleasure.

  Elaborate tapestries depicted erotic scenes and charged the room's atmosphere with a sexual undercurrent. Nude servants scurried in and out of the room, arms laden with food, wine, pipes, opiates, and other substances both powerful and illegal.

  A large lamp hung from the ceiling, but even its light failed to penetrate the thick smoke hanging in the air. Smaller lamps illuminated a hexagonal table and the three men sitting around it.

  "A half drake," said one of the men, pushing a coin forward into the growing pile in the center of the fabric-covered table. His free hand ran up and down the soft thigh of the half-naked woman draped over his shoulder. "What do you think?" he asked, showing the woman his cards. She giggled, and he squeezed her ample bottom.

  "I've got nothing, Pristo," sighed a second player, throwing his cards to the table in disgust. "Did you hear about Lady Damuria?"

  "What about her?" asked Pristo, the first man. He turned to glare at the third man, who was studying his cards. "You're up, Manchego."

  Lord Manchego ignored the impatient glare of his friend. "A moment, Pristo," he said, sipping his drink calmly. "I want to hear about Lady Damuria before I take your money."

  Arkadis leaned forward and lowered his voice. "They found her body on the street outside her house, the body of her manservant lying next to her."

  "What?" Pristo, the third player, gasped.

  "Aye." Arkandis nodded. "It is said she slipped from her balcony, but I heard whispers of foul play. She was so horribly mutilated that her body was barely recognizable, and not all of the damage came from the fall." He emphasized his point by running a finger across his throat.

  "How horrible!" shuddered Pristo. "And to such a beautiful creature." He turned to the woman stroking his hair and neck. "Though her beauty could never come close to yours, my dear."

  "I heard she was having an affair while Lord Damuria was away," Manchego interjected. He studied his cards for a moment before dropping three silver coins into the pile.

  "Didn't you hear? He's dead," Arkadis said, lowering his voice. "They found his body at the bottom of Dead Man's Cliff. The Hunter's handiwork." His voice held a note of fearful reverence.

  "You're such a gossip," Manchego snorted at his friend. "You're just as bad as my lady wife."

  "No talk of your wife 'ere, my lord," the woman at his shoulder spoke. Her voice held a thick, exotic accent, which only added to her foreign beauty. She had skin far darker than any Voramian, eyes the blue of a brilliant sky, and red, full lips men fought to pay for.

  "My apologies, Galette, my beauty," Lord Manchego said, kissing her dusky-skinned hand. His eyes roamed up her swarthy body, staring at the salacious curves of her breasts and hips. His gaze rested for a moment on her dark nipples before traveling downward to the gauzy cloth covering her delicate lips.

  "One imperial. You're up, Manchego," Pristo said, his gold coin clinking on the pile of glittering silver and copper. "You'll have time to enjoy Galette later, but for now, I need to take your money." He ran a hand down the back of his companion, a well-formed creature with long blond hair, heavy breasts, and bright pink nipples.

  Sighing, Lord Manchego turned his attention back to the table. "Fine, one imperial it is."

  "I trust my lords are enjoying themselves?" a smoky voice drifted toward them, accompanied by the full figure and pale skin of the Madame of The Arms of Heaven.

  "Absolutely, Mistress Croquembouche," Pristo smiled at the approaching woman.

  "Madame," Manchego said, inclining his head respectfully, "so wonderful to see you this evening."

  None would have dared called the Madame ‘old', though her prime years had long passed. Something about the way she carried herself still arrested the attention of every man in the room, and she knew it.

  "I take it that Carac, Galette, and Mille-Feuille here are taking good care of you?" A knowing smile touched her lips as she spoke.

  "Mistress, I could never complain when I am in the hands of the magical Mille-Feuille here," Arkadis said, stroking the soft skin of the woman standing next to him. Where the other two women had full figures, Mille-Feuille had a hard body, pert breasts, and slim hips. Long, arrow-straight black hair hung down past her waist. Her gaze was haughty as she stared at the simpering women on the other side of the table.

  "Yes," Mistress Croquembouche replied, "I know how she does that thing with her tongue—"

  Her words cut short as a servant rushed into the room.

  "Fire!"

  Stunned silence filled The Arms of Heaven, and all movement stopped.

  "Out, now!" Mistress Croquembouche yelled. Her shout galvanized the room into action. Thick smoke filled the air as the assorted men and women stampeded through the heavy doors.

  Within moments, an inferno raged where The Arms of Heaven had once stood. The scorching heat of the flames seemed unnatural, consuming the building in a pillar of fire.

  "The bastard who did this will pay!" cursed Mistress Croquembouche, her pale face turning red from rage and the heat of the fire.

  A crowd gathered on the street, and not all of those standing there had come from within the pleasure house. The women clutched at their scant garments, attempting in vain to cover themselves. Few had eyes for the sparsely clothed courtesans. For most, their attention remained firmly fixed on the fire in front of the whorehouse.

  It shouldn't have been possible, but somehow the stones of the street burned. Fiery letters blazed on the cobblestones, and the words written in tongues of fire sent shivers down the spines of every man and woman watching the conflagration.

  Ware the Hunter.

  * * *

  The four red-robed Heresiarchs marched in silence, only the ‘tromp, tromp' of their boots on the cobblestones breaking the unnatural quiet of the evening. Watchful eyes scanned the night for signs of life; the streets of Lower Voramis were empty tonight.

  Their pace quickened as they saw the light beaming from their small watch station. The warmth of the guardhouse beckoned, and they all wanted to escape the whipping wind and its eerie moaning.

  "Halt!" Corporal Anders shouted, raising a gauntleted fist.

  The four men stopped in unison, marching with a precision the Legion of Heroes would envy. Corporal Anders took pride in his service in the Heresiarchal Guard, and he had trained his squad to be the city's finest. He and the three men in his command undertook missions his Heresiarchal commanders—those not named Lord Jahel—knew nothing about.

  "Well done, men," he said, nodding to Frollin, Paytr, and Derrin. "We'll do the rounds again at the sound of the fourth bell."

  The three men swore under their breath, but not loud enough for their corporal to hear. They wanted nothing more than to spend their nights in the warm guardhouse, and the thought of trudging the streets of Voramis held little appeal—particularly on a night like this.

  Derrin's huge hand pushed the door open so hard that it crashed against the wall.

  Every damned time, Anders thought. That man is too strong for his own good, and dumber than a hitching post.

  "By the Swordsman, Derrin," he cursed aloud. "Watch what you're doing!"

  "Sorry, Corporal," the huge man mumbled.

  "Every time, Derrin," Paytr snickered at the big man. Derrin's opposite in every way, he stood no taller than the man's shoulder. "One day you'll pull the door right off its hinges."

  The fire within the guardhouse had burned low, casting deep shadows in the room. For a moment, Corporal Anders thought he saw something move in the darkness, but shrugged it off as a trick of his imagination.

  He strode to the fireplace, and stabbed at the last burning log with the iron poker.

  "Hand me another log, will you, Derrin?" Anders held o
ut a hand without turning his head.

  An odd sound fell on his ears. It sounded almost like a sword being…

  "What the—?"Alarm and fear filled Paytr's shout.

  A meaty ‘thunk' sounded behind Anders, followed by a horrifying gurgling sound. He whirled around in time to see Paytr clutching his throat, blood bubbling from between his fingers and splashing from his mouth. Derrin slumped to the floor next, his screams loud and horrifying. The big Heresiarch clutched at the stump where his right hand had once been.

  Frollin was the last man through the door, and he now stood alone against the Hunter. He stared wide-eyed at the Hunter, struggling to draw his blade. The assassin moved with unnatural speed, and Anders watched in helpless horror as the Hunter's blade sliced through the bone, gristle, and flesh of Frollin's neck. Frollin's head flew through the air, rolling to a stop between Anders' feet. When the corporal looked up from the grisly trophy on the floor, the Hunter's baleful glare greeted him.

  "And then there was one," the Hunter said, his voice a menacing growl.

  "Back, I warn you," Corporal Anders said, waving the poker in front of him.

  "Lord Jahel," the Hunter said, his eyes fixed on the iron implement in Anders' hand, "tell me everything about him. I warn you, though, you don't need your hands to talk."

  The dark eyes flicked to Anders' face, and the Dark Heresiarch saw the pitiless depths. They looked insane with bloodlust. A quiet fury burned in his merciless eyes. He knew he wasn't going to leave here alive.

  "Never!" the corporal yelled, dropping the poker and drawing his sword.

  The Hunter's face creased into a wicked smile, which never reached his eyes. "That was a mistake you won't live long enough to regret."

  Corporal Anders raised his sword, but the Hunter was a blur in the shadows as he moved toward the Dark Heresiarch. The corporal's slashing cut went wide, and he staggered. Agony flooded his hands. Looking down, he watched his fingers fall to the floor, his Heresiarchal blade clattering beside it.