Darkblade Protector_An Epic Fantasy Adventure

by Andy Peloquin

  He wasted a moment wishing he still had his crossbows. The accursed Cambionari—Sir Danna and Visibos—had taken them before dumping his body into the Chasm of the Lost. In his hurry to flee Malandria, he'd forgotten to recover them when retrieving Soulhunger and the Swordsman's blades from the vault of the Beggar Priests. His only hope lay in getting close enough to the al-Malek to put the stolen kitchen knife in him.

  Not the best plan of action, I must admit.

  He drew his clothing tighter around him and wished for the cover of darkness. Had he held Soulhunger or his sword, he would have attacked without hesitation. Armed with a weapon better-suited to carrots and potatoes than human flesh, he had to resort to caution and skill.

  With slow, steady steps, he slipped through the crowd, taking pains to avoid jostling those he passed. He hunched to hide his height—just one more in a sea of people. His headcloth hid all but his eyes; he wouldn't stand out.

  Closer to the platform, he struggled to worm his way past cheering men, women, and children, using his elbows when necessary. A few people barked at him, and he had no need to understand their language to recognize a curse. Ignoring them, he focused on navigating through the crowd.

  He felt exposed and vulnerable among so many people, but he forced himself on. In his five decades as an assassin, he'd come to understand the importance of careful planning and precise execution. Yet he'd also learned to recognize the luck of the Mistress and take advantage of fortunate happenstance. It didn’t matter that he had no time to plan, limited knowledge of the city, and a weapon fearsome when facing a loaf of bread but less efficient for slashing throats. He was the bloody Hunter of Voramis, damn it! He'd done more with less, and the opportunity was too good to pass up.

  If it means I can rescue Hailen, I will do it. Even if he had to fight his way through a sea of guards and people, al-Malek would die by his hands. He needed to silence the demon's shrieking. The aching in his head had grown to near-intolerable intensity. The voice didn't care whether he killed with Soulhunger or his bare hands; it craved death in any form.

  The king climbed the steps and strode toward the hooded, bound men. He spoke a command to their guards, who retreated a short distance away. With an expression of reluctant sorrow, the al-Malek spoke to the prisoners.

  He almost looks sorry to do it. Odd behavior, for a king.

  The al-Malek embraced each of the hooded figures and turned to face the crowd. Raising his hands, he spoke in a loud voice. The Hunter had no idea what the king said, but he recognized the confident tone of an orator addressing a crowd. The people fell silent, drinking in every word.

  When the al-Malek punctuated his words with a shout, the crowd raised their voices in cries, cheers, and yells. Over and over they chanted a phrase: "Hi'saan kahn!"

  The Hunter searched the crowd until he found a man with the facial features and skin tone of a southerner—from the city of Drash, judging by the cut of his clothing.

  He pushed his way toward the man and tapped him on the shoulder. "What are they saying?"

  The man, recognizing the common tongue of Einan, stared at him for a moment, confused. "The people cry for the prisoners to 'Ride the iron horse'."

  The word iron twisted the Hunter's face into a sneer, one thankfully hidden by the headcloth. "What is the iron horse?"

  "Watch and see." The Drashi returned his attention to the platform.

  At a signal from the al-Malek, two of the guards descended the steps on the far side of the platform. They returned a few moments later, carrying something between them. The crowd burst into a raucous cheer as the guards placed the object beside the first prisoner.

  The sharply-angled wooden frame resembled the saw-horses used by carpenters to support beams, but dark bloodstains revealed its true purpose. Sunlight glinted off a honed metallic edge, and the Hunter's lip curled at the stench of iron.

  Four guards seized the prisoner roughly, and one threw a noose over his head. A wail rose from beneath the hood, though the heavy sacking drowned out the words. Two of the guards drew short, curved blades and sliced away the man's underclothing.

  The prisoner's struggles grew desperate now. One of the guards struck the flailing man on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword, and the captive slumped in his captors' arms. The two guards grabbed the man's legs and hoisted them over the top of the iron-banded frame, sitting the captive astride the frame, as if he rode a horse. They released his feet as two more guards rushed forward, carrying weighted sacks in their hands. With deft movements, they tied the sacks to the man's feet.

  At a signal, the guards released their hold on the man. The weight of the sacks dragged the captive down. Immediately he began to scream, and the Hunter saw blood dripping from between the man's legs. At the same time, a guard yanked on the rope, pulling it taut.

  "The iron horse, eh?" the Drashi man said. He clapped the Hunter on the shoulder. "These Al Hani certainly are creative in their executions!"

  The Hunter said nothing, but simply watched the proceedings. The prisoner squirmed on the iron horse, but every time he moved, a fresh wave of blood stained the platform. The noose around his neck held him upright, and the sacks dragged him downward. Minutes passed, and his choking cries died to muffled sobs of anguish. At a signal from one of the guards, two more sacks were tied to his ankles. The howling and bleeding began anew.

  The Hunter turned to the Drashi. "Does it take long for them to die?"

  "Depends." The man shrugged. "Blade's barely sharpened—which is half the fun, really! I've heard of some dying in minutes. Others take days."

  The Hunter returned his gaze to the weeping, struggling man on the iron horse. Guards carried three more of the iron-banded frames, and within minutes, all four of the prisoners writhed to the rhythm of agony. The whistles and calls of the cheering crowd drowned out the dying man's shrieks.

  Brutal bastards. Executions in Voramis had been swift—hangings and beheadings, chiefly.

  His eyes fell upon the dark, angular face of the king. The al-Malek's face showed no emotion, but the neutral expression looked studied, forced. With a nod for the captain of the guards, the king turned and descended the steps toward the carriage. The footmen snapped to attention, and one hurried to open the door.

  The al-Malek extended his arm toward the carriage, and a slim, delicate hand emerged from within. The woman to whom the hand belonged stepped from the coach. Head held high, expression proud, a smile on her face, she waved to the crowd. The cheering swelled to a deafening roar, louder than the acclamation that had greeted the king.

  The Drashi shouted in his ear. "The queen! Isn't she a beauty?"

  The Hunter couldn't argue the statement. Nearly as tall as the king, with dark hair curling around her ears and slim, feminine features, she was the picture of perfection. Gold, silver, and gemstones at her neck, wrists, and ears stood in stark contrast to the sparkling white gown covering her willowy frame. She moved with grace, seeming to float along beside the king. Casting a loving glance at the al-Malek, she turned and graced the cheering crowd with a modest smile and a wave.

  The king and queen crossed the open space toward the crowd. Leather-clad guards encircled them, but the al-Malek waved them back. Together, the monarchs reached out to touch their subjects. The crowd surged forward, each trying to grasp the extended hands of their rulers. The Hunter found himself pressed forward, closer to the al-Malek. He used the confusion to jockey for position. Though it proved a challenge, he came within a few paces of the front of the line. Only a handful of bodies stood between him and the place he knew the al-Malek would pass.

  Perfect. In the press of people, with his face hidden by the head scarf, it would be easy to kill the king. One quick stab to the heart, and he'd slip back into the crowd. The chaos following the al-Malek's death would provide him cover to return to the inn, retrieve Elivast, and be off before the slow-witted guards closed the city gates.

  He gripped the hilt of the kitchen knife tight
er. The demon purred in his head, eager for death. Pushing the voice to the back of his mind, he bent his focus on the approaching monarch. The al-Malek moved toward him at a steady pace, the queen following in his wake.

  He could almost stretch out his hand and drive the blade into the al-Malek's neck. The king was so close, his mission almost complete.

  Now or never.

  He raised his arm to strike, but an overpowering stench stopped him cold. The reek of decay, timeless and eternal, assaulted him—a smell he would never forget.

  A demon!

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Arm half-raised, heart thundering, the Hunter searched for the source of the foul odor.

  Where is it?

  Could it be a guard? Someone in the crowd? The al-Malek? His eyes locked with the queen's.

  Impossible!

  The queen stared back at him, her dark eyes wide, hand darting to cover her mouth. For one agonizing heartbeat, neither could break contact. Recognition passed between them, and the screaming in his head turned joyous, rising in intensity and pitch.

  The moment passed. Too late, the Hunter's shock wore off. The al-Malek moved away, beyond the reach of his blade. Biting back a curse, he elbowed through the crowd. No matter how many people he pushed aside, he couldn't close the distance to the retreating monarchs. The demon foul odor mocked him as the king and queen disappeared from his sight.

  He contemplated simply shoving his way through. His inhuman strength would make it easy to break free of the crowd, and he could cover the distance to the al-Malek in a half-dozen heartbeats. He might even have time to strike the king down, but what then? Killing the king from amidst a throng made sense, but a charge across open ground was suicide. The scores of guards around the plaza would cut him down. Without Soulhunger or his sword, the odds were severely stacked against him.

  “You've done it before! Kill him, kill them all!” At least the demon had ceased its wailing.

  The people seem to love the king. How would they take his death? The guards only had to delay him long enough for the crowd to seize him and tear him apart.

  Bloody hell! His hands shook with rage. I was so close.

  Frustrated, he thrust his way through the crowd, which grew thinner with every step away from the platform. Within a few minutes, he stood at the edge of Traitor's Square, his jaw clamped shut so tightly his teeth creaked.

  He climbed onto a nearby wagon, ignoring the protests of its driver. The added height offered him a better vantage point to watch the king and queen stride toward their carriage.

  “They're getting away! Do it now.”

  The Hunter clenched his fists at the sight of the monarchs climbing into their coach. He could almost hear the mocking click of the carriage door closing. He couldn’t tear his eyes away as the carriage circled the square and disappeared, the clatter of the retreating wheels taunting him for his failure.

  What now?

  He wanted to lash out in anger and frustration, but forced himself to take deep breaths. He'd faced worse setbacks in the past.

  I am the Hunter. I do not accept defeat. I must find another way.

  The near-empty streets of Aghzaret beckoned to him. He slipped away from the cheering crowd, his steps confident, his mind racing.

  The palace. That's where I will find the al-Malek.

  He had no idea how to get into the palace, much less where to find the king's rooms. How many guards would stand between him and his task? How would he get out? It felt hasty, unprepared, foolhardy even. In Voramis, he wouldn't have accepted a contract with such a tight deadline. He killed the proper way, which meant reconnaissance first. Here, he didn't have the luxury of time.

  I must do the best I can with what I have.

  Which, he had to admit, was little to nothing. He had no safe houses, no weapons beyond a dull knife, and nowhere to run if he failed.

  Hailen's life hangs in the balance. I will do what I must. If I have to fight my way through a hundred guards, so be it.

  False bravado, he knew, and a comforting lie. But he had a problem.

  The demon may prove to be an obstacle, one I don't have time to deal with right now.

  Could he find a way to kill the king without encountering the demon? His one hope lay in his ability to smell the demon's presence. He would remain wary for the familiar stench of decay, and stay as far away as possible.

  But the demon had recognized him. The queen had stared directly at him, and he had little doubt she knew him for what he was. What would she do? What reaction could he expect from the creature?

  No, I will just have to keep my distance. It is the only way to do what must be done.

  Another question nagged at him. Can I leave Aghzaret while the demon still lives?

  He'd sworn to hunt down the Abiarazi, but now that he'd found one, what could he do? If the Hunter killed the king, the queen—no, the demon—would take control of Al Hani.

  Damn it, this changes things!

  The Abiarazi he'd encountered in Malandria and Voramis had ruled from the shadows. But if the demon controlled the city, what would it do with the power? What horrors would it unleash upon Einan? How many innocent people—people like Bardin, Old Nan, and Hailen—would suffer and die at the creature's bloodthirsty whims? He couldn't let the demon rule, but he couldn't plunge an entire kingdom into turmoil, either. He'd have to find another way.

  “Fool!” His inner demon howled in his mind, and the ache in his head worsened. “You kill your own kind and protect the humans who hunt you. Your brain has been addled by the words of the Beggar Priests.”

  The Hunter clenched his fists. Remember your place, Demon. You are the one who demands death, not I.

  “Then kill,” it retorted, “but not the ones who…”

  Who what? You think the Abiarazi care for me, for my kind? What did they do to protect the Bucelarii as the Beggar Priests and their Cambionari hunted us down? I am the last of my kind, yet your kind stood by and did nothing.

  “You hunt the Abiarazi out of revenge?”

  No. I kill them because they are a blight on the face of Einan, and because they threaten all I hold dear. I do it to protect the innocent, those who cannot protect themselves.

  “But you…”

  The Hunter clenched his fists. Answer me this, Abiarazi. Would you prefer I take their lives or yours?

  “You wouldn't. Doing so would end your life as well.”

  I am prepared to die. Are you?

  Impotent rage radiated in the Hunter's mind. He retaliated with his own anger, bringing to mind the faces of Farida, Bardin, Hailen, and the others who had met their fates at the hands of the Abiarazi.

  Your time has passed, Demon, and I will do whatever I must to ensure the innocent are protected. If that means killing every Watcher-accursed one of the Abiarazi, so be it. Be content with the knowledge that you will savor every one of their deaths.

  The demon's protests subsided, and it radiated a sense of reluctant acceptance. They'd reached something akin to an agreement.

  “So what now, oh mighty Hunter of Voramis?”

  What now, indeed? Younis lurked somewhere in the city, no doubt listening for rumors of the al-Malek's death. Even if the Hunter brought him the ring as proof, would the bandit believe him?

  Somehow, I have to make it seem like the king is dead, at least long enough to get the bandit out of the city.

  The demon snarled in protest. “You promised me death!”

  And you shall have it, one way or another. Is not the blood of a bandit equal to that of a king?

  Satisfaction radiated from the demon's presence. “And the queen?”

  He had no answer to that question. Without Soulhunger or the Swordsman's blades, he could do nothing.

  Her time will come, but not yet. Not until Hailen is safe.

  He had to find Younis and retrieve his weapons. If it meant killing the bandit, so be it. He grinned; he'd wanted to wrap his hands around the man's neck and squeeze the
life from him since the first moment they'd met.

  A gust of wind blew sand and dust into his face, and he coughed, his throat parched. In his eagerness to kill the al-Malek, he'd forgotten his hunger and thirst. The sensations returned in full force.

  He'd deal with Younis later. First, he needed something to eat and drink.

  * * *

  The taproom of The Dancing Rose reeked like an open cesspit. Men smelling of dried sweat, unwashed clothing, and other strong, unpleasant odors jostled him as he made his way to the bar. The scent of fermentation hung like a thick cloud, making the Hunter glad he hadn't eaten yet.

  The wooden stool creaked and wobbled beneath him. He saw no kegs or casks to denote the presence of ale in the tavern, only row after row of clay bottles sat on the shelves behind the bar.

  A pale Drashi sat among the dark-bearded, dusky-skinned men of Al Hani.

  The Hunter nodded at the man. "Anything good to drink here?"

  The Drashi shrugged and said nothing.

  "Nothing like ale around, eh?"

  The man took a sip from his cup and grimaced. "Just this wolf's piss they call siddiki. Apprentice knows what it's made of."

  The Hunter raised his hand to catch the barkeep's attention. "Siddiki," he grunted when the man came over.

  The barkeep nodded and reached for a clay bottle and steel spoon. Removing the cork, he poured a small measure into the spoon and held it over flame of one of the candles sitting on the bar.

  The Hunter elbowed the Drashi. "What's he doing?"

  "Flame turns blue," the Drashi said, "it's good to drink. Turns green or yellow, the stuff's going to kill you."

  The alcohol burned a bright blue. The barkeep looked expectantly at the Hunter.

  "Just nod," said the Drashi.

  At the Hunter's nod, the barkeep poured a few fingers of the liquor into a cup. The Hunter took the clay mug and sniffed the alcohol.