Darkblade Seeker: An Epic Fantasy Adventure (Hero of Darkness Book 4)

by Andy Peloquin

  But he could afford a few minutes to recover. Already the tension in his cramped, exhausted muscles had begun to fade. He filled his lungs, relishing the fresh, clean scent of snow and stone. Up here, atop the highest peak in the Yathi range, nothing polluted the purity of the air.

  A familiar smell reached him. Iron! The metallic tang twisted his stomach and set his senses on high alert. Pure iron, the metal of the Swordsman himself, proved deadly to his kind. Steel lacked the same effect—perhaps the carbon negated iron's poison. Unalloyed, the metal could kill him; slowly, painfully, seeping into his blood and corrupting him from inside out.

  He leapt to his feet, aches and pains forgotten, hand darting to his sword hilt. The wind carried an odd whirring. Yet only snow-covered rocks met his questing gaze.

  Where are you? A blur of motion caught his eye. There!

  Four white and black-clad figures glided toward him, leaping between outcroppings with predatory speed and grace. They whirled long, metal-tipped staves around their heads, with bright tassels that produced the strange sound.

  So this is the welcoming committee. The Hunter drew his sword with a hiss of steel on leather. I'm definitely in the right place. He slipped Soulhunger free but kept the dagger hidden in his sleeve.

  Four on one. Not the worst odds I've ever faced.

  The battle-rush washed away the last traces of the Hunter's fatigue, and his muscles tensed in anticipation of an attack. The expected charge never came. Instead, the approaching figures stopped just out of sword reach and spread out in a semi-circle, their whirring staves a blur of motion. In unison, they slammed metal-shod tips into the rocky ground. Sparks flew, and the crack echoed across the mountaintop.

  The Hunter dropped into a defensive stance, retreating a step to keep them within his line of sight. Something about them struck as odd, but what?

  The figures stood silent as statues, holding their ground. One thrust a finger to the cliff behind him. The message was clear: he was not welcome.

  The Hunter snorted. "Sure, I'll just climb back down now." His sarcastic sneer turned to a growl. "Not bloody likely."

  He gripped his sword tighter, expecting them to enforce their command. They made no move, but simply stood, staring. He found their taciturnity discomforting. They wore flowing, hooded robes, cut in a style he'd never encountered before. The garments clung to their frames, yet allowed for ample movement. Lines of white and black swirled on their clothing, and masks with the same mottled pattern hid their features. Only their dark eyes were visible through narrow slits. They looked of a similar height and build—just shorter and leaner than he. They wore no gloves despite the cold; strong hands gripped the heavy staves with comfortable familiarity. Everything about them matched, down to the colorful tassels on the staves.

  "So what now? We just stand here and watch each other freeze?"

  A crisp wind set their white and black cloaks fluttering, but none of the figures moved a muscle. There was no mistaking the overt threat in their stances.

  "Strong and silent types, are you?" The Hunter lowered his sword, and turned to the figure on his far left. "What if we—"

  He attacked mid-sentence—a good offense had always served him better than defensive fighting. He leapt toward the robed figure on the far right and his sword flicked toward the man's gut with the speed of a striking snake. Solid wood struck steel, and knocked his sword wide. He threw himself backward a heartbeat ahead of a flashing staff. The iron tip slammed into stone far too close to his head, striking sparks.

  A furious onslaught forced him backward, and he retreated from the whirring staff that seemed to strike at him from every direction. The ornate white and black whorls confused the Hunter's eyes and obscured the movements of its wearer. The spinning tassel drew his attention, distracting him from the weapon's real threat: the metal-shod tip.

  A blow to the gut doubled him over, and his breath whooshed from his lungs. The staff crunched into his knee. He fell hard, and a sharp pain raced up his leg. Rolling to one side, he leapt to his feet and, biting down against the torment in his knee, hurled himself at his opponent. The staff whirred over his head as he dropped low and lashed out with Soulhunger. He cursed as his blow, intended to lay open the man's throat, clanged off metal. He slammed a fist into the man's midsection, and his assailant fell back with a grunt.

  The demon screamed in his mind, goading him to kill. Soulhunger begged for blood. Shut up, both of you! The force of their cries set his head throbbing. You're going to get me killed. He couldn't fight and keep the voices at bay.

  Before the Hunter could press his advantage, a second masked figure darted forward, and the whirling quarterstaff forced him back. A stabbing pain raced up his injured leg, increasing with every shuffling step. He feigned retreat, then threw himself into a lunge. Even as the staff whistled over his head, the tip of his sword pierced the man's armor. Barely a scratch, but enough to make his point.

  He retreated with a savage grin. "Not so tough, are you?" He held up his sword with its crimson-stained point and raised an eyebrow at the two who hadn't joined in. "You coming to the party next?"

  They attacked in perfect unison, weaving a deadly barrier of wood and iron. When one struck high, the other darted in for a low blow. The Hunter ducked, dodged, and twisted, letting instinct and years of training take over. He had no time to think; he let his body react and trusted his inhuman speed to keep him alive.

  His sword fended off the flashing staves, yet still he retreated, skin crawling from near-contact with the iron tips. He swore in frustration. He couldn't let the metal tips touch him, yet found no opportunity to break through their guards. It was as if they shared the same heartbeat. They fought with a skill that far surpassed any opponent he'd faced.

  Suddenly a stone turned under his foot, throwing him off balance and sending him stumbling. As he flung his arms wide, a metal-shod staff drove toward his head. Desperate, he threw himself to the side. Too late, he realized where he was. He barely stopped himself from plunging off the cliff's edge. His heart leapt to his throat as he glanced down at his heels, which hung over empty air.

  Gasping, he ripped his gaze from the abyss. His two opponents stood just out of reach, staves held at the ready. He didn't need to see their faces to read their intentions.

  Think you can get rid of me that easily? He tightened his grip on his sword. I am the Hunter!

  Frustration drowned out the pains in his gut and knee, and an animal roar tore from his throat as he rushed the masked men. He brought his sword down in a wicked chop that snapped the wooden staff. His blade struck the man square in the head with enough force to crack chain links. Even as his opponent sagged, the Hunter kicked out at the second figure. His boot collided with the man's head, sending him staggering.

  "Enough!" One of the masked men shouted. The other three figures fell back in unison.

  The Hunter studied his attackers, every muscle in his body tense, sword held in a defensive position.

  "The Sage is expecting you," the same man intoned.

  The Hunter stiffened, eyes narrowing. How?

  The white and black-clad man gestured. "Follow us if you wish to speak to our master."

  The Hunter hesitated. He'd climbed the mountain to avoid the Sage's notice, only to find he was expected. Quite the unusual greeting party.

  "So be it." He sheathed his sword. He'd come all this way to see the Sage; if the men wanted to escort him there, he wouldn't stop them.

  Retrieving his pack, he moved toward the four figures. He held his breath as he drew within striking range. Moment of truth.

  They did not attack. With a curt motion to his companions, the foremost masked man turned and strode up the mountain.

  The Hunter followed, keenly aware of the three surrounding him. His shoulders tensed in nervous anticipation. He forced himself to keep his eyes away from the iron tips of their staves. If they decided to attack, he wouldn't have time to draw his sword. But he had no choice but to toss
the dice and hope the odds favored him.

  His guides led him along a path that cut through the rock formations. Though it rose in a gentle incline toward a pointed peak, his legs soon burned and he struggled to breathe in the thin air. He winced as sharp rocks poked through the soft soles of his climbing boots. The masked men, however, showed no sign of fatigue.

  The crisp scent of fresh snow bit into his nostrils with every breath. Uncertainty nagged in the back of his mind. These men were…odd. But why? What was it about them? They talked, moved, and fought like ordinary men. He sniffed the air. They didn't smell like demons.

  Watcher's teeth! Realization hit him. They have no smell at all! He drew in a deep breath to confirm his suspicions. Every man, woman, and child on Einan had a scent to mark them as unique. But not these men.

  His mind raced. How in the frozen hell is that possible? They stood an arm's length away, but he couldn't detect any hint of odor—not even the smell of sweat or the blood staining their white robes.

  He cast a sidelong glance at his escorts. What manner of men—or creatures—are they?

  Chapter Four

  The Hunter's jaw dropped as he crested the sloping ridge. Below and before him, nestled in a broad caldera, stood the twin temples of Kara-ket.

  The temples—once home to the Adepts, the priests of the Swordsman, according to the Hidden Circle alchemist in Al Hani—nestled in a natural bowl formed by the peaks of the Yathi Mountains. The rocky slopes dropped away into vertical cliffs, forming a wide stretch of flatland surrounding the twin towers. It looked for all the world like a perfect island of peace and tranquility amidst a roiling ocean of earth and stone. Yet the temples' construction stole the Hunter’s breath.

  Two enormous structures, carved into the face of the mountain itself, stood solemn watch over the jagged ridges and valleys of the mountain range. The towers were identical: from the unnatural perfection of their smooth, cylindrical design to their breathtaking height, even to the bulbous dome squatting atop each tower.

  Even from this distance, the Hunter could see they were enormous. He guessed at least a thousand paces from one tower to the other, and close to four score stories high. From this distance, the bridge that connected the towers three-quarters of the way up looked frail and vulnerable, though it looked to have been built with stones larger than he was tall.

  The fading sunlight splashed a tapestry of bright colors across the mountains, but the towers' color—a shade of blue-green he'd never encountered even in the workshops of Voramis' most renowned artists—held his attention rapt. The impossible hue of the stone stood in stark contrast to the dull grey, black, and pristine white of snow-capped mountain peaks. The setting sun bathed the world in an ethereal glow that both warmed the Hunter to his core but set his skin prickling. Every step into this otherworldly sanctuary led deeper into danger.

  His guides descended the steep slope with confidence and grace. They seemed to glide over the scree-covered decline, showing no sign of unsteadiness or fatigue. He, however, had to place each foot with care. More than once, he stepped on loose rocks and only his quick reflexes saved him. His face burned—from the cold, he told himself.

  Yet with every step toward the temple, in defiance of nature itself, the air grew warmer. The mountain blocked the whipping wind and sheltered them from the chill. The hidden valley resisted the snow and ice, providing a sanctuary for plant and flowering life to flourish. Grass carpeted the floor, and here and there stately evergreen trees dotted the expanse.

  A rising peak hid the twin temples from view, but his escorts led him unerringly through the maze of immense boulders. Though cracks and crevasses cut across their path, the pace of his silent guards never slowed despite the treacherous terrain.

  The path led to a set of stairs carved into the stone of the mountain. The steps snaked downward, disappearing among the crags hundreds of paces below.

  The Hunter winced at the fire in his legs and tried to control his labored breathing. "More walking, eh?"

  Without a word, one of the four masked figures motioned for him to continue.

  Chatty lot, aren't they?

  He soon lost count of the number of stairs. The straps of his pack dug into his shoulders. The thin mountain air never quite filled his lungs, adding to the ache of his muscles. The sky above darkened with the setting sun, and still they descended.

  The bluffs parted, and only an empty expanse of rocky terrain stood between the Hunter and the temple.

  Such magnificence! From up close, the towers were even more awe-inspiring. They dwarfed the Palace of Justice in Voramis and Lord Apus' mammoth tower in Malandria. Only the Black Spire in Praamis approached the daunting magnitude of the twin towers of Kara-ket.

  If Praamian legends are true, the Black Spire was built by the Serenii. Perhaps the twin temples are also their handiwork.

  Curiosity and excitement warred with anticipation. He'd encountered the power of the Serenii in the tunnels beneath Voramis, and again at the hands of Garanis, the Illusionist Cleric-demon in Malandria. If the Serenii truly were the architects behind the temples, what hidden secrets would they contain? Perhaps they held the answers he sought.

  If only he had the time to search. He had come here for a reason: to find Master Eldor and eliminate the Sage. If he delayed, how many innocents would die at the Sage's hands? The longer the Sage lived, the more suffering he would bring on Einan.

  His hand darted to his sword at a hissing sound. His eyes darted around, and he nearly jumped as a gout of steam burst from the ground. A pillar of white rose thrice his height and filled the air with humid warmth.

  He stifled the urge to quicken his pace as they drew closer to the temples. Already, the first stars twinkled in the sky. Yet his escorts seemed in no hurry. They moved at an even pace up a tree-lined gravel path that led toward the door set into the base of one of the twin temples.

  The door swung open as they approached. Two masked figures in matching white and black robes stood at attention within the temple, long metal-tipped staves held stiff at their sides. Without a word, they stepped aside to allow the Hunter and his escorts to enter.

  Stepping into the temple felt like stepping into a world forgotten by time. The stone walls looked as old as Einan itself, yet showed no sign of the wear so common among the temples of Voramis. The House of Need in Malandria had reeked of deliberate opulence, but despite the absence of lavish décor, the agelessness of Kara-ket's bare marble floors and sturdy columns put it to shame.

  It seemed as if the very stones of the temple amplified the flickering light of the torches hanging from bronze wall sconces. Though darkness had all but fallen outside, the interior of the temple was well lit.

  The markings etched into the wall reinforced the solemnity of Kara-ket. The intricate whorls and symbols matched those written in the stones beneath Voramis and Malandria. The work of the Serenii.

  The guards led him through massive leaf-shaped archways and up a wide staircase. He stifled a groan at thought of more climbing, but refused to let his silent escorts see his fatigue. It took every shred of willpower to control his breathing and ignore the ache in his legs.

  The allure of those markings, at once familiar and alien, proved too much to resist. His eyes traced the arcane symbols as he climbed. His curiosity burned, and he wished he could read the stories written in those swirling lines and strange shapes.

  For a moment, a particular symbol looked almost…familiar. Impossible! The meaning played at the corners of his mind, yet refused to coalesce. It has to be just a trick of my mind.

  His frustration mounted every time he thought he caught another glimpse into his past, only to have the memory slip away. A curse on all Illusionist Clerics and their damned meddling!

  As they climbed, the walls came to life with detailed carvings. The style of sculpture was as esoteric as the symbols, and the two intermingled in a dance of swirling lines and mystifying, half-understood images. They stirred something deep wit
hin the Hunter. A glow formed in the pit of his stomach, and an odd euphoria filled him. His fatigue melted away, his spirits lifted, as if an invisible hand reached inside him and fanned some hidden flame to life.

  Bloody hell! He tore his eyes from the carvings. The warmth within him slowly dimmed, and his fatigue returned. He gripped his sword hilt until his knuckles whitened. He would not let the temple's enchantments, however subtle, to dissuade him from his true purpose.

  The stairs culminated in a flat landing, and at the far end stood a simple door, flanked by two more white and black-robed figures. At their approach, the guards swung open a door and motioned for them to pass.

  Heavy incense swirled from the room, and the Hunter's nostrils cringed at the smell of cedarwood and musk. He had to shield his eyes as he entered. Alchemical lamps hung around the room, bathing the spacious chamber in a soft glow. The walls shimmered as if made of solid gold, with filaments of white and red dancing among the yellow that looked far purer than anything produced by the goldsmiths of Voramis.

  Furniture carved with ornate representations of mythical beasts and images of battle scenes decorated the chamber. The wood had a deep red tint, the mark of bloodwood. The dining table alone cost more than a Voramian farmer earned in a lifetime. The matching chairs, shelves, and armoires of the sitting room spoke of the vast wealth of their owner.

  The man himself sat cross-legged on cushions before a low table in the heart of the room. Brow furrowed in concentration, he studied the Nizaa board spread out on the table. He held up a slim finger, and the Hunter's silent escorts remained unmoving until he made his move.

  When he finally raised his head, a sly smile graced his lips. "Greetings, Hunter." This, then, was the Sage. The man uncrossed his legs and rose in one smooth, graceful motion. Perfectly-tailored robes clung to firm shoulders that narrowed to a compact waist. He stood erect, head held high, studying the Hunter with the confidence of a predator eyeing wounded prey. Something about the way he stroked his angular, clean-shaven chin seemed unnatural.